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The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce, Vol. II: In the Midst of Life: Tales of Soldiers and Civilians by Ambrose Bierce

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Originally Published 1909


Denied existence by the chief publishing houses of the country, this
book owes itself to Mr. E.L.G. Steele, merchant, of this city. In
attesting Mr. Steele's faith in his judgment and his friend, it will
serve its author's main and best ambition.


SAN FRANCISCO, Sept. 4, 1891.








One sunny afternoon in the autumn of the year 1861 a soldier lay in a
clump of laurel by the side of a road in western Virginia. He lay at
full length upon his stomach, his feet resting upon the toes, his head
upon the left forearm. His extended right hand loosely grasped his
rifle. But for the somewhat methodical disposition of his limbs and a
slight rhythmic movement of the cartridge-box at the back of his belt he
might have been thought to be dead. He was asleep at his post of duty.
But if detected he would be dead shortly afterward, death being the just
and legal penalty of his crime.

The clump of laurel in which the criminal lay was in the angle of a road
which after ascending southward a steep acclivity to that point turned
sharply to the west, running along the summit for perhaps one hundred
yards. There it turned southward again and went zigzagging downward
through the forest. At the salient of that second angle was a large flat
rock, jutting out northward, overlooking the deep valley from which the
road ascended. The rock capped a high cliff; a stone dropped from its
outer edge would have fallen sheer downward one thousand feet to the
tops of the pines. The angle where the soldier lay was on another spur
of the same cliff. Had he been awake he would have commanded a view, not
only of the short arm of the road and the jutting rock, but of the
entire profile of the cliff below it. It might well have made him giddy
to look.

The country was wooded everywhere except at the bottom of the valley to
the northward, where there was a small natural meadow, through which
flowed a stream scarcely visible from the valley's rim. This open ground
looked hardly larger than an ordinary door-yard, but was really several
acres in extent. Its green was more vivid than that of the inclosing
forest. Away beyond it rose a line of giant cliffs similar to those upon
which we are supposed to stand in our survey of the savage scene, and
through which the road had somehow made its climb to the summit. The
configuration of the valley, indeed, was such that from this point of
observation it seemed entirely shut in, and one could but have wondered
how the road which found a way out of it had found a way into it, and
whence came and whither went the waters of the stream that parted the
meadow more than a thousand feet below.

No country is so wild and difficult but men will make it a theatre of
war; concealed in the forest at the bottom of that military rat-trap, in
which half a hundred men in possession of the exits might have starved
an army to submission, lay five regiments of Federal infantry. They had
marched all the previous day and night and were resting. At nightfall
they would take to the road again, climb to the place where their
unfaithful sentinel now slept, and descending the other slope of the
ridge fall upon a camp of the enemy at about midnight. Their hope was to
surprise it, for the road led to the rear of it. In case of failure,
their position would be perilous in the extreme; and fail they surely
would should accident or vigilance apprise the enemy of the movement.


The sleeping sentinel in the clump of laurel was a young Virginian named
Carter Druse. He was the son of wealthy parents, an only child, and had
known such ease and cultivation and high living as wealth and taste were
able to command in the mountain country of western Virginia. His home
was but a few miles from where he now lay. One morning he had risen from
the breakfast-table and said, quietly but gravely: "Father, a Union
regiment has arrived at Grafton. I am going to join it."

The father lifted his leonine head, looked at the son a moment in
silence, and replied: "Well, go, sir, and whatever may occur do what you
conceive to be your duty. Virginia, to which you are a traitor, must get
on without you. Should we both live to the end of the war, we will speak
further of the matter. Your mother, as the physician has informed you,
is in a most critical condition; at the best she cannot be with us
longer than a few weeks, but that time is precious. It would be better
not to disturb her."

So Carter Druse, bowing reverently to his father, who returned the
salute with a stately courtesy that masked a breaking heart, left the
home of his childhood to go soldiering. By conscience and courage, by
deeds of devotion and daring, he soon commended himself to his fellows
and his officers; and it was to these qualities and to some knowledge of
the country that he owed his selection for his present perilous duty at
the extreme outpost. Nevertheless, fatigue had been stronger than
resolution and he had fallen asleep. What good or bad angel came in a
dream to rouse him from his state of crime, who shall say? Without a
movement, without a sound, in the profound silence and the languor of
the late afternoon, some invisible messenger of fate touched with
unsealing finger the eyes of his consciousness--whispered into the ear
of his spirit the mysterious awakening word which no human lips ever
have spoken, no human memory ever has recalled. He quietly raised his
forehead from his arm and looked between the masking stems of the
laurels, instinctively closing his right hand about the stock of his

His first feeling was a keen artistic delight. On a colossal pedestal,
the cliff,--motionless at the extreme edge of the capping rock and
sharply outlined against the sky,--was an equestrian statue of
impressive dignity. The figure of the man sat the figure of the horse,
straight and soldierly, but with the repose of a Grecian god carved in
the marble which limits the suggestion of activity. The gray costume
harmonized with its aerial background; the metal of accoutrement and
caparison was softened and subdued by the shadow; the animal's skin had
no points of high light. A carbine strikingly foreshortened lay across
the pommel of the saddle, kept in place by the right hand grasping it at
the "grip"; the left hand, holding the bridle rein, was invisible. In
silhouette against the sky the profile of the horse was cut with the
sharpness of a cameo; it looked across the heights of air to the
confronting cliffs beyond. The face of the rider, turned slightly away,
showed only an outline of temple and beard; he was looking downward to
the bottom of the valley. Magnified by its lift against the sky and by
the soldier's testifying sense of the formidableness of a near enemy the
group appeared of heroic, almost colossal, size.

For an instant Druse had a strange, half-defined feeling that he had
slept to the end of the war and was looking upon a noble work of art
reared upon that eminence to commemorate the deeds of an heroic past of
which he had been an inglorious part. The feeling was dispelled by a
slight movement of the group: the horse, without moving its feet, had
drawn its body slightly backward from the verge; the man remained
immobile as before. Broad awake and keenly alive to the significance of
the situation, Druse now brought the butt of his rifle against his cheek
by cautiously pushing the barrel forward through the bushes, cocked the
piece, and glancing through the sights covered a vital spot of the
horseman's breast. A touch upon the trigger and all would have been well
with Carter Druse. At that instant the horseman turned his head and
looked in the direction of his concealed foeman--seemed to look into his
very face, into his eyes, into his brave, compassionate heart.

Is it then so terrible to kill an enemy in war--an enemy who has
surprised a secret vital to the safety of one's self and comrades--an
enemy more formidable for his knowledge than all his army for its
numbers? Carter Druse grew pale; he shook in every limb, turned faint,
and saw the statuesque group before him as black figures, rising,
falling, moving unsteadily in arcs of circles in a fiery sky. His hand
fell away from his weapon, his head slowly dropped until his face rested
on the leaves in which he lay. This courageous gentleman and hardy
soldier was near swooning from intensity of emotion.

It was not for long; in another moment his face was raised from earth,
his hands resumed their places on the rifle, his forefinger sought the
trigger; mind, heart, and eyes were clear, conscience and reason sound.
He could not hope to capture that enemy; to alarm him would but send him
dashing to his camp with his fatal news. The duty of the soldier was
plain: the man must be shot dead from ambush--without warning, without a
moment's spiritual preparation, with never so much as an unspoken
prayer, he must be sent to his account. But no--there is a hope; he may
have discovered nothing--perhaps he is but admiring the sublimity of the
landscape. If permitted, he may turn and ride carelessly away in the
direction whence he came. Surely it will be possible to judge at the
instant of his withdrawing whether he knows. It may well be that his
fixity of attention--Druse turned his head and looked through the deeps
of air downward, as from the surface to the bottom of a translucent sea.
He saw creeping across the green meadow a sinuous line of figures of men
and horses--some foolish commander was permitting the soldiers of his
escort to water their beasts in the open, in plain view from a dozen

Druse withdrew his eyes from the valley and fixed them again upon the
group of man and horse in the sky, and again it was through the sights
of his rifle. But this time his aim was at the horse. In his memory, as
if they were a divine mandate, rang the words of his father at their
parting: "Whatever may occur, do what you conceive to be your duty." He
was calm now. His teeth were firmly but not rigidly closed; his nerves
were as tranquil as a sleeping babe's--not a tremor affected any muscle
of his body; his breathing, until suspended in the act of taking aim,
was regular and slow. Duty had conquered; the spirit had said to the
body: "Peace, be still." He fired.


An officer of the Federal force, who in a spirit of adventure or in
quest of knowledge had left the hidden _bivouac_ in the valley, and with
aimless feet had made his way to the lower edge of a small open space
near the foot of the cliff, was considering what he had to gain by
pushing his exploration further. At a distance of a quarter-mile before
him, but apparently at a stone's throw, rose from its fringe of pines
the gigantic face of rock, towering to so great a height above him that
it made him giddy to look up to where its edge cut a sharp, rugged line
against the sky. It presented a clean, vertical profile against a
background of blue sky to a point half the way down, and of distant
hills, hardly less blue, thence to the tops of the trees at its base.
Lifting his eyes to the dizzy altitude of its summit the officer saw an
astonishing sight--a man on horseback riding down into the valley
through the air!

Straight upright sat the rider, in military fashion, with a firm seat in
the saddle, a strong clutch upon the rein to hold his charger from too
impetuous a plunge. From his bare head his long hair streamed upward,
waving like a plume. His hands were concealed in the cloud of the
horse's lifted mane. The animal's body was as level as if every
hoof-stroke encountered the resistant earth. Its motions were those of a
wild gallop, but even as the officer looked they ceased, with all the
legs thrown sharply forward as in the act of alighting from a leap. But
this was a flight!

Filled with amazement and terror by this apparition of a horseman in the
sky--half believing himself the chosen scribe of some new Apocalypse,
the officer was overcome by the intensity of his emotions; his legs
failed him and he fell. Almost at the same instant he heard a crashing
sound in the trees--a sound that died without an echo--and all was

The officer rose to his feet, trembling. The familiar sensation of an
abraded shin recalled his dazed faculties. Pulling himself together he
ran rapidly obliquely away from the cliff to a point distant from its
foot; thereabout he expected to find his man; and thereabout he
naturally failed. In the fleeting instant of his vision his imagination
had been so wrought upon by the apparent grace and ease and intention of
the marvelous performance that it did not occur to him that the line of
march of aerial cavalry is directly downward, and that he could find the
objects of his search at the very foot of the cliff. A half-hour later
he returned to camp.

This officer was a wise man; he knew better than to tell an incredible
truth. He said nothing of what he had seen. But when the commander asked
him if in his scout he had learned anything of advantage to the
expedition he answered:

"Yes, sir; there is no road leading down into this valley from the

The commander, knowing better, smiled.


After firing his shot, Private Carter Druse reloaded his rifle and
resumed his watch. Ten minutes had hardly passed when a Federal sergeant
crept cautiously to him on hands and knees. Druse neither turned his
head nor looked at him, but lay without motion or sign of recognition.

"Did you fire?" the sergeant whispered.


"At what?"

"A horse. It was standing on yonder rock--pretty far out. You see it is
no longer there. It went over the cliff."

The man's face was white, but he showed no other sign of emotion. Having
answered, he turned away his eyes and said no more. The sergeant did not

"See here, Druse," he said, after a moment's silence, "it's no use
making a mystery. I order you to report. Was there anybody on the



"My father."

The sergeant rose to his feet and walked away. "Good God!" he said.



A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down
into the swift water twenty feet below. The man's hands were behind his
back, the wrists bound with a cord. A rope closely encircled his neck.
It was attached to a stout cross-timber above his head and the slack
fell to the level of his knees. Some loose boards laid upon the sleepers
supporting the metals of the railway supplied a footing for him and his
executioners--two private soldiers of the Federal army, directed by a
sergeant who in civil life may have been a deputy sheriff. At a short
remove upon the same temporary platform was an officer in the uniform of
his rank, armed. He was a captain. A sentinel at each end of the bridge
stood with his rifle in the position known as "support," that is to say,
vertical in front of the left shoulder, the hammer resting on the
forearm thrown straight across the chest--a formal and unnatural
position, enforcing an erect carriage of the body. It did not appear to
be the duty of these two men to know what was occurring at the centre of
the bridge; they merely blockaded the two ends of the foot planking that
traversed it.

Beyond one of the sentinels nobody was in sight; the railroad ran
straight away into a forest for a hundred yards, then, curving, was lost
to view. Doubtless there was an outpost farther along. The other bank of
the stream was open ground--a gentle acclivity topped with a stockade of
vertical tree trunks, loop-holed for rifles, with a single embrasure
through which protruded the muzzle of a brass cannon commanding the
bridge. Mid-way of the slope between bridge and fort were the
spectators--a single company of infantry in line, at "parade rest," the
butts of the rifles on the ground, the barrels inclining slightly
backward against the right shoulder, the hands crossed upon the stock. A
lieutenant stood at the right of the line, the point of his sword upon
the ground, his left hand resting upon his right. Excepting the group of
four at the centre of the bridge, not a man moved. The company faced the
bridge, staring stonily, motionless. The sentinels, facing the banks of
the stream, might have been statues to adorn the bridge. The captain
stood with folded arms, silent, observing the work of his subordinates,
but making no sign. Death is a dignitary who when he comes announced is
to be received with formal manifestations of respect, even by those most
familiar with him. In the code of military etiquette silence and fixity
are forms of deference.

The man who was engaged in being hanged was apparently about thirty-five
years of age. He was a civilian, if one might judge from his habit,
which was that of a planter. His features were good--a straight nose,
firm mouth, broad forehead, from which his long, dark hair was combed
straight back, falling behind his ears to the collar of his well-fitting
frock-coat. He wore a mustache and pointed beard, but no whiskers; his
eyes were large and dark gray, and had a kindly expression which one
would hardly have expected in one whose neck was in the hemp. Evidently
this was no vulgar assassin. The liberal military code makes provision
for hanging many kinds of persons, and gentlemen are not excluded.

The preparations being complete, the two private soldiers stepped aside
and each drew away the plank upon which he had been standing. The
sergeant turned to the captain, saluted and placed himself immediately
behind that officer, who in turn moved apart one pace. These movements
left the condemned man and the sergeant standing on the two ends of the
same plank, which spanned three of the cross-ties of the bridge. The end
upon which the civilian stood almost, but not quite, reached a fourth.
This plank had been held in place by the weight of the captain; it was
now held by that of the sergeant. At a signal from the former the latter
would step aside, the plank would tilt and the condemned man go down
between two ties. The arrangement commended itself to his judgment as
simple and effective. His face had not been covered nor his eyes
bandaged. He looked a moment at his "unsteadfast footing," then let his
gaze wander to the swirling water of the stream racing madly beneath his
feet. A piece of dancing driftwood caught his attention and his eyes
followed it down the current. How slowly it appeared to move! What a
sluggish stream!

He closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his wife and
children. The water, touched to gold by the early sun, the brooding
mists under the banks at some distance down the stream, the fort, the
soldiers, the piece of drift--all had distracted him. And now he became
conscious of a new disturbance. Striking through the thought of his dear
ones was a sound which he could neither ignore nor understand, a sharp,
distinct, metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith's hammer
upon the anvil; it had the same ringing quality. He wondered what it
was, and whether immeasurably distant or near by--it seemed both. Its
recurrence was regular, but as slow as the tolling of a death knell. He
awaited each stroke with impatience and--he knew not why--apprehension.
The intervals of silence grew progressively longer; the delays became
maddening. With their greater infrequency the sounds increased in
strength and sharpness. They hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife; he
feared he would shriek. What he heard was the ticking of his watch.

He unclosed his eyes and saw again the water below him. "If I could free
my hands," he thought, "I might throw off the noose and spring into the
stream. By diving I could evade the bullets and, swimming vigorously,
reach the bank, take to the woods and get away home. My home, thank God,
is as yet outside their lines; my wife and little ones are still beyond
the invader's farthest advance."

As these thoughts, which have here to be set down in words, were flashed
into the doomed man's brain rather than evolved from it the captain
nodded to the sergeant. The sergeant stepped aside.


Peyton Farquhar was a well-to-do planter, of an old and highly respected
Alabama family. Being a slave owner and like other slave owners a
politician he was naturally an original secessionist and ardently
devoted to the Southern cause. Circumstances of an imperious nature,
which it is unnecessary to relate here, had prevented him from taking
service with the gallant army that had fought the disastrous campaigns
ending with the fall of Corinth, and he chafed under the inglorious
restraint, longing for the release of his energies, the larger life of
the soldier, the opportunity for distinction. That opportunity, he felt,
would come, as it comes to all in war time. Meanwhile he did what he
could. No service was too humble for him to perform in aid of the South,
no adventure too perilous for him to undertake if consistent with the
character of a civilian who was at heart a soldier, and who in good
faith and without too much qualification assented to at least a part of
the frankly villainous dictum that all is fair in love and war.

One evening while Farquhar and his wife were sitting on a rustic bench
near the entrance to his grounds, a gray-clad soldier rode up to the
gate and asked for a drink of water. Mrs. Farquhar was only too happy to
serve him with her own white hands. While she was fetching the water her
husband approached the dusty horseman and inquired eagerly for news from
the front.

"The Yanks are repairing the railroads," said the man, "and are getting
ready for another advance. They have reached the Owl Creek bridge, put
it in order and built a stockade on the north bank. The commandant has
issued an order, which is posted everywhere, declaring that any civilian
caught interfering with the railroad, its bridges, tunnels or trains
will be summarily hanged. I saw the order."

"How far is it to the Owl Creek bridge?" Farquhar asked.

"About thirty miles."

"Is there no force on this side the creek?"

"Only a picket post half a mile out, on the railroad, and a single
sentinel at this end of the bridge."

"Suppose a man--a civilian and student of hanging--should elude the
picket post and perhaps get the better of the sentinel," said Farquhar,
smiling, "what could he accomplish?"

The soldier reflected. "I was there a month ago," he replied. "I
observed that the flood of last winter had lodged a great quantity of
driftwood against the wooden pier at this end of the bridge. It is now
dry and would burn like tow."

The lady had now brought the water, which the soldier drank. He thanked
her ceremoniously, bowed to her husband and rode away. An hour later,
after nightfall, he repassed the plantation, going northward in the
direction from which he had come. He was a Federal scout.


As Peyton Farquhar fell straight downward through the bridge he lost
consciousness and was as one already dead. From this state he was
awakened--ages later, it seemed to him--by the pain of a sharp pressure
upon his throat, followed by a sense of suffocation. Keen, poignant
agonies seemed to shoot from his neck downward through every fibre of
his body and limbs. These pains appeared to flash along well-defined
lines of ramification and to beat with an inconceivably rapid
periodicity. They seemed like streams of pulsating fire heating him to
an intolerable temperature. As to his head, he was conscious of nothing
but a feeling of fulness--of congestion. These sensations were
unaccompanied by thought. The intellectual part of his nature was
already effaced; he had power only to feel, and feeling was torment. He
was conscious of motion. Encompassed in a luminous cloud, of which he
was now merely the fiery heart, without material substance, he swung
through unthinkable arcs of oscillation, like a vast pendulum. Then all
at once, with terrible suddenness, the light about him shot upward with
the noise of a loud plash; a frightful roaring was in his ears, and all
was cold and dark. The power of thought was restored; he knew that the
rope had broken and he had fallen into the stream. There was no
additional strangulation; the noose about his neck was already
suffocating him and kept the water from his lungs. To die of hanging at
the bottom of a river!--the idea seemed to him ludicrous. He opened his
eyes in the darkness and saw above him a gleam of light, but how
distant, how inaccessible! He was still sinking, for the light became
fainter and fainter until it was a mere glimmer. Then it began to grow
and brighten, and he knew that he was rising toward the surface--knew it
with reluctance, for he was now very comfortable. "To be hanged and
drowned," he thought, "that is not so bad; but I do not wish to be shot.
No; I will not be shot; that is not fair."

He was not conscious of an effort, but a sharp pain in his wrist
apprised him that he was trying to free his hands. He gave the struggle
his attention, as an idler might observe the feat of a juggler, without
interest in the outcome. What splendid effort!--what magnificent, what
superhuman strength! Ah, that was a fine endeavor! Bravo! The cord fell
away; his arms parted and floated upward, the hands dimly seen on each
side in the growing light. He watched them with a new interest as first
one and then the other pounced upon the noose at his neck. They tore it
away and thrust it fiercely aside, its undulations resembling those of a
water-snake. "Put it back, put it back!" He thought he shouted these
words to his hands, for the undoing of the noose had been succeeded by
the direst pang that he had yet experienced. His neck ached horribly;
his brain was on fire; his heart, which had been fluttering faintly,
gave a great leap, trying to force itself out at his mouth. His whole
body was racked and wrenched with an insupportable anguish! But his
disobedient hands gave no heed to the command. They beat the water
vigorously with quick, downward strokes, forcing him to the surface. He
felt his head emerge; his eyes were blinded by the sunlight; his chest
expanded convulsively, and with a supreme and crowning agony his lungs
engulfed a great draught of air, which instantly he expelled in a

He was now in full possession of his physical senses. They were, indeed,
preternaturally keen and alert. Something in the awful disturbance of
his organic system had so exalted and refined them that they made record
of things never before perceived. He felt the ripples upon his face and
heard their separate sounds as they struck. He looked at the forest on
the bank of the stream, saw the individual trees, the leaves and the
veining of each leaf--saw the very insects upon them: the locusts, the
brilliant-bodied flies, the gray spiders stretching their webs from twig
to twig. He noted the prismatic colors in all the dewdrops upon a
million blades of grass. The humming of the gnats that danced above the
eddies of the stream, the beating of the dragon-flies' wings, the
strokes of the water-spiders' legs, like oars which had lifted their
boat--all these made audible music. A fish slid along beneath his eyes
and he heard the rush of its body parting the water.

He had come to the surface facing down the stream; in a moment the
visible world seemed to wheel slowly round, himself the pivotal point,
and he saw the bridge, the fort, the soldiers upon the bridge, the
captain, the sergeant, the two privates, his executioners. They were in
silhouette against the blue sky. They shouted and gesticulated, pointing
at him. The captain had drawn his pistol, but did not fire; the others
were unarmed. Their movements were grotesque and horrible, their forms

Suddenly he heard a sharp report and something struck the water smartly
within a few inches of his head, spattering his face with spray. He
heard a second report, and saw one of the sentinels with his rifle at
his shoulder, a light cloud of blue smoke rising from the muzzle. The
man in the water saw the eye of the man on the bridge gazing into his
own through the sights of the rifle. He observed that it was a gray eye
and remembered having read that gray eyes were keenest, and that all
famous markmen had them. Nevertheless, this one had missed.

A counter-swirl had caught Farquhar and turned him half round; he was
again looking into the forest on the bank opposite the fort. The sound
of a clear, high voice in a monotonous singsong now rang out behind him
and came across the water with a distinctness that pierced and subdued
all other sounds, even the beating of the ripples in his ears. Although
no soldier, he had frequented camps enough to know the dread
significance of that deliberate, drawling, aspirated chant; the
lieutenant on shore was taking a part in the morning's work. How coldly
and pitilessly--with what an even, calm intonation, presaging, and
enforcing tranquillity in the men--with what accurately measured
intervals fell those cruel words:

"Attention, company!... Shoulder arms!... Ready!... Aim!... Fire!"

Farquhar dived--dived as deeply as he could. The water roared in his
ears like the voice of Niagara, yet he heard the dulled thunder of the
volley and, rising again toward the surface, met shining bits of metal,
singularly flattened, oscillating slowly downward. Some of them touched
him on the face and hands, then fell away, continuing their descent. One
lodged between his collar and neck; it was uncomfortably warm and he
snatched it out.

As he rose to the surface, gasping for breath, he saw that he had been a
long time under water; he was perceptibly farther down stream--nearer to
safety. The soldiers had almost finished reloading; the metal ramrods
flashed all at once in the sunshine as they were drawn from the barrels,
turned in the air, and thrust into their sockets. The two sentinels
fired again, independently and ineffectually.

The hunted man saw all this over his shoulder; he was now swimming
vigorously with the current. His brain was as energetic as his arms and
legs; he thought with the rapidity of lightning.

"The officer," he reasoned, "will not make that martinet's error a
second time. It is as easy to dodge a volley as a single shot. He has
probably already given the command to fire at will. God help me, I
cannot dodge them all!"

An appalling plash within two yards of him was followed by a loud,
rushing sound, _diminuendo_, which seemed to travel back through the air
to the fort and died in an explosion which stirred the very river to its
deeps! A rising sheet of water curved over him, fell down upon him,
blinded him, strangled him! The cannon had taken a hand in the game. As
he shook his head free from the commotion of the smitten water he heard
the deflected shot humming through the air ahead, and in an instant it
was cracking and smashing the branches in the forest beyond.

"They will not do that again," he thought; "the next time they will use
a charge of grape. I must keep my eye upon the gun; the smoke will
apprise me--the report arrives too late; it lags behind the missile.
That is a good gun."

Suddenly he felt himself whirled round and round--spinning like a top.
The water, the banks, the forests, the now distant bridge, fort and men
--all were commingled and blurred. Objects were represented by their
colors only; circular horizontal streaks of color--that was all he saw.
He had been caught in a vortex and was being whirled on with a velocity
of advance and gyration that made him giddy and sick. In a few moments
he was flung upon the gravel at the foot of the left bank of the stream
--the southern bank--and behind a projecting point which concealed him
from his enemies. The sudden arrest of his motion, the abrasion of one
of his hands on the gravel, restored him, and he wept with delight. He
dug his fingers into the sand, threw it over himself in handfuls and
audibly blessed it. It looked like diamonds, rubies, emeralds; he could
think of nothing beautiful which it did not resemble. The trees upon the
bank were giant garden plants; he noted a definite order in their
arrangement, inhaled the fragrance of their blooms. A strange, roseate
light shone through the spaces among their trunks and the wind made in
their branches the music of aeolian harps. He had no wish to perfect his
escape--was content to remain in that enchanting spot until retaken.

A whiz and rattle of grapeshot among the branches high above his head
roused him from his dream. The baffled cannoneer had fired him a random
farewell. He sprang to his feet, rushed up the sloping bank, and plunged
into the forest.

All that day he traveled, laying his course by the rounding sun. The
forest seemed interminable; nowhere did he discover a break in it, not
even a woodman's road. He had not known that he lived in so wild a
region. There was something uncanny in the revelation.

By nightfall he was fatigued, footsore, famishing. The thought of his
wife and children urged him on. At last he found a road which led him in
what he knew to be the right direction. It was as wide and straight as a
city street, yet it seemed untraveled. No fields bordered it, no
dwelling anywhere. Not so much as the barking of a dog suggested human
habitation. The black bodies of the trees formed a straight wall on both
sides, terminating on the horizon in a point, like a diagram in a lesson
in perspective. Over-head, as he looked up through this rift in the
wood, shone great golden stars looking unfamiliar and grouped in strange
constellations. He was sure they were arranged in some order which had a
secret and malign significance. The wood on either side was full of
singular noises, among which--once, twice, and again--he distinctly
heard whispers in an unknown tongue.

His neck was in pain and lifting his hand to it he found it horribly
swollen. He knew that it had a circle of black where the rope had
bruised it. His eyes felt congested; he could no longer close them. His
tongue was swollen with thirst; he relieved its fever by thrusting it
forward from between his teeth into the cold air. How softly the turf
had carpeted the untraveled avenue--he could no longer feel the roadway
beneath his feet!

Doubtless, despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep while walking,
for now he sees another scene--perhaps he has merely recovered from a
delirium. He stands at the gate of his own home. All is as he left it,
and all bright and beautiful in the morning sunshine. He must have
traveled the entire night. As he pushes open the gate and passes up the
wide white walk, he sees a flutter of female garments; his wife, looking
fresh and cool and sweet, steps down from the veranda to meet him. At
the bottom of the steps she stands waiting, with a smile of ineffable
joy, an attitude of matchless grace and dignity. Ah, how beautiful she
is! He springs forward with extended arms. As he is about to clasp her
he feels a stunning blow upon the back of the neck; a blinding white
light blazes all about him with a sound like the shock of a cannon--then
all is darkness and silence!

Peyton Farquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung gently
from side to side beneath the timbers of the Owl Creek bridge.


One sunny autumn afternoon a child strayed away from its rude home in a
small field and entered a forest unobserved. It was happy in a new sense
of freedom from control, happy in the opportunity of exploration and
adventure; for this child's spirit, in bodies of its ancestors, had for
thousands of years been trained to memorable feats of discovery and
conquest--victories in battles whose critical moments were centuries,
whose victors' camps were cities of hewn stone. From the cradle of its
race it had conquered its way through two continents and passing a great
sea had penetrated a third, there to be born to war and dominion as a

The child was a boy aged about six years, the son of a poor planter. In
his younger manhood the father had been a soldier, had fought against
naked savages and followed the flag of his country into the capital of a
civilized race to the far South. In the peaceful life of a planter the
warrior-fire survived; once kindled, it is never extinguished. The man
loved military books and pictures and the boy had understood enough to
make himself a wooden sword, though even the eye of his father would
hardly have known it for what it was. This weapon he now bore bravely,
as became the son of an heroic race, and pausing now and again in the
sunny space of the forest assumed, with some exaggeration, the postures
of aggression and defense that he had been taught by the engraver's art.
Made reckless by the ease with which he overcame invisible foes
attempting to stay his advance, he committed the common enough military
error of pushing the pursuit to a dangerous extreme, until he found
himself upon the margin of a wide but shallow brook, whose rapid waters
barred his direct advance against the flying foe that had crossed with
illogical ease. But the intrepid victor was not to be baffled; the
spirit of the race which had passed the great sea burned unconquerable
in that small breast and would not be denied. Finding a place where some
bowlders in the bed of the stream lay but a step or a leap apart, he
made his way across and fell again upon the rear-guard of his imaginary
foe, putting all to the sword.

Now that the battle had been won, prudence required that he withdraw to
his base of operations. Alas; like many a mightier conqueror, and like
one, the mightiest, he could not

curb the lust for war,
Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star.

Advancing from the bank of the creek he suddenly found himself
confronted with a new and more formidable enemy: in the path that he was
following, sat, bolt upright, with ears erect and paws suspended before
it, a rabbit! With a startled cry the child turned and fled, he knew not
in what direction, calling with inarticulate cries for his mother,
weeping, stumbling, his tender skin cruelly torn by brambles, his little
heart beating hard with terror--breathless, blind with tears--lost in
the forest! Then, for more than an hour, he wandered with erring feet
through the tangled undergrowth, till at last, overcome by fatigue, he
lay down in a narrow space between two rocks, within a few yards of the
stream and still grasping his toy sword, no longer a weapon but a
companion, sobbed himself to sleep. The wood birds sang merrily above
his head; the squirrels, whisking their bravery of tail, ran barking
from tree to tree, unconscious of the pity of it, and somewhere far away
was a strange, muffled thunder, as if the partridges were drumming in
celebration of nature's victory over the son of her immemorial
enslavers. And back at the little plantation, where white men and black
were hastily searching the fields and hedges in alarm, a mother's heart
was breaking for her missing child.

Hours passed, and then the little sleeper rose to his feet. The chill of
the evening was in his limbs, the fear of the gloom in his heart. But he
had rested, and he no longer wept. With some blind instinct which
impelled to action he struggled through the undergrowth about him and
came to a more open ground--on his right the brook, to the left a
gentle acclivity studded with infrequent trees; over all, the gathering
gloom of twilight. A thin, ghostly mist rose along the water. It
frightened and repelled him; instead of recrossing, in the direction
whence he had come, he turned his back upon it, and went forward toward
the dark inclosing wood. Suddenly he saw before him a strange moving
object which he took to be some large animal--a dog, a pig--he could not
name it; perhaps it was a bear. He had seen pictures of bears, but knew
of nothing to their discredit and had vaguely wished to meet one. But
something in form or movement of this object--something in the
awkwardness of its approach--told him that it was not a bear, and
curiosity was stayed by fear. He stood still and as it came slowly on
gained courage every moment, for he saw that at least it had not the
long, menacing ears of the rabbit. Possibly his impressionable mind was
half conscious of something familiar in its shambling, awkward gait.
Before it had approached near enough to resolve his doubts he saw that
it was followed by another and another. To right and to left were many
more; the whole open space about him was alive with them--all moving
toward the brook.

They were men. They crept upon their hands and knees. They used their
hands only, dragging their legs. They used their knees only, their arms
hanging idle at their sides. They strove to rise to their feet, but fell
prone in the attempt. They did nothing naturally, and nothing alike,
save only to advance foot by foot in the same direction. Singly, in
pairs and in little groups, they came on through the gloom, some halting
now and again while others crept slowly past them, then resuming their
movement. They came by dozens and by hundreds; as far on either hand as
one could see in the deepening gloom they extended and the black wood
behind them appeared to be inexhaustible. The very ground seemed in
motion toward the creek. Occasionally one who had paused did not again
go on, but lay motionless. He was dead. Some, pausing, made strange
gestures with their hands, erected their arms and lowered them again,
clasped their heads; spread their palms upward, as men are sometimes
seen to do in public prayer.

Not all of this did the child note; it is what would have been noted by
an elder observer; he saw little but that these were men, yet crept like
babes. Being men, they were not terrible, though unfamiliarly clad. He
moved among them freely, going from one to another and peering into
their faces with childish curiosity. All their faces were singularly
white and many were streaked and gouted with red. Something in this--
something too, perhaps, in their grotesque attitudes and movements--
reminded him of the painted clown whom he had seen last summer in the
circus, and he laughed as he watched them. But on and ever on they
crept, these maimed and bleeding men, as heedless as he of the dramatic
contrast between his laughter and their own ghastly gravity. To him it
was a merry spectacle. He had seen his father's negroes creep upon their
hands and knees for his amusement--had ridden them so, "making believe"
they were his horses. He now approached one of these crawling figures
from behind and with an agile movement mounted it astride. The man sank
upon his breast, recovered, flung the small boy fiercely to the ground
as an unbroken colt might have done, then turned upon him a face that
lacked a lower jaw--from the upper teeth to the throat was a great red
gap fringed with hanging shreds of flesh and splinters of bone. The
unnatural prominence of nose, the absence of chin, the fierce eyes, gave
this man the appearance of a great bird of prey crimsoned in throat and
breast by the blood of its quarry. The man rose to his knees, the child
to his feet. The man shook his fist at the child; the child, terrified
at last, ran to a tree near by, got upon the farther side of it and took
a more serious view of the situation. And so the clumsy multitude
dragged itself slowly and painfully along in hideous pantomime--moved
forward down the slope like a swarm of great black beetles, with never a
sound of going--in silence profound, absolute.

Instead of darkening, the haunted landscape began to brighten. Through
the belt of trees beyond the brook shone a strange red light, the trunks
and branches of the trees making a black lacework against it. It struck
the creeping figures and gave them monstrous shadows, which caricatured
their movements on the lit grass. It fell upon their faces, touching
their whiteness with a ruddy tinge, accentuating the stains with which
so many of them were freaked and maculated. It sparkled on buttons and
bits of metal in their clothing. Instinctively the child turned toward
the growing splendor and moved down the slope with his horrible
companions; in a few moments had passed the foremost of the throng--not
much of a feat, considering his advantages. He placed himself in the
lead, his wooden sword still in hand, and solemnly directed the march,
conforming his pace to theirs and occasionally turning as if to see that
his forces did not straggle. Surely such a leader never before had such
a following.

Scattered about upon the ground now slowly narrowing by the encroachment
of this awful march to water, were certain articles to which, in the
leader's mind, were coupled no significant associations: an occasional
blanket, tightly rolled lengthwise, doubled and the ends bound together
with a string; a heavy knapsack here, and there a broken rifle--such
things, in short, as are found in the rear of retreating troops, the
"spoor" of men flying from their hunters. Everywhere near the creek,
which here had a margin of lowland, the earth was trodden into mud by
the feet of men and horses. An observer of better experience in the use
of his eyes would have noticed that these footprints pointed in both
directions; the ground had been twice passed over--in advance and in
retreat. A few hours before, these desperate, stricken men, with their
more fortunate and now distant comrades, had penetrated the forest in
thousands. Their successive battalions, breaking into swarms and
re-forming in lines, had passed the child on every side--had almost
trodden on him as he slept. The rustle and murmur of their march had not
awakened him. Almost within a stone's throw of where he lay they had
fought a battle; but all unheard by him were the roar of the musketry,
the shock of the cannon, "the thunder of the captains and the shouting."
He had slept through it all, grasping his little wooden sword with
perhaps a tighter clutch in unconscious sympathy with his martial
environment, but as heedless of the grandeur of the struggle as the dead
who had died to make the glory.

The fire beyond the belt of woods on the farther side of the creek,
reflected to earth from the canopy of its own smoke, was now suffusing
the whole landscape. It transformed the sinuous line of mist to the
vapor of gold. The water gleamed with dashes of red, and red, too, were
many of the stones protruding above the surface. But that was blood; the
less desperately wounded had stained them in crossing. On them, too, the
child now crossed with eager steps; he was going to the fire. As he
stood upon the farther bank he turned about to look at the companions of
his march. The advance was arriving at the creek. The stronger had
already drawn themselves to the brink and plunged their faces into the
flood. Three or four who lay without motion appeared to have no heads.
At this the child's eyes expanded with wonder; even his hospitable
understanding could not accept a phenomenon implying such vitality as
that. After slaking their thirst these men had not had the strength to
back away from the water, nor to keep their heads above it. They were
drowned. In rear of these, the open spaces of the forest showed the
leader as many formless figures of his grim command as at first; but not
nearly so many were in motion. He waved his cap for their encouragement
and smilingly pointed with his weapon in the direction of the guiding
light--a pillar of fire to this strange exodus.

Confident of the fidelity of his forces, he now entered the belt of
woods, passed through it easily in the red illumination, climbed a
fence, ran across a field, turning now and again to coquet with his
responsive shadow, and so approached the blazing ruin of a dwelling.
Desolation everywhere! In all the wide glare not a living thing was
visible. He cared nothing for that; the spectacle pleased, and he danced
with glee in imitation of the wavering flames. He ran about, collecting
fuel, but every object that he found was too heavy for him to cast in
from the distance to which the heat limited his approach. In despair he
flung in his sword--a surrender to the superior forces of nature. His
military career was at an end.

Shifting his position, his eyes fell upon some outbuildings which had an
oddly familiar appearance, as if he had dreamed of them. He stood
considering them with wonder, when suddenly the entire plantation, with
its inclosing forest, seemed to turn as if upon a pivot. His little
world swung half around; the points of the compass were reversed. He
recognized the blazing building as his own home!

For a moment he stood stupefied by the power of the revelation, then ran
with stumbling feet, making a half-circuit of the ruin. There,
conspicuous in the light of the conflagration, lay the dead body of a
woman--the white face turned upward, the hands thrown out and clutched
full of grass, the clothing deranged, the long dark hair in tangles and
full of clotted blood. The greater part of the forehead was torn away,
and from the jagged hole the brain protruded, overflowing the temple, a
frothy mass of gray, crowned with clusters of crimson bubbles--the work
of a shell.

The child moved his little hands, making wild, uncertain gestures. He
uttered a series of inarticulate and indescribable cries--something
between the chattering of an ape and the gobbling of a turkey--a
startling, soulless, unholy sound, the language of a devil. The child
was a deaf mute.

Then he stood motionless, with quivering lips, looking down upon the



A breezy day and a sunny landscape. An open country to right and left
and forward; behind, a wood. In the edge of this wood, facing the open
but not venturing into it, long lines of troops, halted. The wood is
alive with them, and full of confused noises--the occasional rattle of
wheels as a battery of artillery goes into position to cover the
advance; the hum and murmur of the soldiers talking; a sound of
innumerable feet in the dry leaves that strew the interspaces among the
trees; hoarse commands of officers. Detached groups of horsemen are well
in front--not altogether exposed--many of them intently regarding the
crest of a hill a mile away in the direction of the interrupted advance.
For this powerful army, moving in battle order through a forest, has met
with a formidable obstacle--the open country. The crest of that gentle
hill a mile away has a sinister look; it says, Beware! Along it runs a
stone wall extending to left and right a great distance. Behind the wall
is a hedge; behind the hedge are seen the tops of trees in rather
straggling order. Among the trees--what? It is necessary to know.

Yesterday, and for many days and nights previously, we were fighting
somewhere; always there was cannonading, with occasional keen rattlings
of musketry, mingled with cheers, our own or the enemy's, we seldom
knew, attesting some temporary advantage. This morning at daybreak the
enemy was gone. We have moved forward across his earthworks, across
which we have so often vainly attempted to move before, through the
debris of his abandoned camps, among the graves of his fallen, into the
woods beyond.

How curiously we had regarded everything! how odd it all had seemed!
Nothing had appeared quite familiar; the most commonplace objects--an
old saddle, a splintered wheel, a forgotten canteen--everything had
related something of the mysterious personality of those strange men who
had been killing us. The soldier never becomes wholly familiar with the
conception of his foes as men like himself; he cannot divest himself of
the feeling that they are another order of beings, differently
conditioned, in an environment not altogether of the earth. The smallest
vestiges of them rivet his attention and engage his interest. He thinks
of them as inaccessible; and, catching an unexpected glimpse of them,
they appear farther away, and therefore larger, than they really are--
like objects in a fog. He is somewhat in awe of them.

From the edge of the wood leading up the acclivity are the tracks of
horses and wheels--the wheels of cannon. The yellow grass is beaten down
by the feet of infantry. Clearly they have passed this way in thousands;
they have not withdrawn by the country roads. This is significant--it is
the difference between retiring and retreating.

That group of horsemen is our commander, his staff and escort. He is
facing the distant crest, holding his field-glass against his eyes with
both hands, his elbows needlessly elevated. It is a fashion; it seems to
dignify the act; we are all addicted to it. Suddenly he lowers the glass
and says a few words to those about him. Two or three aides detach
themselves from the group and canter away into the woods, along the
lines in each direction. We did not hear his words, but we know them:
"Tell General X. to send forward the skirmish line." Those of us who
have been out of place resume our positions; the men resting at ease
straighten themselves and the ranks are re-formed without a command.
Some of us staff officers dismount and look at our saddle girths; those
already on the ground remount.

Galloping rapidly along in the edge of the open ground comes a young
officer on a snow-white horse. His saddle blanket is scarlet. What a
fool! No one who has ever been in action but remembers how naturally
every rifle turns toward the man on a white horse; no one but has
observed how a bit of red enrages the bull of battle. That such colors
are fashionable in military life must be accepted as the most
astonishing of all the phenomena of human vanity. They would seem to
have been devised to increase the death-rate.

This young officer is in full uniform, as if on parade. He is all agleam
with bullion--a blue-and-gold edition of the Poetry of War. A wave of
derisive laughter runs abreast of him all along the line. But how
handsome he is!--with what careless grace he sits his horse!

He reins up within a respectful distance of the corps commander and
salutes. The old soldier nods familiarly; he evidently knows him. A
brief colloquy between them is going on; the young man seems to be
preferring some request which the elder one is indisposed to grant. Let
us ride a little nearer. Ah! too late--it is ended. The young officer
salutes again, wheels his horse, and rides straight toward the crest of
the hill!

A thin line of skirmishers, the men deployed at six paces or so apart,
now pushes from the wood into the open. The commander speaks to his
bugler, who claps his instrument to his lips. _Tra-la-la! Tra-la-la!_
The skirmishers halt in their tracks.

Meantime the young horseman has advanced a hundred yards. He is riding
at a walk, straight up the long slope, with never a turn of the head.
How glorious! Gods! what would we not give to be in his place--with his
soul! He does not draw his sabre; his right hand hangs easily at his
side. The breeze catches the plume in his hat and flutters it smartly.
The sunshine rests upon his shoulder-straps, lovingly, like a visible
benediction. Straight on he rides. Ten thousand pairs of eyes are fixed
upon him with an intensity that he can hardly fail to feel; ten thousand
hearts keep quick time to the inaudible hoof-beats of his snowy steed.
He is not alone--he draws all souls after him. But we remember that we
laughed! On and on, straight for the hedge-lined wall, he rides. Not a
look backward. O, if he would but turn--if he could but see the love,
the adoration, the atonement!

Not a word is spoken; the populous depths of the forest still murmur
with their unseen and unseeing swarm, but all along the fringe is
silence. The burly commander is an equestrian statue of himself. The
mounted staff officers, their field glasses up, are motionless all. The
line of battle in the edge of the wood stands at a new kind of
"attention," each man in the attitude in which he was caught by the
consciousness of what is going on. All these hardened and impenitent
man-killers, to whom death in its awfulest forms is a fact familiar to
their every-day observation; who sleep on hills trembling with the
thunder of great guns, dine in the midst of streaming missiles, and play
at cards among the dead faces of their dearest friends--all are watching
with suspended breath and beating hearts the outcome of an act involving
the life of one man. Such is the magnetism of courage and devotion.

If now you should turn your head you would see a simultaneous movement
among the spectators--a start, as if they had received an electric
shock--and looking forward again to the now distant horseman you would
see that he has in that instant altered his direction and is riding at
an angle to his former course. The spectators suppose the sudden
deflection to be caused by a shot, perhaps a wound; but take this
field-glass and you will observe that he is riding toward a break in the
wall and hedge. He means, if not killed, to ride through and overlook
the country beyond.

You are not to forget the nature of this man's act; it is not permitted
to you to think of it as an instance of bravado, nor, on the other hand,
a needless sacrifice of self. If the enemy has not retreated he is in
force on that ridge. The investigator will encounter nothing less than a
line-of-battle; there is no need of pickets, videttes, skirmishers, to
give warning of our approach; our attacking lines will be visible,
conspicuous, exposed to an artillery fire that will shave the ground the
moment they break from cover, and for half the distance to a sheet of
rifle bullets in which nothing can live. In short, if the enemy is
there, it would be madness to attack him in front; he must be manoeuvred
out by the immemorial plan of threatening his line of communication, as
necessary to his existence as to the diver at the bottom of the sea his
air tube. But how ascertain if the enemy is there? There is but one
way,--somebody must go and see. The natural and customary thing to do is
to send forward a line of skirmishers. But in this case they will answer
in the affirmative with all their lives; the enemy, crouching in double
ranks behind the stone wall and in cover of the hedge, will wait until
it is possible to count each assailant's teeth. At the first volley a
half of the questioning line will fall, the other half before it can
accomplish the predestined retreat. What a price to pay for gratified
curiosity! At what a dear rate an army must sometimes purchase
knowledge! "Let me pay all," says this gallant man--this military

There is no hope except the hope against hope that the crest is clear.
True, he might prefer capture to death. So long as he advances, the line
will not fire--why should it? He can safely ride into the hostile ranks
and become a prisoner of war. But this would defeat his object. It would
not answer our question; it is necessary either that he return unharmed
or be shot to death before our eyes. Only so shall we know how to act.
If captured--why, that might have been done by a half-dozen stragglers.

Now begins an extraordinary contest of intellect between a man and an
army. Our horseman, now within a quarter of a mile of the crest,
suddenly wheels to the left and gallops in a direction parallel to it.
He has caught sight of his antagonist; he knows all. Some slight
advantage of ground has enabled him to overlook a part of the line. If
he were here he could tell us in words. But that is now hopeless; he
must make the best use of the few minutes of life remaining to him, by
compelling the enemy himself to tell us as much and as plainly as
possible--which, naturally, that discreet power is reluctant to do. Not
a rifleman in those crouching ranks, not a cannoneer at those masked and
shotted guns, but knows the needs of the situation, the imperative duty
of forbearance. Besides, there has been time enough to forbid them all
to fire. True, a single rifle-shot might drop him and be no great
disclosure. But firing is infectious--and see how rapidly he moves, with
never a pause except as he whirls his horse about to take a new
direction, never directly backward toward us, never directly forward
toward his executioners. All this is visible through the glass; it seems
occurring within pistol-shot; we see all but the enemy, whose presence,
whose thoughts, whose motives we infer. To the unaided eye there is
nothing but a black figure on a white horse, tracing slow zigzags
against the slope of a distant hill--so slowly they seem almost to

Now--the glass again--he has tired of his failure, or sees his error, or
has gone mad; he is dashing directly forward at the wall, as if to take
it at a leap, hedge and all! One moment only and he wheels right about
and is speeding like the wind straight down the slope--toward his
friends, toward his death! Instantly the wall is topped with a fierce
roll of smoke for a distance of hundreds of yards to right and left.
This is as instantly dissipated by the wind, and before the rattle of
the rifles reaches us he is down. No, he recovers his seat; he has but
pulled his horse upon its haunches. They are up and away! A tremendous
cheer bursts from our ranks, relieving the insupportable tension of our
feelings. And the horse and its rider? Yes, they are up and away. Away,
indeed--they are making directly to our left, parallel to the now
steadily blazing and smoking wall. The rattle of the musketry is
continuous, and every bullet's target is that courageous heart.

Suddenly a great bank of white smoke pushes upward from behind the wall.
Another and another--a dozen roll up before the thunder of the
explosions and the humming of the missiles reach our ears and the
missiles themselves come bounding through clouds of dust into our
covert, knocking over here and there a man and causing a temporary
distraction, a passing thought of self.

The dust drifts away. Incredible!--that enchanted horse and rider have
passed a ravine and are climbing another slope to unveil another
conspiracy of silence, to thwart the will of another armed host. Another
moment and that crest too is in eruption. The horse rears and strikes
the air with its forefeet. They are down at last. But look again--the
man has detached himself from the dead animal. He stands erect,
motionless, holding his sabre in his right hand straight above his head.
His face is toward us. Now he lowers his hand to a level with his face
and moves it outward, the blade of the sabre describing a downward
curve. It is a sign to us, to the world, to posterity. It is a hero's
salute to death and history.

Again the spell is broken; our men attempt to cheer; they are choking
with emotion; they utter hoarse, discordant cries; they clutch their
weapons and press tumultuously forward into the open. The skirmishers,
without orders, against orders, are going forward at a keen run, like
hounds unleashed. Our cannon speak and the enemy's now open in full
chorus; to right and left as far as we can see, the distant crest,
seeming now so near, erects its towers of cloud and the great shot pitch
roaring down among our moving masses. Flag after flag of ours emerges
from the wood, line after line sweeps forth, catching the sunlight on
its burnished arms. The rear battalions alone are in obedience; they
preserve their proper distance from the insurgent front.

The commander has not moved. He now removes his field-glass from his
eyes and glances to the right and left. He sees the human current
flowing on either side of him and his huddled escort, like tide waves
parted by a rock. Not a sign of feeling in his face; he is thinking.
Again he directs his eyes forward; they slowly traverse that malign and
awful crest. He addresses a calm word to his bugler. _Tra-la-la!
Tra-la-la!_ The injunction has an imperiousness which enforces it. It is
repeated by all the bugles of all the sub-ordinate commanders; the sharp
metallic notes assert themselves above the hum of the advance and
penetrate the sound of the cannon. To halt is to withdraw. The colors
move slowly back; the lines face about and sullenly follow, bearing
their wounded; the skirmishers return, gathering up the dead.

Ah, those many, many needless dead! That great soul whose beautiful body
is lying over yonder, so conspicuous against the sere hillside--could it
not have been spared the bitter consciousness of a vain devotion? Would
one exception have marred too much the pitiless perfection of the
divine, eternal plan?


Jerome Searing, a private soldier of General Sherman's army, then
confronting the enemy at and about Kennesaw Mountain, Georgia, turned
his back upon a small group of officers with whom he had been talking in
low tones, stepped across a light line of earthworks, and disappeared in
a forest. None of the men in line behind the works had said a word to
him, nor had he so much as nodded to them in passing, but all who saw
understood that this brave man had been intrusted with some perilous
duty. Jerome Searing, though a private, did not serve in the ranks; he
was detailed for service at division headquarters, being borne upon the
rolls as an orderly. "Orderly" is a word covering a multitude of duties.
An orderly may be a messenger, a clerk, an officer's servant--anything.
He may perform services for which no provision is made in orders and
army regulations. Their nature may depend upon his aptitude, upon favor,
upon accident. Private Searing, an incomparable marksman, young, hardy,
intelligent and insensible to fear, was a scout. The general commanding
his division was not content to obey orders blindly without knowing what
was in his front, even when his command was not on detached service, but
formed a fraction of the line of the army; nor was he satisfied to
receive his knowledge of his _vis-a-vis_ through the customary channels;
he wanted to know more than he was apprised of by the corps commander
and the collisions of pickets and skirmishers. Hence Jerome Searing,
with his extraordinary daring, his woodcraft, his sharp eyes, and
truthful tongue. On this occasion his instructions were simple: to get
as near the enemy's lines as possible and learn all that he could.

In a few moments he had arrived at the picket-line, the men on duty
there lying in groups of two and four behind little banks of earth
scooped out of the slight depression in which they lay, their rifles
protruding from the green boughs with which they had masked their small
defenses. The forest extended without a break toward the front, so
solemn and silent that only by an effort of the imagination could it be
conceived as populous with armed men, alert and vigilant--a forest
formidable with possibilities of battle. Pausing a moment in one of
these rifle-pits to apprise the men of his intention Searing crept
stealthily forward on his hands and knees and was soon lost to view in a
dense thicket of underbrush.

"That is the last of him," said one of the men; "I wish I had his rifle;
those fellows will hurt some of us with it."

Searing crept on, taking advantage of every accident of ground and
growth to give himself better cover. His eyes penetrated everywhere, his
ears took note of every sound. He stilled his breathing, and at the
cracking of a twig beneath his knee stopped his progress and hugged the
earth. It was slow work, but not tedious; the danger made it exciting,
but by no physical signs was the excitement manifest. His pulse was as
regular, his nerves were as steady as if he were trying to trap a

"It seems a long time," he thought, "but I cannot have come very far; I
am still alive."

He smiled at his own method of estimating distance, and crept forward. A
moment later he suddenly flattened himself upon the earth and lay
motionless, minute after minute. Through a narrow opening in the bushes
he had caught sight of a small mound of yellow clay--one of the enemy's
rifle-pits. After some little time he cautiously raised his head, inch
by inch, then his body upon his hands, spread out on each side of him,
all the while intently regarding the hillock of clay. In another moment
he was upon his feet, rifle in hand, striding rapidly forward with
little attempt at concealment. He had rightly interpreted the signs,
whatever they were; the enemy was gone.

To assure himself beyond a doubt before going back to report upon so
important a matter, Searing pushed forward across the line of abandoned
pits, running from cover to cover in the more open forest, his eyes
vigilant to discover possible stragglers. He came to the edge of a
plantation--one of those forlorn, deserted homesteads of the last years
of the war, upgrown with brambles, ugly with broken fences and desolate
with vacant buildings having blank apertures in place of doors and
windows. After a keen reconnoissance from the safe seclusion of a clump
of young pines Searing ran lightly across a field and through an orchard
to a small structure which stood apart from the other farm buildings, on
a slight elevation. This he thought would enable him to overlook a large
scope of country in the direction that he supposed the enemy to have
taken in withdrawing. This building, which had originally consisted of a
single room elevated upon four posts about ten feet high, was now little
more than a roof; the floor had fallen away, the joists and planks
loosely piled on the ground below or resting on end at various angles,
not wholly torn from their fastenings above. The supporting posts were
themselves no longer vertical. It looked as if the whole edifice would
go down at the touch of a finger.

Concealing himself in the debris of joists and flooring Searing looked
across the open ground between his point of view and a spur of Kennesaw
Mountain, a half-mile away. A road leading up and across this spur was
crowded with troops--the rear-guard of the retiring enemy, their
gun-barrels gleaming in the morning sunlight.

Searing had now learned all that he could hope to know. It was his duty
to return to his own command with all possible speed and report his
discovery. But the gray column of Confederates toiling up the mountain
road was singularly tempting. His rifle--an ordinary "Springfield," but
fitted with a globe sight and hair-trigger--would easily send its ounce
and a quarter of lead hissing into their midst. That would probably not
affect the duration and result of the war, but it is the business of a
soldier to kill. It is also his habit if he is a good soldier. Searing
cocked his rifle and "set" the trigger.

But it was decreed from the beginning of time that Private Searing was
not to murder anybody that bright summer morning, nor was the
Confederate retreat to be announced by him. For countless ages events
had been so matching themselves together in that wondrous mosaic to some
parts of which, dimly discernible, we give the name of history, that the
acts which he had in will would have marred the harmony of the pattern.
Some twenty-five years previously the Power charged with the execution
of the work according to the design had provided against that mischance
by causing the birth of a certain male child in a little village at the
foot of the Carpathian Mountains, had carefully reared it, supervised
its education, directed its desires into a military channel, and in due
time made it an officer of artillery. By the concurrence of an infinite
number of favoring influences and their preponderance over an infinite
number of opposing ones, this officer of artillery had been made to
commit a breach of discipline and flee from his native country to avoid
punishment. He had been directed to New Orleans (instead of New York),
where a recruiting officer awaited him on the wharf. He was enlisted and
promoted, and things were so ordered that he now commanded a Confederate
battery some two miles along the line from where Jerome Searing, the
Federal scout, stood cocking his rifle. Nothing had been neglected--at
every step in the progress of both these men's lives, and in the lives
of their contemporaries and ancestors, and in the lives of the
contemporaries of their ancestors, the right thing had been done to
bring about the desired result. Had anything in all this vast
concatenation been overlooked Private Searing might have fired on the
retreating Confederates that morning, and would perhaps have missed. As
it fell out, a Confederate captain of artillery, having nothing better
to do while awaiting his turn to pull out and be off, amused himself by
sighting a field-piece obliquely to his right at what he mistook for
some Federal officers on the crest of a hill, and discharged it. The
shot flew high of its mark.

As Jerome Searing drew back the hammer of his rifle and with his eyes
upon the distant Confederates considered where he could plant his shot
with the best hope of making a widow or an orphan or a childless
mother,--perhaps all three, for Private Searing, although he had
repeatedly refused promotion, was not without a certain kind of
ambition,--he heard a rushing sound in the air, like that made by the
wings of a great bird swooping down upon its prey. More quickly than he
could apprehend the gradation, it increased to a hoarse and horrible
roar, as the missile that made it sprang at him out of the sky, striking
with a deafening impact one of the posts supporting the confusion of
timbers above him, smashing it into matchwood, and bringing down the
crazy edifice with a loud clatter, in clouds of blinding dust!

When Jerome Searing recovered consciousness he did not at once
understand what had occurred. It was, indeed, some time before he opened
his eyes. For a while he believed that he had died and been buried, and
he tried to recall some portions of the burial service. He thought that
his wife was kneeling upon his grave, adding her weight to that of the
earth upon his breast. The two of them, widow and earth, had crushed his
coffin. Unless the children should persuade her to go home he would not
much longer be able to breathe. He felt a sense of wrong. "I cannot
speak to her," he thought; "the dead have no voice; and if I open my
eyes I shall get them full of earth."

He opened his eyes. A great expanse of blue sky, rising from a fringe of
the tops of trees. In the foreground, shutting out some of the trees, a
high, dun mound, angular in outline and crossed by an intricate,
patternless system of straight lines; the whole an immeasurable distance
away--a distance so inconceivably great that it fatigued him, and he
closed his eyes. The moment that he did so he was conscious of an
insufferable light. A sound was in his ears like the low, rhythmic
thunder of a distant sea breaking in successive waves upon the beach,
and out of this noise, seeming a part of it, or possibly coming from
beyond it, and intermingled with its ceaseless undertone, came the
articulate words: "Jerome Searing, you are caught like a rat in a trap--
in a trap, trap, trap."

Suddenly there fell a great silence, a black darkness, an infinite
tranquillity, and Jerome Searing, perfectly conscious of his rathood,
and well assured of the trap that he was in, remembering all and nowise
alarmed, again opened his eyes to reconnoitre, to note the strength of
his enemy, to plan his defense.

He was caught in a reclining posture, his back firmly supported by a
solid beam. Another lay across his breast, but he had been able to
shrink a little away from it so that it no longer oppressed him, though
it was immovable. A brace joining it at an angle had wedged him against
a pile of boards on his left, fastening the arm on that side. His legs,
slightly parted and straight along the ground, were covered upward to
the knees with a mass of debris which towered above his narrow horizon.
His head was as rigidly fixed as in a vise; he could move his eyes, his
chin--no more. Only his right arm was partly free. "You must help us out
of this," he said to it. But he could not get it from under the heavy
timber athwart his chest, nor move it outward more than six inches at
the elbow.

Searing was not seriously injured, nor did he suffer pain. A smart rap
on the head from a flying fragment of the splintered post, incurred
simultaneously with the frightfully sudden shock to the nervous system,
had momentarily dazed him. His term of unconsciousness, including the
period of recovery, during which he had had the strange fancies, had
probably not exceeded a few seconds, for the dust of the wreck had not
wholly cleared away as he began an intelligent survey of the situation.

With his partly free right hand he now tried to get hold of the beam
that lay across, but not quite against, his breast. In no way could he
do so. He was unable to depress the shoulder so as to push the elbow
beyond that edge of the timber which was nearest his knees; failing in
that, he could not raise the forearm and hand to grasp the beam. The
brace that made an angle with it downward and backward prevented him
from doing anything in that direction, and between it and his body the
space was not half so wide as the length of his forearm. Obviously he
could not get his hand under the beam nor over it; the hand could not,
in fact, touch it at all. Having demonstrated his inability, he
desisted, and began to think whether he could reach any of the debris
piled upon his legs.

In surveying the mass with a view to determining that point, his
attention was arrested by what seemed to be a ring of shining metal
immediately in front of his eyes. It appeared to him at first to
surround some perfectly black substance, and it was somewhat more than a
half-inch in diameter. It suddenly occurred to his mind that the
blackness was simply shadow and that the ring was in fact the muzzle of
his rifle protruding from the pile of debris. He was not long in
satisfying himself that this was so--if it was a satisfaction. By
closing either eye he could look a little way along the barrel--to the
point where it was hidden by the rubbish that held it. He could see the
one side, with the corresponding eye, at apparently the same angle as
the other side with the other eye. Looking with the right eye, the
weapon seemed to be directed at a point to the left of his head, and
_vice-versa._ He was unable to see the upper surface of the barrel, but
could see the under surface of the stock at a slight angle. The piece
was, in fact, aimed at the exact centre of his forehead.

In the perception of this circumstance, in the recollection that just
previously to the mischance of which this uncomfortable situation was
the result he had cocked the rifle and set the trigger so that a touch
would discharge it, Private Searing was affected with a feeling of
uneasiness. But that was as far as possible from fear; he was a brave
man, somewhat familiar with the aspect of rifles from that point of
view, and of cannon too. And now he recalled, with something like
amusement, an incident of his experience at the storming of Missionary
Ridge, where, walking up to one of the enemy's embrasures from which he
had seen a heavy gun throw charge after charge of grape among the
assailants he had thought for a moment that the piece had been
withdrawn; he could see nothing in the opening but a brazen circle. What
that was he had understood just in time to step aside as it pitched
another peck of iron down that swarming slope. To face firearms is one
of the commonest incidents in a soldier's life--firearms, too, with
malevolent eyes blazing behind them. That is what a soldier is for.
Still, Private Searing did not altogether relish the situation, and
turned away his eyes.

After groping, aimless, with his right hand for a time he made an
ineffectual attempt to release his left. Then he tried to disengage his
head, the fixity of which was the more annoying from his ignorance of
what held it. Next he tried to free his feet, but while exerting the
powerful muscles of his legs for that purpose it occurred to him that a
disturbance of the rubbish which held them might discharge the rifle;
how it could have endured what had already befallen it he could not
understand, although memory assisted him with several instances in
point. One in particular he recalled, in which in a moment of mental
abstraction he had clubbed his rifle and beaten out another gentleman's
brains, observing afterward that the weapon which he had been diligently
swinging by the muzzle was loaded, capped, and at full cock--knowledge
of which circumstance would doubtless have cheered his antagonist to
longer endurance. He had always smiled in recalling that blunder of his
"green and salad days" as a soldier, but now he did not smile. He turned
his eyes again to the muzzle of the rifle and for a moment fancied that
it had moved; it seemed somewhat nearer.

Again he looked away. The tops of the distant trees beyond the bounds of
the plantation interested him: he had not before observed how light and
feathery they were, nor how darkly blue the sky was, even among their
branches, where they somewhat paled it with their green; above him it
appeared almost black. "It will be uncomfortably hot here," he thought,
"as the day advances. I wonder which way I am looking."

Judging by such shadows as he could see, he decided that his face was
due north; he would at least not have the sun in his eyes, and north--
well, that was toward his wife and children.

"Bah!" he exclaimed aloud, "what have they to do with it?"

He closed his eyes. "As I can't get out I may as well go to sleep. The
rebels are gone and some of our fellows are sure to stray out here
foraging. They'll find me."

But he did not sleep. Gradually he became sensible of a pain in his
forehead--a dull ache, hardly perceptible at first, but growing more and
more uncomfortable. He opened his eyes and it was gone--closed them and
it returned. "The devil!" he said, irrelevantly, and stared again at the
sky. He heard the singing of birds, the strange metallic note of the
meadow lark, suggesting the clash of vibrant blades. He fell into
pleasant memories of his childhood, played again with his brother and
sister, raced across the fields, shouting to alarm the sedentary larks,
entered the sombre forest beyond and with timid steps followed the faint
path to Ghost Rock, standing at last with audible heart-throbs before
the Dead Man's Cave and seeking to penetrate its awful mystery. For the
first time he observed that the opening of the haunted cavern was
encircled by a ring of metal. Then all else vanished and left him gazing
into the barrel of his rifle as before. But whereas before it had seemed
nearer, it now seemed an inconceivable distance away, and all the more
sinister for that. He cried out and, startled by something in his own
voice--the note of fear--lied to himself in denial: "If I don't sing out
I may stay here till I die."

He now made no further attempt to evade the menacing stare of the gun
barrel. If he turned away his eyes an instant it was to look for
assistance (although he could not see the ground on either side the
ruin), and he permitted them to return, obedient to the imperative
fascination. If he closed them it was from weariness, and instantly the
poignant pain in his forehead--the prophecy and menace of the bullet--
forced him to reopen them.

The tension of nerve and brain was too severe; nature came to his relief
with intervals of unconsciousness. Reviving from one of these he became
sensible of a sharp, smarting pain in his right hand, and when he worked
his fingers together, or rubbed his palm with them, he could feel that
they were wet and slippery. He could not see the hand, but he knew the
sensation; it was running blood. In his delirium he had beaten it
against the jagged fragments of the wreck, had clutched it full of
splinters. He resolved that he would meet his fate more manly. He was a
plain, common soldier, had no religion and not much philosophy; he could
not die like a hero, with great and wise last words, even if there had
been some one to hear them, but he could die "game," and he would. But
if he could only know when to expect the shot!

Some rats which had probably inhabited the shed came sneaking and
scampering about. One of them mounted the pile of debris that held the
rifle; another followed and another. Searing regarded them at first with
indifference, then with friendly interest; then, as the thought flashed
into his bewildered mind that they might touch the trigger of his rifle,
he cursed them and ordered them to go away. "It is no business of
yours," he cried.

The creatures went away; they would return later, attack his face, gnaw
away his nose, cut his throat--he knew that, but he hoped by that time
to be dead.

Nothing could now unfix his gaze from the little ring of metal with its
black interior. The pain in his forehead was fierce and incessant. He
felt it gradually penetrating the brain more and more deeply, until at
last its progress was arrested by the wood at the back of his head. It
grew momentarily more insufferable: he began wantonly beating his
lacerated hand against the splinters again to counteract that horrible
ache. It seemed to throb with a slow, regular recurrence, each pulsation
sharper than the preceding, and sometimes he cried out, thinking he felt
the fatal bullet. No thoughts of home, of wife and children, of country,
of glory. The whole record of memory was effaced. The world had passed
away--not a vestige remained. Here in this confusion of timbers and
boards is the sole universe. Here is immortality in time--each pain an
everlasting life. The throbs tick off eternities.

Jerome Searing, the man of courage, the formidable enemy, the strong,
resolute warrior, was as pale as a ghost. His jaw was fallen; his eyes
protruded; he trembled in every fibre; a cold sweat bathed his entire
body; he screamed with fear. He was not insane--he was terrified.

In groping about with his torn and bleeding hand he seized at last a
strip of board, and, pulling, felt it give way. It lay parallel with his
body, and by bending his elbow as much as the contracted space would
permit, he could draw it a few inches at a time. Finally it was
altogether loosened from the wreckage covering his legs; he could lift
it clear of the ground its whole length. A great hope came into his
mind: perhaps he could work it upward, that is to say backward, far
enough to lift the end and push aside the rifle; or, if that were too
tightly wedged, so place the strip of board as to deflect the bullet.
With this object he passed it backward inch by inch, hardly daring to
breathe lest that act somehow defeat his intent, and more than ever
unable to remove his eyes from the rifle, which might perhaps now hasten
to improve its waning opportunity. Something at least had been gained:
in the occupation of his mind in this attempt at self-defense he was
less sensible of the pain in his head and had ceased to wince. But he
was still dreadfully frightened and his teeth rattled like castanets.

The strip of board ceased to move to the suasion of his hand. He tugged
at it with all his strength, changed the direction of its length all he
could, but it had met some extended obstruction behind him and the end
in front was still too far away to clear the pile of debris and reach
the muzzle of the gun. It extended, indeed, nearly as far as the trigger
guard, which, uncovered by the rubbish, he could imperfectly see with
his right eye. He tried to break the strip with his hand, but had no
leverage. In his defeat, all his terror returned, augmented tenfold. The
black aperture of the rifle appeared to threaten a sharper and more
imminent death in punishment of his rebellion. The track of the bullet
through his head ached with an intenser anguish. He began to tremble

Suddenly he became composed. His tremor subsided. He clenched his teeth
and drew down his eyebrows. He had not exhausted his means of defense; a
new design had shaped itself in his mind--another plan of battle.
Raising the front end of the strip of board, he carefully pushed it
forward through the wreckage at the side of the rifle until it pressed
against the trigger guard. Then he moved the end slowly outward until he
could feel that it had cleared it, then, closing his eyes, thrust it
against the trigger with all his strength! There was no explosion; the
rifle had been discharged as it dropped from his hand when the building
fell. But it did its work.

* * * * *

Lieutenant Adrian Searing, in command of the picket-guard on that part
of the line through which his brother Jerome had passed on his mission,
sat with attentive ears in his breastwork behind the line. Not the
faintest sound escaped him; the cry of a bird, the barking of a
squirrel, the noise of the wind among the pines--all were anxiously
noted by his overstrained sense. Suddenly, directly in front of his
line, he heard a faint, confused rumble, like the clatter of a falling
building translated by distance. The lieutenant mechanically looked at
his watch. Six o'clock and eighteen minutes. At the same moment an
officer approached him on foot from the rear and saluted.

"Lieutenant," said the officer, "the colonel directs you to move forward
your line and feel the enemy if you find him. If not, continue the
advance until directed to halt. There is reason to think that the enemy
has retreated."

The lieutenant nodded and said nothing; the other officer retired. In a
moment the men, apprised of their duty by the non-commissioned officers
in low tones, had deployed from their rifle-pits and were moving forward
in skirmishing order, with set teeth and beating hearts.

This line of skirmishers sweeps across the plantation toward the
mountain. They pass on both sides of the wrecked building, observing
nothing. At a short distance in their rear their commander comes. He
casts his eyes curiously upon the ruin and sees a dead body half buried
in boards and timbers. It is so covered with dust that its clothing is
Confederate gray. Its face is yellowish white; the cheeks are fallen in,
the temples sunken, too, with sharp ridges about them, making the
forehead forbiddingly narrow; the upper lip, slightly lifted, shows the
white teeth, rigidly clenched. The hair is heavy with moisture, the face
as wet as the dewy grass all about. From his point of view the officer
does not observe the rifle; the man was apparently killed by the fall of
the building.

"Dead a week," said the officer curtly, moving on and absently pulling
out his watch as if to verify his estimate of time. Six o'clock and
forty minutes.


The best soldier of our staff was Lieutenant Herman Brayle, one of the
two aides-de-camp. I don't remember where the general picked him up;
from some Ohio regiment, I think; none of us had previously known him,
and it would have been strange if we had, for no two of us came from the
same State, nor even from adjoining States. The general seemed to think
that a position on his staff was a distinction that should be so
judiciously conferred as not to beget any sectional jealousies and
imperil the integrity of that part of the country which was still an
integer. He would not even choose officers from his own command, but by
some jugglery at department headquarters obtained them from other
brigades. Under such circumstances, a man's services had to be very
distinguished indeed to be heard of by his family and the friends of his
youth; and "the speaking trump of fame" was a trifle hoarse from
loquacity, anyhow.

Lieutenant Brayle was more than six feet in height and of splendid
proportions, with the light hair and gray-blue eyes which men so gifted
usually find associated with a high order of courage. As he was commonly
in full uniform, especially in action, when most officers are content to
be less flamboyantly attired, he was a very striking and conspicuous
figure. As to the rest, he had a gentleman's manners, a scholar's head,
and a lion's heart. His age was about thirty.

We all soon came to like Brayle as much as we admired him, and it was
with sincere concern that in the engagement at Stone's River--our first
action after he joined us--we observed that he had one most
objectionable and unsoldierly quality: he was vain of his courage.
During all the vicissitudes and mutations of that hideous encounter,
whether our troops were fighting in the open cotton fields, in the cedar
thickets, or behind the railway embankment, he did not once take cover,
except when sternly commanded to do so by the general, who usually had
other things to think of than the lives of his staff officers--or those
of his men, for that matter.

In every later engagement while Brayle was with us it was the same way.
He would sit his horse like an equestrian statue, in a storm of bullets
and grape, in the most exposed places--wherever, in fact, duty,
requiring him to go, permitted him to remain--when, without trouble and
with distinct advantage to his reputation for common sense, he might
have been in such security as is possible on a battlefield in the brief
intervals of personal inaction.

On foot, from necessity or in deference to his dismounted commander or
associates, his conduct was the same. He would stand like a rock in the
open when officers and men alike had taken to cover; while men older in
service and years, higher in rank and of unquestionable intrepidity,
were loyally preserving behind the crest of a hill lives infinitely
precious to their country, this fellow would stand, equally idle, on the
ridge, facing in the direction of the sharpest fire.

When battles are going on in open ground it frequently occurs that the
opposing lines, confronting each other within a stone's throw for hours,
hug the earth as closely as if they loved it. The line officers in their
proper places flatten themselves no less, and the field officers, their
horses all killed or sent to the rear, crouch beneath the infernal
canopy of hissing lead and screaming iron without a thought of personal

In such circumstances the life of a staff officer of a brigade is
distinctly "not a happy one," mainly because of its precarious tenure
and the unnerving alternations of emotion to which he is exposed. From a
position of that comparative security from which a civilian would
ascribe his escape to a "miracle," he may be despatched with an order to
some commander of a prone regiment in the front line--a person for the
moment inconspicuous and not always easy to find without a deal of
search among men somewhat preoccupied, and in a din in which question
and answer alike must be imparted in the sign language. It is customary
in such cases to duck the head and scuttle away on a keen run, an object
of lively interest to some thousands of admiring marksmen. In returning
--well, it is not customary to return.

Brayle's practice was different. He would consign his horse to the care
of an orderly,--he loved his horse,--and walk quietly away on his
perilous errand with never a stoop of the back, his splendid figure,
accentuated by his uniform, holding the eye with a strange fascination.
We watched him with suspended breath, our hearts in our mouths. On one
occasion of this kind, indeed, one of our number, an impetuous
stammerer, was so possessed by his emotion that he shouted at me:

"I'll b-b-bet you t-two d-d-dollars they d-drop him b-b-before he g-gets
to that d-d-ditch!"

I did not accept the brutal wager; I thought they would.

Let me do justice to a brave man's memory; in all these needless
exposures of life there was no visible bravado nor subsequent narration.
In the few instances when some of us had ventured to remonstrate, Brayle
had smiled pleasantly and made some light reply, which, however, had not
encouraged a further pursuit of the subject. Once he said:

"Captain, if ever I come to grief by forgetting your advice, I hope my
last moments will be cheered by the sound of your beloved voice
breathing into my ear the blessed words, 'I told you so.'"

We laughed at the captain--just why we could probably not have
explained--and that afternoon when he was shot to rags from an ambuscade
Brayle remained by the body for some time, adjusting the limbs with
needless care--there in the middle of a road swept by gusts of grape and
canister! It is easy to condemn this kind of thing, and not very
difficult to refrain from imitation, but it is impossible not to
respect, and Brayle was liked none the less for the weakness which had
so heroic an expression. We wished he were not a fool, but he went on
that way to the end, sometimes hard hit, but always returning to duty
about as good as new.

Of course, it came at last; he who ignores the law of probabilities
challenges an adversary that is seldom beaten. It was at Resaca, in
Georgia, during the movement that resulted in the taking of Atlanta. In
front of our brigade the enemy's line of earthworks ran through open
fields along a slight crest. At each end of this open ground we were
close up to him in the woods, but the clear ground we could not hope to
occupy until night, when darkness would enable us to burrow like moles
and throw up earth. At this point our line was a quarter-mile away in
the edge of a wood. Roughly, we formed a semicircle, the enemy's
fortified line being the chord of the arc.

"Lieutenant, go tell Colonel Ward to work up as close as he can get
cover, and not to waste much ammunition in unnecessary firing. You may
leave your horse."

When the general gave this direction we were in the fringe of the
forest, near the right extremity of the arc. Colonel Ward was at the
left. The suggestion to leave the horse obviously enough meant that
Brayle was to take the longer line, through the woods and among the men.
Indeed, the suggestion was needless; to go by the short route meant
absolutely certain failure to deliver the message. Before anybody could
interpose, Brayle had cantered lightly into the field and the enemy's
works were in crackling conflagration.

"Stop that damned fool!" shouted the general.

A private of the escort, with more ambition than brains, spurred forward
to obey, and within ten yards left himself and his horse dead on the
field of honor.

Brayle was beyond recall, galloping easily along, parallel to the enemy
and less than two hundred yards distant. He was a picture to see! His
hat had been blown or shot from his head, and his long, blond hair rose
and fell with the motion of his horse. He sat erect in the saddle,
holding the reins lightly in his left hand, his right hanging carelessly
at his side. An occasional glimpse of his handsome profile as he turned
his head one way or the other proved that the interest which he took in
what was going on was natural and without affectation.

The picture was intensely dramatic, but in no degree theatrical.
Successive scores of rifles spat at him viciously as he came within
range, and our own line in the edge of the timber broke out in visible
and audible defense. No longer regardful of themselves or their orders,
our fellows sprang to their feet, and swarming into the open sent broad
sheets of bullets against the blazing crest of the offending works,
which poured an answering fire into their unprotected groups with deadly
effect. The artillery on both sides joined the battle, punctuating the
rattle and roar with deep, earth-shaking explosions and tearing the air
with storms of screaming grape, which from the enemy's side splintered
the trees and spattered them with blood, and from ours defiled the smoke
of his arms with banks and clouds of dust from his parapet.

My attention had been for a moment drawn to the general combat, but now,
glancing down the unobscured avenue between these two thunderclouds, I
saw Brayle, the cause of the carnage. Invisible now from either side,
and equally doomed by friend and foe, he stood in the shot-swept space,
motionless, his face toward the enemy. At some little distance lay his
horse. I instantly saw what had stopped him.

As topographical engineer I had, early in the day, made a hasty
examination of the ground, and now remembered that at that point was a
deep and sinuous gully, crossing half the field from the enemy's line,
its general course at right angles to it. From where we now were it was
invisible, and Brayle had evidently not known about it. Clearly, it was
impassable. Its salient angles would have afforded him absolute security
if he had chosen to be satisfied with the miracle already wrought in his
favor and leapt into it. He could not go forward, he would not turn
back; he stood awaiting death. It did not keep him long waiting.

By some mysterious coincidence, almost instantaneously as he fell, the
firing ceased, a few desultory shots at long intervals serving rather to
accentuate than break the silence. It was as if both sides had suddenly
repented of their profitless crime. Four stretcher-bearers of ours,
following a sergeant with a white flag, soon afterward moved unmolested
into the field, and made straight for Brayle's body. Several Confederate
officers and men came out to meet them, and with uncovered heads
assisted them to take up their sacred burden. As it was borne toward us
we heard beyond the hostile works fifes and a muffled drum--a dirge. A
generous enemy honored the fallen brave.

Amongst the dead man's effects was a soiled Russia-leather pocketbook.
In the distribution of mementoes of our friend, which the general, as
administrator, decreed, this fell to me.

A year after the close of the war, on my way to California, I opened and
idly inspected it. Out of an overlooked compartment fell a letter
without envelope or address. It was in a woman's handwriting, and began
with words of endearment, but no name.

It had the following date line: "San Francisco, Cal., July 9, 1862." The
signature was "Darling," in marks of quotation. Incidentally, in the
body of the text, the writer's full name was given--Marian Mendenhall.

The letter showed evidence of cultivation and good breeding, but it was
an ordinary love letter, if a love letter can be ordinary. There was not
much in it, but there was something. It was this:

"Mr. Winters, whom I shall always hate for it, has been telling that at
some battle in Virginia, where he got his hurt, you were seen crouching
behind a tree. I think he wants to injure you in my regard, which he
knows the story would do if I believed it. I could bear to hear of my
soldier lover's death, but not of his cowardice."

These were the words which on that sunny afternoon, in a distant region,
had slain a hundred men. Is woman weak?

One evening I called on Miss Mendenhall to return the letter to her. I
intended, also, to tell her what she had done--but not that she did it.
I found her in a handsome dwelling on Rincon Hill. She was beautiful,
well bred--in a word, charming.

"You knew Lieutenant Herman Brayle," I said, rather abruptly. "You know,
doubtless, that he fell in battle. Among his effects was found this
letter from you. My errand here is to place it in your hands."

She mechanically took the letter, glanced through it with deepening
color, and then, looking at me with a smile, said:

"It is very good of you, though I am sure it was hardly worth while."
She started suddenly and changed color. "This stain," she said, "is it--
surely it is not--"

"Madam," I said, "pardon me, but that is the blood of the truest and
bravest heart that ever beat."

She hastily flung the letter on the blazing coals. "Uh! I cannot bear
the sight of blood!" she said. "How did he die?"

I had involuntarily risen to rescue that scrap of paper, sacred even to
me, and now stood partly behind her. As she asked the question she
turned her face about and slightly upward. The light of the burning
letter was reflected in her eyes and touched her cheek with a tinge of
crimson like the stain upon its page. I had never seen anything so
beautiful as this detestable creature.

"He was bitten by a snake," I replied.


"Do you think, Colonel, that your brave Coulter would like to put one of
his guns in here?" the general asked.

He was apparently not altogether serious; it certainly did not seem a
place where any artillerist, however brave, would like to put a gun. The
colonel thought that possibly his division commander meant
good-humoredly to intimate that in a recent conversation between them
Captain Coulter's courage had been too highly extolled.

"General," he replied warmly, "Coulter would like to put a gun anywhere
within reach of those people," with a motion of his hand in the
direction of the enemy.

"It is the only place," said the general. He was serious, then.

The place was a depression, a "notch," in the sharp crest of a hill. It
was a pass, and through it ran a turnpike, which reaching this highest
point in its course by a sinuous ascent through a thin forest made a
similar, though less steep, descent toward the enemy. For a mile to the
left and a mile to the right, the ridge, though occupied by Federal
infantry lying close behind the sharp crest and appearing as if held in
place by atmospheric pressure, was inaccessible to artillery. There was
no place but the bottom of the notch, and that was barely wide enough
for the roadbed. From the Confederate side this point was commanded by
two batteries posted on a slightly lower elevation beyond a creek, and a
half-mile away. All the guns but one were masked by the trees of an
orchard; that one--it seemed a bit of impudence--was on an open lawn
directly in front of a rather grandiose building, the planter's
dwelling. The gun was safe enough in its exposure--but only because the
Federal infantry had been forbidden to fire. Coulter's Notch--it came to
be called so--was not, that pleasant summer afternoon, a place where one
would "like to put a gun."

Three or four dead horses lay there sprawling in the road, three or four
dead men in a trim row at one side of it, and a little back, down the
hill. All but one were cavalrymen belonging to the Federal advance. One
was a quartermaster. The general commanding the division and the colonel
commanding the brigade, with their staffs and escorts, had ridden into
the notch to have a look at the enemy's guns--which had straightway
obscured themselves in towering clouds of smoke. It was hardly
profitable to be curious about guns which had the trick of the
cuttle-fish, and the season of observation had been brief. At its
conclusion--a short remove backward from where it began--occurred the
conversation already partly reported. "It is the only place," the
general repeated thoughtfully, "to get at them."

The colonel looked at him gravely. "There is room for only one gun,
General--one against twelve."

"That is true--for only one at a time," said the commander with
something like, yet not altogether like, a smile. "But then, your brave
Coulter--a whole battery in himself."

The tone of irony was now unmistakable. It angered the colonel, but he
did not know what to say. The spirit of military subordination is not
favorable to retort, nor even to deprecation.

At this moment a young officer of artillery came riding slowly up the
road attended by his bugler. It was Captain Coulter. He could not have
been more than twenty-three years of age. He was of medium height, but
very slender and lithe, and sat his horse with something of the air of a
civilian. In face he was of a type singularly unlike the men about him;
thin, high-nosed, gray-eyed, with a slight blond mustache, and long,
rather straggling hair of the same color. There was an apparent
negligence in his attire. His cap was worn with the visor a trifle
askew; his coat was buttoned only at the sword-belt, showing a
considerable expanse of white shirt, tolerably clean for that stage of
the campaign. But the negligence was all in his dress and bearing; in
his face was a look of intense interest in his surroundings. His gray
eyes, which seemed occasionally to strike right and left across the
landscape, like search-lights, were for the most part fixed upon the sky
beyond the Notch; until he should arrive at the summit of the road there
was nothing else in that direction to see. As he came opposite his
division and brigade commanders at the road-side he saluted mechanically
and was about to pass on. The colonel signed to him to halt.

"Captain Coulter," he said, "the enemy has twelve pieces over there on
the next ridge. If I rightly understand the general, he directs that you
bring up a gun and engage them."

There was a blank silence; the general looked stolidly at a distant
regiment swarming slowly up the hill through rough undergrowth, like a
torn and draggled cloud of blue smoke; the captain appeared not to have
observed him. Presently the captain spoke, slowly and with apparent

"On the next ridge, did you say, sir? Are the guns near the house?"

"Ah, you have been over this road before. Directly at the house."

"And it is--necessary--to engage them? The order is imperative?"

His voice was husky and broken. He was visibly paler. The colonel was
astonished and mortified. He stole a glance at the commander. In that
set, immobile face was no sign; it was as hard as bronze. A moment later
the general rode away, followed by his staff and escort. The colonel,
humiliated and indignant, was about to order Captain Coulter in arrest,
when the latter spoke a few words in a low tone to his bugler, saluted,
and rode straight forward into the Notch, where, presently, at the
summit of the road, his field-glass at his eyes, he showed against the
sky, he and his horse, sharply defined and statuesque. The bugler had
dashed down the speed and disappeared behind a wood. Presently his bugle
was heard singing in the cedars, and in an incredibly short time a
single gun with its caisson, each drawn by six horses and manned by its
full complement of gunners, came bounding and banging up the grade in a
storm of dust, unlimbered under cover, and was run forward by hand to
the fatal crest among the dead horses. A gesture of the captain's arm,
some strangely agile movements of the men in loading, and almost before
the troops along the way had ceased to hear the rattle of the wheels, a
great white cloud sprang forward down the slope, and with a deafening
report the affair at Coulter's Notch had begun.

It is not intended to relate in detail the progress and incidents of
that ghastly contest--a contest without vicissitudes, its alternations
only different degrees of despair. Almost at the instant when Captain
Coulter's gun blew its challenging cloud twelve answering clouds rolled
upward from among the trees about the plantation house, a deep multiple
report roared back like a broken echo, and thenceforth to the end the
Federal cannoneers fought their hopeless battle in an atmosphere of
living iron whose thoughts were lightnings and whose deeds were death.

Unwilling to see the efforts which he could not aid and the slaughter
which he could not stay, the colonel ascended the ridge at a point a
quarter of a mile to the left, whence the Notch, itself invisible, but
pushing up successive masses of smoke, seemed the crater of a volcano in
thundering eruption. With his glass he watched the enemy's guns, noting
as he could the effects of Coulter's fire--if Coulter still lived to
direct it. He saw that the Federal gunners, ignoring those of the
enemy's pieces whose positions could be determined by their smoke only,

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