The Battle Ground by Ellen Glasgow (page 5)

as long as you please about martial glory, but if there’s any man who thinks it’s fun merely to get dirty and eat raw food, well, he’s welcome to my share of it, that’s all. I haven’t had so much as one of the necessities of life since I settled down in this old field; even my hair has taken to standing on end. I say, Beau, do you happen to have any pomade about you? Oh, you needn’t jeer, Bland, there’s no danger of your getting bald, with that sheepskin over your scalp; and, besides, I’m willing enough to sacrifice my life for my country. I object only to giving it my hair instead.”

“I believe you’ll find a little in my knapsack,” gravely replied Dan, to be assailed on the spot by a chorus of comic demands.

“I say, Beau, have you any rouge on hand? I’m growing pale. Please drop a little cologne on this handkerchief, my boy. May I borrow your powder puff? I’ve been sitting in the sun. Don’t you want that gallon of stale buttermilk to take your tan off, Miss Nancy?”

“Oh, shut up!” cried Dan, sharply; “if you choose to turn pigs simply because you’ve come out to do a little fighting, I’ve nothing to say against it; but I prefer to remain a gentleman, that’s all.”

“He prefers to remain a gentleman, that’s all,” chanted the chorus round the apple tree.

“And I’ll knock your confounded heads off, if you keep this up,” pursued Dan furiously.

“And he’ll knock our confounded heads off, if we keep this up,” shouted the chorus in a jubilant refrain.

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” remarked Jack Powell, feeling his responsibility in the matter of the pomade. “All I’ve got to say is, if this is what you call war, it’s a pretty stale business. The next time I want to be frisky, I’ll volunteer to pass the lemonade at a Sunday-school picnic.”

“And has anybody called it war, Dandy?” inquired Bland, witheringly.

“Well, somebody might, you know,” replied Jack, opening his fine white shirt at the neck, “did I hear you call it war, Kemper?” he asked politely, as he punched a stout sleeper beside him.

Kemper started up and aimed a blow at vacancy. “Oh, you heard the devil!” he retorted.

“I beg your pardon; it was mistaken identity,” returned Jack suavely.

“Look here, my lad, don’t fool with Kemper when he’s hot,” cautioned Bland, “He’s red enough to fire those bales of straw. I say, Kemper, may I light my pipe at your face?”

“Shut up, now, or he’ll be puffing round here like a steam engine,” said a small dark man named Baker, “let smouldering fires lie on a day like this. Give me a light, Dandy.”

Jack Powell held out his cigar, and then, leaning back against the tree, blew a cloud of smoke about his head.

“I’ll be blessed if I don’t think seven hours’ drill is too much of a bad thing,” he plaintively remarked; “and I may as well add, by the bye, that the next time I go to war, I intend to go in the character of a Major-general.”

“Make it Commander-in-chief. Don’t be too modest, my boy.”

“Well, you may laugh if you like,” pursued Jack, “but between you and me, it was all the fault of those girls at home–they have an idea that patriotism never trims its sleeves, you know. On my word, I might have been Captain of the Leicesterburg Guards after Champe Lightfoot joined the cavalry; but such averted looks were turned from me by the ladies, that I had to jump into the ranks merely to reinstate myself in their regard. They made even Governor Ambler volunteer as a private, I believe, but he was lucky and got made a Colonel instead.”

Bland laughed softly.

“That reminds me of our Colonel,” he observed. “I overheard him talking to himself the other day, and he said: ‘All I ask is not to be in command of a volunteer regiment in hell.'”

“Oh, he won’t,” put in Dan; “all the volunteers will be in heaven–” unless they’re sent down below because they were too big fools to join the cavalry.”

“Then, in heaven’s name, why didn’t you join the cavalry?” inquired Baker.

Dan looked at him a moment, and then threw the apple core at a water bucket that stood upside down upon the grass. “Well, I couldn’t go on my own horse, you see,” he replied, “and I wouldn’t go on the Government’s. I don’t ride hacks.”

“So you came into the infantry to get court-martialled,” remarked Bland. “The captain said down the valley, you’ll remember, that if the war lasted a month, you’d be court-martialled for disobedience on the thirtieth day.”

Dan growled under his breath. “Well, I didn’t enter the army to be hectored by any fool who comes along,” he returned. “Look at that fellow Jones, now. He thinks because he happens to be Lieutenant that he’s got a right to forget that I’m a gentleman and he’s not. Why, the day before we came up here, he got after me at drill about being out of step, or some little thing like that; and, by George, to hear him roar you’d have thought that war wasn’t anything but monkeying round with a musket. Why, the rascal came from my part of the country, and his father before him wasn’t fit to black my boots.”

“Did you knock him down?” eagerly inquired Bland.

“I told him to take off his confounded finery and I would,” answered Dan. “So when drill was over, we went off behind a tent, and I smashed his nose. He’s no coward, I’ll say that for him, and when the Captain told him he looked as if he’d been fighting, he laughed and said he had had ‘a little personal encounter with the enemy.'”

“Well, I’m willing enough to do battle for my country,” said Jack Powell, “but I’ll be blessed if I’m going to have my elbow jogged by the poor white trash while I’m doing it.”

“He was scolding at us yesterday because when we were detailed to clean out the camp, we gave the order to the servants,” put in Baker. “Clean out the camp! Does he think my grandmother was a chambermaid?” He suddenly broke off and helped himself to a drink of water from a dripping bucket that a tall mountaineer was passing round the group.

“Been to the creek, Pinetop?” he asked good-humouredly.

The mountaineer, who had won his title from his great height, towering as he did above every man in the company, nodded drowsily as he settled himself upon the ground. He was lithe and hardy as a young hickory, and his abundant hair was of the colour of ripe wheat. At the call to arms he had come, with long strides, down from his bare little cabin in the Blue Ridge, bringing with him a flintlock musket, a corncob pipe, and a stockingful of Virginia tobacco. Since the day of his arrival, he had accepted the pointed jokes of the mess into which he had drifted, with grave lips and a flicker of his calm blue eyes. They had jeered him unmercifully, and he had regarded them with serene and wondering attention. “I say, Pinetop, is it raining up where you are?” a wit had put to him on the first day, and he had looked down and answered placidly:–

“Naw, it’s cl’ar.”

As he sat down in the group beside the woodpile, Bland tossed him the latest paper, but carefully folding it into a square, he laid it aside, and stretched himself upon the brown grass.

“This here’s powerful weather for sweatin’,” he pleasantly observed, as he pulled a mullein leaf from the foot of the apple tree and placed it over his eyes. Then he turned over and in a moment was sleeping as quietly as a child.

Dan got down from the logs and stood thoughtfully staring in the direction of the happy little town lying embosomed in green hills. That little town gave to him, as he stood there in the noon heat, a memory of deep gardens filled with fragrance, of open houses set in blue shadows, and of the bright fluttering of Confederate flags. For a moment he looked toward it down the hot road; then, with a sigh, he turned away and wandered off to seek the outside shadow of a tent.

As he flung himself down in the strip of shade, his gaze went longingly to the dim chain of mountains which showed like faint blue clouds against the sky, while his thoughts returned, as a sick man’s, to the clustered elm boughs and the smooth lawn at Chericoke, and to Betty blooming like a flower in a network of sun and shade.

The memory was so vivid that when he closed his eyes it was almost as if he heard the tapping of the tree-tops against the roof, and felt the pleasant breeze blowing over the sweet-smelling meadows. He looked, through his closed eyes, into the dim old house, seeing the rustling grasses in the great blue jar and their delicate shadow trembling on the pure white wall. There was the tender hush about it that belongs to the memories of dead friends or absent places; a hush that was reverent as a Sabbath calm. He saw the shining swords of the Major and the Major’s father; the rear door with the microphylla roses nodding upon the lintel, and, high above all, the shadowy bend of the staircase, with Betty standing there in her cool blue gown.

He opened his eyes with a start, and pillowing his head on his arm, lay looking off into the burning distance. A bee, straying from a field of clover across the road, buzzed, for a moment, round his face, and then knocked, with a flapping noise, against the canvas tent. Far away, beyond the murmur of the camp, he heard a partridge whistling in a tangled meadow; and at the same instant his own name called through the sunlight.

“I say, Beau, Beau, where are you?” He sat up, and shouted in response, and Jack Powell came hurriedly round the tent to fling himself down upon the beaten grass.

“Oh, you don’t know what you missed!” he cried, chuckling. “You didn’t stay long enough to hear the joke on Bland.”

“I hope it’s a fresh one,” was Dan’s response. “If it’s that old thing about the mule and the darky, I may as well say in the beginning that I heard it in the ark.”

“Oh, it’s new, old man. He made the mistake of trying to get some fun out of Pinetop, and he got more than he bargained for, that’s all. He began to tease him about those blue jean trousers he carries in his knapsack. You’ve seen them, I reckon?”

Dan nodded as he chewed idly at a blade of grass. “I tried to get him to throw them away yesterday,” he said, “and he did go so far as to haul them out and look them over; but after meditating a half hour, he packed them away again and declared there was ‘a sight of wear left in them still.’ He told me if he ever made up his mind to get rid of them, and peace should come next day, he’d never forgive himself.”

“Well, I warned Bland not to meddle with him,” pursued Jack, “but he got bored and set in to make things lively. ‘Look here, Pinetop,’ he began, ‘will you do me the favour to give me the name of the tailor who made your blue jeans?’ and, bless your life, Pinetop just took the mullein leaf from his eyes, and sang out ‘Maw.’ That was what Bland wanted, of course, so, without waiting for the danger signal, he plunged in again. ‘Then if you don’t object I should be glad to have the pattern of them,’ he went on, as smooth as butter. ‘I want them to wear when I go home again, you know. Why, they’re just the things to take a lady’s eye–they have almost the fit of a flour-sack–and the ladies are fond of flour, aren’t they?’ The whole crowd was waiting, ready to howl at Pinetop’s answer, and, sure enough, he raised himself on his elbow, and drawled out in his sing-song tone: ‘I say, Sonny, ain’t yo’ Maw done put you into breeches yit?'”

“It serves him right,” said Dan sternly, “and that’s what I like about Pinetop, Jack, there’s no ruffling him.” He brushed off the bee that had fallen on his head, and dodged as it angrily flew back again.

“Some of the boys raised a row when he came into our mess,” returned Jack, “but where every man’s fighting for his country, we’re all equal, say I. What makes me dog-tired, though, is the airs some of these fool officers put on; all this talk about an ‘officer’s mess’ now, as if a man is too good to eat with me who wouldn’t dare to sit down to my table if he had on civilian’s clothes. It’s all bosh, that’s what it is.”

He got up and strolled off with his grievance, and Dan, stretching himself upon the ground, looked across the hills, to the far mountains where the shadows thickened.

II

THE DAY’S MARCH

In the gray dawn tents were struck, and five days’ rations were issued with the marching orders. As Dan packed his knapsack with trembling hands, he saw men stalking back and forth like gigantic shadows, and heard the hoarse shouting of the company officers through the thick fog which had rolled down from the mountains. There was a persistent buzz in the air, as if a great swarm of bees had settled over the misty valley. Each man was asking unanswerable questions of his neighbour.

At a little distance Big Abel, with several of the company “darkies” was struggling energetically over the property of the mess, storing the cooking utensils into a stout camp chest, which the strength of several men would lift, when filled, into the wagon. Bland, who had just tossed his overcoat across to them, turned abruptly upon Dan, and demanded warmly “what had become of his case of razors?”

“Where are we going?” was Dan’s response, as he knelt down to roll up his oilcloth and blanket. “By Jove, it looks as if we’d gobble up Patterson for breakfast!”

“I say, where’s my case of razors?” inquired Bland, with irritation. “They were lying here a moment ago, and now they’re gone. Dandy, have you got my razors?”

“Look here, Beau, what are you going to leave behind?” asked Kemper over Bland’s shoulder.

“Leave behind? Why, dull care,” rejoined Dan gayly. “By the way, Pinetop, why don’t you save your appetite for Patterson’s dainties?”

Pinetop, who was leisurely eating his breakfast of “hardtack” and bacon, took a long draught from his tin cup, and replied, as he wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve, that he “reckoned thar wouldn’t be any trouble about finding room for them, too.” The general gayety was reflected in his face; he laughed as he bit deeply into his half-cooked bacon.

Dan stood up and nervously strapped on his knapsack; then he swung his canteen over his shoulder and carefully tightened his belt. His face was flushed, and when he spoke his voice quivered with emotion. It seemed to him that the delay of every instant was a reckless waste of time, and he trembled at the thought that the enemy might be preparing to fall upon them unawares; that while the camp was swarming like an ant’s nest, Patterson and his men might be making good use of the fleeting moments.

“Why the devil don’t we move? We ought to move,” he said angrily, as he glanced round the crowded field where the men were arraying themselves in all the useless trappings of the Southern volunteer. Kemper was busily placing his necessary toilet articles in his haversack, having thrown away half his rations for the purpose; Jack Powell, completely dressed for the march, was examining his heavy revolver, with the conscious pride a field officer might have felt in his sword. As he stuck it into his belt, he straightened himself with a laugh and jauntily set his small cap on his curling hair; he was clean, comely, and smooth-shaven as if he had just stepped from a hot bath and the hands of his barber.

“You may roll Dandy in the dust and he’ll come out washed,” Baker had once forcibly remarked.

“I say, boys, why don’t we start?” persisted Dan impatiently, flicking with his handkerchief at a grain of sand on his high boots. Then, as Big Abel brought him a cup of coffee, he drank it standing, casting eager glances over the rim of his cup. He had an odd feeling that it was all a great fox hunt they were soon to start upon; that they were waiting only for the calling of the hounds. The Major’s fighting blood had stirred within his grandson’s veins, and generations of dead Lightfoots were scenting the coming battle from the dust. When Dan thought now of the end to which he should presently be marching, it suggested to him but a quickened exhilaration of the pulses and an old engraving of “Waterloo,” which hung on the dining-room wall at Chericoke. That was war; and he remembered vividly the childish thrill with which he had first looked up at it. He saw the prancing horses, the dramatic gestures of the generals with flowing hair, the blur of waving flags and naked swords. It was like a page torn from the eternal Romance; a page upon which he and his comrades should play heroic parts; and it was white blood, indeed, that did not glow with the hope of sharing in that picture; of hanging immortal in an engraving on the wall.

The “fall in” of the sergeant was already sounding from the road, and, with a last glance about the field, Dan ran down the gentle slope and across the little stream to take his place in the ranks of the forming column. An officer on a milk-white horse was making frantic gestures to the line, and the young man followed him an instant with his eyes. Then, as he stood there in the warm sunshine, he felt his impatience prick him like a needle. He wanted to push forward the regiments in front of him, to start in any direction–only to start. The suppressed excitement of the fox hunt was upon him, and the hoarse voices of the officers thrilled him as if they were the baying of the hounds. He heard the musical jingle of moving cavalry, the hurried tread of feet in the soft dust, the smothered oaths of men who stumbled over the scattered stones. And, at last, when the sun stood high above, the long column swung off toward the south, leaving the enemy and the north behind it.

“By God, we’re running away,” said Bland in a whisper. With the words the gayety passed suddenly from the army, and it moved slowly with the dispirited tread of beaten men. The enemy lay to the north, and it was marching to the south and home.

As it passed through the fragrant streets of Winchester, women, with startled eyes, ran from open doors into the deep old gardens, and watched it over the honeysuckle hedges. Under the fluttering flags, past the long blue shadows, with the playing of the bands and the clatter of the canteens–on it went into the white dust and the sunshine. From a wide piazza, a group of schoolgirls pelted the troops with roses, and as Dan went by he caught a white bud and stuck it into his cap. He looked back laughing, to meet the flash of laughing eyes; then the gray line swept out upon the turnpike and went down the broad road through the smooth green fields, over which the sunlight lay like melted gold.

Dan, walking between Pinetop and Jack Powell, felt a sudden homesickness for the abandoned camp, which they were leaving with the gay little town and the red clay forts, naked to the enemy’s guns. He saw the branching apple tree, the burned-out fires, the silvery fringe of willows by the stream; and he saw the men in blue already in possession of his woodpile, broiling their bacon by the logs that Big Abel had cut.

At the end of three miles the brigades abruptly halted, and he listened, looking at the ground, to an order, which was read by a slim young officer who pulled nervously at his moustache. Down the column came a single ringing cheer, and, without waiting for the command, the men pushed eagerly forward along the road. What was a forced march of thirty miles to an army that had never seen a battle?

As they went on a boyish merriment tripped lightly down the turnpike; jests were shouted, a wit began to tease a mounted officer who was trying to reach the front, and somebody with a tenor voice was singing “Dixie.” A stray countryman, sitting upon the wall of loose stones, was greeted affectionately by each passing company. He was a big, stupid-looking man, with a gray fowl hanging, head downward, from his hand, and as he responded “Howdy,” in an expressionless tone, the fowl craned its long neck upward and pecked at the creeper on the wall.

“Howdy, Jim!” “Howdy, Peter!” “Howdy, Luke!” sang the first line. “How’s your wife?” “How’s your wife’s mother?” “How’s your sister-in-law’s uncle?” inquired the next. The countryman spat into the ditch and stared solemnly in reply, and the gray fowl, still craning its neck, pecked steadily at the leaves upon the stones.

Dan looked up into the blue sky, across the open meadows to the far-off low mountains, and then down the long turnpike where the dust hung in a yellow cloud. In the bright sunshine he saw the flash of steel and the glitter of gold braid, and the noise of tramping feet cheered him like music as he walked on gayly, filled with visions. For was he not marching to his chosen end–to victory, to Chericoke–to Betty? Or if the worst came to the worst–well, a man had but one life, after all, and a life was a little thing to give his country. Then, as always, his patriotism appealed to him as a romance rather than a religion–the fine Southern ardour which had sent him, at the first call, into the ranks, had sprung from an inward, not an outward pressure. The sound of the bugle, the fluttering of the flags, the flash of hot steel in the sunlight, the high old words that stirred men’s pulses–these things were his by blood and right of heritage. He could no more have stifled the impulse that prompted him to take a side in any fight than he could have kept his heart cool beneath the impassioned voice of a Southern orator. The Major’s blood ran warm through many generations.

“I say, Beau, did you put a millstone in my knapsack?” inquired Bland suddenly. His face was flushed, and there was a streak of wet dust across his forehead. “If you did, it was a dirty joke,” he added irritably. Dan laughed. “Now that’s odd,” he replied, “because there’s one in mine also, and, moreover, somebody has stuck penknives in my boots. Was it you, Pinetop?”

But the mountaineer shook his head in silence, and then, as they halted to rest upon the roadside, he flung himself down beneath the shadow of a sycamore, and raised his canteen to his lips. He had come leisurely at his long strides, and as Dan looked at him lying upon the short grass by the wall, he shook his own roughened hair, in impatient envy. “Why, you’ve stood it like a Major, Pinetop,” he remarked.

Pinetop opened his eyes. “Stood what?” he drawled.

“Why, this heat, this dust, this whole confounded march. I don’t believe you’ve turned a hair, as Big Abel says.”

“Good Lord,” said Pinetop. “I don’t reckon you’ve ever ploughed up hill with a steer team.”

Without replying, Dan unstrapped his knapsack and threw it upon the roadside. “What doesn’t go in my haversack, doesn’t go, that’s all,” he observed. “How about you, Dandy?”

“Oh, I threw mine away a mile after starting,” returned Jack Powell, “my luxuries are with a girl I left behind me. I’ve sacrificed everything to the cause except my toothbrush, and, by Jove, if the weight of that goes on increasing, I shall be forced to dispense with it forever. I got rid of my rations long ago. Pinetop says a man can’t starve in blackberry season, and I hope he’s right. Anyway, the Lord will provide–or he won’t, that’s certain.”

“Is this the reward of faith, I wonder?” said Dan, as he looked at a lame old negro who wheeled a cider cart and a tray of green apple pies down a red clay lane that branched off under thick locust trees. “This way, Uncle, here’s your man.”

The old negro slowly approached them to be instantly surrounded by the thirsty regiment.

“Howdy, Marsters? howdy?” he began, pulling his grizzled hair. “Dese yer’s right nice pies, dat dey is, suh.”

“Look here, Uncle, weren’t they made in the ark, now?” inquired Bland jestingly, as he bit into a greasy crust.

“De ark? naw, suh; my Mehaley she des done bake ’em in de cabin over yonder.” He lifted his shrivelled hand and pointed, with a tremulous gesture, to a log hut showing among the distant trees.

“What? are you a free man, Uncle?”

“Free? Go ‘way f’om yer! ain’ you never hyearn tell er Marse Plunkett?”

“Plunkett?” gravely repeated Bland, filling his canteen with cider. “Look here, stand back, boys, it’s my turn now.–Plunkett–Plunkett–can I have a long-lost friend named Plunkett? Where is he, Uncle? has he gone to fight?”

“Marse Plunkett? Naw, suh, he ain’ fit nobody.”

“Well, you tell him from me that he’d better enlist at once,” put in Jack Powell. “This isn’t the time for skulkers, Uncle; he’s on our side, isn’t he?” The old negro shook his head, looking uneasily at the froth that dripped from the keg into the dust.

“Naw, suh, Marse Plunkett, he’s fur de Un’on, but he’s pow’ful feared er de Yankees,” he returned.

Bland broke into a laugh. “Oh, come, that’s downright treason,” he protested merrily. “Your Marse Plunkett’s a skulker sure enough, and you may tell him so with my compliments. You’re on the Yankee side, too, I reckon, and there’re bullets in these pies, sure as I live.”

The old man shuffled nervously on his bare feet.

“Go ‘way, Marster, w’at I know ’bout ‘sides’?” he replied, tilting his keg to drain the last few drops into the canteen of a thirsty soldier. “I’se on de Lawd’s side, dat’s whar I is.”

He fell back startled, for the call of “Column, forward!” was shouted down the road, and in an instant the men had left the emptied cart, and were marching on into the sunny distance.

As the afternoon lengthened the heat grew more oppressive. Straight ahead there was dust and sunshine and the ceaseless tramp, and on either side the fresh fields were scorched and whitened by a powdering of hot sand. Beyond the rise and dip of the hills, the mountains burned like blue flames on the horizon, and overhead the sky was hard as an inverted brazier.

Dan had begun to limp, for his stiff boots galled his feet. His senses were blunted by the hot sand which filled his eyes and ears and nostrils, and there was a shimmer over all the broad landscape. When he shook his hair from his forehead, the dust floated slowly down and settled in a scorching ring about his neck.

The day closed gradually, and as they neared the river, the mountains emerged from obscure outlines into wooded heights upon which the trees showed soft and gray in the sunset. A cool breath was blown through a strip of damp woodland, where the pale bodies of the sycamores were festooned in luxuriant vines, and from the twilight long shadows stretched across the red clay road. Then, as they went down a rocky slope, a fringe of willows appeared suddenly from the blur of green, and they saw the Shenandoah running between falling banks, with the colours of the sunset floating like pink flowers upon its breast.

With a shout the front line plunged into the stream, holding its heavy muskets high above the current of the water, and filing upon the opposite bank, into a rough road which wound amid the ferns.

Midway of the river, near the fording point, there was a little island which lay like a feathery tree-top upon the tinted water; and as Dan went by, he felt the brush of willows on his face and heard the soft lapping of the small waves upon the shore. The keen smell of the sycamores drifted to him from the bank that he had left, and straight up stream he saw a single peaked blue hill upon which a white cloud rested. For a moment he lingered, breathing in the fragrance, then the rear line pressed upon him, and, crossing rapidly, he stood on the rocky edge, shaking the water from his clothes. Out of the after-glow came the steady tramp of tired feet, and with aching limbs, he turned and hastened with the column into the mountain pass.

III

THE REIGN OF THE BRUTE

The noise of the guns rolled over the green hills into the little valley where the regiment had halted before a wayside spring, which lay hidden beneath a clump of rank pokeberry. As each company filled its canteens, it filed across the sunny road, from which the dust rose like steam, and stood resting in an open meadow that swept down into a hollow between two gently rising hills. From the spring a thin stream trickled, bordered by short grass, and the water, dashed from it by the thirsty men, gathered in shining puddles in the red clay road. By one of these puddles a man had knelt to wash his face, and as Dan passed, draining his canteen, he looked up with a sprinkling of brown drops on his forehead. Near him, unharmed by the tramping feet, a little purple flower was blooming in the mud.

Dan gazed thoughtfully down upon him and upon the little purple flower in its dangerous spot. What did mud or dust matter, he questioned grimly, when in a breathing space they would be in the midst of the smoke that hung close above the hill-top? The sound of the cannon ceased suddenly, as abruptly as if the battery had sunk into the ground, and through the sunny air he heard a long rattle that reminded him of the fall of hail on the shingled roof at Chericoke. As his canteen struck against his side, it seemed to him that it met the resistance of a leaden weight. There was a lump in his throat and his lips felt parched, though the moisture from the fresh spring water was hardly dried. When he moved he was conscious of stepping high above the earth, as he had done once at college after an over-merry night and many wines.

Straight ahead the sunshine lay hot and still over the smooth fields and the little hollow where a brook ran between marshy banks. High above he saw it flashing on the gray smoke that hung in tatters from the tree-tops on the hill.

An ambulance, drawn by a white and a bay horse, turned gayly from the road into the meadow, and he saw, with surprise, that one of the surgeons was trimming his finger nails with a small penknife. The surgeon was a slight young man, with pointed yellow whiskers, and light blue eyes that squinted in the sunshine. As he passed he stifled a yawn with an elaborate affectation of unconcern.

A man on horseback, with a white handkerchief tied above his collar, galloped up and spoke in a low voice to the Colonel. Then, as his horse reared, he glanced nervously about, grew embarrassed, and, with a sharp jerk of the bridle, galloped off again across the field. Presently other men rode back and forth along the road; there were so many of them that Dan wondered, bewildered, if anybody was left to make the battle beyond the hill.

The regiment formed into line and started at “double quick” across the broad meadow powdered white with daisies. As it went into the ravine, skirting the hillside, a stream of men came toward it and passed slowly to the rear. Some were on stretchers, some were stumbling in the arms of slightly wounded comrades, some were merely warm and dirty and very much afraid. One and all advised the fresh regiment to “go home and finish ploughing.” “The Yankees have got us on the hip,” they declared emphatically. “Whoopee! it’s as hot as hell where you’re going.” Then a boy, with a blood-stained sleeve, waved his shattered arm in the air and laughed deliriously. “Don’t believe them, friends, it’s glorious!” he cried, in the voice of the far South, and lurched forward upon the grass.

The sight of the soaked shirt and the smell of blood turned Dan faint. He felt a sudden tremor in his limbs, and his arteries throbbed dully in his ears. “I didn’t know it was like this,” he muttered thickly. “Why, they’re no better than mangled rabbits–I didn’t know it was like this.”

They wound through the little ravine, climbed a hillside planted in thin corn, and were ordered to “load and lie down” in a strip of woodland. Dan tore at his cartridge with set teeth; then as he drove his ramrod home, a shell, thrown from a distant gun, burst in the trees above him, and a red flame ran, for an instant, along the barrel of his musket. He dodged quickly, and a rain of young pine needles fell in scattered showers from the smoked boughs overhead. Somewhere beside him a man was groaning in terror or in pain. “I’m hit, boys, by God, I’m hit this time.” The groans changed promptly into a laugh. “Bless my soul! the plagued thing went right into the earth beneath me.”

“Damn you, it went into my leg,” retorted a hoarse voice that fell suddenly silent.

With a shiver Dan lay down on the carpet of rotted pine-cones and peered, like a squirrel, through the meshes of the brushwood. At first he saw only gray smoke and a long sweep of briers and broom-sedge, standing out dimly from an obscurity that was thick as dusk. Then came a clatter near at hand, and a battery swept at a long gallop across the thinned edge of the pines. So close it came that he saw the flashing white eyeballs and the spreading sorrel manes of the horses, and almost felt their hot breath upon his cheek. He heard the shouts of the outriders, the crack of the stout whips, the rattle of the caissons, and, before it passed, he had caught the excited gestures of the men upon the guns. The battery unlimbered, as he watched it, shot a few rounds from the summit of the hill, and retreated rapidly to a new position. When the wind scattered the heavy smoke, he saw only the broom-sedge and several ridges of poor corn; some of the gaunt stalks blackened and beaten to the ground, some still flaunting their brave tassels beneath the whistling bullets. It was all in sunlight, and the gray smoke swept ceaselessly to and fro over the smiling face of the field.

Then, as he turned a little in his shelter, he saw that there was a single Confederate battery in position under a slight swell on his left. Beyond it he knew that the long slope sank gently into a marshy stream and the broad turnpike, but the brow of the hill went up against the sky, and hidden in the brushwood he could see only the darkened line of the horizon. Against it the guns stood there in the sunlight, unsupported, solitary, majestic, while around them the earth was tossed up in the air as if a loose plough had run wild across the field. A handful of artillerymen moved back and forth, like dim outlines, serving the guns in a group of fallen horses that showed in dark mounds upon the hill. From time to time he saw a rammer waved excitedly as a shot went home, or heard, in a lull, the hoarse voices of the gunners when they called for “grape!”

As he lay there, with his eyes on the solitary battery, he forgot, for an instant, his own part in the coming work. A bullet cut the air above him, and a branch, clipped as by a razor’s stroke, fell upon his head; but his nerves had grown steady and his thoughts were not of himself; he was watching, with breathless interest, for another of the gray shadows at the guns to go down among the fallen horses.

Then, while he watched, he saw other batteries come out upon the hill; saw the cannon thrown into position and heard the call change from “grape!” to “canister!” On the edge of the pines a voice was speaking, and beyond the voice a man on horseback was riding quietly back and forth in the open. Behind him Jack Powell called out suddenly, “We’re ready, Colonel Burwell!” and his voice was easy, familiar, almost affectionate.

“I know it, boys!” replied the Colonel in the same tone, and Dan felt a quick sympathy spring up within him. At that instant he knew that he loved every man in the regiment beside him–loved the affectionate Colonel, with the sleepy voice, loved Pinetop, loved the lieutenant whose nose he had broken after drill.

At a word he had leaped, with the others, to his feet, and stood drawn up for battle against the wood. Then it was that he saw the General of the day riding beside fluttering colours across the waste land to the crest of the hill. He was rallying the scattered brigades about the flag–so the fight had gone against them and gone badly, after all.

Around him the men drifted back, frightened, straggling, defeated, and the broken ranks closed up slowly. The standards dipped for a moment before a sharp fire, and then, as the colour bearers shook out the bright folds, soared like great red birds’ wings above the smoke.

It seemed to Dan that he stood for hours motionless there against the pines. For a time the fight passed away from him, and he remembered a mountain storm which had caught him as a boy in the woods at Chericoke. He heard again the cloud burst overhead, the soughing of the pines and the crackling of dried branches as they came drifting down through interlacing boughs. The old childish terror returned to him, and he recalled his mad rush for light and space when he had doubled like a hare in the wooded twilight among the dim bodies of the trees. Then as now it was not the open that he feared, but the unseen horror of the shelter.

Again the affectionate voice came from the sunlight and he gripped his musket as he started forward. He had caught only the last words, and he repeated them half mechanically, as he stepped out from the brushwood. Once again, when he stood on the trampled broom-sedge, he said them over with a nervous jerk, “Wait until they come within fifty yards–and, for God’s sake, boys, shoot at the knees!”

He thought of the jolly Colonel, and laughed hysterically. Why, he had been at that man’s wedding–had kissed his bride–and now he was begging him to shoot at people’s knees!

With a cheer, the regiment broke from cover and swept forward toward the summit of the hill. Dan’s foot caught in a blackberry vine, and he stumbled blindly. As he regained himself a shell ripped up the ground before him, flinging the warm clods of earth into his face. A “worm” fence at a little distance scattered beneath the fire, and as he looked up he saw the long rails flying across the field. For an instant he hesitated; then something that was like a nervous spasm shook his heart, and he was no more afraid. Over the blackberries and the broom-sedge, on he went toward the swirls of golden dust that swept upward from the bright green slope. If this was a battle, what was the old engraving? Where were the prancing horses and the uplifted swords?

Something whistled in his ears and the air was filled with sharp sounds that set his teeth on edge. A man went down beside him and clutched at his boots as he ran past; but the smell of the battle–a smell of oil and smoke, of blood and sweat–was in his nostrils, and he could have kicked the stiff hands grasping at his feet. The hot old blood of his fathers had stirred again and the dead had rallied to the call of their descendant. He was not afraid, for he had been here long before.

Behind him, and beside him, row after row of gray men leaped from the shadow–the very hill seemed rising to his support–and it was almost gayly, as the dead fighters lived again, that he went straight onward over the sunny field. He saw the golden dust float nearer up the slope, saw the brave flags unfurling in the breeze–saw, at last, man after man emerge from the yellow cloud. As he bent to fire, the fury of the game swept over him and aroused the sleeping brute within him. All the primeval instincts, throttled by the restraint of centuries–the instincts of bloodguiltiness, of hot pursuit, of the fierce exhilaration of the chase, of the death grapple with a resisting foe–these awoke suddenly to life and turned the battle scarlet to his eyes.

* * * * *

Two hours later, when the heavy clouds were smothering the sunset, he came slowly back across the field. A gripping nausea had seized upon him–a nausea such as he had known before after that merry night at college. His head throbbed, and as he walked he staggered like a drunken man. The revulsion of his overwrought emotions had thrown him into a state of sensibility almost hysterical.

The battle-field stretched grimly round him, and as the sunset was blotted out, a gray mist crept slowly from the west. Here and there he saw men looking for the wounded, and he heard one utter an impatient “Pshaw!” as he lifted a half-cold body and let it fall. Rude stretchers went by him on either side, and still the field seemed as thickly sown as before; on the left, where a regiment of Zouaves had been cut down, there was a flash of white and scarlet, as if the loose grass was strewn with great tropical flowers. Among them he saw the reproachful eyes of dead and dying horses.

Before him, on the gradual slope of the hill, stood a group of abandoned guns, and there was something almost human in the pathos of their utter isolation. Around them the ground was scorched and blackened, and scattered over the broken trails lay the men who had fallen at their post. He saw them lying there in the fading daylight, with the sponges and the rammers still in their hands, and he saw upon each man’s face the look with which he had met and recognized the end. Some were smiling, some staring, and one lay grinning as if at a ghastly joke. Near him a boy, with the hair still damp on his forehead, had fallen upon an uprooted blackberry vine, and the purple stain of the berries was on his mouth. As Dan looked down upon him, the smell of powder and burned grass came to him with a wave of sickness, and turning he stumbled on across the field. At the first step his foot struck upon something hard, and, picking it up, he saw that it was a Minie ball, which, in passing through a man’s spine, had been transformed into a mass of mingled bone and lead. With a gesture of disgust he dropped it and went on rapidly. A stretcher moved beside him, and the man on it, shot through the waist, was saying in a whisper, “It is cold–cold–so cold.” Against his will, Dan found, he had fallen into step with the men who bore the stretcher, and together they kept time to the words of the wounded soldier who cried out ceaselessly that it was cold. On their way they passed a group on horseback and, standing near it, a handsome artilleryman, who wore a red flannel shirt with one sleeve missing. As Dan went on he discovered that he was thinking of the handsome man in the red shirt and wondering how he had lost his missing sleeve. He pondered the question as if it were a puzzle, and, finally, yielded it up in doubt.

Beyond the base of the hill they came into the small ravine which had been turned into a rude field hospital. Here the stretcher was put down, and a tired-looking surgeon, wiping his hands upon a soiled towel, came and knelt down beside the wounded man.

“Bring a light–I can’t see–bring a light!” he exclaimed irritably, as he cut away the clothes with gentle fingers.

Dan was passing on, when he heard his name called from behind, and turning quickly found Governor Ambler anxiously regarding him.

“You’re not hurt, my boy?” asked the Governor, and from his tone he might have parted from the younger man only the day before.

“Hurt? Oh, no, I’m not hurt,” replied Dan a little bitterly, “but there’s a whole field of them back there, Colonel.”

“Well, I suppose so–I suppose so,” returned the other absently. “I’m looking after my men now, poor fellows. A victory doesn’t come cheap, you know, and thank God, it was a glorious victory.”

“A glorious victory,” repeated Dan, looking at the surgeons who were working by the light of tallow candles.

The Governor followed his gaze. “It’s your first fight,” he said, “and you haven’t learned your lesson as I learned mine in Mexico. The best, or the worst of it, is that after the first fight it comes easy, my boy, it comes too easy.”

There was hot blood in him also, thought Dan, as he looked at him–and yet of all the men that he had ever known he would have called the Governor the most humane.

“I dare say–I’ll get used to it, sir,” he answered. “Yes, it was a glorious victory.”

He broke away and went off into the twilight over the wide meadow to the little wayside spring. Across the road there was a field of clover, where a few campfires twinkled, and he hastened toward it eager to lie down in the darkness and fall asleep. As his feet sank in the moist earth, he looked down and saw that the little purple flower was still blooming in the mud.

IV

AFTER THE BATTLE

The field of trampled clover looked as if a windstorm had swept over it, strewing the contents of a dozen dismantled houses. There were stacks of arms and piles of cooking utensils, knapsacks, half emptied, lay beside the charred remains of fires, and loose fence rails showed red and white glimpses of playing cards, hidden, before the fight, by superstitious soldiers.

Groups of men were scattered in dark spots over the field, and about them stragglers drifted slowly back from the road to Centreville. There was no discipline, no order–regiment was mixed with regiment, and each man was hopelessly inquiring for his lost company.

As Dan stepped over the fallen fence upon the crushed pink heads of the clover, he came upon a circle of privates making merry over a lunch basket they had picked up on the turnpike–a basket brought by one of the Washington parties who had gayly driven out to watch the battle. A broken fence rail was ablaze in the centre of the group, and as the red light fell on each soiled and unshaven face, it stood out grotesquely from the surrounding gloom. Some were slightly wounded, some had merely scented the battle from behind the hill–all were drinking rare wine in honour of the early ending of the war. As Dan looked past them over the darkening meadow, where the returning soldiers drifted aimlessly across the patches of red light, he asked himself almost impatiently if this were the pure and patriotic army that held in its ranks the best born of the South? To him, standing there, it seemed but a loosened mass, without strength and without cohesion, a mob of schoolboys come back from a sham battle on the college green. It was his first fight, and he did not know that what he looked upon was but the sure result of an easy victory upon the undisciplined ardour of raw troops–that the sinews of an army are wrought not by a single trial, but by the strain of prolonged and strenuous endeavour.

“I say, do you reckon they’ll lemme go home ter-morrow?” inquired a slightly wounded man in the group before him. “Thar’s my terbaccy needs lookin’ arter or the worms ‘ull eat it clean up ‘fo’ I git thar.” He shook the shaggy hair from his face, and straightened the white cotton bandage about his chin. On the right side, where the wound was, his thick sandy beard had been cut away, and the outstanding tuft on his left cheek gave him a peculiarly ill-proportioned look.

“Lordy! I tell you we gave it ter ’em!” exclaimed another in excited jerks. “Fight! Wall, that’s what I call fightin’, leastways it’s put. I declar’ I reckon I hit six Yankees plum on the head with the butt of this here musket.”

He paused to knock the head off a champagne bottle, and lifting the broken neck to his lips drained the foaming wine, which spilled in white froth upon his clothes. His face was red in the firelight, and when he spoke his words rolled like marbles from his tongue. Dan, looking at him, felt a curious conviction that the man had not gone near enough to the guns to smell the powder.

“Wall, it may be so, but I ain’t seed you,” returned the first speaker, contemptuously, as he stroked his bandage. “I was thar all day and I ain’t seed you raise no special dust.”

“Oh, I ain’t claimin’ nothin’ special,” put in the other, discomfited.

“Six is a good many, I reckon,” drawled the wounded man, reflectively, “and I ain’t sayin’ I settled six on ’em hand to hand–I ain’t sayin’ that.” He spoke with conscious modesty, as if the smallness of his assertion was equalled only by the greatness of his achievements. “I ain’t sayin’ I settled more’n three on ’em, I reckon.”

Dan left the group and went on slowly across the field, now and then stumbling upon a sleeper who lay prone upon the trodden clover, obscured by the heavy dusk. The mass of the army was still somewhere on the long road–only the exhausted, the sickened, or the unambitious drifted back to fall asleep upon the uncovered ground.

As Dan crossed the meadow he drew near to a knot of men from a Kentucky regiment, gathered in the light of a small wood fire, and recognizing one of them, he stopped to inquire for news of his missing friends.

“Oh, you wouldn’t know your sweetheart on a night like this,” replied the man he knew–a big handsome fellow, with a peculiar richness of voice. “Find a hole, Montjoy, and go to sleep in it, that’s my advice. Were you much cut up?”

“I don’t know,” answered Dan, uneasily. “I’m trying to make sure that we were not. I lost the others somewhere on the road–a horse knocked me down.”

“Well, if this is to be the last battle, I shouldn’t mind a scratch myself,” put in a voice from the darkness, “even if it’s nothing more than a bruise from a horse’s hoof. By the bye, Montjoy, did you see the way Stuart rode down the Zouaves? I declare the slope looked like a field of poppies in full bloom. Your cousin was in that charge, I believe, and he came out whole. I saw him afterwards.”

“Oh, the cavalry gets the best of everything,” said Dan, with a sigh, and he was passing on, when Jack Powell, coming out of the darkness, stumbled against him, and broke into a delighted laugh.

“Why, bless my soul, Beau, I thought you’d run after the fleshpots of Washington!” His face was flushed with excitement and the soft curls upon his forehead were wet and dark. Around his mouth there was a black stain from bitten cartridges. “By George, it was a jolly day, wasn’t it, old man?” he added warmly.

“Where are the others?” asked Dan, grasping his arm in an almost frantic pressure.

“The others? they’re all right–all except poor Welch, who got a ball in his thigh, you know. Did you see him when he was taken off the field? He laughed as he passed me and shouted back that he ‘was always willing to spare a leg or two to the cause!'”

“Where are you off to?” inquired Dan, still grasping his arm.

“I? oh, I’m on the scent of water. I haven’t learned to sleep dirty yet, which Bland says is a sign I’m no soldier. By the way, your darky, Big Abel, has a coffee-boiler over yonder in the fence corner. He’s been tearing his wool out over your absence; you’d better ease his mind.” With a laugh and a wave of his hand, he plunged into the darkness, and Dan made his way slowly to the campfire, which twinkled from the old rail fence. As he groped toward it curses sprang up like mustard from the earth beneath. “Get off my leg, and be damned,” growled a voice under his feet. “Oh, this here ain’t no pesky jedgment day,” exclaimed another just ahead. Without answering he stepped over the dark bodies, and, ten minutes later, came upon Big Abel waiting patiently beside the dying fire.

At sight of him the negro leaped, with a shout, to his feet; then, recovering himself, hid his joy beneath an accusing mask.

“Dis yer coffee hit’s done ‘mos’ bile away,” he remarked gloomily. “En ef’n it don’ tase like hit oughter tase, ‘tain’ no use ter tu’n up yo’ nose, caze ‘tain’ de faul’ er de coffee, ner de faul’ er me nurr.”

“How are you, old man?” asked Bland, turning over in the shadow.

“Who’s there?” responded Dan, as he peered from the light into the obscurity.

“All the mess except Welch, poor devil. Baker got his hair singed by our rear line, and he says he thinks it’s safer to mix with the Yankees next time. Somebody behind him shot his cowlick clean off.”

“Cowlick, the mischief!” retorted Baker, witheringly. “Why, my scalp is as bald as your hand. The fool shaved me like a barber.”

“It’s a pity he didn’t aim at your whiskers,” was Dan’s rejoinder. “The chief thing I’ve got against this war is that when it’s over there won’t be a smooth-shaven man in the South.”

“Oh, we’ll stand them up before our rear line,” suggested Baker, moodily. “You may laugh, Bland, but you wouldn’t like it yourself, and if they keep up their precious marksmanship your turn will come yet. We’ll be a regiment of baldheads before Christmas.”

Dan sat down upon the blanket Big Abel had spread and leaned heavily upon his knapsack, which the negro had picked up on the roadside. A nervous chill had come over him and he was shaking with icy starts from head to foot. Big Abel brought a cup of coffee, and as he took it from him, his hand quivered so that he set the cup upon the ground; then he lifted it and drank the hot coffee in long draughts.

“I should have lost my very identity but for you, Big Abel,” he observed gratefully, as he glanced round at the property the negro had protected.

Big Abel leaned forward and stirred the ashes with a small stick.

“En I done fit fer ’em, suh,” he replied. “I des tell you all de fittin’ ain’ been over yonder on dat ar hill caze I’se done fit right yer in dis yer fence conder, en I ain’ fit de Yankees nurr. Lawd, Lawd, dese yer folks es is been a-sniffin’ roun’ my pile all day, ain’ de kinder folks I’se used ter, caze my folks dey don’ steal w’at don’ b’long ter ’em, en dese yer folks dey do. Ole Marster steal? Huh! he ‘ouldn’t even tech a chicken dat ‘uz roos’in in his own yard. But dese yer sodgers!–Why, you cyarn tu’n yo’ eye a splinter off de vittles fo’ dey’s done got ’em. Dey poke dey han’s right spang in de fire en eat de ashes en all.”

He went off grumbling to lie down at a little distance, and Dan sat thoughtfully looking into the smouldering fire. Bland and Baker, having heatedly discussed the details of the victory, had at last drifted into silence; only Pinetop was awake–this he learned from the odour of the corncob pipe which floated from a sheltered corner.

“Come over, Pinetop,” called Dan, cordially, “and let’s make ready for the pursuit to-morrow. Why, to-morrow we may eat a civilized dinner in Washington–think of that!”

He spoke excitedly, for he was still quivering from the tumult of his thoughts. There was no sleep possible for him just now; his limbs twitched restlessly, and he felt the prick of strong emotion in his blood.

“I say, Pinetop, what do you think of the fight?” he asked with an embarrassed boyish eagerness. In the faint light of the fire his eyes burned like coals and there was a thick black stain around his mouth. The hand in which he had held his ramrod was of a dark rust colour, as if the stain of the battle had seared into the skin. A smell of hot powder still hung about his clothes.

The mountaineer left the shadow of the fence corner and slowly dragged himself into the little glow, where he sat puffing at his corncob pipe. He gave an easy, sociable nod and stared silently at the embers.

“Was it just what you imagined it would be?” went on Dan, curiously.

Pinetop took his pipe from his mouth and nodded again. “Wall, ’twas and ‘twan’t,” he answered pleasantly.

“I must say it made me sick,” admitted Dan, leaning his head in his hand. “I’ve always been a fool about the smell of blood; and it made me downright sick.”

“Wall, I ain’t got much of a stomach for a fight myself,” returned Pinetop, reflectively. “You see I ain’t never fought anythin’ bigger’n a skunk until to-day; and when I stood out thar with them bullets sizzlin’ like fryin’ pans round my head, I kind of says to myself: ‘Look here, what’s all this fuss about anyhow? If these here folks have come arter the niggers, let ’em take ’em off and welcome.’ I ain’t never owned a nigger in my life, and, what’s more, I ain’t never seen one that’s worth owning. ‘Let ’em take ’em and welcome,’ that’s what I said. Bless your life, as I stood out thar I didn’t see how I was goin’ to fire my musket, till all of a jiffy a thought jest jumped into my head and sent me bangin’ down that hill. ‘Them folks have set thar feet on ole Virginny,’ was what I thought ‘They’ve set thar feet on ole Virginny, and they’ve got to take ’em off damn quick!'”

His teeth closed over his pipe as if it were a cartridge; then, after a silent moment, he opened his mouth and spoke again.

“What I can’t make out for the life of me,” he said, “is how those boys from the other states gave thar licks so sharp. If I’d been born across the line in Tennessee, I wouldn’t have fired my musket off to-day. They wan’t a-settin’ thar feet on Tennessee. But ole Virginny–wall, I’ve got a powerful fancy for ole Virginny, and they ain’t goin’ to project with her dust, if I can stand between.” He turned away, and, emptying his pipe, rolled over upon the ground.

Dan lay down upon the blanket, and, with his hand upon his knapsack, gazed at the small red ember burning amid the ashes. When the last spark faded into blackness it was as if his thoughts went groping for a light. Sleep came fitfully in flights and pauses, in broken dreams and brief awakenings. Losing himself at last it was only to return to the woods at Chericoke and to see Betty coming to him among the dim blue bodies of the trees. He saw the faint sunshine falling upon her head and the stir of the young leaves above her as a light wind passed. Under her feet the grass was studded with violets, and the bonnet swinging from her arm was filled with purple blossoms. She came on steadily over the path of grass and violets, but when he reached out to touch her a great shame fell over him for there was blood upon his hand.

There was something cold in his face, and he emerged slowly from his sleep into the consciousness of dawn and a heavy rain. The swollen clouds hung close above the hills, and the distance was obscured by the gray sheets of water which fell like a curtain from heaven to earth. Near by a wagon had drawn up in the night, and he saw that a group of half-drenched privates had already taken shelter between the wheels. Gathering up his oilcloth, he hastily formed a tent with the aid of a deep fence corner, and, when he had drawn his blanket across the opening, sat partly protected from the shower. As the damp air blew into his face, he became quickly and clearly awake, and it was with the glimmer of a smile that he looked over the wet meadow and the sleeping regiments. Then a shudder followed, for he saw in the lines of gray men stretched beneath the rain some likeness to that other field beyond the hill where the dead were still lying, row on row. He saw them stark and cold on the scorched grass beside the guns, or in the thin ridges of trampled corn, where the gay young tassels were now storm-beaten upon the ripped-up earth. He saw them as he had seen them the evening before–not in the glow of battle, but with the acuteness of a brooding sympathy–saw them frowning, smiling, and with features which death had twisted into a ghastly grin. They were all there–each man with open eyes and stiff hands grasping the clothes above his wound.

But to Dan, sitting in the gray dawn in the fence corner, the first horror faded quickly into an emotion almost triumphant. The great field was silent, reproachful, filled with accusing eyes–but was it not filled with glory, too? He was young, and his weakened pulses quickened at the thought. Since men must die, where was a brighter death than to fall beneath the flutter of the colours, with the thunder of the cannon in one’s ears? He knew now why his fathers had loved a fight, had loved the glitter of the bayonets and the savage smell of the discoloured earth.

For a moment the old racial spirit flashed above the peculiar sensitiveness which had come to him from his childhood and his suffering mother; then the flame went out and the rows of dead men stared at him through the falling rain in the deserted field.

V

THE WOMAN’S PART

At sunrise on the morning of the battle Betty and Virginia, from the whitewashed porch of a little railway inn near Manassas, watched the Governor’s regiment as it marched down the single street and into the red clay road. Through the first faint sunshine, growing deeper as the sun rose gloriously above the hills, there sounded a peculiar freshness in the martial music as it triumphantly floated back across the fields. To Betty it almost seemed that the drums were laughing as they went to battle; and when the gay air at last faded in the distance, the silence closed about her with a strangeness she had never felt before–as if the absence of sound was grown melancholy, like the absence of light.

She shut her eyes and brought back the long gray line passing across the sunbeams: the tanned eager faces, the waving flags, the rapid, almost impatient tread of the men as they swung onward. A laugh had run along the column as it went by her and she had smiled in quick sympathy with some foolish jest. It was all so natural to her, the gayety and the ardour and the invincible dash of the young army–it was all so like the spirit of Dan and so dear to her because of the likeness.

Somewhere–not far away, she knew–he also was stepping briskly across the first sun rays, and her heart followed him even while she smiled down upon the regiment before her. It was as if her soul were suddenly freed from her bodily presence, and in a kind of dual consciousness she seemed to be standing upon the little whitewashed porch and walking onward beside Dan at the same moment. The wonder of it glowed in her rapt face, and Virginia, turning to put some trivial question, was startled by the passion of her look.

“Have–have you seen–some one, Betty?” she whispered.

The charm was snapped and Betty fell back into time and place.

“Oh, yes, I have seen–some one,” her voice thrilled as she spoke. “I saw him as clearly as I see you; he was all in sunshine and there was a flag close above his head. He looked up and smiled at me. Yes, I saw him! I saw him!”

“It was Dan,” said Virginia–not as a question, but in a wondering assent. “Why, Betty, I thought you had forgotten Dan–papa thought so, too.”

“Forgotten!” exclaimed Betty scornfully. She fell away from the crowd and Virginia followed her. The two stood leaning against the whitewashed wall in the dust that still rose from the street. “So you thought I had forgotten him,” said Betty again. She raised her hand to her bosom and crushed the lace upon her dress. “Well, you were wrong,” she added quietly.

Virginia looked at her and smiled. “I am almost glad,” she answered in her sweet girlish voice. “I don’t like to have Dan forgotten even if–if he ought to be.”

“I didn’t love him because he ought to be loved,” said Betty. “I loved him because I couldn’t help it–because he was himself and I was myself, I suppose. I was born to love him, and to stop loving him I should have to be born again. I don’t care what he does–I don’t care what he is even–I would rather love him than–than be a queen.” She held her hands tightly together. “I would be his servant if he would let me,” she went on. “I would work for him like a slave–but he won’t let me. And yet he does love me just the same–just the same.”

“He does–he does,” admitted Virginia softly. She had never seen Betty like this before, and she felt that her sister had become suddenly very strange and very sacred. Her hands were outstretched to comfort, but Betty turned gently away from her and went up the narrow staircase to the bare little room where the girls slept together.

Alone within the four white walls she moved breathlessly to and fro like a woodland creature that has been entrapped. At the moment she was telling herself that she wanted to keep onward with the army; then her courage would have fluttered upward like the flags. It was not the sound of the cannon that she dreaded, nor the sight of blood–these would have nerved her as they nerved the generations at her back–but the folded hands and the terrible patience that are the woman’s share of a war. The old fighting blood was in her veins–she was as much the child of her father as a son could have been–and yet while the great world over there was filled with noise she was told to go into her room and pray. Pray! Why, a man might pray with his musket in his hand, that was worth while.

In the adjoining room she saw her mother sitting in a square of sunlight with her open Bible on her knees.

“Oh, speak, mamma!” she called half angrily. “Move, do anything but sit so still. I can’t bear it!” She caught her breath sharply, for with her words a low sound like distant thunder filled the room and the little street outside. As she clung with both hands to the window it seemed to her that a gray haze had fallen over the sunny valley. “Some one is dead,” she said almost calmly, “that killed how many?”

The room stifled her and she ran hurriedly down into the street, where a few startled women and old men had rushed at the first roll of the cannon. As she stood among them, straining her eyes from end to end of the little village, her heart beat in her throat and she could only quaver out an appeal for news.

“Where is it? Doesn’t any one know anything? What does it mean?”

“It means a battle, Miss, that’s one thing,” remarked on obliging by-stander who leaned heavily upon a wooden leg. “Bless you, I kin a’most taste the powder.” He smacked his lips and spat into the dust. “To think that I went all the way down to Mexico fur a fight,” he pursued regretfully, “when I could have set right here at home and had it all in old Virginny. Well, well, that comes of hurryin’ the Lord afo’ he’s ready.”

He rambled on excitedly, but Betty, frowning with impatience, turned from him and walked rapidly up and down the single street, where the voices of the guns growled through the muffling distance. “That killed how many? how many?” she would say at each long roll, and again, “How many died that moment, and was one Dan?”

Up and down the little village, through the heavy sunshine and the white dust, among the whimpering women and old men, she walked until the day wore on and the shadows grew longer across the street. Once a man had come with the news of a sharp repulse, and in the early afternoon a deserter straggled in with the cry that the enemy was marching upon the village. It was not until the night had fallen, when the wounded began to arrive on baggage trains, that the story of the day was told, and a single shout went up from the waiting groups. The Confederacy was established! Washington was theirs by right of arms, and tomorrow the young army would dictate terms of peace to a great nation! The flags waved, women wept, and the wounded soldiers, as they rolled in on baggage cars, were hailed as the deliverers of a people. The new Confederacy! An emotion half romantic, half maternal filled Betty as she bent above an open wound–for it was in her blood to do battle to the death for a belief, to throw herself into a cause as into the arms of a lover. She was made of the stuff of soldiers, and come what might she would always take her stand upon her people’s side.

There were cheers and sobs in the little street about her; in the distance a man was shouting for the flag, and nearer by a woman with a lantern in her hand was searching among the living for her dead. The joy and the anguish of it entered into the girl like wine. She felt her pulses leap and a vigour that was not her own nerved her from head to foot. With that power of ardent sacrifice which lies beneath all shams in the Southern heart, she told herself that no endurance was too great, no hope too large with which to serve the cause.

The exaltation was still with her when, a little later, she went up to her room and knelt down to thank God. Her people’s simple faith was hers also, and as she prayed with her brow on her clasped hands it was as if she gave thanks to some great warrior who had drawn his sword in defence of the land she loved. God was on her side, supreme, beneficent, watchful in little things, as He has been on the side of all fervent hearts since the beginning of time.

But after her return to Uplands in midsummer she suffered a peculiar restlessness from the tranquil August weather. The long white road irritated her with its aspect of listless patience, and at times she wanted to push back the crowding hills and leave the horizon open to her view. When a squadron of cavalry swept along the turnpike her heart would follow it like a bird while she leaned, with straining eyes, against a great white column. Then, as the last rider was blotted out into the landscape, she would clasp her hands and walk rapidly up and down between the lilacs. It was all waiting–waiting–waiting–nothing else.

“Something must happen, mamma, or I shall go mad,” she said one day, breaking in upon Mrs. Ambler as she sorted a heap of old letters in the library.

“But what? What?” asked Virginia from the shadow of the window seat. “Surely you don’t want a battle, Betty?”

Mrs. Ambler shuddered.

“Don’t tempt Providence, dear,” she said seriously, untying a faded ribbon about a piece of old parchment. “Be grateful for just this calm and go out for a walk. You might take this pitcher of flaxseed tea to Floretta’s cabin, if you’ve nothing else to do. Ask how the baby is to-day, and tell her to keep the red flannel warm on its chest.”

Betty went into the hall after her bonnet and came back for the pitcher. “I’m going to walk across the fields to Chericoke,” she said, “and Hosea is to bring the carriage for me about sunset. We must have some white silk to make those flags out of, and there isn’t a bit in the house.”

She went out, stepping slowly in her wide skirts and holding the pitcher carefully before her.

Floretta’s baby was sleeping, and after a few pleasant words the girl kept on to Chericoke. There she found that the Major had gone to town for news, leaving Mrs. Lightfoot to her pickle making in the big storeroom, where the earthenware jars stood in clean brown rows upon the shelves. The air was sharp with the smell of vinegar and spices, and fragrant moisture dripped from the old lady’s delicate hands. At the moment she had forgotten the war just beyond her doors, and even the vacant places in her household; her nervous flutter was caused by finding the plucked corn too large to salt.

“Come in, child, come in,” she said, as Betty appeared in the doorway. “You’re too good a housekeeper to mind the smell of brine.”

“How the soldiers will enjoy it,” laughed Betty in reply. “It’s fortunate that both sides are fond of spices.”

The old lady was tying a linen cloth over the mouth of a great brown jar, and she did not look up as she answered. “I’m not consulting their tastes, my dear, though, as for that, I’m willing enough to feast our own men so long as the Yankees keep away. This jar, by the bye, is filled with ‘Confederate pickle’–it was as little as I could do to compliment the Government, I thought, and the green tomato catchup I’ve named in honour of General Beauregard.”

Betty smiled; and then, while Mrs. Lightfoot stood sharply regarding Car’line, who was shucking a tray of young corn, she timidly began upon her mission. “The flags must be finished, and I can’t find the silk,” she pleaded. “Isn’t there a scrap in the house I may have? Let me look about the attic.”

The old lady shook her head. “I haven’t allowed anybody to set foot in my attic for forty years,” she replied decisively. “Why, I’d almost as soon they’d step into my grandfather’s vault.” Then as Betty’s face fell she added generously. “As for white silk, I haven’t any except my wedding dress, and that’s yellow with age; but you may take it if you want it. I’m sure it couldn’t come to a better end; at least it will have been to the front upon two important occasions.”

“Your wedding dress!” exclaimed Betty in surprise, “oh, how could you?”

Mrs. Lightfoot smiled grimly.

“I could give more than a wedding dress if the Confederacy called for it, my dear,” she answered. “Indeed, I’m not perfectly sure that I couldn’t give the Major himself–but go upstairs and wait for me while I send Car’line for the keys.”

She returned to the storeroom, and Betty went upstairs to wander leisurely through the cool faintly lighted chambers. They were all newly swept and scented with lavender, and the high tester beds, with their slender fluted posts, looked as if they had stood spotless and untouched for generations. In Dan’s room, which had been his mother’s also, the girl walked slowly up and down, meeting, as she passed, her own eyes in the darkened mirror. Her mind fretted with the thought that Dan’s image had risen so often in the glass, and yet had left no hint for her as she looked in now. If it had only caught and held his reflection, that blank mirror, she could have found it, she felt sure, though a dozen faces had passed by since. Was there nothing left of him, she wondered, nothing in the place where he had lived his life? She turned to the bed and picked up, one by one, the scattered books upon the little table. Among them there was a copy of the “Morte d’Arthur,” and as it fell open in her hand, she found a bit of her own blue ribbon between the faded leaves. A tremor ran through her limbs, and going to the window she placed the book upon the sill and read the words aloud in the fragrant stillness. Behind her in the dim room Dan seemed to rise as suddenly as a ghost–and that high-flown chivalry of his, which delighted in sounding phrases as in heroic virtues, was loosened from the leaves of the old romance.

“For there was never worshipful man nor worshipful woman but they loved one better than another, and worship in arms may never be foiled; but first reserve the honour to God, and secondly the quarrel must come of thy lady; and such love I call virtuous love.”

She leaned her cheek upon the book and looked out dreamily into the green box mazes of the garden. In the midst of war a great peace had come to her, and the quiet summer weather no longer troubled her with its unbroken calm. Her heart had grown suddenly strong again; even the long waiting had become but a fit service for her love.

There was a step in the hall and Mrs. Lightfoot rustled in with her wedding dress.

“You may take it and welcome, child,” she said, as she gave it into Betty’s arms. “I can’t help feeling that there was something providential in my selecting white when my taste always leaned toward a peach-blow brocade. Well, well, who would have believed that I was buying a flag as well as a frock? If I’d even hinted such a thing, they would have said I had the vapours.”

Betty accepted the gift with her pretty effusion of manner, and went downstairs to where Hosea was waiting for her with the big carriage. As she drove home in a happy revery, her eyes dwelt contentedly on the sunburnt August fields, and the thought of war did not enter in to disturb her dreams.

Once a line of Confederate cavalrymen rode by at a gallop and saluted her as her face showed at the window. They were strangers to her, but with the peculiar feeling of kinship which united the people of the South, she leaned out to wish them “God speed” as she waved her handkerchief.

When, a little later, she turned into the drive at Uplands, it was to find, from the prints upon the gravel, that the soldiers had been there before her. Beyond the Doric columns she caught a glimpse of a gray sleeve, and for a single instant a wild hope shot up within her heart. Then as the carriage stopped, and she sprang quickly to the ground, the man in gray came out upon the portico, and she saw that it was Jack Morson.

“I’ve come for Virginia, Betty,” he began impulsively, as he took her hand, “and she promises to marry me before the battle.”

Betty laughed with trembling lips. “And here is the dress,” she said gayly, holding out the yellowed silk.

VI

ON THE ROAD TO ROMNEY

After a peaceful Christmas, New Year’s Day rose bright and mild, and Dan as he started from Winchester with the column felt that he was escaping to freedom from the tedious duties of camp life.

“Thank God we’re on the war-path again,” he remarked to Pinetop, who was stalking at his side. The two had become close friends during the dull weeks after their first battle, and Bland, who had brought a taste for the classics from the lecture-room, had already referred to them in pointless jokes as “Pylades and Orestes.”

“It looks mighty like summer,” responded Pinetop cheerfully. He threw a keen glance up into the blue clouds, and then sniffed suspiciously at the dust that rose high in the road. “But I ain’t one to put much faith in looks,” he added with his usual caution, as he shifted the knapsack upon his shoulders.

Dan laughed easily. “Well, I’m heartily glad I left my overcoat behind me,” he said, breathing hard as he climbed the mountain road, where the red clay had stiffened into channels.

The sunshine fell brightly over them, lying in golden drops upon the fallen leaves. To Dan the march brought back the early winter rides at Chericoke, and the chain of lights and shadows that ran on clear days over the tavern road. Joyously throwing back his head, he whistled a love song as he tramped up the mountain side. The irksome summer, with its slow fevers and its sharp attacks of measles, its scarcity of pure water and supplies of half-cooked food, was suddenly blotted from his thoughts, and his first romantic ardour returned to him in long draughts of wind and sun. After each depression his elastic temperament had sprung upward; the past months had but strengthened him in body as in mind.

In the afternoon a gray cloud came up suddenly and the sunshine, after a feeble struggle, was driven from the mountains. As the wind blew in short gusts down the steep road, Dan tightened his coat and looked at Pinetop’s knapsack with his unfailing laugh.

“That’s beginning to look comfortable. I hope to heaven the wagons aren’t far off.”

Pinetop turned and glanced back into the valley. “I’ll be blessed if I believe they’re anywhere,” was his answer.

“Well, if they aren’t, I’ll be somewhere before morning; why, it feels like snow.”

A gust of wind, sharp as a blade, struck from the gray sky, and whirlpools of dead leaves were swept into the forest. Falling silent, Dan swung his arms to quicken the current of his blood, and walked on more rapidly. Over the long column gloom had settled with the clouds, and they were brave lips that offered a jest in the teeth of the wind. There were no blankets, few overcoats, and fewer rations, and the supply wagons were crawling somewhere in the valley.

The day wore on, and still the rough country road climbed upward embedded in withered leaves. On the high wind came the first flakes of a snowstorm, followed by a fine rain that enveloped the hills like mist. As Dan stumbled on, his feet slipped on the wet clay, and he was forced to catch at the bared saplings for support. The cold had entered his lungs as a knife, and his breath circled in a little cloud about his mouth. Through the storm he heard the quick oaths of his companions ring out like distant shots.

When night fell they halted to bivouac by the roadside, and until daybreak the pine woods were filled with the cheerful glow of the campfires. There were no rations, and Dan, making a jest of his hunger, had stretched himself in the full light of the crackling branches. With the defiant humour which had made him the favourite of the mess, he laughed at the frozen roads, at the change in the wind, at his own struggles with the wet kindling wood, at the supply wagons creeping slowly after them. His courage had all the gayety of his passions–it showed itself in a smile, in a whistle, in the steady hand with which he played toss and catch with fate. The superb silence of Pinetop, plodding evenly along, was as far removed from him as the lofty grandeur of the mountains. A jest warmed his heart against the cold; with set lips and grave eyes, he would have fallen before the next ridge was crossed.

Through the woods other fires were burning, and long reddish shadows crept among the pine trees over the rotting mould. For warmth Dan had spread a covering of dried leaves over him, raking them from sheltered corners of the forest. When he rose from time to time during the night to take his turn at replenishing the fire the leaves drifted in gravelike mounds about his feet.

For three days the march was steadily upward over long ridges coated deep with ice. In the face of the strong wind, which blew always down the steep road, the army passed on, complaining, cursing, asking a gigantic question of its General. Among the raw soldiers there had been desertions by the dozen, filling the streets of the little town with frost-bitten malcontents. “It was all a wild goose chase,” they declared bitterly, “and if Old Jack wasn’t a March hare–well, he was something madder!”

Dan listened to the curses with his ready smile, and walked on bravely. Since the first evening he had uttered no complaint, asked no question. He had undertaken to march, and he meant to march, that was all. In the front with which he veiled his suffering there was no lessening of his old careless confidence–if his dash had hardened into endurance it wore still an expression that was almost debonair.

So as the column straggled weakly upward, he wrung his stiffened fingers and joked with Jack Powell, who stumbled after him. The cold had brought a glow to his tanned face, and when he lifted his eyes from the road Pinetop saw that they were shining brightly. Once he slipped on the frozen mud, and as his musket dropped from his hand, it went off sharply, the load entering the ground.

“Are you hurt?” asked Jack, springing toward him; but Dan looked round laughing as he clasped his knee.

“Oh, I merely groaned because I might have been,” he said lightly, and limped on, singing a bit of doggerel which had taken possession of his regiment.

“Then let the Yanks say what they will, We’ll be gay and happy still;
Gay and happy, gay and happy,
We’ll be gay and happy still.”

On the third day out they reached a little village in the mountains, but before the week’s end they had pushed on again, and the white roads still stretched before them. As they went higher the tracks grew steeper, and now and then a musket shot rang out on the roadside as a man lost his footing and went down upon the ice. Behind them the wagon train crept inch by inch, or waited patiently for hours while a wheel was hoisted from the ditch beside the road. There was blood on the muzzles of the horses and on the shining ice that stretched beyond them.

To Dan these terrible days were as the anguish of a new birth, in which the thing to be born suffered the conscious throes of awakening life. He could never be the same again; something was altered in him forever; this he felt dimly as he dragged his aching body onward. Days like these would prove the stuff that had gone into the making of him. When the march to Romney lay behind him he should know himself to be either a soldier or a coward. A soldier or a coward! he said the words over again as he struggled to keep down the pangs of hunger, telling himself that the road led not merely to Romney, but to a greater victory than his General dreamed of. Romney might be worthless, after all, the grim march but a mad prank of Jackson’s, as men said; but whether to lay down one’s arms or to struggle till the end was reached, this was the question asked by those stern mountains. Nature stood ranged against him–he fought it step by step, and day by day.

At times something like delirium seized him, and he went on blindly, stepping high above the ice. For hours he was tortured by the longing for raw beef, for the fresh blood that would put heat into his veins. The kitchen at Chericoke flamed upon the hillside, as he remembered it on winter evenings when the great chimney was filled with light and the crane was in its place above the hickory. The smell of newly baked bread floated in his nostrils, and for a little while he believed himself to be lying again upon the hearth as he thrilled at Aunt Rhody’s stories. Then his fancies would take other shapes, and warm colours would glow in red and yellow circles before his eyes. When he thought of Betty now it was no longer tenderly but with a despairing passion. He was haunted less by her visible image than by broken dreams of her peculiar womanly beauties–of her soft hands and the warmth of her girlish bosom.

But from the first day to the last he had no thought of yielding; and each feeble step had sent him a step farther upon the road. He had often fallen, but he had always struggled up again and laughed. Once he made a ghastly joke about his dying in the snow, and Jack Powell turned upon him with an oath and bade him to be silent.

“For God’s sake don’t,” added the boy weakly, and fell to whimpering like a child.

“Oh, go home to your mother,” retorted Dan, with a kind of desperate cruelty.

Jack sobbed outright.

“I wish I could,” he answered, and dropped over upon the roadside.

Dan caught him up, and poured his last spoonful of brandy down his throat, then he seized his arm and dragged him bodily along.

“Oh, I say don’t be an ass,” he implored. “Here comes old Stonewall.”

The commanding General rode by, glanced quietly over them, and passed on, his chest bowed, his cadet cap pulled down over his eyes. A moment later Dan, looking over the hillside, at the winding road, saw him dismount and put his shoulder to a sunken wheel. The sight suddenly nerved the younger man, and he went on quickly, dragging Jack up with him.

That night they rested in a burned-out clearing where the pine trees had been felled for fence rails. The rails went readily to fires, and Pinetop fried strips of fat bacon in the skillet he had brought upon his musket. Somebody produced a handful of coffee from his pocket, and a little later Dan, dozing beside the flames, was awakened by the aroma.

“By George!” he burst out, and sat up speechless.

Pinetop was mixing thin cornmeal paste into the gravy, and he looked up as he stirred busily with a small stick.

“Wall, I reckon these here slapjacks air about done,” he remarked in a moment, adding with a glance at Dan, “and if your stomach’s near as empty as your eyes, I reckon your turn comes first.”

“I reckon it does,” said Dan, and filling his tin cup, he drank scalding coffee in short gulps. When he had finished it, he piled fresh rails upon the fire and lay down to sleep with his feet against the embers.

With the earliest dawn a long shiver woke him, and as he put out his hand it touched something wet and cold. The fire had died to a red heart, and a thick blanket of snow covered him from head to foot. Straight above there was a pale yellow light where the stars shone dimly after the storm.

He started to his feet, rubbing a handful of snow upon his face. The red embers, sheltered by the body of a solitary pine, still glowed under the charred brushwood, and kneeling upon the ground, he fanned them into a feeble blaze. Then he laid the rails crosswise, protecting them with his blanket until they caught and flamed up against the blackened pine.

Near by Jack Powell was moaning in his sleep, and Dan leaned over to shake him into consciousness. “Oh, damn it all, wake up, you fool!” he said roughly, but Jack rolled over like one drugged and broke into frightened whimpers such as a child makes in the dark. He was dreaming of home, and as Dan listened to the half-choked words, his face contracted sharply. “Wake up, you fool!” he repeated angrily, rolling him back and forth before the fire.

A little later, when Jack had grown warm beneath his touch, he threw a blanket over him, and turned to lie down in his own place. As he tossed a last armful on the fire, his eyes roamed over the long mounds of snow that filled the clearing, and he caught his breath as a man might who had waked suddenly among the dead. In the beginning of dawn, with the glimmer of smouldering fires reddening the snow, there was something almost ghastly in the sloping field filled with white graves and surrounded by white mountains. Even the wintry sky borrowed, for an hour, the spectral aspect of the earth, and the familiar shapes of cloud, as of hill, stood out with all the majesty of uncovered laws–stripped of the mere frivolous effect of light or shade. It was like the first day–or the last.

Dan, sitting watchful beside the fire, fell into the peculiar mental state which comes only after an inward struggle that has laid bare the sinews of one’s life. He had fought the good fight to the end, and he knew that from this day he should go easier with himself because he knew that he had conquered.

The old doubt–the old distrust of his own strength–was fallen from him. At the moment he could have gone to Betty, fearless and full of hope, and have said, “Come, for I am grown up at last–at last I have grown up to my love.” A great tenderness was in his heart, and the tears, which had not risen for all the bodily suffering of the past two weeks, came slowly to his eyes. The purpose of life seemed suddenly clear to him, and the large patience of the sky passed into his own nature as he sat facing the white dawn. At rare intervals in the lives of all strenuous souls there comes this sense of kinship with external things–this passionate recognition of the appeal of the dumb world. Sky and mountains and the white sweep of the fields awoke in him the peculiar tenderness he had always felt for animals or plants. His old childish petulance was gone from him forever; in its place he was aware of a kindly tolerance which softened even the common outlines of his daily life. It was as if he had awakened breathlessly to find himself a man.

And Betty came to him again–not in detached visions, but entire and womanly. When he remembered her as on that last night at Chericoke it was with the impulse to fall down and kiss her feet. Reckless and blind with anger as he had been, she would have come cheerfully with him wherever his road led; and it was this passionate betrayal of herself that had taught him the full measure of her love. An attempt to trifle, to waver, to bargain with the future, he might have looked back upon with tender scorn; but the gesture with which she had made her choice was as desperate as his own mood–and it was for this one reckless moment that he loved her best.

The east paled slowly as the day broke in a cloud, and the long shadows beside the fire lost their reddish glimmer. A little bird, dazed by the cold and the strange light, flew into the smoke against the stunted pine, and fell, a wet ball of feathers at Dan’s feet. He picked it up, warmed it in his coat, and fed it from the loose crumbs in his pocket.

When Pinetop awoke he was gently stroking the bird while he sang in a low voice:–

“Gay and happy, gay and happy,
We’ll be gay and happy still.”

VII

“I WAIT MY TIME”

When he returned to Winchester it was to find Virginia already there as Jack Morson’s wife. Since her marriage in late summer she had followed her husband’s regiment from place to place, drifting at last to a big yellow house on the edge of the fiery little town. Dan, passing along the street one day, heard his name called in a familiar voice, and turned to find her looking at him through the network of a tall, wrought-iron gate.

“Virginia! Bless my soul! Where’s Betty?” he exclaimed amazed.

Virginia left the gate and gave him her hand over the dried creepers on the wall.

“Why, you look ten years older,” was her response.

“Indeed! Well, two years of beggary, to say nothing of eight months of war, isn’t just the thing to insure immortal youth, is it? You see, I’m turning gray.”

The pallor of the long march was in his face, giving him a striking though unnatural beauty. His eyes were heavy and his hair hung dishevelled about his brow, but the change went deeper still, and the girl saw it. “You’re bigger–that’s it,” she said, and added impulsively, “Oh, how I wish Betty could see you now.”

Her hand was upon the wall and he gave it a quick, pleased pressure.

“I wish to heaven she could,” he echoed heartily.

“But I shall tell her everything when I write–everything. I shall tell her that you are taller and stronger and that you have been in all the fights and haven’t a scar to show. Betty loves scars, you see, and she doesn’t mind even wounds–real wounds. She wanted to go into the hospitals, but I came away and mamma wouldn’t let her.”

“For God’s sake, don’t let her,” said Dan, with a shudder, his Southern instincts recoiling from the thought of service for the woman he loved. “There are a plenty of them in the hospitals and it’s no place for Betty, anyway.”

“I’ll tell her you think so,” returned Virginia, gayly. “I’ll tell her that–and what else?”

He met her eyes smiling.

“Tell her I wait my time,” he answered, and began to talk lightly of other things. Virginia followed his lead with her old shy merriment. Her marriage had changed her but little, though she had grown a trifle stately, he thought, and her coquetry had dropped from her like a veil. As she stood there in her delicate lace cap and soft gray silk, the likeness to her mother was very marked, and looking into the future, Dan seemed to see her beauty ripen and expand with her growing womanhood. How many of her race had there been, he wondered, shaped after the same pure and formal plan.

“And it is all just the same,” he said, his eyes delighting in her beauty. “There is no change–don’t tell me there is any change, for I’ll not believe it. You bring it all back to me,–the lawn and the lilacs and the white pillars, and Miss Lydia’s garden, with the rose leaves in the paths. Why are there always rose leaves in Miss Lydia’s paths, Virginia?”

Virginia shook her head, puzzled by his whimsical tone.

“Because there are so many roses,” she answered seriously.

“No, you’re wrong, there’s another reason, but I shan’t tell you.”

“My boxes are filled with rose leaves now,” said Virginia. “Betty gathered them for me.”

The smile leaped to his eyes. “Oh, but it makes me homesick,” he returned lightly. “If I tell you a secret, don’t betray me, Virginia–I am downright homesick for Betty.”

Virginia patted his hand.

“So am I,” she confessed, “and so is Mammy Riah–she’s with me now, you know–and she says that I might have been married without Jack, but never without Betty. Betty made my dress and iced my cake and pinned on my veil.”

“Ah, is that so?” exclaimed Dan, absent-mindedly. He was thinking of Betty, and he could almost see her hands as she pinned on the wedding veil–those small white hands with the strong fingers that had closed about his own.

“When you get your furlough you must go home, Dan,” Virginia was saying; “the Major is very feeble and–and he quarrels with almost everyone.”

“My furlough,” repeated Dan, with a laugh. “Why, the war may end to-morrow and then we’ll all go home together and kill the fatted calf among us. Yes, I’d like to see the old man again before I die.”

“I pray every night that the war may end tomorrow,” said Virginia, “but it never does.” Then she turned eagerly to the Governor, who was coming toward them under the leafless trees along the street.

“Here’s Dan, papa, do make him come in and be good.”

The Governor, holding himself erect in his trim gray uniform, insisted, with his hand upon Dan’s shoulder, that Virginia should be obeyed; and the younger man, yielding easily, followed him through the iron gate and into the yellow house.

“I don’t see you every day, my boy, sit down, sit down,” began the Governor, as he took his stand upon the hearth-rug. “Daughter, haven’t you learned the way to the pantry yet? Dan looks as if he’d been on starvation rations since he joined the army. They aren’t living high at Romney, eh?” and then, as Virginia went out, he fell to discussing the questions on all men’s lips–the prospect of peace in the near future; hopes of intervention from England; the attitude of other foreign powers; and the reasons for the latest appointments by the President. When the girl came in again they let such topics go, and talked of home while she poured the coffee and helped Dan to fried chicken. She belonged to the order of women who delight in feeding a hungry man, and her eyes did not leave his face as she sat behind the tray and pressed the food upon him.

“Dan thinks the war will be over before he gets his furlough,” she said a little wistfully.

A shadow crossed the Governor’s face.

“Then I may hope to get back in time to watch the cradles in the wheat field,” he remarked. “There’s little doing on the farm I’m afraid while I’m away.”

“If they hold out six months longer–well, I’ll be surprised,” exclaimed Dan, slapping the arm of his chair with a gesture like the Major’s. “They’ve found out we won’t give in so long as there’s a musket left; and that’s enough for them.”

“Maybe so, maybe so,” returned the Governor, for it was a part of his philosophy to cast his conversational lines in the pleasant places. “Please God, we’ll drink our next Christmas glass at Chericoke.”

“In the panelled parlour,” added Dan, his eyes lighting.

“With Aunt Emmeline’s portrait,” finished Virginia, smiling.

For a time they were all silent, each looking happily into the far-off room, and each seeing a distinct and different vision. To the Governor the peaceful hearth grew warm again–he saw his wife and children gathered there, and a few friendly neighbours with their long-lived, genial jokes upon their lips. To Virginia it was her own bridal over again with the fear of war gone from her, and the quiet happiness she wanted stretching out into the future. To Dan there was first his own honour to be won, and then only Betty and himself–Betty and himself under next year’s mistletoe together.

“Well, well,” sighed the Governor, and came back regretfully to the present. “It’s a good place we’re thinking of, and I reckon you’re sorry enough you left it before you were obliged to. We all make mistakes, my boy, and the fortunate ones are those who live long enough to unmake them.”

His warm smile shone out suddenly, and without waiting for a reply, he began to ask for news of Jack Powell and his comrades, all of whom he knew by name. “I was talking to Colonel Burwell about you the other day,” he added presently, “and he gave you a fighting record that would do honour to the Major.”

“He’s a nice old chap,” responded Dan, easily, for in the first years of the Army of Northern Virginia the question of rank presented itself only upon the parade ground, and beyond the borders of the camp a private had been known to condescend to his own Colonel. “A gentleman fights for his country as he pleases, a plebeian as he must,” the Governor would have explained with a touch of his old oratory. “He’s a nice old chap himself, but, by George, the discipline fits like a straight-jacket,” pursued Dan, as he finished his coffee. “Why, here we are three miles below Winchester in a few threadbare tents, and they make as much fuss about our coming into town as if we were the Yankees themselves. Talk about Romney! Why, it’s no colder at Romney than it was here last week, and yet Loring’s men are living in huts like princes.”

“Show me a volunteer and I’ll show you a grumbler,” put in the Governor, laughing.

“Oh, I’m not grumbling, I’m merely pointing out the facts,” protested Dan; then he rose and stood holding Virginia’s hand as he met her upward glance with his unflinching admiration. “Come again! Why, I should say so,” he declared. “I’ll come as long as I have a collar left, and then–well, then I’ll pass the time of day with you over the hedge. Good-by, Colonel, remember I’m not a grumbler, I’m merely a man of facts.”

The door closed after him and a moment later they heard his clear whistle in the street.

“The boy is like his father,” said the Governor, thoughtfully, “like his father with the devil broken to harness. The Montjoy blood may be bad blood, but it makes big men, daughter.” He sighed and drew his small figure to its full height.

Virginia was looking into the fire. “I hope he will come again,” she returned softly, thinking of Betty.

But when he called again a week later Virginia did not see him. It was a cold starlit night, and the big yellow house, as he drew near it, glowed like a lamp amid the leafless trees. Beside the porch a number of cavalry horses were fastened to the pillars, and through the long windows there came the sound of laughter and of gay “good-bys.”

The “fringe of the army,” as Dan had once jeeringly called it, was merrily making ready for a raid.

As he listened he leaned nearer the window and watched, half enviously, the men he had once known. His old life had been a part of theirs and now, looking in from the outside, it seemed very far away–the poetry of war beside which the other was mere dull history in which no names were written. He thought of Prince Rupert, and of his own joy in the saddle, and the longing for the raid seized him like a heartache. Oh, to feel again the edge of the keen wind in his teeth and to hear the silver ring of the hoofs on the frozen road.

“Jine the cavalry,
Jine the cavalry,
If you want to have a good time jine the cavalry.”

The words floated out to him, and he laughed aloud as if he had awakened from a comic dream.

That was the romance of war, but, after all, he was only the man who bore the musket.

VIII

THE ALTAR OF THE WAR GOD

With the opening spring Virginia went down to Richmond, where Jack Morson had taken rooms for her in the house of an invalid widow whose three sons were at the front. The town was filled to overflowing with refugees from the North and representatives from the South, and as the girl drove through the crowded streets, she exclaimed wonderingly at the festive air the houses wore.

“Why, the doors are all open,” she observed. “It looks like one big family.”

“That’s about what it is,” replied Jack. “The whole South is here and there’s not a room to be had for love or money. Food is getting dear, too, they say, and the stranger within the gates has the best of everything.” He stopped short and laughed from sheer surprise at Virginia’s loveliness.

“Well, I’m glad I’m here, anyway,” said the girl, pressing his arm, “and Mammy Riah’s glad, too, though she won’t confess it.–Aren’t you just delighted to see Jack again, Mammy?”

The old negress grunted in her corner of the carriage. “I ain’ seed no use in all dis yer fittin’,” she responded. “W’at’s de use er fittin’ ef dar ain’ sumpen’ ter fit fer dat you ain’ got a’ready?”

“That’s it, Mammy,” replied Jack, gayly, “we’re fighting for freedom, and we haven’t had it yet, you see.”

“Is dat ar freedom vittles?” scornfully retorted the old woman. “Is it close? is it wood ter bu’n?”

“Oh, it will soon be here and you’ll find out,” said Virginia, cheerfully, and when a little later she settled herself in her pleasant rooms, she returned to her assurances.

“Aren’t you glad you’re here, Mammy, aren’t you glad?” she insisted, with her arm about the old woman’s neck.

“I’d des like ter git a good look at ole Miss agin,” returned Mammy Riah, softening, “caze ef you en ole Miss ain’ des like two peas in a pod, my eyes hev done crack wid de sight er you. Dar ain’ been nuttin’ so pretty es you sence de day I dressed ole Miss in ‘er weddin’ veil.”

“You’re right,” exclaimed Jack, heartily. “But look at this, Virginia, here’s a regular corn field at the back. Mrs. Minor tells me that vegetables have grown so scarce she has been obliged to turn her flower beds into garden patches.” He threw open the window, and they went out upon the wide piazza which hung above the young corn rows.

During the next few weeks, when Jack was often in the city, an almost feverish gayety possessed the girl. In the war-time parties, where the women wore last year’s dresses, and the wit served for refreshment, her gentle beauty became, for a little while, the fashion. The smooth bands of her hair were copied, the curve of her eyelashes was made the subject of some verses which _The Examiner_ printed and the English papers quoted later on. It was a bright and stately society that filled the capital that year; and on pleasant Sundays when Virginia walked from church, in her Leghorn bonnet and white ruffles flaring over crinoline as they neared the ground, men, who had bled on fields of honour for the famous beauties of the South, would drop their talk to follow her with warming eyes. Cities might fall and battles might be lost and won, but their joy in a beautiful woman would endure until a great age.

At last Jack Morson rode away to service, and the girl kept to the quiet house and worked on the little garments which the child would need in the summer. She was much alone, but the delicate widow, who had left her couch to care for the sick and wounded soldiers, would sometimes come and sit near her while she sewed.

“This is the happiest time–before the child comes,” she said one day, and added, with the observant eye of mothers, “it will be a boy; there is a pink lining to the basket.”

“Yes, it will be a boy,” replied Virginia, wistfully.

“I have had six,” pursued the woman, “six sons, and yet I am alone now. Three are dead, and three are in the army. I am always listening for the summons that means another grave.” She clasped her thin hands and smiled the patient smile that chilled Virginia’s blood.

“Couldn’t you have kept one back?” asked the girl in a whisper.

The woman shook her head. Much brooding had darkened her mind, but there was a peculiar fervour in her face–an inward light that shone through her faded eyes.

“Not one–not one,” she answered. “When the South called, I sent the first two, and when they fell, I sent the others–only the youngest I kept back at first–he is just seventeen. Then another call came and he begged so hard I let him go. No, I gave them all gladly–I have kept none back.”

She lowered her eyes and sat smiling at her folded hands. Weakened in body and broken by many sorrows as she was, with few years before her and those filled with inevitable suffering, the fire of the South still burned in her veins, and she gave herself as ardently as she gave her sons. The pity of it touched Virginia suddenly, and in the midst of her own enthusiasm she felt the tears upon her lashes. Was not an army invincible, she asked, into which the women sent their dearest with a smile?

Through the warm spring weather she sat beside the long window that gave on the street, or walked slowly up and down among the vegetable rows in the