Who Goes There? by Blackwood Ketcham BensonThe Story of a Spy in the Civil War (page 7)

mind satisfied, if it be possible.”

“What are they fighting about?”

“Do you recall the manner in which the United States came into existence?”

“Yes, I think so,” said I.

“Tell me.”

“The colonies rebelled against Great Britain and won their independence in war,” said I.

“Well; what then?”

“The colonies sent delegates to a convention, and the delegates framed a constitution.”

“Well; what then?”

“The colonies agreed to abide by the constitution.”

“That is to say, the Colonies, or States, ratified the action of the constitutional convention?” he asked.

“Yes; that is what I mean,” said I.

“Then do you think the States created the general government? Think a little before you answer.”

“Why should I think? It seems plain enough.”

“Yet I will present an alternative. Did the States create the Federal government, or did the people of the whole United States, acting as a body-politic, create it?”

“Your alternative seems contradictory,” said I.

“In what respect?”

“It makes the United States exist before the United States came into existence,” said I.

“Then what would your answer be?”

“The people of each colony, or each State rather, sent delegates. The delegates, representing the respective States, framed the constitution. The people, if I mistake not, ratified the constitution, each State voting separately. Therefore I think that the United States government is a creature of the States and not of the people as a body-politic; for there could have been no such body-politic.”

“Jones, my dear fellow, you are a constitutional lawyer; you ought never to have entered military service.”

“Besides,” said I, “Rhode Island and North Carolina refused for a time to enter into the agreement.”

“And suppose they had refused finally. Would, the other States have compelled them to come in?” he asked.

“I cannot say as to that,” said I.

“Do you think they would have had the moral right to coerce them?”

“The question is too hard for me to answer, Doctor; I cannot very well see what ought to have been done.”

“The two States would have had some rights?”

“Certainly.”

“What rights would the United States have had over the two States?”

“I do not think the Federal government would have had any; but the people would have had some claim–what, I cannot say. I do not think that Rhode Island had the moral right to endanger the new republic by refusing to enter it. But there may have been something peculiar in Rhode Island’s situation; I do not remember. I should say that the question should have been settled by compromise. Rhode Island’s objections should have been considered and removed. A forced agreement would be no agreement.”

“When the States formed the government, did they surrender all their rights?”

“I think not.”

“What rights did they retain?”

“They retained everything they did not surrender.”

“Well, then, what did they surrender? Did they become provinces? Did they surrender the right of resistance to usurpation?”

“I think not.”

“Would you think that the States had formed a partnership for the general good of all?”

“Of course, Doctor; but I am not quite sure that the word ‘partnership’ is the correct term.”

“Shall we call it a league? A compact? A federation? A confederacy?”

“I should prefer the word ‘union’ to any of those,” I said. “The title of the republic means a union.”

“What is the difference between a union and a confederacy?”

“I don’t know that there is any great difference; but the word ‘union’ seems to me to imply greater permanence.”

“You think, then, that the United States must exist always?”

“I think that our fathers believed that they were acting for all time–so far as they could,” said I; “but, of course, there were differences, even among the framers of the constitution.”

“Suppose that at some time a State or several States should believe that their interests were being destroyed and that injustice was being done.”

“The several branches of government should prevent that,” said I.

“But suppose they knew that all the branches of the government were united in perpetrating this injustice.”

“Then I do not know what such States ought to do,” said I.

“Suppose Congress was against them; that the majority in Congress had been elected by their opponents; that the President and the judges were all against them.”

“The will of the majority should rule,” said I.

“Even in cases where not only life and liberty but honour itself must be given up or defended?”

“Then I don’t know what they ought to do,” I repeated.

“Ought they to endure tamely?”

“No; but what their recourse would be I cannot justly see; it seems that the constitution should have provided some remedy.”

“You believe in the right to revolt against tyranny?”

“Yes.”

“Well, suppose your State and other States, her neighbours, should conclude that there was no remedy against injustice except in withdrawing from the partnership, or union.”

“I should say that would be a very serious step to take, perhaps a dangerous step, perhaps a wrong step,” said I. “But I am no judge of such things. It seems to me that my mind is almost blank concerning politics.”

“Yes? Well, suppose, however, that your State should take that step, in the hope that she would be allowed to withdraw in peace; would her citizens be bound by her action?”

“Of course. South Carolina, you say, has withdrawn; that being the case, every citizen of the State is bound by her act, as long as he remains a citizen.”

“South Carolina has withdrawn, but her hope for a peaceable withdrawal is met by United States armies trying to force her back into the Union. Under these circumstances, what is the duty of a citizen of South Carolina?”

“I should say that so long as he remains a citizen of the State, he must obey the State. He must obey the State, or get out of it.”

“And if he gets out of it, must he join the armies that are invading his State and killing his neighbours and kinsmen?”

“I think no man would do that.”

“But every one who leaves his State goes over to the enemies of his State, at least in a measure, for he deprives his State of his help, and influences others to do as he has done. Do you think that South Carolina should allow any of her citizens to leave her in this crisis?”

“No; that would be suicidal. Every one unwilling to bear arms would thus be allowed to go.”

“And a premium would be put upon desertion?”

“In a certain sense–yes.”

“Can a State’s duty conflict with the duty of her citizens?”

“That is a hard question, Doctor; if I should be compelled to reply, I should say no.”

“Then if it is South Carolina’s duty to call you into military service, is it not your duty to serve?”

“Yes; but have you shown that it is her duty to make me serve?”

“That brings up the question whether it is a citizen’s duty to serve his country in a wrong cause, and you have already said that a man should obey her laws or else renounce his citizenship.”

“Yes, Doctor, that seems the only alternative.”

“Then you are going to serve again, or get out of the country?”

“You are putting it very strongly, Doctor; can there be no exception to rules?”

“The only exception to the rule is that the alternative does not exist in time of war. The Confederate States have called into military service all males between eighteen and forty-five. You could not leave the country–excuse me for saying it; I speak in an impersonal sense–even if you should wish to leave it. Every man is held subject to military service; as you have already said, the State would commit suicide if she renounced the population from which she gets her soldiers. But, in any case, what would you do if you were not forced into service?”

“I am helpless,” I said gloomily.

“No; I don’t want you to look at it in that way; you are not helpless. What I have already suggested will relieve you. We can attach, you to any company that you may choose, with the condition that as soon as your friends are found you are to be handed over to them–I mean, of course, handed over to your original company. It seems to me that such a course is not merely the best thing to do, but the only thing to do.”

“Doctor,” said I, “you and your friends are placing me under very heavy obligations. You have done much yourself, and your friends show me kindness. Perhaps I could do no better than to ask you to act for me. I know the delicacy of your offer. Another man might have refused to discuss or explain; he had the power to simply order me back into the ranks.”

“No,” said he; “I am not so sure that any such power could have been exercised. To order you back into the ranks is not a surgeon’s duty to his patient. There seems to be nothing whatever in the army regulations applying to such a case as yours. You have been kept here without authority, except the general authority which empowers the surgeon to help the wounded. But I have no control over you whatever. If you choose, nobody would prevent you from leaving this hospital. I cannot make a report of your case on any form furnished me. It was this difficulty, in your case, that made me beg the brigade adjutant to visit you; while the matter is irregular, it is, however, known at brigade headquarters, so that it is in as good a shape as we know how to put it. I cannot order you back into the ranks; you would not know what to do with yourself; what I suggest will relieve you from any danger hereafter of being supposed a deserter; we keep trace of you and can prove that you are still in the service and are obeying authority.”

“That settles it!” I exclaimed; “I had not thought of the possibility of being charged with desertion.”

“To tell you the truth, no more had I until this moment. We must get authority from General Hill in this matter, in order to protect you fully. At this very minute no doubt your orderly-sergeant and the adjutant of your regiment are reporting you absent without leave. I must quit you for a while.”

* * * * *

What had seemed strangest to me was the lack of desire, on my part, to find my company. I had tried, from the first moment of the proposition to join Company H, to analyze this reluctance in regard to my original company, and had at last confessed to myself that it was due to exaggerated sensitiveness. Who were the men of my company? should I recognize them? No; they would know me, but I should not know them. This thought had been strong in holding me back from yielding to the doctor’s views; I had an almost morbid dread of being considered a curiosity. So, I did not want to go back to my company; and as for going into Captain Haskell’s company, I considered that project but a temporary expedient–my people would soon be found and I should be forced back where I belonged and be pointed out forever as a freak. So I wanted to keep out of Company H and out of every other company; I wanted to go away–to do something–anything–no matter what, if it would only keep me from being advertised and gazed upon.

Such had been my thoughts; but now, when Dr. Frost had brought before me the probability of my being already reported absent without leave, and the consequent possibility of being charged with desertion, I decided at once that I should go with Captain Haskell. Whatever I might once have been, and whatever I might yet become, I was not and never should be a deserter.

When I next saw Dr. Frost I asked him when I should be strong enough for duty.

“You are fit for duty now,” said he; “that is, you are strong enough to march in case the army should move. I do not intend, however, to let you go at once, unless there should be a movement; in that case I could not well keep you any longer.”

I replied that if I was strong enough to do duty, I did not wish to delay. To this he responded that he would ask Captain Haskell to enroll me in his company at once, but to consider me on the sick list for a few days, in order that I might accustom myself gradually to new conditions.

XXII

COMPANY H

“In strange eyes
Have made me not a stranger; to the mind Which is itself, no changes bring surprise; Nor is it hard to make, nor hard to find A country with–ay, or without mankind.”–BYRON.

In the afternoon of the day in which occurred the conversation recounted above, I was advised by the doctor to take a short walk.

From a hill just in rear of the hospital tents I could see northward and toward the east long lines of earthworks with tents and cannon, and rows of stacked muskets and all the appliances of war. The sight was new and strange. I had never before seen at one time more than a battalion of soldiers; now here was an army into which I had been suddenly thrust as a part of it, without experience of any sort and without knowledge of anybody in it except two or three persons whom, three days before, I had never heard of. The worthiness of the cause for which this great army had been created to fight, was not entirely clear to me; it is true that I appreciated the fact that in former days, before my misfortune had deprived me of data upon which to reason, I had decided my duty as to that cause; yet it now appealed to me so little, that I was conscious of struggling to rise above indifference. I reproached myself for lack of patriotism. I had read the morning’s _Dispatch_ and had been shocked at the relation of some harrowing details of pillage and barbarity on the part of the Yankees; yet I felt nothing of individual anger against the wretches when I condemned such conduct, and my judgment told me that my passionless indignation ought to be hot. But this peculiarity seemed so unimportant in comparison with the greater one which marked me, that it gave me no concern.

In an open space near by, many soldiers were drilling. The drum and the fife could be heard in all directions. Wagons were coming and going. A line of unarmed men, a thousand, I guessed, marched by, going somewhere. They had no uniform; I supposed they were recruits. A group of mounted men attracted me; I had little doubt that here was some general with his staff. Flags were everywhere–red flags, with diagonal crosses marked by stars.

A man came toward me. His clothing was somewhat like my own. I started to go away, but he spoke up, “Hold on, my friend!”

He was of low stature,–a thick-set man, brown bearded.

When he was nearer, he asked, “Do you know where Gregg’s brigade is?”

“No; I do not,” said I; “but you can find out down there at the hospital tents, I suppose.”

“I was told that the brigade is on the line somewhere about here,” said he.

“I will go with you to the tent,” said I.

“I belong to the First,” he said, “I’ve been absent for some days on duty, and am just getting back to my company. Who is in charge of the hospital?”

“Dr. Frost,” said I.

“Oh, Frank?” said he; “I’ll call on him, then. He was our orderly-sergeant.”

By this speech I knew that he was one of Captain Haskell’s men, and I looked at him more closely; he had a very pleasant face. I wanted to ask him about Company H, but feared to say anything, lest he should afterward, when I joined the company, recognize me and be curious. However, I knew that my face, bound up as my head was, would hardly become familiar to him in a short time, and I risked saying that I understood that Dr. Frost had been orderly-sergeant in some company or other.

“Yes; Company H,” said he.

“That must be a good company, as it turns out surgeons.”

“Yes, and it turns out adjutants and adjutant-generals,” said he.

“You like your company?”

“Yes, and I like its captain. I suppose every man likes his own company; I should hate to be in any other. Have you been sick?”

“Yes,” said I; “my head received an injury, but I am better now.”

“You couldn’t be under better care,” said he.

When we had reached the tent, Dr. Frost was not to be seen.

“I’ll wait and see him,” said the man; “he is not far off, I reckon, and I know that the brigade must be close by. What regiment do you belong to?”

The question was torture. What I should have said I do not know; to my intense relief, and before the man had seen my hesitation, he cried, “There he is now,” and went up to the doctor; they shook hands. I besought the doctor, with a look, not to betray me; he understood, and nodded.

The man, whom Dr. Frost had called Bellot, asked, “Where is the regiment?”

“Three-quarters of a mile northwest,” said the doctor, and Bellot soon went off.

“I’m a little sorry that he saw you,” said the doctor; “for you and he are going to be good friends. If he remembers meeting you here to-day, he may be curious when he sees you in Company H; but we’ll hope for the best.”

“I hope to be very greatly changed in appearance before he sees me again,” said I, looking down on my garments, which were very ragged, and seemed to have been soaked in muddy water, and thinking of my strange unshaven face and bandaged head; “I must become indebted to you for something besides your professional skill, Doctor.”

“With great pleasure, Jones; you shall have everything you want, if I can get it for you. I’ve seen Captain Haskell; he says that he will not come again, but he bids you be easy; he will make your first service as light as possible and will … wait! I wonder if you have forgotten your drill!”

“I know nothing about military drill,” I said, “and never did know anything about it.”

“You will be convinced, shortly, that you did,” said he; “you may have lost it mentally, but your muscles haven’t forgotten. In three days under old John Wilson, I’ll bet you are ready for every manoeuvre. Just get you started on ‘Load in nine times load,’ and you’ll do eight of ’em without reflection.”

“If I do, I shall be willing to confess to anything,” said I.

“Here, now; stand there–so! Now–_Right_–FACE!”

I did not budge, but stood stiff.

“When I say ‘Right–Face,’ you do _so_,” said he.

“_Right_–FACE!”

I imitated the surgeon.

“FRONT!–that’s right–_Left_–FACE! That’s good–FRONT!–all right; now again–_Right_–FACE!–FRONT!–_Left_–FACE!–FRONT!–_About_–put your right heel so–FACE! Ah! you’ve lost that; well, never mind; it will all come back. I tell you what, I’ve drilled old Company H many a day.”

I really began to believe that Surgeon Frost had an affection for me, though, of course, his affection was based on a sense of proprietorship acquired through discovery, so to speak.

After supper he said: “You are strong enough to go with me to Company H. Well drive over in an ambulance.”

From points on the road we saw long lines of camp-fires. On the crest of a hill, the doctor pointed to the east, where the clouds were aglow with light. “McClellan’s army,” said he.

“Whose army?” I asked.

“McClellan’s; the Yankee army under McClellan.”

“Oh, yes! I read the name in the paper to-day,” said I.

“He has a hundred and fifty thousand men,” said he.

“And their camp-fires make all that light?”

“Yes–and I suppose ours look that way to them.”

Captain Haskell’s company was without shelter, except such, as the men had improvised, as the doctor said; here and there could be seen a blanket or piece of canvas stretched on a pole, and, underneath, a bed of straw large enough for a man. Brush arbours abounded. The Captain himself had no tent; we found him sitting with his back to a tree near which was his little fly stretched over his sleeping-place. Several officers were around him. He shook the doctor’s hand, but said nothing to me. The officers left us.

“I have brought Jones over, Captain,” said the surgeon, “that you may tell him personally of your good intentions in regard to his first service with you. He wishes to be enrolled.”

“If Private Jones–” began the Captain.

“My name is Berwick–Jones Berwick,” I said.

“There’s another strange notion,” said the doctor; “you’ve got the cart before the horse.”

“No, Doctor,” I insisted earnestly; “my name is Jones Berwick.”

“We have it ‘B. Jones,'” said the doctor; “and I am certain it is written that way in your diary. If you are Private Berwick instead of Private Jones, no wonder that nobody claims you.”

“I know that my surname is Berwick, but I know nothing of Private Berwick,” said I.

“Well,” said Captain Haskell, “if you have got your name reversed, that is a small matter which will straighten itself out when you recover your memory. What I was going to say is, that you may be received into my company as a recruit, as it were, but to be returned to your original company whenever we learn what company that is. We will continue, through brigade headquarters, to try to find out what regiment you are from–and under both of your names. While you are with me I shall cheerfully do for you all that I can to favour your condition. You will be expected, however, to do a man’s full duty; I can stand no shirking.”

The Captain’s tone was far different from that he had used toward me in the tent; his voice was stern and his manner frigid.

“We will take the best care of you that we can,” he continued, “and will keep to ourselves the peculiar circumstances of your case; for I can well understand, although you have said nothing about it, sir, that you do not wish confidences.”

His tone and manner were again those of our first interview.

“Captain,” I said, “I know nothing of military life.”

“So we take you as a new man,” said he, adopting anew his official voice, “and we shall not expect more of you than of an ordinary recruit; we shall teach you. If you enroll with me, I shall at once make a requisition for your arms and accoutrements, your knapsack, uniform, and everything else necessary for you. You may remain in the hospital until your equipment is ready for you. Report to me day after to-morrow at noon, and I will receive you into my company. Now, Frank, excuse me; it is time for prayers.”

The men gathered around us. Captain Haskell held a prayer-book in his hand. A most distinguished-looking officer, whose name the doctor told me was Lieutenant Barnwell, stood near with a torch. Some of the men heard the prayer kneeling; others stood with bowed heads.

The Captain began to read:–

“O God, from whom all holy desires, all good counsels, and all just works do proceed, give unto Thy servants that peace which the world cannot give; that our hearts may be set to do Thy commandments, and also that by Thee, we, being defended from the fear of our enemies, may pass our time in rest and quietness, through the merits of Jesus Christ our Saviour.

“O Lord, our heavenly Father, by whose almighty power we have been preserved this day; by Thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night, for the love of Thy only Son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ.

“O Lord, our heavenly father, the high and mighty Ruler of the Universe, who dost from Thy throne behold all the dwellers upon earth, most heartily we beseech Thee with Thy favour to behold and bless Thy servant the President of the Confederate States, and all others in authority; and so replenish them with the grace of Thy Holy Spirit that they may always incline to Thy will, and walk in Thy way. Endue them plenteously with heavenly gifts, grant them in health, and prosperity long to live; and finally, after this life, to attain everlasting joy and felicity, through Jesus Christ our Lord.

“O God, the Creator and Preserver of all mankind, we humbly beseech Thee for all sorts and conditions of men; that Thou wouldst be pleased to make Thy ways known unto them, Thy saving health to all nations. More especially we pray for Thy holy church universal, that it may be so guided and governed by Thy good Spirit, that all who profess and call themselves Christians may be led into the way of truth, and hold the faith in unity of spirit, in the bond of peace, and in righteousness of life. Finally, we commend to Thy fatherly goodness all who are in any ways afflicted or distressed in mind, body, or estate, that it may please Thee to comfort and relieve them, according to their several necessities, giving them patience under their sufferings, and a happy issue out of all their afflictions. And this we beg for Christ’s sake. Amen.”

While this impressive scene had lasted I stood in the darkness outside of the group of men, fearing to be closely observed.

Here was a man whom one could surely trust; he was strong and he was good. I began to feel glad that I was to be under him instead of another. I was lucky. But for Dr. Frost and Captain Haskell, I should be without a friend in the world. Another surgeon might have sent me to the general hospital, whence I should have been remanded to duty; and failing to know my regiment, I should have been apprehended as a deserter. At the best, even if other people had recognized the nature of my trouble, I should have been subjected then and always to the vulgar curiosity which I so greatly dreaded. Here in Company H nobody would know me except as an ordinary recruit.

The men of Company H scattered. I walked up to the Captain and said, “Captain Haskell, I shall be proud to serve under you.”

“Jones,” said he, “we will not conclude this matter until Dr. Frost sends you to me. It is possible that you will find your own company at any day, or you may decide to serve elsewhere, even if you do not find it. You are not under my orders until you come to me.”

As we were returning to the hospital, the doctor asked me seriously, “You insist that your name is Jones Berwick?”

“Yes, Doctor; my surname is Berwick, and my first name is Jones. How did you get my name reversed?”

“On the diary taken from your pocket your name is written ‘B. Jones,'” he said.

“Will you let me see the diary?”

“I will give it to you as soon as we get to our camp. I ought to have done so before.”

The diary that the doctor gave me–I have it yet–is a small blank book for the pocket, with date headings for the year 1862. Only a very few dates in this book are filled with writing. On the fly-leaf is “B. Jones,” and nothing more, the leaf below the name having been all torn away. The writing begins on May 23d, and ends with May 27th. The writing has been done with a pencil. I copy below all that the book contains:–

“FRIDAY, May 23, 1862.

“Arrived after furlough. Drilled A.M. and P.M. Weather clear.”

* * * * *

“SATURDAY, May 24, 1862.

“On camp guard. Letters from home. Showers. Marched at night.”

“SUNDAY, May 25, 1862.

“Marched all day. Bivouacked in woods at night.”

* * * * *

“MONDAY, May 26, 1862.

“Marched but a few miles. Weather bad. Day very hot. Heavy rain at night.”

* * * * *

“TUESDAY, May 27, 1862.

“Rain. Heard a battle ahead. Marched past Branch’s brigade, that had been fighting.”

* * * * *

Each page in the book is divided into three sections.

After reading and rereading the writing again and again, I said to the surgeon, “Doctor, I find it almost impossible to believe that I ever wrote this. It looks like my writing, but I am certain that I could not have written B. Jones as my name.”

The Doctor smiled and handed me a pencil. “Now,” said he, “take this paper and write at my dictation.”

He then read slowly the note under May 27th: “Rain. Heard a battle ahead. Marched past Branch’s brigade, that had been fighting.”

“Now let us compare them,” said he.

The handwriting in the book was similar to that on the paper.

“Well,” said Dr. Frost, “do you still think your name is Jones Berwick?”

“I know it,” I said; “that is one of the things that I do know.”

“And if your handwriting had not resembled that of the book, what would you have said?”

“That the book was never mine, of course.”

“Yet that would have been no proof at all,” said the doctor. “Many cases have been known of patients whose handwriting had changed completely. The truth is, that I did not expect to see you write as you did just now.”

“My name is Jones Berwick,” was my reply.

“Strange!” said he; “I would bet a golden guinea that your name is Berwick Jones. Some people cannot remember their names at all–any part of their names. Others see blue for red. Others do this and do that; there seems to be no limit to the vagaries of the mind. I’d rather risk that signature which you made before you were hurt.”

“My name is Jones Berwick, Doctor. This signature cannot be trusted. It is full of suspicion. Don’t you see that all the lower part of the leaf has been torn off? What was it torn off for? Why, of course, to destroy the name of the regiment to which the owner belonged! B. Jones is common enough; Jones Berwick is not so common. I found it, or else it got into my pocket by mistake. No wonder that a man named Jones is not called for.”

“But, Jones, how can you account for the writing, which is identical? Even if we say that the signature is wrong, still we cannot account for the rest unless you wrote it. It is very romantic, and all that, to say that somebody imitated your handwriting in the body of the book, but it is very far-fetched. Find some other theory.”

“But see how few dates are filled!” I exclaimed.

“Yet the writing itself accounts for that. On May twenty-third you began. You tell us that you had just returned from home, where you had been on furlough. You left your former diary, if you had kept one, at home. You end on May twenty-seventh, just a few days ago.”

“My name is Jones Berwick,” I said.

“By the by, let me see that book a moment.”

I handed it to him.

“No; no imprint, or else it has been torn out,” he said; “I wanted to see who printed it.”

“What would that have shown?”

“Well, I expected to find that it was printed in Richmond, or perhaps Charleston; it would have proved nothing, however.”

“My name is Jones Berwick, Doctor.”

“Well, so be it! We must please the children. I shall make inquiries for the regiment and company from which Jones Berwick is missing. Now do you go to bed and go to sleep.”

* * * * *

The next morning I borrowed the doctor’s shaving appliances.

The last feeble vestige of doubt now vanished forever. The face I saw in the glass was not my face. It was the face of a man at least ten years older. Needless to describe it, if I could.

After I had completed the labour,–a perilous and painful duty,–I made a different appearance, and felt better, not only on account of the physical change, but also, I suppose, because my mind was now settled upon myself as a volunteer soldier.

Dr. Frost had told me that the two Bellots were coming to see me; Captain Haskell had asked them to make the acquaintance of a man who would probably join their company. I begged the doctor to give them no hint of the truth. He replied that it would be difficult to keep them in the dark, for they wouldn’t see why a man, already wearing uniform, should offer himself as a member of Company H.

“I think we’d better take them into our conspiracy,” said he.

To this I made strong objection. I would take no such risk, “If I had any money,” I said, “I should certainly buy other clothing.”

“Well, does the wind sit there?” said he; “you have money; lots of it.”

“Where?”

“There was money in your pocket when you were brought to me; besides, the government gives a bounty of fifty dollars to every volunteer. Your bounty will purchase clothing, if you are determined to squander your estate. Captain Haskell would be able to secure you what you want; your bounty is good for it.”

“But I have no right to the bounty,” said I.

“Fact!” said he; “you see how I fell into the trap? I was thinking, for the moment, from your standpoint, and you turned the tables on me. Yes; you have already received the bounty; maybe you haven’t yet spent it, though. I’ll look up the contents of your pockets; I hope nothing’s been lost.”

He rummaged in a chest and brought out a knife and a pencil, as well as a leather purse, which proved to contain thirty dollars in Confederate notes, a ten-dollar note of the bank of Hamburg, South Carolina, and more than four dollars in silver.

“I did not know you were so rich,” said Dr. Frost; “now what do you want to do with all that?”

“I want a suit of old clothes,” I said.

“Why old?”

“Because I shall soon be compelled to throw it away.”

“Not at all,” said he; “you can pack it up and leave it; if we march, it will be taken care of. Get some cheap, cool, summer stuff; I know what to do. How you held on to that silver so long is a mystery.”

The doctor wrote a note to somebody in Richmond, and before the Bellots came in the late afternoon I was prepared for them. The elder Bellot had already seen me, but in my civilian’s garb he did not seem to recognize me. The younger Bellot was a handsome man, fully six feet, with a slight stoop; I never saw more kindly eyes or a better face; he, too, wore a full beard. His name was Louis, yet his brother called him Joe. I took a liking to both Dave and Joe.

The talk was almost entirely about the war. I learned that the regiment was the first ever formed in the South. It had been a State regiment before the Confederate States had existed–that is to say, it had been organized by South Carolina alone, before any other State had seceded; it had seen service on the islands near Charleston.

A great deal of the talk was worse than Greek to me. Dave Bellot, especially, gave me credit for knowing a thousand things of which I was utterly ignorant, and I was on thorns all the time.

“Yes,” says he; “you know all about Charleston, I reckon.”

“No,” I said; “I know very little about it. I’ve been there, but I am not familiar with the city.”

“Well, you know Sullivan’s Island and Fort Moultrie.”

Now, by some odd chance, I did remember the name of Moultrie, and I nodded assent.

“Well,” said he, “the First, or part of it, went under the guns of Sumter on the morning of January ninth, just an hour after the Cadets had fired on the _Star of the West_; we thought Sumter would sink us, but she didn’t say a word.”

I was silent, through fear of self-betrayal. Why it was that these men had not asked me about my home, was puzzling me. Momentarily I expected either of them to blurt out, “Where are you from?” and I had no answer ready. Afterward I learned that I was already known as an Aiken man, in default of better,–the doctor having considerately relieved me from anticipated danger.

“After the bombardment, the First was transferred to the Confederate service. It had enlisted for six months, and its time expired in June. It was in Virginia then. It was paid up and discharged, and at once reorganized under the same field-officers.”

I did not very well know what a field-officer is.

“Who is the colonel?” I asked.

“Colonel Hamilton,” said he; “or Old Headquarters, as I called him once in his own hearing. We were at Suffolk in winter quarters, and it was the day for general inspection of the camp. We had scoured our tin plates and had made up our bunks and washed up generally, and every man was ready; but we got tired of waiting. I had my back to the door, and I said to Josey, ‘Sergeant, I wonder when Old Headquarters will be here.’ You never were so scared in your life as I was when I heard a loud voice at the door say, ‘Headquarters are here now, sir!’ and the colonel walked in.”

I attempted appropriate laughter, and asked, “Where is Suffolk?”

“Down near Norfolk. General Gregg was our first colonel. He was in the Mexican war, and is a fine officer; deaf as a door-post, though. He commands our brigade now.”

“Where did you go from Suffolk?”

“To Goldsborough.”

“Where is that?” I asked.

“North Carolina. You remember, when Burnside took Roanoke Island it was thought that he would advance to take the Weldon and Wilmington railroad; we were sent to Goldsborough, and were brigaded with some tar-heel regiments under Anderson. Then Anderson and the lot of us were sent to Fredericksburg. We were not put under Gregg again until we reached Richmond.”

“How many regiments are in the brigade?”

“Five,–the First, Twelfth, Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Orr’s Rifles.”

“All from South Carolina?”

“Yes.”

“From Fredericksburg we marched down here,” observed Joe.

“Yes,” said Dave; “and not more than a week ago. We came very near getting into it at Hanover, where Branch got torn up so.”

“Where is Hanover?” I asked.

“About twenty miles north,” he replied, “I thought we were sure to get into that fight, but we were too late for it.”

The Bellots were very willing to give me all information. They especially sounded the praises of their young Captain, and declared that I was fortunate in joining their company instead of some others which they could name.

Not a word was spoken concerning my prior experience. I flattered myself with the belief that they thought me a raw recruit influenced by some acquaintanceship with Dr. Frost.

Before they left, Joe Bellot said a word privately to his brother, and then turned to me. “By the way,” said he, “do you know anybody in the company?”

“Not a soul except Captain Haskell,” I replied. “I am simply relying on Dr. Frost; I am going to join some company, and I rely on his judgment more than on my own.”

“Well, we’ll see you through,” said he. “Join our mess until you can do better.”

I replied, with true thankfulness, that I should be glad to accept his offer.

“Did you see the morning papers?” asked the elder Bellot. I was walking a short way with the brothers as they returned to their camp. “No,” said I.

“It contains a terrible account of the Yankees’ method of warfare.”

“What are they doing?” I asked.

“Inciting the slaves to insurrection and organizing them into regiments of Federal soldiers. Butler, in command at New Orleans, has several regiments of negroes; and Colonel Adams, in command of one of our brigades in Tennessee, has reported that the Yankees in that State are enticing the negroes away from their owners and putting arms into their hands.”

“That is very barbarous,” said I. My ignorance kept me from saying more. The language he had used puzzled me; I did not know at the time that New Orleans was in the hands of the Federals, and his saying that Butler had regiments of negroes seemed queer.

“The people who sold us their slaves helped John Brown’s insurrection,” said Bellot.

A sudden recollection came, and I was about to speak, but Bellot continued. The last thing I could remember clearly was the reading of Brown’s deeds at Harper’s Ferry!

“They claim that they are fighting against the principle of secession, and they have split Virginia into two States. In my opinion, they are fighting for pure selfishness–or, rather, impure selfishness: they know that they live on the trade of the South, and that they cannot make as much money if they let us go to ourselves.”

“Yes,” said Louis; “the war is all in the interest of trade. Of course there are a few men in the North, whose motives may be good mistakenly, but the mass of the people are blindly following the counsels of those who counsel for self-interest. If the moneyed men, the manufacturers, and the great merchants of the North thought for one moment that they would lose some of their dollars by the war, the war would end. What care they for us? They care only for themselves. They plunge the whole country into mourning simply in order to keep control of the trade of the South.”

Up to this time I had known nothing of the creation of West Virginia by the enemy, and I thought it discreet to be silent, mentally vowing that I should at once read the history of events since 1859. So I sought Dr. Frost, and begged him to help me get books or papers which would give me the information I needed; for otherwise, I told him, I should be unable to talk with any consistency or method.

“Let me see,” he said; “there is, of course, no one book in print that would give you just what you want. We might get files of newspapers–but that would be too voluminous reading and too redundant. You ought to have something concise–some outline; and where to get it I can’t tell you.” Then, as the thought struck him, he cried, “I’ll tell you; we’ll make it! You write while I dictate.”

XXIII

A LESSON IN HISTORY

“So that, from point to point, now have you heard The fundamental reasons of this war;
Whose great decision hath much blood let forth, And more thirsts after.”–SHAKESPEARE.

The doctor brought me a small pocket memorandum-book, thinking that I would require many notes.

“Now,” said he, “where shall we begin? You remember October fifty-nine?”

“Yes.”

“What date?”

“Eighteenth; the papers contained an account of John Brown’s seizure of Harper’s Ferry.”

“And you know nothing of the termination of the Brown episode?”

“Nothing.”

I took brief notes as he unfolded the history of the war.

In the course of his story he spoke of the National Democratic Convention which was held in Charleston. I remembered the building of which he spoke–the South Carolina Institute Hall–and interrupted him to tell him so.”

“Maybe your home is in Charleston.”

“I don’t think so, Doctor; I remember being in Charleston, but I don’t remember my home.”

He brought out a map and told me the dates of all the important actions and the names of the officers who had commanded or fought in them in ’61 and ’62, both in Virginia and the West.

* * * * *

“So we have come down to date, Doctor?” I said.

“Yes; but I think that now I ought to go back and tell you something about your own command.”

“Well, sir.”

“There was more fighting while these Richmond movements were in progress. Where is Fredericksburg? Here,” looking at the map.

“Well.”

“A Yankee army was there under McDowell, the man who commanded at the battle of Manassas. We had a small army facing McDowell. You were in that army; it was under General Anderson–Tredegar Anderson we call him, to distinguish him from other Andersons; he is president of the Tredegar Iron Works, here in Richmond. Well, you were facing McDowell. Now, look here at the map. McClellan stretched his right wing as far as Mechanicsville–here, almost north of Richmond; and you were between McClellan and McDowell. So Anderson had to get out. Don’t you remember the hot march?”

“Not at all; I don’t think I was there.”

“I thought I’d catch you napping. I think that when you recover your memory it will be from some little thing that strikes you in an unguarded moment. Your mind, when consciously active, fortifies itself against your forgotten past, and it may be in a moment of weakness that things will return to you; I shouldn’t wonder if a dream proves to be the beginning. However, some men have such great strength of will that they can do almost anything. If ever you get the smallest clew, you ought then and there to determine that you will never let it go. Your friends may find you any day, but it is strange they have not yet done it They surely must be classing you among the killed.”

[Illustration: A Lesson In History] [Map of Chesapeake Bay and Environs]

“Do you think that my friends could help me by telling me the past? Would my memory return if I should find them?”

“No; they could give you no help whatever until you should first find one thing as a starting-point. Find but one little thing, and then they can show you how everything else is to be associated with that. Without their help you would have a hard time in collecting things–putting them together; they would be separate and distinct in your mind; if you remember but one isolated circumstance, it would be next to impossible to reconstruct. Well, let’s go on and finish; we are nearly at the end, or at the beginning, for you. Where was I?

“Anderson retreated from Fredericksburg. When was that?”

“The twenty-fourth of May or twenty-fifth–say the night of the twenty-fourth.”

“Well, sir.”

“We had a brigade here, at Hanover Court-House–Branch’s brigade. While you were retreating, and when you were very near Hanover, McClellan threw a column on Branch, and used him very severely. You were not in the fight exactly, but were in hearing of it, and saw some of Branch’s men after the fight. That is how we know what brigade you belong to, although it will not claim you. You know that you are from South Carolina, and your buttons prove it; and your diary shows that you were near Branch’s brigade while it was in the fight; and the only South Carolina brigade in the whole of Lee’s army that had any connection with Branch, is Gregg’s. Do you see?”

“I see,” said I, “what is the date of that battle?”

“May 27th; your diary tells you that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You continued to retreat to Richmond. So did Branch. The division you are in is A.P. Hill’s. It is called the Light division. Branch’s brigade is in it.”

“Yes, sir; now let me see if I can call the organization of the army down to the company.”

“Go ahead.”

“Lee’s army–“

“Yes; Army of Northern Virginia.”

“What is General Lee’s full name?”

“Robert E.–Robert Edward Lee, of Virginia; son of Light-Horse Harry Lee of Revolution times.”

“Thank you, sir; Lee’s army–A.P. Hill’s division–Gregg’s brigade–what is General Gregg’s name?”

“Maxcy.”

“Gregg’s brigade–First South Carolina, Colonel Hamilton–“

“How did you know that?”

“Bellot told me; what is Colonel Hamilton’s name?”

“D.H.–Daniel, I believe.”

“Company H, Captain Haskell–“

“William Thompson Haskell.”

“Thank you, sir; any use to write the lieutenants?”

“No.”

“Well, Doctor, that brings us to date.”

“Now read what you have written,” he said.

I read my notes aloud, expanding the abbreviations I had made. My interest and absorption had been so intense that I could easily have called over in chronological order the principal events he had just narrated.

“Now,” asked Dr. Frost, “do you believe that you can fill in the details from what you can remember of what I said?”

“Yes, sir,” said I; “try me.”

He asked some questions, and I replied to them.

My memory astonished him. “I must say, Jones, that you have a phenomenally good and a miraculously bad memory. You’ll do,” he said.

His account of the fight of the ironclads had interested me.

“What has become of the _Merrimac?_” I asked him.

“We had to destroy her. When Yorktown was evacuated, Norfolk had to follow suit. The Federal fleet is now in James River, some halfway down below Richmond. A blockade has been declared by Lincoln against all the ports of the South. We are exceedingly weak on the water.”

XXIV

BEFORE THE GREAT BATTLE

“And so your follies fight against yourself. Fear, and be slain; no worse can come; to fight– And fight and die, is death destroying death; Where fearing dying, pays death servile breath.” –SHAKESPEARE.

On June 7,1862, I reported for duty to Captain Haskell. Dr. Frost had offered to send me over, but I preferred to go alone, and, as my strength seemed good, I made my way afoot, and with all my possessions in my pockets.

The Captain was ready for me. My name was recorded on the roll of Company H, Orderly-sergeant George Mackay writing Jones, B., in its alphabetical position.

A soldier’s outfit was given to me at once, a requisition having been made before my coming. I joined the mess of the Bellots. Besides the brothers Bellot, the mess had other men with whom I formed gradually some of the ties of friendship; they were Sergeant Josey, Corporal Veitch, Privates Bail, Bee, Bell, Benton, and Box, in this alphabetical succession of names my own name being no real exception, although Captain Haskell had insisted upon the name written in the diary.

And now my duties at once began. I must relearn a soldier’s drill in the manual and in everything. The company drilled four hours a day, and the regiment had one hour’s battalion drill, besides dress-parade; there was roll-call in the company morning and night.

Nominally a raw recruit, I was handed over to Sergeant John Wilson, who put me singly through the exercises without arms for about four hours on my first day’s duty, which was the third day of my enlistment, or perhaps I should say re-enlistment. The sergeant seemed greatly pleased with my progress, and told me that he should at once promote me to be the right guide of his awkward squad.

On the next day, therefore, I found myself drilling with three other recruits who had been members of the company for a week or more. That night Orderly-sergeant Mackay, who seemed to have received me into his good graces, told me that Wilson had said that that new man Jones beat everything that he had seen before; that learning to drill was to Jones “as easy as fallin’ off a log.” I remembered Dr. Frost’s prediction.

The third day I drilled with the awkward squad again; but in the afternoon my gun was put into my hands, and for an extra half-hour I was exercised in the manual of arms. But my first attempts proved very unfortunate. Sergeant Wilson scolded, stormed, and almost swore at me. He placed my gun at the _carry_, and called repeated attention to the exact description of the position, contained in the language of Hardee: “The piece in the right hand, the barrel nearly vertical, and resting in the hollow of the shoulder; the guard to the front, the arm hanging nearly at its full length near the body; the thumb and forefinger embracing the guard, the remaining fingers closed together, and grasping the swell of the stock just under the cock, which rests on the little finger.” I simply could not execute the _shoulder_, or _carry_, with any precision, although the positions of _support, right-shoulder-shift, present,_ and all the rest, gave me no trouble after they were reached; reaching them, from the _shoulder_ was the great trouble.

Wilson ended by ordering me off and reporting me to the Captain.

Captain Haskell sent for me. He said kindly, “Jones, Sergeant Wilson gives a bad report of you.”

“I do the best I can, Captain.”

“The sergeant seems to think that you are obstinate on some peculiar point that he did not make me fully understand. He gives you great praise for learning the facings and the steps, but says you will not learn the manual.”

“I don’t understand my awkwardness, Captain. There is something wrong about it.”

“You find the manual difficult?”

“Not only difficult, but absurd,” said I; “it makes me nervous.”

“And the facings and steps were not difficult?”

“Not at all; they seemed easy and natural.”

“Take your gun and come with me,” said the Captain; “I think I have a clew to the situation.”

Behind the Captain’s simple quarters was an open space. He made me take position. He also took position, with a rifle at his side.

“Now, look,” said he; “see this position, which I assume to be the _shoulder_ natural to you.”

His gun was at his left side, the barrel to the front, the palm of his left hand under the butt.

“Now,” said he, “this is the _shoulder_ of the heavy infantry manual. I think you were drilled once in a company which had this _shoulder_. It may not have been in your recent regiment that you were so drilled, for this _shoulder_ obtained in all the militia companies of Carolina before the war. Many regiments still hold to it. Follow my motions now–_Support_–ARMS!”

The Captain’s right hand grasped the piece at the small of the stock; his left arm was thrown across his breast, the cock resting on the forearm; his right hand fell quickly to his side.

I imitated him. I felt no nervousness, and told him so.

“I thought so,” said he; “now, just remember that all the other positions in the manual are unchanged. It is only the _shoulder_, or _carry_, as we sometimes call it, that has been changed. You will like the new drill.”

He began to put me through the exercises, and although I had difficulty, yet I had some success.

“Now report to Sergeant Wilson again,” said the Captain.

I told the sergeant that I thought I could now do better; that I had been confused by the light infantry _carry_, never having seen drill except from the heavy infantry _shoulder_. Wilson kept me at work for almost an hour, and expressed satisfaction with my progress. Under his training I was soon able to drill with the company.

Louis Bellot asked me, one night, if I should not like to see Richmond. He had got permission to go into town on the next day. The Captain readily granted me leave of absence for twenty-four hours, and Bellot and I spent the day in rambling over the town. We saw the State House, and the Confederate Congress in session, and wandered down to the river and took a long look at the Libby Prison.

The First had been in bivouac behind the main lines of Lee’s left, but now the regiment took position in the front, the lines having been extended still farther to the left. A battery at our right–some distance away–would throw a few shells over at the Yankees, and their guns would reply; beyond this almost daily artillery practice, nothing unusual occurred.

One morning, about ten o’clock, Captain Haskell ordered me to get my arms and follow him. He at once set out toward the front, Corporal Veitch being with him. The Captain was unarmed, except for his sword. He led us through our pickets and straight on toward the river. The slope of the hill was covered with sedge, and there were clumps of pine bushes which hid us from any casual view from either flank; and as for the river swamp in our front, unless a man had been on its hither edge, we were perfectly screened. I observed that, as we approached the swamp, the Captain advanced more stealthily, keeping in the thickest and tallest of the bushes. Veitch and I followed in his footsteps, bending over and slipping along from bush to bush in imitation of our leader. The river bottom, which we reached very shortly, was covered with a dense forest of large trees and undergrowth. Soon we came to water, into which the Captain waded at once, Veitch behind him and I following Veitch. Captain Haskell had not said a word to me concerning the purpose of our movements, nor do I now know what he intended, if it was not merely to learn the position of the Yankee pickets.

We went on, the water at last reaching to my waist. Now the Captain signalled us to stop. He went forward some ten yards and stood behind a tree. He looked long in his front, bending his body this way and that; then he beckoned to us to come. The undergrowth here was less thick, the trees larger. I could see nothing, in any direction, except trees and muddy water. The Captain went on again for a few paces, and stopped with a jerk. After a little he beckoned to us again. Veitch and I waded slowly on. Before we reached Captain Haskell, he motioned to us to get behind trees.

From my tree I looked out, first in one direction and then in another. There was nothing–nothing except water and woods. But the Captain was still peering from behind his tree, and I could now see that his whole attention was fixed on something. Veitch, also, at my right, was silent and alert and rigid, so that I felt, rather than saw, that there was something in front of us, and I kept my eyes intent upon a narrow aisle just beyond me. All at once a man in dark-blue dress passed across the opening; I knew instantly that he was a Yankee, although I had never seen one in my life, and instinctively felt the hammer of my rifle, but he was gone. Now, looking more closely, I could see glimpses of other blue men behind trees or in the bushes; I saw three of them. They were about sixty yards from us; I supposed they were part of their picket-line. I had a peculiar itching to take aim at one of them, and consulted the Captain with my eyes, but he frowned.

Doubtless, they had not seen us. They were on the farther side of the Chickahominy, with a flowing stream and a wide pool stretching in their front, and were not very watchful. We remained stiff in our places for four or five minutes; then the Captain moved slowly backward and gave us a sign to follow.

This little adventure gave me great pleasure, inasmuch as it made me feel that the Captain was favourable to me.

* * * * *

On the evening of the 25th of June we were ordered to cook three days’ rations. The pronunciation of this word puzzled me no little. Everybody said rash-ons, while I, though I had never before had occasion to use the word, had thought of it as rations. I think I called it rations once or twice before I got straight. I remembered Dr. Frost’s advice to hold fast any slightest clew, and felt that possibly this word might, in the future, prove a beginning.

The troops knew that the order meant a march, perhaps a battle. For a day or two past an indefinite rumour of some movement on the part of Jackson’s command had circulated among the men. Nobody seemed to know where Jackson was; this, in itself, probably gave occasion for the talk. From what I could hear, it seemed to be thought generally that Jackson was marching on Washington, but some of the most serious of the men believed exactly the contrary; they believed that Jackson was very near to Lee’s army.

The night of the 25th was exceedingly warm. After all was ready for the march, I lay on my blanket and tried vainly to sleep. Joe Bellot was lying not more than three feet from me, and I knew that he, too, was awake, though he did not speak or move. Busy, and sometimes confused, thoughts went through my mind. I doubted not that I should soon see actual war, and I was far from certain that I could stand it. I had never fired a shot at a man; no man had ever fired at me. I fully appreciated the fact of the difference between other men and me; perhaps I exaggerated my peculiarity. I had heard and had read that most men in battle are able from motives of pride to do their duty; but I was certainly not like most men. I was greatly troubled. The other men had homes to fight for, and that they would fight well I did not doubt at all; but I was called on to fight for an idea alone–for the abstraction called State rights. Yet I, too, surely had a home in an unknown somewhere, and these men were fighting for my home as well as theirs; if I could not fight for a home of my own, I could fight for the homes of my friends. My home, too, was a Southern home, vague, it is true, but as real as theirs, and Southern homes were in danger from the invaders. I _must_ fight for Southern homes–for _my_ home; but could I stand up with my comrades in the peril of battle? Few men are cowards, but was I not one of a few? perhaps unique even?

Of pride I had enough–I knew that. I knew that if I could but retain my presence of mind I could support a timid physical nature by the resources of reason in favour of my dignity; but, then, what is courage if it is not presence of mind in the midst of danger? If my mind fail, I shall have no courage: this is to think in a circle. I felt that I should prefer death to cowardice–the thought gave me momentary comfort.

But do not all cowards feel just that way before the trial comes? A coward must be the most wretched of men–not a man, an outcast from men.

And then, to kill men–was that preferable to being killed? I doubted it and–perhaps it is strange to say it–the doubt comforted me. To be killed was no worse than to kill.

Then I thought of General Lee; what force could it be that sustained _him_ at this moment? If not now, at least shortly, he would give orders which must result in the death of thousands; it was enough to craze a general. How could he, reputed so good, give such orders? Could any success atone for so much disaster? What could be in the mind of General Lee to make him consent to such sacrifice? It must be that he feels forced; he cannot do it willingly. Would it not be preferable to give up the contest–to yield everything, rather than plunge the people of two nations into despair and horror over so many wasted lives? For so many stricken homes? For widows, orphans, poverty, ruin? What is it that sustains General Lee? It is, it must be, that he is a mere soldier and simply obeys orders. Orders from whom? President Davis. Then President Davis is responsible for all this? On him falls the burden? No. What then? The country.

And what is this thing that we call the country? Land? People? What is land? I have no land. I have no people, so far as I know. But, supposing that I have people and land–what is the country for which we fight? Will the enemy take our people, and take our land, if we do not beat them back? Yes, they will reduce our people to subjection. I shall become a dependant upon them. I shall be constrained in my liberties; part of my labour will go to them against my will. My property, if I have any, will be taken from me in some way–perhaps confiscated, if not wholly, at least in a measure, by laws of the conquerors. I shall not be free.

But am I now free? If we drive back the enemy, shall I be free? Yes, I shall be free, rightly free, free to aid the country, and to got aid from the country, I shall be part of the country and can enjoy my will, because I will to be part of my country and to help build up her greatness and sustain and improve her institutions.

Institutions? What is an institution? We say government is an institution. What is a government? Is it a body of men? No. What is it, then? Something formed by the people for their supposed good, a growth, a development–a development of what? Is it material? No, it is moral; it is _soul_–then I thought I could see what is meant by the country and by her institutions. The country is the spirit of the nation–and it is deathless. It is not doomed to subjection; take the land–enslave the people–and yet will that spirit live and act and have a body. Let our enemies prevail over our armies; let them destroy; yet shall all that is good in our institution be preserved even by our enemies; for a true idea is imperishable and nothing can decay but the false.

Then why fight? Because the true must always war against the false. The false and the true are enemies. But why kill the body in order to spread, or even to maintain, the truth? Will the truth be better or stronger by that?

Perhaps–yet no. War is evil and not good, and it is only by good that evil can be overcome. But if our enemies come upon us, must we not fight? The country wishes peace. Our enemies bring war. Must we submit? We cannot submit. Submission to disgrace is repugnant to the spirit of the nation; death is better than submission. But killing, is it not crime? Is crime better than submission? No; submission is better than crime But is not submission also a crime? At least it is an infringement of the law of the nation’s spirit. Then crime must be opposed by crime? To avoid the crime of submission we must commit the crime of killing? It seems so–but why? But why? Ah! yes; I think I see; it is because the spirit of the nation is not equal to the spirit of the world. The world-idea forbids killing and forbids submission, and demands life and freedom for all; the spirit of the nation is not so unselfish; the spirit of the nation exalts so-called patriotism; the world-spirit raises high the principle of philanthropy universal. The country has not developed the world-idea, and will not, except feebly; but she will at last, and will be loyal to the spirit of the world. Then, unless I am sustained by a greater power, I cannot go contrary to the spirit of the South. I must kill and must be killed.

But can I stand the day of battle? Have I not argued myself into a less readiness to kill? Will these thoughts or fancies–coming to me I know not whence, and bringing to me a mental disturbance incomprehensible and unique–comfort me in the hour of danger? Will not my conscience force me to be a coward? Yet cowardice is worse than death.

I could not sleep; I was farther from sleep than ever. I rose, and walked through long lines of sleeping men–men who on the morrow might be still more soundly sleeping.

Captain Haskell was standing alone, leaning against the parapet. I approached. He spoke kindly, “Jones, you should be asleep.”

“Captain,” I said; “I have tried for hours to sleep, but cannot.”

“Let us sit down,” said he; “and we will talk it over by ourselves.”

His tone was unofficial. The Captain, reserved in his conduct toward the men, seldom spoke to one of them except concerning duties, yet he was very sympathetic in personal matters, and in private talk was more courteous and kind toward a private than toward an equal. I understood well enough that it was through sympathy that he had invited me to unburden.

“Captain,” I said, “I fear.”

“May I ask what it is that you fear?”

“I fear that I am a coward.”

“Pardon me for doubting. Why should you suppose so?”

“I have never been tried, and I dread the test.”

“But,” said he; “you must have forgotten. You were in a close place when you were hurt. No coward would have been where you were, if the truth has been told.”

“That was not I; I am now another man.”

“Allow me again to ask what it is that you seem to dread.”

“Proving a coward,” I replied.

“You fear that you will fear?” said he.

“That is exactly it.”

“Then, my friend, what you fear is not danger, but fear.”

“I fear that danger will make me fear.”

“I imagine, sir, that danger makes anybody fear–at least anybody who has something more than the mere fearlessness of the brute that cannot realize danger.”

“Do you fear, too, Captain?”

The Captain hesitated, and I was abashed at my boldness. I knew that his silence was rebuke.

“I will tell you how I feel, Jones, since you permit me to speak of myself,” he said at last; “I feel that life is valuable, and not to be thrown away lightly. I want to live and not die; neither do I like the thought of being maimed for life. Death and wounds are very distasteful to me. I feel that my body is averse to exposing itself to pain; I fear pain; I fear death, but I do not fear fear. I do not think the fear of death is unmanly, for it is human. Those who do not fear death do not love life. Please tell me if you love life.”

“I do not know, Captain; I suppose I do.”

“Do you fear death?”

“What I fear now is cowardice. I suppose that if I were indifferent to death I should have no fear of being afraid.”

“I am sure that you kept your presence of mind the other day, in the swamp,” said he.

“I don’t think I had great fear.”

“Yet you were in danger there.”

“Very little, I think, Captain.”

“No, sir; you were in danger. At any moment a bullet might have ended your life.”

“I did not realize the situation, then.”

“Well, I must confess that you had the advantage of me, then,” said he.

“What? You, Captain? You felt that you were in danger?”

“Yes, Jones; every moment I knew our danger.”

“But you did not fear.”

“May I ask if you do not regard fear as the feeling caused by a knowledge of danger?”

“I know, Captain,–I don’t know how I know it,–but I know that a man may fear and yet do his duty; but there are other men, and I am afraid that I am one of them, who fear and who fail in duty.”

“I congratulate you, sir; I wish all our men would fear to fail in duty,” said he; “we should have an invincible army in such case. An army consisting, without exception, of such men, could not be broken. It is those who flee, those who fail in duty, that cause disorganization. The touch of the elbow is good for the weak, I think, sir; but for the man who will do his duty such dependence should not be taught. Good men, instructed to depend on comrades will be demoralized when comrades forsake them. Our method of battle ought to be changed. Our ranks should be more open. Many reasons might be urged for that change, but the one we are now considering is enough. The close line makes good men depend on weak men; when the weak fail, the strong feel a loss which is not really a loss but rather an advantage, if they could but see it so. Every man in the army ought to be taught to do his whole duty regardless of what others do. Those who cannot be so taught ought not to fight, sir; there are other duties more suited to them.”

“And I fear that my case is just such a one,” I said.

“There is fear and fear,” said he; “how would you like for me to test you now?”

“To test me?”

“Yes; I can make you a proposition that will test your courage.” His voice had become stern.

I hesitated. What was he going to do? I could not imagine. But I felt that to reject his offer would be to accept fully the position into which my fears were working to thrust me.

“Do it, Captain,” said I; “make it. I want to be relieved of this suspense.”

“No matter what danger you run? Is danger better than suspense concerning danger?”

I reflected again. At last I brought up all my nerve and replied, “Yes, Captain, danger is better than fear.”

“Why did you hesitate? Was it through fear?”

“Yes,” said I; “but not entirely through fear; I doubted that I had the right to incur danger uselessly.”

“And how did you settle that?”

“I settle that by trusting to you, Captain.”

He laughed; then he said: “The test that I shall give you may depress you, but I am sure that you are going to be as good a soldier as Company H can boast of having. Lieutenant Rhett, only yesterday, remarked that you were the best-drilled man in the company, and showed astonishment that a raw recruit, in less than two weeks, should gain such a standing. I thought it advisable to say to him that your education had included some military training, and he was satisfied.” The Captain had dropped his official manner. “It is clear to me, Jones, that you are more nearly a veteran than any of us. I know that you have been in danger and have been wounded, and your uniform, which you were wearing then, showed signs of the very hardest service. I have little doubt, sir, that you have already seen battle more than once.”

“But, Captain, all that may be true and yet do me no good at all. I am a different man.”

“Since you allow me to enter into your confidence,–which I appreciate,–I beg to say that your fears are not unnatural; I think every man in the company has them. And I dare say, as a friend, that you feel fear more sensitively because you live in the subjective; you feel thrown back on yourself. Confess that you are exclusive.”

“I am forced to be so, Captain.”

“The men would welcome your companionship, sir.”

“Yes, sir; but it is as you say: I feel thrown back on myself.”

“And I think–though, of course I would not pretend to say it positively–that is why your fears are not unnatural, though peculiar; I fancy that you heighten them by your self-concentration. The world and objects in it divert other men, while your attention is upon your own feelings. Pardon me for saying that you think of little except yourself. This new old experience of battle and peril you apply without dilution to your soul, and you wonder what the effect will be. The other men think of other men, and of home, and of a thousand things. You will be all right in battle. I predict that the excitement of battle will be good for you, sir; it will force you out of yourself.”

“I have tried lately to take more interest in the world of other men and other things,” I said.

“Yes; I was glad to see you playing marbles to-day. Shall I give you that test?”

“Yes, sir; if you please.”

“I think, however, that you have already given proof that you do not need it,” said he.

“How so, Captain?”

“Why, we’ve been talking here for ten minutes since I proposed to test you, and you have shown no suspense whatever in regard to it. Have you lost interest in it?”

“Not at all, Captain; I have only been waiting your good time.”

“And therein you have shown fortitude, which may differ from courage, but I do not think it does. I am confident you will at once reject my proposition. I don’t know that I ought to make it; but, having begun, I’ll finish. What I propose is this: I will assign you some special duty that will keep you out of battle–such as guarding the baggage, or other duty in the rear.”

I was silent. An instant more, and I felt hurt.

“Why do you hesitate?”

“Because I did not think–” I stopped in time.

“I know, I know,” said he, hastily; “and you must pardon me; but did you not urge me on?”

“I confess it, Captain; and you have done me good.”

“Of course, Jones, you know that I did not expect you to accept my offer, which, after all, was merely imaginary. Now, can you not see that what you fear is men’s opinions rather than danger? You are not intimidated at the prospect of battle.”

“I fear that I shall be,” said I.

“And yet, when I propose to keep you out of battle, your indignation seems no less natural to yourself than it does to me.”

“Is not that in keeping with what I have said about my fears?”

“Oblige me by explaining.”

“I fear to show you my fear. Do I not refuse your offer for the purpose of concealing my fear?”

“And to conceal your imaginary fears, you accept the possibility–the strong possibility–of death,” said he, gravely.

“Yes,” I replied; “I do now, while death seems far, but what I shall do when it is near is not sure.”

“You are very stubborn,” said the Captain, in a stern voice, assuming again the relation of an officer.

“I do not mean it that way, Captain.”

“You have determined to consider yourself a coward, or at least to cherish fear; and no suggestion I can make seems to touch you.”

“I wish I could banish fear,” said I.

“Well, sir, determine to do it. Instead of exerting your will to make yourself miserable, use it for a better purpose.”

“How can a man will? How can he know that his resolution will not weaken in the time of trial?”

“It is by willing to do what comes next that a man can again will and will more. Can you not determine that you will do what you are ordered to do? Doubtless we shall march, to-morrow; have you not decided that you will march with us?”

“I had not thought of so simple a thing. Of course, Captain, I expect to march.”

“And if the march brings us upon the battlefield, do you not know that you will march to the battlefield?”

“I expect to go into battle, of course, Captain. If I did not, I should have no fear of myself.”

“Have as great fear of yourself as you wish. Do you intend to run away when we get into battle?”

“I have no such intention; but when the time comes, I may not be able to have any intention at all.”

“At what point in the action do you expect to weaken?”

“How can I have any expectation at all? I am simply untried, and fear the test.”

“You _can_ determine that you will act the man,” said he. Then, kindly: “I have no fears that you will do otherwise, but”–and here his voice again became stern–“the determination will rid you of your present fears. Exert your will, and this nightmare will go.”

“Can a man will to do an unknown thing in the future?”

“_You_ can. You can drive away your present fear of yourself, at the very least.”

“How can I do it, Captain?”

“I shall give you one more test.”

“Do anything you wish, Captain; only don’t propose anything that would confirm my fear.”

“Look at me–now. I am going to count three–understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When I say ‘three,’ you will determine to continue in your present state of mind–“

“No, no, Captain; I can’t do that!”

“Why, you’ve been doing nothing else for the last hour, man! But allow me to finish. You are going to determine to remain as you are, or you will determine to conquer your fears. Now, reflect before I begin.”

There was a pause.

“Ready!” said the Captain; “hold your teeth together. When I say three, you act–and act for life or death–ONE–TWO–“

If he ever said three, I did not hear it; at the word “two” all my fears were gone.

“Well, my friend, how is it now?” he asked gently, even hesitatingly.

“Captain,” said; “I am your grateful servant. I shall do my duty.”

“I knew, sir, that your will was only sleeping; you must excuse me for employing a disagreeable device in order to arouse it. If I may make a suggestion, I would now beg, while you are in the vein, that you will encourage henceforth, the companionship of the men.”

“It will be a pleasure to do so, hereafter, Captain.”

“And I am delighted with this little episode, sir,” said he; “I am sincerely glad that the thought of confiding in me presented itself to your mind, since the result seems so wholesome.”

“Good night, Captain,” said I.

But he did not let me leave without thus having reasserted his character as my commander.

“Go back and get all the sleep you can; you will have need for all your physical strength to-morrow–and after.”

I was almost happy.

XXV

IN THE GREAT BATTLE

“If I should tell thee o’er this thy day’s work, Thou’lt not believe thy deeds; but I’ll report it.” –SHAKESPEARE.

It is said that a word may change a life. Actually? No, not of itself; the life which is changed must be ready for the word, else we were creatures dominated by our surroundings.

I had been a fragment,–a sort of moral flotsam cast up by an unknown sea,–and I had found a rude harbour in Company H. If I touched a larger world, it was only through the medium of the company in its relations to that world. I had formed some attachments,–ties which have lasted through life thus far, and will always last,–but these attachments were immediate only, and, so far as I felt, were almost baseless; for not directly could I see and feel what was felt by the men I loved. Outside the narrow bounds of the company my world was all abstract. I fought for that world, for it appealed to my reason; but it was with effort that I called before my mind that world, which was a very present help to every other man. The one great fact was war; the world was an ideal world rather than a reality. And I frequently felt that, although the ideal after all is the only reality, yet that reality to me must be lacking in the varying quality of light, and the delicate degrees of sweetness and truth which home and friends and all the material good of earth were said to assume for charming their possessors. The day brought me into contact with men; the night left me alone with myself. In my presence men spoke of homes far away, of mothers, of sisters, of wives and children. I could see how deep was the interest which moved them to speak, and, in a measure, they had my sympathy; yet such interest was mystery rather than fact, theoretical rather than practical. I could fill these pages with pathetic and humorous sayings heard in the camps, for my memory peculiarly exerted itself to retain–or rather, I should say, spontaneously retained–what I saw and heard; saw and heard with the least emotion, perhaps, ever experienced by a soldier. Absorbed in reflections on what I heard, and in fancies of a world of which I knew so little, it is not to be doubted that I constructed ideals far beyond the humdrum reality of home life, impracticable ideals that tended only to separate me more from other men. Their world was not my world; this I knew full well, and I sometimes thought they knew it; for while no rude treatment marked their intercourse with me, yet few sought me as a friend. My weak attempts to become companionable had failed and had left me more morose. But for the Captain and for Joe Bellot, I should have been hopeless.

Such had been my feelings before I had willed; now, in a degree, everything was changed; indifference, at least, was gone, and although I was yet subject to the strange experience which ruled my mind and hindered it, yet I knew that I had large power over myself, and I hoped that I should always determine to live the life of a healthy human being, that I should be able to accept the relationships which, through Company H, bound me to all men and all things, and that my interest henceforth would be diversified–touching the world and what is in it rather than myself alone. But this was mere hope; the only certain change was in the banishment of my former indifference.

* * * * *

The morning of Thursday, the 26th of June, passed away, and we yet held our place in the line. At two o’clock the long roll was heard in every regiment. Our knapsacks had been piled, to be stored in Richmond.

“_Fall in, Company H! Fall in, men! Fall in promptly!”_ shouted Orderly-sergeant Mackay.

By fours we went to rear and left, then northward at a rapid stride. Some of the men tried to jest, and failed.

At three o’clock we were crossing Meadow Bridge; we could see before us and behind us long lines of infantry–Lee’s left wing in motion.

Beyond the bridge the column filed right; A.P. Hill came riding back along the line of the Light Division.

Suddenly, from over the hills a mile and more away, comes the roar of cannon. We leave the road and march through fields and meadows; the passing of the troops ahead has cleared the way; we go through gaps in rail fences.

And now we hear the crash of small arms, and smoke is rising from our left oblique. We are yet under the hill. We halt and wait. The noise of battle grows. Sunset comes–we move. The next company on our right is passing through a gap in a fence. A shell strikes the topmost rail at the left and hurls it clear over their heads. Then I see men pale, and I know that my own face is white.

Shells fly over us. We lie down on the slope of a hill which rises to our left, and darkness grows, and the noises cease. No breaking of ranks for rest or for water; the long night through we lie on our arms.

Morning comes; we have no water; the men eat their rations dry. At sunrise the march is again begun, through fields and woods and down country roads; we go southeast.

The Yankees have gone. At nine o’clock we halt; a field. Company C, the right of the regiment; is thrown forward as skirmishers.

Again we march; again we halt, the brigade in line of battle. An orderly comes to Captain Haskell.

“_Company H!_ ATTENTION!”

Every man is in his place–alert.

“_Forward_–MARCH!”

“_By the right flank_–MARCH!”

“HALT!–FRONT!”

“_Company–as skirmishers–on the right file–take intervals–double-quick_–MARCH!”

I did not have very far to go. The company was deployed on the left of Company C. Then we went forward in line for half a mile or more, through woods and fields, the brigade following in line of battle.

About eleven o’clock we had before us an extensive piece of open land–uncultivated, level, and dry. In the edge of the woods we had halted, so that we might not get too far ahead of the brigade. From this position we saw–some six hundred yards at our left oblique–a group of horsemen ride out into the field, seemingly upon a road, or line, that would intersect our line of advance. Our men were at once in place. The distance was too great to tell the uniforms of the party of horsemen; but, of course, they could be only Yankees.

Captain Haskell ordered Dave Bellot to step out of the line. The horsemen had halted; they were a small party, not more than fifteen or twenty. Captain Haskell ordered Bellot to take good aim at the most eligible one of the group, and fire.

Bellot knelt on one knee, raised his sight, put his rifle to his shoulder, and lowered it again. “Captain,” said he, “I am afraid to fire; they may be our men.”

The Captain made no reply; he seemed to hesitate; then he put his handkerchief on the point of his sword and walked forward. A horseman advanced to meet him. Captain Haskell returned to Company H, and said, “They are General Jackson and his staff.”

Again we went forward. Prom the brow of a hill we could see tents–a camp, a Yankee camp–on the next hill, and we could see a few men running away from it. We reached the camp. It had been abandoned hurriedly. Our men did not keep their lines perfectly; they were curious to see what was in the tents. Suddenly the cracking of rifles was heard, and the singing of bullets, and the voice of Captain Haskell commanding, “_Lie down!_”

Each man found what shelter was nearest. I was behind a tent. The Yankee skirmishers were just beyond a little valley, behind trees on the opposite hill, about two hundred yards from us. I could see them looking out from behind the trees and firing. I took good aim at one and pulled the trigger; his bullet came back at me; I loaded and fired; I saw him no more, but I could see the smoke shoot out from the side of the tree and hear his bullet sing. I thought that I ought to have hit him; I saw him again, and fired, and missed. Then I carefully considered the distance, and concluded that it was greater than I had first thought. I raised the sliding sight to three hundred yards, and fired again at the man, whom I could now see distinctly. A man dropped or leaped from the tree, and I saw him no more; neither did I see again the man behind the tree.

We had had losses. Veitch and Crawford had been shot fatally; other men slightly. The sun was shining hot upon us. The brigade was behind us,