"You will remember," said the captain, after a moment's pause, that he might take up the thread of his narrative consecutively, "that I awoke a little before midnight. At first I was confused, but soon all that had happened came back to me. I found myself a part of a long line of sleeping men that formed the reserve. Not farther than from here across the street was another line in front of us. Beyond this were our vigilant pickets, and then the vedettes of the enemy. All seemed strangely still and peaceful, but a single shot would have brought thousands of men to their feet. The moon poured a soft radiance over all, and gave to the scene a weird and terrible beauty. The army was like a sleeping giant. Would its awakening be as terrible as on the last three mornings? Then I thought of that other army sleeping beyond our lines,—an army which neither bugle nor the thunder of all our guns could awaken.
"I soon distinguished faint, far-off sounds from the disputed territory beyond our pickets. Rising, I put my hand to my ear, and then heard the words, 'Water! water!'
"They were the cries of wounded men entreating for that which would quench their intolerable thirst. The thought that Strahan might be among this number stung me to the very quick, and I hastened to the senior captain, who now commanded the regiment. I found him alert and watchful, with the bugle at his side, for he felt the weight of responsibility so suddenly thrust upon him.
"'Captain Markham,' I said, 'do you hear those cries for water?'
"'Yes,' he replied, sadly; 'I have heard them for hours,
"'Among them may be Strahan's voice,' I said, eagerly.
"'Granting it, what could we do? Our pickets are way this side of the spot where he fell.'
"'Captain,' I cried, 'Strahan was like a brother to me. I can't rest here with the possibility that he is dying yonder for a little water. I am relieved from duty, you know. If one of my company will volunteer to go with me, will you give him your permission? I know where Strahan fell, and am willing to try to reach him and bring him in.'
"'No,' said the captain, 'I can't give such permission. You might be fired on and the whole line aroused. You can go to our old brigade-commander, however—he now commands the division,—and see what he says. He's back there under that tree. Of course, you know, I sympathize with your feeling, but I cannot advise the risk. Good heavens, Blauvelt! we've lost enough officers already.'
"'I'll be back soon,' I answered.
"To a wakeful aid I told my errand, and he aroused the general, who was silent after he had been made acquainted with my project.
"'I might bring in some useful information,' I added, hastily.
"The officer knew and liked Strahan, but said: 'I shall have to put my permission on the ground of a reconnoissance. I should be glad to know if any changes are taking place on our front, and so would my superiors. Of course you understand the risk you run when once beyond our pickets?'
"'Strahan would do as much and more for me,' I replied.
"'Very well;' and he gave me permission to take a volunteer, at the same time ordering me to report to him on my return.
"I went back to our regimental commander, who growled, 'Well, if you will go I suppose you will; but it would be a foolhardy thing for even an unwounded man to attempt.'
"I knew a strong, active young fellow in my company who would go anywhere with me, and, waking him up, explained my purpose. He was instantly on the qui vive. I procured him a revolver, and we started at once. On reaching our pickets we showed our authority to pass, and were informed that the enemy's vedettes ran along the ridge on which we had fought the day before. Telling our pickets to pass the word not to fire on us if we came in on the run, we stole down into the intervening valley.
"The moon was now momentarily obscured by clouds, and this favored us. My plan was to reach the woods on which the right of our regiment had rested. Here the shadows would be deep, and our chances better. Crouching and creeping silently from bush to bush, we made our gradual progress until we saw a sentinel slowly pacing back and forth along the edge of the woods. Most of his beat was in shadow, and there were bushes and rocks extending almost to it. We watched him attentively for a time, and then my companion whispered: 'The Johnny seems half dead with sleep. I believe I can steal up and capture him without a sound. I don't see how we can get by him as long as he is sufficiently wide awake to walk.'
"'Very well. You have two hands, and my left is almost useless,' I said. 'Make your attempt where the shadow is deepest, and if he sees you, and is about to shoot, see that you shoot first. I'll be with you instantly if you succeed, and cover your retreat in case of failure."
"In a moment, revolver in hand, he was gliding, like a shadow, from cover to cover, and it was his good fortune to steal up behind the sleepy sentinel, grasp his musket, and whisper, with his pistol against his head, 'Not a sound, or you are dead.'
"The man was discreet enough to be utterly silent. In a moment I was by Rush's side—that was the name of the brave fellow who accompanied me—and found that he had disarmed his prisoner. I told Rush to take the rebel's musket and walk up and down the beat, and especially to show himself in the moonlight. I made the Johnny give me his word not to escape, telling him that he would be shot instantly if he did. I gave him the impression that others were watching him. I then tied his hands behind him and fastened him to a tree in the shade. Feeling that I had not a moment to lose, I passed rapidly down through the woods bearing to the left. The place was only too familiar, and even in the moonlight I could recognize the still forms of some of my own company. I found two or three of our regiment still alive, and hushed them as I pressed water to their lips. I then asked if they knew anything about Strahan. They did not. Hastening on I reached the spot, by a large boulder, where I had seen Strahan fall. He was not there, or anywhere near it. I even turned up the faces of corpses in my wish to assure myself; for our dead officers had been partially stripped. I called his name softly, then more distinctly, and at last, forgetful in my distress, loudly. Then I heard hasty steps, and crouched down behind a bush, with my hand upon my revolver. But I had been seen.
"A man approached rapidly, and asked, in a gruff voice, 'What the devil are you doing here?'
"'Looking for a brother who fell hereabouts,' I replied, humbly.
"'You are a—Yankee,' was the harsh reply, 'and a prisoner; I know your Northern tongue."
"I fired instantly, and wounded him, but not severely, for he fired in return, and the bullet whizzed by my ear. My next shot brought him down, and then I started on a dead run for the woods, regained Rush, and, with our prisoner, we stole swiftly towards our lines. We were out of sure range before the startled pickets of the enemy realized what was the matter. A few harmless shots were sent after us, and then we gained our lines. I am satisfied that the man I shot was a rebel officer visiting the picket line. Our firing inside their lines could not be explained until the gap caused by the missing sentinel we had carried off was discovered.
"Then they knew that 'Yanks,' as they called us, had been within their lines. Rush, taking the sentinel's place while I was below the hill, had prevented an untimely discovery of our expedition. Perhaps it was well that I met the rebel officer, for he was making directly towards the spot where I had left my companion.
"The poor fellow we had captured was so used up that he could scarcely keep pace with us. He said he had not had any rest worth speaking of for forty-eight hours. I passed through our lines, now alert, and reported at Division Headquarters. The general laughed, congratulated us, and said he was glad we had not found Strahan among the dead or seriously wounded, for now there was a good chance of seeing him again.
"I turned over our prisoner to him, and soon all was quiet again. Captain Markham, of our regiment, greeted us warmly, but I was so exhausted that I contented him with a brief outline of what had occurred, and said I would tell him the rest in the morning. Satisfied now that Strahan was not crying for water, I was soon asleep again by the side of Rush, and did not waken till the sun was well above the horizon.
"I soon learned that the vedettes of the enemy had disappeared from before our lines, and that our skirmishers were advancing. After a hasty breakfast I followed them, and soon reached again the ground I had visited in the night. On the way I met two of our men to whom I had given water. The other man had meanwhile died. The survivors told me positively that they had not seen or heard of Strahan after he had fallen. They also said that they had received a little food and water from the rebels, or they could not have survived.
"The dead were still unburied, although parties were sent out within our picket line during the day to perform this sad duty, and I searched the ground thoroughly for a wide distance, acting on the possibility that Strahan might have crawled away somewhere.
"I shall not describe the appearance of the field, or speak of my feelings as I saw the bodies of the brave men and officers of our regiment who had so long been my companions.
"The rest of my story is soon told. From our surgeon I had positive assurance that Strahan had not been brought to our corps hospital. Therefore, I felt driven to one of two conclusions: either he was in a Confederate hospital on the field beyond our lines, or else he was a prisoner.
"As usual, the heavy concussion of the artillery produced a rain-storm, which set in on the afternoon of the 4th, and continued all night. As the enemy appeared to be intrenching in a strong position, there seemed no hope of doing any more that day, and I spent the night in a piece of woods with my men.
"On the dark, dreary morning of the 5th, it was soon discovered that the Confederate army had disappeared. As the early shades of the previous stormy evening had settled over the region, its movement towards Virginia had begun. I became satisfied before night that Strahan also was southward bound, for, procuring a horse, I rode all day, visiting the temporary Confederate hospitals. Since they had left their own severely wounded men, they certainly would not have taken Union soldiers unable to walk. Not content with my first search, I spent the next two days in like manner, visiting the houses in Gettysburg and vicinity, until satisfied that my effort was useless. Then, availing myself of a brief leave of absence, I came north."
Blauvelt then gave Merwyn some suggestions, adding: "If you find no trace of him on the field, I would advise, as your only chance, that you follow the track of Lee's army, especially the roads on which their prisoners were taken. Strahan might have given out by the way, and have been left at some farmhouse or in a village. It would be hopeless to go beyond the Potomac."
Rising, he concluded: "Mark my words, and see if I am not right. Strahan is a prisoner, and will be exchanged." Then with a laugh and a military salute to Marian, he said, "I have finished my report."
"It is accepted with strong commendation and congratulations," she replied. "I shall recommend you for promotion."
"Good-by, Miss Vosburgh," said Merwyn, gravely. "I shall start in the morning, and I agree with Captain Blauvelt that my best chance lies along the line of Lee's retreat."
Again she gave him her hand kindly in farewell; but her thought was: "How deathly pale he is! This has been a night of horrors to him,—to me also; yet if I were a man I know I could meet what other men face."
"She was kind," Merwyn said to himself, as he walked through the deserted streets; "but I fear it was only the kindness of pitiful toleration. It is plainer than ever that she adores heroic action, that her ardor in behalf of the North is scarcely less than that of my mother for the South, and yet she thinks I am not brave enough to face a musket What a figure I make beside the men of whom we have heard to-night! Well, to get away, to be constantly employed, is my only hope. I believe I should become insane if I brooded much longer at home."
In spite of his late hours, he ordered an early breakfast, proposing to start without further delay.
The next morning, as he sat down to the table, the doorbell rang, there was a hasty step down the hall, and Strahan, pale and gaunt, with his arm in a sling, burst in upon him, and exclaimed, with his old sang froid and humor: "Just in time. Yes, thanks; I'll stay and take a cup of coffee with you."
Merwyn greeted him with mingled wonder and gladness, yet even at that moment the thought occurred to him: "Thwarted on every side! I can do absolutely nothing."
After Strahan was seated Merwyn said: "Half an hour later I should have been off to Gettysburg in search of you. Blauvelt is here, and says he saw you fall, and since a blank, so far as you are concerned."
"Thank God! He escaped then?"
"Yes; but is wounded slightly. What is the matter with your arm?"
"Only a bullet-hole through it. That's nothing for Gettysburg.I was captured, and escaped on the first night's march. Dark andstormy, you know. But it's a long story, and I'm hungry as a wolf.Where's Blauvelt?"
"He's a guest at Mr. Vosburgh's."
"Lucky fellow!" exclaimed Strahan; and for some reason the edge of his appetite was gone.
"Yes, he IS a lucky fellow, indeed; and so are you," said Merwyn, bitterly. "I was there last evening till after midnight;" and he explained what had occurred, adding, "Blauvelt trumpeted your praise, and on the night of the 3d he went inside the enemy's picket line in search of you, at the risk of his life.'
"Heaven bless the fellow! Wait till I spin my yarn. I shall give him credit for the whole victory."
"Write a note to Miss Vosburgh, and I'll send it right down."
"Confound it, Merwyn! don't you see I'm winged? You will even have to cut my food for me as if I were a baby."
"Very well, you dictate and I'll write. By the way, I have a note for you in my pocket."
Strahan seized upon it and forgot his breakfast. Tears suffused his blue eyes before he finished it, and at last he said, "Well, if you HAD found me in some hospital this would have cured me, or else made death easy."
Merwyn's heart grew heavy, in spite of the fact that he had told himself so often that there was no hope for him, and he thought, "In the terrible uncertainty of Strahan's fate she found that he was more to her than she had supposed, and probably revealed as much in her note, which she feared might reach him only when death was sure."
The glad intelligence was despatched, and then Merwyn said: "After you have breakfasted I will send you down in my coupe."
"You will go with me?"
"No. There is no reason why I should be present when Miss Vosburgh greets her friends. I remained last night by request, that I might be better informed in prosecuting my search."
Strahan changed the subject, but thought: "She's loyal to her friends. Merwyn, with all his money, has made no progress. Her choice will eventually fall on Lane, Blauvelt, or poor little me. Thank Heaven I gave the Johnnies the slip! The other fellows shall have a fair field, but I want one, too."
Before they had finished their breakfast Blauvelt came tearing in, and there was a fire of questions between the brother-officers.
Tears and laughter mingled with their words; but at last they became grave and quiet as they realized how many brave comrades would march with them no more.
In a few moments Blauvelt said, "Come; Miss Marian said she would not take a mouthful of breakfast till you returned with me."
Merwyn saw them drive away, and said, bitterly, "Thanks to my mother, I shall never have any part in such greetings."
AFTER Blauvelt had left Mr. Vosburgh's breakfast-table in obedience to his own and Marian's wish to see Strahan at once, the young girl laughed outright—she would laugh easily to-day—and exclaimed:—
"Poor Mr. Merwyn! He is indeed doomed to inglorious inaction. Before he could even start on his search, Strahan found him. His part in this iron age will consist only in furnishing the sinews of war and dispensing canned delicacies in the hospitals. I do feel sorry for him, for last night he seemed to realize the fact himself. He looked like a ghost, back in the shadow that he sought when Captain Blauvelt's story grew tragic. I believe he suffered more in hearing about the shells than Mr. Blauvelt did in hearing and seeing them."
"It's a curious case," said her father, musingly. "He was and has been suffering deeply from some cause. I have not fully accepted your theory yet."
"Since even your sagacity can construct no other, I am satisfied that I am right. But I have done scoffing at Mr. Merwyn, and should feel as guilty in doing so as if I had shown contempt for physical deformity. I have become so convinced that he suffers terribly from consciousness of his weakness, that I now pity him from the depths of my heart. Just think of a young fellow of his intelligence listening to such a story as we heard last night and of the inevitable contrasts that he must have drawn!"
"Fancy also," said her father, smiling, "a forlorn lover seeing your cheeks aflame and your eyes suffused with tears of sympathy for young heroes, one of whom was reciting his epic. Strahan is soon to repeat his; then Lane will appear and surpass them all."
"Well," cried Marian, laughing, "you'll admit they form a trio to be proud of."
"Oh, yes, and will have to admit more, I suppose, before long.Girls never fall in love with trios."
"Nonsense, papa, they are all just like brothers to me." Then there was a rush of tears to her eyes, and she said, brokenly, "The war is not over yet, and perhaps not one of them will survive."
"Come, my dear," her father reassured her, gently, "you must imitate your soldier friends, and take each day as it comes. Remembering what they have already passed through, I predict that they all survive. The bravest men are the most apt to escape."
Marian's greeting of Strahan was so full of feeling, and so many tears suffused her dark blue eyes, that they inspired false hopes in his breast and unwarranted fears in that of Blauvelt. The heroic action and tragic experience of the young and boyish Strahan had touched the tenderest chords in her heart. Indeed, as she stood, holding his left hand in both her own, they might easily have been taken for brother and sister. His eyes were almost as blue as hers, and his brow, where it had not been exposed to the weather, as fair. She knew of his victory over himself. Almost at the same time with herself, he had cast behind him a weak, selfish, frivolous life, assuming a manhood which she understood better than others. Therefore, she had for him a tenderness, a gentleness of regard, which her other friends of sterner natures could not inspire. Indeed, so sisterly was her feeling that she could have put her arms about his neck and welcomed him with kisses, without one quickening throb of the pulse. But he did not know this then, and his heart bounded with baseless hopes.
Poor Blauvelt had never cherished many, and the old career with which he had tried to be content defined itself anew. He would fight out the war, and then give himself up to his art.
He could be induced to stay only long enough to finish his breakfast, and then said: "Strahan can tell me the rest of his story over the camp-fire before long. My mother has now the first claim, and I must take a morning train in order to reach home to-night."
"I also must go," exclaimed Mr. Vosburgh, looking at his watch, "and shall have to hear your story at second hand from Marian. Rest assured," he added, laughing, "it will lose nothing as she tells it this evening."
"And I order you, Captain Blauvelt, to make this house your headquarters when you are in town," said Marian, giving his hand a warm pressure in parting. Strahan accompanied his friend to the depot, then sought his family physician and had his wound dressed.
"I advise that you reach your country home soon," said the doctor; "your pulse is feverish."
The young officer laughed and thought he knew the reason better than his medical adviser, and was soon at the side of her whom he believed to be the exciting cause of his febrile symptoms.
"Oh," he exclaimed, throwing himself on a lounge, "isn't this infinitely better than a stifling Southern prison?" and he looked around the cool, shadowy drawing-room, and then at the smiling face of his fair hostess, as if there were nothing left to be desired.
"You have honestly earned this respite and home visit," she said, taking a low chair beside him, "and now I'm just as eager to hear your story as I was to listen to that of Captain Blauvelt, last night."
"No more eager?" he asked, looking wistfully into her face.
"That would not be fair," she replied, gently. "How can I distinguish between my friends, when each one surpasses even my ideal of manly action?"
"You will some day," he said, thoughtfully. "You cannot help doing so. It is the law of nature. I know I can never be the equal of Lane and Blauvelt."
"Arthur," she said, gravely, taking his hand, "let me be frank with you. It will be best for us both. I love you too dearly, I admire and respect you too greatly, to be untrue to your best interests even for a moment. What's more, I am absolutely sure that you only wish what is right and best for me. Look into my eyes. Do you not see that if your name was Arthur Vosburgh, I could scarcely feel differently? I do love you more than either Mr. Lane or Mr. Blauvelt. They are my friends in the truest and strongest sense of the word, but—let me tell you the truth—you have come to seem like a younger brother. We must be about the same age, but a woman is always older in her feelings than a man, I think. I don't say this to claim any superiority, but to explain why I feel as I do. Since I came to know—to understand you—indeed, I may say, since we both changed from what we were, my thoughts have followed you in a way that they would a brother but a year or two younger than myself,—that is, so far as I can judge, having had no brother. Don't you understand me?"
"Yes," he replied, laughing a little ruefully, "up to date."
"Very well," she added, with an answering laugh, "let it be then to date. I shall not tell you that I feel like a sister without being as frank as one. I have never loved any one in the way—Oh, well, you know. I don't believe these stern times are conducive to sentiment. Come, tell me your story."
"But you'll give me an equal chance with the others," he pleaded.
She now laughed outright. "How do I know what I shall do?" she asked. "I may come to you some day for sympathy and help. According to the novels, people are stricken down as if by one of your hateful shells and all broken up. I don't know, but I'm inclined to believe that while a girl can withhold her love from an unworthy object, she cannot deliberately give it here or there as she chooses. Now am I not talking to you like a sister?"
"Yes, too much so—"
"Oh, come, I have favored you more highly than any one."
"Do not misunderstand me," he said, earnestly, "I'm more grateful than I can tell you, but—"
"But tell me your story. There is one thing I can give you at once,—the closest attention."
"Very well. I only wish you were like one of the enemy's batteries, so I could take you by storm. I'd face all the guns that were at Gettysburg for the chance."
"Arthur, dear Arthur, I do know what you have faced from a simple sense of duty and patriotism. Blauvelt was a loyal, generous friend, and he has told us."
"You are wrong. 'The girl I left behind me' was the corps-de-reserve from which I drew my strength. I believe the same was true of Blauvelt, and a better, braver fellow never drew breath. He would make a better officer than I, for he is cooler and has more brains."
"Now see here, Major Strahan," cried Marian, in mock dignity, "as your superior officer, I am capable of judging of the merits of you both, and neither of you can change my estimate. You are insubordinate, and I shall put you under arrest if you don't tell me how you escaped at once. You have kept a woman's curiosity in check almost as long as your brave regiment held the enemy, and that's your greatest achievement thus far. Proceed. Captain Blauvelt has enabled me to keep an eye on you till you fell and the enemy charged over you. Now you know just where to begin."
"My prosaic story is soon told. Swords and pike-staffs! what a little martinet you are! Well, the enemy was almost on me. I could see their flushed, savage faces. Even in that moment I thought of you and whispered, 'Good-by,' and a prayer to God for your happiness flashed through my mind."
"Arthur, don't talk that way. I can't stand it;" and there was a rush of tears to her eyes.
"I'm beginning just where you told me to. The next second there was a sting in my right arm, then something knocked me over and I lost consciousness for a few moments. I am satisfied, also, that I was grazed by a bullet that tore my scabbard from my side. When I came to my senses, I crawled behind a rock so as not to be shot by our own men, and threw away my sword. I didn't want to surrender it, you know. Soon after a rebel jerked me to my feet.
"'Can you stand?' he asked.
"'I will try,' I answered.
"'Join that squad of prisoners, then, and travel right smart.'
"I staggered away, too dazed for many clear ideas, and with others was hurried about half a mile away to a place filled with the rebel wounded. Here a Union soldier, who happened to have some bandages with him, dressed my arm. The Confederate surgeons had more than they could do to look after their own men. Just before dark all the prisoners who were able to walk were led into a large field, and a strong guard was placed around us.
"Although my wound was painful, I obtained some sleep, and awoke the next morning with the glad consciousness that life with its chances was still mine. We had little enough to eat that day, and insufficient water to drink. This foretaste of the rebel commissariat was enough for me, and I resolved to escape if it were a possible thing."
"You wanted to see me a little, too, didn't you? Nevertheless, you shall have a good lunch before long."
"Such is my fate. First rebel iron and now irony. I began to play the role of feebleness and exhaustion, and it did not require much effort. Of course we were all on the qui vive to see what would happen next, and took an intense interest in the fight of the 3d, which Blauvelt has described. The scene of the battle was hidden from us, but we gathered, from the expression of our guards' faces and the confusion around us, that all had not gone to the enemy's mind, and so were hopeful. In the evening we were marched to the outskirts of Gettysburg and kept there till the afternoon of the 4th, when we started towards Virginia. I hung back and dragged myself along, and so was fortunately placed near the rear of the column, and we plodded away. I thanked Heaven that the night promised to be dark and stormy, and was as vigilant as an Indian, looking for my chance. It seemed long in coming, for at first the guards were very watchful. At one point I purposely stumbled and fell, hoping to crawl into the bushes, but a rebel was right on me and helped me up with his bayonet."
"O Arthur!"
"Yes, the risks were great, for we had been told that the first man who attempted to leave the line would be shot. I lagged behind as if I could not keep up, and so my vigilant guard got ahead of me, and I proposed to try it on with the next fellow. I did not dare look around, for my only chance was to give the impression that I fell from utter exhaustion. We were winding around a mountain-side and I saw some dark bushes just beyond me. I staggered towards them and fell just beside them, and lay as if I were dead.
"A minute passed, then another, and then there was no other sound than the tramp and splash in the muddy road. I edged still farther and farther from this, my head down the steep bank, and soon found myself completely hidden. The comrade next to me either would not tell if he understood my ruse, or else was so weary that he had not noticed me. If the guard saw me, he concluded that I was done for and not worth further bother.
"After the column had passed, I listened to hear if others were coming, then stumbled down the mountain, knowing that my best chance was to strike some stream and follow the current. It would take me into a valley where I would be apt to find houses. At last I became so weary that I lay down in a dense thicket and slept till morning. I awoke as hungry as a famished wolf, and saw nothing but a dense forest on every side. But the brook murmured that it would guide me, and I now made much better progress in the daylight. At last I reached a little clearing and a wood-chopper's cottage. The man was away, but his wife received me kindly and said I was welcome to such poor fare and shelter as they had. She gave me a glass of milk and some fried bacon and corn-bread, and I then learned all about the nectar and ambrosia of the gods. In the evening her husband came home and said that Lee had been whipped by the Yanks, and that he was retreating rapidly, whereon I drank to the health of my host nearly all the milk given that night by his lean little cow. He was a good-natured, loutish sort of fellow, and promised to guide me in a day or two to the west of the line of retreat. He seemed very tearful of falling in with the rebels, and I certainly had seen all I wished of them for the present, so I was as patient as he desired. At last he kept his word and guided me to a village about six miles away. I learned that Confederate cavalry had been there within twenty-four hours, and, tired as I was, I hired a conveyance and was driven to another village farther to the northwest, for I now had a morbid horror of being recaptured. After a night's rest in a small hamlet, I was taken in a light wagon to the nearest railway station, and came on directly, arriving here about six this morning. Finding our house closed, I made a descent on Merwyn. I telegraphed mother last evening that I should be home this afternoon."
"You should have telegraphed me, also," said Marian, reproachfully. "You would have saved me some very sad hours. I did not sleep much last night."
"Forgive me. I thoughtlessly wished to give you a surprise, and I could scarcely believe you cared so much."
"You will always believe it now, Arthur. Merciful Heaven! what risks you have had!"
"You have repaid me a thousand-fold. Friend, sister, or wife, you will always be to me my good genius."
"I wish the war was over," she said, sadly. "I have not heard from Captain Lane for weeks, and after the battle the first tidings from Blauvelt was that he was wounded and that you were wounded and missing. I can't tell you how oppressed I was with fear and foreboding."
"How about Lane?" Strahan asked, with interest.
She told him briefly the story she had heard and of the silence which had followed.
"He leads us all," was his response. "If he survives the war, he will win you, Marian."
"You suggest a terrible 'if' and there may be many others. I admit that he has kindled my imagination more than any man I ever saw, but you, Arthur, have touched my heart. I could not speak to him, had he returned, as I am now speaking to you. I have the odd feeling that you and I are too near of kin to be anything to each other except just what we are. You are so frank and true to me, that I can't endure the thought of misleading you, even unintentionally."
"Very well, I'll grow up some day, and as long as you remain free,I'll not give up hope."
"Foolish boy! Grow up, indeed! Who mounted his horse in that storm of shells and bullets in spite of friendly remonstrances, and said, 'The men must see us to-day'? What more could any man do? I'm just as proud of you as if my own brother had spoken the words;" and she took his hand caressingly, then exclaimed, "You are feverish."
A second later her hand was on his brow, and she sprung up and said, earnestly, "You should have attention at once."
"I fancy the doctor was right after all," said Strahan, rising also. "I'll take the one o'clock train and be at home in a couple of hours."
"I wish you would stay. You can't imagine what a devoted nurse I'll be."
"Please don't tempt me. It wouldn't be best. Mamma is counting the minutes before my return now, and it will please her if I come on an earlier train. Mountain air and rest will soon bring me around, and I can run down often. I think the fever proceeds simply from my wound, which hasn't had the best care. I don't feel seriously ill at all."
She ordered iced lemonade at once, lunch was hastened, and then she permitted him to depart, with the promise that he would write a line that very night.
THE next day Marian received a note from Strahan saying that some bad symptoms had developed in connection with his wound, but that his physician had assured him that if he would keep absolutely quiet in body and mind for a week or two they would pass away, concluding with the words: "I have promised mother to obey orders, and she has said that she would write you from time to time about me. I do not think I shall be very ill."
"O dear!" exclaimed Marian to her father at dinner, "what times these are! You barely escape one cause of deep anxiety before there is another. Now what is troubling you, that your brow also is clouded?"
"Is it not enough that your troubles trouble me?"
"There's something else, papa."
"Well, nothing definite. The draft, you know, begins on Saturday of this week. I shall not have any rest of mind till this ordeal is over. Outwardly all is comparatively quiet. So is a powder magazine till a spark ignites it. This unpopular measure of the draft is to be enforced while all our militia regiments are away. I know enough about what is said and thought by thousands to fear the consequences. I wish you would spend a couple of weeks with your mother in that quiet New-England village."
"No, papa, not till you tell me that all danger is past. How much I should have missed during the past few days if I had been away! But for my feeling that my first duty is to you, I should have entreated for your permission to become a hospital nurse. Papa, women should make sacrifices and take risks in these times as well as men."
"Well, a few more days will tell the story. If the draft passes off quietly and our regiments return, I shall breathe freely once more."
A letter was brought in, and she exclaimed, "Captain Lane's handwriting!" She tore open the envelope and learned little more at that time than that he had escaped, reached our lines, and gone to Washington, where he was under the care of a skilful surgeon. "In escaping, my wound broke out again, but I shall soon be able to travel, and therefore to see you."
In order to account for Lane's absence and silence we must take up the thread of his story where Zeb had dropped it. The cavalry force of which Captain Lane formed a part retired, taking with it the prisoners and such of the wounded as could bear transportation; also the captured thief. Lane was prevented by his wound from carrying out his threat, which his position as chief officer of an independent command would have entitled him to do. The tides of war swept away to the north, and he was left with the more seriously wounded of both parties in charge of the assistant surgeon of his regiment. As the shades of evening fell, the place that had resounded with war's loud alarms, and had been the scene of so much bustle and confusion, resumed much of its old aspect of quiet and seclusion. The marks of conflict, the evidence of changes, and the new conditions under which the family would be obliged to live, were only too apparent. The grass on the lawn was trampled down, and there were new-made graves in the edge of the grove. Fences were prostrate, and partly burned. Horses and live stock had disappeared. The negro quarters were nearly empty, the majority of the slaves having followed the Union column. Confederate officers, who were welcome, honored guests but a few hours before, were on their way to Washington as prisoners. Desperately wounded and dying men were in the out-buildings, and a Union officer, the one who had led the attacking party and precipitated these events, had begun his long fight for life in the mansion itself,—a strange and unexpected guest.
Mrs. Barkdale, the mistress of the house, could scarcely rally from her nervous shock or maintain her courage, in view of the havoc made by the iron heel of war. Miss Roberta's heart was full of bitterness and impotent revolt. She had the courage and spirit of her race, but she could not endure defeat, and she chafed in seclusion and anger while her mother moaned and wept. Miss Suwanee now became the leading spirit.
"We can't help what's happened, and I don't propose to sit down and wring my hands or pace my room in useless anger. We were all for war, and now we know what war means. If I were a man I'd fight; being only a woman, I shall do what I can to retrieve our losses and make the most of what's left. After all, we have not suffered half so much as hundreds of other families. General Lee will soon give the Northerners some of their own medicine, and before the summer is over will conquer a peace, and then we shall be proud of our share in the sacrifices which so many of our people have made."
"I wouldn't mind any sacrifice,—no, not of our home itself,—if we had won the victory," Roberta replied. "But to have been made the instrument of our friends' defeat! It's too cruel. And then to think that the man who wrought all this destruction, loss, and disgrace is under this very roof, and must stay for weeks, perhaps!"
"Roberta, you are unjust," cried Suwanee. "Captain Lane proved himself to be a gallant, considerate enemy, and you know it. What would you have him do? Play into our hands and compass his own defeat? He only did what our officers would have done. The fact that a Northern officer could be so brave and considerate was a revelation to me. We and all our property were in his power, and his course was full of courtesy toward all except the armed foes who were seeking to destroy him. The moment that even these became unarmed prisoners he treated them with great leniency. Because we had agreed to regard Northerners as cowards and boors evidently doesn't make them so."
"You seem wonderfully taken with this Captain Lane."
"No," cried the girl, with one of her irresistible laughs; "but our officer friends would have been taken with him if he had not been wounded. I'm a genuine Southern girl, so much so that I appreciate a brave foe and true gentleman. He protected us and our home as far as he could, and he shall have the best hospitality which this home can now afford. Am I not right, mamma?"
"Yes, my dear, even our self-respect would not permit us to adopt any other course."
"You will feel as I do, Roberta, after your natural grief and anger pass;" and she left the room to see that their wounded guest had as good a supper as she could produce from diminished resources.
The surgeon, whom she met in the hall, told her that his patient was feverish and a "little flighty" at times, but that he had expected this, adding: "The comfort of his room and good food will bring him around in time. He will owe his life chiefly to your hospitality, Miss Barkdale, for a little thing would have turned the scale against him. Chicken broth is all that I wish him to have to-night, thanks."
And so the process of care and nursing began. The Union colonel had left a good supply of coffee, sugar, and coarse rations for the wounded men, and Suwanee did her best to supplement these, accomplishing even more by her kindness, cheerfulness, and winsome ways than by any other means. She became, in many respects, a hospital nurse, and visited the wounded men, carrying delicacies to all alike. She wrote letters for the Confederates and read the Bible to those willing to listen. Soon all were willing, and blessed her sweet, sunny face. The wounds of some were incurable, and, although her lovely face grew pale indeed in the presence of death, she soothed their last moments with the gentlest ministrations. There was not a man of the survivors, Union or rebel, but would have shed his last drop of blood for her. Roberta shared in these tasks, but it was not in her nature to be so impartial. Even among her own people she was less popular. Among the soldiers, on both sides, who did the actual fighting, there was not half the bitterness that existed generally among non-combatants and those Southern men who never met the enemy in fair battle; and now there was a good-natured truce between the brave Confederates and those who had perhaps wounded them, while all fought a battle with the common foe,—death. Therefore the haggard faces of all lighted up with unfeigned pleasure when "Missy S'wanee," as they had learned from the negroes to call her, appeared among them.
But few slaves were left on the place, and these were old and feeble ones who had not ventured upon the unknown waters of freedom. The old cook remained at her post, and an old man and woman divided their time between the house and the garden, Suwanee's light feet and quick hands relieving them of the easier labors of the mansion.
Surgeon McAllister was loud in his praises of her general goodness and her courtesy at the table, to which he was admitted; and Lane, already predisposed toward a favorable opinion, entertained for her the deepest respect and gratitude, inspired more by her kindness to his men than by favors to himself. Yet these were not few, for she often prepared delicacies with her own hands and brought them to his door, while nearly every morning she arranged flowers and sent them to his table.
Thus a week passed away. The little gathering of prostrate men, left in war's trail, was apparently forgotten except as people from the surrounding region came to gratify their curiosity.
Lane's feverish symptoms had passed away, but he was exceedingly weak, and the wound in his shoulder was of a nature to require almost absolute quiet. One evening, after the surgeon had told him of Suwanee's ministrations beside a dying Union soldier, he said, "I must see her and tell her of my gratitude."
On receiving his message she hesitated a single instant, then came to his bedside. The rays of the setting sun illumined her reddish-brown hair as she stood before him, and enhanced her beauty in her simple muslin dress. Her expression towards him, her enemy, was gentle and sympathetic.
He looked at her a moment in silence, almost as if she were a vision, then began, slowly and gravely: "Miss Barkdale, what can I say to you? I'm not strong enough to say very much, yet I could not rest till you knew. The surgeon here has told me all,—no, not all. Deeds like yours can be told adequately only in heaven. You are fanning the spark of life in my own breast. I doubt whether I should have lived but for your kindness. Still more to me has been your kindness to my men, the poor fellows that are too often neglected, even by their friends. You have been like a good angel to them. These flowers, fragrant and beautiful, interpret you to me. You can't know what reverence—"
"Please stop, Captain Lane," said Suwanee, beginning to laugh, while tears stood in her eyes. "Why, I'm only acting as any good-hearted Southern girl would act. I shall not permit you to think me a saint when I am not one. I've a little temper of my own, which isn't always sweet. I like attention and don't mind how many bestow it—in brief, I am just like other girls, only more so, and if I became what you say I shouldn't know myself. Now you must not talk any more. You are still a little out of your head. You can only answer one question. Is there anything you would like,—anything we can do for you to help you get well?"
"No; I should be overwhelmed with gratitude if you did anything more. I am grieved enough now when I think of all the trouble and loss we have caused you."
"Oh, that's the fortune of war," she said, with a light, deprecatory gesture. "You couldn't help it any more than we could."
"You are a generous enemy, Miss Barkdale."
"I'm no wounded man's enemy, at least not till he is almost well. Were I one of my brothers, however, and you were on your horse again with your old vigor—" and she gave him a little, significant nod.
He now laughed responsively, and said, "I like that." Then he added, gravely: "Heaven grant I may never meet one of your brothers in battle. I could not knowingly harm him."
"Thank you for saying that," she said, gently. "Now, tell me truly, isn't there anything you wish?"
"Yes, I wish to get better, so that I may have a little of your society. These days of inaction are so interminably long, and you know I've been leading a very active life."
"I fear you wouldn't enjoy the society of such a hot little rebel as I am."
"We should differ, of course, on some things, but that would only give zest to your words. I'm not so stupid and prejudiced, Miss Barkdale, as to fail to see that you are just as sincere and patriotic as I am. I have envied the enlisted men when I have heard of your attentions to them."
"Now," she resumed, laughing, "I've found out that the 'good angel' is not treating you as well as the common soldiers. Men always let out the truth sooner or later. If Surgeon McAllister will permit, I'll read and talk to you also."
"I not only give my permission," said the surgeon, "but also assure you that such kindness will hasten the captain's recovery, for time hangs so heavily on his hands that he chafes and worries."
"Very well," with a sprightly nod at the surgeon, "since we've undertaken to cure the captain, the most sensible thing for us to do IS to cure him. You shall prescribe when and how the doses of society are to be administered." Then to Lane, "Not another word; good-night;" and in a moment she was gone.
Suwanee never forgot that interview, for it was the beginning of a new and strange experience to her. From the first, her high, chivalric spirit had been compelled to admire her enemy. The unknown manner in which he had foiled her sister's strategy showed that his mind was equal to his courage, while his hot indignation, when he found them threatened by a midnight marauder, had revealed his nature. Circumstances had swiftly disarmed her prejudices, and her warm heart had been full of sympathy for him as he lay close to the borders of death. All these things tended to throw down the barriers which would naturally interpose between herself and a Northern man. When, therefore, out of a full heart, he revealed his gratitude and homage, she had no shield against the force of his words and manner, and was deeply touched. She had often received gallantry, admiration, and even words of love, but never before had a man looked and acted as if he reverenced her and the womanhood she represented. It was not a compliment that had been bestowed, but a recognition of what she herself had not suspected. By her family or acquaintances she had never been thought or spoken of as an especially good girl. Hoydenish in early girlhood, leading the young Southern gallants a chase in later years, ever full of frolic and mischief, as fond of the dance as a bird of flying, she was liked by every one, but the graver members of the community were accustomed to shake their heads and remark, "She is a case; perhaps she'll sober down some day." She had hailed the war with enthusiasm, knowing little of its meaning, and sharing abundantly in rural Virginia's contempt for the North. She had proved even a better recruiting officer than her stately sister, and no young fellow dared to approach her until he had donned the gray. When the war came she met it with her own laughing philosophy and unconquerable buoyancy, going wild over Southern victories and shrugging her plump shoulders over defeats, crying: "Better luck next time. The Yankees probably had a hundred to one. It won't take long for Southerners to teach Northern abolitionists the difference between us." But now she had seen Northern soldiers in conflict, had witnessed the utmost degree of bravery on her side, but had seen it confronted by equal courage, inspired by a leader who appeared irresistible.
This Northern officer, whose eyes had flashed like his sabre in battle, whose wit had penetrated and used for his own purpose the scheme of the enemy, and whose chivalric treatment of women plotting against him had been knightly,—this man who had won her respect by storm, as it were, had followed her simple, natural course during the past week, and had metaphorically bowed his knee to her in homage. What did it mean? What had she done? Only made the best of things, and shown a little humanity toward some poor fellows whose sufferings ought to soften hearts of flint.
Thus the girl reasoned and wondered. She did not belong to that class who keep an inventory of all their good traits and rate them high. Moulded in character by surrounding influences and circumstances, her natural, unperverted womanhood and her simple faith in God found unconscious expression in the sweet and gracious acts which Lane had recognized at their true worth. The most exquisite music is but a little sound; the loveliest and most fragrant flower is but organized matter. True, she had been engaged in homely acts,—blessing her enemies as the Bible commanded and her woman's heart dictated,—but how were those acts performed? In her unaffected manner and spirit consisted the charm which won the rough men's adoration and Lane's homage. That which is simple, sincere, spontaneous, ever attains results beyond all art and calculation.
"Missy S'wanee" couldn't understand it. She had always thought of herself as "that child,", that hoyden, that frivolous girl who couldn't help giggling even at a funeral, and now here comes a Northern man, defeats and captures her most ardent admirer, and bows down to her as if she were a saint!
"I wish I were what he thinks me to be," she laughed to herself. "What kind of girls have they in the North, anyway, that he goes on so? I declare, I've half a mind to try to be good, just for the novelty of the thing. But what's the use? It wouldn't last with me till the dew was off the grass in the morning.
"Heigho! I suppose Major Denham is thinking of me and pining in prison, and I haven't thought so very much about him. That shows what kind of an 'angel' I am. Now if there were only a chance of getting him out by tricking his jailers and pulling the wool over the eyes of some pompous old official, I'd take as great a risk as any Southern—'Reverence,' indeed! Captain Lane must be cured of his reverence, whatever becomes of his wound."