III

"And, spite of spite, needs must I rest awhile."--SHAKESPEARE.

I am running for life--a mass of fugitives around me--disorderly mob ... I look behind--nothing but smoke ... I begin to walk.

The army was lost; it was no longer an army. As soon as the men had run beyond gunshot they began to march, very deliberately, each one for himself, away from the field. Companies, regiments, and brigades were intermingled. If the rebels had been in condition to pursue us, many thousands of our men would have fallen into their hands.

In vain I tried to find some group of Company D. Suddenly I felt exhausted--sick from hunger and fatigue--and was compelled to stop and rest. The line of the enemy did not seem to advance, and firing in our rear had ceased.

A man of our company passed me--Edmonds. I called to him, "Where is the company?"

"All gone," said he; "and you'd better get out of that, too, as quick as you can."

"Tell me who is hurt," said I.

But he was gone, and I felt that it would not do for me to remain where I was. I remembered Dr. Khayme's encouraging words as to my will, and by great effort resolved to rise and run.

At length, as I was going down the slope toward the creek, I heard my name called. I looked round, and saw a man waving his hand, and heard him call me again. I went toward him. It was Willis; he was limping; his hat was gone; everything was gone; in fact, he was hardly able to march.

"Where are you hit?" I asked.

"The knee," he replied.

"Bad?"

"I don't think it is serious; it seems to me that it don't pain me as it did awhile ago."

"Can you hold out till we find an ambulance?" I asked.

"Well, that depends; I guess all the ambulances are needed for men worse off than I am."

Just then an officer rode along, endeavouring to effect some order, but the men gave no attention to him at all. They had taken it into their heads to go. By this time the routed troops before us were packed between the high banks of the roadway which went down toward the creek. I was desperately hungry, having eaten nothing since five o'clock in the morning.

"Let's stay here and eat something," said I to Willis, "and let the crowd scatter before we go on."

"No, not yet," said he; "we need water first. I couldn't swallow a mouthful without water. Whiskey wouldn't hurt either. Got any water in your canteen?"

"Not a drop," said I.

Although Willis was limping badly, the slow progress of the troops at this point allowed him to keep up. At the bottom of the hill, where the road strikes the low ground, the troops had greater space; some of them followed their leaders straight ahead on the road; others went to the right and left, seeking to avoid the crowd.

"Let's go up the creek," said Willis.

"What for?"

"To get water; I'm dying of thirst."

"Do you think you can stand it awhile longer?"

"Yes; at any rate, I'll keep a-goin' as long as God lets me, and I can stand it better if I can get water and something to eat."

"Well, then, come on, and I'll help you as long as I can."

He leaned on me, hobbling along as best he could, and bravely too, although, at every step he groaned with pain.

I had become somewhat attached to Willis. He was egotistic--just a little--but harmlessly so, and his senses were sound and his will was good; I had, too, abundant evidence of his liking for me. He was a strapping fellow, more than six feet tall and as strong as a bullock. So, while I fully understood the danger in tying myself to a wounded comrade, I could not find it in my heart to desert him, especially since he showed such determination to save himself. Besides, I knew that he was quick-witted and country-bred; and I had great hope that he would prove more of a help than a hindrance.

We followed a few stragglers who had passed us and were now running up the creek seeking a crossing. The stream was shallow, but the banks were high, and in most places steep. Men were crossing at almost all points. Slowly following the hurrying groups of twos and threes who had outstripped us, we found at length, a place that seemed fordable for Willis. It was where a small branch emptied into the creek; and by getting into the branch, above its mouth, and following its course, we should be able to cross the creek.

"Lord! I am thirsty," said Willis; "but look how they have muddied the branch; it's as bad as the creek."

"That water wouldn't do us any good," I replied.

"No," said he; "it would make us sick."

"But what else can we do?"

"Let's go up the branch, a little," said he.

All sounds in our rear had long since died away. The sun was yet shining, but in the thick forest it was cool and almost dark. I hoped that water, food, and a little rest would do us more good than harm--that time would be saved, in effect.

A hundred yards above the mouth of the branch, we found the water clear. I still had my canteen, my haversack with a cup in it, and food. Willis lay on the ground near the stream, while I filled my canteen; I handed it to him, and then knelt in the wet sand and drank.

The spot might have been well chosen for secrecy; indeed, we might have remained there for days were it not for fear. A giant poplar had been uprooted by some storm and had crushed in its fall an opening in, the undergrowth. The trunk spanned the little brook, and the boughs, intermingling with the copse, made a complete hiding-place.

I helped Willis to cross the branch; then we lay with the log at our backs and completely screened from view.

Willis drank another great draught of water. I filled the canteen again, and examined his wound. His knee was stiff and much swollen; just under the knee-cap was a mass of clotted blood; this I washed away, using all the gentle care at my command, but giving him, nevertheless, great pain. A small round hole was now sean, and by gently pressing on its walls, I thought I detected the presence of the ball.

"Sergeant," said I, "it's in there; I don't believe it's more than half an inch, deep."

"Then pull it out," said Willis,

That was more easily said than done. Willis was lying flat on his back, eating ravenously. From moment to moment I stuffed my mouth with hardtack and pork.

I sharpened a reed and introduced its point into the wound; an obstacle was met at once--but how to get it out? The hole was so small that I conjectured the wound had been made by a buck-shot, the rebels using, as we ourselves, many smooth-bore muskets, loaded with buck-and-ball cartridges.

"Willis," said I, "I think I'd better not undertake this job; suppose I get the ball out, who knows that that will be better for you? Maybe you'd lose too much blood."

"I want it out," said Willis.

"But suppose I can't got it out; we might lose an hour and do no good. Besides, I must insist that I don't like it. I think my business is to let your leg alone; I'm no surgeon."

"Take your knife," said Willis, "and cut the hole bigger."

The wound was bleeding afresh, but I did not tell him so.

"No," said I; "your leg is too valuable for me to risk anything of that kind."

"You refuse?"

"I positively refuse," said I.

We had eaten enough. The sun was almost down. Far away a low rumbling was heard, a noise like the rolling of cars or of a wagon train.

Willis reluctantly consented to start. I went to the brook and kneaded some clay into the consistency of plaster; I took off my shirt, and tore it into strips. Against the naked limb, stiffened out, I applied a handful of wet clay and smoothed it over; then I wrapped the cloths around the knee, at every fold smearing the bandage with clay. I hardly knew why I did this, unless with the purpose of keeping the knee-joint from bending; when the clay should become dry and hard the joint would be incased in a stiff setting which I hoped would serve for splints. Willis approved the treatment, saying that clay was good for sprains, and might be good for wounds.

I helped the sergeant to his feet. He could stand, but could hardly move.

"Take my gun," said I, "and use it as a crutch."

He did as I said, but the barrel of the gun sank into the soft earth; after two strides he said, "Here! I can get along better without it." Meanwhile I had been sustaining part of his weight.

I saw now that I must abandon my gun--a smooth-bore, on the stock of which, with a soldier's vanity, I had carved the letters J. B. I broke the stock with one blow of the barrel against the poplar log.

I was now free to help Willis. Slowly and painfully we made our way through the bottom. The cool water of the creek rose above our knees and seemed to cheer the wounded man. The ascent of the further bank was achieved, but with great difficulty.

BULL RUN, July 2l, 1861.

We rested a little while. Here, in the swamp, night was falling. We saw no one, neither pursuers nor pursued. At length, after much and painful toil, we got through the wood. The last light of day showed us a small field in front. Willis leaned against a tree, his blanched face showing his agony. I let down a gap in the fence.

It was clearly to be seen that the sergeant could do no more, and I decided to settle matters without consulting him. In the field I had seen some straw stacks. We succeeded in reaching them. At the bottom of the smallest, I hollowed out a sort of cave. The work took but a minute. Willis was looking on dully; he was on the bare ground, utterly done for with pain and weariness. At length, he asked, "What's that for?"

"For you," I replied.

He said no more; evidently he appreciated the situation and at the same time was too far gone to protest. I made him a bed and pulled the overhanging straw thinly around him, so as effectually to conceal him from any chance passer-by; I took off my canteen and haversack and placed them within his reach. Then, with a lump in my throat, I bade him good-by.

"Jones," said he, "God bless you."

"Sergeant," I said, "go to sleep if you can. I shall try to return and get you; I am going to find help; if I can possibly get help, I will come back for you to-night; but if by noon to-morrow you do not see me, you must act for the best. It may become necessary for you to show yourself and surrender, in order to get your wound properly treated; all this country will be ransacked by the rebel cavalry before to-morrow night."

"Yes, I know that," said Willis; "I will do the best I can. God bless you, Jones."

Alone and lightened, I made my way in the darkness to the road which we had left when we began to seek the ford. I struck the road a mile or more to the north of Bull Run. There was no moon; thick clouds gave warning of rain. I knew that to follow this road--the same circuitous road by which we had advanced in the morning--was not to take the nearest way to Centreville. I wanted to find the Warrenton turnpike, but all I knew was that it was somewhere to my right. I determined to make my way as rapidly as I could in that direction through the fields and thickets.

For an hour or more I had blundered on through brush and brake, when suddenly I seemed to hear the noise of a moving wagon. I went cautiously in the direction of the sound, which soon ceased.

By dint of straining my eyes I could see an oblong form outlined against the sky.

I went toward it; I could hear horses stamping and harness rattling; still, I could see no one. The rear of the wagon, if it was a wagon, was toward me.

I reasoned: "This cannot be a rebel ambulance; there would be no need for it here; it must be one of ours, or else it is a private carriage; it certainly is not an army wagon."

I advanced a little nearer, I had made up my mind to halloo, and had opened my lips, when a voice came from the ambulance--a voice which I had heard before, and which, stupefied me with astonishment.

"Is that you, Jones?"

I stood fixed. I seemed to recognize the voice, but surely my supposition must be impossible.

A man got out of the ambulance, and approached; he had a pipe in his mouth; he was a small man, not more than five feet tall. I felt as though in the presence of a miracle.

"I have been seeking you," he said.

"I cannot tellWhat heaven hath given him; let some graver eyePierce unto that."--SHAKESPEARE.

For a time I was dumb. I knew not what to say or ask or think. The happenings of this terrible day, which had wrought the defeat of the Union army, had been too much for me. Vanquished, exhausted, despairing, heart-sore from enforced desertion of my wounded friend, still far from safety myself, with no physical desire remaining except the wish to lie down and be at rest forever, and with no moral feeling in my consciousness except that of shame,--which will forever rise uppermost in me when I think of that ignominious day,--to be suddenly accosted by the man whom I held in the most peculiar veneration and who, I had believed, was never again to enter into my life--accosted by him on the verge of the lost battlefield--in the midst of darkness and the débris of the rout, while groping, as it were, on my lone way to security scarcely hoped for--it was too much; I sank down on the road.

How long I lay there I have never known--probably but few moments.

The Doctor took my hand in his. "Be consoled, my friend," said he; "you are in safety; this is my ambulance; we will take you with us."

Then, he called to some one in the ambulance, "Reed, bring me the flask of brandy."

When I had revived, the Doctor urged me to climb in before him.

"No," I cried, "I cannot do it; I cannot leave Willis; we must get Willis."

"I heard that Willis was shot," said he; "but I had supposed, from the direction you two wore taking when last seen, that he had reached the field hospital. Where is Willis now?"

I told him as accurately as I could, and in half an hour we were in the stubble-field. For fear the sergeant should be unnecessarily alarmed on hearing persons approach, I called him softly by name; then, hearing no answering call, I raised my voice--"Willis! It is Jones, with help!" But there was no response.

We found the sergeant fast asleep. It was more difficult to get him awake than to get him into the ambulance. Reed and I picked him up bodily and laid him down on a mattress in the bottom of the vehicle.

And now, with my load of personal duty gone, I also sank back and slumbered through a troubled night, and when I fully awoke it was six in the morning and we were crossing Long Bridge in the midst of a driving rain. There were two seats in the ambulance, besides a double-deck, that is to say, two floors for wounded to lie upon. I scrambled to the rear seat.

We were making but slow progress. The bridge ahead of us was crowded. There were frequent stoppages. Many civilians, on horseback or in carriages, were before and behind us. Soldiers single and in groups swelled the procession, some of them with their arms in slings; how they had achieved the long night march I cannot yet comprehend.

Willis was yet lying on the mattress; his eyes were not open, but he was awake, I thought, for his motions were restless.

Reed appeared to be exhausted; he said nothing and nodded sleepily, although holding the lines. The Doctor, on the contrary, looked fresh and vigorous; indeed, as I closely studied his face, I could almost have believed that he had become younger than he had been when I parted with him in Charleston, more than three years before. He knew that I was observing him, for he said, without turning his face toward me, "You have not slept well, Jones; but you did not know when we stopped at Fairfax; we rested the horses there for an hour."

"Yes," I said, "I feel stupid, and my spirits are wofully down."

"Why so?" he asked, with a smile.

"Oh, the bitter disappointment!" I cried; "what will become of the country?"

"What do you mean by the country?" asked the Doctor.

I did not reply at once.

"Do you mean," he repeated, "the material soil? Do you mean the people of the United States, including those of the seceded States? Do you mean the idea symbolized by everything that constitutes American civilization? However, let us not speak of these difficult matters now. We must get your friend Willis to the hospital and then arrange for your comfort."

"I thank you, Doctor; but first be so good as to relieve my devouring curiosity: tell me by what marvellous chance you were on the battlefield."

"No chance at all, Jones; you know that I have always told you there is no such thing as chance, I went to the field deliberately, as an agent of the United States Sanitary Commission."

"I thought that you were far from this country, and that you felt no interest in us," said I. "My father and I were in Charleston in 'fifty-eight,' and were told that you were in Europe. And then, too, how could you know that I was on such a part of the battlefield, and that Willis was hurt and that I was with him?"

"All that is very simple," said he; "as to being in Europe, and afterward getting to America, that is not more strange than being in America and afterward getting to Europe; however, let us defer all talk of Europe and America. As to knowing that you were with Sergeant Willis, and that he was wounded, that is simple; some men of your regiment gave me that information."

I did not reply to the Doctor, but sat looking at the miscellaneous file of persons, carriages, ambulances, and all else that was now blocked on the bridge,

At length I said: "I cannot understand how you could so easily find the place where I left Sergeant Willis. It was more than a mile from the spot where I met you; the night was dark, and I am certain that I could not have found the place."

"Of course you could not," he replied; "but it was comparatively easy for me; I had passed and repassed the place, for I worked all day to help the disabled--- and Reed was employed for the reason that he knows every nook and corner of that part of the country."

After crossing the bridge, Reed drove quickly to the Columbia College Hospital, where we left Sergeant Willis, but not before learning that his wound was not difficult.

"Now," said the Doctor, "you are my guest for a few days. I will see to it that you are excused from duty for a week. It may take that time to set you right, especially as I can see that you have some traces of nervous fever. I am going to take steps to prevent your becoming ill."

"How can you explain my absence, Doctor?"

"Well," said he, "in the first place there is as yet nobody authorized to receive an explanation. To-day our time is our own; by to-morrow all the routed troops will be in or near Washington; then I shall simply write a note, if you insist upon it, to the commanding officer of your company, explaining Willis's absence and your connection with his case, and take on myself the responsibility for your return to your command."

"Has the Sanitary Commission such credit that your note will be accepted as a guaranty, in good form, for my return?"

"The circumstances in this case are peculiar," said the Doctor; "some of your men will not report to their commands for a week. You will be ready for your company before your company is ready for you."

"That is true enough, Doctor; but I should wish to observe all military requirement."

He left me for a while and returned with a piece of paper in his hand.

"Well, what do you think of this?"

It was a surgeon's commitment of Private Jones Berwick, company and regiment given, into the hands of the Sanitary Commission for ten days. I could say no more, except to speak my gratitude for his kindness.

"I am sorry," said Dr. Khayme, "to be unable to offer you the best of quarters. The Commission has so recently been organized that we have not yet succeeded in getting thorough order into our affairs; in fact, my work yesterday was rather the work of a volunteer than the work of the Commission. Our tents are now beyond Georgetown Heights; in a few days we shall move our camps, and shall increase our comfort."

The ambulance was driven through some of the principal streets. The sidewalks and carriageways were crowded; civilians and soldiers; wagons, guns, caissons, ambulances; companies, spick-and-span, which, had not yet seen service; ones, twos, threes, squads of men who had escaped from the disaster of the 21st, unarmed, many of them, without knapsacks, haggard.

At the corners of the streets were rude improvised tables behind which stood men and women serving food and drink to the famished fugitives. The rain fell steadily, a thick drizzle. Civilians looked their anxiety. A general officer rode by, surrounded by the remnant of his staff, heads bent down, gloomy. Women wept while serving the hungry. The unfinished dome of the Capitol, hardly seen through the rain, loomed ominous. Depression over all: ambulances full of wounded men, tossing and groaning; fagged-out horses, vehicles splashed with mud; policemen dazed, idle; newsboys crying their merchandise; readers eagerly reading--not to know the result to the army, but the fate of some loved one; stores closed; whispers; doom.

I turned to Dr. Khayme; he smiled. Then he made Reed halt; he got out of the ambulance and went to one of the tables. A woman gave him coffee, which he brought to me, and made me drink. He returned to the table and gave back the cup. The woman looked toward the ambulance. She was a tall young woman, serious, dignified. She impressed me.

We drove past Georgetown Heights. There, amongst the trees, were four wall-tents in a row; one of them was of double length. The ambulance stopped; we got out. The Doctor led the way into one of the tents; he pointed to one of two camp-beds. "That is yours," said he; "go to sleep; you shall not be disturbed."

"I don't think I can sleep, Doctor."

"Why not?"

"My mind will not let me."

"Well, try," said he; "I will peep in shortly and see how you are getting on."

I undressed, and bathed my face. Then I lay down on the bed, pulling a sheet over me. I turned my face to the wall.

I shut my eyes, but not my vision. I saw Ricketts's battery--the First Michigan charge;--the Black-Horse cavalry ride from the woods. I saw the rebel cannons through dust and smoke;--a poplar log in a thicket;--a purple wound--wet clay;--a broken rifle;--stacks of straw.

Oh, the gloom and the shame! What does the future hold for me? for the cause? What is to defend Washington?

Then I thought of my father; I had not written to him; he would be anxious. My eyes opened; I turned to rise; Dr. Khayme entered; I rose.

"You do not sleep readily?" he asked.

"I cannot sleep at all," I said; "besides I have been so overwhelmed by this great calamity that I had not thought of telegraphing to my father. Can you get a messenger here?"

"Oh, my boy, I have already provided for your father's knowing that you are safe."

"You?"

"Yes, certainly. He knows already that you are unhurt; go to sleep; by the time you awake I promise you a telegram from your father."

"Doctor, you are an angel; but I don't believe that I can sleep."

"Let me feel your pulse."

Dr. Khayme placed his fingers on my wrist; I was sitting on the side of the bed.

"Lie down," said he. Then, still with his fingers on my pulse, he said softly, "Poor boy! you have endured too much; no wonder that you are wrought up."

He laid his other hand on my head; his fingers strayed through my hair.

"Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss,But cheerly seek how to redress their harms."--SHAKESPEARE.

When I awoke in Dr. Khayme's tent toward four o'clock of the afternoon of July 22, I felt that my mind was clear; I had slept dreamlessly.

On the cover of my bed an envelope was lying--a telegram. I hastily tore it open, and read: "Dr. Khayme tells me you are safe. Continue to do your duty." My heart swelled,

I rose, and dressed, and went out. The Doctor was standing under a tree, near a fire; a negro was cooking at the fire. Under an awning, or fly, beneath which a small eating table was dressed, a woman was sitting in a chair, reading. I thought I had seen her before, and looking more closely I recognized the woman who had given the Doctor a cup of coffee on Pennsylvania Avenue.

The Doctor stepped forward to meet me, "Ah, I see you have rested well," said he; then, "Lydia, here is Mr. Berwick."

I was becoming accustomed to surprises from the Doctor, so that I was not greatly astonished, although I had received no intimation of the young lady's identity. The feeling that was uppermost was shame that I had not even, once thought of asking the Doctor about her.

"I should, never have recognized you," I said. She replied with, a smile, and the Doctor relieved the situation by cheerfully crying out "Dinner!" and leading the way to the table.

"Now, Jones," said the Doctor, "you are expected to eat; you have had nothing since yesterday afternoon, when you choked yourself while bandaging--"

"What do you know about that?" I asked.

"You talked about it in your sleep last night on the road. As for Lydia and me, we have had our breakfast and our luncheon, and you must not expect us to eat like a starving fantassin. Fall to, my boy. I know that you have eaten nothing to-day."

There were fruit, bread and butter, lettuce, rice, and coffee. I did not wonder at the absence of meat; I remembered some of the talks of my friend. The Doctor and his daughter seemed to eat merely for the purpose of keeping me in countenance.

"Lydia, would you have known Mr. Berwick?"

"Why, of course, Father; I should have known him anywhere; it is not four years since we saw him."

These four years had made a great change in Miss Khayme. I had left her a girl in the awkward period of a girl's life; now she was a woman of fine presence, wholesome, good to look at. She did not resemble her father, except perhaps in a certain intellectual cast of feature. Her dark wavy tresses were in contrast with his straight black hair; her eyes were not his; her stature was greater than his. Yet there were points of resemblance. Her manner was certainly very like the Doctor's, and many times a fleeting expression was identical with, the Doctor's habitually perfect repose.

She must have been clad very simply; at any rate, I cannot remember anything of her dress. I only know that it was unpretentious and charming.

Her eyes were of that shade of gray which is supposed to indicate great intelligence; her complexion was between dark and fair, and betokened health. Her face was oval; her mouth a little large perhaps. She had an air of seriousness--her only striking peculiarity. One might have charged her with masculinity, but in this respect only: she was far above the average woman in dignity of manner and in consciousness of attainment. She could talk seriously of men and things.

I was wishing to say something pleasant to Miss Lydia, but could only manage to tell her that she had changed wonderfully and that she had a great advantage over me in that I was the same ungainly boy she had known in Charleston.

She did not reply to this, covering her silence by making me my third cup of coffee.

"Lydia," said the Doctor, "you must tell Mr. Berwick something about our life in the East. You know how I dislike to speak three sentences."

"With great pleasure, Father; Mr. Berwick will find that I can speak four."

"Not now, my dear. I warn you, Jones, that I shall watch over you very carefully while you are with us. I am responsible to the hospital surgeon for your health, and I cannot be a party to your extinction."

"How many sentences did you speak then, Father?"

"It depends on how you punctuate," he replied.

"Mr. Berwick," said Lydia, "Father pretends that he is not talkative, but don't you believe him. He can easily talk you to sleep."

The Doctor was almost gay, that is, for the Doctor. His eyes shone. He did not cease to look at me, except when he looked at Lydia. For the time, Lydia had a severer countenance than her father's. I ate. I thanked my stars for the conversation that was covering my ignoble performance.

"Doctor," I asked, pausing for breath, "is there any news of Willis?"

"Willis is doing well enough. The ball has been extracted; it was only a buck-shot, as you rightly surmised."

"How do you know what I surmised, Doctor?"

"Willis told the surgeon of your supposition, giving you full credit for the origin of it. By the way, that was a famous bandage you gave him."

"Was it the correct practice?"

"Well, I can hardly go as far as to say it was scientific, but under the circumstances we must pardon you."

"How long will the sergeant be down?"

"From three to six weeks, I think, according to the weather and his state of mind."

"What's the matter with his mind?"

"Impatience," said the Doctor; "the evil of the whole Western world."

I had finished eating. The Doctor got his pipe: the idol's head was the same old idol's head. Lydia disappeared into one of the tents.

"Jones," said Dr. Khayme, "I have been thinking that yesterday will prove to be the crisis of the war."

"You alarm me more than ever; do you mean to say that the South will win?"

"My words do not imply that belief; but what does it matter which side shall win?"

"Doctor, you are a strange man!"

"I have been told so very frequently; but that is not to the point. I ask what difference it would make whether the North or South should succeed."

"Then why go to war? Why not let the South, secede peaceably? What are we doing here?"

"Indeed, Jones, you may well ask such questions. War is always wrong; going to war is necessarily a phase of a shortsighted policy; every wrong act is, of course, an unwise act."

"Even when war is forced upon us?"

"War cannot be forced upon you; it takes two nations to make war; if one refuses, the other cannot make war."

"I have known, for a long time, Doctor, that you are opposed to war on the whole; but what was left for the North to do? Acknowledge the right of secession? Submit to insult? Submit to the loss of all Federal property in the Southern States? Tamely endure without resentment the attack on Sumter?"

"Yes, endure everything rather than commit a worse crime than that you resist."

Here Lydia, reappeared, charming in a simple white dress without ornament. "Good-by, Father," she said; "Mr. Berwick, I must bid you good night."

"Yes, you are on duty to-night," said her father. "Jones, you must know that Lydia is a volunteer also; she attaches herself to the Commission, and insists on serving the sick and wounded. She is on duty to-night at the College Hospital. I think she will have her hands full."

"Why, you will see Willis; will you be in his ward?" I asked, looking my admiration.

"I don't know that I am in his ward," she replied, "but I can easily see him if you wish."

"Then please be so good as to tell him that I shall come to see him--to-morrow, if possible."

Lydia started off down the hill.

"She will find a buggy at our stable-camp," said Dr. Khayme; "it is but a short distance down there."

The Doctor smoked. I thought of many things. His view of war was not new, by any means; of course, in the abstract he was right: war is wrong, and that which is wrong is unwise; but how to prevent war? A nation that will not preserve itself, how can it exist? I could not doubt that secession is destruction. If the Union should now or ever see itself broken up, then farewell to American liberties; farewell to the hopes of peoples against despotism. To refuse war, to tamely allow the South to withdraw and set up a government of her own, would be but the beginning of the end; at the first grievance California, Massachusetts, any State, could and would become independent. No; war must come; the Union must be preserved; the nation was at the forks of the road; for my part, I could not hesitate; we must take one road or the other; war was forced upon us. But why reason thus, as though we still had choice? War already exists; we must make the best of it; we are down to-day, but Bull Run is not the whole of the war; one field is lost, but all is not lost.

"Doctor," I asked, "why do you say that yesterday will prove to be the crisis of the war?"

"Because," he answered, "yesterday's lesson was well taught and will be well learned; it was a rude lesson, but it will prove a wholesome one. Your government now knows the enormous work it has to do. We shall now see preparation commensurate with the greatness of the work. Three months' volunteers are already a thing of the past. This war might have been avoided; all war might be avoided; but this war has not been avoided; America will be at war for years to come."

I was silent.

"We shall have a new general, Jones; General McClellan is ordered to report immediately in person to the war department."

"Why a new general? McClellan is well enough, I suppose; but what has McDowell done to deserve this?"

"He has failed. Failure in war is unpardonable; every general that fails finds it so; McClellan may find it so."

"You are not much of a comforter, Doctor."

"The North does not need false comforters; she needs to look things squarely in the face. Mind you, I did not say that McClellan will fail. I think, however, that there will be many failures, and much injustice done to those who fail. In war injustice is easily tolerated--any injustice that will bring success; success is demanded--not justice. Wholesale murder was committed yesterday and brought failure; wholesale murder that brings success is what is demanded by this superstitious people."

"Why do you say superstitious?"

"A nation at war believes in luck; if it has not good luck, it changes; it is like the gambler who bets high when he thinks he has what he calls a run in his favor. If the cards go against him, he changes his policy, and very frequently changes just as the cards change to suit his former play. You are now changing to McClellan, simply because McDowell has had bad luck and McClellan good luck. I do not know that McClellan's good luck will continue. War and cards are alike, and they are unlike."

"How alike and unlike?"

"Games of chance, so called, lose everything like chance in the long run; they equalize 'chances' and nobody wins. War also destroys chance, and nobody wins; both sides lose, only one side loses less than the other. In games, the result of one play cannot be foretold; in war, the result of one battle cannot be foretold. In games and in war the general result can be foretold; in the one there will be a balance and in the other there will be destruction. Even the winner in war is ruined morally, just as is the gambler."

"And can you foretell the result of this war?"

"Conditionally."

"How conditionally?"

"If the North is in earnest, or becomes in earnest, and her people become determined, there is no mystery in a prediction of her nominal success; still, she will suffer for her crime. She must suffer largely, just as she is suffering to-day in a small way for the crime of yesterday."

"It is terrible to think of yesterday's useless sacrifice."

"Not useless, Jones, regarded in its relation to this war, but certainly useless in relation to civilization. Bull Bun will prove salutary for your cause, or I woefully mistake. Nations that go to war must learn from misfortune."

"But, then, does not the misfortune of yesterday justify a change in generals?"

"Not unless the misfortune was caused by your bad generalship, and that is not shown--at least, so far as McDowell is concerned. The advance should not have been made, but he was ordered to make it. We now know that Beauregard's army was reënforced by Johnston's; it was impossible not to see that it could be so reënforced, as the Confederates had the interior line. The real fault in the campaign is not McDowell's. His plan was scientific; his battle was better planned than was his antagonist's; he outgeneralled Beauregard clearly, and failed only because of a fact that is going to be impressed frequently upon the Northern mind in this war; that fact is that the Southern troops do not know when they are beaten. McDowell defeated Beauregard, so far as those two are concerned; but his army failed, and he must be sacrificed; the North ought, however, to sacrifice the army."

"What do you mean by that, Doctor?"

"I mean that war is wrong; it is always so. It is essentially unjust and narrow. You have given up your power to be just; you cannot do what you know to be just. You act under compulsion, having yielded your freedom. A losing general is sacrificed, regardless of his real merit."

"Was it so in Washington's case?"

"Washington's first efforts were successful; had he been, defeated at Boston, he would have been superseded--unless, indeed, the colonies had given up the struggle."

"And independence would have been lost?"

"No; I do not say that. The world had need of American independence."

For half an hour we sat thus talking, the Doctor doing the most of it, and giving full rein to his philosophically impersonal views of the immediate questions involved in the national struggle. He rose at last, and left me thinking of his strange personality and wondering why, holding such views, be should throw his energies into either side.

He returned presently, bringing me a letter from my father. He waited as I opened it, and when I asked leave to read it, he said for answer, as if still thinking of our conversation:--

"Jones, my boy, there is a future for you. I can imagine circumstances in which your peculiar powers of memory would accomplish more genuine good than could a thousand bayonets; good night."

Before I went to bed I had written my father a long letter. Then, I lay down, oppressed with thought.

"There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before;The evil is null, is naught, is silence implying sound;What was good, shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more;On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round."--BROWNING.

The next morning Lydia was missing from the breakfast table. The Doctor said that she had gone to her room--which was at a friend's house in Georgetown--to rest. She had brought from Willis a request that I should come to see him.

"You are getting back to your normal condition," said the Doctor, "and if you do not object I shall drive you down."

On the way, the Doctor told me that alarm as to the safety of the capital had subsided. The army was reorganizing on the Virginia hills and was intrenching rapidly. Reënforcements were being hurried to Washington, and a new call for volunteers would at once be made. General McClellan would arrive in a few days; much was expected of his ability to create and discipline an army.

"You need be in no hurry to report to your company," said Dr. Khayme; "it is true that you are almost fit for duty, but you have practically a leave of absence for a week or more, and I am sure that rest will do you good. By the way, President Lincoln will visit the troops at Arlington to-day; if you like, I shall be glad to take you over."

I declined, saying that I must see Willis, and expressing my desire to return to my post of duty as soon as possible.

We found Willis cheerful. The Doctor asked him a few questions and then passed into the office.

Willis pressed my hand. "Old man," said he, "but for you I should be a prisoner. Count on Jake Willis whenever you need a friend, or when it is in his power to do you a service."

"Sergeant," said I, "I shall go back to duty in a day or two. What shall I say to the boys for you?"

"Tell 'em old Jake is a-comin' too. My leg feels better already. The surgeon promises to put me on my feet in a month, or six weeks at the outside. Have you learned how our company came out?"

"The papers say there were four killed," I said; "but I have not seen their names, and I hope they are only missing. There were a good many wounded. The regiment's headquarters are over the river, and I have not seen a man of the company except you. I am very anxious."

"So am I," said the sergeant; "your friend Dr. Khayme told me it will be some days before we learn the whole truth. He is a queer man, Jones; I believe he knows what I think. Was that his daughter who came in here last night?"

"Yes," I answered; "she left me your message this morning."

"Say, Jones, you remember that poplar log?"

"I don't think I can ever forget it," I replied. The next moment I thought of my bygone mental peculiarity, and wondered if I should ever again be subjected to loss of memory. I decided to speak to Dr. Khayme once more about this matter. Although he had advised me in Charleston never to speak of it or think of it, he had only last night, referred to it himself.

"I must go now, Sergeant," said I; "can I do anything for you?"

"No, I think not."

"You are able to write your own letters?"

"Oh, yes; the nurse gives me a bed-table."

"Well, good-by."

"Say, Jones, you remember them straw stacks? Good-by, Jones. I'll be with the boys again before long."

In the afternoon I returned to the little camp and found the Doctor and Lydia. The Doctor was busy--writing. I reminded Lydia of her promise to tell me something about her life in the East.

"Where shall I begin?" she asked,

"Begin at the beginning," I said; "begin at the time I left Charleston."

"I don't know," she said, "that Father had at that time any thought of going. One morning he surprised me by telling me to get ready for a long journey."

"When was that?" I asked.

"I am not certain, but I know it was one day in the vacation, and a good while after you left."

"It must have been in September, then."

"Yes, I am almost sure it was in September."

"I suppose you were very glad to go."

"Yes, I was; but Father's intention was made known to me so suddenly that I had no time to say good-by to anybody, and that grieved me."

"You wanted to say good-by to somebody?"

"The Sisters, you know--and my schoolmates."

"Yes--of course; did your old servant go too?"

"Yes; she died while we were in India."

"I remember her very well. So you went to India?"

"Not directly; we sailed first to Liverpool; then we went on to Paris--strange, we went right through London, and were there not more than an hour or two."

"How long did you stay in Paris?"

"Father had some business there--I don't know what--that kept us for two or three weeks. Then we went to Havre, and took a ship for Bombay."

"And so you were in India most of the time while you were abroad?"

"Yes; we lived in India nearly three years."

"In Bombay?"

"I was in Bombay, but Father was absent a good deal of the time."

"Did you go to school?"

"Yes," she said, smiling.

Dinner was ready. After dinner the Doctor and I sat under the trees. I told him of my wish to return to my company.

"Perhaps it is just as well," said he.

"I think I am fit for duty," said I.

"Yes, you are strong enough," said he.

"Then why are you reluctant?"

"Because I am not quite sure that your health is safe; you ran a narrower risk than your condition now would show."

"And you think there is danger in my reporting for duty?"

"Ordinary bodily exertion will not injure you; exposure might; the weather is very warm."

"There will be nothing for me to do--at least, nothing very hard on me."

"Danger seems at present averted," said Dr. Khayme. "Your depression has gone; if you are not worse to-morrow, I shall not oppose your going."

I plunged into the subject most interesting to me: "Doctor, do you remember telling me, some ten years ago, that you did not think it advisable for me to tell you of my experiences?"

"Yes," he replied.

"And that it was best, perhaps, that I should not think of them?"

"Yes," he replied,

"Yet you referred last night to what you called my peculiar powers."

"Yes, and said that it is possible to make great use of them."

"Doctor, do you know that after I left you in Charleston I had a recurrence of my trouble?"

"I had at least suspected it."

"Why do you call my infirmity a peculiar power?" I asked.

"Why do you call your peculiar power an infirmity?" he retorted. Then, with the utmost seriousness, he went on to say: "Everything is relative; your memory, taking it generally, is better than that of some, and poorer than that of others; as it is affected by your peculiar periods, it is in some features far stronger than the average memory, and in other features it is weaker; have you not known this?"

"Yes; I can recall any object that I have seen; its image is definite, if it has been formed in a lapse."

"But in respect to other matters than objects?"

"You mean as to thought?"

"Yes--speculation."

"In a lapse I seem to forget any mere opinion, or speculation, that is, anything not an established fact."

"Suppose, for instance, that you should to-day read an article written to show that the moon is inhabited; would you remember it in one of your 'states'?"

"Not at all," said I.

"Suppose you should hear a discussion of the tariff question; would you remember it?"

"No, sir."

"Suppose you should hear a discussion upon the right to coerce a seceded State, and should to-day reach a conclusion as to the truth of the controversy; now, would you to-morrow, in one of your 'states,' remember the discussion?"

"No; certainly not."

"Not even if the discussion had occurred previously to the period affected by your memory?"

"I don't exactly catch, your meaning, Doctor."

"I mean to ask what attitude your mind has, in one of your 'states,' toward unsettled questions."

"No attitude whatever; I know nothing of such, one way or the other."

"How, then, could you ever form an opinion upon a disputed question?"

"I don't know, Doctor; I suppose that if I should ever form an opinion upon anything merely speculative, I should have to do it from new material, or repeated material, of thought."

"But now let us reverse this supposition: suppose that to-morrow you are in one of your 'states,' and you hear a discussion and draw a conclusion; will this conclusion remain with you next week when you have recovered the chain of your memory?"

"Yes."

"And your mind would hold to its former decision?"

"Oh, no; not necessarily. I mean that my memory would retain the fact that I had formerly decided the matter."

"And in your recovered state you might reverse a decision made while in a lapse?"

"Certainly."

"But the undoubted truths, or material facts, as some people call them, would still be undoubted?"

"Yes."

"And objects seen while in a 'state' will be remembered by you when you recover?"

"Vividly; if I could draw, I could draw them as well as if they were present."

"It would not be wrong, then, to say that what you lose in one period you gain in another? that what you lose in things doubtful you gain in intensity of fact?"

"Certainly not wrong, though I cannot say that the loss of one causes the gain of the other."

"That is not important; yet I suspect it is true that your faculty is quickened in one function, by relaxation in another. You know that the hearing of the blind is very acute."

"Yes, but I don't see how all this shows my case to be a good thing."

"You can imagine situations in which, hearing is of greater value than sight?"

"Yes."

"A blind scout might be more valuable on a dark night than one who could see."

"Yes, but I cannot see how this affects me; I am neither blind nor deaf, nor am I a scout."

"But it can be said that a good memory may be of greater value at one time than another."

"Oh, yes; I suppose so."

"Now," said Dr. Khayme, "I do not wish you to believe for a moment that there is at present any occasion for you to turn scout; I have merely instanced a possible case in which hearing is more valuable than sight, and we have agreed that memory is worth, more at times than at other times. I should like to relieve you, moreover, of any fears that you, may have in regard to the continuance of your infirmity--as you insist on thinking it. Cases like yours always recover."

"Dr. Abbott once told me that my case was not entirely unique," said I; "but I thought he said it only to comfort me."

"There is nothing new under the sun," said Dr. Khayme; "we have such cases in the records of more than, one ancient writer. Averroes himself clearly refers to such a case."

"He must have lived a long time ago," said I, "judging from the sound of his name; and I doubt that he would have compared well with, our people."

"But more remarkable things are told by the prophets--even your own prophets. The mental changes undergone by Saul of Tarsus, by John on Patmos, by Nabuchodonosor, and by many others, are not less wonderful than, yours."

"They were miracles," said I.

"What is miracle?" asked the Doctor, but continued without waiting for me to reply; "more wonderful changes have happened and do happen every year to men's minds than this which has happened to yours; men lose their minds utterly for a time, and then recover their faculties entirely; men lose their identity, so to speak; men can be changed in an hour, by the use of a drug, into different creatures, if we are to judge by the record their own consciousness gives them."

"I cannot doubt my own senses," said I; "my changes come upon me without a drug and in a moment."

"If you will read Sir William Hamilton, you will find authentic records which will forever relieve you of the belief that your condition is unparalleled. It may be unique in that phase of it which I hope will prove valuable; but as to its being the one only case of the general--"

"I do not dispute there having been cases as strange as mine," I interrupted; "your word for that is enough; but you ought to tell me why you insist on the possibility of a cure and the usefulness of the condition at the same time. If the condition may prove useful, why change it?"

"There are many things in nature," said the Doctor, seriously, "there are many things in nature which show their greatest worth only at the moment of their extinction. Your seeming imperfection of memory is, I repeat, but a relaxation of one of its functions in order that another function may be strengthened--and all for a purpose."

"What is that purpose?"

"I cannot tell you."

"Why can you not?"

"Because," said he, "the manner in which you will prove the usefulness of your power is yet to be developed. Generally, I might say, in order to encourage you, that it will probably be given to you to serve your country in, a remarkable way; but as to the how and when, you must leave it to the future to show."

"And you think that such a service will be at the end of my trouble?"

"I think so," said he; "the laws of the mental world, in my judgment, require that your recovery should follow the period concerning which your factitious memory is brightest."

"But how can a private soldier serve his country in a remarkable way?" I said, wondering.

"Wait," said he.

The Doctor filled his pipe and became silent. Lydia was not on duty this night. She had listened gravely to what had been said. Now she looked up with a faint smile, which I thought meant that she was willing for me to talk to her and yet reluctant to be the first to speak, not knowing whether I had need of silence. I had begun to have a high opinion of Lydia's character.

"And you went to school in Bombay?"

"Yes, at first."

I was not willing to show a bald curiosity concerning her, and I suppose my hesitation was expressed in my face, for she presently continued.

"I studied and worked in the British hospital; you must know that I am a nurse with some training. Father was very willing for me to become a nurse, for he said that there would be war in America, and that nurses would be needed."

Then, turning to the Doctor, she said, "Father, Mr. Berwick asked me to-day when it was that we sailed from Charleston, and I was unable to tell him."

"The third of September, 1857," said the Doctor.

I remembered that this was my sister's birthday and also the very day on which I had written to Dr. Khayme that I should not return to Charleston. The coincidence and its bearing on my affliction disturbed me so that I could not readily continue my part of the conversation, and Lydia soon retired.

"Doctor," said I, "to-morrow morning I shall be ready to report to my company."

"Very well, Jones," he said, "act according to your conscience; I shall see you frequently. There will be no more battles in this part of the country for a long time, and it will not be difficult for you to get leave of absence when you wish to see us. Besides, I am thinking of moving our camp nearer to you."

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