"Our fortune on the sea is out of breath.And sinks most lamentably."--SHAKESPEARE.
"Our fortune on the sea is out of breath.And sinks most lamentably."--SHAKESPEARE.
The winter brought an almost endless routine of drill, guard, and picket duty and digging.
The division was on duty near Budd's Ferry. Dr. Khayme's quarters were a mile to the rear of our left. I was a frequent visitor at his tents. After Willis's return to duty, which was in November, he and I spent much of our spare time at the Sanitary camp. It was easy to see what attracted Jake. It did not seem to me that Dr. Khayme gave much thought to the sergeant, but Lydia gravely received his adoration silently offered, and so conducted herself in his presence that I was puzzled greatly concerning their relations. I frequently wondered why the sergeant did not confide in me; we had become very intimate, so that in everything, except his feeling for Miss Khayme, I was Willis's bosom friend, so to speak; in that matter, however, he chose to ignore me.
One night--it was the night of February 6-7, 1862--I was at the Doctor's tent. Jake was sergeant of the camp guard and could not be with us. The Doctor smoked and read, engaging in the conversation, however, at his pleasure. Lydia seemed graver than usual. I wondered if it could be because of Willis's absence. It seemed to me impossible that this dignified woman could entertain a passion for the sergeant, who, while of course a very manly fellow, and a thorough soldier in his way, surely was not on a level with Miss Khayme. As for me, ah! well; I knew and felt keenly that until my peculiar mental phases should leave me never to return, love and marriage were impossible--so the very truth was, and always had been, that I had sufficient strength to restrain any incipient desire, and prudence enough to avoid temptation. My condition encouraged introspection. I was almost constantly probing my own mind, and by mere strength of will, which I had long cultivated until--I suppose there is no immodesty in saying it--I could govern myself, I drew back from every obstacle which my judgment pronounced insurmountable. The Doctor had been of the greatest help to me in this development of the will, and especially in that phase or exercise of it called self-control; one of his common sayings was, "He who resists the inevitable increases evil."
Ever since when as a boy I had yielded to his friendly guidance, Dr. Khayme had evidently felt a sense of proprietorship in respect to me, and I cherished such relationship; yet there had been many times in our recent intercourse when I had feared him; so keen was the man's insight. The power that he exercised over me I submitted to gratefully; I felt that he was a man well fitted for counselling youth, and I had so many proofs of his good-will, even of his affection, that I trusted him fully in regard to myself; yet, with all this, I felt that his great knowledge, and especially his wonderful alertness of judgment, which amounted in many cases seemingly to prophetic power almost, were doubtful quantities in relation to the war. I believed that he was admitted to high council; I had frequent glimpses of intimations--seemingly unguarded on his part--that he knew beforehand circumstances and projects not properly to be spoken of; but somehow, from a look, or a word, or a movement now and then, I had almost reached the opinion that Dr. Khayme was absolutely neutral between the contestants in the war of the rebellion. He never showed anxiety. The news of the Ball's Bluff disaster, which touched so keenly the heart of the North, and especially of Massachusetts, gave him no distress, to judge from his impassive face and his manner; yet it is but just to repeat that he showed great interest in every event directly relating to the existence of slavery. He commended the acts of General Butler in Virginia and General Fremont in Missouri, and hoped that the Southern leaders would impress all able-bodied slaves into some sort of service, so that they would become at least morally subject to the act of Congress, approved August 6, which declared all such persons discharged from previous servitude. In comparing my own attitude to the war with the Doctor's, I frequently thought that he cared nothing for the Union, and I cared everything; that he was concerned only in regard to human slavery, while I was willing for the States themselves to settle that matter; for I could see no constitutional power existing in the Congress or in the President to abolish or even mitigate slavery without the consent of the party of the first part. I was in the war not on account of slavery, certainly, but on account of the preservation of the Union; Dr. Khayme was in the war--so far as he was in it at all--not for the Union, but for the abolition of slavery.
On this night of February 6, the Doctor smoked and read and occasionally gave utterance to some thought.
"Jones," said he, "we are going to have news from the West; Grant advances."
"I trust he will have better luck than McDowell had," was my reply.
"He will; I don't know that he is a better general, but he has the help of the navy."
"But the rebels have their river batteries," said I.
"Yes, and these batteries are costly, and will prove insufficient; if the North succeeds in this war, and I see no reason to doubt her success if she will but determine to succeed, it will be through her navy."
I did not say anything to this. The Doctor smoked, Lydia sat looking dreamily at the door of the stove.
After a while I asked: "Why is it that we do not move? February is a spring month in the South."
The Doctor replied, "It is winter here, and the roads are bad."
"Is it not winter in Kentucky and Tennessee?"
"Grant has the help of the navy; McClellan will move when he gets the help of the navy."
"What good can the navy do between Washington and Richmond?"
"The James River flows by Richmond," said the Doctor.
I had already heard some talk of differences between our general and the President in regard to a removal of the Army of the Potomac to Fortress Monroe. I asked the Doctor if McClellan would advance on Richmond by the Peninsular route, as it was called.
"He will if he is allowed to do so," replied the Doctor; "at least," he added, "that is my opinion; in fact, I am so well convinced of it that I shall make preparation at once to remove my camp to some good place near Fort Monroe."
This intention was new to me, and it gave me great distress. What I should do with myself after the Doctor had gone, I did not know; I should get along somehow, of course, but I should miss my friends sadly.
"I am very sorry to hear it, Doctor," said I, speaking to him and looking at Lydia; her face was impervious.
"Oh," said the Doctor, with his rare and peculiar smile, "maybe we can take you with us; you would only be going ahead of your regiment."
Lydia's face was still inflexible, her eyes on the fire. I wished for a chance to bring Willis's name to the front, but saw none.
"I don't see how that could be done, Doctor; I confess that I should like very much, to go with you, but how can I get leave of absence?"
"Where there is a will there is a way."
"Yes, but I have no will; I have only a desire," said I, gloomily.
"Well," said the Doctor, "I have will enough for both of us and to spare."
"You mean to say that you can get me leave of absence?"
"Wait and see. When the time comes, there will be no trouble, unless things change very greatly meanwhile."
I bade my friends good night and went back to my hut. The weather was mild. My way was over hills and hollows, making me walk somewhat carefully; but I did not walk carefully enough--I stumbled and fell, and bruised my back.
The next day I was on camp guard. The weather was intensely cold. A bitter wind from the north swept the Maryland hills; snow and rain and sleet fell, all together. For two hours, alternating with four hours' relief, I paced my beat back and forth; at six o'clock, when I was finally relieved, I was wet to the skin. When I reached my quarters, I went to bed at once and fell into a half sleep.
Some time in the forenoon I found Dr. Khayme bending over me, with his hand on my temples.
"You have had too much of it," said he.
I looked up at him and tried to speak, but said nothing. Great pain followed every breath. My back seemed on fire.
The Doctor wanted to remove me to his own hospital tent, but dreaded that I was too ill. Yet there was no privacy, the hut being occupied by four men. Dr. Khayme found means to get rid of all my messmates except Willis; they were crowded into other quarters. The surgeon of the Eleventh had given the Doctor free course.
For two weeks Willis nursed me faithfully. Dr. Khayme came every day--on some days several times. Lydia never came.
One bright day, near the end of February, I was placed in a litter and borne by four men to the Doctor's hospital tent. My father came. This was the first time he and Dr. Khayme met. They became greatly attached.
My progress toward health, was now rapid. Willis was with me whenever he was not on duty. The Doctor's remedies gave way to simple care, in which Lydia was the chief priest. Lydia would read to me at times--but for short times, as the Doctor forbade my prolonged attention, I was not quite sure that Lydia was doing me good; I liked the sound of her voice, yet when she would cease reading I felt more nervous than before, and I could not remember what she had read. So far as I could see, there was no understanding between Lydia and Willis; yet it was very seldom that I saw them together.
One evening, after the lamps were lighted, my father told us that he would return home on the next day. "Jones is in good hands," said he, "and my business demands my care; I shall always have you in remembrance, Doctor; you have saved my boy."
The Doctor said nothing. I was sitting up in bed, propped with pillows and blankets.
"The Doctor has always been kind to me, Father," said I; "ever since he received the letter you wrote him in Charleston, he has been my best friend."
"The letter I wrote him? I don't remember having written him a letter," said my father.
"You have forgotten, Father," said I; "you wrote him a letter in which you told him that you were sure he could help me. The Doctor gave me the letter; I have it at home, somewhere."
The Doctor was silent, and the subject was not continued.
Conversation began again, this time concerning the movements and battles in the West. The Doctor said; "Jones, the news has been kept from you. On February 6, General Grant captured Fort Henry, which success led ten days later to the surrender of Buckner's army at Fort Donelson."
"The 6th of February, you say?" I almost cried; "that was the last time I saw you before I got sick; on that very day you talked about Grant's coming successes!"
"It did not need any great foresight for that," said the Doctor.
"You said that Grant had the navy to help him, and that he certainly would not fail."
"And it was the navy that took Fort Henry," said my father.
On the day following that on which my father left us, I was sitting in a folding chair, trying to read for the first time since my illness began.
Dr. Khayme entered, with a paper in his hand. "We'll go, my boy," said he; "we'll go at once and avoid the crowd."
"Go where, Doctor?"
"To Fort Monroe," said he.
"Go to Fortress Monroe, and avoid the crowd?"
"Yes, we'll go."
"What are we going there for?"
"Don't you remember that I thought of going there?"
"When was it that you told me, Doctor?"
"On the night before you became ill. I told you that if General McClellan could have his way, he would transfer the army to Fort Monroe, and advance on Richmond by the Peninsular route."
"Yes, I begin to remember."
"Well, President Lincoln has yielded to General McClellan's urgent arguments; the movement will be begun as soon as transportation can be provided for such an operation; it will take weeks yet."
"And you are going to move down there?"
"Yes, before the army moves; this is your written authority to go with me; don't you want to go?"
"Yes; that I do," said I.
"The spring is earlier down there by at least two weeks," said the Doctor; "the change will mean much to you; you will be ready for duty by the time your regiment comes."
Lydia was not in the tent while this conversation was going on, but she came in soon afterward, and I was glad to see that she was certainly pleased with the prospect of moving. Her eyes were brighter. She began at once to get together some loose things, although we had several days in which to make our preparations. I could not keep from laughing at her; at the same time I felt that my amusement was caused by her willingness to get away for a time from the army, rather than by anything else.
"So you are in a hurry to get away," I said.
"I shall be glad to get down there," she replied, "and I have the habit of getting ready gradually when we move. It saves worry and fluster when the time comes." Her face was very bright.
"That is the longest speech you have made to me in a week," said I.
She turned and looked full at me; then her expression changed to severity, and she went out.
That night Willis came; before he saw me he had learned that we were to go; he was very blank.
The 6th of March found us in camp in the Doctor's tents pitched near Newport News. The weather was mild; the voyage had helped me. I sat outside in the sunshine, enjoying the south wind. With the help of the Doctor's arm or of Lydia's--given, I feared, somewhat unwillingly--I walked a little. These were happy days; I had nothing to do but to convalesce. The Southern climate has always helped me. I was recovering fast.
I liked the Doctor more than ever, if possible. Every day we talked of everything, but especially of philosophy, interesting to both of us, though of course I could not pretend to keep pace with, his advanced thought. We talked of the war, its causes, its probable results.
"Jones, it matters not how this war shall end; the Union will be preserved."
I had never before heard him make just this declaration, though I had had intimations that such was his opinion. I was glad to hear this speech. It seemed to place the Doctor in favour of the North, and I felt relieved.
"Continue," I begged.
"You know that I have said many times that the war is unnecessary; that all war is crime."
"Yes."
"Yet you know that I have maintained that slavery also is a crime and must be suppressed."
"Yes, and I confess that you have seemed inconsistent."
"I know you think the two positions contradictory; but both these views are sound and true. War is a crime; slavery is a crime: these are two truths and they cannot clash. I will go farther and say that the North is right and the South is right."
"Doctor, you are astonishing. You will find it hard to convince me that both of these statements can be true."
"Well, are you ready to listen?"
"Ready and willing. But why is it that you say both sections are right? Why do you not prove that they are both wrong? You are speaking of crime, not virtue."
"Of course they are both wrong in the acts of which we are speaking; but in regard to the principles upon which they seem to differ, they are right, and these are what I wish to speak of."
"Well, I listen, Doctor."
"Then first let me say that the world is ruled by a higher power than General McClellan or Mr. Jefferson Davis."
"Agreed."
"The world is ruled by a power that has far-reaching, even eternal, purpose, and the power is as great as the purpose; the power is infinite."
"I follow you."
"This power cannot act contrary to its own purpose, nor can it purpose what it will not execute."
"Please illustrate, Doctor."
"Suppose God should purpose to make a world, and instead of making a world should make a comet."
"He would not be God," said I, "unless the comet should happen to be in a fair way of becoming a world."
"Exactly; to act contrary to His purpose would be caprice or failure."
"Yes; I see, or think I do."
"Not difficult at all; I simply say that war is a crime and slavery a crime. Two truths cannot clash."
"Then you mean to say that God has proposed to bring slavery into existence, and war, also?"
"Not at all. What I mean to say in that His purpose overrules and works beyond both. Man makes slavery, and makes war; God turns them into means for advancing His cause."
"Perhaps I can understand, Doctor, that what you say is true. But I do not see how the South can be right."
"What are all those crowds of people doing down on the battery?" asked Lydia, suddenly.
It was about two o'clock. We had walked slowly toward the beach.
"They are all looking in our direction," said Dr. Khayme; "they see something that interests them."
Across the water in the southeast could be seen smoke, which the wind blew toward us. Some officers upon a low sand-hill near us were looking intently through their field-glasses.
"I'll go and find out," said the Doctor; "stay here till I return."
We saw him reach the hill; one of the officers handed him a glass; he looked, and came back to us rapidly.
"We are promised a spectacle; I shall run to my tent for a glass," said he.
"What is it all about, Father?" asked Lydia.
"A Confederate war-vessel," said he, and was gone.
"I hope she will be captured," said I; "and I have no doubt she will."
"You have not read the papers lately," said Lydia.
"No; what do you mean?"
"I mean that there are many rumours of a new and powerful iron steamer which the Confederates have built at Norfolk," she replied.
"Iron?"
"Yes, they say it is iron, or at least that it is protected with iron, so that it cannot be injured."
"Well, if that is the case, why do we let our wooden ships remain here?"
The Doctor now rejoined us. He handed me a glass. I could see a vessel off toward Norfolk, seemingly headed in our direction. Lydia took the glass, and exclaimed, "That must be theMerrimac!what a strange-looking ship!"
The crowds on the batteries near Newport News and along the shore were fast increasing. The Doctor said not a word; indeed, throughout the prodigious scene that followed he was silent, and, to all seeming, emotionless.
Some ships of-war were at anchor not far from the shore. With the unaided eye great bustle could be seen on these ships; two of them were but a very short distance from us.
The smoke in the south came nearer. I had walked and stood until I needed rest; I sat on the ground.
Now, at our left, toward Fortress Monroe, we could see three ships moving up toward the two which were near us.
The strange vessel come on; we could see a flag flying. The design of the flag was two broad red stripes with a white stripe between.
The big ship was nearer; her form was new and strange; a large roof, with little showing above it. She seemed heading toward Fortress Monroe.
Suddenly she swung round and came slowly on toward our two ships near Newport News.
The two Federal ships opened their guns upon the rebel craft; the batteries on shore turned loose on her.
Lydia put her hands to her ears, but soon took them away. She was used to wounds, but had never before seen battle.
From above--the James River, as I afterward knew--now came down some smaller rebel ships to engage in the fight, but they were too small to count for much.
Suddenly theMerrimacfired one gun, still moving on toward our last ship--the ship at the west; still she moved on, and on, and on, and struck our ship with her prow, and backed.
The Union ships continued to fire; the batteries and gunboats kept up their fire.
The big rebel boat turned and made for our second ship, which was now endeavouring to get away. TheMerrimacfired upon her, gun after gun.
Our ship stuck fast, and could not budge, but she continued to fire.
The ship which had been rammed began to lurch and at last she sank, with her guns firing as she went down.
Lydia's face was the picture of desolation. Her lips parted. The Doctor observed her, and drew his arm within her own; she sighed heavily, but did not speak.
The rebel ship stood still and fired many times on our ship aground; and white flags were at last seen on the Union vessel.
Now the small rebel ships approached the prize, but our shore batteries, and even our infantry on shore, kept up a rapid fire to prevent the capture. Soon the small ships steamed away, and the great craft fired again and again into the surrendered vessel, and set her afire.
Then still another Union ship took part in the contest; she also was aground, yet she fought the rebel vessels.
The great ship turned again and steamed toward the south until she was lost in the thickening darkness. Meanwhile, the burning ship was a sheet of flame; we could see men leap from her deck; boats put off from the shore.
"The play is over; let's go to supper," said the Doctor.
"I want no food," said I.
"You must not stay in this air; besides, you will feel better when you have eaten," he replied.
Lydia was silent; her face was wet with tears.
Groups of soldiers stood in our way; some were mad with excitement, gesticulating and cursing; others were mute and white. I heard one say, "My God! what will become of theMinnesotato-morrow?"
The Doctor's face was calm, but tense. My heart seemed to have failed.
The burningCongressthrew around us a light brighter than the moon; each of us had two shadows.
We sat down to supper, "Doctor," said I, "how can you be so calm?"
"Why, my boy," he said, "I counted on such, long ago--and worse; besides, you know that I believe everything will come right."
"What is to prevent theMerrimacfrom destroying our whole fleet and then destroying our coast?"
"God!" said Dr. Khayme.
Lydia, kissed him and burst into weeping.
So far as I can remember, I have passed no more anxious night in my life than the night of the 8th of March, 1862. My health did not permit me to go out of the tent; but from the gloomy rumours of the camps I knew that my anxiety was shared by all. Strange, I thought, that my experience in war should be so peculiarly disastrous. Bull Run had been but the first horror; here was another and possibly a worse one. The East seemed propitious to the rebels; Grant alone, of our side, could gain victories.
The burning ship cast a lurid glare over land and sea; dense smoke crept along the coast; shouts came to my ears--great effort, I knew, was being made to get theMinnesotaoff; nobody could have slept that night.
The Doctor made short absences from his camp. At ten o'clock he came in finally; a smile was on his face. Lydia had heard him, and now came in also.
"Jones," said he, "what will you give me for good news?"
"Oh, Doctor," said I, "don't tantalize me."
Lydia was watching the Doctor's face.
"Well," said he, "I must make a bargain. If I tell you something to relieve your fears, will you promise me to go to sleep?"
"Yes; I shall be glad to go to sleep; the quicker the better."
"Well, then, theMerrimacwill meet her match if she comes out to-morrow."
"What do you mean, Doctor?"
"I mean that a United States war-vessel, fully equal to theMerrimac,has arrived."
Lydia left the tent.
I almost shouted. I could no more go to sleep than I could fly. I started to get out of bed. The Doctor put his hand on my head, and gently pressed me back to my pillow.
"Yet spake yon purple mountain,Yet said yon ancient wood,That Night or Day, that Love or Crime,Lead all souls to the Good."--EMERSON
"Yet spake yon purple mountain,Yet said yon ancient wood,That Night or Day, that Love or Crime,Lead all souls to the Good."--EMERSON
About two in the morning I was awaked by a noise that seemed to shake the world. The remainder of the night was full of troubled dreams.
I thought that I saw a battle on a vast plain. Two armies were ranked against each other and fought and intermingled. The dress of the soldiers in the one army was like the dress of the soldiers in the other army, and the flags were alike in colour, so that no soldier could say which flags were his. The men intermingled and fought, and, not able to know enemy from friend, slew friend and enemy, and slew until but two opponents remained; these two shook hands, and laughed, and I saw their faces; and the face of one was the face of Dr. Khayme, but the face of the other I did not know.
Now, dreams have always been of but little interest to me. I had dreamed true dreams at times, but I had dreamed many more that were false. In my ignorance of the powers and weaknesses of the mind, I had judged that it would be strange if among a thousand dreams not one should prove true. So this dream passed for the time from my mind.
We had breakfast early. The Doctor was always calm and grave. Lydia looked anxious, yet more cheerful. There was little talk; we expected a trial to our nerves.
After breakfast the Doctor took two camp-stools; Lydia carried one; we went to a sand-hill near the beach.
To the south of theMinnesotanow lay a peculiar vessel. No one had ever seen anything like her. She seemed nothing but a flat raft with a big round cistern--such as are seen in the South and West--amidships, and a very big box or barrel on one end.
TheMerrimacwas coming; there were crowds of spectators on the batteries and on the dunes.
TheMonitorremained near theMinnesota; theMerrimaccame on. From each of the iron ships came great spouts of smoke, from each the sound of heavy guns. The wind drove away the smoke rapidly; every manoeuvre could be seen.
TheMerrimaclooked like a giant by the side of the other, but the other was quicker.
They fought for hours, theMerrimacslowly moving past theMonitorand firing many guns, theMonitorturning quickly and seeming to fire but seldom. Sometimes they were so near each other they seemed to touch.
At last they parted; theMonitorsteamed toward the shore, and the greatMerrimacheaded southward and went away into the distance.
Throughout the whole of this battle there had been silence in our little group, nor did we hear shout or word near us; feeling was too deep; on the issue of the contest depended vast results.
When the ships ended their fighting I felt immense relief; I could not tell whether our side had won, but I know that theMerrimachad hauled off without accomplishing her purpose; I think that was all that any of us knew. At any moment I should not have been astonished to see theMerrimacblow her little antagonist to pieces, or run her down; to my mind the fight had been very unequal.
"And now," said the Doctor, as he led the way back to his camp, "and now McClellan's army can come without fear."
"Do you think," I asked, "that theMerrimacis so badly done up that she will not try it again?"
"Yes," he replied; "we cannot see or tell how badly she is damaged; but of one thing we may feel sure, that is, that if she could have fought longer with hope of victory, she would not have retired; her retreat means that she has renounced her best hope."
The dinner was cheerful. I saw Lydia eat for the first time in nearly two days. She was still very serious, however. She had become accustomed in hospital work to some of the results of battle; now she had witnessed war itself.
After dinner the conversation naturally turned upon the part the navy would perform in the war. The Doctor said that it was our fleet that would give us a final preponderance over the South.
"The blockade," said he, "is as nearly effective as such a stupendous undertaking could well be."
"It seems that the rebels find ways to break it at odd times," said I.
"Yes, to be sure; but it will gradually become more and more restrictive. The Confederates will be forced at length to depend upon their own resources, and will be shut out from the world."
"But suppose England or France recognizes the South," said Lydia.
"Neither will do so," replied her father, "England, especially, thinks clearly and rightly about this war; England cares nothing about states' rights or the reverse; the heart of England, though, beats true on the slavery question; England will never recognize the South."
"You believe the war will result in the destruction of slavery?" I asked,
"Of racial slavery, yes; of all slavery, nominally. If I did not believe that, I should feel no interest in this war."
"But President Lincoln has publicly announced that he has no intention of interfering with slavery."
"He will be forced to interfere. This war ought to have been avoided; but now that it exists, it will not end until the peculiar institution of the South is destroyed. But for the existence of slavery in the South, England would recognize the South. England has no political love for the United States, and would not lament greatly the dissolution of the Union. The North will be compelled to extinguish slavery in order to prevent England from recognizing the South. The Union cannot now be preserved except on condition of freeing the slaves; therefore, Jones, I am willing to compromise with you; I am for saving the Union in order to destroy slavery, and you may be for the destruction of slavery in order to save the Union!
"The Union is destroyed if secession succeeds; secession will succeed unless slavery is abolished; it cannot be abolished by constitutional means, therefore it will be abolished by usurpation; you see how one crime always leads to another."
"But," said I, "you assume that the South is fighting for slavery only, whereas her leaders proclaim loudly that she is fighting for self-government."
"She knows that it would be suicidal to confess that she is fighting for slavery, and she does not confess it even to herself. But when we say 'the South,' let us be sure that we know what we mean. There are two Souths. One is the slaveholding aristocracy and their slaves; the other is the common people. There never was a greater absurdity taught than that which Northern writers and newspapers have spread to the effect that in the South there is no middle class. The middle classisthe South. This is the South that is right and wholesome and strong. The North may defeat the aristocracy of the South, and doubtless will defeat it; but never can she defeat the true South, because the principle for which the true South fights is the truth--at least the germ of truth if not the fulness of it.
"The South is right in her grand desire and end; she is wrong in her present and momentary experiment to attain that end. So also the North is right in her desire, and wrong in her efforts.
"The true South will not be conquered; the aristocracy only will go down. Nominally, that is to say in the eyes of unthinking men, the North will conquer the South; but your existing armies will not do it. The Northern idea of social freedom, unconscious and undeveloped, must prevail instead of the Southern idea of individual freedom; but how prevail? By means of bayonets? No; that war in which ideas prevail is not fought with force. Artillery accomplishes naught. I can fancy a battlefield where two great armies are drawn up, and the soldiers on this side and on that side are uniformed alike and their flags are alike, but they kill each other till none remains, and nothing is accomplished except destruction; yet the principle for which each fought remains, though all are dead."
For a time I was speechless.
At length I asked, "But why do you imagine their uniforms and flags alike?"
He replied, "Because flag and uniform are the symbols of their cause, and the real cause, or end, of both, is identical."
"Doctor," I began; but my fear was great and I said no more.
"Why, then, let's on our way in silent sort."--SHAKESPEARE.
"Why, then, let's on our way in silent sort."--SHAKESPEARE.
Lydia was kept busy in the hospital; her evenings, however, were spent with her father.
Before the Army of the Potomac began to arrive, I had recovered all my old vigour, and had become restless through inaction. Nobody could say when the Eleventh would come. The troops, as they landed, found roomy locations for their camps, for the rebels were far off at Yorktown, and with only flying parties of cavalry patrolling the country up to our pickets. I had no duty to do; but for the Doctor's company time would have been heavy on my hands.
About the last of March the army had reached Newport News, but no Eleventh. What to do with myself? The Doctor would not move his camp until the eve of battle, and he expressed the opinion that there would be no general engagement until we advanced much nearer to Richmond.
On the 2d of April, at supper, I told Dr. Khayme that I was willing to serve in the ranks of any company until the Eleventh should come.
"General McClellan has come, and your regiment will come in a few days," he replied; "and I doubt if anybody would want you; the troops now here are more than are needed, except for future work. Besides, you might do better. You have good eyes, and a good memory as long as it lasts; you might make a secret examination of the Confederate lines."
"A what? Oh, you mean by myself?"
"Yes."
"Do you think it practicable?" I asked.
"Should I have suggested it if I do not?"
"Pardon me, Doctor; but you were so sudden."
"Well, think of it," said he.
"Doctor, if you'll put me in the way to do it, I'll try it!" I exclaimed, for, somehow, such work had always fascinated me. I did not wish to become a spy, or to act as one for a day even, but I liked the thought of creeping through woods and swamps and learning the positions and movements of the enemy. In Charleston, in my school days, and afterward, I had read Gilmore Simms's scouting stories with, eagerness, and had worshipped his Witherspoon.
"When will you wish to begin?" asked the Doctor.
"Just as soon as possible; this idleness is wearing; to-day, if possible."
"I cannot let you go before to-morrow," said he; "I must try to send you off properly."
When Lydia came in that night, and was told of our purposes by the Doctor, I fancied that she became more serious instantly. But she said little, and I could only infer that she might be creating in her brain false dangers for a friend.
By the next afternoon, which, was the 3d of April, everything was ready for me. The Doctor showed me in his stores-tent a sober suit of gray clothes, not military clothes, but of a cut that might deceive the eye at a distance, yet when closer seen would exonerate the wearer from any suspicion that he was seriously offering himself as a Confederate.
"Now, I had to guess at it," said the Doctor; "but I think it will fit you well enough."
It did fit well enough; it was loose and comfortable, and, purposely, had been soiled somewhat after making. The Doctor gave me also a black felt hat.
"Have you studied the map I gave you?" he asked.
"Yes, I can remember the roads and streams thoroughly," I answered.
"Then do not take it; all you want is a knife and a few trivial things such as keys in your pocket, so that if you should be searched nothing can be proved. Leave all your money in bills behind; coin will not be bad to take; here are a few Confederate notes for you."
"Do I need a pass?"
"Yes; here is a paper that may hang you if you are caught by the Confederates; use it to go through your lines, and then destroy it; I want you to get back again. If you should be captured, a pass would betray you; if your men got you and will not let you go, it will not be difficult to explain at headquarters."
"I suppose you have already explained at headquarters?"
"Don't ask questions. Now you must sit down and eat; you don't know when you will get another meal."
At dusk I started. My purpose was to avoid our own pickets and reach before dawn a point opposite the right of the rebel line, which was believed to rest on James River, near or at Mulberry Island, or Mulberry Point; I would then watch for opportunities, and act accordingly, with the view of following up the rebel line, or as near to it as possible.
I took no gun or anything whatever to burden me. I was soon outside the guard line of the camp. My way at first was almost due north by the Young's Mill road. Darkness quickly came, and I was glad of it. The stars gave me enough light. My road was good, level, sandy--a lane between two rail fences almost hidden with vines and briers. At my left and behind me I could hear the roar of the surf.
When I had gone some two miles, I thought I heard noises ahead, I stopped, and put my ear to the ground. Cavalry. Were they our men, or rebels? I did not want to be seen by either. I slipped into a fence corner. A squad rode by, going toward Hampton, no doubt. I waited until they had passed out of sight, and then rose to continue my tramp, when suddenly, before I had made a step, another horseman rode by, following the others. If he had looked in my direction, he would have seen me; but he passed on with his head straight to the front. I supposed that this last man was on duty as the rear of the squad.
Now I tore up my pass into little bits and tossed them away. The party of cavalry which, had passed me, I believed, were our patrol, and that I should find no more of our men; so I was now extremely cautious in going forward, not knowing how soon I might run against some scouting party of the rebels.
The road soon diverged far from the shore; the ground was sandy and mostly level; and in many places covered with, a thick, small growth. The imperfect light gave me no extended vision, but from studying the map before I had set out I had some idea of the general character of the country at my right, as well as a pretty accurate notion of the distance I must make before I should come near to the first rebel post; though, of course, I could not know that such post had not been abandoned, or advanced even, within the last few hours.
I went on, then, keeping a sharp lookout to right and left and straight ahead, and every now and then stopping to listen. My senses were alert; I thought of nothing but my present purposes; I felt that I was alone and dependent upon myself, but the feeling was not greatly oppressive.
Having gone some four or five miles, I saw before me a fence running at a right angle to the road I was on; this fence was not continued to the left of my road, so I supposed that at this fence was the junction of the road to Little Bethel, and as I had clearly seen before I started that at this junction there was danger of finding a rebel outpost, or of falling upon a rebel scouting party, I now became still more cautious, moving along half bent on the edge of the road, and at last creeping on my hands and knees until I reached the junction.
There was nobody in sight. I looked long up the road toward Little Bethel; I went a hundred yards or so up this road, found nothing, and returned to the junction; then continued up the road toward Young's Mill. The ground here I knew must be visited frequently by the rebels, and my attention became so fixed that I started at the slightest noise. The sand's crunching under my feet sounded like the puffing of a locomotive. The wind made a slight rippling with the ends of the tie on my hat-band, I cut the ends off, to be relieved of the distraction.
I was going at the rate of a mile a day, attending to my rear as well as to my advance, when I heard, seemingly in the road to Bethel, at my rear and right, the sound of stamping hoofs. I slunk into a fence corner, and lay perfectly still, listening with all my ears. The noise increased; it was clear that horsemen from the Bethel road were coming into the junction, a hundred yards in my rear.
The noises ceased. The horsemen had come to a halt.
Buthadthey come to a halt? Perhaps they had ridden down the road toward Newport News.
Five minutes, that seemed an hour, passed; then I heard the hoof-beats of advancing cavalry, and all at once a man darted into my fence corner and lay flat and still.
It is said that at some moments of life, and particularly when life is about to end, as in drowning, a man recalls in an instant all the deeds of his past. This may or may not be true; but I know, at least, that my mind had many thoughts in the situation in which I now found myself.
I felt sure that the party advancing on the road behind me were rebels.
They were now but a few yards off.
An instant more, and they would pass me, or else they would discover me.
If I should spring to my feet and run up the road, the horsemen would ride me down at once.
If I should climb the fence, my form, outlined against the sky, would be a mark for many carbines.
If I should lie still, they might pass without seeing me.
But what could I expect from my companion?
Who was he? ... Why was he there? ... Had he seen me? ... Had the rebels, if indeed they were rebels, seen him? ... If so, were they pursuing him?
But no; they were not pursuing him, for he had come from the direction of Young's Mill. He would have met the horsemen had he not hidden.
If I could but know that he had seen me, my plan surely would be to lie still.
Yes, certainly, to lie still ... if these riders were rebels.
But to lie still if my companion was a friend to the rebels? If he was one of theirs, should I lie still?
No; certainly not, unless I preferred being taken to being shot at.
If the horsemen were Union troops, what then? Why, in that case, my unknown friend must be a rebel; and if I should decide to let the troops pass, I should be left unarmed, with a rebel in two feet of me.
Yet, if the cavalry were our men, and the fugitive a rebel, still the question remained whether he had seen me.
It seemed impossible for him not to see me. Could he think I was a log? Certainly not; there was no reason for a log to be in such a place; there were no trees large enough, and near enough to justify the existence of a log in this place.
All these thoughts, and more also, passed through my mind while the horsemen moved ten paces; and before they had moved ten paces more, I had come to a decision.
I had decided to lie still.
There could be but one hope: if I should run, I could not get away. I would lie still. If the unknown should prove to be a friend, my case might be better than before; if he should prove to be an enemy, I must act prudently and try to befool him. I must discover his intentions before making mine known. He, also, must be in a great quandary.
The horsemen passed. They passed so near that I could have told whether they were from the North or the South by their voices, but they did not speak.
There was not enough light for me to see their uniforms, and, indeed, I did not look at them, but instinctively kept my face to the ground.
The horsemen passed on up the road toward Young's Mill.
Now there was silence. I yet lay motionless. So did my companion. I was right in one thing; he knew of my presence, else he would now rise and go his way. He knew of my presence, yet he did not speak; what was the matter with him?
But why did not I speak? I concluded that he was fearing me, just as I was fearing him.
But why should he fear me, when, he could not doubt that I was hiding from the same persons whom he had shunned to meet?
But I was there first; he had not known that I was there; his hiding in a fence corner was deliberate, in order to escape the observation of the horsemen; his hiding in this particular fence corner was an accident.
Who is he? What is he thinking about, that he doesn't do something? He has no reason to fear me.
But fear has no reason. If he is overcome with fear, he dreads everything. He has not recovered from the fright the horsemen gave him.
But why do I not speak? Am I so overcome with fear that I cannot speak to a man who flees and hides? Iwillspeak to him--
"Mahsa," said he, humbly, right in my ear.
I sat bolt upright; so did he.
"Speak low," said I; "tell me who you are."
"Who, me?"
"Yes, you; what is your name?"
"My name Nick."
"What are you doing here?"
"Who, me?"
"Yes, you; what are you doing here?"
"I'se des' a-restin', mahsa; I'se mighty tired."
"You are hiding from the soldiers."
"What sojers, mahsa?"
Clearly Nick was no simpleton; he was gaining time; he might not yet know which side I belonged to. I must end this matter. The night was cool. I had no blanket or overcoat. While walking I had been warm, but now I was getting chilly.
Yet, after all, suppose Nick was not a friend. However, such, a supposition was heterodox; every slave must desire freedom; a slave who does not wish to be free is an impossibility.
"Who were the soldiers who rode by just now?"
"I dunno, mahsa."
"Then, why did you hide from them?"
"Who, me?"
"Yes; why did you run and hide?"
"De s'caze I dunno who dey is."
This was very simple; but it did not relieve the complication. I must be the first to declare myself.
"Were they not--" I checked myself in time, I was going to say rebels, but thought better of it; the word would declare my sympathies. I was not so ready, after all.
"W'at dat you gwine to say, mahsa?"
Neither was Nick ready to speak first; he was a quick-witted negro.
"I was going to ask if they were Southern soldiers."
"You dunno who dey is, mahsa?"
Yes; Nick was sharp; I must be discreet now, and wary--more so. I knew that many Confederate officers had favourite slaves as camp servants, slaves whom they thought so attached to them as to be trustworthy. Who could know, after all, that there were no exceptions amongst slaves? My doubts became so keen that I should not have believed Nick on his oath. He might tell me a lie with the purpose of leading me into a rebel camp. I must get rid of him somehow.
"Mahsa," said Nick, "is you got any 'bacco?"
"No" said I; then, "yes, I have some smoking tobacco."
"Dat's mighty good hitse'f; won't you please, sa', gimme a little?"
I was not a smoker, but I knew that there was a little loose tobacco in one of my pockets; how it came to be there I did not know.
"Thankee; mahsa; dis 'bacoo makes me bleeve you is a--" Nick hesitated,
"A what?"
"A good man," said Nick.
"Nick," I said, "I want to go up the road."
"W'at fur you gwine up de road, mahsa?"
"I want to see some people up there."
Nick did not reply. Could he fear that I was wanting to take him into the Southern lines? It looked so.
The thought almost took away any fear I yet had that he might betray me. His hesitation was assuring.
I repeated, "I want to see--I mean I want to look at--some people up the road."
"Dem sojers went up the road des' now, mahsa."
"Do you think they will come back soon?"
"I dunno, mahsa; maybe dey will en' maybe dey won't."
"Didn't you come from up the road?"
"Mahsa, how come you ain't got no gun?"
This threatened to be a home-thrust; but I managed to parry it; and to give him as good.
"Do Southern officers carry guns?"
"You Southern officer, mahsa?"
"Southern officers carry swords and pistols," said I; "didn't you know that, Nick?"
"Mahsa," said Nick, very seriously.
"What is it, Nick?"
"Mahsa, fo' God you ain't no Southern officer."
"What makes you think so, Nick?"
"Caze, of you was a Southern officer you wouldn't be a-gwine on lak you is; you 'ud des' say, 'Nick, you dam black rascal, git back to dem breswucks on' to dat pick en' to dat spade dam quick, or I'll have you strung up;' dat's w'at you'd say."
Unless Nick was intentionally fooling me, he was not to be feared. He was willing for me to believe that he had run away from the Confederates.
"But suppose I don't care whether you get back or not; there are enough niggers working on the fortifications without you. I'd like to give you a job of a different sort," said I, temptingly.
"W'at dat job you talkin' 'bout, mahsa?"
"I want you to obey my orders for one day,"
"W'at I hatto do, mahsa?"
"Go up the road with me," said I.
Nick was silent; my demand did not please him; yet if he wanted to betray me to the rebels, now was his chance. I interpreted his silence to mean that he wanted to go down the road, that is to say, that he wanted, to make his way to the Union army and to freedom. I felt so sure of this that I should not have been surprised if he had suddenly set out running down the road; yet I supposed that he was still in doubt of my character and feared a pistol-shot from me. He was silent so long that I fully made up my mind that I could trust him a little.
"Nick," said I, "look at my clothes. I am neither a Southern officer nor a Northern officer. I know what you want: you want to go to Fortress Monroe. You shall not go unless you serve me first; if you serve me well, I will help you in return. Go with me for one day, and I'll make it worth your while."
"W'at you want me to go wid you fer? W'at I hatto do?"
"Guide me," said I; "show me the way to the breastworks; show me how to see the breastworks and not be seen myself."
"Den w'at you gwine do fer me?"
It amused me to see that Nick had dropped his "mahsa." Did he think it out of place, now that he knew I was not a Southern soldier?
"Nick, I will give you a dollar for your day's work; then I will give you a note to a friend of mine, and the note will bring you another dollar and a chance to make more."
Nick considered. The dollar was tempting; as to the note, the sequel showed that he did not regard it of any importance, finally, he said that if I would make it two dollars he would be my man, I felt in my pockets, and found about four dollars, I thought, and at once closed the bargain.
"Now; Nick," said I, "here is a dollar; go with me and be faithful, and I will give you another before dark to-morrow."
"I sho' do it," said Nick, heartily; "now w'at I hatto do?"
"Where is the first Confederate post?"
"You mean dem Southern sojers?"
"Yes."
"You mean dem dat's do fust a-gwineupde road, or dem dat's fust a-comin'downde road?"
"The nearest to us in this direction," said I, pointing.
"Dey is 'bout half a mile up dis road," said Nick.
"Did you see them?"
"I seed 'em fo' true, but dey didn't see me."
"How did you keep them from seeing you?"
"I tuck to do bushes; ef dey see me, dey string me up."
"How long ago was it since you saw them?"
"Sence sundown," said Nick,
"When did you leave the breastworks?"
"Las' night."
"And you have been a whole day and night getting here?"
"In de daytime I laid up," said Nick; "caze I dunno w'en I might strak up wid 'em."
"How far have you come in all?"
"'Bout 'leben or ten mile, I reckon. I laid up in de Jim Riber swamp all day."
"Did you have anything to eat?"
"Yassa; but I ain't got nothin' now no mo'."
"Do you know where we can get anything to eat to-morrow?"
"Dat I don't; how is we a-gwine to hole out widout sum'hm to eat?"
"We must risk it. I hope we shall not suffer."
"Dis country ain't got nothin' in it," said Nick; "de folks is almos' all done gone to Richmon' er summers[1]en' I don't know w'at we's a-gwine to do; I don't. I don't know w'at we's a-gwine to do fer sum'hm to eat. And I don't know w'at I's a-gwine to do fer 'bacco nudda."
[1]Somewhere [Ed.].
"Well, Nick, I can give you a little more tobacco; but I expect you to find something to eat; if you can find it, I will pay for it."
We were wasting time; I wanted to make a start.
"Now, Nick" said I; "I want to go to Young's Mill, or as near it as I can get without being seen."
"Dat all you want to do?" asked Nick.
"No; I want to do that first; then I want to see the breastworks. First, I want to go to Young's Mill."
"W'ich Young's Mill?" asked Nick; "dey is two of 'em."
"Two?"
"Yassa; one Young's Mill is by de chu'ch on de Worrick road; de yudda one is de ole Young's Mill fudda down on de creek."
"I want the one on the Warwick road," said I.
"Den dat's all right," said Nick; "all you got to do is to keep dis straight road."
"But we must not show ourselves," said I.
"Don't you fret about dat; I don't want nobody to see me nudda; des' you follow me."
Nick left the road, I following. We went northeast for half a mile, then northwest for a mile or more, and found ourselves in the road again.
"Now we's done got aroun' 'em," said Nick; "we's done got aroun' de fust ones; we's done got aroun' 'em; dis is twicet I's done got aroun' 'em, 'en w'en I come back I's got to git aroun' 'em agin."
"How far is it to Young's Mill, Nick?"
"I 'spec' hit's 'bout fo' mile," said Nick.
We were now within the rebel lines, and my capture might mean death. We went on, always keeping out of the road. Nick led the way at a rapid and long stride, and I had difficulty in keeping him in sight. The night was getting cold, but the walk heated me. Here and there were dense clumps of small trees; at the little watercourses there was larger growth. The roar of the sea was heard no longer. It must have been about midnight.
We came upon swampy ground; just beyond it a road crossed ours.
"Stop a little, Nick," said I.
Nick came to a halt, and we talked in low tones; we could see a hundred yards in every direction.
"Where does that road go?" I asked.
"Dat road," said Nick, pointing to the left; "hit goes to ole Young's Mill."
"How far is old Young's Mill?"
"I dunno ezackly; I reckon 'bout fo' mile."
"Where does the right-hand lead?"
"Hit goes to Mis Cheeseman's," said Nick; "en' at Mis Cheeseman's dey is calvry, on' at ole Young's Mill dey is calvry, but dey is on de yudda side o' de creek."
"How far is it to Mrs. Cheeseman's?"
"I dunno ezackly; I reckon 'bout fo' mile."
We went on. The ground was again swampy. We came to a road running almost west; a church stood on the other side of the road.
"Dat's Danby Chu'ch," said Nick, "en' dat road hit goes to Worrick."
"And where does the right-hand lead?"
"Hit goes to Mis Cheeseman's," said Nick.
"And where is Young's Mill?" I asked.
"Hit's right on dis same road we's on, en not fur off, nudda."
We had now almost reached my first objective. I knew that Nick was telling me the truth, in the main, for the plan of the map was still before my mind's eye.
"Can we get around Young's Mill without being seen?" I asked.
"Dey's a picket-line dis side," said Nick.
"How far this side?"
"'Bout a quauta' en' a ha'f a quata.'"
"How near can we get to the picket-line?"
"We kin git mos' up to 'em, caze dey's got de trees cut down."
"The trees cut down in their front?"
"Yassa; dey's got mos' all de trees out down, so dey is."
"And we can get to this edge of the felled timber?"
"Yassa; we kin git to de falled timba', but we's got to go roun' de pon'."
"And if we go around the pond first; we shall then find the picket-line?"
"De picket-line at Young's Mill?"
"Yes."
"Ef we gits roun' de pon', we'll be done got roun' de picket-line, en' de trees w'at dey cut down, en' Young's Mill, en' all."
"Well, then, Nick, lead the way around the pond, and keep your eyes wide open."
Nick went forward again, but more slowly for a while; then he turned to the right, through the woods. We went a long distance and crossed a creek on a fallen log. I found that this negro could see in the darkness a great deal better than I could; where I should have groped my way, had I been alone, he went boldly enough, putting his foot down flat as though he could see where he was stepping. Nick said that there were no soldiers in these woods and swamps; they were all on the road and at Young's Mill, now a mile at our left.
At length we reached the road again. By this time I was very tired; but, not wanting to confess it, I said to Nick that we should wait by the side of the road for a while, to see if any soldiers should pass. We sat in the bushes; soon Nick was on his back, asleep, and I was not sorry to see him go to sleep so quickly, for I felt sure that he would not have done so if he had meant to betray me.
I kept awake. Only once did I see anything alarming. A single horseman came down the road at a leisurely trot, and passed on, his sabre rattling by his side. When the sound of the horse's hoofs had died away, I aroused Nick, and we continued west up the road. At last Nick stopped.
"What's the matter now, Nick?" I whispered.
"We's mos' up on dem pickets ag'in," he said.
"Again? Have we gone wrong?"
"We ain't gone wrong--but we's mos' up on dem pickets ag'in," he repeated.
"Where are we?"
"We's gittin' mos' to Worrick; ef we gits up to de place, den w'at you gwine to do?"
"I want to stay there till daylight, so that I can see them and know how many they are."
"Den w'at you gwine to do?"
"Then I want to follow their line as near as I can, going toward Yorktown."
"Den all I got to say is dat hit's mighty cole to be a-layin' out in de woods widout no fiah en' widout no kiver en' widout noth'n' to eat."
"That's true, Nick; do you know of any place where we could get an hour or two of sleep without freezing?"
"Dat's des' w'at I was a-gwine to say; fo' God it was; ef dat's w'at you gwine to do; come on."
He led the way again, going to the left. We passed through woods, then a field, and came to a farmhouse,
"Hold on. Nick," said I; "it won't do to go up to that house."
"Dey ain't nobody dah," said Nick; "all done runned off to Richmon' er summers."
The fences were gone, and a general air of desolation marked the place.
Nick went into an outhouse--a stable with a loft--- and climbed up into the loft. I climbed up after him. There was a little loose hay in the loft; we speedily stretched ourselves. I made Nick promise to be awake before sunrise, for I feared the place would be visited by the rebels.