Within a mile I expected to find Brook Run, behind which it was supposed the Confederate left extended, and where I must exercise the greatest care lest I run foul of some vedette. How to avoid stumbling on one of them in the darkness, was a problem. Very likely they were placed from a hundred to two hundred yards apart, and near the bank of the stream, if practicable, especially at night, for the stream itself would not only be their protection, but also, by its difficulty and its splashing, would betray any force which should attempt to cross to the south side.
But I found the creek very crooked, and I considered that a line of vedettes, two hundred yards apart by the course of the stream, would require probably a man to every fifty yards in a direct line, and such a line of vedettes could not well be maintained constantly--never is maintained, I think, unless an enemy's approach is momentarily feared, in which case you frequently have no vedettes at all. Following up this thought I concluded that the vedettes were, most likely, watching their front from the inner bends of the stream, and that, at a bend which had its convex side toward the north, was my opportunity.
I was not long in finding such a bend. And now my caution became very great, and my advance very slow. The bank sloped, but was almost completely hidden in the darkness. I could not see the edge of the water.
Lying flat, I thrust the butt of my gun ahead of me, and moved it up and down and right and left, trying the inequalities of the ground. To make no sound required the very greatest care; a slip of an inch might have caused a loud splash.
Slowly I gained ground until I reached the water, and stood in it to my knees. I listened--not a sound. I slowly moved forward, raising my foot not an inch from the muddy bottom, straining eye and ear to note the slightest sign of danger. The water deepened to my middle.
I crawled up the further bank. Again I lent ear. Nothing. I crawled forward for fifty yards or more, hoping, rather than believing, that I was keeping halfway between the sides of the bend.
I rested a while, for such work is very hard. Before a minute had passed I heard a noise--and another: one at my right, the other at my left. The sounds were repeated. I knew what they meant--the vedette on either side of me was being relieved. My course had been right--I was midway between two sentinels.
How to get through the picket-line ahead of me? I reasoned that the pickets were not in the swamp, but on the edge of the hills. Lying there between the two vedettes I imagined a plan. I knew that a picket-line is relieved early in the day when troops are in position, as the armies were now. If I could see the relief coming, I would show myself just at the time it arrived, hoping that each party would take me to belong to the other.
But suppose I should not see the relieving company, or suppose any one of a thousand things should at the last moment make my plan impracticable, what then?
I saw that I must have some other plan to fall back on; I would make some other plan as I crawled forward.
At what moment should I strike the line of Confederate pickets? That the country outside was in their cavalry lines I well knew, and I hoped that for this reason their infantry would be less watchful; but this thought did not make me any the less prudent and slow in my advance. I had easily succeeded in passing the vedettes; to avoid the vedette reliefs might not be easy.
When I reached the edge of the swamp, daylight was just beginning to show. Could I hope to remain long between vedettes and pickets? Impossible. But impossible is a strong word, I thought. Why not climb? Trees were all around me; I might easily hide in the thick boughs of a cedar near by. But that would do me no good; at least, it could do no good unless in case of sudden necessity. I must get through the picket-line; outside I could do nothing. Once in rear of the Confederate pickets, I should have little or no trouble in remaining for days in the camps and in the main lines; getting through was the difficulty. Daylight was increasing.
Had it taken me two hours to crawl from the line of vedettes to this edge of the swamp? The question rose in my mind from seeing a relief come down the hill at my right; two men, supposably a non-commissioned officer and a private, were going to pass in fifty yards of me. I let them pass. They went into the swamp. Five minutes later two men returned by the same route, or almost so, but came a little nearer to me; I saw them coming and felt for my glass, but did not find it. I supposed that Dr. Khayme had forgotten to put it in my haversack. Yet the men--no doubt the same non-commissioned officer, with the private he had just relieved from duty as a vedette--passed so near me that I could distinctly see their dress, and could note its worn and bedraggled appearance. These men had seen hard service, evidently.
Five minutes more passed. The east was aglow with day. Two men at my left were now coming down the hill. They passed into the swamp. These men wore uniforms fresh and clean.
The thought came upon me at once that I had passed between two vedettes belonging to different regiments. I cast about for some way to take advantage of this circumstance, but racked my brains to no purpose. Finally, however, an odd idea was born. Could I not go back to the vedettes, and talk to either the right or the left man of the connecting line? He would probably think that I belonged to the command joining his. No doubt I could do this; but what should I gain? I should merely be losing time.
Then another idea came. Could I not post myself as a Confederate vedette between the connecting men? But for what? Even if I could do so there was no profit in this romantic idea. I gave it up.
Yet I must do something. I considered the chances of going forward boldly, walking straight between two pits, and on up the hill. The pickets would see that I was a Confederate. If I could strike between the connecting pits of the two commands, the thing might be done. Yet I wanted a better way.
Before the second relief had returned I was hidden in the boughs of a tree. The corporal and a man passed back as they had come. They were talking, but I could not hear what they said.
I watched them from the tree. A gully was in front of me, a large gully, only in parts visible from my position; it seemed to be on their route. The two men became hidden by this gully. I saw them no more. My interest was excited. Why had the men gone into this gully? There was smoother ground outside. They had a purpose; I must find it out.
Until the next relief should come I was comparatively safe. I was on neutral ground, or unobserved ground, for an hour at least. I could not know whether the reliefs came as ordinarily--once every two hours. There would probably be nobody passing between vedettes and pickets--unless, indeed, some officer should go the rounds of the sentinels; that was something I must risk.
I came down from the tree and cautiously approached the mouth of the gully. I climbed another tree, from which I had a better view. I could now see that the gully extended far up the hill, and I suspected that the picket-line stretched across it; but there was no indication of the purpose which had caused the men to go into the gully. My position was a good one, and I waited. I could see a part of the picket-line--that is, not the men, but the rifle-pits.
Ten minutes went by. Coming down the hill from the right in an oblique direction toward the gully, I saw an unarmed rebel. He disappeared. He had gone down into this gully, which, I was now confident, separated by its width the pickets of different commands. What could this unarmed man be doing in the gully? Nothing for me to do but to wait; I was hoping that an opportunity had been found.
Soon I saw another man coming down toward the gully; he was coming from the other side--the left; he was armed. At nearly the same instant the unarmed man reappeared; his back was toward me, he held his canteen in his hand. The situation was clear; there was water in the gully; my opportunity had come.
I came down from the tree. Almost an hour would be mine before the vedettes were relieved. Cautiously I made my way to the mouth of the gully. I lay flat and watched. A man was climbing the side of the gully; he was going to the left; he was armed--doubtless the man I had seen a moment before. I went into the gully. I must get to that spring or pool, or whatever it was, before another man should come.
Before the man had reached the picket-line, I was at the spring--and it was a good one, at least for that swamp. A little hollow had been made by digging with bayonets, perhaps, or with the hands, on one side of the gully, just where a huge bulk of unfallen earth would protect the hole from the midday sun, the only sun which could reach the bottom of this ravine, defended by its wall on either hand. The hole was so small that only one canteen could be filled at a time; but the water was good compared with that of the Chickahominy. Doubtless it was the difficulty of getting pure water that justified the relaxation of discipline which permitted the men to have recourse to this spring in rear of their vedette lines.
Canteen in hand, I sat down by the spring. Fully three minutes I sat and waited. Seeing how muddy I was, I took out my knife and began scraping the mud from my shoes and clothing.
I heard a step. I put my canteen into the water and held it down with one hand, continuing, to scrape mud with the other.
"Fill mine, too," said a voice.
I did not look up.
"Ain't this a swamp to read about? Did you ever see the likes o' mosquitoes?"
"I couldn't see 'em," said I; "supposing you mean whilst I was on vydette."
He laughed. "Bet you had to fight 'em, though. Say--you won't git that mud off that-away; let it dry."
I did not reply. He was standing almost over me, upon a sort of shelf in the side of the gully, as there was not room at the water for more than one man.
"Gimme your canteen," said I.
He handed it to me. It was a bright new tin canteen of the cheap Confederate make--uncovered. I knew at once that this man belonged to the fresh regiment. The old Confederates had supplied themselves, from battlefields and prisoners, and the greater capture of stores, with good Union canteens. Even while I was thinking this, he said, "What'll you take to boot 'twixt your canteen and mine?"
"Don't want to swap," said I.
I filled his canteen.
"Now, gimme your hand," said I.
He held out his hand, which I grasped, and he pulled hard; it took two pulls to bring me to his side. I did not look at him, but knew that he was a small man.
He turned away. I followed him. I could see that his uniform was new. We reached the edge of the gully, and stood still.
Now I could see the pits. The gully was deeper up the hill. There was a pit on either edge of the gully, which was about forty feet wide. Had I known of the existence of that gully, I could have stolen through the picket-line in the night--but perhaps they had it guarded at night.
"Say," said my companion, "why didn't you go back on your own side?"
"Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no lies," said I.
He was two steps ahead of me--a man of small stature. His shoes and his clothing up to his knees were almost as muddy as mine. He walked slowly up the hill. In a very few minutes we should be within the picket-line; it took all my will to preserve composure; I was glad the man was in front of me. We stepped slowly up the hill.
I could see nobody at the pits. The pickets were lying down, probably, half of them asleep, the other half awake but at ease, I was wishing my leader would speak again. The nervous tension was hard. What should I do when we reached the line? I had no plan, except to walk on. I wished my leader would continue to march, and go past the pits--then I could follow him; the trivial suggestion aroused self-contempt; I was thinking of straws to catch at. I must strengthen my will.
He had made four steps; he said, "Sun's up."
This was not much of an opening. I managed to respond, "Don't see it, myself."
"Look at that big pine up yonder," said he.
"Be another hot day," said I; "wish I was up there."
"What for?"
"So I could get some sleep."
"You won't git any down here in this old field; that's shore."
"That's what's a-troublin' me," said I; "and I've got to take care of myself."
"Ben sick?"
"No, not down sick; but the hot sun don't do me any good."
"Bilious, I reckon," said he.
"No," said I, "not bilious; it's my head."
"Bet I'd go to the surgeon, then, ef it was me," he said.
"Wish Icouldsee the Doctor," I replied, spelling the word, mentally, with a capital.
"Well, why don't you tell your captain to let you go back?"
"You don't know my captain," said I.
"Hard on you, is he?"
"Well, hard ain't the word; but I wouldn't risk asking him out here."
"BetI'dgo, anyhow, ef it was me," said he.
"If he should see me going, know what he'd do?"
"What?"
"Send a man after me."
"Well, you jest come along with, me. Betourmen won't stop you; you don't belong tothem."
This was just what I wanted; but I was afraid to show any eagerness. We were almost at the picket-line, and I had no doubt that my friend was marching straight toward his own rifle-pit; he was surely on the left of his company--he was such a small man.
"Stop," said I.
He halted, and turned to me. He was a good-looking young fellow. He had the palmetto button on his coat. Our eyes met.
"You won't give me away?" I said.
"What do you take me for?" he asked.
"Oh, you're all right; but if you should happen to say anything to anybody, it might get out. If you won't tell any of your men, I'll go."
"Oh, come along; you needn't be afeared of my tellin' on you. I don't know your name, and--not to cause hard feelin's--I don't want to know it; come on."
He stopped at the pit on the edge of the gully. I passed on. I saw men lying, sitting, and a very few standing down the line at some of the other pits. I heard no talk. The men at the pit where my friend had halted did not speak to me. There was nothing to cause them to speak. He handed his canteen to one of the men; even this man did not speak; he drank.
I walked up the hill, going straight toward the big pine. The sun itself could now be seen. What I have narrated had not taken five minutes, for the pits were not more than a hundred yards from the edge of the swamp.
Now, once out of sight of the picket-line, I should feel safe. How far in the rear the Confederate fortifications were, I could not yet tell--but that mattered little; I should have no fears when I reached them.
As long as I thought it possible that I could be seen from the pits I went toward the big pine; soon I knew that I was hidden by bushes, and I went as rapidly as I could walk in a southeast direction for nearly an hour. I passed in full sight of the picket-line in many places, and fortifications far to my right could be seen upon the hills. My purpose was to enter the main Confederate entrenchments as nearly as possible opposite New Bridge--opposite the position from which, I had started on the night before.
The sun was an hour high. I had come three miles, I thought; I sat in a shady place and endeavoured to think what course was best. I believed I had come far enough. I had nothing to do but go forward. I could see parts of fortifications. No one would think of hindering my entrance. I would go into the lines; then I would turn to the right and follow out my instructions.
Again I started, and reached the brow of the hill; it was entirely bare of trees. Three or four hundred yards in front were lines of earthworks. I did not pause; I went straight ahead.
A body of men marched out of the breastworks--about a company, I thought. They were marching forward; their line of march would bring them near me. I held my course. I judged that the company was some regiment's picket for the next twenty-four hours; they were going to relieve the last night's pickets.
The last man of the company had hardly appeared: suddenly I heard a cannon roar, apparently from a Federal battery almost directly in my rear, and at the instant a shell had shrieked far above my head.
At once the Confederates replied. I did not think that I was in any danger, as the shells went high in the air in order to attain their object on the other side of the Chickahominy.
The company of infantry had countermarched, and was again behind the line of earthworks.
I looked around for shelter from the Federal cannon; although the shells went high, it would be folly for me to go forward into the place of danger. The hill was bare. There was no depression, no tree, no fence, nothing but the open wind-swept hill--desolate and bare. I was on this bare hill.
A man passed me from the rear. He was armed. He, too, like myself, had no doubt come from the picket-line.
"Better leg it!" he cried--and I legged it with him, making for the breastworks.
The shells from the rear seemed to fly over at a less height.
One of the shells burst over my head.
Suddenly I saw my companion throw up one hand--his left hand--with great violence, and fall flat; hardly was I conscious that I saw him fall; at the instant there was a deafening noise, and I was conscious of nothing.
"I am mainly ignorantWhat place this is; and all the skill I haveRemembers not these garments; nor I know notWhere I did lodge last night."--SHAKESPEARE.
"I am mainly ignorantWhat place this is; and all the skill I haveRemembers not these garments; nor I know notWhere I did lodge last night."--SHAKESPEARE.
"Who is it?"
"Don't know."
My head pained me. I opened my eyes. The blue sky was over me now. A gently swaying motion lifted and lowered me.
"Hurt bad?"
"Head mashed."
"Anybody else?"
"One more, andhe's gone!"
I could not see the speakers ... I tried to turn my head, but could not.
I turned my eyes to the right, then to my left; the motion of my eyes threatened to break something in my head.
I saw nothing but the trees, which seemed to move back slowly, and to become larger and smaller.
Great thirst consumed me. I tried to speak, but could not.
The swaying motion continued. The trees rose and fell and went by. The blue sky was over me. I did not stir.
How long this lasted I did not know. I was hardly conscious that I was conscious.
I heard a word now and then: "Look out there!" "Hold on!" "Wait a second!"
A moment before, I had walked out of the hotel among the pines ... these are not pines; they are oaks. A moment before, the night sky had been overcast with rain-clouds ... now the sky is blue over my head, and the sun is hot. My head whirs with pain and fear--fear of insanity. I have been hurt; I have been unconscious ... I cannot recollect what hurt me....
But no; there was no mental danger, for my senses were returning. I could feel that I was being borne, in a way unknown to me, by some unknown men. I could not see the men, but I could hear them step,--sometimes very clumsily, causing me renewed pain,--and I could hear them speak, and breathe heavily.
Now I thought I could see tents, and great fear came on me.
We passed between objects like tents, and went on; we were in a field, or some open space; I could see no trees. Then I heard, or thought I heard, a voice cry out strange syllables, "Hep! Hep! Hep!"--and again, "Hep! Hep! Hep!"
Well, well ... this is a dream; I'll soon wake up; but it is vivid while it lasts.
Yet the strange dream continued. How long had I been dreaming? I dreamed that the men came to a stop. They lowered me to the ground.
I looked at them. They were looking at me. Their faces were strange. They were dirty. They were clothed alike. I closed my eyes. I tried to think.
"There he goes again," said a voice.
I felt a hand on my wrist. I opened my eyes. I saw a face bending over me. The face rose. It was a good face. This man's head was bare. He had spectacles. He was not dirty.
"Bring him in," said the man with the good face.
I was lifted again. I was taken into a tent ... certainly a tent. There were low beds in the tent--pallets on the ground. There were forms on the beds.
The men laid me on a bed. They straightened my limbs. Then one of them raised me from behind, and another took off my coat, or I supposed so, though I did not clearly see. Then they went away.
I was thirsty. I tried to speak, but could not speak. The man with the spectacles came to me. He said: "I am going to dress your head. You are not hurt badly."
My head was paining me, then, because I had been hurt? Yes, that must be true. If this was a dream, this part of it was not unreasonable. The man went away.
But did I ever have such a nightmare before? I had supposed that people awoke before they were hurt.
The man came again. He brought a bowl of water and a spoon. He raised my head, and put a spoonful of water to my lips. I tried to open my mouth, but could not.
He called, "William!" A negro man came. The negro took my head in his hands. The man with the spectacles opened my mouth, and put water into it. I swallowed. Then he put the bowl to my lips and I drank. Both went away.
The man with the spectacles came again. I could see scissors in his hand. He turned me so that I lay on my side. He began to hurt me; I groaned.
"I won't be long about it," he said; "I am only cutting your hair a little, so that I can get at you."
Then I felt my head getting cold--wet, I thought; then I felt my head get warm; soon I was turned again, and lay on my back.
"Now," said the man, "I'll give you some more water if you'll promise to go to sleep."
I could not promise, though I wanted the water, and wanted to go to sleep so that this strange dream might be ended. Then I laughed inwardly at the thought of banishing dreams by sleeping.
The man brought a glass, and held it to my lips, and I drank. The water did not taste so good as the first draught did.
I closed my eyes; again the thought came that the dream would soon be over.
When I opened my eyes, I knew it was night. A lighted candle was near me. I was lying on my side. I had turned, or had been turned, while asleep. Near me was a man on a bed; beyond him was another man on another bed ... a great fear seized me; drops of cold sweat rolled down my face.... Where was I? What was I?
My head began to throb. I heard heavy breathing. I tried to remember how I had been brought to this place. It seemed like the place of ... had I dreamed? Yes, I had dreamed that I had drunk much water; my throat was parched.
A face bent over me. It was a man's face. I had seen it in my dream ... then I was not yet awake? I was still dreaming? Or, if I was awake, maybe I had not dreamed? Can this man and these men and this tent and this pain all be real? No; certainly not. When I awake I shall laugh at this dream; I shall write it out, because it is so complex and strange.
The man, said, "You feel better now, don't you?"
I tried to reply. I could not speak, though my lips moved. The man brought water, and I drank. He sat by me, and put his fingers on my wrist.
"You'll be all right in a day or two," he said. I hoped that his words would come true; then I wondered how, in, a dream, I could hope for a dream to end. He went away.
I tried hard to think, but the effort increased the pain in my head. I felt cramped, as though I had lain long in one posture. I tried to turn, but was able only to stretch my legs and arms.
The man came again. He looked at me; then, he knelt down and raised my head. I felt better. He pulled something behind me, and then went away, leaving me propped up.
Daylight was coming. The light of the candle contrasted but feebly against the new light. I could see the pallets. On each was a man. There were five. I counted,--one, two, three, four, five; five sick men. I wondered if they were dreaming also, and if they were all sick in the head ... no; no; such fantasy shows but more strongly that all this horrible thing is unreal.
I counted again,--one, two, three, four, five,six; how is that?
Oh, I see; I have counted myself, this time.
Myself? What part or lot have I with these others? Who are they? Who am I? I know nothing--nothing.
The man stood over me. I knew that he was a doctor. He said, "Are you easier?"
I could not reply. He went away.
I closed my eyes, and again tried to think; again the effort brought increased pain. I could hear a whirring noise in my ears. I tried to sleep. I tried to quit thinking.
When I opened my eyes, the sun was shining. One side of the tent was very bright.
A negro man came. I remembered that his name was William. He brought a basin of water and a towel and sponge. He sponged my face and hands, and dried them with the towel. Then he said, "Can you eat some breakfast?" I could not reply.
The men on the pallets--five--were awake. They said nothing. The doctor was kneeling by one of the pallets--the one next to me. The man on the pallet groaned. The doctor said something to him. I could not tell what the doctor said. The man groaned.
Another man, propped up on his pallet, was eating. I began to feel hungry.
William brought a cup of tea, with a piece of biscuit floating in it. He raised my head and put the cup to my lips. I drank. William went away.
The sun was making the tent very warm. Many sounds came from outside. What caused the sounds I did not know. I was near enough to the railroad to hear the cars, but I knew the sounds were not from cars. I could hear shouting, as if of wagoners.
All at once, I heard thunder--no; it could not be thunder; the sun was shining. Yet, it might be thunder; a storm might be coming.
I wished that I was back in the hotel. I was sick, and it would not do for me to get wet; this wagoner's tent was not the place for a sick man in a storm.
But ... was there a hotel? The hotel was a dream--this was the reality. I know nothing.
The doctor came. He looked at me, and smiled. I tried to smile in return, for I liked him. "That's right," he said.
The doctor knelt by the pallet next to mine--that of the man who had groaned. The man was not groaning now.
The doctor rose. I could see the sick man's face--white. The doctor drew the sheet over the man's white face. The doctor went out of the tent. A cold sweat was on me.
Some men came in--four men. Each man took the pallet by a corner. They took the pallet out of the tent. They did not come back.
Again I heard thunder. The sun was still shining. The heat was great--great enough, I thought, to bring a storm even in October. I had never before known it so warm.
Why should so many wagoners be sick at once? And why should I be with them? I began to fear that I had been sick for a great many days; I thought that I had been unconscious.
The doctor came in. A man was with him. The man had a book in his hand--a book and a pencil.
Now I could see some gilt badges on the doctor's collar. On his arms were some gilt stripes--and gilt stripes on the arms of the other man also. These men must be officers, I thought, perhaps officers of the Citadel battalion[5]. I wondered what I should be doing in their world. Then again came the thought that I had been unconscious, and for how long I did not know.
[5]"The Citadel" is the Military Academy of South Carolina in Charleston. [ED.]
But, no; it can be nothing else than a dream!
The man with the book wrote something in it. Then he showed the book to the doctor, and gave him the pencil. The doctor wrote in the book, and gave the pencil and the book back to the man. The man with the book went out of the tent.
The doctor came to me. He raised his right hand as high as his shoulder. The first finger and the middle finger were stretched out; the other fingers were closed. He was smiling. I looked at his hand and at his face, and wondered.
He said, "Look! How many?"
I said, "Two."
He laughed aloud. "I thought so; we're getting on--we're doing famously."
He sat down by me, on some sort of a stool--one of those folding stools. He began to dress my head.
"Your name is Jones?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied, wondering, yet pleased with the sign of good-will shown by his calling me by my first name.
"What edge are you?"
I was silent. I did not understand the question.
"What edge are you?" he repeated.
I was not so sure this time that I had heard aright. Possibly he had used other words, but his speech sounded to me as if he said, "What edge are you?"
I thought he was meaning to ask my age.
I replied, "Twenty-one." My voice was strange to me.
"You mean the twenty-first?" he asked.
"I am in my twenty-second," I said.
"The twenty-second what?" said he.
"Year," said I, greatly astonished.
He smiled, then suddenly became serious, and went away.
After a while he came back. "Do you know what I asked you?" he inquired.
"No," said I.
"Then why did you say twenty-one and twenty-second?"
"That is my age," said I.
"Oh!" said he; "but I did not ask your age. You did not hear?"
"No," said I.
"What is your reg-i-ment?" he asked very distinctly.
Now it was clear enough that all this thing was a dream. For a man in real life to ask such a question, it was impossible. I felt relieved of many fears.
"What are you smiling at?" he asked.
"I've been dreaming," I said.
"And your dream was pleasant?"
"No," said I.
"You smile then at unpleasant things?"
"No," said I.
"I don't understand you," said he.
"Neither do I," said I.
"What is your regiment?" he asked.
"Why do you ask such a question?"
"It is my duty. I have to make a report of your case. Give me an answer," said he.
"I have no regiment," I said.
"Try to remember. Do you know that you have been unconscious?"
"Yes."
"Well, you are better now; and you will soon be well, and I shall have to send you back to your regiment."
"What do you mean by a regiment?" I asked.
At this he looked serious, and went away, but soon returned and gave me a bitter draught.
I went into a doze. My mind wandered over many trifles. I was neither asleep nor awake. My nose and face itched. But the pain in my head was less violent.
After a while I was fully awake. The pain had returned. The doctor was standing by me.
"Where do you live when you are at home?" he asked.
The question came with something like a shock. I did not know how to reply. And it seemed no less strange to know that thus far I had not thought of home, than to find that I did not know a home,
"Where is your home?" he repeated.
"I do not remember," I said.
"Where were you yesterday?"
"I was at the hotel on the hill," I said.
He laughed in a peculiar way. Then he said, "You think you are in South Carolina?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Are you not one of Gregg's men?"
"No," said I.
"You don't belong to Gregg's regiment?"
"No," said I.
"Nor to Gregg's brigade?"
"Soldiers, you mean?"
"Yes," he replied.
"Are there soldiers camped here?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied.
"I am not one of them," I said.
"Try to remember," he said, and went away.
The more I tried to remember, the more confused I was, and the more did I suffer pain. I could see now that what I had taken for a wagoners' camp was a soldiers' camp. But why there should be soldiers here was too hard for me. This doctor with gilt stripes must be a surgeon.
The doctor came again.
"How are you now, Jones?" he asked.
"Better, I trust," said I.
"You will be fit for duty in less than a week," he said.
"Fit for duty?"
"Yes."
"What duty?"
"Do you mean to insist that you are not a soldier?"
"I am not a soldier," I said.
"Then why do you wear a uniform?"
"I have never been a soldier; I have never worn uniform; you are taking me for another man."
"You have on the uniform now," said he.
He brought a coat and showed me the brass buttons on it.
"Your buttons are like mine--palmetto buttons."
"Palmetto buttons?" I repeated, wondering.
"Yes; you say you are in South Carolina?"
"Yes," I assented. "Is that my coat?"
"Yes. What district?"
"I don't know--yes, Barnwell."
"Who is your captain?"
"I have never had a captain." Then, by a great effort, I said, "I don't understand at all this talk about soldiers and captains. Do you belong to the Citadel battalion?"
"No," he said; "you mean the Charleston Citadel?
"Yes."
"Did you go to the Citadel?"
"No; I think not," said I.
"Why do you refer to the Citadel battalion?"
"They are soldiers," I replied.
"Did you ever hear of President Davis--Jeff Davis?"
"No," said I.
"You know something of Charleston?"
"I've been there, I think."
"When?"
"Well; not very long ago."
"How long? Try to think."
"I am greatly confused," I said. "I don't know whether I am awake or dreaming."
"Ask me questions," said the doctor.
"Where am I?"
"In the field hospital."
"What am I here for? What is the field hospital? I did not know there was a hospital here."
"Where do you think you are?"
"In Aiken," I said.
"Do you live in Aiken?"
"I don't know, Doctor. I suppose you are a doctor?"
"Yes, when I'm at home; here I am a surgeon. Ask me more questions."
"Give me some water," said I.
He brought the water, and I drank.
"Am I not in Aiken?"
"You are not now in Aiken," said the doctor. "Try to remember whether your home is in Aiken."
"No, I am staying here for a time," said I.
"Where is your home?"
"I do not know anything," said I, gloomily.
"Ask me more questions," said the doctor; "we must try to get you out of this."
"Out of this what?"
"This condition. You have been hurt, and you cannot put things together yet. It will come right after a little, if you don't get irritable."
"I hope so," said I.
"Ask more questions," said he.
"How did I get here?"
"You were brought here unconscious, or almost so, by my infirmary men."
"What men?"
"Infirmary men."
"What are they?"
"Well," said he, "they are my helpers."
"I knew something strange had happened. How did I get hurt?"
"Do you know how long you were in Aiken?"
"I came here yesterday, and expected to stay two or three days; but from what you tell me I suppose I am not here now."
"Where were you before you went to Aiken?"
"I don't know."
"Were you not in Charleston?"
"I was in Charleston, but it might have been after I was in Aiken."
His look became very serious at this--in truth, what I had said was puzzling to myself.
"I think you belong to Gregg's brigade, very likely to Gregg's regiment. I shall be obliged to leave you now, but you need something first."
He gave me another bitter draught of I know not what, and went out of the tent.
To say what I thought would be impossible. I thought everything and nothing.
Again that thunder.
The best I had in this bewilderment was trust in the doctor. I believed he would clear up this fog in my brain; for that my brain was confused I could no longer doubt. The doctor was hopeful--that was my comfort. He had given me medicine every time I felt worse; he was certainly a good doctor. I felt soothed: perhaps the medicine was helping me.
When I awoke, the sun was low. The doctor was by me.
"You have been talking in your sleep," he said.
"What did I say?" My brain now seemed a little clearer.
"Nothing of consequence. You mentioned the names of several persons--you said something about Butler, and something also about Brooks and Sumner."
"Was Brooks from Aiken?"
"What Brooks?"
"I don't remember," I said.
"I was sure that you belong to a South Carolina regiment," he said.
"No, Doctor; I don't belong to any regiment, and I don't understand your talk about regiments. Why should there be regiments?"
"Do you see these men?" asked the doctor, pointing to the pallets; "they have been wounded in battle."
I looked at him closely. He seemed sober and sane, although his words were wild.
"We are at war," he continued. "Tell me," he added suddenly, "tell me what day of the month this is."
"The nineteenth," said I.
"How do you know?"
"Because I read yesterday the AugustaConstitutionalistof the eighteenth," said I.
"Now that's the kind of answer I like," said he; "your head is getting well. Eighteenth of what?"
"October; I think this is very warm weather for October," said I.
"It is indeed," said he.
"I suppose there was a storm somewhere," said I; "I heard thunder."
"I did not hear any thunder," said he.
"Then maybe it was part of my dream," I said.
"What else did you dream?"
"I dreamed that I saw a dead man carried out of the tent."
"Can you trust me?" asked the doctor.
"Yes."
"How old did you say you are?"
"Twenty-one."
"Do you know in what year you were born?"
"Yes; to be sure--thirty-eight."
"Thirty-eight and twenty-one make how much?"
"Fifty-nine," said I.
"I think I'd better give you some medicine," said he.
I took the draught. In a very short time I began to feel strangely calm--in fact, almost stupid. The doctor sat by my side.
"You can trust me?"
"Yes."
"You belong to a South Carolina regiment," he said.
I looked at him, and said nothing.
"I know just what you are thinking," said he, smiling; "you are thinking that one of us two is crazy."
"Yes," said I.
"But you are wrong, at least in regard to yourself. You are suffering a little in the head, but there is no longer any danger to your brain at all."
"I think I am dreaming," said I.
"Well," said he, "continue to think so; that will do no harm."
He went away, but soon returned--I say soon, but I may be wrong in that.
"How do you get on with that dream of yours?" he asked; "what have you dreamed while I wan gone?"
"Confusion," said I; "nothing but confusion."
"If a man is dreaming, will a sharp pain awake him?"
"I suppose so."
"Well, let me try it," and he opened his lancet.
I shrank, and he laughed.
"You are beginning to understand that many things have happened since you were in Aiken?"
I made a motion of my head--moaning half assent.
"You will end by remembering your broken experience," he said, "but it may take some time. Your case is more stubborn than I thought."
"How did I get hurt?" I asked.
"You were knocked down," said he.
"Who did it?" I asked.
"Don't precisely know," said he; "but it makes no difference which one did it; we all know that you were in the right."
"There was a quarrel?" I asked.
"A big one," said he; "I think it best to relieve your curiosity at once by telling you what has happened in the world. If I did not, you would make yourself worse by fancying too much, and you would become more and more bewildered. I can put you right. But can you make up your mind to accept the situation as it is, and bear up in the hope that you will come right in the end?"
I did not reply. I do not know what feeling was uppermost in my mind. It was not anxiety, for my interest in others was pure blank. It was not fear, for he had assured me that my physical condition was more favourable.
"Yes," he continued; "it is best to tell you the truth, and the whole truth, lest your fancy conjure up things that do not exist. After all, there is nothing in it but what you might have reasonably expected when you were in Aiken in eighteen fifty-nine."
"How long have I been in this condition?" I asked.
"This condition? Only since yesterday morning."
"Then why do you say eighteen fifty-nine?"
"Your present condition began yesterday; but it is also true--or at least seems to be true--that you do not remember your experience from October eighteen fifty-nine until yesterday."
"You mean for me to believe that eighteen fifty-nine has all gone?"
"Yes--all gone--in fact, this is summer weather."
I remembered the heat of the past day, and the thunder. Yet it was hard for me to believe that I had been unconscious for six months--but, no; he was not saying I had been unconscious for six months--nobody could live through such a state--he was telling me that I could not remember what I had known six months ago.
"What month is this?" I asked.
"June," said he; "June 4th."
"From October to June is a long time," I said.
"Yes, and many things have happened since October eighteen fifty-nine," said he.
"Doctor, are you serious?" I asked.
"On my honour," said he.
"And I have lost eight months of my life?"
"Oh, no; only the memory of the past, and that loss is but temporary. You will get right after a while."
"And what have I been doing for the past eight months?"
"That is what I've been trying to find out," said he; "I am trying now to find your regiment."
"There you go again about my regiment. Do you expect me to accept that?"
"You said you could trust me," he replied; "why should I deceive you? Tell me why you think I may be deceiving you."
"Because--" said I.
"Because what?"
"I fear that you are hiding a worse thing in order to do me good."
"But I gave you my word of honour, and I give it again. These hills around you are covered by an army."
"Where are we?" I asked, in wonder.
"We are near Richmond; within five miles of it."
"What Richmond?"
"In Virginia."
"And what broughtmehere? Why should I be here?"
"You came here voluntarily, while you were in good health, no doubt, and while your mind acted perfectly."
"But why should I have come?"
"Because your regiment was ordered to come."
"And why should there be an army?"
"Because your country was invaded. You volunteered to defend your country, and your regiment was ordered here."
"Country invaded? Volunteered?"
"Yes."
"Then we are at war?"
"Yes."
"With England?"
"No; not with England, with the United States."
I laughed gayly, perhaps hysterically.
"Now I know that this is a dream," said I.
"Why?"
"The idea of the United States being at war with itself!" I laughed again.
"Take this," said he, and he gave me another potion. He waited a few minutes for the medicine to affect me. Then he said, "Can you remember how many states compose the United States?"
"Thirty-three, I believe," said I.
"There were thirty-three, I suppose, in eighteen fifty-nine," said he; "but now there are not so many. Eleven of the states--the most of the Southern states--have seceded and have set up a government of their own. We call ourselves the Confederate States of America. Our capital is Richmond. The Northern states are at war with us, trying to force us back into the Union, as they call it. War has been going on for more than a year."
"What!"
"Yes," said he; "all these great events required more than eight months."
"More than a year!" I exclaimed; "what year is this?"
"Here is my record," said he; "here is yesterday's record."
He opened it at a page opposite which was a blank page. The written page was headed June 3,1862. Below the heading were written some eight or ten names,--Private Such-a-one, of Company A or B, such a regiment; Corporal Somebody of another regiment, and so on. Upon one line there was nothing written exceptB. Jones.
Then the doctor brought me a newspaper, and showed me the date. The paper was the RichmondExaminer; the date, Wednesday, June 4, 1862.
"This is to-day's paper," said the doctor.
I laughed.
He continued: "Yes, war has been going on for more than a year. The great effort of the United States army is to take Richmond, and the Confederates have an army here to defend Richmond. Here," he added, "I will show you."
He went to the door of the tent and held back the canvas on both sides.
"Look!"
I looked with all my eyes. My vision was limited to a narrow latitude. I could see tents, their numbers increasing as perspective broadened the view. I could see many men passing to and fro.
"You see a little of it," said he; "the lines extend for miles."
I did not laugh. My hands for the first time went up to my face; I wanted to hide my eyes from a mental flash too dazzling and too false; at once my hands fell back.
I had found a beard on my face, where there had been none before.