LITTLE PUMPKIN-VINE CREEK
The log cabin looked out upon a wooded world, a world that rolled and
shimmered, gold-green, blue-green, violet-green, to horizons of bright
summer sky. In the distance, veiled with light, sprang Lost Mountain
and the cone of Kennesaw. Far or near there were hamlets—Powder
Spring, Burnt Hickory, Roxanna—north, there was the village of
Allatoona, and south, that of Dallas; but from the log cabin all were
sunk in a sea of emerald. New Hope Church was somewhere near, but its
opening, too, was hardly more than guessed at. But Pumpkin-Vine Creek
might be seen in its meanderings, and the rippling daughter stream
that the soldiers called “Little Pumpkin-Vine” flashed by the hill on
which stood the cabin.
It was a one-room-and-a-lean-to, broken-down, deserted, log-and-clay
thing. Whoever had lived in it had flown, leaving ashes on the hearth,
and a hop-vine flowering over a tiny porch. A monster pine tree,
scaled like a serpent, sent its brown shaft a hundred feet in air.
Upon the sandy hilltop grew pennyroyal. Pine and pennyroyal, the
intense sunshine drew out their strength. All the air was dryness and
warmth and a pleasant odour.
Steadying himself by the lintel Edward Cary rose from the log that
made the doorstep. A stick leaned against the wall. He took this, and
proceeded, slow-paced, to make his way to the pine tree and the low
brink of the hill above the creek. The transit occupied some minutes,
but at last he reached the pine, tired but happy. There was a
wonderful purple-brown carpet beneath. He half sat, half reclined upon
it, and leaning forward watched Désirée on her knees before a little
shallow bay of the creek. It was washerwoman’s day. There were
stepping-stones in the clear brown water, and she was across the
stream, her head downbent, very intently scrubbing.
“O saw ye bonny Lesley,”—
sang Edward,—
“As she gaed o’er the Border?
She’s gane like Alexander,
To spread her conquests further.”
Désirée straightened herself. “How did you come there? I left you
asleep. Ah, a wicked patient—a malingerer!”
“The cabin was cold, so I came out into the sun.”
She rose from her knees, took up the small heap of her washing, and,
stepping lightly from stone to stone, came to his side of the water.
Here, in a square of absolute gold, she spread the washing out to dry.
Her sleeves were rolled up to her shoulders, her thick and beautiful
hair hung braided to her knee, she looked in that quaint place like an
enchanted princess out of a rosy fairy tale.
“O my Luve’s like a red, red rose,”—
sang Edward,—
“That’s newly sprung in June:
O my Luve’s like the melodie,
That’s sweetly played in tune!—”
Désirée turned, came up the pennyroyal bank, and sat beside him on the
pine-needle carpet. Bending, he pressed his lips on her bare arm.
“As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I—”
In the distance they heard the sound of axes against the trees.
Breastworks and rifle-pits were in the making over there. Light curls
of smoke told where were camp-fires. Not far away the creek was
crossed by a wood road. Now a score of horses with three guardian men
came down to the ford to drink. Somewhere a bugle sounded. Brown and
black and grey, the horses pricked their ears; then, satisfied that it
was not battery bugle, dropped again to the cool water. Out of the
forest across Little Pumpkin-Vine came a steady, dreamy humming—voices
of the Army of Tennessee, encamped here, encamped there, in this
region south of the Etowah.
“I should like to die on a day like this,” said Désirée. “Just such a
day—and life so strong and sweet! To touch, taste, smell, hear, see,
feel, and know it all—and then to go, carrying the flavour with you!”
“With which to set up housekeeping again?”
“With which to set up housekeeping again—in a larger, better house.”
“But with old comrades?”
She let the pine needles stream through her hands. “Certainly with old
comrades. Father ... Louis ... People who used to come to Cape
Jessamine, people I have known elsewhere.... All people, in fact, and
all in better, larger houses ... all old comrades”—she turned and
kissed him—“and one lover.”
“In a better, nobler house,” said Edward. “But don’t die, Désirée—not
yet—not yet—”
The creek murmured, the wind whispered, the wild bees hummed above the
flowers. Somewhere down the stream was an army forge. _Clink! clink!_
went hammer against iron. On some hidden road, too, guns were
passing—you heard the rumble and the whinnying of the horses. In
another direction wagons were parked; there was a sense, through vague
openings in a leafy world, of the white, bubble-like tops. More horses
came to the ford to be watered. The sun grew brighter and brighter,
climbing the sky, the pine and pennyroyal more pungently alive, the
voices in the wide woods distincter, less like a dreamy wash of the
sea. The hazel bushes across the stream parted and two men appeared
with water-buckets. They dipped for their mess, adjusted their heavy
wet burdens and went away, sociably talking.
“’T was while we was fighting at Cassville. Jake thought he was
killed, but he wasn’t! Funny fellow, but you can’t help liking him!”
“That’s so! He’s got converted. Converted last meeting. Says he don’t
know but one prayer and was kind of surprised he remembered that. Says
it now before every little fight we go into. Says—
“‘_Now I lay me down to sleep,
Pray the Lord my soul to keep—_’”
“Sho! Everybody remembers that! Taught it to us most before we could
talk!
“‘_Now I lay me down to sleep,
Pray the Lord my soul to keep,
If I should die before I wake
Pray the Lord my soul to take—_’”
The hazel bushes closed and the voices died like a ripple out of
water. The light grew more golden, the shadows shorter. Late May in
Georgia was more hot than a Northern midsummer, but to-day a crisp
breeze made the heat of no moment. The air was very dry, life-giving.
A soldier with a fishing-pole made his appearance. He came along
beneath the bank and the pine tree, chose a deepish pool and a rock to
sit on, placed a tin cup with bait beside the latter, and had baited
his hook and cast the line before he observed his neighbours. He rose
and saluted, then made a movement to take up his bait-cup and proceed
downstream.
“No, no!” said Edward. “Fish ahead! But are there any fish there?”
The fisherman sat down upon the rock. “I’m not really expecting any.
But catching fish is not all there is in fishing.”
“Quite true,” said Edward, and lay back upon the purple-brown carpet.
Désirée sat with her hands about her knee, her eyes upon a vast castle
of cloud, rising pearl-bright, into the azure sky.
The fisherman fished, but caught nothing. “I expect,” he said, “that
there is good fishing in the Etowah. Looked so the day we crossed it.”
“That was a hard crossing,” said Désirée.
“Hard enough!” answered the fisherman. “But Old Joe got us across. I
am not one of the grumblers.”
“There wasn’t much grumbling.”
“That’s so! Army of Tennessee’s a right fine body of men.”
He cast again. “It’s quieter than Sleepy Hollow this morning! There
was a considerable rumpus yesterday. They say, too, that General
Wheeler got in on their rear and beat a brigade and captured two
hundred and fifty wagons. I reckon we’ll hear raindrops on the roof
before night!”
“I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“These pesky little battles,” said the fisherman. “I’ve stopped
counting them—Thought I had a bite!”
“Many a little makes a mickle.”
“That’s true! We’ve been fighting for a month, and we’re walking round
to-day like a game-cock looking at his spurs. Army of Tennessee and
Joseph E. Johnston.”
He bent his eyes upon his pole. The wind sung in the pine tree,
_clink! clink!_ went the forge downstream. The pearly cloud castle
rose higher. Off on the left, where was Hardee’s corps, a bugle
trilled as sweetly as a bird. There were a million forest odours, with
the pine, played upon by the sunshine, for dominant. The dry pure air
was life-giving.
“I gather,” said the fisherman, “that there are, on our side, two
theories as to the conduct of this war. The one wants great crashing
battles that shall force the foe to cry, ‘Hold, enough!’—‘Fight him on
sight, and without regard to odds.’ The other says, ‘We haven’t got
many men, and when they’re gone, we have no more. There’s only one set
of chessmen in this establishment. So spare your men. We’ve got a
Goliath to fight. Well, don’t rush at him!—Fence with him; maybe
you’ll prove the better fencer. Don’t strike just to be striking;
strike when you see an advantage to follow! You can’t thrash him
outright; he’s too big. But you may _wear_ him out. Giants sometimes
lack a giant patience. This one has a considerable clamour for peace
behind him at home. Save your men, strike only when there’s sense in
striking, and take Time into your councils! You may not win this way,
but you certainly won’t the other way.’ The first’s the Administration
and a considerable part of the press, and the last’s Joseph E.
Johnston.”
“‘There was a general named Fabius,’” said Edward.—“You’re a good
observer.”
“I’m a better observer than I am a fisherman,” said the disciple of
Walton.
Désirée stepped down the bank into the square of gold and gathered up
her washing. With it over one arm she returned and gave her hands to
Edward. They said good-day to the fisherman, and went away, up the
slight hill, Edward doing well with his stick and an arm over her
shoulder. They laughed like children in the sunshine.
They had what she called “tisane” for dinner—“tisane” with hard-tack
crumbled in. A drummer-boy, straying by, was given his share. They sat
on billets of wood underneath the hop-vine, ate and drank and were
happy. The boy was fourteen and small for his age. He had a shock of
sunburnt hair and a happy, freckled face, and he said that he hoped
the war would never stop. When every crumb and drop was gone, he
volunteered to “wash up,” and went whistling down to Little
Pumpkin-Vine with the tin cups and spoons and small, black kettle.
Other soldiers strayed past the cabin. An orderly appeared, sent by
officers’ mess of the ——th Virginia. He bore, together with enquiries
and messages, to-morrow’s rations. A picket detail went marching over
the hilltop. About three o’clock came a clattering of horses’ hoofs.
The hill was a fair post of observation, and here was the commanding
general with his staff. All stopped beneath the pine; Johnston pointed
with his hand, now here, now there; his chief of staff beside him
nodding comprehension.
Then the General, dismounting, came over to the cabin. “No, no! don’t
stand!” he said to Edward. “I only want to ask Mrs. Cary for a cup of
water. How is the wound to-day?”
“Very much better, sir. I’ll report for duty presently.”
“Don’t hurry,” said Johnston, with kindness. “It’s a mistake to get
well too quickly.” He had much warm magnetism, tenderness with
illness, an affectionate deference always toward women. He took the
cup of water from Désirée, thanked her, and said that evidently the
campaign had not harmed her. “Women always were the best soldiers.”
General Mackall had ridden up. “There’s many a true word said in
jest,” he remarked.
“I didn’t say it in jest, sir,” said Johnston. He mounted and gathered
up the reins, an erect and soldierly figure. “General Hood,” he said,
“is moving from Allatoona, and I have ordered Hardee’s corps back from
the Dallas and Atlanta road. There may come a general battle on this
ground. If it arrives, my dear,”—he spoke to Désirée,—“you apply for
an ambulance and leave this cabin!”
Off he rode in the golden light. At sunset came marching by the ——th
Virginia, going toward New Hope Church. The road ran behind the cabin.
Désirée helped Edward out to it, and they stood in a little patch of
sunflowers and greeted the regiment. The regiment to a man greeted
back. The colonel stopped his horse and talked, the captains smiled
and nodded, the men gave the two a cheer. It was one of the friendly,
sunshiny moments of war. The regiment was like a dear and good family;
everywhere in and out ran the invisible threads of kindliness. The
regiment passed, the rhythmic beat of feet dying from this stretch of
the road. Désirée and Edward went back to the cabin through the
languorous, Southern dusk, with the lanterns of the fire-flies
beginning, and the large moths sailing by. There was a moon, and all
night, in the wood behind the cabin, a mocking-bird was singing.
The next day and the next and the next there was fighting—not “a
great, crashing battle,” but stubborn fighting. It waxed furious
enough where Hooker struck Stewart’s division of Hood’s at New Hope
Church, and where, on the twenty-eighth, Cleburne and Wheeler met and
forced back Palmer and Howard; but when calm came again only a couple
of thousand of each colour lay dead or wounded around New Hope Church.
The calm fell on Sunday. Edward and Désirée, sitting beneath the pine
tree, marked the cannons’ diminuendo. It was a hot and heavy day and
the dead and wounded were on their hearts. Yet to them, too, it was
fearfully an everyday matter. The time to visualize what will fall
under the harrow of war is before the harrow is set in motion.
Afterwards comes in Inevitableness with iron lips, and Fatalism with
unscrutinizing gaze, and Use with filmed eyes, and Instinct with her
cry, “Do not look too closely, seeing one must keep one’s senses!” and
Old Habit with her motto, “True children do as their fathers did.”—And
so at last, on both sides, from the general to the drummer-boy, from
the civil ruler to the woman scraping lint, no one looks very closely
at what falls beneath the harrow. Madness lies that way, and in war
one must be very sane. No one escaped the taint of not looking, not
even the two beneath the pine tree.
Off in the horizon clouds were piling up. Presently there was heard a
mutter of thunder. Edward and Désirée watched the sky darken and the
big pine begin to sway. In the distance there was yet an occasional
boom of cannon. “That is toward Dallas,” said Edward. “Earth thunder
and heaven thunder.”
The lightning flashed. The earth voices began to lose out, the aërial
ones to gather strength. A wind lifted the dust and the small dry
débris of grass and herb. The old pine cones came shaking down. The
thunder began to peal. Désirée rose. “We must go indoors. It has the
right of way now—the old, old storm.”
As they reached the cabin the thunder grew loud above them. The dust
of the earth went by in a whirlwind. Rain was falling, in heavy
pellets like lead, but as yet it had not lightened the oppression. The
two leaned against the doorway and watched. A blinding flash, a sound
as of falling battlements of the sky, and the pine tree was blasted
before them.