In Which Appears a General of Division, and One of "the Brethren."
If Gard entered the war, as he claimed, in the theory of a spiritual
adventure, it must be hinted that he had sometimes lost sight of his
theory. Outside events had shown a tendency to usurp and absorb in the
process of the happening. It was not so noticeable during the first nine
months. He marched, drilled, felt the rain and the cold wind at night in
the open, heard the enemy's guns, saw bleeding men carried by from the
distant field, and shared in what was called "the defence of
Washington," a matter that did not seem difficult or exciting beyond
reason. He was made a sergeant--a purely outside event. There was
leisure to watch the scene, to keep one's poise, to experiment with
existence. If at times his old sense of separateness, of isolation among
objects, scenes, and persons whose importance to him was only in their
inner effect upon him--if this sense at times seemed less vivid than
before, and the movements of men in masses, the common enthusiasms, made
him feel that his solitary journeying was in some mystical way
accompanied by watching myriads with the same forward step and shadowy
goal, it was rather a passing, a recurrent sensation.
But with the middle of spring came three months of storm and
stress in the Virginia peninsula. He came out of the ranks by
reason of some inscrutable opinion of him conceived and reported to
authorities--something connected with an expedition through a swamp--was
promoted because there were no other officers to speak of in the company
when the army reached its new base at last on the James River.
He looked back curiously now to the tumult of those weeks, a period when
he could not remember to have remembered himself, a long night of
irrelevant dreams, the sense of identity lost in the dull confusion,
himself going and coming, ordering and obeying, seeing difficulties and
finding solutions with a set of surface faculties, the soul within him
torpid, at least taciturn. The experience had left him with a sense of
distaste and humiliation, with a certain troubled doubt. Was a man
captain of himself, if he could be seized, stunned, drowned in
circumstance, lost like a drop of water in a flood, rendered indistinct
to his own consciousness from the flowing, pouring mass around him?
Gard did not suppose himself to be unique. He supposed other men had
similar paths to walk in, pilgrim fashion; that every man owned merely
himself and his destiny, his issue in the nature of things his own; that
to every man there was but one great distinction, it lying between
himself and what was not himself. In his own age, at least, he supposed
it a growing tendency for men to look within their own souls for the
infinite which they could not find without.
There was no doubt the peninsular campaign had been an experience
affecting him profoundly. It had shown him what a pit of danger lay on
the side of such absorption; that to plunge into affairs so intense, so
physical, so powerful in their sweep and pull, was for the individualist
numbing, miasmic, clouding the eye whose function should be to see one
path clearly. It had given him a new sense and a certain dread of the
strength of what lay on the other side of that distinction between
himself and the not himself. It had left in him, he fancied, a kind of
sediment, an element in respect to which it became illustrated that what
a man has experienced is a part of him. It had made him perhaps more
consciously watchful of his poise, his mental erectness and control. But
the main result so far had been that sense of uncertainty and troubled
doubt, as if he had lost the trail, as if much had grown dim that was
once definite and guiding. Mavering's appearance seemed to suggest
something, a clew or an omen. Jack, at least, was individual, nomadic,
and distinct. He never let his surroundings grow into him.
Thursday, the day after the battle, the hills, woods, and fields were
quiet except for stray picket shooting. The two armies could feel each
other. Why they lay all day so near, so quiet, was no business of
either's subordinate atoms. Gard felt that he but barely cared, if no
more was asked of him and his remnant of thirty than to stay where they
were. No doubt they also serve who wait. He could stretch in the
sunlight, listen to Mavering's home despatches, choice, flowing,
vehement, and supply him with technical language.
Farmers drove in on the road during the day, and distributed apples from
their wagons, or peddled home-made bread. A number of them wore
singular, broad-brimmed hats, smooth hair, long, and parted in the
middle, shaven lips and long beards below, and some spoke broken English
with an odd, German dialect. They were said to be the Dunkers of the
squat-chimneyed church, now spotted with bullet-holes, one casement
blown in. To Gard they seemed to illustrate grimly the shaping power of
externals, these men whose mouths were set to the line of their wide
hats, hair plastered smoothly to mark the even tenor of their peace.
They called themselves "The Brethren." There was something in their
faces at once a reminder of and a contrast to the faces he remembered in
the Brotherhood of Consolation.
The camp-fires flickered once more at night against the black foliage.
Company B, in a new manner, admired its captain and the extraordinary
correspondent, while they recited Brutus and Cassius with mellow
mouthings, and after gave impromptu dialogues between a Dunker
advocating the use of apples with Biblical extracts, and the general of
division, explosive, impatient, dropping oaths like solid round shot.
Other men left their own camp-fires and crowded the road. Some officers
sat on the fence and applauded. The distant crack of the pickets' rifles
was sometimes heard, stabbing blindly at the night. The stars were
brilliant and the slim moon was in the south.
Friday morning it was rumored that the enemy had slipped away in the
night, and gone across the Potomac again; that the general of division
had been heard putting violent terms to the name of his chief for
committing all the sins of omission which man could commit, seeing his
aides' enjoyment of which language he had reddened and set his grim
mouth. The fields beyond the wood, at least, were empty, and the village
among the hills. One could walk abroad without being shot at from the
bushes where those scarlet berries grew.
The crippled Third, with its odds and ends of companies, moved as far as
the village, now turned a bustling hospital, and heard big guns booming
again south of the Potomac. There it was that Mavering wrote that sketch
of red death and amputation which his paper expurgated before
publishing, to Mavering's disgust. "As fine a bit of realism as was
ever done! And look at it, butchered to make a civilian holiday!" He
read the first draft to Gard.
"I'll trade my job for yours, Jack."
"Quite the contrary"--Mavering altered an adjective in his copy--"you
will not."
A messenger rode into the camp of the crippled Third with a led horse.
"Captain Windham?"
"Here."
"Order of ----; relieved indefinitely. Will take this horse--report at
division headquarters," and the messenger clattered away. Mavering
jumped to his feet.
"I'll trade you."
"Quite the contrary, you will not."
Mavering grumbled and went back to his copy.
"It's that elegant comedy last night. Poor boy! Ruined! Ruined!"
Gard rode down the road that led from the village to the creek. The
centre of Wednesday's fight had been here, but the fighting must have
been mainly on the wings. There were signs of heavy artillery work, but
little else. Beyond the bridge was a large house on the hill, with a
white picket fence around it. From the hill he could look up the winding
creek, and see the bluffs, the sloped fields and ploughed ground of
Wednesday's charges and retreats, the Dunker church against the woods.
Some men in front of the house directed him to take the right fork of
the road. The sun was low, the day-moon like a white scallop of cloud.
He found the headquarters a half-mile beyond, a small brick house,
distinguished by the number of saddled horses fastened at the fence, and
within the general, a familiar figure enough, with his red face and
white whiskers, a hot-tempered man and well beloved, now puffing a cigar
and quite self-controlled.
"Captain Windham."
"Gentlemen!" cried the general, "will you allow me--I want to see this
man," and they were presently alone.
The general leaned back and looked at Gard critically. He began:
"Captain Windham--mm--these theatrical performances by officers for the
entertainment of privates--umm--this disgraceful mimicry
of--mm--myself--this disrespect leading to insubordination--"
"I beg your pardon, sir. It was not intended--"
"I was about to say," thundered the general, "when you interrupted me,
that I don't believe the commander-in-chief would approve. Personally.
I'd have given something to be there. I have about me, I believe,
another cigar. Sit down."
He spoke in a jerky way, coming down on selected words with emphasis.
"I have need of a particular kind of a man. It occurs to me you may be
that kind--mm--a certain _variety_, perhaps, of talent. It's a bit of
secret service. _Well_, now look here. It is this. The War Department
wants private information about the actual effective _numbers_--if
possible--and _condition_, of the enemy--at present. I will tell you
more. The estimates that come to it from the commander-in-chief are--I
quote the word--'_contradictory_.' It is _suspected_ that those
estimates depend--I still quote--'on the _impression_ that gentleman
wishes to make on the department or the public.' The suspicion may be
wrong; or it may be that a change is going to be made in commanders; or,
at _any rate_, 'before issuing a definite order to the present
commander'--it needs information independent of the regular source.
_Do_ you understand?"
"So far as you've gone, sir."
"Oh--mm--exactly. That's right. No doubt it is procuring other sources.
That's no business of ours. I've been asked--_confidentially_--to
furnish one source--mm--The impersonation of Dunker elders and generals
of divisions implies--mm--also I know your record--mm--_Captain
Windham_, I am at the present moment guilty of insubordination and
treachery to my superior officer. I am also giving away what amounts
perhaps to a state secret. I am doing so--for the reason--that your
discretion must be relied on, anyway, and you cannot understand too
clearly the point to be gained. This information must reach either _me_,
or the _department_ directly--preferably the latter--and _no one else_.
You see the point?"
"Yes, sir."
"Preferably the latter. I needn't be connected with it hereafter--would
rather not be."
"I see."
"Very good. This information should be had as soon as possible. In case
you have to send a _message_, this paper contains a code, simple
enough. The meaning depends on the position of the words. You can
apparently mean anything you choose. Learn, and destroy paper. So much
for _that_. Your name will be known at the department. You are at your
own disposition till the thing is done. There are no directions.
Now--one moment--this map. Lee and Longstreet are probably here.
Somebody is, anyway. Jackson is God knows where--possibly there. If so,
he'll be somewhere else to-morrow. Here's your pass. Any questions?"
"No, sir."
"That's all, then. You may go--mm--Captain Windham--some time I should
like to see the impersonation of a general of division in a state of
excitement. Hem! hem! Good-day, sir."
Gard galloped through the little village in the dusk, looking for
Mavering, and found the fields beyond empty. The brigade was gone, the
Third gone with it.
"I can't chase after him all night," he thought, impatiently. "Why
doesn't he stay where he'd be useful?"
He caught sight of a horse fastened to a maple-tree up the road.
Mavering lay on his back under the maple, smoking.
"Get up. Come along."
"This cigar is the worst--"
"Get on your horse. I want you."
"What do I care what you want? I was about to say, this cigar is the--"
"Throw it away, then."
Mavering unfolded his legs and mounted, grumbling.
"You're the blankedest, most egotistic anchorite that ever petted his
soul, not to say dosed it allopathically with wars and red rebellions.
One question: Is there any copy in this?"
"Not a word."
"Just what I thought. Wherever a man goes he finds selfishness."
They turned into the northern road, clattered past the cornfield and the
church. Gard continued: "One of those Dunker farmers lives up here half
a mile. I want his clothes, his expression, and his language, and his
theology--the whole outfit."
"Going to steal his most intimate properties. Blanked immoral thing to
do. All right, go on."
"About copy. Anything that goes south of the Potomac will be apt to
mean a rope for me, and New York papers go south of the Potomac."
"Egotistic still, but perspicuous. I see."
"It's between me and you and the Dunker."
"And that's a pretty combination!"
"Not a sign, Jack."
"Not a misplaced comma, not an agitated phrase shall betray the mystery
of this night. Now, then. Why?"
"Oh, you! You'll have to make me up."
"And the Dunker?"
"They're all anti-slavery and non-combatant. Besides, I picked an
acquaintance with this one yesterday."
The small, plain, whitewashed house, with its whitewashed barn, stood
close to the road and shining in the moonlit dusk. An elderly man, with
smooth, gray hair falling to his collar, shaven lips, and spade-shaped
beard, came to the door and stood there, mild, quiet, round-shouldered.
"Can we put up our horses here and pass the night?"
He nodded and turned back into the room without speaking, but left the
door open.
They spent the evening talking with him, studying the while his outward
make-up, his manner and language, critically. He had a certain gentle
suggestiveness of his own, and before they parted for the night brought
out a pair of saddle-bags and a large bundle of printed sheets.
"De is tracts," he said, gently, "of religion."
"Good," said Mavering. "An ungodly army, no doubt. Oh, I beg pardon!"
"De is not of de doctrine of the bruderen only. De is Christian."
"Oh, well, Captain Windham was bred a Catholic. He'll distribute them,
and read some himself."
The quiet elder seemed to have taken a shy liking for Gard. He touched
him softly on the back of the hand.
"I hope you are a good man. I hope you are not to die in what you do."
At daybreak they rode away westward, making a wide circuit of the
village, Gard with his lips shaven, hair parted and plastered down, and
wearing the gentle old brother's waistcoat that buttoned to the throat,
his dingy black coat and wide-brimmed hat. His saddle was primitive, his
bridle-bit rusty. Mavering's experienced eye judged that he looked his
part. Even the whiteness of his lips, where the razor had gone, added to
the impression of calm and austere withdrawal. Was it some lingering
touch of the monastery? One does not live without result during the
formative years, secluded between cool, white walls, among unworldly
lives. Mavering called him "the anchorite," and swore the phrase still
truthful.
A glimpse of the Potomac between the hills; a troop of Union cavalry
breaking camp in a meadow; clank and rattle of side-arms; men gathering
and packing kit; men sitting listlessly in their saddles; a mounted
officer in the middle of the road, looking down towards the
Potomac--large, square-shouldered, and massive. He turned in his saddle.
"Hold on here! Halt!"
Gard pulled up and looked at him under drooped eyelids.
Mavering pushed between.
"Without circumlocution, Captain Map, you're precisely what I'm looking
for. Cavalry's the thing for a correspondent. I have an unsubstantial
vision I used to know you in Hamilton."
"That's all right. Who's this?"
"Oh, that's a Dunker brother. Got some blanked tracts in his
saddle-bags. Let me join you?"
"Is--is he?" His horse blocked the road aggressively. He kept his eyes
on Gard.
"Well"--Mavering turned and surveyed the "make-up" critically,
complacently--"I slept with him at his old man's last night. If a
twenty-minute Dutch prayer is any proof, he's still in the faith of his
fathers. I'm leaving you here, brother."
Gard nodded, rode into the ditch with a face conscientiously blank,
mild, non-combatant, and passed the obstacle. Morgan watched him ambling
leisurely away in the sunlight and the dust. Mavering waited some time.
"Look here, captain. Did I understand you laconically to insinuate I
might accompany and chronicle your glories?"
Morgan wheeled his horse slowly.
"I guess so. Yes, you may."
The road went around a sandy hummock and disappeared. Gard did not look
back. Beyond the strip of the Potomac the Virginia hills were blue and
cool and peaceful.
Mavering meditated a disclosure. Still, whether Morgan had recognized
Gard, or for a time had suspected it was he, or had only acted on
constitutional aggressiveness, it did not seem likely in any case that
he would chatter about the matter. He could hold his tongue without
being warned. "It's none of my funeral." Gard had precisely stated what
he wanted. Mavering remarked:
"That Dunker had a pass, if you'd asked for it--permit to scatter his
tracts wherever he liked."
But Morgan did not comment. Mavering thought him likely to be dull
company, and set himself to making other acquaintance and finding
entertainment with experienced skill.
The troop filed out, formed loosely, and clattered south. It occurred to
Mavering that they might overtake Gard. Down through the narrow valleys
they came at length to the willow-fringed bank of the river, but he saw
the broad-brimmed hat nowhere. It seemed to have vanished from the
earth. Mavering concluded his connection with it over. New pastures of
interest were before him. The nomad owns no real estate in any one else.
His soul knows not title or tenure. He will be folding his tent at
daybreak and leaving the night's oasis, and the sands drift over his
footprints.