In which Mavering Concludes that Cavalry Officers as a Class Are
Eccentric and Deep
The war suited Morgan. It was action in simple terms of purpose and
accomplishment. It was sensible and genuine. There no man's complicated
trivial tastes and instincts needed to be bothered about; he carried
them at his own risk and exercise; they were not in the army lists.
Orders were not disguised in requests and reasons. The gradations and
shades, the cautions and compunctions, the ten thousand odds and ends of
ten thousand years' accumulation for the most part were swept away in
bulk. Men battled with men and threw off their shamming benevolences,
showed what they were, and enjoyed themselves in the burly lust of
struggle. The life satisfied at least half of him to completion.
A fortnight before the late battle he had seen Helen on the steps of the
wooden warehouse, that they used as a hospital and filled from wall to
wall with blanketed cots. She had looked pale, tired, and smiling. After
a moment she had flushed and broken away angrily. And that night he had
lain twenty miles off with his troop in the open, a lot of blinking,
idiotic stars over him, and could not sleep, and damned in disciplined
order the ways of woman and the impalpable barriers around
them--Thaddeus Bourn, for keeping his skinny corpse unburied beyond the
limit of reason or utility; and Gard Windham to the discomfort of the
blistered stars.
There appeared to be another part of him unsatisfied--hungry, rather,
and hot on the scent.
Had he not picked out Nellie long ago for her pluck and sense, and a
certain tingling challenge in her--a girl fit for his hand to hold? She
suited him, fitted one part as a cavalry raid fitted another. Very well.
He would take her. Any one that stood in the way would be hurt, very
likely; at any rate, taught better. The squire and Thaddeus Bourn might
be as futile as they chose, it being no business of his. They had had
their day. Let them keep out of the path of men who had still to live.
It was no great matter what they did. But when it came to Nell's
mooning about the organ-player, with his theories and whining tunes, and
getting sick in hospitals--She said that she hadn't seen him since
winter, which wasn't likely. She had turned red, and broken away at
that. Hospital nurse! What a fool thing for Nell to do! Mrs. Mavering
was with her, and Jack Mavering travelled with Windham. The Maverings
might have made up. Ten to one there was a game on, and they fancied
Morgan Map was that kind of a fool.
The war filled a man's hands. Morgan felt that the germ of his own
career lay in these days, and other business ought to wait if it could.
Windham must be off scouting in that Dunker outfit, and might by good
luck get himself hung, only he was too clever.
Morgan turned in his saddle and looked back for Mavering, who rode in
the middle of the cantering troop, and seemed to enjoy himself.
* * * * *
On Saturday, the end of the week after Antietam, the troop rode westward
along the line of a railroad. The Confederates had been at it, some of
them within a day or two, for the burned ties were still smoking. They
had bent the rails by heating them in the middle and twisting them
around the trees. At regular intervals were black circles of the fires
and charred ends of ties. It was too systematic for guerillas.
"There," said a lieutenant to Mavering, "you can write your papers there
are twenty or thirty miles of this, all done under the nose of the
chief."
"A vigilant, aggressive man, the latter, I infer, is your matured
opinion," said Mavering; and the lieutenant replied, dryly, "Something
like that."
The sandy road-bed curved through woods that must have been straggling
and discouraged in their green days, and now were black and smoking, for
the abandoned fires had spread. The wind mourned through the desolation,
and blew thin veils and streamers of smoke overhead.
"And no doubt Captain Map's opinion coincides with yours in favor of
activity and vigilance."
"He's a hot-and-cool man to ride with. You might write that we're on a
line which was burned through yesterday or the day before, and just now
a lot of hostile cavalry are cavorting round the neighborhood
somewhere, likely to drop on us any moment. We're out to find about this
line and that cavalry, and get back if we can."
"I notice--a point that strikes an artist in realistic description
inevitably--that Captain Map is calmly reading something as he rides.
Such things illustrate."
"His nerve? Oh, that's all right."
"But the artist's imagination proceeds. Reading what? A newspaper? No, a
written sheet, which the wind blows about in his hands. Perhaps
instructions--or, better, a love letter."
"Likely enough."
"They do more than illustrate. They fill in the foreground with humanity
against the background of nature and event. You are an army officer,
lieutenant, unlessoned, uninspired, unreflective, and may take the word
of one old in variety, that the gist of life lies in men and women
rather than in event, and that men and women are more worthy of
consideration in persons than in masses. The play is played in the
foreground, and there is the plot and the crisis and the solution; there
the action lies; practicable scenery left and right, practicable mob of
courtiers, soldiers, or peasants in the rear--and--"
Morgan pulled in his horse and flung up his hand, the white paper
fluttering in it. The troop halted short, plunging and scattering sand.
"Enter," observed Mavering, "a practicable enemy, lieutenant, from a
practicable wood."
A quarter of a mile away the sandy road-bed curved and disappeared. A
large body of cavalry swung around it. Morgan shaded his eyes with his
hand and the fluttering paper. The troops sat stiff and intent. He
shouted and wheeled his horse.
"Left wheel! Hard!"
Whirl, plunge, and shout. Mavering's horse slipped on the sand-bank,
lost footing, and fell headlong into the ditch. Mavering struck the
opposite bank in a heap, unlimbered, and came down with his feet across
the horse's neck. He seized the bridle, jumped, and tugged. The troop
was two hundred feet away, the squadron a thousand. A white paper, blown
by the wind, danced and twinkled along in the sand. He tugged harder,
leaning forward, and caught the paper, thinking, "That's Map's
love-letter," heaved and shouted. The horse half rose; something went
"thud" in his neck; he screamed and dropped again. Another bullet whined
by Mavering's ear. He dropped the bridle--"I'm done, then"--and saw
Morgan two hundred feet away, his horse halted and half turned, lifting
his revolver again. Mavering dove down the sand, lay still in the ditch,
and heard the third bullet whine close by, an inch from his ear, then
the swift flight of Morgan's horse and the coming thunder of the
squadron.
"Blanked if I don't read his blanked letter! What in--'Pass man wearing
loose black clothes, broad, stiff-brimmed hat, shaven lips, black beard,
smooth hair, of sect called Dunkers, carrying saddle-bags, riding bay
horse with white forefoot, through all Union lines--bears important
information, give all facilities, forward to Washington, signed--' And
no signature."
But the rattle and roar were at hand, and the sense of a thousand
horsemen about to charge into the small of his back. He thought, "I'll
be searched in a minute," swept a handful of sand over the paper,
clambered up the bank and sat on the burned turf above, hugging his
angular knees. The head horseman pulled to the right and shouted.
"Follow 'em half a mile, Cary, and wait there."
The bulk of the squadron swept on.
"Search that man, you there! Pull that paper out of the sand."
Mavering groaned disgustedly. Two men were up the bank, feeling him all
over with skilled precision. The colonel pulled his chin-whisker over
the mysterious writing. "What's all this?" Mavering sat down again and
brushed the sand from his trousers and long black coat-tails. His hat
lay in the ditch. The troop remaining gathered in a semicircle, the
colonel and Mavering in the centre, with ditch and the prostrate kicking
horse between, practicable scenery of a September sky and burned woods
around.
"I don't know, colonel," said Mavering, in solemn and rhythmic bass,
"but I judge it's a job put up on you by the recondite and taciturn
captain of the troop lately departed. He appeared to drop it with a
policy and plugged at me with a revolver when I picked it up."
"You hid it, sir"--sharply.
"So I did. The truth is ever beautiful. He plugged my horse. Supposing
he meant that for you, I'm not backing his game to-day. It's too deep
for me, anyhow."
A young officer broke in at the colonel's elbow.
"Dunker? We passed that man Monday up by the river, colonel. He was
scattering tracts."
"Did? Here, then--Martinsburg, or further up! Go hard. Now, then, who
are you?"
"Correspondent. You've got my credentials with the rest of the loot, of
which you might lend me a dollar and a half and return the note-book
containing a half-written but masterly article on--"
"Note-book? Article? Very good. Do for a Richmond paper. Credentials?
Where--Oh!"
"Sign it J.R. Mavering, and tell 'em the price is forty dollars."
The colonel was a small man, high-voiced, quick-eyed, but not without a
certain cheerfulness. He glanced up from the papers with an appreciative
twinkle. The men slouched easily in their saddles. The horses stamped
and shifted.
"Here! Give these back to him."
"Don't we take him, colonel?"
"No. What for? Give him back everything. All ready! Forward! Wait!" He
pulled up suddenly.
"Mr. Mavering." The little colonel was dignified.
Mavering pocketed his property calmly, as if in the common flux of
things, the flowing change of time, scene, and event, it was not
strange, whatever went and came, or however suddenly. Anyway, this world
was a fleeting show, an incessant comedy without plot.
"Sir."
"Such Northern newspapers as yours, which have--in the past, at
least--been inclined to criticise the unprovoked invasion of Virginia,
it is desired by the authorities that such newspapers should be treated
with consideration. You follow me, sir?"
"With strict attention." Mavering leaned forward, his hands on the
burned turf. His feet dangled against the bank.
"Distinguished consideration. You will mention that attitude, no doubt."
"No doubt at all."
"Good-morning, sir."
"Good-morning, colonel."
The troop departed with crowded thud of hoofs and scatter of sand.
Mavering watched them out of sight, then slid down the bank and picked
up his hat. He lifted the head of the prostrate horse, but the eyes were
dull, the throat full of blood; unbuckled the bridle and slung it over
his arm. The long, yellow level of the road-bed to the nearest curves
was empty in both directions. He was quite alone in the desolation. He
muttered and hummed in profoundest bass. "Singular game--'Plaidie to the
angry airt'--recondite, astrological. Make a note of it; cavalry
officers as a class are eccentric and deep. It's not my funeral. It
appears to be the anchorite's. 'The brightest jewel in my crown'"--He
crossed the road-bed, picked his way eastward into the woods,
long-stepping, bridle on arm, gaunt and black, over the black ground
among the gaunt, black stumps of the charred trees--"Wad be my queen."