LILLIE'S ATTENTION IS RECALLED TO THE RISING GENERATION.
On or about the first of January, 1865, Lillie chanced to go out on a
shopping excursion, and descended the stairway of the hotel just in time
to catch sight of a newly arrived guest, who was about entering his room
on the first story. One servant directed the unsteady step and supported
the wavering form of the stranger, while another carried a painted
wooden box eighteen or twenty inches square, which seemed to be his sole
baggage. As Lillie was in the broad light and the invalid was walking
from her down a dark passage, she could not see how thin and yellow his
face was, nor how weather-stained, threadbare, and even ragged was his
fatigue uniform. But she could distinguish the dark blue cloth, and gilt
buttons which her eye never encountered now without a sparkle of
interest.
She had reached the street before the question occurred to her. Could it
be Captain Colburne? She reasoned that it could not be, for he had
written to them only a fortnight ago without mentioning either sickness
or wounds, and the time of his regiment would not be up for ten days
yet. Nevertheless she made her shopping tour a short one for thinking of
that sick officer, and on returning to the hotel she looked at the
arrival-book, regardless of the half-dozen students who lounged against
the office counter. There, written in the clerk's hand, was "Capt.
Colburne, No. 18." As she went up stairs she could not resist the
temptation of passing No. 18, and was nearly overcome by a sudden
impulse to knock at the door. She wanted to see her best friend, and to
know if he were really sick, and how sick, and whether she could do
anything for him. She determined to send a servant to make instant
inquiries; but on reaching her room she found her father playing with
Ravvie.
"Papa, Captain Colburne is here," were her first words.
"Is it possible!" exclaimed the Doctor, leaping up with delight. "Have
you seen him?"
"Not to speak with him. I am afraid he is sick. He was leaning on the
porter's arm. He is in number eighteen. Do go and ask how he is."
"I will. You are certain that it is our Captain Colburne?"
"It must be," answered Lillie as he went out; and then thought with a
blush, "Will papa laugh at me if I am mistaken?"
When Ravenel rapped at the door of No. 18, a deep but rather hoarse
voice answered, "Come in."
"My dear friend!" exclaimed the Doctor, rushing into the room; but the
moment that he saw the Captain he stopped in surprise and dismay.
"Don't get up," he said. "Don't stir. Bless me! how long have you been
in this way?"
"Only a little while--a month or two," answered Colburne with his
customary cheerful smile. "Soon be all right again. Sit down."
He was stretched at full length on his bed, evidently quite feeble, his
eyes underscored with lines of blueish yellow, his face sallow and
features sharpened. The eyes themselves were heavy and dull with the
effects of the opium which he had taken to enable him to undergo the
day's journey. Besides his long brown mustache, which had become ragged
with want of care, he had on a beard of three weeks' growth; and his
face and hands were stained with the dust and smirch of two days'
continuous railroad travel, which he had not yet had time to wash
away--in fact, as soon as he had reached his room he had thrown himself
on the bed and fallen asleep. His only clothing was a summer blouse of
dark blue flannel, a common soldier's shirt of knit woolen, Government
trousers of coarse light-blue cloth without a welt, and brown Government
stockings worn through at toe and heel. On the floor lay his shoes,
rough kip-skin brogans, likewise of Government issue. All of his
clothing was ineradically stained with the famous mud of Virginia; his
blouse was threadbare where the sword-belt went, and had a ragged
bullet-hole through the collar. Altogether he presented the spectacle of
a man pretty thoroughly worn out in field service.
"Is that all you wear in this season?" demanded, or rather exclaimed the
Doctor. "You will kill yourself."
Colburne's answering laugh was so feeble that its cheerfulness sounded
like mockery.
"There isn't a chance of killing me," he said. "I am not cold. On the
contrary, I am suffering with the heat of these fires and close rooms.
It's rather odd, considering how run down I am. But actually I have been
quarreling all the way home to keep my window in the car open, I was so
stifled for want of air. Three years spent out of doors makes a house
seem like a Black Hole of Calcutta."
"But no vest!" urged the Doctor. "It's enough to guarantee you an
inflammation of the lungs."
"I hav'n't seen my vest nor any part of my full uniform for six
months," said Colburne, much amused. "You don't know till you try it how
hardy a soldier can be, even when he is sick. My only bed-clothing until
about the first of November was a rubber blanket. I will tell you. When
we left Louisiana in July we thought we were going to besiege Mobile,
and consequently I only took my flannel suit and rubber blanket. It was
enough for a southern summer campaign. Henry had all he could do to tote
his own affairs, and my rations and frying-pan. You ought to have seen
the disgust with which he looked at his bundle. He began to think that
he would rather be respectable, and industrious, and learn to read, than
carry such a load as that. His only consolation was that he would soon
steal a horse. Well, I hav'n't seen my trunk since I left it on store in
New Orleans, and I don't know where it is, though I suppose it may be in
Washington with the rest of the baggage of our division. I tell you this
has been a glorious campaign, this one in the Shenandoah; but it has
been a teaser for privations, marching, and guard-duty, as well as
fighting. It is the first time that I ever knocked under to hardships.
Half-starved by day, and half-frozen by night. I don't think that even
this would have laid me out, however, if I hadn't been poisoned by the
Louisiana swamps. Malarious fever is what bothers me."
"You will have to be very careful of yourself," said the Doctor. He
noticed a febrile agitation in the look and even in the conversation of
the wasted young hero which alarmed him.
"Oh no," smiled Colburne. "I will be all right in a week or two. All I
want is rest. I will be about in less than a week. I can travel now. You
don't realize how a soldier can pick himself up from an ordinary
illness. Isn't it curious how the poor fellows will be around on their
pins, and in their clothes till they die? I think I am rather effeminate
in taking off my shoes. I only did it out of compliment to the white
coverlet. Doesn't it look reproachfully clean compared with me? I am
positively ashamed of my filthiness, although I didn't suspect it until
I got into the confines of peaceful civilization. I assure you I am a
tolerably tidy man for our corps in its present condition. I am a very
respectable average."
"We are all ready here to worship your very rags."
"Well. After I get rid of them. I must have a citizen's suit as soon as
possible."
"Can't you telegraph for your trunk?"
"I have. But that's of no consequence. No more uniform for me. I am home
to be mustered out of service. I can't stay any longer, you understand.
I am one of the original officers, and have never been promoted, and so
go out with the original organization. If we could have re-enlisted
eighteen men more, we should have been a full veteran regiment, and I
could have staid. I came home before the organization. I was on detached
duty as staff-officer, and so got a leave of absence. You see I wanted
to be here as early as possible in order to make out my men's account,
and muster-out rolls. I have a horrible amount of work to do this week."
"Work!" exclaimed Ravenel. "You are no more fit to work than you are to
fly. You can't work, and you sha'n't."
"But I must. I am responsible. If I don't do this job I may be dismissed
the service, instead of being mustered out honorably. Do you think I an
going to let myself be disgraced? Sooner die in harness!"
"But, my dear friend, you can't do it. Your very talk is feverish; you
are on the edge of delirium."
"Oh no! I can't help laughing at you. You don't know how much a sick man
can do, if he must. He can march and fight a battle. I have done it,
weaker than this. Thank God, I have my company papers. They are in that
box--all my baggage--all I want. I can make my first muster-out roll
to-morrow, and hire somebody to do the four copies. You see it must be
done, for my men's sake as well as mine. By Jove! we get horrible hard
measure in field service. I have gone almost mad about that box during
the past six months; wanted it every day and couldn't have it for lack
of transportation; the War Department demanding returns, and hospitals
demanding descriptive lists of wounded men; one threatening to stop my
pay, and another to report me to the Adjutant-General; and I couldn't
make out a paper for lack of that box. If I had only known that we were
coming to Virginia, I could have prepared myself, you see; I could have
made out a memorandum-book of my company accounts to carry in my pocket;
but how did I know?"
He spoke as rapidly and eagerly as if he were pleading his case before
the Adjutant-General, and showing cause why he should not be
dishonorably dismissed the service. After a moment of gloomy reflection
he spoke again, still harping on this worrying subject.
"I have six months' unfinished business to write up, or I am a disgraced
man. The Commissary of Musters will report me to the Adjutant-General,
and the Adjutant-General will dismiss me from the service. It's pretty
justice, isn't it?"
"But if you are a staff-officer and on detached service?"
"That doesn't matter. The moment the muster-out day comes, I am
commandant of company, and responsible for company papers. I ought to go
to work to-day. But I can't. I am horribly tired. I may try this
evening."
"No no, my dear friend," implored the Doctor. "You mustn't talk in this
way. You will make yourself sick. You _are_ sick. Don't you know that
you are almost delirious on this subject?"
"Am I? Well, let's drop it. By the way, how are you? And how is Mrs.
Carter? Upon my honor I have been shamefully selfish in talking so much
about my affairs. How is Mrs. Carter, and the little boy?"
"Very well, both of them. My daughter will be glad to see you. But you
mustn't go out to-day."
"No no. I want some clothes. I can't go out in these filthy rags. I am
loaded and disreputable with the sacred southern soil. If you will have
the kindness to ring the bell, I will send for a tailor. I must be
measured for a citizen's suit immediately."
"My dear fellow, why won't you undress and go to bed? I will order a
strait-jacket for you if you don't."
"Oh, you don't know the strength of my constitution," said Colburne,
with his haggard, feverish, confident smile.
"Upon my soul, you look like it!" exclaimed the Doctor, out of patience.
"Well, what will you have for dinner? Of course you are not going down."
"Not in these tatters--no. Why, I think I should like--let me see--some
good--oysters and mince pie."
The Doctor laughed aloud, and then threw up his hands desperately.
"I thought so. Stark mad. I'll order your dinner myself, sir. You shall
have some farina."
"Just as you say. I don't care much. I don't want anything. But it's a
long while since I have had a piece of mince pie, and it can't be as bad
a diet as raw pork and green apples."
"I don't know," answered the Doctor. "Now then, will you promise to take
a bath and go regularly to bed as soon as I leave you?"
"I will. How you bully a fellow! I tell you I'm not sick, to speak of.
I'm only a little worried."
When Ravenel returned to his own apartment he found Lillie waiting to go
down to dinner.
"How is he?" she asked the moment he opened the door.
"Very badly. Very feverish. Hardly in his right mind."
"Oh no, papa," remonstrated Lillie. "You always exaggerate such things.
Now he isn't very bad; is he? Is he as sick as he was at Donnelsonville?
You know how fast he got well then. I don't believe he is in any
danger. Is he?"
She took a strong interest in him; it was her way to take an interest
and to show it. She had much of what the French call expansion, and very
little of self-repression whether in feeling or speech.
"I tell you, my dear, that I am exceedingly anxious. He is almost
prostrated by weakness, and there is a febrile excitement which is
weakening him still more. No immediate danger, you understand; but the
case is certainly a very delicate and uncertain one. So many of these
noble fellows die after they get home! I wouldn't be so anxious, only
that he thinks he has a vast quantity of company business on hand which
must be attended to at once."
"Can't we do it, or some of it, for him?"
"Perhaps so. I dare say. Yes, I think it likely. But now let us hurry
down. I want to order something suitable for his dinner. I must buy a
dose of morphine, too, that will make him sleep till to-morrow morning.
He _must_ sleep, or he won't live."
"Oh, papa! I hope you didn't talk that way to _him_. You are enough to
frighten patients into the other world, you are always so anxious about
them."
"Not much danger of frightening him," groaned the Doctor. "I wish he
could be scared--just a little--just enough to keep him quiet."
After dinner the Doctor saw Colburne again. He had bathed, had gone to
bed, and had an opiated doze, but was still in his state of fevered
nervousness, and showed it, unconsciously to himself, in his
conversation. Just now his mind was running on the subject of Gazaway,
probably in connection with his own lack of promotion; and he talked
with a bitterness of comment, and an irritation of feeling which were
very unusual with him.
"You know the secret history of his rehabilitation," said he. "Well,
there is one consolation in the miserable affair. He fooled our sly
Governor. You know it was agreed, that, after Gazaway had been
whitewashed with a lieutenant-colonelcy, he should show his gratitude by
carrying his district for our party, and then resign to make way for the
Governor's nephew, Major Rathbun. But it seems Gazaway had his own
ideas. He knew a trick or two besides saving his bacon on the
battle-field. His plan was that he should be the candidate for Congress
from the district. When he found that he couldn't make that work, he did
the next best thing, and held on to his commission. Wasn't it capital?
It pays me for being overlooked, during three years, in spite of the
recommendations of my colonel and my generals. There he is still,
Lieutenant-Colonel, with the Governor's nephew under him to do his
fighting and field duty. I don't know how Gazaway got command of the
conscript camp where he has been for the last year. I suppose he lobbied
for it. But I know that he has turned it to good account. One of my
sergeants was on detached duty at the camp, and was taken behind the
scenes. He told me that he made two hundred dollars in less than a
month, and that Gazaway must have pocketed ten times as much."
"How is it possible that they have not ferreted out such a scoundrel!"
exclaims the horror-stricken Doctor.
"Ah! the War Department has had a great load to carry. The War
Department has had its hands too full of Jeff Davis to attend to every
smaller rascal."
"But why didn't Major Rathbun have him tried for his old offences? It
was the Major's interest to get him out of his own way."
"Those were condoned by the acceptance of his resignation. Gazaway died
officially with full absolution; and then was born again in his
reappointment. He could go to work with clean hands to let substitutes
escape for five hundred dollars a-piece, while the sergeant who allowed
the man to dodge him got fifty. Isn't it a beautiful story?"
"Shocking! But this is doing you harm. You don't need talk--you need
sleep. I have brought you a dose to make you hold your tongue till
to-morrow morning."
"Oh, opium. I have been living on it for the last forty-eight hours--the
last week."
"Twelve more hours won't hurt you. You must stop thinking and feeling. I
tell you honestly that I never saw you in such a feverish state of
excitation when you were wounded. You talk in a manner quite unlike
yourself."
"Very well," said Colburne with a long-drawn sigh, as if resigning
himself by an effort to the repugnant idea of repose.
Here we may as well turn off Lieutenant-Colonel Gazaway, since he will
not be executed by any act of civil or military justice. Removed at last
from the conscript camp, and ordered to the front, he at once sent in
his resignation, backed up by a surgeon's certificate of physical
disability, retired from the service with a capital of ten or fifteen
thousand dollars, removed to New York, set up a first-class
billiard-saloon, turned democrat once more, obtained a couple of city
offices, and now has an income of seven or eight thousand a-year, a
circle of admiring henchmen, and a reputation for ability in business
and politics. When he speaks in a ward meeting or in a squad of
speculators on 'Change, his words have ten times the influence that
would be accorded in the same places to the utterances of Colburne or
Ravenel. I, however, prefer to write the history of these two gentlemen,
who appear so unsuccessful when seen from a worldly point of view.
Fearing to disturb Colburne's slumbers, Ravenel did not visit him again
until nine o'clock on the following morning. He found him dressed, and
looking over a mass of company records, preparatory to commencing his
muster-out roll.
"You ought not to do that," said the Doctor. "You are very feverish and
weak. All the strength you have is from opiates, and you tax your brain
fearfully by driving it on such fuel."
"But it must be done, Doctor," he said with a scowl, as if trying to
see clearly through clouds of fever and morphine. "It is an awful job,"
he added with a sigh. "Just see what it is. I must have the name of
every officer and man that ever belonged to the company--where, when,
and by whom enlisted--where, when, and by whom mustered in--when and by
whom last paid--what bounty paid and what bounty due--balance of
clothing account--stoppages of all sorts--facts and dates of every
promotion and reduction, discharge, death and desertion--number and date
of every important order. Five copies! Why don't they demand five
hundred? Upon my soul, it doesn't seem as if I could do it."
"Why not make some of your men do it?"
"I have none here. I am the only man who will go out on this paper.
There is not a man of my original company who has not either re-enlisted
as a veteran, or deserted, or died, or been killed, or been discharged
because of wounds, or breaking down under hardships."
"Astonishing!"
"Very curious. That Shenandoah campaign cut up our regiment wonderfully.
We went there with four hundred men, and we had less than one hundred
and fifty when I left."
The civilian stared at the coolness of the soldier, which seemed to him
much like hard-heartedness. The latter rubbed his forehead and eyes, not
affected by these tremendous recollections, but simply seeking to gain
clearness of brain enough to commence his talk.
"You must not work to-day," said the Doctor.
"I have only three days for the job, and I _must_ work to-day."
"Well--go on then. Make your original, which is, I suppose, the great
difficulty; and my daughter and I will make the four others."
"Will you? How kind you are!"
At nine o'clock of the following morning Colburne delivered to Ravenel
the original muster-out roll. During that day and the next the father
and daughter finished the four copies, while Colburne lay in bed, too
sick and dizzy to raise his head. On the fourth day he went by railroad
to the city of ----, the primary rendezvous of the regiment, and was
duly mustered out of existence as an officer of the United States army.
Returning to New Boston that evening, he fainted at the door of the
hotel, was carried to his room by the porters, and did not leave his bed
for forty-eight hours. At the end of that time he dressed himself in his
citizen's suit, and called on Mrs. Carter. She was astonished and
frightened to see him, for he was alarmingly thin and ghastly.
Nevertheless, after the first startled exclamation of "Captain
Colburne!" she added with a benevolent hypocrisy, "How much better you
look than I thought to see you!"
He held both her hands for a moment, gazing into her eyes with a
profound gratification at their sympathy, and then said, as he seated
himself, "Thank you for your anxiety. I am going to get well now. I am
going to give myself three months of pure, perfect rest."
The wearied man pronounced the word _rest_ with a touching intonation of
pleasure.
"Don't call me Captain," he resumed. "The very word tires me, and I want
repose. Besides, I am a citizen, and have a right to the Mister."
"He is mortified because he was not promoted," thought Lillie, and
called him by the threadbare title no more.
"It always seems to be our business to take care of you when you are
sick," she said. "We nursed you at Taylorsville--that is, till we wanted
some fighting done."
"That seems a great while ago," replied Colburne meditatively. "How many
things have happened since then!" he was about to say, but checked the
utterance for fear of giving her pain.
"Yes, it seems a long time ago," she repeated soberly, for she too
thought how many things had happened since then, and thought it with
more emotion than he could give to the idea. He continued to gaze at her
earnestly and with profound pity in his heart, while his memory flashed
over the two great incidents of maternity and widowhood. "She has fought
harder battles than I have," he said to himself, wondering meanwhile to
find her so little changed, and deciding that what change there was only
made her more charming. He longed to say some word of consolation for
the loss of her husband, but he would not speak of the subject until she
introduced it. Lillie's mind also wondered shudderingly around that
bereavement, and then dashed desperately away from it, without uttering
a plaint.
"Can I see the baby?" he asked, after these few moments of silence.
She colored deeply, not so much with pleasure and pride, as with a
return of the old virginity of soul. He understood it, for he remembered
that she had blushed in the same manner when she met him for the first
time after her marriage. It was the modesty of her womanhood,
confessing, "I am not what I was when you saw me last."
"He is not a baby," she laughed. "He is a great boy, more than a year
old. Come and look at him."
She led the way into her room. It was the first time that he had ever
been in her room, and the place filled him with delicious awe, as if he
were in the presence of some sweet sanctity. Irish Rosann, sitting by
the bedside, and reading her prayer-book, raised her old head and took a
keen survey of the stranger through her silver-rimmed spectacles. On the
bed lay a chubby urchin, well grown for a yearling, his fair face red
with health, sunburn, and sleep, arms spread wide apart, and one dimpled
leg and foot outside of the coverlet.
"There is the Little Doctor," she said, bending down and kissing a
dimple.
It was a long time since she had called him "Little General," or,
"Little Brigadier." From the worship of the husband she had gone back
in a great measure, perhaps altogether, to the earlier and happier
worship of the parent.
"Does he look like his grandfather?" asked Colburne.
"Why! Can't you see it? He is wonderfully like him. He has blue eyes,
too. Don't you see the resemblance?"
"I think he has more chins than your father. He has double chins all the
way down to his toes," said Colburne, pointing to the collops on the
little leg.
"You mustn't laugh at him," she answered. "I suppose you have seen him
enough. Men seldom take a longer look than that at a baby."
"Yes. I don't want to wake him up. I don't want the responsibility of
it. I wouldn't assume the responsibilities of an ant. I haven't the
energy for it."
They returned to the little parlor. The Doctor came in, and immediately
forced the invalid to lie on a sofa, propping him up with pillows and
proposing to cover him with an Affghan.
"No," said Colburne. "I beg pardon for my obstinacy, but I suffer with
heat all the time."
"It is the fever," said the Doctor. "Remittent malarious fever. It is no
joke when it dates from Brashear City."
"It is not being used to a house," answered Colburne, stubborn in faith
in his own health. "It is wearing a vest and a broadcloth coat. I really
am not strong enough to bear the hardships of civilization."
"We shall see," said the Doctor gravely. "The Indians die of
civilization. So does many a returned soldier. You will have to be
careful of yourself for a long time to come."
"I am," said Colburne. "I sleep with windows open."
"Why didn't you write to us that you were sick?" asked Lillie.
"I didn't wish to worry you. I knew you were kind enough to be worried.
What was the use?"
She thought that it was noble, and just like him, but she said nothing.
She could not help admiring him, as he lay there, for looking so sick
and weak, and yet so cheerful and courageous, so absolutely indifferent
to his state of bodily depression. There was not in his face or manner a
single shadow of expression which seemed like an appeal for pity or
sympathy. He had the air of one who had become so accustomed to
suffering as to consider it a common-place matter, not worthy of a
moment's despondency, or even consideration. His look was noticeably
resolute, and energetic, yet patient.
"You are the most resigned sick man that I ever saw," she said. "You
make as good an invalid as a woman."
"A soldier's life cultivates some of the Christian virtues," he
answered; "especially resignation and obedience. Just see here. You are
roused at midnight, march twenty miles on end, halt three or four hours,
perhaps in a pelting rain; then you are faced about, marched back to
your old quarters and dismissed, and nobody ever tells you why or
wherefore. You take it very hard at first, but at last you get used to
it and do just as you are bid, without complaint or comment. You no more
pretend to reason concerning your duties than a millstone troubles
itself to understand the cause of its revolutions. You are set in
motion, and you move. Think of being started out at early dawn and made
to stand to arms till daylight, every morning, for six weeks running.
You may grumble at it, but you do it all the same. At last you forget to
grumble and even to ask the reason why. You obey because you are
ordered. Oh! a man learns a vast deal of stoical virtue in field
service. He learns courage, too, against sickness as well as against
bullets. I believe the war will give a manlier, nobler tone to the
character of our nation. The school of suffering teaches grand lessons."
"And how will the war end?" asked Lillie, anxious, as every citizen was,
to get the opinion of a soldier on this great question.
"We shall beat them, of course."
"When?"
"I can't say. Nobody can. I never heard a military man of any merit
pretend to fix the time. Now that I am a civilian, perhaps I shall
resume the gift of prophecy."
"Mr. Seward keeps saying, in three months."
"Well, if he keeps saying so long enough he will hit it. Mr. Seward
hasn't been serious in such talk. His only object was to cheer up the
nation."
"So we shall beat them?" cheerfully repeated the converted secessionist.
"And what then? I hope we shall pitch into England. I hate her for being
so underhandedly spiteful toward the North, and false toward the South."
"Oh no; don't hate her. England, like every body else, doesn't like a
great neighbor, and would be pleased to see him break up into small
neighbors. But England is a grand old nation, and one of the lights of
the world. The only satisfaction which I should find in a war with
England would be that I could satisfy my curiosity on a point of
professional interest. I would like to see how European troops fight
compared with ours. I would cheerfully risk a battle for the spectacle."
"And which do you think would beat?" asked Lillie.
"I really don't know. That is just the question. Marengo against Cedar
Creek, Leipsic against the Wilderness. I should like, of all things in
the world, to see the trial."
Thus they talked for a couple of hours, in a quiet way, strolling over
many subjects, but discussing nothing of deep personal interest.
Colburne was too weak to have much desire to feel or to excite emotions.
In studying the young woman before him he was chiefly occupied in
detecting and measuring the exact change which the potent incidents of
her later life had wrought in her expression. He decided that she looked
more serious and more earnest than of old; but that was the total of his
fancied discoveries; in fact, he was too languid to analyze.