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THE
CONTINENTAL MONTHLY:
DEVOTED TO
LITERATURE AND NATIONAL POLICY.
VOL. VI.--DECEMBER, 1864--NO. VI.
AN ARMY: ITS ORGANIZATION AND MOVEMENTS
_FIFTH PAPER._
Before the enlightenment derived from the sad experiences of our present
civil contest, upon the incidents of protracted warfare, probably most
persons conceived of war as a scene of constant activity--a series of
marches, battles, and sieges, with but few intervals of repose. History
records only the active portions of war, taking but little account of
the long periods consumed in the preliminary processes of organization
and discipline, in the occupation of camps and cantonments, in the
stationary watches of opposing armies, lying in the front of each other,
both too weak for aggressive movements, but each strong enough to
prevent such movements on the part of its opponent. Such matters, if
noticed at all, are recorded in a few sentences, making no impression on
the reader. Novels of the 'Charles O'Malley' class have also given
incorrect ideas. Every page relates some adventure--every scene gleams
with sabres and bayonets. Our three years' experience has taught us that
the greater portion of an army's existence is spent in inactivity; that
campaigning is performed only through one half of the year, and of that
time probably not over one third is occupied in progressive movements.
In the campaign of 1861, the only marches of the Army of the Potomac
were to the battle field of Bull Run and the retreat. In 1862, after a
march of fifteen miles to Fairfax Court House and returning, the army
was transferred to Fortress Monroe and moved to Yorktown, where some
weeks were passed in the trenches; it then proceeded up the Peninsula,
and laid a month before Richmond; retreated to Harrison's Landing, and
laid another month; returned to Fortress Monroe, and was shipped to the
vicinity of Washington, marched for about a month, fought at Antietam,
and then laid in camp a month; moved to Warrenton and remained a
fortnight; proceeded to Fredericksburg and continued in camp all winter,
except making the short movements which led to the battle of December,
and the ineffective attempt to turn the rebel left, known as the 'mud
march.' In all this long campaign, from March to December, a period of
nearly nine months, spent in various operations, more than five months
were passed in stationary camps--most of the time occupied, it is true,
in picketing, entrenching, and other duties incident to positive
military operations in proximity to an enemy, but very different from
the duties connected with marching and fighting. The campaign of 1863
comprised a still smaller period of active movements. Commencing in
April with the battle of Chancellorsville, it continued till the march
to Mine Run in October--seven months; but considerable more than half
the time was spent in camps at Falmouth, Warrenton, and Culpepper. The
great campaign now in progress has consumed (at the time this article is
written) three months, commencing after a six-months' interval of
inaction, and already half the time has been spent in the trenches at
Petersburg.
Since so large a portion of the time of an army is passed in camps, that
branch of military science which governs the arrangement of forces when
stationary, is one of considerable importance. It is in camps that
armies are educated, that all the details of organization are
systematized, that the _morale_ of troops is cultivated, that a round of
laborious though monotonous duties is performed. Nothing is so trying to
the temper of the individuals composing an army as a long season in a
stationary camp; nothing has more effect for good or for evil upon the
army in the aggregate, than the mode in which the time, at such a
season, is occupied. The commander who does not exercise care to have
his camps pitched in the proper localities, to insure the observance of
hygienic rules, and to keep his men employed sufficiently in military
exercises, will have discontented, unhealthy, and indolent troops.
The words 'camps' and 'cantonments' are frequently used in the
newspapers without any discrimination; but they denote two entirely
different methods of sheltering troops. A camp is defined to be the
place where troops are established in tents, in huts, or in bivouac;
while cantonments are inhabited places which troops occupy for shelter
when not put in barracks. Of camps there are several kinds, according to
the purposes to be effected by their establishment, such as the nightly
camps while upon the march, camps of occupation, camps in line of
battle, &c. Cantonments are most frequently used when, during the
winter, or other considerable period of inactivity, it is necessary to
distribute an army over a large district of country, so as to guard a
number of points. We have not had any instance of cantonment, properly
speaking, during the present war; but in Europe this method of disposing
troops is frequently adopted.
The scenes ensuing upon the arrival of an army corps at its camping
ground for a night, after a day's march, are very lively, often amusing,
and sometimes present picturesque effects. Where the country traversed
by the army is known to the commander, he is able to designate the
nightly camps of the different corps with precision; if, on account of
ignorance of the country, this cannot be done, places are approximately
indicated upon the information given by maps or extracted from the
inhabitants, or procured by reconnoitring parties. Usually, however, the
commander possesses considerable topographical information, procured by
his officers in the advance with the cavalry and light troops, so that
he can fix the nightly camps in such a manner that the various corps
shall all be upon the same line, and lie within supporting distances.
The vicinity of streams is invariably selected for a camp, if other
circumstances permit. When a corps arrives within a mile or two of its
destination, the commander sends forward some of his staff officers
(accompanied by a cavalry guard, if the country is suspicious), and
these officers select the different localities for the camps of the
divisions, of the artillery, the cavalry, and the trains, care being
taken to give all equal facilities for wood and water, and at the same
time to take advantage of the features of the country for military
purposes, such as the guarding of roads in all directions, the
establishment of the picket line, &c. The leading division arrives
perhaps at 5 P.M., and its commander is shown to the locality assigned
him. He immediately distributes the ground to the brigades, and the
troops, as fast as they arrive, filing into the designated spots, occupy
but a few moments in the necessary formalities by which disorder is
prevented; then each man quickly spreads his little tent upon the place
which in the military order belongs to him, a general din of cheerful
voices arises, a unanimous rush is made to the water, cooking fires are
kindled in all directions, and in ten minutes a scene of (it may be)
utter desolation becomes full of life and activity. For a couple of
hours the columns continue to file in, until all the hillsides are
covered with tents. Then, far into the night, is heard the braying of
mules, the shouts of drivers, and the rattling of wheels, as the heavy
wagon trains toil to the place of rest. All through the evening prevails
that peculiar, cheerful din of a camp, as peculiar and characteristic as
the roar of a great city; gradually the noises decline, the bugles and
drums sound the tattoo, the fires grow dim, and the vast mass of hardy,
resolute humanity is asleep--all except the two or three score of sick
and dying men, wasted by fever, who have been jolted all day over the
rough roads in the ambulances, and now groan and writhe in delirium upon
their narrow stretchers in the camp hospitals.
Camps designed to cover and guard a country, are constructed when the
army has not sufficient strength to advance, or when the season
prevents, or some other cause interferes with the prosecution of
hostilities, while at the same time it is necessary to occupy a portion
of the hostile territory. We have had numerous examples of this kind of
camps--indeed, our armies occupy them generally while lying inactive
during the winter. The character of the ground must always determine the
shape and features of such a camp, but unless peculiar modifying
circumstances dictate otherwise, the general form is that of the arc of
a circle. This, with extensions at the sides to cover the flanks, and a
rear guard, is the best for protection. The extent of this kind of camp
is governed by circumstances, but is much greater, generally, than would
be supposed. The camp of an army of 100,000 men, designed to cover any
considerable district of territory, in a country where hills and rivers
assist in giving protection, might have a front (including flanking
parties of cavalry) of from 30 to 50 miles, and a depth of from 10 to
20; besides a continuous chain of forces in the rear, guarding
communications with the base of supplies, from 10 to 50 miles distant.
Camps in line of battle are generally established when opposing armies,
lying in proximity, must be on the alert for attacks. They cover but
little more ground than is required for the manoeuvres of the force,
and are so arranged that, in case of probable conflict, the troops can
assume immediately the formations of battle. Such camps are arranged in
two or three lines, adapted to the natural features of the country for
defence. The approach of the enemy having been communicated from the
outposts, the tents are rapidly struck, the baggage loaded and sent to
the rear, and in an hour the army is free from all encumbrances, and
ready to meet the advancing foe. Usually, when armies lie in contact,
expecting battle, the troops bivouac--no tents being pitched except at
the headquarters of superior commanders, and at other places
sufficiently in the rear to be free from immediate danger. The troops
may be obliged to remain thus for a day or two, no fires being permitted
in the advanced lines, so that their positions may not be indicated.
The season for the suspension of active hostilities having arrived, it
is necessary for the commander of an army to select some place in which
his forces can remain for the winter--where they will have sufficient
facilities for fuel and water, where their health can be preserved,
where they can be protected against surprises or annoyance, where the
country can be covered and guarded, and where the supplies can be drawn
with security from the base of operations. After a due consideration of
all the intelligence that can be obtained upon these points, the
commander issues his general directions, the various corps move to their
designated positions, and preparations for the habitations of the winter
are made. Each corps commander, either personally or by his staff
officers, makes a survey of his ground, and assigns the positions of his
divisions. If within a few miles of the enemy, he throws detachments of
observation toward the front, and then proceeds to establish his picket
line, usually some three or five miles in advance of his main line.
Precautions for security being thus adopted, more minute inspections of
the ground are made, so that unhealthy positions may be avoided. The
troops, being placed, immediately proceed to clear the sites of their
respective encampments, and wagons are set to work to bring in logs with
which huts may be constructed. In about a week thousands of diminutive
log houses arise, roofed with the shelter tents of the soldiers, or,
when the occupants have sufficient handicraft ability, with rough
shingles. Shelters are erected, as far as possible, for the animals,
generally being nothing more than frameworks covered with pine brush. If
there are lumber mills in the vicinity, they are set to work, and boards
sawed for floors to the tents and hospitals. The adjacent forests now
begin to disappear rapidly, leaving nothing but an unsightly array of
stumps; for a regiment is entitled to about two hundred cords of wood
per month as fuel, and in a well-wooded country, where the men can
conveniently cut for themselves, much more is consumed. Every regiment
requires, therefore, about eight or ten acres of woodland per month. An
army of a hundred regiments will, in the course of a winter, denude
several square miles of trees, so that (in the proportion which woodland
generally bears to that which is cleared) a space of country equal to a
county may be stripped of its timber. The men, having made themselves
comfortable, are now called on to form working parties, and put the
roads leading to the depots and the various camps in good order,
generally corduroying them, so as to be passable during the winter;
bridges are made over streams, drainage perfected, &c. In a few weeks,
the chief portion of the labor of preparing a winter's camp is
completed.
The sanitary regulations for camps are very stringent and comprehensive.
The suggestions of experience as to the details by which the diseases
incident to camp life can be prevented, are embodied in orders, and it
is the duty of the medical officers and of the inspectors to see that
they are observed. For instance, it is not permitted to have the floors
of the huts lower than the external ground, and the men are required to
keep pine boughs between their blankets and the earth. The method in
which a camp shall be drained, and the offal disposed of, is prescribed.
The cleanliness of the men is enforced. A rigorous system of reports
upon these and many other particulars exists, so that negligences are
corrected.
The military occupations which relieve the monotony of camp life are
drilling and picketing. It is in the latter that officers and men find
change and freedom, though it often involves severe exposure. The
ordinary detail for this duty in a corps averages perhaps eight hundred
to one thousand men, who are changed usually every three days. If the
country be well settled, some opportunities are presented during that
interval for intercourse with the 'natives;' but in Virginia, it must be
confessed, the attractions of this kind are few. The secession ladies
are not over well disposed to any wearers of Yankee uniforms, and though
many of them are willing to bestow a few soft words in exchange for tea,
coffee, and sugar, they are not liberal of social courtesies. The young
man who joins our armies expecting to realize for himself the love
adventures he has seen recorded in novels, will find the Southern ladies
less given to romance than the damsels of Spain or Mexico. They are
inclined, also, to be treacherous, as the fate of several gallant
officers, who have gone stealthily beyond the lines to spend an evening
with fair rebel sirens, and found themselves delivered to guerillas, has
shown. Nevertheless, the experience of others never warns an adventurous
youth, and opportunities frequently arise for practical jokes. During
the winter of 1862-'3, while the army was encamped on the Rappahannock,
an officer was fascinated by the charms of a fair widow who resided just
beyond the lines, and frequently made evening visits to her. His
companions, being aware of this, formed a party, on a bitter January
night, and proceeding to the widow's house, surrounded it, and sending
within some who were strangers to him, they announced themselves as
belonging to the rebel army, and captured the enamored lover,
blindfolded, led him out, and mounted him. Crestfallen and moody with,
thoughts of his disgraceful situation, cursing, perhaps, the wiles of
the enchantress, to whom he attributed it, he was made to ride many
weary miles, and then, being dismounted, and the bandage removed from
his eyes, he found himself at his own camp, where he was greeted with
uproarious laughter.
The duties incident to picketing and outpost stations are so important
that several works by distinguished authors have been written concerning
them, but most of the rules are of too technical a character for recital
in these papers. The friends of soldiers will, however, take interest in
some general statements. The picket line consists of three
portions--first, the stations of the main guard; second, some distance
in advance of these, the picket stations; and third, some two hundred
yards in advance of these, the stations of the sentinels. If the country
is open and hilly, the latter need not be posted closely together, but
in a wooded country they must be quite numerous. It is their duty not to
allow any person to pass their line; and if a force of the enemy, too
strong to be resisted, approaches, they fall back on the pickets. These
should be stationed where they can command the main avenues of approach,
and offer resistance to the advanced parties of the enemy. After such
resistance becomes useless, the various pickets fall back on the grand
guard, which offers a more determined contest. The advance of the enemy
should by these means have been delayed for a couple of hours, affording
time for the troops to get under arms and take the order of battle.
The following diagram exhibits the general arrangement of picketing:
[Illustration]
Let the line A B represent a chain of sentinels on a mile of picket
front, C D a line of picket stations, and E the grand guard. The whole
force of men may perhaps be three hundred, of whom two thirds will
remain at E, posted advantageously upon some eminence protected in part
by a stream and commanding an open country. The remaining one hundred
will be distributed among the picket stations and thrown forward as
sentinels. The whole arrangement is supervised by an officer of
rank--usually a colonel. With a disposition like the above in front of
every division in an army, it is obviously impossible for any
considerable force of an enemy to approach without detection.
One of the greatest practical difficulties our armies have experienced
has been connected with the system of picketing. The South having been
greatly impoverished in those portions traversed by the contending
armies, and the people entirely destitute of luxuries, there are
innumerable applications from residents outside of the pickets for
admission within the lines, in order to trade with officers, for the
purpose of procuring in return articles from our well-supplied
commissariat. Various other necessities of the people appeal for a
modified degree of rigor in regard to picket arrangements, so that our
armies are never free from the presence of rebel inhabitants, traversing
them in all directions. Perfectly familiar with the country, they are
able to detect any weakly guarded places, and undoubtedly, in frequent
instances, after receiving the kindest treatment, return to their homes
conveying such information to guerillas as enables these prowlers to
penetrate through by-roads and seize animals and straggling soldiers. As
a precaution against such annoyances, a very judicious arrangement was
made last winter by the provost marshal general of the Army of the
Potomac. He established certain points on the picket line at which
traffic might be conducted, and forbade admission to citizens. Some
rigorous system like this is very necessary.
The social life of camps is, however, the topic of chief interest. The
question is often asked, Is the life of a soldier demoralizing? The
answer must be, 'Yes,' but not for the reasons generally supposed. The
opportunities for vice and dissoluteness are really less than at home.
The hundred thousand men in an army use less liquor than the same number
of men in a city. In fact, liquor is nearly inaccessible to the soldier
when on the march. For other kinds of vice the temptations are few. The
demoralization arises from the terrible monotony of a prolonged camp,
which produces listlessness, indolence, and a devotion to small
amusements; deranges and reverses the whole system of active life, as it
is seen at home; renders a man uncouth; disqualifies soldiers for
anything else than the trade of war. To the officer in his tent and to
the soldier in his log hut, while the cold rains are beating without,
and the ground is knee deep with mud, there is a constant temptation to
find amusement in cards. Gambling thus becomes a pastime too generally
adopted. The books sent to the army are not always of the character best
adapted to the circumstances. Moral essays and tracts will not be very
eagerly sought for by men whose principal object is to kill time. The
reading matter needed is the kind afforded by the periodicals of the
day, unobjectionable novels, biographies, works of travel, etc.
Camp life has, however, its pleasures, and it must not be supposed that
all succumb to its enervating influences, or that any great number yield
themselves entirely to its demoralizing effects. The period of military
service among our volunteers is too short to permit its full influence
to be experienced, and the connections of our soldiers with their homes
too intimate to allow them to subside completely into the routine
veterans, whose social, mental, and moral nature is altogether lost and
absorbed in the new and artificial military nature imposed on them.
War collects many characters of peculiar idiosyncrasies, and jumbles
them strangely together, so that curious associations are produced. In
any collection of men upon a staff or in a regiment, gathered from
different localities, will be found characters of the most opposite and
incongruous elements. There will be the youth who has never before
travelled beyond his own village, and is full of small anecdotes of the
persons who have figured in his little world; and the silent and
reserved man of middle age, who, if he can be induced to talk, can tell
of many a wild scene in all quarters of the world in which he has been a
participant, since he stealthily left his native home, a boy of sixteen.
There are men who have passed through all the hardships of life, who
have been soldiers in half a dozen European armies, or miners in
California and Australia, or sailors; and men who have always had wealth
at their disposal, and spent years in foreign travel, viewing the world
only under its sunniest aspects. There are many officers grown gray
while filling subordinate capacities at posts on the Western prairies
and mountains, who can relate many interesting anecdotes of their
companions--the men now prominent in military affairs; and there are
officers of high rank, recently emerged from civil life, who nourish
prodigiously in self-glorification upon their brief warlike experience.
There are brave men, and men whose courage is suspected; quiet men, and
men of opinionated perversity; quick-witted men, and men whose profound
stupidity makes them continual butts for all kinds of practical jokes;
refined, educated, poetical men, and men of boorish habits. In short,
any camp presents such specimens of humanity as would be furnished if
all the ingredients of character and experience that compose the world
had been collected in a huge pepper box and sprinkled miscellaneously
throughout the army.
In such associations there are of course many occasions for extracting
interesting and comical conversation and incident. Jokes of all kinds
are constantly on the wing, and no one can consider himself safe from
collision with them. Ridiculous nicknames become attached--no one knows
how--to the most dignified characters, and altogether usurp the places
of the genuine cognomens. No person possesses the art of concealment to
such a degree that all his foibles and weaknesses will escape
observation in the companionship of a camp; and when discovered, the
treatment of them is merciless just in proportion to the care with which
they had been hidden. All pretensions will be penetrated, all disguises
unmasked. Every man finds himself placed according to his exact status,
no matter how well contrived his arrangements for passing himself off
for more than his par value. Many an officer, whom the newspapers
delight to praise, because he is over courteous to correspondents, and
takes precautions to have all his achievements published, has a camp
reputation far different from that by which he is known to the public.
Opinions of all kinds flourish in the army as vigorously as in the outer
world. There are ardent theorists of the progressive order, full of
schemes for radical reforms, and old fogies believing in nothing except
what they lament to see is fast becoming obsolete. There are students
and practical men, authors and mechanics, editors, lawyers, doctors,
clergymen, school teachers, actors, artists, singers, and
representatives of all kinds of trades and avocations. All are now on
the same platform, and, for a time, class distinctions disappear beneath
the assimilating conditions of the new profession. Political strifes
occur, but are rarely virulent. Generally the association together of
men holding different political views, in a common cause, and subject to
the same dangers, is tacitly accepted as the occasion for an armistice.
But politics of all kinds are represented. There are of course
Abolitionists, Republicans, Unionists, and War Democrats; but, strangely
enough, there are also Copperheads, Peace Democrats, peace-at-any-price
men, and even secession sympathizers. Why extremists of the latter
classes should have joined the army voluntarily cannot be surmised; but
there they are, and, moreover, they do their duty. There are some traits
of original manhood so strong that even the poison of treasonable
politics cannot overcome them.
The daily routine of camp life in a regiment can be told in a few words.
The plan of a regimental camp as laid down in the army regulations is
generally conformed to, with some variations recommended by the
character of the camping ground. The following diagram exhibits the
plan:
[Illustration]
REFERENCE.
N.C.S. Non-commissioned staff.
AST. SURG. Assistant surgeon.
M. Major.
Q.M. Quartermaster.
LT. CL. Lieutenant-colonel.
CL. Colonel.
ADJT. Adjutant.
SURG. Surgeon.
In our armies the full allowances of camp equipage are not permitted.
Field and staff officers have only three wall tents, and company
officers only the same shelter tents as the men. The trains very rarely
encamp with the regiments. The tents of the men front on streets from
fifteen to twenty feet wide, each company having a street of its own,
and there is much competition as to the adornment of these. Many
regimental camps are decorated with evergreens in an exceedingly
tasteful manner--particularly during warm weather--chapels, arches,
colonnades, etc., being constructed of rude frameworks, so interwoven
with pine boughs that they present a very elegant appearance.
The daily life of a camp is as follows: At an hour appointed by orders,
varying according to the season of the year, the camp is roused by the
reveille. The old notion that soldiers should be waked before daybreak
in all seasons and all weathers has fortunately been exploded, and the
reveille is not generally sounded in winter till six o'clock. In
pleasant weather the men are formed upon the color line, where they
stack their arms. Breakfast is the next matter in order: after that the
mounting of the guard for the day and the detail of detachments for
picket and other duties. The prisoners are put to work in cleaning up
the camp, and squad drills occupy the morning. About noon the dinner
call is sounded; then come more drills and in the latter part of the
afternoon the dress parade of the regiment. This closes the military
labors of the day. In the evening there are schools for instructions in
tactics, and the time is passed in any amusements that may offer
themselves. About half past eight the tattoo is beaten, when every one,
not absent on duty, must be in camp ready to answer to his name; and
shortly after, the beat of taps proclaims that the military day is
ended, and lights must be extinguished--a regulation not very strictly
enforced. Thus pass the days of camp life.
Very different are those assemblages of huts down among the pine forests
of Virginia from the pleasant villages, the thriving towns, and the
prosperous cities of the North--very different the life of the soldier
from that which he enjoyed before rebellion sought to sever the country
which from his cradle he had been taught to consider 'one and
inseparable.'
APHORISMS.--NO. XIV.
A Query for the Thoughtful.--May we not justly say that _spirit_,
everywhere, in its various degrees, rules over matter, setting its
forces at defiance for the time, and yet never interfering with their
continued operations?
This seems a great law of the universe. The power of life, wherever
guided by _will_, whether in beast or man, or even where we can only
venture to speak of instinct, thus asserts its superiority. Within its
appointed range, the laws of the material world are evidently subject to
its control. Iron may be firmly held together by the attraction of
cohesion: but man wills its severance, and it is effected.
Nor does it contravene the general assertion here made, that we act by
opposing one natural force to another. The rising of the sledge hammer,
to fall with a force more than its own, is just as much against the laws
of matter as the breaking of the iron beneath its blows.
All _power_, so far as we can judge, is spiritual--_i.e._, originates in
spirit, and is exerted in obedience to _will_, or to something
equivalent.
Nor, again, will it avail an objector to say that _spirit_ is also under
law as well as matter. The laws of the one sphere, at all events, are
not those of the other. They may have their relations, but they are not
those of equality. Spirit is sovereign--matter subject; or, if in any
case it should be otherwise, it is from some weak refusal of the spirit
to assert its own power.
ÆNONE:
A TALE OF SLAVE LIFE IN ROME.
CHAPTER XVI.
Gliding softly beneath the shrubbery, and beneath one of the side
colonnades, Leta gained the house unperceived, passing Sergius, who
loitered where she had been sitting, upon the coping of the fountain
basin. His friends had departed, bearing away with them his gold and
much else that was of value; and he, with the consciousness of evil
besetting him on every side, had morbidly wandered out to try if in the
cool air he could compose his thoughts to sobriety. As he sat rocking to
and fro, and humming to himself broken snatches of song, Leta stood
under one of the arches of the court, glowering at him, and half hoping
that he would lose his balance and fall into the water behind. It was
not deep enough to drown him, but if it had been, she felt in no mood to
rescue him. In a few moments, however, the fresh breeze, partially
dissipating the fumes of the wine which he had drunk, somewhat revived
him; making him more clearly conscious of his misfortunes, indeed, but
engendering in him, for the instant, a new and calmer state of feeling,
which was not sobriety, but which differed from either his former
careless recklessness or maddening ferocity. And in this new phase of
mind, he sat and revolved and re-revolved, in ever-recurring sequence,
the things that had befallen him, and his changed position in the world.
Alone now, for she, Ænone, had left him. Left him for a stripling of a
slave--a mere creature from the public market. What was the loss of gold
and jewels and quarries to this! And how could he ever hold up his head
again, with this heavy shame upon it! For there could be no
doubt;--alas! no. Had he not seen her press a kiss upon the slave's
forehead? Had she not tenderly raised the menial's head upon her knee
with caressing pity? And, throughout all, had she attempted one word of
justification? Yes, alone in the world now, with no one to love or care
for him! For she must be put away from him forever; she must never call
him husband more. That was a certain thing. But yet--and a kindly gleam
came into his face for the moment--even though guilty, she might not be
thoroughly and utterly corrupt. If he could, at least, believe that she
had been sorely tempted--if he could only, for the sake of past
memories, learn to pity her, rather than to hate! And this became now
the tenor of his thoughts. In his deep reflection of a few hours before,
he had tried to believe that she was innocent. Now, circumstances of
suspicion had so overwhelmed her, that he could not think her innocent;
but he could have wished to believe her less guilty, and thereby have
cherished a kindly feeling toward her.
Rising up, and now for the first time seeing Leta, as she still stood
under the archway and watched him, he tottered toward her; and, incited
by this new impulse of generous feeling, he pleaded to her--humbling his
pride, indeed, but in all else, whether in word or action, clothing
himself with the graceful dignity of true and earnest manliness.
'Tell me,' he said, 'whether you know aught about her which can calm my
soul and give me the right to think better of her. You cannot make me
believe that she is innocent--I do not ask it of you. That hope is past
forever. But it may be that you can reveal more than you have yet
mentioned to me. You have watched her, I know. Perhaps, therefore, you
can tell me that she struggled long with herself before she abandoned
me. Even that assurance will help me to think more pityingly of her.
Remember that there was a time when I loved her; and, for the sake of
that time, help me to feel and act generously toward her.'
As Leta gazed upon him, and saw how his late imperiousness had given
place to earnest, sorrowful entreaty, she hesitated for the moment how
to answer him. There is, perhaps, a latent sympathy in the hardest
heart; and despite her resolve to become at once lost and unpitying,
some sparks of tender feeling, kindled into life by her parting with
Cleotos, yet glimmered in her breast. Cleotos having gone away, she felt
strangely lonesome. Little as she had regarded him when present, it now
seemed as though, in separating from him, she had lost a portion of her
own being. Certainly with him had departed the last link that bound her
to her native land; and though she never expected to return thither, yet
it was not pleasant to feel that she had been cut asunder from all
possibility of it. Now, for the moment, she was in the mood to look
around her for a friend to lean upon; and it might be that she could
find that friend in Sergius, if she would consent to let her vengeance
sleep, and would forbear to pursue him with further machinations. His
love, to be sure, was gone from her, never to be restored; but, after
all, might it not be better to retain his friendship than to incur his
hate? And if she were now to make full disclosure of the past, and ask
his pardon, who could estimate the possible limits of the forgiveness
and generosity which, in his newly found happiness, he might extend to
her? And then, now that her plans had failed, what need of inflicting
further misery upon those who, in their former trust, had lavished
kindnesses upon her? And once more her thoughts reverted to Cleotos; and
with that feeling of utter loneliness sinking into her heart, and making
her crave even to be thought well of by another, she reflected how that
friend of her youth would not fail to ask the blessing of the gods upon
her, if ever, in his native home, he were to hear that she had acted a
generous part, and, by a few simple and easily spoken words, had swept
away the web of mischief which her arts had woven.
'What can I say?' she exclaimed, hesitatingly, as she met the pleading
look which Sergius fastened upon her.
'Say the best you can; so that, though I can never forgive her, I may
not think more harshly of her than I ought. Can I forget that I loved
her for years before I ever met yourself; and that, but for you, I might
be loving her still? Can I forget that it was not for my own glory, but
for hers, that I tore myself away from her and went to these late wars,
hoping to win new honors, only that I might lay them at her feet? Night
after night, as I lay in my tent and gazed up at the sky, I thought of
her alone, and how that the stars shone with equal light upon us both;
and I nerved my soul with new strength, to finish my task with
diligence, so that I might the more quickly return to her side. And
then, Leta, then it was that I met yourself; and how sadly and basely I
yielded to the fascinations you threw about me, you too well know. It
was not love I felt for you; think it not. My passion for you was no
more like the calm affection with which I had cherished her, than is the
flame which devours the village like the moonlight which so softly falls
upon and silvers yonder fountain. But, for all that, it has brought
destruction upon me. And now--'
'And now, Sergius?'
'Now I am undone by reason of it. From the first moment your ensnaring
glance met mine, I was undone, though I then knew it not. Then was my
pure love for her obscured. Then, impelled by I know not what infernal
spirit, began my downward course of deceit, until at last I almost
learned to hate her whom I had so much loved, and met her, at the end,
with but a simulated affection; caring but little for her, indeed, but
not--the gods be thanked!--so far gone in my selfish cruelty as to be
able to wound her heart by open neglect in that hour of her joy.
Whatever I may have done since then, that day, at least, her happiness
was undimmed. How gladly would I now give up all the honors I have
gained, if I could but restore the peace and quiet of the past!
Remembering all this, Leta, and how much of this cruel wrong is due to
you, can you not have pity? I know that she would never have been
exposed to this temptation but for my own neglect of her, and but for
the fact that you had ambitious purposes of your own to work out. Nay, I
chide you not. Let all that pass and be forgotten. I will be generous,
and never mention it again, if you will only tell me how far your arts,
rather than her own will, have led her astray. It cannot harm you now to
freely utter everything. The time for me to resent it is past. I have no
further power over you, or the will to exercise it if I had.'
A moment before, and she had been on the point of yielding to the
unaccustomed pity that she began to feel, and so make full disclosure.
But now, as, almost unconsciously to himself, Sergius spoke of her
baffled hopes and vaguely hinted at her altered position toward
himself--a change of which he believed her to be yet ignorant--her fount
of mercy became instantly scaled up, and her nearly melted heart again
turned to flint. Yes, she had almost forgotten her new destiny. But now
at once appeared before her, with all the vividness of reality, the
banquet hall, ringing with the shrill laughter of the heated revellers,
as, with the dice box, they decided her future fate. Like a flash the
softened smile fled from her face, leaving only cold, vindictive
defiance pictured there. And as Sergius, who had been led on from
utterance to utterance by the increasing signs of compassion he read in
her, saw the sudden and unaccountable change, he paused, in mingled
wonderment and dismay; and, with the conviction that his hopes had
failed him, he put off, in turn, his own softened mien, and glaring back
defiance upon her, prepared for desperate struggle.
'You speak of my new ownership--of the actor Bassus?' she exclaimed.
'You know it, then?' cried he. 'You have played the spy upon us?'
'Know it?' she repeated. 'When, in your wild revelling, your raised
voices told me how heedlessly you were bringing ruin upon yourself with
the dice, would I have been anything but a fool not to have remembered
that I, too, being your property, might pass away with the rest? Was it
not fit, then, that I should have stolen to the screen and listened? You
thought to keep it secret, perhaps, until Bassus should send to take me
away from here; for you imagined that I might attempt escape. But you do
not know me yet. Am I a child, to kick and scream, and waste my strength
in unavailing strife against a fate that, in my heart, I feel must
sooner or later be submitted to? Not long ago--it matters not how or
when--I could have avoided it all, but would not. Now that I have
sacrificed that chance, I will go to my doom with a smile upon my lips,
whatever heaviness may be in my heart; for, having chosen my path, I
will not shrink from following it. Thus much for myself. And as for you,
who have tossed me one side to the first poor brute who has begged for
me, and even at this instant have taunted me with the story of baffled
hopes, does it seem becoming in you to appeal longer to me, as you have
done, for comfort?'
No answer; but in the angry, heated glare with which he faced her,
could be seen the new fury which was rising within him--all the more
violent, perhaps, from the late calm that had possessed him.
'And yet, for the sake of the past, I might even be willing to comfort
you, if it were possible,' she continued, casting about in her mind for
new tortures with which to rack him, and now suddenly struck with an
inward joy, as her ever-ready invention came to her aid. 'Yes, if I knew
aught of good to tell, I would mention it, for the memory of other days.
But how can I speak with truth, unless to recapitulate new deceits and
wiles which she has practised upon you, and of which, may the gods be my
witness! I would have told you before, but dared not? You say that you
have never loved me, Sergius Vanno. It is well. But if you had done so,
I would have been faithful to you to the end. You say that you loved
her, and that, but for your own falsehood, she would not have strayed
from you. Poor dupe! to believe that, for all that meek, pale face of
hers, she cannot resolve, and act, and mask her purposes as cunningly as
any of the rest of her sex! Shall I tell you more? Do you dream that,
while you have been revelling, she has been idly whimpering in her
chamber? Had you watched outside with me, you might have known better.
Look above your head, Sergius, to where the prison keys are wont to
hang, and tell me where they are now!'
More from mechanical instinct than from any actual purpose of mind--for
he did not, at the first instant, fully comprehend her meaning--Sergius
followed the motion of her hand, and gazed at the wall above his head;
then passed his fingers along until he touched the empty nail--then
looked back inquiringly at her.
'The keys are gone, are they not?' she said. 'Fool! to lock up one party
to a fault, and yet let the other one go free! Do you suppose that
during your carousing with your boon companions, she would fail to
succor him for whose sake she has already lost so much?'
Still he gazed at Leta with a look of puzzled inquiry, which now began,
however, to be disturbed by an expression of painful doubt. Then
suddenly, ascertaining that the keys were really gone, her meaning
flashed upon him; and dropping his hand with a wrathful exclamation, he
turned and strode into the palace. Not, perhaps, with full conviction of
the truth of the suggestion so artfully arrayed before him. But he would
at least prove its truth or falsity; and, with that suspicion fastened
upon his bewildered and unreasoning mind, to doubt was almost to
believe, and crossing the ante-chamber to Ænone's room, he burst in upon
her.
She had fallen into a troubled sleep--lying dressed upon the outside of
her couch, as, in her agony of mind, she had first thrown herself down.
The unspent tears still trembled upon her eyelids. Beside her lay the
little folded parchment which Cleotos had given her. She had taken it
out to read, hoping, but scarcely believing, that she would now be able
to experience the truth of what she had been told about the earnest
words there written being divinely adapted to give peace to a troubled
heart. But her sorrow was too deep to be healed by phrases whose spirit
could, of necessity, be so imperfectly comprehended by her; and the
writing had slipped unheeded from her light grasp.
As her husband now entered, she awoke and sat upright, in frightened
attitude, not knowing what fate was about to befall her.
'Where is he? What have you done with him?' Sergius cried, seizing her
by the arm.
She did not answer, not knowing, of course, wherefore the question was
put to her, or what it concerned. Yet, perceiving that she was again
suspected of some act of which she was innocent, she would have asked
for mercy and pardon, if time had been given her. But even that was
denied her. Hardly, indeed, could she draw a breath, when she felt that
a new thread was woven in the web of misconception which surrounded her.
For, at that moment, her husband's eye fell upon the forgotten
parchment; and picking it up, he opened it, gave one hasty look, and
then tossed it aside. What need, now, of further proof? Was not that the
slave's writing, recognizable at a glance? Words of love, of course! And
she had gone to sleep fondly holding them in her hand, as a treasure
from which she could not be parted for an instant. Words not freshly
written, either, for the parchment was yellow and discolored. So much
the worse, therefore; for did it not prove a course of long-continued
deception? Could there be any doubt now? Yes, a long deceit. And this
was she for whom, in his simplicity, he had but a moment before been
framing excuses, in the effort to convince himself that her fault had
been one of impulse, rather than of cool deliberation! This was she in
whose behalf he had weakly lowered himself to plead to his own cast-off
slave for extenuating evidences! And once more grasping her by the arm,
he lifted her from the couch, and, followed by Leta, hurried her across
the room into the outer hall, into the court yard, past the fountain,
and so onward until they stood before the prison house. There, seeing
the inner door open, the outer door swinging loosely inward, with the
key yet remaining in its lock, and the captive fled, Sergius deemed her
new crime fully proved, and again turned madly upon her.
'Where is he? What have you done with him? Am I to be thus balked of my
vengeance? Is it to be endured that, while I entertain my friends, you
should steal off so treacherously, and thus complete the dishonor you
have brought upon me?'
'I have not--done dishonor--to my lord!' she gasped with difficulty, for
she was almost speechless from the rapidity with which he had hurried
her along, and his close grasp upon her arm pained her. 'Let me but
speak--I will explain--I know not how--'
'No falsehoods--no pleadings to me!' he cried. 'It will avail you
nothing now. What more proof do I need? Is not the whole story written
out plainly before my eyes? Have you not stolen away to release him,
preferring his safety and favor to my honor or your own? If not, where
is he? Escaped me, by the gods! Escaped me, after all! Fool that I have
been, to leave that key within your meddling reach!'
Overborne by his violence, not of words merely, but of gesture, Ænone
had, little by little, shrunk from before him as he spoke, until she had
unconsciously passed through the open doorway, and into the narrow
street beyond. Leta and he still remained within the building, standing
beside the swinging door. There was even now but a single pace between
Ænone and himself, and it was scarcely likely that such a trifling
distance could reassure her. It was more probably something in his tone
or action which now gave her courage to meet his imputation. Whatever
the nature of the inspiration, she now suddenly drew herself up, as
though indued with new strength, and answered him with something of the
same recklessness of spirit with which once before during that day she
had cast aside all fear of misconstruction, and, with the sustaining
consciousness of innocence and justice, had defied him.
'Escaped you?' she cried; 'I thank the gods for it! I did not set him
free, but I would have done so, had I known how. He was my friend--my
brother. Would I have left him, do you think, to suffer torture and
death for simple kindnesses to me, when, with one turn of a key,
I--could have released him? Would I let the memory of other days so
completely pass from my mind as to--'
How, at that instant, happened the door to close? Was it owing to the
wind, or to a skilful and concealed touch of Leta's hand, or to some
unconscious pressure of Sergius against it? The cause matters little. It
was enough that, of a sudden, the loosely hanging door swung round on
its creaking hinges into its place, fastening itself securely with a
spring bolt as its edge touched the lintel, and leaving Ænone shut out
alone in the dark street upon the other side.
Upon the instant, Sergius sprang forward to reopen the door. Convinced
of her perfidy, and madly lashing himself into yet further fury with the
consciousness of his wrongs, it was as yet not in his mind that even by
accident such a forced separation as this should befall her. His hand
was upon the bolt--in another second it would have been drawn back--when
his further action was arrested by a few lowly uttered words of Leta.
Not spoken to him, for, in his present state of mind, he was more than
ever morbidly jealous of any interference or attempted control, and
would most surely have disregarded them. But spoken as though to
herself, in a kind of whispered soliloquy, softly muttered, but yet with
utterance sufficiently distinct to reach his watchful ear.
'Ah, she will not regard that,' were the words, 'for of course she will
know where to rejoin him.'
Sergius started as the new idea impressed itself upon him. Could this be
true, indeed? Why not? Was it likely that the wife would have released
the slave whom she loved, and not have told him where they could meet
again? That, surely, would be too foolish an oversight, for it would be
throwing away all the benefits attending the escape. It were hardly
possible that any trust could have been reposed in the prospect of
future chance interviews, for that would be but a slender hope to lean
upon. In that boiling, seething world of Rome, now more than ever
disturbed by the inroads of strangers eagerly looking forward to the
excitements of the amphitheatre, it would be in vain to make even
deliberate and careful search for a lost slave, unless some clew should
be left behind. Yes, she must surely have that clew; and doubtless she
purposed to use it as soon as daylight came. Let her go now, therefore.
It were idle to call her back only for new flight in a few hours hence.
Still with his hand resting upon the bolt as these reflections passed
through his mind, Sergius glanced keenly at Leta, as though possessed
with some dim suspicion that she had meant her words to be overheard.
Then, feeling reassured by her composed attitude, he turned away,
muttered something to himself the import of which she could not catch,
dropped his hand from the undrawn bolt to his side, stood for a moment
in a kind of maze of confusion, and finally left the prison, and
staggered through the garden to the house.