handful of Indian braves. Pale light streamed now from the east,
filtering over a hushed world. Miles faced across the plain, stood close
to the tall stranger whose shape, as the dawn touched it, seemed to rise
beyond the boy's slight figure wonderfully large and high. There was a
sense of unending power, of alertness, of great, easy movement about
him; one might have looked at him, and looking away again, have said
that wings were folded about him. But Miles did not see him. His eyes
were on the fast-nearing, galloping ponies, each with its load of
filthy, cruel savagery. This was his death coming; there was disgust,
but not dread in the thought for the boy. In a few minutes he should be
fighting hopelessly, fiercely against this froth of a lower world; in a
few minutes after that he should be lying here still--for he meant to be
killed; he had that planned. They should not take him--a wave of sick
repulsion at that thought shook him. Nearer, nearer, right on his track
came the riders pell-mell. He could hear their weird, horrible cries;
now he could see gleaming through the dimness the huge headdress of the
foremost, the white coronet of feathers, almost the stripes of paint on
the fierce face.
Suddenly a feeling that he knew well caught him, and he laughed. It was
the possession that had held in him in every action which he had so far
been in. It lifted his high-strung spirit into an atmosphere where there
was no dread and no disgust, only a keen rapture in throwing every atom
of soul and body into physical intensity; it was as if he himself were
a bright blade, dashing, cutting, killing, a living sword rejoicing to
destroy. With the coolness that may go with such a frenzy he felt that
his pistols were loose; saw with satisfaction that he and his new ally
were placed on the slope to the best advantage, then turned swiftly,
eager now for the fight to come, toward the Indian band. As he looked,
suddenly in mid-career, pulling in their plunging ponies with a jerk
that threw them, snorting, on their haunches, the warriors halted. Miles
watched in amazement. The bunch of Indians, not more than a hundred
yards away, were staring, arrested, startled, back of him to his right,
where the lower ridge of Massacre Mountain stretched far and level over
the valley that wound westward beneath it on the road to Fort
Rain-and-Thunder. As he gazed, the ponies had swept about and were
galloping back as they had come, across the plain.
Before he knew if it might be true, if he were not dreaming this curious
thing, the clear voice of his companion spoke in one word again, like
the single note of a deep bell. "Look!" he said, and Miles swung about
toward the ridge behind, following the pointing finger.
In the gray dawn the hill-top was clad with the still strength of an
army. Regiment after regiment, silent, motionless, it stretched back
into silver mist, and the mist rolled beyond, above, about it; and
through it he saw, as through rifts in broken gauze, lines interminable
of soldiers, glitter of steel. Miles, looking, knew.
He never remembered how long he stood gazing, earth and time and self
forgotten, at a sight not meant for mortal eyes; but suddenly, with a
stab it came to him, that if the hosts of heaven fought his battle it
was that he might do his duty, might save Captain Thornton and his men;
he turned to speak to the young man who had been with him. There was no
one there. Over the bushes the mountain breeze blew damp and cold; they
rustled softly under its touch; his horse stared at him mildly; away off
at the foot-hills he could see the diminishing dots of the fleeing
Indian ponies; as he wheeled again and looked, the hills that had been
covered with the glory of heavenly armies, lay hushed and empty. And
his friend was gone.
[Illustration: "Look!" he said, and Miles swung about toward the ridge
behind.]
Clatter of steel, jingle of harness, an order ringing out far but
clear--Miles threw up his head sharply and listened. In a second he was
pulling at his horse's girth, slipping the bit swiftly into its
mouth--in a moment more he was off and away to meet them, as a body of
cavalry swung out of the valley where the ridge had hidden them.
"Captain Thornton's troop?" the officer repeated carelessly. "Why, yes;
they are here with us. We picked them up yesterday, headed straight for
Black Wolf's war-path. Mighty lucky we found them. How about you--seen
any Indians, have you?"
Miles answered slowly: "A party of eight were on my trail; they were
riding for Massacre Mountain, where I camped, about an hour--about half
an hour--awhile ago." He spoke vaguely, rather oddly, the officer
thought, "Something--stopped them about a hundred yards from the
mountain. They turned, and rode away."
"Ah," said the officer. "They saw us down the valley."
"I couldn't see you," said Miles.
The officer smiled. "You're not an Indian, Lieutenant. Besides, they
were out on the plain and had a farther view behind the ridge." And
Miles answered not a word.
General Miles Morgan, full of years and of honors, has never but twice
told the story of that night of forty years ago. But he believes that
when his time comes, and he goes to join the majority, he will know
again the presence which guarded him through the blackness of it, and
among the angel legions he looks to find an angel, a messenger, who was
his friend.
THE AIDE-DE-CAMP
Age has a point or two in common with greatness; few willingly achieve
it, indeed, but most have it thrust upon them, and some are born old.
But there are people who, beginning young, are young forever. One might
fancy that the careless fates who shape souls--from cotton-batting, from
stone, from wood and dynamite and cheese--once in an æon catch, by
chance, a drop of the fountain of youth, and use it in their business,
and the soul so made goes on bubbling and sparkling eternally, and gray
dust of years cannot dim it. It might be imagined, in another flight of
fancy, that a spark of divine fire from the brazier of the immortals
snaps loose once in a century and lodges in somebody, and is a
heart--with such a clean and happy flame burns sometimes a heart one
knows.
On a January evening, in a room where were books and a blazing hearth,
a man with a famous name and a long record told me a story, and through
his blunt speech flashed in and out all the time the sparkle of the fire
and the ripple of the fountain. Unsuspecting, he betrayed every minute
the queer thing that had happened to him--how he had never grown up and
his blood had never grown cold. So that the story, as it fell in easy
sequence, had a charm which was his and is hard to trap, yet it is too
good a story to leave unwritten. A picture goes with it, what I looked
at as I listened: a massive head on tremendous shoulders; bright white
hair and a black bar of eyebrows, striking and dramatic; underneath,
eyes dark and alive, a face deep red-and-brown with out of doors. His
voice had a rough command in it, because, I suppose, he had given many
orders to men. I tell the tale with this memory for a setting; the
firelight, the soldierly presence, the gayety of youth echoing through
it.
The fire had been forgotten as we talked, and I turned to see it dull
and lifeless. "It hasn't gone out, however," I said, and coughed as I
swallowed smoke. "There's no smoke without some fire," I poked the logs
together. "That's an old saw; but it's true all the same."
"Old saws always are true," said the General. "If there isn't something
in them that people know is so they don't get old--they die young. I
believe in the ridden-to-death proverbs--little pitchers with big
ears--cats with nine lives--still waters running deep--love at first
sight, and the rest. They're true, too." His straight look challenged me
to dispute him.
The pine knots caught and blazed up, and I went back comfortably into my
chair and laughed at him.
"O General! Come! You don't believe in love at first sight."
I liked to make him talk sentiment. He was no more afraid of it than of
anything else, and the warmest sort came out of his handling natural and
unashamed.
"I don't? Yes, I do, too," he fired at me. "I know it happens,
sometimes."
With that the lines of his face broke into the sunshiniest smile. He
threw back his head with sudden boyishness, and chuckled, "I ought to
know; I've had experience," he said. His look settled again
thoughtfully. "Did I ever tell you that story--the story about the day I
rode seventy-five miles? Well, I did that several times--I rode it once
to see my wife. But this was the first time, and a good deal happened.
It was a history-making day for me all right. That was when I was
aide-de-camp to General Stoneman. Have I told you that?"
"No," I said; and "oh, do tell me." I knew already that a fire and a
deep chair and one of the General's stories made a good combination.
His manner had a quality uncommon to storytellers; he spoke as if what
he told had occurred not in times gone by, but perhaps last week; it was
more gossip than history. Probably the sharp, full years had been so
short to him that the interval between twenty and seventy was no great
matter; things looked as clear and his interest was as lively as a
half-century ago. This trick of mind made a narrative of his vivid. With
eyes on the fire, with his dominant voice absorbing the crisp sound of
the crackling wood, he began to talk.
"It was down in Virginia in--let me see--why, certainly, it was in
'63--right away after the battle of Chancellorsville, you know." I kept
still and hoped the General thought I knew the date of the battle of
Chancellorsville. "I was part of a cavalry command that was sent from
the Army of the Potomac under General Stoneman--I was his aide. Well,
we did a lot of things--knocked out bridges and railroads, and all that;
our object was, you see, to destroy communication between Lee's army and
Richmond. We even got into Richmond--we thought every Confederate
soldier was with Lee at the front, and we had a scheme to free the
prisoners in Libby, and perhaps capture Jefferson Davis--but we counted
wrong. The defence was too strong, and our force too small; we had to
skedaddle, or we'd have seen Libby in a way we didn't like. We found a
negro who could pilot us, and we slipped out through fields and swamps
beyond the reach of the enemy. Then the return march began. Let me put
that log on."
"No. Talk," I protested; but the General had the wood in his vigorous
left hand--where a big scar cut across the back.
"You needn't be so independent," he threw at me. "Now you've got a
splinter in your finger--serves you right." I laughed at the savage
tone, and his eyes flashed fiercely--and he laughed back.
"What was I talking about--you interrupted. Oh, that march. Well, we'd
had a pretty rough time when the march back began. For nine days we
hadn't had a real meal--just eaten standing up, whatever we could get
cooked--or uncooked. We hadn't changed our clothes, and we'd slept on
the ground every night."
"Goodness!" I interjected with amateur vagueness. "What about the
horses?"
"Oh, they got it, too," the General said carelessly. "We seldom
unsaddled them at all, and when we did it was just to give them a
rub-down and saddle again. We'd made one march toward home and halted,
late at night, when General Stoneman called for his aide-de-camp. I went
to him, rather sleepy, and he told me he'd decided to communicate with
his chief and report his success, and that I was to start at daylight
and find the Army of the Potomac. I had my pick of ten of the best men
and horses from the brigade, and I got off at gray dawn with them, and
with the written report in my boot to the commanding general, and verbal
orders to find him wherever he might be. Nothing else, except the
tools--swords and pistols, and that sort of thing. Oh, yes, there was
one thing more. General Ladd, who was a Virginian, had given my chief a
letter for his people, thinking we'd get into their country. His family
were all on the Confederate side of the fence, while he was a Union
officer. That was not uncommon in our civil war. But we didn't get near
the Ladd estate, and so Stoneman commissioned me to return the letter to
the general with the explanation. Does this bore you?" he stopped
suddenly to ask, and his alert eye shot the glance at me like a bullet.
"Stop once more and I'll be likely to cry," I predicted.
"For Heaven's sake don't do that." He reached across and took the
poker. "Here's the Rapidan River," he sketched down the rug. "Runs east
and west. And this blue diagonal north of it is the Rappahannock. I
started south of the Rapidan, to cross it and go north, hoping to find
our army victorious and south of the Rappahannock. Which I didn't--but
that's farther along. Well, we were off at daylight, ten men and the
officer--me. It was a fine spring morning, and the bunch of horsemen
made a pretty sight as the sun came up, moving through the
greenness--the foliage is well out down there in May. The bits jingled
and the saddles creaked under our legs--I remember how it sounded as we
started off. We'd had a strenuous week, but we were a strong lot and
ready for anything. We were going to get it, too." The General chuckled
suddenly, as if something had hit his funny-bone. "I skirted along the
south bank of the Rapidan, keeping off the roads most of the time, and
out of sight, which was better for our health--we were in Confederate
country--and we got to Germania Ford without seeing anybody, or being
seen. Said I, 'Here's the place we'll cross.' We'd had breakfast before
starting, but we'd been in the saddle three hours since that, and I was
thirsty. I could see a house back in the trees as we came to the ford--a
beautiful old house--the kind you see a lot of in the South--high white
pillars--dignified and aristocratic. It seemed to be quiet and safe, so
we trotted up the drive, the eleven of us. The front door was open, and
I jumped off my horse and ran up the steps and stood in the doorway.
There were four or five people in the hall, and they'd seen us coming
and were scared. A nice old lady was lying back in a chair, as pale as
ashes, with her hand to her heart, gasping ninety to the second, and two
or three negroes stood around her with their eyes rolling. And right in
the middle of the place a red-headed girl in a white dress was bending
over a grizzled old negro man who was locking a large travelling-bag. As
cool as a cucumber that girl was."
The General stopped and considered.
"I wish I could describe the scene the way I saw it--I remember exactly.
It was a big, square hall running through from front to back, and the
back door was open, and you saw a garden with box hedges, and woods
behind it. Stairs went up each side the hall and a balcony ran around
the second story, with bedrooms opening off it. There was a high, oval
window at the back over the balcony, and the sun poured through.
"The girl finished locking her bag as if she hadn't noticed scum of the
earth like us, and then she deliberately picked up a bunch of long white
flowers that lay by the bag--lilies, I think you call them--and stood
up, and looked right past me, as if she was struck with the landscape,
and didn't see me. She was a tall girl, and when she stood straight the
light from the back window just hit her hair and shone through the loose
part of it--there was a lot, and it was curly. I give you my word that,
as she stood there and looked calmly beyond me, in her white dress, with
the stalk of flowers over her shoulder, and the sun turning that
wonderful red-gold hair into a halo--I give you my word she was a
perfect picture of a saint out of a stained-glass window in a church.
But she didn't act like one."
The General was seized with sudden, irresistible laughter. He sobered
quickly.
"I took one look at the vision, and I knew it was all up with me. Talk
about love at first sight--before she ever spoke a word I--well." He
pulled up the sentence as if it were a horse. "I snatched off my cap and
I said, said I, 'I'm very sorry to disturb you,' just as politely as I
knew how, but all the answer she gave me was to glance across at the old
lady. Then she went find put her arm around her as she lay back gasping
in a great curved chair.
"'Don't be afraid, Aunt Virginia,' she said. 'Nothing shall hurt you. I
can manage this man.'
"The way she said 'this man' was about as contemptuous as they make 'em.
I guess she was right, too--I guess she could. She turned her head
toward me, but did not look at me.
"'Do you want anything here?'" she asked.
"Her voice was the prettiest, softest sound you ever heard--she was mad
as a hornet, too." The General's swift chuckle caught him. "'Hyer,' she
said it," he repeated. "'Hyer.'" He liked to say it, evidently. "I
stood holding my cap in my hand, so tame by this time you could have put
me on a perch in a cage, for the pluck of the girl was as fascinating as
her looks. I spoke up like a man all the same.
"'I wanted to ask,' said I, 'if I might send my men around to your well
for a drink of water. They're thirsty.'
"The way she answered, looking all around me and never once at me, made
me uncomfortable. 'I suppose you can if you wish,' she said. 'You're
stronger than we are. You can take what you choose. But I won't give you
anything--not if you were dying--not a glass of water.'
"Well, in spite of her having played football with my heart, that made
me angry.
"'I didn't know before that to be Southern made a woman unwomanly,' I
said. 'Where I came from I don't believe there's a girl would say a
cruel thing like that or refuse a drink of cold water to soldiers doing
their duty, friends or enemies. We've slept on the ground nine nights
and ridden nine days, and had very little to eat--my men are tired and
thirsty. I shan't make them go without any refreshment they can get,
even if it is grudged.'
"I gave an order over my shoulder, and my party went off to the back of
the house. Then I made a low bow to the old lady and to Miss
High-and-Mighty, and I swung about and walked down the steps and mounted
my horse. I was parched for water, but I wouldn't have had it if I'd
choked, after that. Between taking an almighty shine to the girl and
getting stirred up that way, and then being all frozen over with icicles
by her cool insultingness, I was pretty savage, and I stared away from
the place and thought the men would never come. All of a sudden I felt
something touch my arm, and I looked around quick, and there was the
girl. She stood by the horse, her red hair close to my elbow as I sat in
the saddle, and she held up a glass of water. I never was so astonished
in my life.
"'You're thirsty and tired, too,' she said, speaking as low as if she
was afraid the horse might hear. 'For my self-respect--for Southern
women'--she brought it out in that soft, sliding way, but the words
were all mixed up with embarrassment--and red--my, but she blushed! Then
she went on. 'You were right,' said she. 'I was cruel; you're my enemy
and I hate you, but I ought not to grudge you water. Take it.'
"I put my hand right on top of hers as she held the glass, and bent down
and drank so, making her hold it to my lips, and my hand over
hers--bless her heart!"
The General came to a full stop. He was smiling into the fire, and his
face was as if a flame burned back of it. I waited very quietly, fearing
to change the current by a word, and in a moment the strong voice, with
its vibrating note, not to be described, began again.
"I drained every drop," he said, "I'd have drunk a hogshead. When I
finished I raised my head and looked down at her without a word
said--but I didn't let go of the glass with her hand holding it inside
mine--and she lifted her eyes very slowly, and for the first time looked
at me. Well--" he shut his lips a moment--"these things don't tell well,
but something happened. I held her eyes into mine, us if I gripped them
with my muscles, and there came over her face an extraordinary
expression--first as if she was surprised that it was me, then as if she
was glad, and then--well, you may believe it or not, but I knew that
second that the girl--loved me. She hated me all right five minutes
before--I was her people's enemy--the chances were she'd never see me
again--all that's true, but it simply didn't count. She cared for me,
and I for her, and we both knew it--that's all there was about it.
People live faster in war-time, I think--anyhow, that's the way it was.
"The men and horses came pouring around the house, and I let her hand
loose--it was hard to do it, too--and then she was gone, and we rode on
to the ford. We stopped when we got to the stream to let the horses have
their turn at drinking, and as I sat loafing in the saddle, with my mind
pretty full of what had just passed, my eyes were all over. Every
cavalry officer, and especially an aide-de-camp, gets to be a sort of
hawk in active service--nothing can move within range that he doesn't
see. So as I looked about me I took in among other things the house
we'd just left, and suddenly I spied a handkerchief waving from behind
one of the big white pillars. Of course you've got to be wary in an
enemy's country, and these people were rabid Confederates, as I'd
occasion to know. All the same it would have been bad judgment to
neglect such a signal, and what's more, I'd have staked my life on that
girl's honesty. If the handkerchief had been a cannon I'd have gone
back. So back I went, taking a couple of men with me. As I jumped off my
horse I saw her standing inside the front door, back in the shadow, and
I ran up the steps to her.
"'Well?' said I.
"She looked up at me and laughed, showing a row of white teeth. That was
the first time I ever saw her laugh. 'I knew you'd come back,' said she,
as mischievous as a child, and her eyes danced.
"I didn't mean to be made a fool of, for I had my duty to think about,
so I spoke rather shortly. 'Well, and now I'm here--what?'
"With that she drew an excited little gasp. 'I couldn't let you be
killed,' she brought out in a sort of breathless whisper, so low I had
to bend over close to hear her. 'You mustn't go on--in that
direction--you'll be taken. The Union army's been defeated--at
Chancellorsville. They're driven north of the Rappahannock--to Falmouth.
Our troops are in their old camps. There's an outpost across the
ford--just over the hill.'
"It was the first I'd heard of the defeat at Chancellorsville, and it
stunned me for a second. 'Are you telling me the truth?' I asked her
pretty sharply.
"'You know I am,' she said, as haughty as you please all of a sudden,
and drew herself up with her head in the air.
"And I did know it. Something else struck me just about then. The old
lady and the servants were gone from the hall. There wasn't anybody in
it but herself and me; my men were out of sight on the driveway. I
forgot our army and the war and everything else, and I caught her bands
in between mine, and said I, 'Why couldn't you let me be killed?'"
At his words I drew a quick breath, too. For a moment I was the
Southern girl with the red-gold hair. I could feel the clasp of the
young officer's hands; I could hear his voice asking the rough, tender
question, "Why couldn't you let me be killed?"
"It was mighty still for a minute. Then she lifted up her eyes as I held
her fingers in a vise, and gave me a steady look. That was all--but it
was plenty.
"I don't know how I got on my horse or what order I gave, but my head
was clear enough for business purposes, and I had to use it--quickly,
too. There were thick woods near by, and I hurried my party into them
and gave men and horses a short rest till I could decide what to do. The
Confederates were east of us, around Chancellorsville and in the
triangle between the Rapidan and the Rappahannock, so that It was unsafe
travelling in that direction. It's the business of an aide-de-camp
carrying despatches to steal as quietly as possible through an enemy's
country, and the one fatal thing is to be captured. So I concluded I
wouldn't get into the thick of it till I had to, but would turn west
and make a _détour_, crossing by Morton's Ford, farther up the Rapidan.
Germania Ford lies in a deep loop of the river, and that made our ride
longer, but we found a road and crossed all right as I planned it, and
then we doubled back, as we had to, eastward.
"It was a pretty ride in the May weather, through that beautiful
Virginia country. We kept in the woods and the lonely roads as much as
we could and hardly saw a soul for hours, and though I knew we were
getting into dangerous parts again, I hoped we might work through all
right. Of course I thought first about my errand, and my mind was on
every turn of the road and every speck in the landscape, but all the
same there was one corner of it--or of something--that didn't forget
that red-headed girl--not an instant. I kept wondering if I'd ever see
her again, and I was mighty clear that I would, if there was enough left
of me by the time I could get off duty to go and look her up. The touch
of her hands stayed with me all day.