AFTER THE BATTLE.
Oh, womanly she prayed in tent,
When none beside did wake!
Oh, womanly she paled in fight
For one beloved’s sake!
And her little hand defiled with blood,
Her tender tears of womanhood
Most woman-pure did make.—E. B. BROWNING.
Adjutant Wing knelt down beside the dead and took two fresh white
pocket-handkerchiefs from his bosom—Adjutant Wing was rather dainty for
a soldier, in some of his habits, and constantly exposed himself to the
raillery of his companions by his weakness for clean linen. He now
covered with the handkerchiefs the poor dead faces, and, still kneeling,
gazed upon the two bodies, while great tears rolled slowly down his
cheeks.
“You are weeping, Wing,” said Colonel Rosenthal, kindly.
“I cannot—cannot help it,” said the boy, sobbing aloud. “When I look at
these two, and remember that they were kind to me, and that I betrayed
them to this death, I cannot help it. Oh, my Colonel, I have shed some
bitter tears in my life. But these are the bitterest that ever fell from
my eyes!”
“Wing, what you did was done as a sacred duty in the service of your
country.”
“Yes, I know; but the duty was very revolting to me. Once I said that
nothing on earth could ever induce me to become a spy; but that was
before the war, and I was in no condition to judge of the matter.”
As Wing sobbed forth these words Colonel Rosenthal started and looked at
him wistfully for a minute; then, seemingly satisfied by the scrutiny,
he said:
“Our military duties are often revolting to us, my boy; but still they
are _duties_—_sacred duties_—and must be performed. I suppose the judge
who pronounces a sentence of death, and the sheriff who executes it,
both feel their duty to be a painful one; but they do it. I am sorry for
these people, Wing—very, very sorry for them; but—they were traitors.”
“Oh, call them no hard names over their still, cold bodies, my Colonel.
Their lips are mute and cannot reply. _They thought they were right_,
and so thinking, they were true to themselves, and true, oh heaven, how
true to each other! Theirs was a rare love, my Colonel; stronger than
life and death!” wept Wing.
“Perhaps the fate that they have just met was, under all the
circumstances, the best for them,” said Justin.
“Oh! how much the best! Poor lady!” said Wing, uncovering the face of
Alberta and gazing tenderly upon it. “Poor, poor lady! She had but one
great dread in all her dreadful life—to be separated from her beloved.
She had but one earnest prayer—to be with him always, forever and ever.
Her prayer is granted. As she clung to him through all his desperate
life, so he would not desert her even in death! no, not even to save
himself from certain capture and from the shameful scaffold. Call them
traitors, if you must; but they were true as truth to each other—true in
life and in death! And they are inseparable for all eternity. Poor girl!
I remember her words once when speaking of Dante’s story of Francesca
and Paulo in Hell:—‘It might have been worse,’ she said. ‘_One might
have been in Heaven!_’ And I knew that she was thinking of herself and
her ‘Free Sword.’”
As Wing spoke, he reverently covered the faces of the dead and arose
from his knees.
“Oh, my Colonel,” he next said, “after all, I think that those who have
fallen in this war may be happier than those who survive, burdened with
the memory of its horrors!”
At that moment the sound of many horses’ feet was heard approaching, and
presently a squad of Union cavalry rode up, having Albert Goldsborough,
Abershaw, Haddycraff, and other guerrilla officers as prisoners.
“We cut off their retreat, sir,” reported the officer in command of the
party.
Colonel Rosenthal advanced to receive the sword of the guerrilla leader.
Goldsborough handed it over in perfect silence. There was not a word
spoken between the two.
Then Colonel Rosenthal ordered the prisoners taken to the rear and
guarded.
Next he beckoned an officer, and directed him to take charge of the
remains of the Free Sword and his unfortunate wife, and to see to their
removal, and their preparation for decent interment.
Finally, he called Wing and Hay (who had succeeded in making his escape
from Monck’s camp) to attend him, and rode off to inspect in person a
certain locality in the neighborhood, where he proposed that his
regiment should bivouac for the night.
They followed the old turnpike road down the hill, until they came to
the open plain, across which Goldsborough’s men had marched that day.
Straight before them, under the dark eastern horizon, was dimly seen a
grove, or piece of woods.
“There is the place where we shall halt to-night, Wing. As we have no
tents, the trees must give us shelter. And I am told that there is a
fine spring of water. Our tired and hungry men will be comfortable
there,” said Colonel Rosenthal, pointing to the grove.
“And the wounded, my Colonel?” inquired Wing, gently.
“You always remember the wounded, my boy. Well, they will be taken care
of. Captain Hopkins and Surgeon Sharpe are in charge of the wounded. And
lest you should also think the dead may be neglected, I will inform you
that Lieutenant Barnwell and Chaplain Jones are entrusted with the
arrangements for their Christian burial. Are you satisfied now, Wing?”
“Thanks, my Colonel, for your information, and also for your kind
indulgence of what might be called impertinence in me,” said Wing,
respectfully raising his cap.
Colonel Rosenthal smiled wistfully, but did not reply.
The sun had long set, and the moon had not yet risen. But it was a
clear, bright, starlight night, and they continued their way across the
plain, strangely soothed by the sweet stillness and peacefulness of the
scene.
They rode along, drawing nearer and nearer to the grove, until at
length, when they were within a few hundred yards of it, they were
startled by screams issuing from its shadows, a woman’s piercing
screams, mingled with cries of—
“Murder! Murder! Help! Help!”