Let me do justice to a brave man's memory; in all these needless
exposures of life there was no visible bravado nor subsequent narration.
In the few instances when some of us had ventured to remonstrate, Brayle
had smiled pleasantly and made some light reply, which, however, had not
encouraged a further pursuit of the subject. Once he said:
"Captain, if ever I come to grief by forgetting your advice, I hope my
last moments will be cheered by the sound of your beloved voice
breathing into my ear the blessed words, 'I told you so.'"
We laughed at the captain--just why we could probably not have
explained--and that afternoon when he was shot to rags from an ambuscade
Brayle remained by the body for some time, adjusting the limbs with
needless care--there in the middle of a road swept by gusts of grape and
canister! It is easy to condemn this kind of thing, and not very
difficult to refrain from imitation, but it is impossible not to
respect, and Brayle was liked none the less for the weakness which had
so heroic an expression. We wished he were not a fool, but he went on
that way to the end, sometimes hard hit, but always returning to duty
about as good as new.
Of course, it came at last; he who ignores the law of probabilities
challenges an adversary that is seldom beaten. It was at Resaca, in
Georgia, during the movement that resulted in the taking of Atlanta. In
front of our brigade the enemy's line of earthworks ran through open
fields along a slight crest. At each end of this open ground we were
close up to him in the woods, but the clear ground we could not hope to
occupy until night, when darkness would enable us to burrow like moles
and throw up earth. At this point our line was a quarter-mile away in
the edge of a wood. Roughly, we formed a semicircle, the enemy's
fortified line being the chord of the arc.
"Lieutenant, go tell Colonel Ward to work up as close as he can get
cover, and not to waste much ammunition in unnecessary firing. You may
leave your horse."
When the general gave this direction we were in the fringe of the
forest, near the right extremity of the arc. Colonel Ward was at the
left. The suggestion to leave the horse obviously enough meant that
Brayle was to take the longer line, through the woods and among the men.
Indeed, the suggestion was needless; to go by the short route meant
absolutely certain failure to deliver the message. Before anybody could
interpose, Brayle had cantered lightly into the field and the enemy's
works were in crackling conflagration.
"Stop that damned fool!" shouted the general.
A private of the escort, with more ambition than brains, spurred forward
to obey, and within ten yards left himself and his horse dead on the
field of honor.
Brayle was beyond recall, galloping easily along, parallel to the enemy
and less than two hundred yards distant. He was a picture to see! His
hat had been blown or shot from his head, and his long, blond hair rose
and fell with the motion of his horse. He sat erect in the saddle,
holding the reins lightly in his left hand, his right hanging carelessly
at his side. An occasional glimpse of his handsome profile as he turned
his head one way or the other proved that the interest which he took in
what was going on was natural and without affectation.
The picture was intensely dramatic, but in no degree theatrical.
Successive scores of rifles spat at him viciously as he came within
range, and our own line in the edge of the timber broke out in visible
and audible defense. No longer regardful of themselves or their orders,
our fellows sprang to their feet, and swarming into the open sent broad
sheets of bullets against the blazing crest of the offending works,
which poured an answering fire into their unprotected groups with deadly
effect. The artillery on both sides joined the battle, punctuating the
rattle and roar with deep, earth-shaking explosions and tearing the air
with storms of screaming grape, which from the enemy's side splintered
the trees and spattered them with blood, and from ours defiled the smoke
of his arms with banks and clouds of dust from his parapet.
My attention had been for a moment drawn to the general combat, but now,
glancing down the unobscured avenue between these two thunderclouds, I
saw Brayle, the cause of the carnage. Invisible now from either side,
and equally doomed by friend and foe, he stood in the shot-swept space,
motionless, his face toward the enemy. At some little distance lay his
horse. I instantly saw what had stopped him.
As topographical engineer I had, early in the day, made a hasty
examination of the ground, and now remembered that at that point was a
deep and sinuous gully, crossing half the field from the enemy's line,
its general course at right angles to it. From where we now were it was
invisible, and Brayle had evidently not known about it. Clearly, it was
impassable. Its salient angles would have afforded him absolute security
if he had chosen to be satisfied with the miracle already wrought in his
favor and leapt into it. He could not go forward, he would not turn
back; he stood awaiting death. It did not keep him long waiting.
By some mysterious coincidence, almost instantaneously as he fell, the
firing ceased, a few desultory shots at long intervals serving rather to
accentuate than break the silence. It was as if both sides had suddenly
repented of their profitless crime. Four stretcher-bearers of ours,
following a sergeant with a white flag, soon afterward moved unmolested
into the field, and made straight for Brayle's body. Several Confederate
officers and men came out to meet them, and with uncovered heads
assisted them to take up their sacred burden. As it was borne toward us
we heard beyond the hostile works fifes and a muffled drum--a dirge. A
generous enemy honored the fallen brave.
Amongst the dead man's effects was a soiled Russia-leather pocketbook.
In the distribution of mementoes of our friend, which the general, as
administrator, decreed, this fell to me.
A year after the close of the war, on my way to California, I opened and
idly inspected it. Out of an overlooked compartment fell a letter
without envelope or address. It was in a woman's handwriting, and began
with words of endearment, but no name.
It had the following date line: "San Francisco, Cal., July 9, 1862." The
signature was "Darling," in marks of quotation. Incidentally, in the
body of the text, the writer's full name was given--Marian Mendenhall.
The letter showed evidence of cultivation and good breeding, but it was
an ordinary love letter, if a love letter can be ordinary. There was not
much in it, but there was something. It was this:
"Mr. Winters, whom I shall always hate for it, has been telling that at
some battle in Virginia, where he got his hurt, you were seen crouching
behind a tree. I think he wants to injure you in my regard, which he
knows the story would do if I believed it. I could bear to hear of my
soldier lover's death, but not of his cowardice."
These were the words which on that sunny afternoon, in a distant region,
had slain a hundred men. Is woman weak?
One evening I called on Miss Mendenhall to return the letter to her. I
intended, also, to tell her what she had done--but not that she did it.
I found her in a handsome dwelling on Rincon Hill. She was beautiful,
well bred--in a word, charming.
"You knew Lieutenant Herman Brayle," I said, rather abruptly. "You know,
doubtless, that he fell in battle. Among his effects was found this
letter from you. My errand here is to place it in your hands."
She mechanically took the letter, glanced through it with deepening
color, and then, looking at me with a smile, said:
"It is very good of you, though I am sure it was hardly worth while."
She started suddenly and changed color. "This stain," she said, "is it--
surely it is not--"
"Madam," I said, "pardon me, but that is the blood of the truest and
bravest heart that ever beat."
She hastily flung the letter on the blazing coals. "Uh! I cannot bear
the sight of blood!" she said. "How did he die?"
I had involuntarily risen to rescue that scrap of paper, sacred even to
me, and now stood partly behind her. As she asked the question she
turned her face about and slightly upward. The light of the burning
letter was reflected in her eyes and touched her cheek with a tinge of
crimson like the stain upon its page. I had never seen anything so
beautiful as this detestable creature.
"He was bitten by a snake," I replied.