The fighting had been hard and continuous; that was attested by all the
senses. The very taste of battle was in the air. All was now over; it
remained only to succor the wounded and bury the dead--to "tidy up a
bit," as the humorist of a burial squad put it. A good deal of "tidying
up" was required. As far as one could see through the forests, among the
splintered trees, lay wrecks of men and horses. Among them moved the
stretcher-bearers, gathering and carrying away the few who showed signs
of life. Most of the wounded had died of neglect while the right to
minister to their wants was in dispute. It is an army regulation that
the wounded must wait; the best way to care for them is to win the
battle. It must be confessed that victory is a distinct advantage to a
man requiring attention, but many do not live to avail themselves of it.
The dead were collected in groups of a dozen or a score and laid side by
side in rows while the trenches were dug to receive them.
Some, found at too great a distance from these rallying points, were
buried where they lay. There was little attempt at identification,
though in most cases, the burial parties being detailed to glean the
same ground which they had assisted to reap, the names of the victorious
dead were known and listed. The enemy's fallen had to be content with
counting. But of that they got enough: many of them were counted several
times, and the total, as given afterward in the official report of the
victorious commander, denoted rather a hope than a result.
At some little distance from the spot where one of the burial parties
had established its "bivouac of the dead," a man in the uniform of a
Federal officer stood leaning against a tree. From his feet upward to
his neck his attitude was that of weariness reposing; but he turned his
head uneasily from side to side; his mind was apparently not at rest. He
was perhaps uncertain in which direction to go; he was not likely to
remain long where he was, for already the level rays of the setting sun
straggled redly through the open spaces of the wood and the weary
soldiers were quitting their task for the day. He would hardly make a
night of it alone there among the dead.
Nine men in ten whom you meet after a battle inquire the way to some
fraction of the army--as if any one could know. Doubtless this officer
was lost. After resting himself a moment he would presumably follow one
of the retiring burial squads.
When all were gone he walked straight away into the forest toward the
red west, its light staining his face like blood. The air of confidence
with which he now strode along showed that he was on familiar ground; he
had recovered his bearings. The dead on his right and on his left were
unregarded as he passed. An occasional low moan from some
sorely-stricken wretch whom the relief-parties had not reached, and who
would have to pass a comfortless night beneath the stars with his thirst
to keep him company, was equally unheeded. What, indeed, could the
officer have done, being no surgeon and having no water?
At the head of a shallow ravine, a mere depression of the ground, lay a
small group of bodies. He saw, and swerving suddenly from his course
walked rapidly toward them. Scanning each one sharply as he passed, he
stopped at last above one which lay at a slight remove from the others,
near a clump of small trees. He looked at it narrowly. It seemed to
stir. He stooped and laid his hand upon its face. It screamed.
* * * * *
The officer was Captain Downing Madwell, of a Massachusetts regiment of
infantry, a daring and intelligent soldier, an honorable man.
In the regiment were two brothers named Halcrow--Caffal and Creede
Halcrow. Caffal Halcrow was a sergeant in Captain Madwell's company, and
these two men, the sergeant and the captain, were devoted friends. In so
far as disparity of rank, difference in duties and considerations of
military discipline would permit they were commonly together. They had,
indeed, grown up together from childhood. A habit of the heart is not
easily broken off. Caffal Halcrow had nothing military in his taste nor
disposition, but the thought of separation from his friend was
disagreeable; he enlisted in the company in which Madwell was
second-lieutenant. Each had taken two steps upward in rank, but between
the highest non-commissioned and the lowest commissioned officer the
gulf is deep and wide and the old relation was maintained with
difficulty and a difference.
Creede Halcrow, the brother of Caffal, was the major of the regiment--a
cynical, saturnine man, between whom and Captain Madwell there was a
natural antipathy which circumstances had nourished and strengthened to
an active animosity. But for the restraining influence of their mutual
relation to Caffal these two patriots would doubtless have endeavored to
deprive their country of each other's services.
At the opening of the battle that morning the regiment was performing
outpost duty a mile away from the main army. It was attacked and nearly
surrounded in the forest, but stubbornly held its ground. During a lull
in the fighting, Major Halcrow came to Captain Madwell. The two
exchanged formal salutes, and the major said: "Captain, the colonel
directs that you push your company to the head of this ravine and hold
your place there until recalled. I need hardly apprise you of the
dangerous character of the movement, but if you wish, you can, I
suppose, turn over the command to your first-lieutenant. I was not,
however, directed to authorize the substitution; it is merely a
suggestion of my own, unofficially made."
To this deadly insult Captain Madwell coolly replied:
"Sir, I invite you to accompany the movement. A mounted officer would be
a conspicuous mark, and I have long held the opinion that it would be
better if you were dead."
The art of repartee was cultivated in military circles as early as 1862.
A half-hour later Captain Madwell's company was driven from its position
at the head of the ravine, with a loss of one-third its number. Among
the fallen was Sergeant Halcrow. The regiment was soon afterward forced
back to the main line, and at the close of the battle was miles away.
The captain was now standing at the side of his subordinate and friend.
Sergeant Halcrow was mortally hurt. His clothing was deranged; it seemed
to have been violently torn apart, exposing the abdomen. Some of the
buttons of his jacket had been pulled off and lay on the ground beside
him and fragments of his other garments were strewn about. His leather
belt was parted and had apparently been dragged from beneath him as he
lay. There had been no great effusion of blood. The only visible wound
was a wide, ragged opening in the abdomen.
It was defiled with earth and dead leaves. Protruding from it was a loop
of small intestine. In all his experience Captain Madwell had not seen a
wound like this. He could neither conjecture how it was made nor explain
the attendant circumstances--the strangely torn clothing, the parted
belt, the besmirching of the white skin. He knelt and made a closer
examination. When he rose to his feet, he turned his eyes in different
directions as if looking for an enemy. Fifty yards away, on the crest of
a low, thinly wooded hill, he saw several dark objects moving about
among the fallen men--a herd of swine. One stood with its back to him,
its shoulders sharply elevated. Its forefeet were upon a human body, its
head was depressed and invisible. The bristly ridge of its chine showed
black against the red west. Captain Madwell drew away his eyes and fixed
them again upon the thing which had been his friend.
The man who had suffered these monstrous mutilations was alive. At
intervals he moved his limbs; he moaned at every breath. He stared
blankly into the face of his friend and if touched screamed. In his
giant agony he had torn up the ground on which he lay; his clenched
hands were full of leaves and twigs and earth. Articulate speech was
beyond his power; it was impossible to know if he were sensible to
anything but pain. The expression of his face was an appeal; his eyes
were full of prayer. For what?
There was no misreading that look; the captain had too frequently seen
it in eyes of those whose lips had still the power to formulate it by an
entreaty for death. Consciously or unconsciously, this writhing fragment
of humanity, this type and example of acute sensation, this handiwork of
man and beast, this humble, unheroic Prometheus, was imploring
everything, all, the whole non-ego, for the boon of oblivion. To the
earth and the sky alike, to the trees, to the man, to whatever took form
in sense or consciousness, this incarnate suffering addressed that
silent plea.
For what, indeed? For that which we accord to even the meanest creature
without sense to demand it, denying it only to the wretched of our own
race: for the blessed release, the rite of uttermost compassion, the
_coup de grâce_.
Captain Madwell spoke the name of his friend. He repeated it over and
over without effect until emotion choked his utterance.
His tears plashed upon the livid face beneath his own and blinded
himself. He saw nothing but a blurred and moving object, but the moans
were more distinct than ever, interrupted at briefer intervals by
sharper shrieks. He turned away, struck his hand upon his forehead, and
strode from the spot. The swine, catching sight of him, threw up their
crimson muzzles, regarding him suspiciously a second, and then with a
gruff, concerted grunt, raced away out of sight. A horse, its foreleg
splintered by a cannon-shot, lifted its head sidewise from the ground
and neighed piteously. Madwell stepped forward, drew his revolver and
shot the poor beast between the eyes, narrowly observing its
death-struggle, which, contrary to his expectation, was violent and
long; but at last it lay still. The tense muscles of its lips, which had
uncovered the teeth in a horrible grin, relaxed; the sharp, clean-cut
profile took on a look of profound peace and rest.
Along the distant, thinly wooded crest to westward the fringe of sunset
fire had now nearly burned itself out. The light upon the trunks of the
trees had faded to a tender gray; shadows were in their tops, like great
dark birds aperch. Night was coming and there were miles of haunted
forest between Captain Madwell and camp. Yet he stood there at the side
of the dead animal, apparently lost to all sense of his surroundings.
His eyes were bent upon the earth at his feet; his left hand hung
loosely at his side, his right still held the pistol. Presently he
lifted his face, turned it toward his dying friend and walked rapidly
back to his side. He knelt upon one knee, cocked the weapon, placed the
muzzle against the man's forehead, and turning away his eyes pulled the
trigger. There was no report. He had used his last cartridge for the
horse.
The sufferer moaned and his lips moved convulsively. The froth that ran
from them had a tinge of blood.
Captain Madwell rose to his feet and drew his sword from the scabbard.
He passed the fingers of his left hand along the edge from hilt to
point. He held it out straight before him, as if to test his nerves.
There was no visible tremor of the blade; the ray of bleak skylight that
it reflected was steady and true. He stooped and with his left hand tore
away the dying man's shirt, rose and placed the point of the sword just
over the heart. This time he did not withdraw his eyes. Grasping the
hilt with both hands, he thrust downward with all his strength and
weight. The blade sank into the man's body--through his body into the
earth; Captain Madwell came near falling forward upon his work. The
dying man drew up his knees and at the same time threw his right arm
across his breast and grasped the steel so tightly that the knuckles of
the hand visibly whitened. By a violent but vain effort to withdraw the
blade the wound was enlarged; a rill of blood escaped, running sinuously
down into the deranged clothing. At that moment three men stepped
silently forward from behind the clump of young trees which had
concealed their approach. Two were hospital attendants and carried a
stretcher.
The third was Major Creede Halcrow.