General Masterson rode into the redoubt. The men, gathered in groups,
were talking loudly and gesticulating. They pointed at the dead, running
from one body to another. They neglected their foul and heated guns and
forgot to resume their outer clothing. They ran to the parapet and
looked over, some of them leaping down into the ditch. A score were
gathered about a flag rigidly held by a dead man.
"Well, my men," said the general cheerily, "you have had a pretty fight
of it."
They stared; nobody replied; the presence of the great man seemed to
embarrass and alarm.
Getting no response to his pleasant condescension, the easy-mannered
officer whistled a bar or two of a popular air, and riding forward to
the parapet, looked over at the dead. In an instant he had whirled his
horse about and was spurring along in rear of the guns, his eyes
everywhere at once. An officer sat on the trail of one of the guns,
smoking a cigar. As the general dashed up he rose and tranquilly
saluted.
"Captain Ransome!"--the words fell sharp and harsh, like the clash of
steel blades--"you have been fighting our own men--our own men, sir; do
you hear? Hart's brigade!"
"General, I know that."
"You know it--you know that, and you sit here smoking? Oh, damn it,
Hamilton, I'm losing my temper,"--this to his provost-marshal. "Sir--
Captain Ransome, be good enough to say--to say why you fought our own
men."
"That I am unable to say. In my orders that information was withheld."
Apparently the general did not comprehend.
"Who was the aggressor in this affair, you or General Hart?" he asked.
"I was."
"And could you not have known--could you not see, sir, that you were
attacking our own men?"
The reply was astounding!
"I knew that, general. It appeared to be none of my business."
Then, breaking the dead silence that followed his answer, he said:
"I must refer you to General Cameron."
"General Cameron is dead, sir--as dead as he can be--as dead as any man
in this army. He lies back yonder under a tree. Do you mean to say that
he had anything to do with this horrible business?"
Captain Ransome did not reply. Observing the altercation his men had
gathered about to watch the outcome. They were greatly excited. The fog,
which had been partly dissipated by the firing, had again closed in so
darkly about them that they drew more closely together till the judge on
horseback and the accused standing calmly before him had but a narrow
space free from intrusion. It was the most informal of courts-martial,
but all felt that the formal one to follow would but affirm its
judgment. It had no jurisdiction, but it had the significance of
prophecy.
"Captain Ransome," the general cried impetuously, but with something in
his voice that was almost entreaty, "if you can say anything to put a
better light upon your incomprehensible conduct I beg you will do so."
Having recovered his temper this generous soldier sought for something
to justify his naturally sympathetic attitude toward a brave man in the
imminence of a dishonorable death.
"Where is Lieutenant Price?" the captain said.
That officer stood forward, his dark saturnine face looking somewhat
forbidding under a bloody handkerchief bound about his brow. He
understood the summons and needed no invitation to speak. He did not
look at the captain, but addressed the general:
"During the engagement I discovered the state of affairs, and apprised
the commander of the battery. I ventured to urge that the firing cease.
I was insulted and ordered to my post."
"Do you know anything of the orders under which I was acting?" asked the
captain.
"Of any orders under which the commander of the battery was acting," the
lieutenant continued, still addressing the general, "I know nothing."
Captain Ransome felt his world sink away from his feet. In those cruel
words he heard the murmur of the centuries breaking upon the shore of
eternity. He heard the voice of doom; it said, in cold, mechanical, and
measured tones: "Ready, aim, fire!" and he felt the bullets tear his
heart to shreds. He heard the sound of the earth upon his coffin and (if
the good God was so merciful) the song of a bird above his forgotten
grave. Quietly detaching his sabre from its supports, he handed it up to
the provost-marshal.