They told her that Berkley had gone up the hill toward the firing
line.
On the windy hill-top, hub deep in dry, dead grass, a section of a
battery was in action, the violent light from the discharges
lashing out through the rushing vapours which the wind flattened
and drove, back into the hollow below so that the cannoneers seemed
to be wading waist deep in fog.
The sick and wounded on their cots and stretchers were coughing and
gasping in the hot mist; the partly erected tents had become full
of it. And now the air in the hollow grew more suffocating as
fragments of burning powder and wadding set the dead grass afire,
and the thick, strangling blue smoke spread over everything.
Surgeons and assistants were working like beavers to house their
patients; every now and then a bullet darted into the vale with an
evil buzz, rewounding, sometimes killing, the crippled. To add to
the complication and confusion, more wounded arrived from the
firing line above and beyond to the westward; horses began to fall
where they stood harnessed to the caissons; a fine, powerful
gun-team galloping back to refill its chests suddenly reared
straight up into annihilation, enveloped in the volcanic horror of
a shell, so near that Ailsa, standing below in a clump of willows,
saw the flash and smoke of the cataclysm and the flying
disintegration of dark objects scattering through the smoke.
Far away on the hillside an artilleryman, making a funnel of his
hands, shouted for stretchers; and Ailsa, repeating the call,
managed to gather together half a dozen overworked bearers and
start with them up through the smoke.
Deafened, blinded, her senses almost reeling under the
nerve-shattering crash of the guns, she toiled on through the dry
grass, pausing at the edge of charred spaces to beat out the low
flames that leaped toward her skirts.
There was a leafy hollow ahead, filled with slender, willow-trees,
many of them broken off, shot, torn, twisted, and splintered. Dead
soldiers lay about under the smoke, their dirty shirts or naked
skin visible between jacket and belt; to the left on a sparsely
wooded elevation, the slope of which was scarred, showing dry red
sand and gravel, a gun stood, firing obliquely across the gully
into the woods. Long, wavering, irregular rings of smoke shot out,
remaining intact and floating like the rings from a smoker's pipe,
until another rush and blast of flame scattered them.
The other gun had been dismounted and lay on its side, one wheel in
the air, helpless, like some monster sprawling with limbs stiffened
in death. Behind it, crouched close, squatted some infantry
soldiers, firing from the cover of the wreckage. Behind every
tree, every stump, every inequality, lay infantry, dead, wounded,
or alive and cautiously firing. Several took advantage of the
fallen battery horses for shelter. Only one horse of that gun-team
remained alive, and the gunners had lashed the prolonge to the
trail of the overturned cannon and to the poor horse's collar, and
were trying to drag the piece away with the hope of righting it.
This manoeuvre dislodged the group of infantry soldiers who had
taken shelter there, and, on all fours, they began crawling and
worming and scuffling about among the dead leaves, seeking another
shelter from the pelting hail of lead.
There was nothing to be seen beyond the willow gully except smoke,
set grotesquely with phantom trees, through which the enemy's
fusillade sparkled and winked like a long level line of fire-flies
in the mist.
The stretcher bearers crept about gathering up the wounded who
called to them out of the smoke. Ailsa, on her knees, made her way
toward a big cavalryman whose right leg was gone at the thigh.
She did what she could, called for a stretcher, then, crouching
close under the bank of raw earth, set her canteen to his blackened
lips and held it for him.
"Don't be discouraged," she said quietly, "they'll bring another
stretcher in a few moments. I'll stay here close beside you until
they come."
The cavalryman was dying; she saw it; he knew it. And his swollen
lips moved.
"Don't waste time with me," he managed to say.
"Then--will you lie very still and not move?"
"Yes; only don't let the horse step on me."
She drew her little note-book and pencil from the pocket of her
gown and gently lowered her head until one ear was close to his
lips.
"What is your name and regiment?"
His voice became suddenly clear.
"John Casson--Egerton's Dragoons. . . . Mrs. Henry Casson, Islip,
Long Island. My mother is a widow; I don't--think
she--can--stand----"
Then he died--went out abruptly into eternity.
Beside him, in the grass, lay a zouave watching everything with
great hollow eyes. His body was only a mass of bloody rags; he had
been shot all to pieces, yet the bleeding heap was breathing, and
the big sunken eyes patiently watched Ailsa's canteen until she
encountered his unwinking gaze. But the first swallow he took
killed him, horribly; and Ailsa, her arms drenched with blood,
shrank back and crouched shuddering under the roots of a shattered
tree, her consciousness almost deserting her in the roaring and
jarring and splintering around her. She saw more stretcher bearers
in the smoke, stooping, edging their way--unarmed heroes of many a
field who fell unnoted, died unrecorded on the rolls of glory.
A lieutenant of artillery, powder-blackened, but jaunty, called
down to her from the bank above:
"Look out, little lady. We're going to try to limber up, and we
don't want to drop six horses and a perfectly good gun on top of
you!"
Somebody seized her arm and dragged her across the leaves; and she
struggled to her knees, to her feet, turned, and started to run.
"This way," said Berkley's voice in her ear; and his hand closed on
hers.
"Phil--help me--I don't know where I am!"
"I do. Run this way, under the crest of the hill. . . . Dr.
Connor told me that you had climbed up here. This isn't your
place! Are you stark mad?"
They ran on westward, panting, sheltered by the grassy crest behind
which soldiers lay firing over the top of the grass--long lines of
them, belly flattened to the slope, dusty blue trousers hitched up
showing naked ankles and big feet pendant. Behind them, swords
drawn, stood or walked their officers, quietly encouraging them or
coolly turning to look at Ailsa and Berkley as they hurried past.
In a vast tobacco field to their left, just beyond a wide cleft in
the hills, a brigade of cavalry was continually changing station to
avoid shell fire. The swallow-tailed national flags, the yellow
guidons with their crossed sabres, the blue State colours, streamed
above their shifting squadrons as they trotted hither and thither
with the leisurely precision of a peaceful field day; but here and
there from the trampled earth some fallen horse raised its head in
agony; here and there the plain was dotted with dark heaps that
never stirred.
The wailing flight of bullets streamed steadily overhead, but, as
they descended, the whistling, rushing sound grew higher and
fainter. They could see, on the plain where the cavalry was
manoeuvring, the shells bursting in fountains of dirt, the ominous
shrapnel cloud floating daintily above.
Far away through the grassy cleft, on wooded hillsides, delicately
blue, they could see the puff of white smoke shoot out from among
the trees where the Confederate batteries were planted, then hear
the noise of the coming shell rushing nearer, quavering, whistling
into a long-drawn howl as it raced through the gray clouds overhead.
While he guided her among the cedars at the base of the hill, one
arm around her body to sustain her, he quietly but seriously
berated her for her excursion to the firing line, telling her there
was no need of it, no occasion for anybody except the bearers
there; that Dr. Connor was furious at her and had said aloud that
she had little common-sense.
Ailsa coloured painfully, but there was little spirit left in her,
and she walked thankfully and humbly along beside him, resting her
cheek, against his shoulder.
"Don't scold me; I really feel half sick, Phil. . . . From where
did you come?" she added timidly.
"From the foot bridge. They wanted a guard set there. I found
half a dozen wounded men who could handle a musket. Lord, but the
rebels came close to us that time! When we heard those bullets
they were charging the entire line of our works. I understand that
we've driven them all along the line. It must be so, judging from
the sound of the firing."
"Did our hospital burn?"
"Only part of one wing. They're beginning to move back the wounded
already. . . . Now, dear, will you please remain with your
superiors and obey orders?" he added as they came out along the
banks of the little stream and saw the endless procession of
stretchers recrossing the foot bridge to the left.
"Yes. . . . I didn't know. I saw part of a battery blown up; and
a soldier stood on the hill and shouted for stretchers. There was
nobody else to start them off, so I did it."
He nodded. "Wait here, dear. I will run over and ask Dr. Connor
whether they have moved Colonel Arran----"
"Colonel Arran! Oh, Philip! I forgot to tell you--" She clutched
his arm in her excitement, and he halted, alarmed.
"Has anything happened to him?" he demanded.
"He asked for you."
"Is he worse?"
"I fear so."
"Dying?"
"Phil--I am afraid so. He--he--thinks that you are his son!"
"W-what are you saying!" he stammered: "What are you trying to tell
me, Ailsa?"
"Phil--my darling!--don't look that way!" she exclaimed, frightened.
"What way?" He laughed as though crazed. "Where is he? Do you
know? I want to see him. You better let me see him."
"I'll go with you, Phil; I'll be close beside you. You mustn't
become so terribly excited; I didn't know what I was saying; I
think he is delirious----"
"Where is he? I can't endure this much longer," he kept repeating
in a vacant way as they forced a path among the litters and
ambulances, and came out through the smoke blowing from a pile of
debris that lay where the east wing of the seminary had once stood.
Charred and battered, every window smashed, and the blackened
rafters of the roof still smouldering, the east wing rose before
them, surrounded by the wounded.
A surgeon told them that Colonel Arran had been carried out of the
barn, but to what place he did not know. Letty with Dr. Benton
passed them by the stables, but they knew only that Colonel Arran,
lying on a litter, had been placed in an ambulance which had
started for Azalea Court House.
This was confirmed by Dr. Connor, who came hurrying by and who
halted to scowl heartily at Ailsa.
"No more of _that_!" he said roughly. "When I want a nurse on the
firing line I'll detail her. I've sent two hundred invalids to the
landing, and I wanted you to go with them and when I looked around
for you I saw you kiting for the line of battle! That's all wrong,
Mrs. Paige! That's all wrong! You look sick anyway. Are you?"
"No. I'll go now, if you'll let me, Dr. Connor."
"How are you going to get there? I haven't another ambulance to
send--not a horse or a mule----"
"I--I'll walk," she said with a sob in her throat. "I am fearfully
sorry--and ashamed----"
"There, there," muttered Dr. Connor, "I didn't mean all I said. It
was a brave thing to do--not that your pluck mitigates the offence!
Be a little more considerate; think a little faster; don't take to
your legs on the first impulse. Some fool told me you'd been
killed--and that made--made me--most damnably angry!" he burst out
with a roar to cover the emotion working at his mouth and eyes.
He seized Ailsa's hand and shook it vigorously.
"Excuse my profanity. I can't avoid it when I think of
_you_--dead! There, there. I'm an old fool and you're a--younger
one. See if you can find somebody to take you to Azalea. I want
that batch of invalids carefully watched. Besides, there's a
furlough there for you. Don't say one word! You're not well, I
tell you. I had to send those invalids back; the place here is
atrociously crowded. Try to find some way of getting to the
landing. And take care of your pretty little self for God's sake!"
She promised, shook hands with him again, disengaged herself from
the crowd around her, turned about to search for Berkley, and
caught sight of him near the stables, saddling his horse. He
buckled the last strap as she came up; turned a blank gaze on her,
and did not appear to comprehend her question for a moment. Then,
nodding in a dazed way, he lifted her to the saddle in front, swung
up behind her, passed one arm around her waist, gathered bridle,
and edged his way carefully through the crowd out into the road.
The 3rd Zouaves in heavy marching order filled the road with their
scarlet column, moving steadily southward; and Ailsa, from her
perch on the saddle, called to Colonel Craig and Major Lent,
stretching out her hot little hand to them as she passed.
Engineers blocked their progress farther on, then Wisconsin
infantry, young giants in blue, swinging forward in their long
loose-limbered stride; then an interminable column of artillery,
jolting slowly along, the grimy gunners swaying drowsily on their
seats, officers nodding half asleep in their saddles.
"Philip," she ventured timidly.
"Yes."
"Is there--anything--you wish to tell me? Anything that
I--perhaps--have a faint shadow of a right to know?"
For a long time they rode in silence, her question unanswered. A
narrow cart road--less of a road than a lane--led east. He turned
his horse into it.
For a moment no sound broke the silence save the monotonous clank
of his sabre and the creak of girth and saddle.
"Ailsa!"
"Yes, Phil."
"Move closer; hold very tight to me; clasp both arms around my
neck. . . . Are you seated firmly?"
"Yes, Phil."
He encircled her slender body with his right arm and, shaking out
the bridle, launched his horse at a gallop down the sandy lane.
Her breath and his mingled as they sped forward; the wind rushed
by, waving the foliage on either hand; a steady storm of sand and
gravel rained rattling through the bushes as the spurred horse
bounded forward, breaking into a grander stride, thundering on
through the gathering dusk.
Swaying, cradled in his embrace, her lips murmured his name, or,
parted breathless, touched his, as the exquisitely confused sense
of headlong speed dimmed her senses to a happy madness.
Trees, bushes, fences flew past and fled away behind in the dusk.
It seemed to her as though she was being tossed through space
locked in his arms; infinite depths of shadow whirled and eddied
around her; limitless reaches, vistas unfathomable stretched toward
outer chaos into which they were hurled, unseeing, her arms around
his neck, her soft face on his breast.
Then a lantern flashed; voices sounded in far-off confusion; more
lanterns twinkled and glimmered; more voices broke in on their
heavenly isolation.
Was the divine flight ended?
Somebody said: "Colonel Arran is here, and is still alive, but his
mind is clouding. He says he is waiting for his son to come."
Dizzy, burning hot, half blinded, she felt herself swung out of
space onto the earth again, through a glare of brightness in which
Celia's face seemed to be framed, edged with infernal light. . . .
And another face, Camilla's, was there in the confusing brilliancy;
and she reeled a little, embraced, held hot and close; and in her
dulled ears drummed Celia's voice, murmuring, pitying, complaining,
adoring:
"Honey-bell--Oh, my little Honey-bud! I have you back in my a'ms,
and I have my boy, and I'm ve'y thankful to my Heavenly Master--I
certainly am, Honey-bee!--fo' His goodness and His mercy which He
is showing eve'y day to me and mine."
And Camilla's pale face was pressed against her hot cheeks and the
girl's black sleeve of crape encircled her neck.
She whispered: "I--I try to think it reconciles me to losing Jimmy.
. . . War gave me Stephen. . . . Yet--oh, I cannot understand why
God's way must sometimes be the way of battle!"
Ailsa saw and heard and understood, yet, all around her fell an
unreal light--a terrible fiery radiance, making voices the voices,
of phantoms, forms the outlines of ghosts.
Through an open door she saw a lamp-lit room where her lover knelt
beside a bed--saw a man's arm reach feebly toward him--and saw no
more. Everything wavered and dazzled and brightened into rainbow
tints around her, then to scarlet; then velvety darkness sprang up,
through which she fell into swift unconsciousness.
One of the doctors, looking at her as she lay on the hospital cot,
dropped his hand gravely on her thin wrist.
"You cannot tell me anything that I don't know about Mrs. Paige,"
he said wearily. "This is a complete breakdown. It's come just
in time, too, that girl has been trying to kill herself. I
understand that her furlough has arrived. You'd better get her
North on the next transport. I guess that our angels are more
popular in our hospitals just now than they would be tuning little
gilt harps aloft. We can't spare 'em, Mrs. Craig, and I guess the
Most High can wait a little longer."
Doctor, ward-master, apothecary, and nurses stood looking down at
the slim, fever-flushed shape moving restlessly on the
cot--babbling soft inconsequences, staring out of brilliant eyes at
nothing.
The doctor whispered to the apothecary, and his gesture dismissed
those who stood around her waiting in silence.