As the night settled down, heavy and dark, and the sounds of firing
died away along the great line, Dick again sank to the ground exhausted.
Although the battle itself had ceased, it seemed to him that the drums
of his ears still reproduced its thunder and roar, or at least the echo
of it was left upon the brain.
He lay upon the dry grass, and although the night was again hot and
breathless, surcharged with smoke and dust and fire, he felt a
chill that went to the bone, and he trembled all over. Then a cold
perspiration broke out upon him. It was the collapse after two days of
tremendous exertion, excitement and anxiety. He did not move for eight
or ten minutes, blind to everything that was going on about him, and
then through the darkness he saw Colonel Winchester standing by and
looking down at him.
“Are you all right, Dick, my boy?” the colonel asked.
“Yes, sir,” replied Dick, as his pride made him drag himself to his
feet. “I'm not wounded at all. I was just clean played out.”
“You're lucky to get off so well,” said the colonel, smiling sadly.
“We've lost many thousands and we've lost the battle, too. The killed or
wounded in my regiment number more than two-thirds.”
“Have you seen anything of Warner and Pennington, sir? I lost sight of
them in that last terrible attack.”
“Pennington is here. He has had a bullet through the fleshy part of his
left arm, but he's so healthy it won't take him long to get well. I'm
sorry to say that Warner is missing.”
“Missing, sir? You don't say that George has been killed?”
“I don't say it. I'm hoping instead that he's been captured.”
Dick knew what the colonel meant. In Colonel Winchester's opinion only
two things, death or capture, could keep Warner from being with them.
“Maybe he will come in yet,” he said. “We were mixed up a good deal when
the darkness fell, and he may have trouble in finding our position.”
“That's true. There are not so many of us left, and we do not cover any
great area of ground. Lie still, Dick, and take a little rest. We
don't know what's going to happen in the night. We may have to do more
fighting yet, despite the darkness.”
The colonel's figure disappeared in the shadow, and Dick, following his
advice, lay quiet. All around him were other forms stretched upon the
earth, motionless. But Dick knew they were not dead, merely sleeping.
His own nervous system was being restored by youth and the habit
of courage. Yet he felt a personal grief, and it grew stronger with
returning physical strength. Warner, his comrade, knitted to him by ties
of hardship and danger, was missing, dead no doubt in the battle. For
the moment he forgot about the defeat. All his thoughts were for the
brave youth who lay out there somewhere, stretched on the dusty field.
Dick strained his eyes into the darkness, as if by straining he might
see where Warner lay. He saw, indeed, dim fires here and there along a
long line, marking where the Confederates now stood, or rather lay. Then
a bitter pang came. It was ground upon which the Union army had stood in
the morning.
The rifle fire, which had died down, began again in a fitful way. Far
off, skirmishers, not satisfied with the slaughter of the day, were
seeing what harm they could do in the dark. Somewhere the plumed and
unresting Stuart was charging with his horsemen, driving back some
portion of the Union army that the Confederate forces might be on their
flank in the morning.
But Dick, as he lay quietly and felt his strength, mental and physical,
returning, was taking a resolution. Down there in front of them and in
the darkness was the wood upon which they had made five great assaults,
all to fail. In front of that mournful forest, and within its edge, more
than ten thousand men had fallen. He had no doubt that Warner was among
them.
His sense of direction was good, and, as his blurred faculties regained
their normal keenness, he could mark the exact line by which they
had advanced, and the exact line by which they had retreated. Warner
unquestionably lay near the edge of the wood and he must seek him. Were
it the other way, Warner would do the same.
Dick stood up. He was no longer dizzy, and every muscle felt steady and
strong. He did not know what had become of Colonel Winchester, and his
comrades still lay upon the ground in a deep stupor.
It could not be a night of order and precision, with every man numbered
and in his place, as if they were going to begin a battle instead of
just having finished one, and Dick, leaving his comrades, walked calmly
toward the wood. He passed one sentinel, but a few words satisfied him,
and he continued to advance. Far to right and left he still heard the
sound of firing and saw the flash of guns, but these facts did not
disturb him. In front of him lay darkness and silence, with the horizon
bounded by that saddest of all woods where the heaped dead lay.
Dick looked back toward the Henry Hill, on the slopes of which were the
fragments of his own regiment. Lights were moving there, but they were
so dim they showed nothing. Then he turned his face toward the enemy's
position and did not look back again.
The character of the night was changing. It had come on dark and heavy.
Hot and breathless like the one before, he had taken no notice of the
change save for the increased darkness. Now he felt a sudden damp touch
on his face, as if a wet finger had been laid there. The faintest of
winds had blown for a moment or two, and when Dick looked up, he saw
that the sky was covered with black clouds. The saddest of woods had
moved far away, but by some sort of optical illusion he could yet see
it.
Save for the distant flash of random firing, the darkness was intense.
Every star was gone, and Dick moved without any guide. But he needed
none. His course was fixed. He could not miss the mournful wood hanging
there like a pall on the horizon.
His feet struck against something. It was a man, but he was past all
feeling, and Dick went on, striking by and by against many more. It was
impossible at the moment to see Warner's face, but he began to feel
of the figures with his hands. There was none so long and slender as
Warner's, and he continued his search, moving steadily toward the wood.
He saw presently a lantern moving over the field, and he walked toward
it. Three men were with the lantern, and the one who carried it held it
up as he approached. The beams fell directly upon Dick, revealing his
pale face and torn and dusty uniform.
“What do you want, Yank?” called the man.
“I'm looking for a friend of mine who must have fallen somewhere near
here.”
The man laughed, but it was not a laugh of joy or irony. It was a laugh
of pity and sadness.
“You've shorely got a big look comin',” he said. “They're scattered all
around here, coverin' acres an' acres, just like dead leaves shook by
a storm from the trees. But j'in us, Yank. You can't do nothin' in the
darkness all by yourself. We're Johnny Rebs, good and true, and I may
be shootin' straight at you to-morrow mornin', but I reckon I've got
nothin' ag'in you now. We're lookin' for a brother o' mine.”
Dick joined them, and the four, the three in gray and the one in blue,
moved on. A friendly current had passed between him and them, and there
would be no thought of hostility until the morning, when it would come
again. It was often so in this war, when men of the same blood met in
the night between battles.
“What sort of a fellow is it that you're lookin' for?” asked the man
with the lantern.
“About my age. Very tall and thin. You could mark him by his height.”
“It takes different kinds of people to make the world. My brother ain't
like him a-tall. Sam's short, an' thick as a buffalo. Weighs two twenty
with no fat on him. What crowd do you belong to, youngster?”
“The division on our right. We attacked the wood there.”
“Well, you're a bully boy. Give me your hand, if you are a Yank. You
shorely came right up there and looked us in the eyes. How often did you
charge us?”
“Five times, I think. But I may be mistaken. You know it wasn't a day
when a fellow could be very particular about his count.”
“Guess you're right there. I made it five. What do you say, Jim?”
“Five she was.”
“That settles it. Jim kin always count up to five an' never make a
mistake. What you fellers goin' to do in the mornin'?”
“I don't know.”
“Pope ain't asked you yet what to do. Well, Bobby Lee and Old Stonewall
ain't been lookin' for me either to get my advice, but, Yank, you
fellers do just what I tell you.”
“What's that?”
“Pack up your clothes before daylight, say good-bye, and go back
to Washington. You needn't think you kin ever lick Marse Bobby an'
Stonewall Jackson.”
“But what if we do think it? We've got a big army back there yet, and
more are always coming to us. We'll beat you yet.”
“There seems to be a pow'ful wide difference in our opinions, an'
I can't persuade you an' you can't persuade me. We'll just let the
question rip. I'm glad, after all, Yank, it's so dark. I don't want to
see ten thousand dead men stretched out in rows.”
“We're going to get a wettin',” said the man to Jim. “The air's
already damp on my face. Thar, do you hear that thunder growlin' in the
southwest? Tremenjously like cannon far away, but it's thunder all the
same.”
“What do we care 'bout a wettin', Jim? Fur the last few days this young
Yank here an' his comrades have shot at me 'bout a million cannon balls
an' shells, an' more 'n a hundred million rifle bullets. Leastways I
felt as if they was all aimed at me, which is just as bad. After bein'
drenched fur two days with a storm of steel an' lead an' fire, what do
you think I care for a summer shower of rain, just drops of rain?”
“But I don't like to get wet after havin' fit so hard. It's unhealthy,
likely to give me a cold.”
“Never min' 'bout ketchin' cold. You're goin' to get wet, shore.
Thunder, but I thought fur a second that was the flash of a hull
battery aimed at me. Fellers, if you wasn't with me I'd be plumb scared,
prowlin' 'roun' here in a big storm on the biggest graveyard in the
world. Keep close, Yank, we don't want to lose you in the dark.”
A tremendous flash of lightning had cut the sky down the middle, as if
it intended to divide the world in two halves, but after its passage the
darkness closed in thicker and heavier than ever. The sinister sound of
thunder muttering on the horizon now went on without ceasing.
Dick was awed. Like many another his brain exposed to such tremendous
pressure for two or three days, was not quite normal. It was quickly
heated and excited by fancies, and time and place alone were enough to
weigh down even the coolest and most seasoned. He pressed close to his
Confederate friends, whose names he never knew, and who never knew his,
and they, feeling the same influence, never for an instant left the man
who held the lantern.
The muttering thunder now came closer and broke in terrible crashes. The
lightning flashed again and again so vividly that Dick, with involuntary
motion, threw up his hands to shelter his eyes. But he could see before
him the mournful forest, where so many good men had fallen, and, turned
red in the gleam of the lightning, it was more terrifying than it had
been in the mere black of the night. The wind, too, was now blowing,
and the forest gave forth what Dick's ears turned into a long despairing
wail.
“She's about to bust,” said the lantern bearer, looking up at the
menacing sky. “Jim, you'll have to take your wettin' as it comes.”
A moment later the storm burst in fact. The rain rushed down on them,
soaking them through in an instant, but Dick, so far from caring, liked
it. It cooled his heated body and brain, and he knew that it was more
likely to help than hurt the wounded who yet lay on the ground.
The lightning ceased before the sweep of the rain, but the lantern was
well protected by its glass cover, and they still searched. The lantern
bearer suddenly uttered a low cry.
“Boys!” he said, “Here's Sam!”
A thick and uncommonly powerful man lay doubled up against a bush. His
face was white. Dick saw that blood had just been washed from it by
the rain. But he could see no rising and falling of the chest, and he
concluded that he was dead.
“Take the lantern, Jim,” said the leader. Then he knelt down and put his
finger on his brother's wrist.
“He ain't dead,” he said at last. “His pulse is beatin' an' he'll come
to soon. The rain helped him. Whar was he hit? By gum, here it is! A
bullet has ploughed all along the side of his head, runnin' 'roun' his
skull. Here, you Yank, did you think you could kill Sam by shootin' him
in the head with a bullet? We've stood him up in front of our lines, and
let you fellows break fifty pound shells on his head. You never done him
no harm, 'cept once when two solid shot struck him at the same time an'
he had a headache nigh until sundown. Besides havin' natural thickness
of the skull Sam trained his head by buttin' with the black boys when he
was young.”
Dick saw that the man really felt deep emotion and was chattering,
partly to hide it. He was glad that they had found his brother, and
he helped them to lift him. Then they rubbed Sam's wrists and poured a
stimulant down his throat. In a few minutes he stood alone on his feet,
yawned mightily, and by the light of the dim lantern gazed at them in a
sort of stupid wonder.
“What's happened?” he asked.
“What's happened?” replied his brother. “You was always late with the
news, Sam. Of course you've been takin' a nap, but a lot has happened.
We met the Yankees an' we've been fightin' 'em for two days. Tremenjous
big battle, an' we've whipped 'em. 'Scuse me, Yank, I forgot you was
with us. Well, nigh onto a million have been killed, which ought to be
enough for anybody. I love my country, but I don't care to love another
at such a price. But resumin' 'bout you pussonally, Sam, you stopped
so many shells an' solid shot with that thick head of yourn that the
concussion at last put you to sleep, an' we've found you so we kin take
you in out of the wet an' let you sleep in a dry place. Kin you walk?”
Sam made an effort, but staggered badly.
“Jim, you an' Dave take him by each shoulder an' walk him back to camp,”
said the lantern bearer. “You jest keep straight ahead an' you'll butt
into Marse Bob or old Stonewall, one or the other.”
“You lead the way with the lantern.”
“Never you mind about me or the lantern.”
“What you goin' to do?”
“Me? I'm goin' to keep this lantern an' help Yank here find his friend.
Ain't he done stuck with us till we found Sam, an' I reckon I'll stick
with him till he gits the boy he's lookin for, dead or alive. Now, you
keep Sam straight, and walk him back to camp. He ain't hurt. Why, that
bullet didn't dent his skull. It said to itself when it came smack up
against the bone: 'This is too tough for me, I guess I'll go 'roun'.'
An' it did go 'roun'. You can see whar it come out of the flesh on
the other side. Why, by the time Sam was fourteen years old we quit
splittin' old boards with an axe or a hatchet. We jest let Sam set on a
log an' we split 'em over his head. Everybody was suited. Sam could make
himself pow'ful useful without havin' to work.”
Nevertheless, the lantern bearer gave his brother the tenderest care,
and watched him until he and the men on either side of him were lost in
the darkness as they walked toward the Southern camp.
“I jest had to come an' find old Sam, dead or alive,” he said. “Now,
which way, Yank, do you think this friend of yours is layin'?”
“But you're comin' with us,” repeated Jim.
“No, I'm not. Didn't Yank here help us find Sam? An' are we to let the
Yanks give us lessons in manners? I reckon not. 'Sides, he's only a boy,
an' I'm goin' to see him through.”
“I thank you,” said Dick, much moved.
“Don't thank me too much, 'cause while I'm walkin' 'roun' with you
friendly like to-night I may shoot you to-morrow.”
“I thank you, all the same,” said Dick, his gratitude in nowise
diminished.
“Them that will stir no more are layin' mighty thick 'roun' here, but
we ought to find your friend pretty soon. By gum, how it rains! W'all,
it'll wash away some big stains, that wouldn't look nice in the mornin'.
Say, sonny, what started this rumpus, anyway?”
“I don't know.”
“An' I don't, either, so I guess it's hoss an' hoss with you an' me.
But, sonny, I'll bet you a cracker ag'in a barrel of beef that none of
them that did start the rumpus are a-layin' on this field to-night. What
kind of lookin' feller did you say your young friend was?”
“Very tall, very thin, and about my age or perhaps a year or two older.”
“Take a good look, an' see if this ain't him.”
He held up the lantern and the beams fell upon a long figure half
raised upon an elbow. The figure was turned toward the light and stared
unknowing at Dick and the Southerner. There was a great clot of blood
upon his right breast and shoulder, but it was Warner. Dick swallowed
hard.
“Yes,” he said, “it's my comrade, but he's hurt badly.”
“So bad that he don't know you or anybody else. He's clean out of his
head.”
They leaned over him, and Dick called:
“George! George! It's Dick Mason, your comrade, come to help you back to
camp!”
But Warner merely stared with feverish, unseeing eyes.
“He's out of his head, as I told you, an' he's like to be for many
hours,” said the lantern bearer. “It's a shore thing that I won't shoot
him to-morrow, nor he won't shoot me.”
He leaned over Warner and carefully examined the wound.
“He's lucky, after all,” he said, “the bullet went in just under the
right shoulder, but it curved, as bullets have a way of doin' sometimes,
an' has come out on the side. There ain't no lead in him now, which is
good. He was pow'ful lucky, too, in not bein' hit in the head, 'cause he
ain't got no such skull as Sam has, not within a mile of it. His skull
wouldn't have turned no bullet. He has lost a power of blood, but if you
kin get him back to camp, an' use the med'cines which you Yanks have in
such lots an' which we haven't, he may get well.”
“That's good advice,” said Dick. “Help me up with him.”
“Take him on your back. That's the best way to carry a sick man.”
He set down his lantern, took up Warner bodily and put him on Dick's
back.
“I guess you can carry him all right,” he said. “I'd light you with the
lantern a piece of the way, but I've been out here long enough. Marse
Bob an' old Stonewall will get tired waitin' fur me to tell 'em how to
end this war in a month.”
Dick, holding Warner in place with one hand, held out the other, and
said:
“You're a white man, through and through, Johnny Reb. Shake!”
“So are you, Yank. There's nothin' wrong with you 'cept that you
happened to get on the wrong side, an' I don't hold that ag'in you. I
guess it was an innercent mistake.”
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye. Keep straight ahead an' you'll strike that camp of yourn that
we're goin' to take in the mornin'. Gosh, how it rains!”
Dick retained his idea of direction, and he walked straight through the
darkness toward the Northern camp. George was a heavy load, but he did
not struggle. His head sank down against his comrade's and Dick felt
that it was burning with fever.
“Good old George,” he murmured to himself rather than to his comrade,
“I'll save you.”
Excitement and resolve had given him a strength twice the normal, a
strength that would last the fifteen or twenty minutes needed until this
task was finished. Despite the darkness and the driving rain, he could
now see the lights in his own camp, and bending forward a little to
support the dead weight on his back, he walked in a straight course
toward them.
“Halt! Who are you?”
The form of a sentinel, rifle raised, rose up before him in the darkness
and the rain.
“Lieutenant Richard Mason of Colonel Winchester's regiment, bringing in
Lieutenant George Warner of the same regiment, who is badly wounded.”
The sentinel lowered his rifle and looked at them sympathetically.
“Hangs like he's dead, but he ain't,” he said. “You'll find a sort of
hospital over thar in the big tents among them trees.”
Dick found the improvised hospital, and put George down on a rude cot,
within the shelter of one of the tents.
“He's my friend,” he said to a young doctor, “and I wish you'd save
him.”
“There are hundreds of others who have friends also, but I'll do my
best. Shot just under the right shoulder, but the bullet, luckily, has
turned and gone out. It's loss of blood that hurt him most. You soldiers
kill more men than we doctors can save. I'm bound to say that. But your
friend won't die. I'll see to it.”
“Thank you,” said Dick. He saw that the doctor was kind-hearted, and a
marvel of endurance and industry. He could not ask for more at such a
time, and he went out of the tent, leaving George to his care.
It was still raining, but the soldiers managed to keep many fires
going, despite it, and Dick passed between them as he sought Colonel
Winchester, and the fragments of his regiment. He found the colonel
wrapped in a greatcoat, leaning against a tree under a few feet of
canvas supported on sticks. Pennington, sound asleep, sat on a root of
the same tree, also under the canvas, but with the rain beating on his
left arm and shoulder.
Colonel Winchester looked inquiringly at Dick, but said nothing.
“I've been away without leave, sir,” said Dick, “but I think I have
sufficient excuse.”
“What is it?”
“I've brought in Warner.”
“Ah! Is he dead?”
“No, sir. He's had a bullet through him and he's feverish and
unconscious, but the doctor says that with care he'll get well.”
“Where did you find him?”
“Over there by the edge of the wood, sir, within what is now the
Confederate lines.”
“A credit to your courage and to your heart. Sit down here. There's a
little more shelter under the canvas, and go to sleep. You're too much
hardened now to be hurt seriously by wet clothes.”
Dick sat down with his back against the tree, and, despite his soaked
condition, slept as soundly as Pennington. When he awoke in the morning
the hot sun was shining again, and his clothes soon dried on him. He
felt a little stiffness and awkwardness at first, but in a few minutes
it passed away. Then breakfast restored his strength, and he looked
curiously about him.
Around him was the Northern army, and before him was the vast
battlefield, now occupied by the foe. He heard sounds of distant rifle
shots, indicating that the skirmishers were still restless, but it was
no more now than the buzzing of flies. Pennington, coming back from the
hospital, hailed him.
“George has come to,” he said. “Great deed of yours last night, Dick.
Wish I'd done it myself. They let old George talk just a little, but
he's his real old Vermont self again. Says chances were ninety-nine and
a half per cent that he would die there on the battlefield, but that the
half per cent, which was yourself, won. Fancy being only half of one
per cent, and doing a thing like that. No, you can't see him. Only one
visitor was allowed, and that's me. His fever is leaving him, and he
swallowed a little soup. Now, he's going to sleep.”
Dick felt very grateful. Pennington had been up some time, and as they
sat down in the sun he gave Dick the news.
“It was a bad night,” he said. “After you staggered in with George,
the rebels, in spite of the rain, harassed us. I was waked up after
midnight, and the colonel began to believe that we would have to fight
again before morning, though the need didn't come, so far as we were
concerned. But we were terribly worried on the flanks. They say it was
Stuart and his cavalry who were bothering us.”
“What's the outlook for to-day?”
“I don't know. I hear that General Pope has sent a dispatch saying
that the enemy is badly whipped, and that we'll hold our own here. But
between you and me, Dick, I don't believe it. We've been driven out of
all our positions, so we can hardly call it a victory for our side.”
“But we may hold on where we are and win a victory yet. McClellan
and the Army of the Potomac may come. Anyway, we can get big
reinforcements.”
Pennington clasped his arms over his knees and sang:
“The race is not to him that's got
The longest legs to run,
Nor the battle to those people
That shoot the biggest gun.”
“Where did you get that song?” asked Dick. “I'll allow, under the
circumstances, that there seems to be some sense in it.”
“A Texan that we captured last night sang it to us. He was a funny kind
of fellow. Didn't seem to be worried a bit because he was taken. Said
if his own people didn't retake him that he'd escape in a week, anyhow.
Likely enough he will, too. But he was good company, and he sang us that
song. Impudent, wasn't he?”
“But true so far, at least in the east. I fancy from what you say,
Frank, that we'll be here a day longer anyhow. I hope so, I want to
rest.”
“So do I. I won't fight to-day, unless I'm ordered to do it. But I'm
thinking with you, Dick, that we'll retreat. We were outmaneuvered by
Lee and Jackson. That circuit of Jackson's through Thoroughfare Gap and
the attack from the rear undid us. It comes of being kept in the dark by
the enemy, instead of your keeping him in the dark. We never knew where
the blow was going to fall, and when it fell a lot of us weren't there.
But, Dick, old boy, we're going to win, in the end, aren't we, in spite
of Lee, in spite of Jackson, and in spite of everybody and everything?”
“As surely as the rising and setting of the sun, Frank.”
Although Dick had little to do that day, events were occurring. It was
in the minds of Lee and Jackson that they might yet destroy the army
which they had already defeated, and heavy divisions of the Southern
army were moving. Dick heard about night that Jackson had marched ten
miles, through fields deep in mud, and meant to fall on Pope's flank or
rear again. Stuart and his unresting cavalry were also on their right
flank and in the rear, doing damage everywhere. Longstreet had sent
a brigade across Bull Run, and at many points the enemy was pressing
closer.
The next morning, Pope, alarmed by all the sinister movements on his
flanks and in his rear, gathered up his army and retreated. It was full
time or the vise would have shut down on him again. Late that day the
division under Kearney came into contact with Jackson's flanking force
in the forest. A short but fierce battle ensued, fought in the night
and amid new torrents of driving rain. General Kearney was killed by a
skirmisher, but the night and the rain grew so dense, and they were
in such a tangle of thickets and forests that both sides drew off, and
Pope's army passed on.
Dick was not in this battle, but he heard it's crash and roar above the
sweep of the storm. He and the balance of the regiment were helping to
guard the long train of the wounded. Now and then, he leaned from his
horse and looked at Warner who lay in one of the covered wagons.
“I'm getting along all right, Dick, old man,” said Warner. “What's all
that firing off toward the woods?”
“A battle, but it won't stop us. We retreated in time.”
“And we've been defeated. Well, we can stand it. It takes a good nation
to stand big defeats. You know I taught school once, Dick, and I learned
that the biggest nation the world has ever known was the one that
suffered the biggest defeats. Look at the terrible knocks the Romans
got! Why the Gauls nearly ate 'em alive two or three times, and for
years Hannibal whipped 'em every time he could get at 'em. But they
ended by whipping everybody who had whipped them. They whipped the whole
world, and they kept it whipped until they played out from old age.”
Dick laughed cheerily.
“Now, you shut up, George,” he said. “You've talked too much. What's
the use of going back as far as the old Romans for comfort. We can win
without having to copy a lot of old timers.”
He dropped the flap of canvas and rode on listening to the sounds of the
combat. A powerful figure stepped out of the bushes and stood beside
his horse. It was Sergeant Whitley, who had passed through the battle
without a scratch.
“What has happened, Sergeant?” asked Dick, as he sat in the rain and
listened to the dying fire.
“There has been a fight, and both are quitting because they can't see
enough to carry it on any longer. But General Kearney has been killed.”
The retreat continued until they reached the Potomac and were in the
great fortifications before Washington. Then Pope resigned, and the star
of McClellan rose again. The command of the armies about Washington
was entrusted to him, and the North gathered itself anew for the mighty
struggle.