thoughtfully looking into the smouldering fire. Bland and Baker, having
heatedly discussed the details of the victory, had at last drifted into
silence; only Pinetop was awake--this he learned from the odour of the
corncob pipe which floated from a sheltered corner.
“Come over, Pinetop,” called Dan, cordially, “and let's make ready for the
pursuit to-morrow. Why, to-morrow we may eat a civilized dinner in
Washington--think of that!”
He spoke excitedly, for he was still quivering from the tumult of his
thoughts. There was no sleep possible for him just now; his limbs twitched
restlessly, and he felt the prick of strong emotion in his blood.
“I say, Pinetop, what do you think of the fight?” he asked with an
embarrassed boyish eagerness. In the faint light of the fire his eyes
burned like coals and there was a thick black stain around his mouth. The
hand in which he had held his ramrod was of a dark rust colour, as if the
stain of the battle had seared into the skin. A smell of hot powder still
hung about his clothes.
The mountaineer left the shadow of the fence corner and slowly dragged
himself into the little glow, where he sat puffing at his corncob pipe. He
gave an easy, sociable nod and stared silently at the embers.
“Was it just what you imagined it would be?” went on Dan, curiously.
Pinetop took his pipe from his mouth and nodded again. “Wall, 'twas and
'twan't,” he answered pleasantly.
“I must say it made me sick,” admitted Dan, leaning his head in his hand.
“I've always been a fool about the smell of blood; and it made me downright
sick.”
“Wall, I ain't got much of a stomach for a fight myself,” returned Pinetop,
reflectively. “You see I ain't never fought anythin' bigger'n a skunk until
to-day; and when I stood out thar with them bullets sizzlin' like fryin'
pans round my head, I kind of says to myself: 'Look here, what's all this
fuss about anyhow? If these here folks have come arter the niggers, let 'em
take 'em off and welcome.' I ain't never owned a nigger in my life, and,
what's more, I ain't never seen one that's worth owning. 'Let 'em take 'em
and welcome,' that's what I said. Bless your life, as I stood out thar I
didn't see how I was goin' to fire my musket, till all of a jiffy a thought
jest jumped into my head and sent me bangin' down that hill. 'Them folks
have set thar feet on ole Virginny,' was what I thought 'They've set thar
feet on ole Virginny, and they've got to take 'em off damn quick!'”
His teeth closed over his pipe as if it were a cartridge; then, after a
silent moment, he opened his mouth and spoke again.
“What I can't make out for the life of me,” he said, “is how those boys
from the other states gave thar licks so sharp. If I'd been born across the
line in Tennessee, I wouldn't have fired my musket off to-day. They wan't
a-settin' thar feet on Tennessee. But ole Virginny--wall, I've got a
powerful fancy for ole Virginny, and they ain't goin' to project with her
dust, if I can stand between.” He turned away, and, emptying his pipe,
rolled over upon the ground.
Dan lay down upon the blanket, and, with his hand upon his knapsack, gazed
at the small red ember burning amid the ashes. When the last spark faded
into blackness it was as if his thoughts went groping for a light. Sleep
came fitfully in flights and pauses, in broken dreams and brief awakenings.
Losing himself at last it was only to return to the woods at Chericoke and
to see Betty coming to him among the dim blue bodies of the trees. He saw
the faint sunshine falling upon her head and the stir of the young leaves
above her as a light wind passed. Under her feet the grass was studded with
violets, and the bonnet swinging from her arm was filled with purple
blossoms. She came on steadily over the path of grass and violets, but when
he reached out to touch her a great shame fell over him for there was blood
upon his hand.
There was something cold in his face, and he emerged slowly from his sleep
into the consciousness of dawn and a heavy rain. The swollen clouds hung
close above the hills, and the distance was obscured by the gray sheets of
water which fell like a curtain from heaven to earth. Near by a wagon had
drawn up in the night, and he saw that a group of half-drenched privates
had already taken shelter between the wheels. Gathering up his oilcloth, he
hastily formed a tent with the aid of a deep fence corner, and, when he had
drawn his blanket across the opening, sat partly protected from the shower.
As the damp air blew into his face, he became quickly and clearly awake,
and it was with the glimmer of a smile that he looked over the wet meadow
and the sleeping regiments. Then a shudder followed, for he saw in the
lines of gray men stretched beneath the rain some likeness to that other
field beyond the hill where the dead were still lying, row on row. He saw
them stark and cold on the scorched grass beside the guns, or in the thin
ridges of trampled corn, where the gay young tassels were now storm-beaten
upon the ripped-up earth. He saw them as he had seen them the evening
before--not in the glow of battle, but with the acuteness of a brooding
sympathy--saw them frowning, smiling, and with features which death had
twisted into a ghastly grin. They were all there--each man with open eyes
and stiff hands grasping the clothes above his wound.
But to Dan, sitting in the gray dawn in the fence corner, the first horror
faded quickly into an emotion almost triumphant. The great field was
silent, reproachful, filled with accusing eyes--but was it not filled with
glory, too? He was young, and his weakened pulses quickened at the thought.
Since men must die, where was a brighter death than to fall beneath the
flutter of the colours, with the thunder of the cannon in one's ears? He
knew now why his fathers had loved a fight, had loved the glitter of the
bayonets and the savage smell of the discoloured earth.
For a moment the old racial spirit flashed above the peculiar sensitiveness
which had come to him from his childhood and his suffering mother; then the
flame went out and the rows of dead men stared at him through the falling
rain in the deserted field.
V
THE WOMAN'S PART
At sunrise on the morning of the battle Betty and Virginia, from the
whitewashed porch of a little railway inn near Manassas, watched the
Governor's regiment as it marched down the single street and into the red
clay road. Through the first faint sunshine, growing deeper as the sun rose
gloriously above the hills, there sounded a peculiar freshness in the
martial music as it triumphantly floated back across the fields. To Betty
it almost seemed that the drums were laughing as they went to battle; and
when the gay air at last faded in the distance, the silence closed about
her with a strangeness she had never felt before--as if the absence of
sound was grown melancholy, like the absence of light.
She shut her eyes and brought back the long gray line passing across the
sunbeams: the tanned eager faces, the waving flags, the rapid, almost
impatient tread of the men as they swung onward. A laugh had run along the
column as it went by her and she had smiled in quick sympathy with some
foolish jest. It was all so natural to her, the gayety and the ardour and
the invincible dash of the young army--it was all so like the spirit of Dan
and so dear to her because of the likeness.
Somewhere--not far away, she knew--he also was stepping briskly across the
first sun rays, and her heart followed him even while she smiled down upon
the regiment before her. It was as if her soul were suddenly freed from her
bodily presence, and in a kind of dual consciousness she seemed to be
standing upon the little whitewashed porch and walking onward beside Dan at
the same moment. The wonder of it glowed in her rapt face, and Virginia,
turning to put some trivial question, was startled by the passion of her
look.
“Have--have you seen--some one, Betty?” she whispered.
The charm was snapped and Betty fell back into time and place.
“Oh, yes, I have seen--some one,” her voice thrilled as she spoke. “I saw
him as clearly as I see you; he was all in sunshine and there was a flag
close above his head. He looked up and smiled at me. Yes, I saw him! I saw
him!”
“It was Dan,” said Virginia--not as a question, but in a wondering assent.
“Why, Betty, I thought you had forgotten Dan--papa thought so, too.”
“Forgotten!” exclaimed Betty scornfully. She fell away from the crowd and
Virginia followed her. The two stood leaning against the whitewashed wall
in the dust that still rose from the street. “So you thought I had
forgotten him,” said Betty again. She raised her hand to her bosom and
crushed the lace upon her dress. “Well, you were wrong,” she added quietly.
Virginia looked at her and smiled. “I am almost glad,” she answered in her
sweet girlish voice. “I don't like to have Dan forgotten even if--if he
ought to be.”
“I didn't love him because he ought to be loved,” said Betty. “I loved him
because I couldn't help it--because he was himself and I was myself, I
suppose. I was born to love him, and to stop loving him I should have to be
born again. I don't care what he does--I don't care what he is even--I
would rather love him than--than be a queen.” She held her hands tightly
together. “I would be his servant if he would let me,” she went on. “I
would work for him like a slave--but he won't let me. And yet he does love
me just the same--just the same.”
“He does--he does,” admitted Virginia softly. She had never seen Betty like
this before, and she felt that her sister had become suddenly very strange
and very sacred. Her hands were outstretched to comfort, but Betty turned
gently away from her and went up the narrow staircase to the bare little
room where the girls slept together.
Alone within the four white walls she moved breathlessly to and fro like a
woodland creature that has been entrapped. At the moment she was telling
herself that she wanted to keep onward with the army; then her courage
would have fluttered upward like the flags. It was not the sound of the
cannon that she dreaded, nor the sight of blood--these would have nerved
her as they nerved the generations at her back--but the folded hands and
the terrible patience that are the woman's share of a war. The old fighting
blood was in her veins--she was as much the child of her father as a son
could have been--and yet while the great world over there was filled with
noise she was told to go into her room and pray. Pray! Why, a man might
pray with his musket in his hand, that was worth while.
In the adjoining room she saw her mother sitting in a square of sunlight
with her open Bible on her knees.
“Oh, speak, mamma!” she called half angrily. “Move, do anything but sit so
still. I can't bear it!” She caught her breath sharply, for with her words
a low sound like distant thunder filled the room and the little street
outside. As she clung with both hands to the window it seemed to her that a
gray haze had fallen over the sunny valley. “Some one is dead,” she said
almost calmly, “that killed how many?”
The room stifled her and she ran hurriedly down into the street, where a
few startled women and old men had rushed at the first roll of the cannon.
As she stood among them, straining her eyes from end to end of the little
village, her heart beat in her throat and she could only quaver out an
appeal for news.
“Where is it? Doesn't any one know anything? What does it mean?”
“It means a battle, Miss, that's one thing,” remarked on obliging
by-stander who leaned heavily upon a wooden leg. “Bless you, I kin a'most
taste the powder.” He smacked his lips and spat into the dust. “To think
that I went all the way down to Mexico fur a fight,” he pursued
regretfully, “when I could have set right here at home and had it all in
old Virginny. Well, well, that comes of hurryin' the Lord afo' he's ready.”
He rambled on excitedly, but Betty, frowning with impatience, turned from
him and walked rapidly up and down the single street, where the voices of
the guns growled through the muffling distance. “That killed how many? how
many?” she would say at each long roll, and again, “How many died that
moment, and was one Dan?”
Up and down the little village, through the heavy sunshine and the white
dust, among the whimpering women and old men, she walked until the day wore
on and the shadows grew longer across the street. Once a man had come with
the news of a sharp repulse, and in the early afternoon a deserter
straggled in with the cry that the enemy was marching upon the village. It
was not until the night had fallen, when the wounded began to arrive on
baggage trains, that the story of the day was told, and a single shout went
up from the waiting groups. The Confederacy was established! Washington was
theirs by right of arms, and tomorrow the young army would dictate terms of
peace to a great nation! The flags waved, women wept, and the wounded
soldiers, as they rolled in on baggage cars, were hailed as the deliverers
of a people. The new Confederacy! An emotion half romantic, half maternal
filled Betty as she bent above an open wound--for it was in her blood to do
battle to the death for a belief, to throw herself into a cause as into the
arms of a lover. She was made of the stuff of soldiers, and come what might
she would always take her stand upon her people's side.
There were cheers and sobs in the little street about her; in the distance
a man was shouting for the flag, and nearer by a woman with a lantern in
her hand was searching among the living for her dead. The joy and the
anguish of it entered into the girl like wine. She felt her pulses leap and
a vigour that was not her own nerved her from head to foot. With that power
of ardent sacrifice which lies beneath all shams in the Southern heart, she
told herself that no endurance was too great, no hope too large with which
to serve the cause.
The exaltation was still with her when, a little later, she went up to her
room and knelt down to thank God. Her people's simple faith was hers also,
and as she prayed with her brow on her clasped hands it was as if she gave
thanks to some great warrior who had drawn his sword in defence of the land
she loved. God was on her side, supreme, beneficent, watchful in little
things, as He has been on the side of all fervent hearts since the
beginning of time.
But after her return to Uplands in midsummer she suffered a peculiar
restlessness from the tranquil August weather. The long white road
irritated her with its aspect of listless patience, and at times she wanted
to push back the crowding hills and leave the horizon open to her view.
When a squadron of cavalry swept along the turnpike her heart would follow
it like a bird while she leaned, with straining eyes, against a great white
column. Then, as the last rider was blotted out into the landscape, she
would clasp her hands and walk rapidly up and down between the lilacs. It
was all waiting--waiting--waiting--nothing else.
“Something must happen, mamma, or I shall go mad,” she said one day,
breaking in upon Mrs. Ambler as she sorted a heap of old letters in the
library.
“But what? What?” asked Virginia from the shadow of the window seat.
“Surely you don't want a battle, Betty?”
Mrs. Ambler shuddered.
“Don't tempt Providence, dear,” she said seriously, untying a faded ribbon
about a piece of old parchment. “Be grateful for just this calm and go out
for a walk. You might take this pitcher of flaxseed tea to Floretta's
cabin, if you've nothing else to do. Ask how the baby is to-day, and tell
her to keep the red flannel warm on its chest.”
Betty went into the hall after her bonnet and came back for the pitcher.
“I'm going to walk across the fields to Chericoke,” she said, “and Hosea is
to bring the carriage for me about sunset. We must have some white silk to
make those flags out of, and there isn't a bit in the house.”
She went out, stepping slowly in her wide skirts and holding the pitcher
carefully before her.
Floretta's baby was sleeping, and after a few pleasant words the girl kept
on to Chericoke. There she found that the Major had gone to town for news,
leaving Mrs. Lightfoot to her pickle making in the big storeroom, where the
earthenware jars stood in clean brown rows upon the shelves. The air was
sharp with the smell of vinegar and spices, and fragrant moisture dripped
from the old lady's delicate hands. At the moment she had forgotten the war
just beyond her doors, and even the vacant places in her household; her
nervous flutter was caused by finding the plucked corn too large to salt.
“Come in, child, come in,” she said, as Betty appeared in the doorway.
“You're too good a housekeeper to mind the smell of brine.”
“How the soldiers will enjoy it,” laughed Betty in reply. “It's fortunate
that both sides are fond of spices.”
The old lady was tying a linen cloth over the mouth of a great brown jar,
and she did not look up as she answered. “I'm not consulting their tastes,
my dear, though, as for that, I'm willing enough to feast our own men so
long as the Yankees keep away. This jar, by the bye, is filled with
'Confederate pickle'--it was as little as I could do to compliment the
Government, I thought, and the green tomato catchup I've named in honour of
General Beauregard.”
Betty smiled; and then, while Mrs. Lightfoot stood sharply regarding
Car'line, who was shucking a tray of young corn, she timidly began upon her
mission. “The flags must be finished, and I can't find the silk,” she
pleaded. “Isn't there a scrap in the house I may have? Let me look about
the attic.”
The old lady shook her head. “I haven't allowed anybody to set foot in my
attic for forty years,” she replied decisively. “Why, I'd almost as soon
they'd step into my grandfather's vault.” Then as Betty's face fell she
added generously. “As for white silk, I haven't any except my wedding
dress, and that's yellow with age; but you may take it if you want it. I'm
sure it couldn't come to a better end; at least it will have been to the
front upon two important occasions.”
“Your wedding dress!” exclaimed Betty in surprise, “oh, how could you?”
Mrs. Lightfoot smiled grimly.
“I could give more than a wedding dress if the Confederacy called for it,
my dear,” she answered. “Indeed, I'm not perfectly sure that I couldn't
give the Major himself--but go upstairs and wait for me while I send
Car'line for the keys.”
She returned to the storeroom, and Betty went upstairs to wander leisurely
through the cool faintly lighted chambers. They were all newly swept and
scented with lavender, and the high tester beds, with their slender fluted
posts, looked as if they had stood spotless and untouched for generations.
In Dan's room, which had been his mother's also, the girl walked slowly up
and down, meeting, as she passed, her own eyes in the darkened mirror. Her
mind fretted with the thought that Dan's image had risen so often in the
glass, and yet had left no hint for her as she looked in now. If it had
only caught and held his reflection, that blank mirror, she could have
found it, she felt sure, though a dozen faces had passed by since. Was
there nothing left of him, she wondered, nothing in the place where he had
lived his life? She turned to the bed and picked up, one by one, the
scattered books upon the little table. Among them there was a copy of the
“Morte d'Arthur,” and as it fell open in her hand, she found a bit of her
own blue ribbon between the faded leaves. A tremor ran through her limbs,
and going to the window she placed the book upon the sill and read the
words aloud in the fragrant stillness. Behind her in the dim room Dan
seemed to rise as suddenly as a ghost--and that high-flown chivalry of his,
which delighted in sounding phrases as in heroic virtues, was loosened from
the leaves of the old romance.
“For there was never worshipful man nor worshipful woman but they loved one
better than another, and worship in arms may never be foiled; but first
reserve the honour to God, and secondly the quarrel must come of thy lady;
and such love I call virtuous love.”
She leaned her cheek upon the book and looked out dreamily into the green
box mazes of the garden. In the midst of war a great peace had come to her,
and the quiet summer weather no longer troubled her with its unbroken calm.
Her heart had grown suddenly strong again; even the long waiting had become
but a fit service for her love.
There was a step in the hall and Mrs. Lightfoot rustled in with her wedding
dress.
“You may take it and welcome, child,” she said, as she gave it into Betty's
arms. “I can't help feeling that there was something providential in my
selecting white when my taste always leaned toward a peach-blow brocade.
Well, well, who would have believed that I was buying a flag as well as a
frock? If I'd even hinted such a thing, they would have said I had the
vapours.”
Betty accepted the gift with her pretty effusion of manner, and went
downstairs to where Hosea was waiting for her with the big carriage. As she
drove home in a happy revery, her eyes dwelt contentedly on the sunburnt
August fields, and the thought of war did not enter in to disturb her
dreams.
Once a line of Confederate cavalrymen rode by at a gallop and saluted her
as her face showed at the window. They were strangers to her, but with the
peculiar feeling of kinship which united the people of the South, she
leaned out to wish them “God speed” as she waved her handkerchief.
When, a little later, she turned into the drive at Uplands, it was to find,
from the prints upon the gravel, that the soldiers had been there before
her. Beyond the Doric columns she caught a glimpse of a gray sleeve, and
for a single instant a wild hope shot up within her heart. Then as the
carriage stopped, and she sprang quickly to the ground, the man in gray
came out upon the portico, and she saw that it was Jack Morson.
“I've come for Virginia, Betty,” he began impulsively, as he took her hand,
“and she promises to marry me before the battle.”
Betty laughed with trembling lips. “And here is the dress,” she said gayly,
holding out the yellowed silk.
VI
ON THE ROAD TO ROMNEY
After a peaceful Christmas, New Year's Day rose bright and mild, and Dan as
he started from Winchester with the column felt that he was escaping to
freedom from the tedious duties of camp life.
“Thank God we're on the war-path again,” he remarked to Pinetop, who was
stalking at his side. The two had become close friends during the dull
weeks after their first battle, and Bland, who had brought a taste for the
classics from the lecture-room, had already referred to them in pointless
jokes as “Pylades and Orestes.”
“It looks mighty like summer,” responded Pinetop cheerfully. He threw a
keen glance up into the blue clouds, and then sniffed suspiciously at the
dust that rose high in the road. “But I ain't one to put much faith in
looks,” he added with his usual caution, as he shifted the knapsack upon
his shoulders.
Dan laughed easily. “Well, I'm heartily glad I left my overcoat behind me,”
he said, breathing hard as he climbed the mountain road, where the red clay
had stiffened into channels.
The sunshine fell brightly over them, lying in golden drops upon the fallen
leaves. To Dan the march brought back the early winter rides at Chericoke,
and the chain of lights and shadows that ran on clear days over the tavern
road. Joyously throwing back his head, he whistled a love song as he
tramped up the mountain side. The irksome summer, with its slow fevers and
its sharp attacks of measles, its scarcity of pure water and supplies of
half-cooked food, was suddenly blotted from his thoughts, and his first
romantic ardour returned to him in long draughts of wind and sun. After
each depression his elastic temperament had sprung upward; the past months
had but strengthened him in body as in mind.
In the afternoon a gray cloud came up suddenly and the sunshine, after a
feeble struggle, was driven from the mountains. As the wind blew in short
gusts down the steep road, Dan tightened his coat and looked at Pinetop's
knapsack with his unfailing laugh.
“That's beginning to look comfortable. I hope to heaven the wagons aren't
far off.”
Pinetop turned and glanced back into the valley. “I'll be blessed if I
believe they're anywhere,” was his answer.
“Well, if they aren't, I'll be somewhere before morning; why, it feels like
snow.”