brogue. Then he passed on to Libby prison, while Dan turned from the window
and lay watching the surgeon's faces as they probed for bullets.
It was a long unceiled building, filled with bright daylight and the
buzzing of countless flies. Women, who had volunteered for the service,
passed swiftly over the creaking boards, or knelt beside the pallets as
they bathed the shattered limbs with steady fingers. Here and there a child
held a glass of water to a man who could not raise himself, or sat fanning
the flies from a pallid face. None was too old nor too young where there
was work for all.
A stir passed through the group about the long pine table, and one of the
surgeons, wiping the sweat from his brow, came over to where Dan lay, and
stopped to take breath beside the window.
“By Jove, that man died game,” he said, shaking his handkerchief at the
flies. “We took both his legs off at the knee, and he just gripped the
table hard and never winked an eyelash. I told him it would kill him, but
he said he'd be hanged if he didn't take his chance--and he took it and
died. Talk to me about nerve, that fellow had the cleanest grit I ever
saw.”
Dan's pulses fluttered, as they always did at an example of pure pluck.
“What's his regiment?” he asked, watching the two slaves who, followed by
their mistresses, were bringing the body back to the stretcher.
“Oh, he was a scout, I believe, serving with Stuart when he was wounded.
His name is--by the way, his name is Montjoy. Any relative of yours, I
wonder?”
Raising himself upon his elbow, Dan turned to look at the dead man beside
him. A heavy beard covered the mouth and chin, but he knew the sunken black
eyes and the hair that was like his own.
“Yes,” he answered after a long pause, “he is a relative of mine, I think;”
and then, while the man lay waiting for his coffin, he propped himself upon
his arm and followed curiously the changes made by death.
At his first recognition there had come only a wave of repulsion--the old
disgust that had always dogged the memory of his father; then, with the
dead face before his eyes, he was aware of an unreasoning pride in the
blood he bore--in the fact that the soldier there had died pure game to the
last. It was as a braggart and a bully that he had always thought of him;
now he knew that at least he was not a craven--that he could take blows as
he dealt them, from the shoulder out. He had hated his father, he told
himself unflinchingly, and he did not love him now. Had the dead man opened
his eyes he could have struck him back again with his mother's memory for a
weapon. There had been war between them to the grave, and yet, despite
himself, he knew that he had lost his old boyish shame of the Montjoy
blood. With the instinct of his race to glorify physical courage, he had
seen the shadow of his boyhood loom from the petty into the gigantic. Jack
Montjoy may have been a scoundrel,--doubtless he was one,--but, with all
his misdeeds on his shoulders, he had lived pure game to the end.
A fresh bleeding of Dan's wound brought on a sudden faintness, and he fell
heavily upon Big Abel's arm. With the pain a groan hovered an instant on
his lips, but, closing his eyes, he bit it back and lay silent. For the
first time in his life there had come to him, like an impulse, the
knowledge that he must not lower his father's name.
BOOK FOURTH
THE RETURN OF THE VANQUISHED
I
THE RAGGED ARMY
The brigade had halted to gather rations in a corn field beside the road,
and Dan, lying with his head in the shadow of a clump of sumach, hungrily
regarded the “roasting ears” which Pinetop had just rolled in the ashes. A
malarial fever, which he had contracted in the swamps of the Chickahominy,
had wasted his vitality until he had begun to look like the mere shadow of
himself; gaunt, unwashed, hollow-eyed, yet wearing his torn gray jacket and
brimless cap as jauntily as he had once worn his embroidered waistcoats.
His hand trembled as he reached out for his share of the green corn, but
weakened as he was by sickness and starvation, the defiant humour shone all
the clearer in his eyes. He had still the heart for a whistle, Bland had
said last night, looking at him a little wistfully.
As he lay there, with the dusty sumach shrub above him, he saw the ragged
army pushing on into the turnpike that led to Maryland. Lean, sun-scorched,
half-clothed, dropping its stragglers like leaves upon the roadside,
marching in borrowed rags, and fighting with the weapons of its enemies,
dirty, fevered, choking with the hot dust of the turnpike--it still pressed
onward, bending like a blade beneath Lee's hand. For this army of the sick,
fighting slow agues, old wounds, and the sharp diseases that follow on
green food, was becoming suddenly an army of invasion. The road led into
Maryland, and the brigades swept into it, jesting like schoolboys on a
frolic.
Dan, stretched exhausted beside the road, ate his ear of corn, and idly
watched the regiment that was marching by--marching, not with the even
tread of regular troops, but with scattered ranks and broken column, each
man limping in worn-out shoes, at his own pace. They were not fancy
soldiers, these men, he felt as he looked after them. They were not
imposing upon the road, but when their chance came to fight, they would be
very sure to take it. Here and there a man still carried his old squirrel
musket, with a rusted skillet handle stuck into the barrel, but when before
many days the skillet would be withdrawn, the load might be relied upon to
wing straight home a little later. On wet nights those muskets would stand
upright upon their bayonets, with muzzles in the earth, while the rain
dripped off, and on dry days they would carry aloft the full property of
the mess, which had dwindled to a frying pan and an old quart cup; though
seldom cleaned, they were always fit for service--or if they went foul what
was easier than to pick up a less trusty one upon the field. On the other
side hung the blankets, tied at the ends and worn like a sling from the
left shoulder. The haversack was gone and with it the knapsack and the
overcoat. When a man wanted a change of linen he knelt down and washed his
single shirt in the brook, sitting in the sun while it dried upon the bank.
If it was long in drying he put it on, wet as it was, and ran ahead to fall
in with his company. Where the discipline was easy, each infantryman might
become his own commissary.
Dan finished his corn, threw the husks over his head, and sat up, looking
idly at the irregular ranks. He was tired and sick, and after a short rest
it seemed all the harder to get up and take the road again. As he sat there
he began to bandy words with the sergeant of a Maryland regiment that was
passing.
“Hello! what brigade?” called the sergeant in friendly tones. He looked fat
and well fed, and Dan felt this to be good ground for resentment.
“General Straggler's brigade, but it's none of your business,” he promptly
retorted.
“General Straggler has a pretty God-forsaken crew,” taunted the sergeant,
looking back as he stepped on briskly. “I've seen his regiments lining the
road clear up from Chantilly.”
“If you'd kept your fat eyes open at Manassas the other day, you'd have
seen them lining the battle-field as well,” pursued Dan pleasantly, chewing
a long green blade of corn. “Old Stonewall saw them, I'll be bound. If
General Straggler didn't win that battle I'd like to know who did.”
“Oh, shucks!” responded the sergeant, and was out of hearing.
The regiment passed by and another took its place. “Was that General Lee
you were yelling at down there, boys?” inquired Dan politely, smiling the
smile of a man who sits by the roadside and sees another sweating on the
march.
“Naw, that warn't Marse Robert,” replied a private, limping with bare feet
over the border of dried grass. “'Twas a blamed, blank, bottomless well,
that's what 'twas. I let my canteen down on a string and it never came back
no mo'.”
Dan lowered his eyes, and critically regarded the tattered banner of the
regiment, covered with the names of the battles over which it had hung
unfurled. “Tennessee, aren't you?” he asked, following the flag.
The private shook his head, and stooped to remove a pebble from between his
toes.
“Naw, we ain't from Tennessee,” he drawled. “We've had the measles--that's
what's the matter with us.”
“You show it, by Jove,” said Dan, laughing. “Step quickly, if you
please--this is the cleanest brigade in the army.”
“Huh!” exclaimed the private, eying them with contempt. “You look like it,
don't you, sonny? Why, I'd ketch the mumps jest to look at sech a set o'
rag-a-muffins!”
He went on, still grunting, while Dan rose to his feet and slung his
blanket from his shoulder. “Look here, does anybody know where we're going
anyway?” he asked of the blue sky.
“I seed General Jackson about two miles up,” replied a passing countryman,
who had led his horse into the corn field. “Whoopee! he was going at a
God-a'mighty pace, I tell you. If he keeps that up he'll be over the
Potomac before sunset.”
“Then we are going into Maryland!” cried Jack Powell, jumping to his feet.
“Hurrah for Maryland! We're going to Maryland, God bless her!”
The shouts passed down the road and the Maryland regiment in front sent
back three rousing cheers.
“By Jove, I hope I'll find some shoes there,” said Dan, shaking the sand
from his ragged boots, and twisting the shreds of his stockings about his
feet. “I've had to punch holes in my soles and lace them with shoe strings
to the upper leather, or they'd have dropped off long ago.”
“Well, I'll begin by making love to a seamstress when I'm over the
Potomac,” remarked Welch, getting upon his feet. “I'm decidedly in need of
a couple of patches.”
“You make love! You!” roared Jack Powell. “Why, you're the kind of thing
they set up in Maryland to keep the crows away. Now if it were Beau, there,
I see some sense in it--for, I'll be bound, he's slain more hearts than
Yankees in this campaign. The women always drain out their last drop of
buttermilk when he goes on a forage.”
“Oh, I don't set up to be a popinjay,” retorted Welch witheringly.
“Popinjay, the devil!” scowled Dan, “who's a popinjay?”
“Wall, I'd like a pair of good stout breeches,” peacefully interposed
Pinetop. “I've been backin' up agin the fence when I seed a lady comin' for
the last three weeks, an' whenever I set down, I'm plum feared to git up
agin. What with all the other things,--the Yankees, and the chills, and the
measles,--it's downright hard on a man to have to be a-feared of his own
breeches.”
Dan looked round with sympathy. “That's true; it's a shame,” he admitted
smiling. “Look here, boys, has anybody got an extra pair of breeches?”
A howl of derision went up from the regiment as it fell into ranks.
“Has anybody got a few grape-leaves to spare?” it demanded in a high
chorus.
“Oh, shut up,” responded Dan promptly. “Come on, Pinetop, we'll clothe
ourselves to-morrow.”
The brigade formed and swung off rapidly along the road, where the dust lay
like gauze upon the sunshine. At the end of a mile somebody stopped and
cried out excitedly. “Look here, boys, the persimmons on that tree over
thar are gittin' 'mos fit to eat. I can see 'em turnin',” and with the
words the column scattered like chaff across the field. But the first man
to reach the tree came back with a wry face, and fell to swearing at “the
darn fool who could eat persimmons before frost.”
“Thar's a tree in my yard that gits ripe about September,” remarked
Pinetop, as he returned dejectedly across the waste. “Ma she begins to dry
'em 'fo' the frost sets in.”
“Oh, well, we'll get a square meal in the morning,” responded Dan, growing
cheerful as he dreamed of hospitable Maryland.
Some hours later, in the warm dusk, they went into bivouac among the trees,
and, in a little while, the campfires made a red glow upon the twilight.
Pinetop, with a wooden bucket on his arm, had plunged off in search of
water, and Dan and Jack Powell were sent, in the interests of the mess, to
forage through the surrounding country.
“There's a fat farmer about ten miles down, I saw him,” remarked a lazy
smoker, by way of polite suggestion.
“Ten miles? Well, of all the confounded impudence,” retorted Jack, as he
strolled off with Dan into the darkness.
For a time they walked in silence, depressed by hunger and the exhaustion
of the march; then Dan broke into a whistle, and presently they found
themselves walking in step with the merry air.
“Where are your thoughts, Beau?” asked Jack suddenly, turning to look at
him by the faint starlight.
Dan's whistle stopped abruptly.
“On a dish of fried chicken and a pot of coffee,” he replied at once.
“What's become of the waffles?” demanded Jack indignantly. “I say, old man,
do you remember the sinful waste on those blessed Christmas Eves at
Chericoke? I've been trying to count the different kinds of meat--roast
beef, roast pig, roast goose, roast turkey--”
“Hold your tongue, won't you?”
“Well, I was just thinking that if I ever reach home alive I'll deliver the
Major a lecture on his extravagance.”
“It isn't the Major; it's grandma,” groaned Dan.
“Oh, that queen among women!” exclaimed Jack fervently; “but the wines are
the Major's, I reckon,--it seems to me I recall some port of which he was
vastly proud.”
Dan delivered a blow that sent Jack on his knees in the stubble of an old
corn field.
“If you want to make me eat you, you're going straight about it,” he
declared.
“Look out!” cried Jack, struggling to his feet, “there's a light over there
among the trees,” and they walked on briskly up a narrow country lane which
led, after several turnings, to a large frame house well hidden from the
road.
In the doorway a woman was standing, with a lamp held above her head, and
when she saw them she gave a little breathless call.
“Is that you, Jim?”
Dan went up the steps and stood, cap in hand, before her. The lamplight was
full upon his ragged clothes and upon his pallid face with its strong
high-bred lines of mouth and chin.
“I thought you were my husband,” said the woman, blushing at her mistake.
“If you want food you are welcome to the little that I have--it is very
little.” She led the way into the house, and motioned, with a pitiable
gesture, to a table that was spread in the centre of the sitting room.
“Will you sit down?” she asked, and at the words, a child in the corner of
the room set up a frightened cry.
“It's my supper--I want my supper,” wailed the child.
“Hush, dear,” said the woman, “they are our soldiers.”
“Our soldiers,” repeated the child, staring, with its thumb in its mouth
and the tear-drops on its cheeks.
For an instant Dan looked at them as they stood there, the woman holding
the child in her arms, and biting her thin lips from which hunger had
drained all the red. There was scant food on the table, and as his gaze
went back to it, it seemed to him that, for the first time, he grasped the
full meaning of a war for the people of the soil. This was the real
thing--not the waving banners, not the bayonets, not the fighting in the
ranks.
His eyes were on the woman, and she smiled as all women did upon whom he
looked in kindness.
“My dear madam, you have mistaken our purpose--we are not as hungry as we
look,” he said, bowing in his ragged jacket. “We were sent merely to ask
you if you were in need of a guard for your smokehouse. My Colonel hopes
that you have not suffered at our hands.”
“There is nothing left,” replied the woman mystified, yet relieved. “There
is nothing to guard except the children and myself, and we are safe, I
think. Your Colonel is very kind--I thank him;” and as they went out she
lighted them with her lamp from the front steps.
An hour later they returned to camp with aching limbs and empty hands.
“There's nothing above ground,” they reported, flinging themselves beside
the fire, though the night was warm. “We've scoured the whole country and
the Federals have licked it as clean as a plate before us. Bless my soul!
what's that I smell? Is this heaven, boys?”
“Licked it clean, have they?” jeered the mess. “Well, they left a sheep
anyhow loose somewhere. Beau's darky hadn't gone a hundred yards before he
found one.”
“Big Abel? You don't say so?” whistled Dan, in astonishment, regarding the
mutton suspended on ramrods above the coals.
“Well, suh, 'twuz des like dis,” explained Big Abel, poking the roast with
a small stick. “I know I ain' got a bit a bus'ness ter shoot dat ar sheep
wid my ole gun, but de sheep she ain' got no better bus'ness strayin' roun'
loose needer. She sutney wuz a dang'ous sheep, dat she wuz. I 'uz des
a-bleeged ter put a bullet in her haid er she'd er hed my blood sho'.”
As the shout went up he divided the legs of mutton into shares and went off
to eat his own on the dark edge of the wood.
A little later he came back to hang Dan's cap and jacket on the branches of
a young pine tree. When he had arranged them with elaborate care, he raked
a bed of tags together, and covered them with an army blanket stamped in
the centre with the half obliterated letters U. S.
“That's a good boy, Big Abel, go to sleep,” said Dan, flinging himself down
upon the pine-tag bed. “Strange how much spirit a sheep can put into a man.
I wouldn't run now if I saw Pope's whole army coming.”
Turning over he lay sleepily gazing into the blue dusk illuminated with the
campfires which were slowly dying down. Around him he heard the subdued
murmur of the mess, deep and full, though rising now and then into a
clearer burst of laughter. The men were smoking their brier-root pipes
about the embers, leaning against the dim bodies of the pines, while they
discussed the incidents of the march with a touch of the unconquerable
humour of the Confederate soldier. Somebody had a fresh joke on the
quartermaster, and everybody hoped great things of the campaign into
Maryland.
“I pray it may bring me a pair of shoes,” muttered Dan, as he dropped off
into slumber.
The next day, with bands playing “Maryland, My Maryland,” and the Southern
Cross taking the September wind, the ragged army waded the Potomac, and
passed into other fields.
II
A STRAGGLER FROM THE RANKS
In two weeks it swept back, wasted, stubborn, hungrier than ever. On a
sultry September afternoon, Dan, who had gone down with a sharp return of
fever, was brought, with a wagonful of the wounded, and placed on a heap of
straw on the brick pavement of Shepherdstown. For two days he had been
delirious, and Big Abel had held him to his bed during the long nights when
the terrible silence seemed filled with the noise of battle; but, as he was
lifted from the wagon and laid upon the sidewalk, he opened his eyes and
spoke in a natural voice.
“What's all this fuss, Big Abel? Have I been out of my head?”
“You sutney has, suh. You've been a-prayin' en shoutin' so loud dese las'
tree days dat I wunner de Lawd ain' done shet yo' mouf des ter git rid er
you.”
“Praying, have I?” said Dan. “Well, I declare. That reminds me of Mr.
Blake, Big Abel. I'd like to know what's become of him.”
Big Abel shook his head; he was in no pleasant humour, for the corners of
his mouth were drawn tightly down and there was a rut between his bushy
eyebrows.
“I nuver seed no sich place es dis yer town in all my lifetime,” he
grumbled. “Dey des let us lie roun' loose on de bricks same es ef we ain'
been fittin' fur 'em twel we ain' nuttin' but skin en bone. Dose two wagon
loads er cut-up sodgers hev done fill de houses so plum full dat dey sticks
spang thoo de cracks er de do's. Don' talk ter me, suh, I ain' got no use
fur dis wah, noways, caze hit's a low-lifeted one, dat's what 'tis; en ef
you'd a min' w'at I tell you, you'd be settin' up at home right dis minute
wid ole Miss a-feedin' you on br'ile chicken. You may fit all you wanter--I
ain' sayin' nuttin' agin yo' fittin ef yo' spleen hit's up--but you could
er foun' somebody ter fit wid back at home widout comin' out hyer ter git
yo'se'f a-jumbled up wid all de po' white trash in de county. Dis yer wah
ain' de kin' I'se use ter, caze hit jumbles de quality en de trash
tergedder des like dey wuz bo'n blood kin.”
“What are you muttering about now, Big Abel?” broke in Dan impatiently.
“For heaven's sake stop and find me a bed to lie on. Are they going to
leave me out here in the street on this pile of straw?”
“De Lawd he knows,” hopelessly responded Big Abel. “Dey's a-fixin' places,
dey sez, dat's why all dese folks is a-runnin' dis away en dat away like
chickens wid dere haids chopped off. 'Fo' you hed yo' sense back dey wanted
ter stick you over yonder in dat ole blue shanty wid all de skin peelin'
off hit, but I des put my foot right down en 'lowed dey 'ouldn't. W'at you
wan' ketch mo'n you got fur?”
“But I can't stay here,” weakly remonstrated Dan, “and I must have
something to eat--I tell you I could eat nails. Bring me anything on God's
earth except green corn.”
The street was filled with women, and one of them, passing with a bowl of
gruel in her hand, came back and held it to his lips.
“You poor fellow!” she said impulsively, in a voice that was rich with
sympathy. “Why, I don't believe you've had a bite for a month.”
Dan smiled at her from his heap of straw--an unkempt haggard figure.
“Not from so sweet a hand,” he responded, his old spirit rising strong
above misfortune.
His voice held her, and she regarded him with a pensive face. She had known
men in her day, which had declined long since toward its evening, and with
the unerring instinct of her race she knew that the one before her was well
worth the saving. Gallantry that could afford to jest in rags upon a pile
of straw appealed to her Southern blood as little short of the heroic. She
saw the pinch of hunger about the mouth, and she saw, too, the singular
beauty which lay, obscured to less keen eyes, beneath the fever and the
dirt.
“The march must have been fearful--I couldn't have stood it,” she said,
half to test the man.
Rising to the challenge, he laughed outright. “Well, since you mention it,
it wasn't just the thing for a lady,” he answered, true to his salt.
For a moment she looked at him in silence, then turned regretfully to Big
Abel.
“The houses have filled up already, I believe,” she said, “but there is a
nice dry stable up the street which has just been cleaned out for a
hospital. Carry your master up the next square and then into the alley a
few steps where you will find a physician. I am going now for food and
bandages.”
She hurried on, and Big Abel, seizing Dan beneath the arms, dragged him
breathlessly along the street.
“A stable! Huh! Hit's a wunner dey ain' ax us ter step right inter a nice
clean pig pen,” he muttered as he walked on rapidly.
“Oh, I don't mind the stable, but this pace will kill me,” groaned Dan.
“Not so fast, Big Abel, not so fast.”
“Dis yer ain' no time to poke,” replied Big Abel, sternly, and lifting the
young man in his arms, he carried him bodily into the stable and laid him
on a clean-smelling bed of straw. The place was large and well lighted, and
Dan, as he turned over, heaved a grateful sigh.
“Let me sleep--only let me sleep,” he implored weakly.
And for two days he slept, despite the noise about him. Dressed in clean
clothes, brought by the lady of the morning, and shaved by the skilful hand
of Big Abel, he buried himself in the fresh straw and dreamed of Chericoke
and Betty. The coil of battle swept far from him; he heard none of the fret
and rumour that filled the little street; even the moans of the men beneath
the surgeons' knives did not penetrate to where he lay sunk in the stupor
of perfect contentment. It was not until the morning of the third day, when
the winds that blew over the Potomac brought the sounds of battle, that he
was shocked back into a troubled consciousness of his absence from the
army. Then he heard the voices of the guns calling to him from across the
river, and once or twice he struggled up to answer.
“I must go, Big Abel--they are in need of me,” he said. “Listen! don't you
hear them calling?”
“Go way f'om yer, Marse Dan, dey's des a-firin' at one anurr,” returned Big
Abel, but Dan still tossed impatiently, his strained eyes searching through
the door into the cloudy light of the alley. It was a sombre day, and the
oppressive atmosphere seemed heavy with the smoke of battle.
“If I only knew how it was going,” he murmured, in the anguish of
uncertainty. “Hush! isn't that a cheer, Big Abel?”
“I don' heah nuttin' but de crowin' er a rooster on de fence.”