A WOMAN'S TENDERNESS
Youth is never largely given to reflection, which is the gift of years;
and although my life had in a measure rendered me more thoughtful than
I might have proven under ordinary conditions, yet it is to be frankly
confessed, by one desirous of writing merely the truth, that I generally
acted more upon impulse than reason. As I stood forth in the sunlight of
that lonely mountain road, my hands securely bound behind my back,
the end of the rope held by one of my captors, while his fellow leaned
lazily upon his gun and watched us, I thought somewhat deeply over the
situation and those peculiar circumstances leading up to it.
Under other conditions I might have felt tempted to enter into
conversation with my guards, who, as I now perceived, were far from
being the rough banditti I had at first imagined. Judging from their
faces and language they were intelligent enough young fellows, such as
I had often found in the ranks of the Federal army. But I realized they
could aid me little, if any, in the one thing I most desired to know,
and even if they could, a sense of delicacy would have caused me to
hesitate in asking those personal questions that burned upon my lips. My
deep and abiding respect for this woman whom I had so strangely met, and
with whom I had attained some degree of intimacy, would never permit
of my discussing her, even indirectly, with private soldiers behind the
back of their officer. Every sense of honor revolted at such a thought.
Not through any curiosity of mine, however justified by the depth of
my own feeling, should she be made the subject of idle gossip about the
camp-fire.
For, in truth, at this time, unhappy as my own situation undeniably
was,--and as a soldier I realized all its dangers,--I gave it but little
consideration. Usually quick of wit, fertile in expedients, ever ready
to take advantage of each opportunity, I had taken stock of all my
surroundings, yet discovered nowhere the slightest opening for escape.
The vigilance of the guard, as well as the thorough manner in which I
was bound, rendered any such attempt the merest madness. Realizing this,
with the fatalism of a veteran I resigned myself in all patience to what
must be.
Then it was that other thoughts came surging upon me in a series of
interrogatories, which no knowledge I possessed could possibly answer.
Who was this proud, womanly woman who called herself Edith Brennan? She
had been at some pains to inform me that she was married, yet there was
that about her--her bearing, her manner--which I could not in the least
reconcile with that thought. Her extreme youthfulness made me feel it
improbable, and the impression remained with me that she intended
to make some explanation of her words, when the coming of Bungay
interrupted us. How they might be explained I could not imagine; I
merely struggled against accepting what I longed to believe untrue. And
this man? this Federal major, bearing the same name, whom she called
Frank, who was he? What manner of relationship existed between them?
In their meeting and short intercourse I had noted several things which
told me much--that she feared, respected, valued him, and that he was
not only swayed by, but intensely jealous of any rival in, her good
opinion. Yet their unexpected meeting was scarcely that of husband and
wife. Was he the one she sought in her night ride from one Federal camp
to another? If so, was he brother, friend, or husband? What was the bond
of union existing between these two? Every word spoken made me fear the
last must be the true solution.
Such were some of the queries I silently struggled with, and they were
rendered more acute by that deepening interest which I now confessed to
myself I was feeling toward her who inspired them. It may be fashionable
nowadays to sneer at love, yet certain it is, the rare personality of
this Edith Brennan had reached and influenced me in those few hours
we had been thrown together as that of no other woman had ever done.
Possibly this was so because the long years in camp and field had kept
me isolated from all cultured and refined womanhood. This may, indeed,
have caused me to be peculiarly susceptible to the beauty and purity of
this one. I know not; I am content to give facts, and leave philosophy
to others. My life has ever been one of action, of intense feeling;
and there in the road that day, standing bareheaded in the sun, I was
clearly conscious of but one changeless fact, that I loved Edith Brennan
with every throb of my heart, and that there was enmity, bitter and
unforgiving, between me and the man within who bore her name. Whatever
he might be to her I rejoiced to know that he hated me with all the
unreasoning hatred of jealousy. I had read it in his eyes, in his words,
in his manner; and the memory of its open manifestation caused me to
smile, as I hoped for an hour when we should meet alone and face to
face. How she regarded him I was unable as yet to tell, but his love for
her was plainly apparent in every glance and word.
As I was thus thinking, half in despair and half in hope, the two came
out from the house together; and it pleased me to note how immediately
her eyes sought for me, and how she lifted her hand to shade them from
the glare of the sun, so that she might see more clearly. Her companion
appeared to ignore my presence utterly, and gazed anxiously up and down
the road as though searching for something.
“Peters,” he asked sharply of the fellow on guard, “where are Sergeant
Steele and the rest of the squad?”
The soldier addressed saluted in a manner that convinced me he was of
the regular service.
“They are resting out of the sun in that clump of bushes down the hill,
sir.”
Brennan glanced in the direction indicated.
“Very well,” he said. “Take your prisoner down there, and tell the
Sergeant to press on at once toward the lower road. We shall follow you,
and the lady will ride his horse.”
The man turned, and with peremptory gesture ordered me forward. As I
drew closer to where the two waited beside the open door, I lifted my
head proudly, determined that neither should perceive how deeply I felt
the humiliation of my position. As I thus passed them, my eyes fixed
upon the shining road ahead, my ears caught a word or two of indignant
expostulation from her lips.
“But, Frank, it is positively shameful in this sun.”
He laughed lightly, yet his answer came to me in all clearness of
utterance. I believed he wished me to overhear the words. “Oh, it will
only prove of benefit to his brains, if by rare chance he possesses
any.”
I glanced aside, and saw her turn instantly and face him, her eyes
aflame with indignation. “Then I will!”
As she spoke, her voice fairly trembling with intense feeling, she
stepped backward out of sight into the house.
Another instant and she reappeared, sweeping past him without so much as
a word, and bearing in her hand my old campaign hat, came directly up to
us.
“Sentry,” she said in her old imperious manner, “I desire to place this
hat on the head of your prisoner.”
The fellow glanced uneasily over his shoulder at the seemingly
unconscious officer, not knowing whether it were better to permit the
act or not, but she waited for no permission.
“Captain Wayne,” she said, her voice grown kindly in a moment, and her
eyes frankly meeting mine, “you will pardon such liberty, I am sure, but
it is not right that you should be compelled to march uncovered in this
sun.”
She placed the hat in position, asking as she did so:
“Does that feel comfortable?”
“The memory of your thoughtfulness,” I replied warmly, bowing as best I
might, “will make the march pleasant, no matter what its end may mean to
me.”
Her eyes darkened with sudden emotion.
“Do not deem me wholly ungrateful,” she said quickly and in a low tone.
“The conditions are such that I am utterly helpless now to aid you.
Major Brennan is a man not to be lightly disobeyed, but I shall tell my
story to General Sheridan so soon as we reach his camp.”
I would have spoken again, but at this moment Brennan came striding
toward us.
“Come, Edith,” he cried, almost roughly, “this foolishness has surely
gone far enough. Peters, what are you waiting here for? I told you to
take your prisoner down the road.”
A few moments later, the centre of a little squad of heavily armed men,
I was tramping along the rocky pathway, and when once I attempted to
glance back to discover if the others followed us, the sergeant advised
me, with an oath, to keep my eyes to the front. I obeyed him.
It was a most tiresome march in the hot sun over the rough mountain
roads. There were times when we left these altogether, and crept along
half-obliterated trails leading through the dense woods and among the
rocks. I learned from scraps of conversation floating about me as we
struggled onward, that these precautions were not taken out of any fear
of meeting with Confederate troops, whose nearest commands were supposed
to be considerably to the westward of where we were, but because of
a desire to avoid all possibility of conflict with those armed and
irresponsible bands that ranged at will between the lines of the two
great armies. Already they had become sufficiently strong to make
trouble for small detachments.
It must have been nearly the end of the afternoon. We had certainly
traversed several miles, and were then moving almost directly south upon
a well-defined pike, the name of which I never knew. All the party were
travelling close together, when the scout, who throughout the day had
been kept a few hundred yards in advance, came back toward us on a run,
his hand flung up in an urgent warning to halt.
“What is it, Steele?” Brennan questioned, spurring forward to meet him.
“Come, speak up, man!”
“A squad of cavalry has just swung onto the pike, sir, from the dirt
road that leads toward the White Briar,” was the soldier's panting
reply. “And I could get a glimpse through the trees down the valley, and
there's a heavy infantry column just behind them. They're Rebs, sir, or
I don't know them.”
“Rebs?” with an incredulous laugh. “Why, man, we've got the only Reb
here who is east of the Briar.”
“Well,” returned the scout, sullenly, “they're coming from the west, and
I know they ain't our fellows.”
He was too old a soldier to have his judgment doubted, and he was
evidently convinced. Brennan glanced quickly about. However he may
have sneered at the report, he was not rash enough to chance so grave a
mistake.
“Get back into those rocks there on the right,” he commanded sharply.
“Hustle your prisoner along lively, men, and one of you stand over him
with a cocked gun; if he so much as opens his mouth, let him have it.”
Rapidly as we moved, we were scarcely all under cover before the advance
cavalry guard came in sight, the light fringe of troopers, dust-begrimed
and weary, resting heavily in their saddles, and apparently thoughtless
as to any possibility of meeting with the enemy. There were not
more than a troop of them all told, yet their short gray jackets and
wide-brimmed light hats instantly told the story of their service.
Their rear rank was yet in sight when we heard the heavy tread of the
approaching column, together with the dull tinkle of steel which always
accompanies marching troops. Peering forth as much as I dared from
behind the thick brush where I had been roughly thrown face downward, I
saw the head of that solid, sturdy column swing around the sharp bend
in the road, and in double front, spreading from rock to rock, come
sweeping down toward us.
The command was moving forward rapidly at the rout step, that long,
easy, swinging stride so peculiar to the Southern infantry, with the
merest semblance of order in formation, which is the inevitable result
of hard, rapid marching. Every movement bespoke them veteran troops.
They were covered with dust, their faces fairly caked with it, their
uniforms almost indistinguishable; their drums silent, their colors
cased, their wide-brimmed hats pulled low over their eyes, their guns
held in any position most convenient for carrying, and with stern,
wearied faces set doggedly upon the road in their front. No pomp and
circumstance of glorious war was here, but these were fighting men.
Never before, save as I watched Pickett's charging line sweep on to
death at Gettysburg, did I feel the stern manliness of war as now.
File upon file, company after company, regiment following regiment, they
swung sternly by. Scarcely so much as a word reached us, excepting now
and then some briefly muttered command to close up, or a half-inaudible
curse as a shuffling foot stumbled. I could distinguish no badge, no
insignia of either corps or division; the circling dust enveloped them
in a choking, disfiguring cloud. But they were Confederates! I marked
them well; here and there along the toiling ranks I even noted a
familiar face, and there could be no mistaking the gaunt North Carolina
mountaineer, the sallow Georgian, or the jaunty Louisiana Creole. They
were Confederates--Packer's Division of Hill's corps, I could have
almost sworn--east-bound on forced march, and I doubted not that each
cross-road to left and right of us would likewise show its hurrying gray
column, sturdily pressing forward. The veteran fighting men of the left
wing of the Army of Northern Virginia were boldly pushing eastward to
keep their tryst with Lee. The despatch intrusted to my care had been
borne safely to Longstreet.
The keen joy of it lighted up my face, and Brennan turning toward me as
the last limping straggler disappeared over the ridge, saw it, and grew
white with anger.
“You Rebel cur!” he cried fiercely, in his sudden outburst of passion,
“what does all this mean? Where is that division bound?”
“Some change in Longstreet's front, I should judge,” I answered coolly,
too happy even to note his slur.
“You know better,” he retorted hotly. “The way those fellows march
tells plainly enough that they have covered all of fifteen miles since
daybreak. It is a general movement, and, by Heaven! you shall answer
Sheridan, even if you won't me.”