FIELD HOSPITAL, SIXTH CORPS
My head ached so abominably when I first opened my eyes that I was
compelled to close them again, merely realizing dimly that I looked
up at something white above me, which appeared to sway as though blown
gently by the wind. My groping hand, the only one I appeared able to
move, told me I was lying upon a camp-cot, with soft sheets about me,
and that my head rested upon a pillow. Then I passed once more into
unconsciousness, but this time it was sleep.
When I once more awakened the throbbing pain had largely left my hot
temples, and I saw that the swaying white canopy composed the roof of a
large tent, upon which the golden sunlight now lay in checkered masses,
telling me the canvas had been erected among trees. A faint moan caused
me to move my head slightly on the gratefully soft pillow, and I could
perceive a long row of cots, exactly similar to the one I occupied, each
apparently filled, stretching away toward an opening that looked forth
into the open air. A man was moving slowly down the narrow aisle toward
me, stopping here and there to bend over some sufferer with medicine or
a cheery word. He wore a short white jacket, and was without a cap, his
head of heavy red hair a most conspicuous object. As he approached I
endeavored to speak, but for the moment my throat refused response to
the effort. Then I managed to ask feebly: “Where am I?”
The blue eyes in the freckled, boyish face danced good-hurnoredly, and
he laid a big red hand gently upon my forehead.
“Field hospital, Sixth Corps,” he said, with a strong Hibernian accent
“An' how de ye loike it, Johnny?”
“Better than some others I've seen,” I managed to articulate faintly.
“Who won?”
“Divil a wan of us knows,” he admitted frankly, “but your fellows did
the retratin'.”
It was an old, old story to all of us by that time, and I closed my eyes
wearily, content to ask no more.
I have no way of knowing how long I rested there motionless although
awake, my eyes closed to keep out the painful glare, my sad thoughts
busied with memory of those men whom I had seen reel and fall upon that
stricken field we had battled so vainly to save. Once I wondered, with
sudden start of fear, if I had lost a limb, if I was to be crippled for
life, the one thing I dreaded above all else. Feeling feebly beneath my
bed-clothing I tested, as best I could, each limb. All were apparently
intact, although my left arm seemed useless and devoid of feeling,
broken no doubt, and I heaved a sigh of genuine relief. Then I became
partially aroused to my surroundings by a voice speaking from the cot
next mine.
“You lazy Irish marine!” it cried petulantly, “that beef stew was to
have been given me an hour ago.”
“Sure, sor,” was the soothing reply, “it wasn't to be given yer honor
till two o'clock.”
“Well, it's all of three now.”
“Wan-thirty, on me sowl, sor.”
That first voice sounded oddly familiar, and I turned my face that way,
but was unable to perceive the speaker.
“Is that Lieutenant Caton?” I asked doubtfully.
“Most assuredly it is,” quickly. “And who are you?”
“Captain Wayne, of the Confederate Army.”
“Oh, Wayne? Glad you spoke, but extremely sorry to have you here. Badly
hurt?”
“Not seriously, I think. No limbs missing, anyhow, but exceedingly weak.
Where did they get you?”
“In the side, a musket ball, but extracted. I would be all right if
that lazy Irish scamp would only give me half enough to eat. By the
way, Wayne, of course I never got the straight of it, for there are
half-a-dozen stories about the affair flying around, and those most
interested will not talk, but one of your special friends, and to my
notion a most charming young woman, will be in here to see me sometime
this afternoon. She will be delighted to meet you again, I'm sure.”
“One of my friends?” I questioned incredulously, yet instantly thinking
of Edith Brennan. “A young woman?”
“Sure; at least she has confessed enough to me regarding that
night's work to make me strongly suspicion that Captain Wayne, of the
Confederate Army, and Colonel Curran, late of Major-General Halleck's
staff, are one and the same person. A mighty neat trick, by Jove, and it
would have done you good to see Sheridan's face when they told him.
But about the young lady--she claims great friendship with the gallant
Colonel of light artillery, and her description of his appearance at
the ball is assuredly a masterpiece of romantic fiction. Come, Captain,
surely you are not the kind of man to forget a pretty face like that?
I can assure you, you made a deep impression. There are times when I am
almost jealous of you.”
“But,” I protested, my heart beating rapidly, “I met several that
evening, and you have mentioned no name.”
“Well, to me it chances there is but one worthy of mention,” he said
earnestly, “and that one is Celia Minor.”
“Miss Minor!” I felt a strange sense of disappointment. “Does she come
alone?”
“Most certainly; do you suppose she would expose me in my present weak
state to the fascinations of any one else?”
“Oh, so the wind lies in that quarter, does it, old fellow? I
congratulate you, I'm sure.”
My recollection of Miss Minor was certainly a most pleasant one, and I
recalled to memory the attractive picture of her glossy black hair and
flashing brown eyes, yet I felt exceedingly small interest in again
meeting her. Indeed I was asleep when she finally entered, and it was
the sound of Caton's voice that aroused me and made me conscious of the
presence of others.
“I shall share these grapes with my cot-mate over yonder,” he said
laughingly. “By the way, Celia, his voice sounded strangely familiar to
me a short time ago. Just glance over there and see if he is any one you
know.”
I heard the soft rustle of skirts, and, without a smile, looked up into
her dark eyes. There was a sudden start of pleased surprise.
“Why,” she exclaimed eagerly, “it is Colonel Curran! Edith, dear, here
is the Rebel who pretended to be Myrtle Curran's brother.”
How the hot blood leaped within my veins at mention of that name; but
before I could lift my head she had swept across the narrow aisle, and
was standing beside me. Wife, or what, there was that within her eyes
which told me a wondrous story. For the instant, in her surprise and
agitation, she forgot herself, and lost that marvellous self-restraint
which had held us so far apart.
“Captain Wayne!” she cried, and her gloved hands fell instantly upon my
own, where it rested without the coverlet. “You here, and wounded?”
I smiled up at her, feeling now that my injuries were indeed trivial.
“Somewhat weakened by loss of blood, Mrs. Brennan, but not dangerously
hurt.” Then I could not forbear asking softly, “Is it possible you can
feel regret over injuries inflicted upon a Rebel?”
Her cheeks flamed, and the audacious words served to recall her to our
surroundings.
“Even although I love my country, and sincerely hope for the downfall of
her enemies,” she answered soberly, “I do not delight in suffering. Were
you in that terrible cavalry charge? They tell me scarcely a man among
them survived.”
“I rode with my regiment.”
“I knew it was your regiment--the name was upon every lip, and even our
own men unite in declaring it a magnificent sacrifice, a most gallant
deed. You must know I thought instantly of you when I was told it was
the act of the ----th Virginia.”
There were tears in my eyes, I know, as I listened to her, and my heart
warmed at this frank confession of her remembrance.
“I am glad you cared sufficiently for me,” I said gravely, “to hold me
in your thought at such a time.
“Our command merely performed the work given it, but the necessity has
cost us dearly. You are yet at General Sheridan's headquarters?”
“Only temporarily, and simply because there has been no opportunity to
get away, the movements of the army have been so hurried and uncertain.
Since the battle Miss Minor has desired to remain until assured of
Lieutenant Caton's permanent recovery. He was most severely wounded, and
of course I could not well leave her here alone. Indeed I am her guest,
as we depart to-morrow for her home, to remain indefinitely.”
“But Miss Minor is, I understand, a native of this State?”
“Her home is in the foot-hills of the Blue Ridge, along the valley
of the Cowskin,--a most delightful old Southern mansion. I passed one
summer there when a mere girl, previous to the war.”
“But will it prove safe for you now?”
“Oh, indeed, yes; everybody says so. It is entirely out of the track of
both armies, and has completely escaped despoliation.”
“I was not thinking of the main combatants, but rather of those
irregulars who will be most certain to invade promptly any section not
patrolled by disciplined troops. I confess to fearing greatly that there
will be an early outpouring of these rascals from the mountains into the
adjacent lowlands the moment we are compelled to fall back and let loose
the iron grip with which we have held them thus far partially in check.
Yet I do not say this to frighten you, or in any way spoil the pleasure
of your contemplated visit.”
“Indeed I shall not permit it. So many have assured me it would be
perfectly safe that I do not mean to worry. I expect to be very happy
there until the war is over. Surely, Captain Wayne, it cannot long
continue now?”
Her voice was low, earnest, almost supplicating.
“It looks hopeless, even from our standpoint, I admit,” I returned,
watching the straying sunlight play amid the dusky coils of her hair.
“Yet we are not likely to yield until we must.”
“But you, Captain Wayne; surely you have already risked enough?”
“I presume I am a prisoner,” I answered, smiling, “and therefore unable
at present to choose my future; but were I free to do so, I should
return to my command to-morrow.”
“Yet surely you do not consider that this terrible rebellion is
justified, is right?”
“I think there is, undoubtedly, much wrong upon both sides, Mrs.
Brennan; but I am a soldier, and my duty is very simple--I follow my
flag and, as a Virginian, am loyal to my State and to the principles
taught me in my childhood.”
Her beautiful eyes filled with tears, and as she bent down her head that
the others might not perceive her agitation, one salty drop fell upon my
hand.
“It is all so very, very sad,” she said softly.
“There is much suffering upon both sides, but surely even you would not
wish me to be other than true to what I look upon as a duty?”
“No; I--I think I--I respect you the more.”
“Then you do respect me?”
Another word, a far stronger one, trembled upon my lips, yet I
restrained it sternly, and asked all I dared.
“I do,” earnestly, her eyes dwelling upon my face.
“I may not comprehend how you can view matters from your standpoint, for
I am in full sympathy with the Union, and am a woman. But I believe you
to be honest, and I know you to be a gallant soldier.”
I clasped her hand close within my own.
“Your words encourage me greatly,” I said earnestly. “I have done so
much to bring you trouble and sorrow that I have been fearful lest it
had cost me what I value more highly than you can ever know.”
These words were unfortunate, and instantly brought back to her a memory
which seemed a barrier between us. I read the change in her averted
face.
“That can never be, Captain Wayne,” she returned calmly, yet rising
even as she spoke. “You have come into my life under circumstances so
peculiar as to make me always your friend. Celia,” and she turned toward
the others, “is it not time we were going? I am very sure the doctor
said you were to remain with Lieutenant Caton but a brief time.”
“Why, Edith,” retorted the other, gayly, “I have been ready for half
an hour--haven't I, Arthur?--but you were so deeply engrossed with your
Rebel I hadn't the heart to interrupt.”
I could see the quick color as it mounted over Mrs. Brennan's throat.
“Nonsense,” she answered; “we have not been here that length of time.”
“Did the Major emerge from out the late entanglement unhurt?” It was
Caton's voice that spoke.
“Much to his regret, I believe, he was not even under fire.” The
tone was cool and collected again. “I will say good-bye, Lieutenant;
doubtless we shall see you at Mountain View so soon as you are able to
take the journey. And, Captain Wayne, I trust I shall soon learn of your
complete recovery.”
My eyes followed them down the long aisle. At the entrance she glanced
back, and I lifted my hand. Whether she marked the gesture I do not
know, for the next instant both ladies had disappeared without.
Caton endeavored to talk with me, but I answered him so briefly, and
with such vague knowledge of what had been said, that he soon desisted.
I could see only the face that had so lately bent above me, and reflect
upon the fate which held me helpless in its grasp. I felt that had
circumstances been other than they were, this proudly tender woman might
have learned from me the lesson of love, and in my weakness, both of
spirit and body, I rebelled against the impassable barrier holding
us apart. She was the wife of another, yet, in spite of every
determination, I loved her with all my soul.
The night drew slowly down, and as it darkened, only one miserable lamp
shed its dim rays throughout the great tent; nurses moved noiselessly
from cot to cot, and I learned something of the nature of my own
injuries from the gruff old surgeon who dressed the wound in my
chest and refastened the splints along my arm. Then silence followed,
excepting for the heavy breathing of the sleepers and the restless
tossing of sufferers on their narrow cots. Here and there echoed
wild words of delirium, but soon even these faint sounds died away in
slumber, while the drowsy night-watch dozed in a chair. I could see from
where I lay a blazing fire without, while in its glow along the side of
the tent there was cast the black shadow of a sentinel, as he paced back
and forth along his beat. So clear were the shaded lines I was able
to trace his gun, and even the peculiar turn-up to the visor of his
forage-cap. The pain I had experienced earlier in the day grew less
acute, and at last I also fell asleep.
It must have been midnight, possibly even later, when a number of
rapid shots fired outside the tent aroused me, and I heard many voices
shouting, mingled with the tread of horses' feet. The night-watch had
already disappeared, and the startled inmates of the tent were in a
state of intense confusion. As I lifted myself slightly, dazed by the
sudden uproar and eager to learn its cause, the tent-flap, which had
been lowered to exclude the cold night air, was hastily jerked aside,
and a man stepped within, casting one rapid glance about that dim
interior. The flaring lamp overhead revealed to me a short, heavy-set
figure, clad in a gray uniform.
“No one here need feel alarm,” he said quietly. “We are not making war
upon the wounded. Are there any Confederates present able to travel?”
A dozen eager voices answered him, and men began to crawl out of their
cots onto the floor.
He started down the aisle.
“We can be burdened with no helpless or badly wounded men,” he said
sternly. “Only those able to ride. No, my man, you are in too bad shape
to travel. Very sorry, my boy, but it can't be done. Only your left arm,
you say? Very well, move out in front there. No, lad, it would be the
death of you, for we must ride fast and hard.”
He came to a pause a half-dozen cots away from me, and seemed about to
retrace his steps. Dim as the light was, I felt convinced I had formerly
seen that short figure and stern face with its closely cropped beard.
“Mosby,” I called out, resolved to risk his remembrance, “Colonel Mosby,
isn't it possible to take me?”
“Who are you?” he questioned sharply, turning in the direction of my
voice.
“Wayne,” I answered eagerly, “Wayne, of the ----th Virginia.”
In an instant he was standing beside my cot, his eyes filled with
anxious interest.
“Phil Wayne, of Charlottesville? You here? Not badly hurt, my boy?”
“Shot and bruised, Colonel, but I'd stand a good deal to get out of
this.”
“And, by the Eternal, you shall; that is, if you can travel in a wagon.
Here, Sims, Thomas; two of you carry this officer out. Take bed-clothes
and all--easy now.”
The fellows picked me up tenderly, and bore me slowly down the central
aisle. Mosby walked beside us as far as the outer opening.
“Put him down there by the fire,” he ordered, “until I look over the
rest of these chaps and divide the wheat from the chaff.”