THE SECOND BATTLE OF BULL RUN.
The second disastrous battle of Bull Run was over, and the shadow of a
summer night wrapped the field of carnage in darkness. Thickly upon the
battle field lay the dead and dying, the sharp, bitter cries of the
latter rising on the night wind, and adding tenfold to the horror of the
scene. In the woods, not very far away, more than one brave soldier was
weltering in his life-blood, just where, in his rapid flight, he had
fallen, the grass his pillow, and the leafy branches of the forest trees
his only covering.
Near to a running brook one wounded man was supporting another and
trying to staunch the purple gore, pouring darkly from a fearful bullet
wound in the region of the heart. The stronger of the two, he who wore a
major’s uniform, had come accidentally upon the other, writhing in
agony, and muttering at intervals snatches of the prayer with which he
once had been familiar, and which seemed to bring _Lily_ back to him
again, just as she was when in the attic chamber she made him kneel by
her, and say “Our Father.” He tried to say it now, and the whispered
words caught the ear of Irving Stanley, arresting his steps at once.
“Poor fellow! it’s gone hard with you,” he said, kneeling by the
sufferer, whom he recognized as the deserter _Dr. Richards_, who had
returned to his allegiance, had craved forgiveness for his sins, and
been restored to the ranks, discharging his duties faithfully, and
fighting that day with a zeal and energy which did much in reinstating
him in the good opinion of those who witnessed his daring bravery.
But the doctor’s work was done, and never from his lips would Lily know
how well his promise had been kept. Giddy with pain and weak from the
loss of blood, he had groped his way through the woods, fighting back
the horrid certainty that to-morrow’s sun would not rise for him, and
sinking at length exhausted upon the grass, whose freshness was now
defaced by the blood which poured so freely from his wound.
It was thus that Irving Stanley found him, starting at first as from a
hissing shell, and involuntarily clasping his hand over the place where
lay a little note, received a few days before, a reply to the earnest
declaration of love he had at last written to his sister’s governess.
There was but one alternative, and Adah met it resolutely, though every
fibre of her heart throbbed with keen agony as she told to Irving
Stanley the story of her life. She was a wife, a mother, the sister of
Hugh Worthington, they said, _the Adah_ for whom Dr. Richards had sought
so long in vain, and for whom Murdoch, the wicked father, was seeking
still for aught she knew to the contrary. Even the story of the doctor’s
secretion in the barn at Sunnymead was confessed. Nothing was withheld
except the fact that even as he professed to love her, so she in turn
loved him, or had done so before she knew it was a sin. Surprise had,
for a few moments stifled every other emotion, and Irving Stanley sat
like one suddenly bereft of life, when he read who Adah was. Then came
the bitter thought that he had lost her, mingled with a deep feeling of
resentment towards the man who had so cruelly wronged the gentle girl,
and who alone stood between him and happiness. For Irving Stanley could
overlook all the rest. His great warm heart, so full of kindly sympathy
and generous charity for all mankind could take to its embrace the fair
sweet woman he had learned to love so much, and be a father to her
little boy, as if it had been his own. But this might not be. There was
a mighty obstacle in the way, and feeling that it mattered little now
whether he ever came from the field alive, Irving Stanley, with a
whispered prayer for strength to bear and do right, had hidden the
letter in his bosom, and then, when the hour of conflict came, plunged
into the thickest of the fight with a fearlessness born of keen and
recent disappointment, which made life less valuable than it had been
before.
It is not strange, then, that he should start and stagger backward when
he came so suddenly upon the doctor, or that the first impulse of weak
human nature was to leave the fallen man; but the second, the Christian
impulse, bade him stay, and forgetting his own slight but painful wound,
he bent over Adah’s husband, and did what he could to alleviate the
anguish he saw was so hard to bear. At the sound of his voice, a spasm
of pain passed over the doctor’s pallid face, and the flash of a sudden
fire gleamed for a moment in his eye, as he, too, remembered _Adah_, and
thought of what might be when the grass was growing over his untimely
grave.
The doctor knew that he was dying, and yet his first question was—
“Do you think I can live? Did any one ever recover with such a wound as
this?”
Eagerly the dim eyes sought the face above them, the kind, good face of
one who would not deceive him. Irving shook his head as he felt the
pulse, and answered frankly,
“I believe you will die.”
There was a bitter moan, as all his misspent life came up before him,
followed closely by the dark future, where there shone no ray of hope,
and then with the desperate thought, “It’s too late now for regrets.
I’ll meet it like a man,” he said.
“It may as well be I as any one, though it’s hard even for me to die;
harder than you imagine;” then, growing excited as he talked, he raised
himself upon his elbow, and continued, “Major Stanley, tell me truly, do
you love the woman you know as Adah Gordon?”
“I did love her before I knew I must not—but now—I—yes, Dr. Richards, my
heart tells me that never was she so dear to me as now when her husband
lies dying at my side.”
Irving Stanley hardly knew what he was saying, but the doctor
understood, and almost shrieked out the words,
“You know then that she is Adah, a wife, a mother and that I am her
lawful husband?”
“I know the whole,” was the reply, as with his hand Irving dipped water
from the brook and laved the feverish brow of the dying man, who went on
to speak of Adah as she was when he first knew her, and of the few happy
months spent with her in those humble lodgings.
“You don’t know my darling,” he whispered. “She’s an angel, and I might
have been so happy with her. Oh, if I _could_ only live, but that can’t
be now, and it is well. Come close to me, Major Stanley, and listen
while I tell you that Adah promised if I would do my duty to my country
faithfully, she would live with me again, and all the while she
promised, her heart was breaking, for she did not love me. It had all
died out for me. It had been given to another; can you guess to whom?”
Irving made no reply, except to chafe the hands which clasped his so
tightly, and the doctor continued,
“I am surely dying—I shall never see her more, or my beautiful boy. I
was a brute in the cars; you remember the time. That was Adah, and those
little feet resting on my lap were Willie’s, baby Willie’s, Adah’s
baby.”
The doctor’s mind was wandering now, and he kept on disconnectedly,
“She’s been to Europe with him. She’s changed from the shy girl into a
queenly woman. Even the Richards line might be proud of her bearing, and
when I’m gone, tell her I said you might have Willie, and—and—it grows
very dark; the noise of the battle drowns my voice, but come nearer to
me, nearer—tell her—tell Adah, you may have her. She needn’t mourn, nor
wait; but carry me back to Snowdon. There’s no soldier’s grave there
yet. I never thought mine would be the first. Anna will cry, and mother
and Asenath and Eudora; but Adah, oh Lily, darling. She’s coming to me
now. Don’t you hear that rustle in the grass?” and the doctor listened
intently to a sound which also caught Irving’s ear, a sound of a horse’s
neigh in the distance, followed by a tramp of feet.
“Hush-sh,” he whispered. “It may be the enemy,” but his words were not
regarded, or understood.
The doctor was in Lily’s presence, and in fancy it was _her_ hand, not
Irving’s which wiped the death-sweat from his brow, and he murmured
words of love and fond endearment, as to a living, breathing form.
Fainter and fainter grew the pulse, weaker and weaker grew the trembling
voice, until at last Irving could only comprehend that some one was
bidden to pray—to say “Our Father.”
Reverently, as for a departing brother, he prayed over the dying man,
asking that all the past might be forgiven, and that the erring might
rest at last in peace.
“Say Amen for me, I’m too weak,” the doctor whispered; then, as reason
asserted her sway again, he continued “I see it now; Lily’s gone, and I
am dying here in the woods, in the dark, in the night, on the ground;
cared for by you who will be Lily’s husband. You may, you may, tell her
I said so; tell her kiss my boy; love him, Major Stanley; love him as
your own, even though others shall call you father. Tell her—I tried—to
pray—”
He never spoke again; and when next the thick, black, clotted blood
oozed up from the gaping wound, it brought with it all there was of
life; and there in those Virginia woods, in the darkness of the night,
Irving Stanley sat alone with the dead. And yet not alone, for away to
his right, and where the neigh of a horse had been heard, another
wounded soldier lay—his soft, brown locks moist with dew, and his
captain’s uniform wet with the blood which dripped from the terrible
gash in the fleshy part of the neck, where a murderous ball had been.
One arm, the right one, was broken, and lay disabled upon the grass;
while the hand of the other clutched occasionally at the damp grass, and
then lifting itself, stroked caressingly the powerful limbs of the
faithful creature standing guard over the prostrate form of his master.
Hugh and Rocket! They had been in many battles, and neither shot nor
shell had harmed them until to-day, when Hugh had received the charge
which sent him reeling from his horse, breaking his arm in the fall, and
scarcely conscious that two of his comrades were leading him from the
field. How or by what means he afterwards reached the woods, he did not
know, but reached them he had, and unable to travel further, he had
fallen to the ground, where he lay, until Rocket came galloping near,
riderless, frightened, and looking for his master. With a cry of joy the
noble brute answered that master’s faint whistle, bounding at once to
his side, and by many mute but meaning signs, signifying his desire that
Hugh should mount as heretofore.
But Hugh was too weak for that, and after several ineffectual efforts to
rise, fell back half fainting on the turf; while Rocket took his stand
directly over him, a powerful and efficient guard until help from some
quarter should arrive. Patiently, faithfully he stood, waiting as
quietly as if he knew that aid was coming, not far away, in the form of
an old man, whose hair was white as snow, and whose steps were feeble
with age, but who had the advantage of knowing every inch of that
ground, for he had trodden it many a time, with a homesick heart which
pined for “old Kentuck,” whence he had been stolen.
_Uncle Sam!_ He it was whose uncertain steps made Rocket prick up his
ears and listen, neighing at last a neigh of welcome, by which he, too,
was recognized.
“De dear Father be praised if that be’nt Rocket hisself. I’ve found him,
I’ve found my Massah Hugh. I tole Miss Ellis I should, ’case I knows all
de way. Dear Massah Hugh, I’se _Sam_, I is,” and with a convulsive sob
the old negro knelt beside the white-faced man who, but for this timely
aid, could hardly have survived that fearful night.