THE SECRETARY LOOKS ON
The old house in the woods which still lay within the Confederate lines
became a hospital before morning, and when General Wood turned away from
it he beheld a woman staggering through the darkness, carrying a strange
burden. It was Lucia Catherwood, and when she came nearer he knew that
the burden was a man. He saw then that the girl's expression was one
that he had never before seen on the face of woman. As he ran forward
she gasped:
"Take him; it is Captain Prescott!"
Full of wonder, but with too much delicacy under his rough exterior to
ask questions, the mountaineer lifted Prescott in his arms and carried
him into the house, where he was placed on the bed beside Harley, who
was unconscious, too. Lucia Catherwood followed alone. She had been
borne up by the impulse of excessive emotion, but she was exhausted now
by her mighty effort. She thought she was going to faint--she who had
never fainted in her life--and leaned against the outside wall of the
house, dizzy and trembling. Black shadows, not those of the night,
floated before her eyes, and the house moved away; but she recovered
herself in a few moments and went in.
Improvised beds and cots were in every room, and many of the wounded lay
on the floor, too. Mixed with them were some in blue just as on the
other side of the battlefield were some in gray mixed with the blue.
There was a powerful odour of drugs, of antiseptics, and Helen and Mrs.
Markham were tearing cloth into strips.
Prescott lay a long time awaiting his turn at the surgeon's hand--so
long that it seemed to Lucia Catherwood it would never come; but she
stayed by his side and did what she could, though conscious that both
Mrs. Markham and Helen were watching her at times with the keenest
curiosity, and perhaps a little hostility. She did not wonder at it; her
appearance had been so strange, and was still so lacking in explanation,
that they could not fail, after the influence of the battlefield itself
had somewhat passed, to be curious concerning her. But she added nothing
to what she had said, doing her work in silence.
The surgeon came at last and looked at Prescott's head and its bandages.
He was a thin man of middle age, and after his examination he nodded in
a satisfied way.
"You did this, I suppose," he said to Lucia--it was not the first woman
whom he had seen beside a wounded man. When she replied in the
affirmative, he added:
"I could not have done better myself. He's suffering chiefly from
concussion, and with good nursing he'll be fit for duty again in a few
weeks. You can stay with him, I suppose? You look strong, and women are
good for such work."
"Yes; I will stay with him," she replied, though she felt a sudden doubt
how she should arrange to do so.
The surgeon gave a few instructions and passed on--it was a busy night
for him and all his brethren, and they could not linger over one man.
Lucia still sat by the side of Prescott, applying cooling bandages,
according to the surgeon's instructions, and no one sought to interfere
with her.
The house, which contained so many wounded, was singularly quiet. Hardly
one of them groaned. There was merely the sound of feet moving softly.
Two or three lights burned very low. Outside was the same silence and
darkness. Men came in or went away and the others took no notice.
A man entered presently, a slender man, of no particular presence, with
veiled eyes, it seemed to Lucia, and she observed that his coming
created a faint rustle of interest, something that had not happened
with any other. He was not in uniform, and his first glance was for
Helen Harley. Then he came toward Lucia and, bending down, looked keenly
at the face of her patient.
"It is Captain Prescott," he said. "I am sorry. Is he badly hurt?"
"No," she replied; "he is suffering chiefly from concussion, the surgeon
says, and will be well again in two or three weeks."
"With good nursing?"
"Yes, with good nursing." She glaced up in a little surprise.
Revelation, comprehension, resolve, shot over James Sefton's face. He
was genuinely pleased, and as he glanced at Lucia Catherwood again her
answering gaze was full of understanding.
"Your name is Lucia Catherwood," he said.
"Yes," she replied, without surprise.
"It does not matter how I knew it," he continued; "it is sufficient that
I do know it. I know also that you are the best nurse Robert Prescott
could have."
Her look met his, and, despite herself, the deep red dyed her face, even
her neck. There was a swift look of admiration on the Secretary's face.
Then he smiled amiably. He had every reason to feel amiable. He realized
now that he had nothing to fear from Prescott's rivalry with Helen
Harley so long as Lucia Catherwood was near. Then why not keep her near?
"You are to be his nurse," he continued, "and you must have the right to
go through our lines, even to Richmond if necessary. Here is a pass for
you."
He took pencil and paper from his pocket and wrote an order which he
handed to her.
The Secretary's next concern was for Harley, and he spoke in low tones
of him to Mrs. Markham and his sister. He had heard of his heroic charge
at a critical moment--of a man rising from his bed of wounds to lead
back his wavering regiment; the army was ringing with it. In the new
republic such a hero should have a great reward. Helen flushed with
pleasure, but Mrs. Markham, shrewder and keener, said nothing. Her own
husband, unhurt, came an hour later, and he was proud of his wife at
work there among the wounded. The Secretary stayed a long while, and
Lucia felt at times that he was watching her with an eye that read her
throughout; but when she saw him looking at Helen Harley she thought she
knew the reason of his complacency. She, too, was acute.
The Secretary brought news of the battle, and as he prophesied that the
next day would be bloodier than the one just closed, he glanced through
the window at the black Wilderness with real awe upon his face.
Lucia followed his look, and despite herself she felt a certain pride.
This general, who struck so hard and never ceased striking, was her
general. She had known that it would be so, but these people about her
had not known it until now. She felt in her heart that the end was
coming, but she knew it would be over the roughest road ever traveled by
a victorious army.
She formed plans, too, as she sat there, and was thankful for the pass
that she concealed in her dress. No matter how it had come, she had it
and it was all-powerful. She did not fear this Secretary whom others
seemed to fear. If necessary she would go to Richmond again, and she
would there join her cousin, Miss Grayson, her nearest living relative,
who could now give her protection that no one could question.
About three o'clock in the morning a young man whose face and manner she
liked came in and looked at Prescott. He showed deep concern, and then
relief, when assured that the wound was not serious. His name was
Talbot--Thomas Talbot, he said--and he was a particular friend of
Prescott's. He gave Lucia one or two glances, but in a few moments he
went away to take his part in the next day's battle.
Lucia dozed a little by and by, her sleep being filled with strange
dreams. She was awakened by a low, distant sound, one that the preceding
day had made familiar--the report of a cannon shot. She looked out of
the window, and it was still so dark that the forest, but a short
distance away, was invisible.
"They have begun early," she murmured.
She saw Prescott stir as if he had heard a call, and his eyes half
opened. Then he made an effort to move, but she put her hand gently upon
his forehead and he sank back to rest. She saw in his half-open eyes a
fleeting look of comprehension, gratitude and joy, then the eyes closed
again, and he floated off once more into the land of peace where he
abode for the present. Lucia felt singularly happy and she knew why, for
so engrossed was she in Prescott that she scarcely heard the second
cannon shot, replying to the first. There came others, all faint and
far, but each with its omen. The second day's battle had begun.
The supreme commanders of either side were now ready. Human minds had
never been more busy than theirs had been. Grant was still preparing to
attack; no thought of failure entered his resolute soul. If he did not
succeed to-day, then he would succeed on the next day or next week or
next month; he would attack and never cease attacking. Lee stood
resolutely in his path, resolved to beat him back, not only on this
line, but on every other line, always bringing up his thinning brigade
for a new defense.
The Wilderness still held secrets for both, but they intended to solve
them that day, to see which way the riddle ran, and the Wilderness
itself was as dark, as calm and as somber as ever. It had been torn by
cannon balls, pierced by rifle bullets and scorched by fire; but the two
armies were yet buried in it and it gave no sign to the world outside.
In the house, despite the wounded, there was deep attention and a
concern that nothing could suppress. The scattered cannon shots blended
into a steady thunder already, but it was distant and to the watchers
told nothing. The darkness, too, was still so great that they could see
no flashes.
The Secretary, mounted on an Accomack pony, rode out of the woods and
looked a little while at the house, then turned away and continued in
the direction of the new battle. He was in a good humour that morning,
smiling occasionally when no one could see. The combat already begun did
not trouble Mr. Sefton, although it was his business there to see how it
was going and supplement, or, rather, precede, the General's reports
with such news as he could obtain, and so deft a mind as his could
obtain much. Yet he was not worried over either its progress or its
result. He had based his judgment on calculations made long ago by a
mind free from passion or other emotion and as thoroughly arithmetical
as a human mind can be, and he had seen nothing since to change the
estimates then formed.
When he thought how they missed Jackson it was with no intention of
depreciating Wood. Both were needed, and he knew that the mountain
General would be wherever the combat was fiercest that day. And then, he
might not come back! The Secretary pondered over this phase of the
matter. He had been growing suspicious of late, and Wood was a good
general, but he was not sure that he liked him. But pshaw! There was
nothing to dread in such a crude, rough mountaineer.
He glanced to the left and saw there the heads of horses and horsemen
rising and falling like waves as they swept over the uneven ground. He
believed them to be Wood's troopers, and, taking his field-glass, he
studied the figure that rode at their head. It was Wood, and the
Secretary saw that they were about to strike the Northern flank. He was
not a soldier, but he had an acute mind and a keen eye for effect. He
recognized at once the value of the movement, the instinct that had
prompted it and the unflinching way in which it was being carried out.
"Perhaps Wood will fall there! He rides in the very van," he thought,
but immediately repented, because his nature was large enough to admit
of admiration for a very brave man.
The sun shone through the clouds a little and directly upon the point in
the Northern lines where Wood was aiming to strike, and the Secretary
watched intently. He saw the ranks of horsemen rising and falling
quickly and then pausing for a second or two before hurling themselves
directly upon the Northern flank. He saw the flash of sabers, the jets
of white smoke from rifle or pistol, and then the Northern line was cut
through. But new regiments came up, threw themselves upon the cavalry,
and all were mingled in a wild pell-mell among the thickets and through
the forests. Clouds of smoke, thick and black, settled down, and horse
and foot, saber and gun were hidden from the Secretary.
"Stubborn! As stubborn as death!" he murmured; "but the end is as
certain as the setting of the sun."
Turning his horse, he rode to a new hill, from which he made another
long and careful examination. Then he rode a mile or two to the rear and
stopped at a small improvised telegraph station, whence he sent three
brief telegrams. The first was to President Jefferson Davis of the
Southern Confederacy in Richmond; the others, somewhat different in
nature, were for two great banking houses--one in London, the other in
Paris--and these two despatches were to be forwarded from a seaport by
the quickest steamer.
This business despatched, Mr. Sefton, rubbing his hands with pleasure,
rode back toward the battle.
A figure, black-bearded, gallant and large, came within the range of his
glasses. It was Wood, and the Secretary breathed a little sigh of
sorrow. The General had come safely out of the charge and was still a
troublesome entity, but Mr. Sefton checked himself. General Wood was a
brave man, and he could respect such splendid courage and ability.
Thinking deeply on the way and laying many plans, he turned his pony and
rode back toward the house which was still outside the area of battle,
and the Secretary judged that it would not come within it on that day at
least. More than one in that log structure waited to hear what news he
would bring.
* * * * *
Prescott, shortly after daylight, had opened his ears to a dull, steady,
distant sound, not unpleasant, and his eyes to a wonderful, luminous
face--a face that he knew and which he once had feared he might never
see again.
"Lucia Catherwood!" he said.
"Yes, it is I," she replied softly, so softly that no one else could
hear.
"I think that you must have found me and brought me here," he said. An
intuition had told him this.
She answered evasively: "You are not hurt badly. It was a piece of
shell, and the concussion did the harm."
Prescott looked a question. "You will stay by me?" his eyes said to her
as plain as day.
"Yes, I will stay by you," was her positive reply in the same language.
Then he lay quite still, for his head was dull and heavy; but it was
scarcely an ache, and he did not suffer pain. Instead, a soothing
content pervaded his entire system and he felt no anxiety about
anything. He tried to remember his moments of unconsciousness, but his
mind went back only to the charge, the blow upon the head, and the fall.
There everything had stopped, but he was still sure that Lucia
Catherwood had found him and somehow had brought him here. He would have
died without her, of that he had no doubt, and by and by he should learn
about it all.
Men came into the house and went away, but he felt no curiosity. That
part of him seemed to be atrophied for the present, but after awhile
something aroused his interest. It was not any of the men or women who
passed and repassed, but that curious, dull, steady, distant sound which
had beat softly upon his ears the moment he awoke. He remembered now
that it had never ceased, and it began to trouble him, reminding him of
the buzzing of flies on a summer afternoon when he was a boy and wanted
to sleep. He wondered what it was, but his brain was still dulled and
gave no information. He tried to forget but could not, and looked up at
Lucia Catherwood for explanation, but she had none to offer.
He wished to go to sleep, but the noise--that soft but steady drumming
on the ear--would not let him. His desire to know grew and became
painful. He closed his eyes in thought and it came to him with sudden
truth it was the sound of guns, cannon and rifles. The battle, taken up
where it was left off the night before, was going on.
North and South were again locked in mortal strife, and the Wilderness
still held its secret, refusing to name the victor. Prescott felt a
sudden pang of disappointment. He knew the straits of the South; he knew
that she needed every man, and he was lying there helpless on a bed
while the persistent Grant was hammering away and would continue to
hammer away as no general before him had done. He tried to move, but
Lucia put her cool hand upon his forehead. That quieted him, but he
still listened intently to the sound of battle, distinguishing with a
trained ear the deep note of the cannon and the sharper crash of the
rifle. All waited anxiously for the return of the Secretary, confident
that he would come and confident that he would bring true news of the
battle's fortunes. It required but a short acquaintance with Mr. Sefton
to produce upon every one the impression that he was a man who saw.
The morning had not been without pleasure to Prescott. His nurse seemed
to know everything and to fear nothing. Lucia understood her peculiar
position. She had a full sense that she was an outsider, but she did not
intend to go away, being strongly fortified by the feeling that she was
making repayment. Once as she sat by Prescott, Helen came, too, and
leaned over him. Lucia drew away a little as if she would yield to
another who had a better claim, but Helen would not have it so.
"Do not go," she said. "He is yours, not mine."
Lucia did not reply, but a tacit understanding arose between the two
women, and they were drawn toward each other as friends, since there was
nothing to divide them.
* * * * *
The Secretary at that moment was riding slowly toward the house, turning
now and then to look at the battle which yet hung in doubt, in its vast
canopy of smoke. He studied it with keen eyes and a keener mind, but he
could yet make nothing of it, and could give no news upon his arrival at
the house.
The long day waned at last, but did not bring with its shadows any
decrease in the violence of the battle. Its sound was never absent for a
moment from the ears of those in the house, and the women at the windows
saw the great pyramid of flame from the forest fire, but their anxiety
was as deep as ever. No word came to indicate the result. Night fell,
close, heavy and black, save where the forest burned, and suddenly the
battle ceased.
News came at length that the South had held her lines. Grant had failed
to break through the iron front of Lee. A battle as bloody as Gettysburg
had been fought and nothing was won; forty thousand men had been struck
down in the Wilderness, and Grant was as far as ever from Richmond.
The watchers in the house said little, but they rejoiced--all save Lucia
Catherwood, who sat in silence. However the day might have ended, she
did not believe the campaign had ended with it, and her hope continued.
A messenger arrived in haste the next day. The house must be abandoned
by all who could go. Grant had turned on his left flank and was
advancing by a new road. The Southern army must also turn aside to meet
him.
It was as Lucia Catherwood expected. Meade, a victor at Gettysburg, had
not attacked again. Grant, failing in the Wilderness, moved forward to
fight within three days another battle as great.
The story of either army was the same. The general in his tent touched
the spring that set all things in motion. The soldiers rose from the hot
ground on which they lay in a stupor rather than sleep. Two streams of
wounded poured to the rear, one to the North and one to the South. The
horses, like their masters, worn and scarred like them, too, were
harnessed to cannon and wagon; the men ate as they worked; there was no
time for delay. This was to be a race, grand and terrible in its nature,
with great battles as incidents. The stakes were high, and the players
played with deadly earnestness.
Both Generals sent orders to hurry and themselves saw that it was done.
The battle of yesterday and the day before was as a thing long past; no
time to think of it now. The dead were left for the moment in the
Wilderness as they had fallen. The air was filled with commands to the
men, shouts to the horses, the sough of wheels in the mud, the breaking
of boughs under weight, and the clank of metal. The Wilderness, torn now
by shells and bullets and scorched by the fires, waved over two armies
gloomier and more somber than ever, deserving to the full its name.
They were still in the Wilderness, and it had lost none of its ominous
aspects. Far to left and right yet burned the forest fires set by the
shells, flaring luridly in the intense blackness that characterized
those nights. The soldiers as they hurried on saw the ribbons and coils
of flame leaping from tree-top to tree-top, and sometimes the languid
winds blew the ashes in their faces. Now and then they crossed parts of
the forest where it had passed, and the earth was hot to their feet.
Around them lay smouldering logs and boughs, and from these fallen
embers tongues of flame arose. Overhead, the moon and stars were shut
out by the clouds and smoke and vapour.
Even with a passion for a new conflict rising in them, the soldiers as
they hurried on felt the weirdness, the satanic character of the
battleground. The fitful flashes of lightning often showed faces stamped
with awe; wet boughs of low-growing trees held them back with a moist
and sticky touch; the low rumble of thunder came from the far horizon
and its tremendous echo passed slowly through the Wilderness; and
mingled again with this sound was an occasional cannon shot as the
fringes of the two armies hastening on passed the time of night.
The tread of either army was heavy, dull and irregular, and the few
torches they carried added little light to the glare of the lightning
and the glow of the burning forest. The two marched on in the dark,
saying little, making little noise for numbers so great, but steadily
converging on Spottsylvania, where they were destined to meet in a
conflict rivaling in somber grandeur that of the past two days.