XI.

Cold and gray in the mist of the morning the long columns have filed

down from the heights, and are massed at the water's edge. It is chill

December, and the frost has eaten deep into the ruddy soil of Virginia,

but the Rappahannock flows swiftly along, uncrusted by the ice that

fetters Northern streams, yet steaming in the biting air. Fog-wreaths

rise from the rippling surface, and all along the crowded shore the

clouds hang dense and heavy. Nowhere can one see in any direction more

than a dozen yards away; all beyond is wrapped in swirling, eddying

fog-bank. Here in the thronging ranks, close at hand, men speak in low

tones as they stamp upon the frozen ground or whip their mittened hands

across the broad blue chests to restore circulation and drive the ache

and numbness away. Here and there are some who have turned their light

blue capes up over their heads, and take no part in the low-toned chat.

Leaning on their muskets, they let their thoughts go wandering far

away, for all men know that bloody work is coming. The engineers are

hammering at their bulky pontoons now, and down at the water's edge the

clumsy boats are moored, waiting for chess and balk carriers to be told

off, and the crews to man the heavy sweeps. Up on the heights to the

rear, planted thickly on every knoll and ridge, are the black-mouthed

guns, and around them are grouped the squads of ghostly, grisly,

fog-dripping cannoneers. One may walk along that line of heights for

mile after mile, and find there only grim ranges of batteries and

waiting groups of men. All is silence; all is alertness; all is fog.

Back of the lines of unlimbered cannon, sheltered as far as possible

from returning fire, the drivers and horses and the heavy-laden caissons

are shrouded in the mist-veil, and the staff officers, groping to and

fro, have to ask their way from battery to battery, or go yards beyond

their real objective point. Little fires are burning here and there, and

battery-lanterns are flickering in the gloom. Out on the face of the

stream, too, one can see from the northern shore weird, dancing lights,

like will-o'-the-wisps, go twinkling through the fog; and far across

the waters, from time to time, there is heard the sudden crack of rifle.

The Southern pickets are beginning to catch faint glimpses of those

lights, and are opening fire, for vigilant officers are there to

interpret every sound and sight, and with the first break of the wintry

dawn they grasp the meaning of the murmur that has come for hours from

the upper shore. "The Yanks are laying bridges" is the word that goes

from mouth to mouth, and long before the day is fairly opened the

nearing sounds and the will-o'-the-wisp lights out there in the fog tell

the shivering pickets that the foe is more than half-way across.

Daybreak brings strong forces into line along the southern bank, all

eyes straining through the fog. Out to the front the ping! ping! of the

rifles has become rapid and incessant, and by broad daylight all the

river bank and the walls of the buildings that command a view of it are

packed with gray riflemen ready for work the instant those bridge-heads

loom into view. When seven o'clock comes, and the fog thins just a

little, there are the bridge-ends, sure enough, poking drearily into

space, but the only signs of the builders are the motionless forms in

blue that are stretched here and there about the boats or planks, only

faintly visible through the mist; the working parties have been forced

to give it up. Back they come, what is left of them, and tell their tale

among the sympathizing blue overcoats in the wearying ranks, and

officers ride away up the slopes, and there are moments of suspense and

question, and then the thud of sponge-staff and rammer among the

batteries, and a sudden flash and roar, tearing the mists asunder;

another, another; and then, up and down along the line of heights, the

order goes, and gun after gun belches forth its charge of shot and

shell, and back from the walls of Fredericksburg comes the direful echo

and the crash of falling roof or gable. "Depress those muzzles!" is the

growling order. "The whole bank is alive with rebs, and we must shell

'em out before those bridges can be finished." The elevating screws are

spun in their beds, the shell fuzes cut down to the very edge. Some guns

are so near the river that they are rammed with grape and canister; and

so, for an hour, the thundering cannonade goes on, and the infantry

crouch below, and swear and shiver, and once in a while set up a cheer

when occasion seems to warrant it. And then, covered by this furious

fog-bombardment, the engineers again push forward their

bridge-builders, and cram their pontoons, and launch them forth upon the

stream. It is all useless. No sooner do they reach the bridge-end when

down they go by the dozens before the hot fire of a thousand Southern

rifles. So dense is the fog that the gunners cannot aim. Shot, shell,

and canister go shrieking through roof and wall, and ripping up streets

and crossings; but the plucky riflemen hug the shore in stern

determination, and again the bridges are abandoned.

And so a cold and cheerless morning ebbs away; and at last, towards

noon, there comes relief. The sun bursts through the clouds, and licks

up the fog-bank. The mist-veil is withdrawn, and there stands

Fredericksburg, with shattered roof and spire, backed by a long line of

gun-bristling heights, and there are the unfinished bridges jutting

helplessly out two thirds across the water. A number of the heavy

pontoons are still moored close to shore, and while all along under the

bank the regiments are ranging into battle order, two or three of them

are tumbling into those clumsy arks, cramming them with armed men, and

then pushing off into the stream. Failing in working across a narrow

causeway, the "Yanks" are taking to their boats and sending over a

flotilla. It is a daring, desperate feat, but it tells. Despite the

fierce resistance, despite the heavy loss that befalls them, animated by

the cheers of their comrades, they push ahead, answering the fire as

well as they can, and at last, one after another, the boats are grounded

on the southern shore, and, though sadly diminished in numbers, the men

leap forth and go swarming up the bank, driving the gray pickets to

cover. Others hurry across and reinforce them; then more and more, until

they are strong enough to seize the nearest buildings and hold the

approaches, and then the working parties leap forward; the bridge is

finished with a will, and the comrades of their brigade come tramping

cheerily across. Three splendid regiments are they which made that

daring venture, mere companies in numbers as compared with their early

strength, and one of them is the--th Massachusetts, now led by a

captain. Colonel Putnam stands at his side at this moment of triumph and

partial rest. He commands the brigade that has done this brilliant work,

and now is receiving the thanks sent over from corps headquarters; and

the mounted officer, the first one across the bridge, who bears the

general's congratulations, is his young chief-of-staff, Major Abbot.

There has been fierce fighting through the streets, stubborn resistance

on part of the occupants of the town, and determined effort on part of

the thronging force of Union men who are constantly gaining accessions

as the brigades come marching over. Just at sunset, with the town fully

in their possession, there is sudden turmoil and excitement among the

blue-coats gathered around an old brick building near the western edge.

There is rushing to and fro; then savage exclamations, shouts of "Kill

him!" "Hang him!" "Run him down to the creek and duck him!" and the

brigade commander, with Major Abbot and one or two other mounted

officers, has quite as much as he can do to rescue from the hands of an

infuriated horde of soldiers a bruised, battered, slouching hulk of a

man in a dingy Confederate uniform. He implores their protection, and it

is only when they see the piteous, haggard, upturned face, and hear the

wail of his voice, that Putnam and Abbot recognize the deserter, Rix.

Abbot is off his horse and by his side in an instant. Sternly ordering

back the men who had grappled and were dragging him, the major holds

Rix by the coat-collar and gazes at him in silent amaze.

"In God's name, how came you here, and in this garb?" he finally asks.

Weak with sickness, suffering, and the horrible fright he has undergone,

the bully of former days simply shudders and cringes now. He crouches at

Abbot's feet, gazing fearfully around him at the circle of vengeful,

powder-blackened faces.

"Don't let them touch me, Mr. Abbot! Oh, for God's sake help me. I'm

'most dead, anyhow. I can't talk now. We're 'most starved, too, and

Mr. Hollins is dying."

"Hollins!" exclaims Abbot, almost losing his hold on the collar and

dropping the limp creature to earth. "What do you mean? where?"

"In there; in the bedroom up-stairs. Oh, major, don't leave me here;

these men will murder me!" he implores, clutching the skirts of Abbot's

heavy overcoat; but Colonel Putnam signals "Go on," and, leaving his

abject prisoner, Abbot hastens up the stairs of the old brick house, and

there, in a low-ceilinged room, stretched upon the bed, with wild,

wandering eyes and fevered lips, with features drawn and ghastly, lies

the man who has so bitterly sinned against him, and whom he has so

often longed to meet eye to eye--but not this way.

And it is an awful look of recognition that greets him, too. Shot

through and through as he is, tortured with thirst and suffering,

praying for help and longing for the sight of some friendly face, it

seems a retribution almost too cruel that, in his extreme hour, the man

sent by Heaven to minister to his needs should be the one he has so

foully wronged, the one of whom he lives in dread. He covers his eyes

with a gesture of dismay, and turns fearfully to the wall. There is a

moment of silence, broken only by the rattle of the window in its casing

as it shudders to the distant boom of the guns far down the line. Then

Abbot steps to the bedside and places his gauntleted hand upon the

shoulder of the stricken man.

"Hollins! How are you wounded? Have you seen a surgeon?"

No answer for a moment, and the question is gently repeated.

"Shot through the body--rifle-ball. There was a surgeon here last night,

but he's gone."

"Lie still then until I get one. I would bring Doctor Thorn, but he has

too much to do with--too much to do just now." He comes near saying

"with our own men," but checks himself in time. He cannot "kick the man

that is down" with such a speech as that, and it is not long before he

reappears, and brings with him a surgeon from one of the arriving

regiments. Colonel Putnam, too, comes up the stairs, but merely to take

a look at the situation, and place a guard over both the wounded man and

his strange, shivering companion, Rix. Some of the soldiers are sent for

water, and others start a fire in the little stove in the adjoining

room. The doctor makes his examination, and does what he can for his

sinking patient, but when he comes out he tells Abbot that Hollins has

not many hours to live, "and he wants to see you," he adds. "Did you

know him?"

There is a strange scene in the cramped little room of the quaint old

house that night. By the light of two or three commissary candles and

the flickering glare from the fire one can see the features of the

watchers and of the fast-dying man. Abbot sits by the bedside; Colonel

Putnam is standing at the foot, and the adjutant of the--th

Massachusetts has been reading aloud from his notes the statement he

has taken down from the lips of the former quartermaster. One part of it

needs verification from authority not now available. Mr. Hollins avers

that he is not a deserter to the enemy as appearances would indicate,

but a prisoner paroled by them.

The statement, so far as it bears upon his official connection with the

regiment, is about as follows:

"I had personal reasons for going back to the Monocacy--reasons that

could not be explained to the satisfaction of a commanding officer. I

_had_ to see Mr. Abbot to explain a wrong I had done him, and avert, if

possible, the consequences. I left without permission, and rode back,

but found all the roads picketed, and I was compelled to hide with a

farmer near Boonsboro' until Rix reached me. He had been my clerk, and

was an expert penman. He fixed the necessary papers for me, and, with

the aid of certain disguises I had, it was not so hard to get around. I

meant to resign, but feared that, if offered through the regular

channels, it would be refused, and I be brought to trial because of the

condition of my accounts. Then I found that I was too late to undo the

wrong I had done, and it was while trying to make partial amends that I

came so near being captured by Colonel Putnam at Frederick. It made me

desperate. That night I took the first horse I could find, and rode down

the valley, believing all was lost, and that I must get away from that

part of the country. Money found me a hiding-place when my papers would

no longer serve. Then money bribed a messenger to carry word of my

condition to Rix, who had been sent to the regiment at Harper's Ferry.

He got away and joined me, and made out some more papers for me, and

then started, by night and alone, to get home, where he said he had

money. Mine was about gone by that time, and here I lay in hiding until

Stuart came sweeping down the Monocacy on his way back to Virginia, and

I was glad to be captured and carried along. I gave him my proper name

and rank, and when Rix came back the army had left that part of the

country, and he followed me into Virginia. He said he would be shot,

anyway, if captured; and the next I heard of him--I being then a

prisoner in Richmond--was that he had enlisted in a Virginia regiment,

and was dying here in Fredericksburg. He had been devoted to me, and

needed me. I gave my parole, and was allowed to come here to nurse him.

He was recovering and able to be about when the bombardment opened, and

I was shot at the river bank, whither I had gone to bid him good-bye,

and was carried here. The rest that I have to say is for Major Abbot

alone to hear."

Putnam and the adjutant, after a few questions, withdraw; and at last,

with even the soldier nurse excluded, the dying man is alone with the

one officer of his regiment who had striven to befriend him, and whom he

has so basely rewarded.

"There is no time for lamenting or empty talk of forgiveness and

remorse. It is time you heard the truth, Abbot. I always envied you at

college. I envied every man who had birth or wealth or position. I had

some brains, but was poor, burdened with the care of a vagabond brother

who was well-nigh a jail-bird, and whose only talent was penmanship. He

would have been a forger then if it hadn't been for me. For me he

afterwards became one. You know who I mean now--Rix. Mr. Winthrop gave

me opportunities, and I worked. I had little money, though, but time and

again I was called to his house, saw his daughter, and I was ambitious.

When she went abroad I followed; was as discreetly attentive as my wit

could make me--and when I failed to make the impression I hoped, and we

returned, I learned the reason--she was engaged to you. It made me

determine that I would undermine it. You did not love her, nor she you.

It was a family match, and not one that would make either of you happy.

My life in the regiment was a hell, because they seemed to--seemed to

know me for what I was. And you simply tolerated me. It made a devil of

me, Abbot, and I vowed that proud girl should love me and turn from you

if I had to hang for the means that brought it about. I was

quartermaster at Edwards's Ferry, and Rix was the man who fetched and

carried the mails. 'Twas easy enough to abstract her letters or yours

from time to time, but the case needed something more than that. Neglect

would not rouse her; jealousy might. One day there came the picture of

those girls at Hastings (Abbot's hands begin to clinch; he has listened

coldly up to this point), and I saw the group that was sent to them, and

the pretty letter written by their secretary, Miss Warren. Then came her

letter saying she was Guthrie Warren's sister. I knew him well at

college, and an idea occurred to me. I took your picture, wrote a note,

and had Rix copy it, and sent it in your name. When the answer came Rix

and I were on the lookout for it, and got it, and wrote again and again.

I had matter enough to work on with my knowledge of Warren, and then his

death intensified the interest. I don't care to look in your face now,

Abbot, for I'm not a fearless man; nothing but a beaten, broken,

cowardly scoundrel; but I began trying on that sweet and innocent

country girl the arts against which your _fiance_ my highbred kinswoman,

had been proof; I was bound to punish _her_ pride. But I found my pretty

correspondent as shy, as maidenly and reserved, with all her sister-love

and pride, as the other was superior. It was game worth bringing down,

by Heaven! and I grew desperate. I was drinking then, and getting

snarled up in my accounts, and you had turned a cold shoulder on me; and

then came the campaign and Rix's break and more difficulties, and I was

at my wit's end to keep the letters from you; and just before Second

Bull Run came Miss Winthrop's letters challenging me to prove that you

did not care for her, and I sent her three of Miss Warren's letters.

But, worse than that, I had been wooing another in your name; and,

because she would not betray an undue interest, I became more engrossed;

became more warmly interested; and soon it was not for the sake of

showing your _fiance_ a love-letter from another woman, but to satisfy

the cravings of my own heart. I began more and more to strive to win

this dainty, innocent, pure-minded girl. Aye, sir, I was wooing over

your name; but 'twas _I_ who loved; yes, loved her, Abbot. _Now_, what

think you of me and what I suffered?"

He pauses a moment, choked and quivering. He motions with his hand to

the cup of stimulant the doctor has left him. Abbot coldly hands it to

him, and finds that he must raise him from the pillow before he can

swallow. He is stirred to his inmost soul with wrath and indignation

against this ruthless traitor, even when the fates have laid him low. It

is hard to touch him gently, but he steps to his side and does what he

can, bidding him use no exertion and be calm as possible. A few painful,

hurried breaths, and then Hollins goes on again.

"Though not once had she confessed her love, I felt I was gaining. She

sent me her photograph. It is here, on my breast; I have carried it day

and night." Abbot's muscles grew rigid again and his stern face sets

with a sterner look. "But I was in constant worry about my affairs and

the coming of those letters. Then when you were wounded and left behind

at South Mountain I felt that the crisis had come. I _had_ to get back

there. Something told me she would hasten to you. They came, and I had

the agony of seeing him--her father--returning from his visit to you;

Rix told me of it afterwards. Then I strove madly to see her; to tell

her the truth, though I knew she would only despise and spurn me. I

scrawled a note confessing my crime, but sending no name; gave it to the

woman to give to the doctor, and then tore myself away. I was the rebel

spy the colonel nearly caught, and from that time I have been a

fugitive; and now--a chance shot ends it all. Rix has been faithful to

me, poor devil, and I came here to do what I could for him. _Voila

tout!_ Abbot, don't let them shoot him. He isn't worth it. Give me more

of that brandy."

He lies back on the grimy pillow, breathing fast and painfully. Abbot

stands in silence a moment. Then his voice, stern and constrained, is

heard in question:

"Have you any messages, Hollins? Is there any way in which I can serve

you?"

"It seems tough--but the only friend I have to close my eyes is the man

I plotted against and nearly despoiled of his lady-love," mutters

Hollins. Either he is wandering a little bit or the brandy is potent

enough to blur his sense of the nearness of death. "I wanted to tell you

the truth--not that I look for forgiveness. I know your race well

enough. You'll see fair play, but love and hate are things you don't

change in much. I've no right to ask anything of you, but--who _is_

there? My God! I believe your wife that is to be was about the only

friend I had in the world--except Rix. He brought me back the letters,

and says she was so good to him. I hope he didn't ask her for money. He

swears he didn't, but he's such a liar! We both are, for that matter.

I'm glad, though, now, that my lies didn't hurt you. They didn't, did

they, Abbot? You're still engaged?"

"I--am engaged."

"Oh, well; if I only hadn't brought that damnable sorrow to that poor

child, and if I could only feel that they wouldn't shoot Rix, it

wouldn't be so bad--my going now. What _will_ they do with Rix?"

"He must stand trial for desertion, I fancy. The men nearly lynched him

as it was."

"I know, and you saved him. Isn't it all strange?" Here for over a year

we two have been plotting against you, and now, at the last, you're the

only friend we have. "Where is he?"

"Down below, under guard. You shall see him whenever you feel like it.

Is there any one else you want to see, Hollins?"

"Any one--any one? Ah, God! Yes, with a longing that burns. It is _her_

face. It is she--Bessie!" His hand steals feebly into his breast, and he

drags slowly forth a little packet of oiled silk. This he hugs close to

his fluttering heart, and his eyes seek those of the young soldier

standing there so strong, so self-reliant and erect. His glance seems

envious, even now, with the fast-approaching angel's death-seal dimming

their light, and the clammy dew gathering on his brow.

"It was your picture I sent her, just as you seem to stand there now. It

was I who won her, but she thinks I looked like you."

"Pardon me, Hollins," breaks in Abbot, with a voice that trembles

despite every effort at self-control, and trembles, too, through the

very coldness of the tone. "Colonel Putnam is not far off. There are

others whom you might like to see; and shall I send Rix to you?"

"No--not now--no use. Promise me this, Abbot. No matter where or how I'm

buried--never mind coffin, or the flag, or the volleys, or the prayers;

I don't deserve--They won't help me. _You_ see to it, will you, that

this is buried on my heart? It's her picture, and some letters.

Promise."

Abbot slowly bows his head.

"I promise, Hollins, if it will comfort you."

"If there were only some way--some way to tell her. I loved her so. She

might forgive when she knew how I died. You may see her, Abbot. Stop!

take these three letters; they're addressed to you, anyway. Take them to

her, by and by, and tell her, will you? but let the picture go with me."

The clutching fingers of one hand clasp about the slim envelope that

contains the little photograph; the fingers of the other hand are

plucking nervously at the blanket that is thrown over the dying man.

There is another moment of silence, and then Abbot again asks him if he

will have his brother brought to him. Hollins nods, and Abbot goes to

the door and whispers a few words to the orderly. When he returns a

feeble hand gropes its way towards him, and Hollins looks up

appealingly.

"I'm so much weaker. I'm going fast. Would you shake hands, Abbot? What!

Then you bear me no ill-will?"

"I do not, Hollins."

The clouding eyes seem to seek his wistfully, wonderingly.

"And yet--I wronged you so."

"Do not think of me. That--all came right."

"I know--I know. It is _her_ heart I may have broken--Bessie's. My God!

What could she have thought when he came back to her--after seeing you?"

"He told her her lover was dead. I made inquiries."

"Thank God for that! But all the same--she is sorrowing--suffering--and

it's all my doing. I believe I could die content, almost happy, if I

knew she had not--if I knew--I had not--brought her misery."

"Are you sure, Hollins?"

"Sure! Heaven, yes! Why, Abbot? Do you--do _you_ know?"

"She seems happy, Hollins. She is to be married in the spring; I don't

know just when."

[Illustration: "_Draws forth her precious picture and lays it at a

rival's feet._"]

There is another moment of intense silence in the little room. Outside

the muffled tramp of the night patrols and the gruff challenge of

sentries fall faintly on the ear. Within there is only the quick

breathing of the sinking man. There is a long, long look from the dying

eyes; a slow movement towards the well-nigh pulseless heart. Then comes

the sound of heavy feet upon the stair, and presently the uncouth form

of Rix is at the threshold, a piteous look in his haggard face. Abbot

raises a hand in warning, and glances quickly from the prisoner at the

door to the frame whence fast is ebbing the imprisoned soul. The hand

that had faintly clasped his is slowly creeping up to the broad and

brawny chest, so feeble now. Far across the rippling waters of the

Rappahannock the notes of a bugle, prolonged and distant, soft and

solemn, float upon the still night air. 'Tis the soldiers' signal

"Lights Out!"--the soldiers' rude yet never-forgotten lullaby. An

instant gleam as of recognition hovers in the glazing eyes. Then follow

a few faint gasps; then--one last gesture as the arm falls limp and

nerveless; but it draws forth her precious picture and lays it at a

rival's feet.