"Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss,
But cheerly seek how to redress their harms."
--SHAKESPEARE.
When I awoke in Dr. Khayme's tent toward four o'clock of the afternoon
of July 22, I felt that my mind was clear; I had slept dreamlessly.
On the cover of my bed an envelope was lying--a telegram. I hastily tore
it open, and read: "Dr. Khayme tells me you are safe. Continue to do
your duty." My heart swelled,
I rose, and dressed, and went out. The Doctor was standing under a tree,
near a fire; a negro was cooking at the fire. Under an awning, or fly,
beneath which a small eating table was dressed, a woman was sitting in a
chair, reading. I thought I had seen her before, and looking more
closely I recognized the woman who had given the Doctor a cup of coffee
on Pennsylvania Avenue.
The Doctor stepped forward to meet me, "Ah, I see you have rested well,"
said he; then, "Lydia, here is Mr. Berwick."
I was becoming accustomed to surprises from the Doctor, so that I was
not greatly astonished, although I had received no intimation of the
young lady's identity. The feeling that was uppermost was shame that I
had not even, once thought of asking the Doctor about her.
"I should, never have recognized you," I said. She replied with, a
smile, and the Doctor relieved the situation by cheerfully crying out
"Dinner!" and leading the way to the table.
"Now, Jones," said the Doctor, "you are expected to eat; you have had
nothing since yesterday afternoon, when you choked yourself while
bandaging--"
"What do you know about that?" I asked.
"You talked about it in your sleep last night on the road. As for Lydia
and me, we have had our breakfast and our luncheon, and you must not
expect us to eat like a starving fantassin. Fall to, my boy. I know that
you have eaten nothing to-day."
There were fruit, bread and butter, lettuce, rice, and coffee. I did not
wonder at the absence of meat; I remembered some of the talks of my
friend. The Doctor and his daughter seemed to eat merely for the purpose
of keeping me in countenance.
"Lydia, would you have known Mr. Berwick?"
"Why, of course, Father; I should have known him anywhere; it is not
four years since we saw him."
These four years had made a great change in Miss Khayme. I had left her
a girl in the awkward period of a girl's life; now she was a woman of
fine presence, wholesome, good to look at. She did not resemble her
father, except perhaps in a certain intellectual cast of feature. Her
dark wavy tresses were in contrast with his straight black hair; her
eyes were not his; her stature was greater than his. Yet there were
points of resemblance. Her manner was certainly very like the Doctor's,
and many times a fleeting expression was identical with, the Doctor's
habitually perfect repose.
She must have been clad very simply; at any rate, I cannot remember
anything of her dress. I only know that it was unpretentious
and charming.
Her eyes were of that shade of gray which is supposed to indicate great
intelligence; her complexion was between dark and fair, and betokened
health. Her face was oval; her mouth a little large perhaps. She had an
air of seriousness--her only striking peculiarity. One might have
charged her with masculinity, but in this respect only: she was far
above the average woman in dignity of manner and in consciousness of
attainment. She could talk seriously of men and things.
I was wishing to say something pleasant to Miss Lydia, but could only
manage to tell her that she had changed wonderfully and that she had a
great advantage over me in that I was the same ungainly boy she had
known in Charleston.
She did not reply to this, covering her silence by making me my third
cup of coffee.
"Lydia," said the Doctor, "you must tell Mr. Berwick something about our
life in the East. You know how I dislike to speak three sentences."
"With great pleasure, Father; Mr. Berwick will find that I can speak
four."
"Not now, my dear. I warn you, Jones, that I shall watch over you very
carefully while you are with us. I am responsible to the hospital
surgeon for your health, and I cannot be a party to your extinction."
"How many sentences did you speak then, Father?"
"It depends on how you punctuate," he replied.
"Mr. Berwick," said Lydia, "Father pretends that he is not talkative,
but don't you believe him. He can easily talk you to sleep."
The Doctor was almost gay, that is, for the Doctor. His eyes shone. He
did not cease to look at me, except when he looked at Lydia. For the
time, Lydia had a severer countenance than her father's. I ate. I
thanked my stars for the conversation that was covering my ignoble
performance.
"Doctor," I asked, pausing for breath, "is there any news of Willis?"
"Willis is doing well enough. The ball has been extracted; it was only a
buck-shot, as you rightly surmised."
"How do you know what I surmised, Doctor?"
"Willis told the surgeon of your supposition, giving you full credit
for the origin of it. By the way, that was a famous bandage you
gave him."
"Was it the correct practice?"
"Well, I can hardly go as far as to say it was scientific, but under the
circumstances we must pardon you."
"How long will the sergeant be down?"
"From three to six weeks, I think, according to the weather and his
state of mind."
"What's the matter with his mind?"
"Impatience," said the Doctor; "the evil of the whole Western world."
I had finished eating. The Doctor got his pipe: the idol's head was the
same old idol's head. Lydia disappeared into one of the tents.
"Jones," said Dr. Khayme, "I have been thinking that yesterday will
prove to be the crisis of the war."
"You alarm me more than ever; do you mean to say that the South will
win?"
"My words do not imply that belief; but what does it matter which side
shall win?"
"Doctor, you are a strange man!"
"I have been told so very frequently; but that is not to the point. I
ask what difference it would make whether the North or South
should succeed."
"Then why go to war? Why not let the South, secede peaceably? What are
we doing here?"
"Indeed, Jones, you may well ask such questions. War is always wrong;
going to war is necessarily a phase of a shortsighted policy; every
wrong act is, of course, an unwise act."
"Even when war is forced upon us?"
"War cannot be forced upon you; it takes two nations to make war; if one
refuses, the other cannot make war."
"I have known, for a long time, Doctor, that you are opposed to war on
the whole; but what was left for the North to do? Acknowledge the right
of secession? Submit to insult? Submit to the loss of all Federal
property in the Southern States? Tamely endure without resentment the
attack on Sumter?"
"Yes, endure everything rather than commit a worse crime than that you
resist."
Here Lydia, reappeared, charming in a simple white dress without
ornament. "Good-by, Father," she said; "Mr. Berwick, I must bid you
good night."
"Yes, you are on duty to-night," said her father. "Jones, you must know
that Lydia is a volunteer also; she attaches herself to the Commission,
and insists on serving the sick and wounded. She is on duty to-night at
the College Hospital. I think she will have her hands full."
"Why, you will see Willis; will you be in his ward?" I asked, looking my
admiration.
"I don't know that I am in his ward," she replied, "but I can easily see
him if you wish."
"Then please be so good as to tell him that I shall come to see
him--to-morrow, if possible."
Lydia started off down the hill.
"She will find a buggy at our stable-camp," said Dr. Khayme; "it is but
a short distance down there."
The Doctor smoked. I thought of many things. His view of war was not
new, by any means; of course, in the abstract he was right: war is
wrong, and that which is wrong is unwise; but how to prevent war? A
nation that will not preserve itself, how can it exist? I could not
doubt that secession is destruction. If the Union should now or ever see
itself broken up, then farewell to American liberties; farewell to the
hopes of peoples against despotism. To refuse war, to tamely allow the
South to withdraw and set up a government of her own, would be but the
beginning of the end; at the first grievance California, Massachusetts,
any State, could and would become independent. No; war must come; the
Union must be preserved; the nation was at the forks of the road; for
my part, I could not hesitate; we must take one road or the other; war
was forced upon us. But why reason thus, as though we still had choice?
War already exists; we must make the best of it; we are down to-day, but
Bull Run is not the whole of the war; one field is lost, but all is
not lost.
"Doctor," I asked, "why do you say that yesterday will prove to be the
crisis of the war?"
"Because," he answered, "yesterday's lesson was well taught and will be
well learned; it was a rude lesson, but it will prove a wholesome one.
Your government now knows the enormous work it has to do. We shall now
see preparation commensurate with the greatness of the work. Three
months' volunteers are already a thing of the past. This war might have
been avoided; all war might be avoided; but this war has not been
avoided; America will be at war for years to come."