"I thought so," said he; "now, just remember that all the other
positions in the manual are unchanged. It is only the _shoulder_, or
_carry_, as we sometimes call it, that has been changed. You will like
the new drill."
He began to put me through the exercises, and although I had difficulty,
yet I had some success.
"Now report to Sergeant Wilson again," said the Captain.
I told the sergeant that I thought I could now do better; that I had
been confused by the light infantry _carry_, never having seen drill
except from the heavy infantry _shoulder_. Wilson kept me at work for
almost an hour, and expressed satisfaction with my progress. Under his
training I was soon able to drill with the company.
Louis Bellot asked me, one night, if I should not like to see Richmond.
He had got permission to go into town on the next day. The Captain
readily granted me leave of absence for twenty-four hours, and Bellot
and I spent the day in rambling over the town. We saw the State House,
and the Confederate Congress in session, and wandered down to the river
and took a long look at the Libby Prison.
The First had been in bivouac behind the main lines of Lee's left, but
now the regiment took position in the front, the lines having been
extended still farther to the left. A battery at our right--some
distance away--would throw a few shells over at the Yankees, and their
guns would reply; beyond this almost daily artillery practice, nothing
unusual occurred.
One morning, about ten o'clock, Captain Haskell ordered me to get my
arms and follow him. He at once set out toward the front, Corporal
Veitch being with him. The Captain was unarmed, except for his sword. He
led us through our pickets and straight on toward the river. The slope
of the hill was covered with sedge, and there were clumps of pine bushes
which hid us from any casual view from either flank; and as for the
river swamp in our front, unless a man had been on its hither edge, we
were perfectly screened. I observed that, as we approached the swamp,
the Captain advanced more stealthily, keeping in the thickest and
tallest of the bushes. Veitch and I followed in his footsteps, bending
over and slipping along from bush to bush in imitation of our leader.
The river bottom, which we reached very shortly, was covered with a
dense forest of large trees and undergrowth. Soon we came to water, into
which the Captain waded at once, Veitch behind him and I following
Veitch. Captain Haskell had not said a word to me concerning the purpose
of our movements, nor do I now know what he intended, if it was not
merely to learn the position of the Yankee pickets.
We went on, the water at last reaching to my waist. Now the Captain
signalled us to stop. He went forward some ten yards and stood behind a
tree. He looked long in his front, bending his body this way and that;
then he beckoned to us to come. The undergrowth here was less thick, the
trees larger. I could see nothing, in any direction, except trees and
muddy water. The Captain went on again for a few paces, and stopped with
a jerk. After a little he beckoned to us again. Veitch and I waded
slowly on. Before we reached Captain Haskell, he motioned to us to get
behind trees.
From my tree I looked out, first in one direction and then in another.
There was nothing--nothing except water and woods. But the Captain was
still peering from behind his tree, and I could now see that his whole
attention was fixed on something. Veitch, also, at my right, was silent
and alert and rigid, so that I felt, rather than saw, that there was
something in front of us, and I kept my eyes intent upon a narrow aisle
just beyond me. All at once a man in dark-blue dress passed across the
opening; I knew instantly that he was a Yankee, although I had never
seen one in my life, and instinctively felt the hammer of my rifle, but
he was gone. Now, looking more closely, I could see glimpses of other
blue men behind trees or in the bushes; I saw three of them. They were
about sixty yards from us; I supposed they were part of their
picket-line. I had a peculiar itching to take aim at one of them, and
consulted the Captain with my eyes, but he frowned.
Doubtless, they had not seen us. They were on the farther side of the
Chickahominy, with a flowing stream and a wide pool stretching in their
front, and were not very watchful. We remained stiff in our places for
four or five minutes; then the Captain moved slowly backward and gave us
a sign to follow.
This little adventure gave me great pleasure, inasmuch as it made me
feel that the Captain was favourable to me.
* * * * *
On the evening of the 25th of June we were ordered to cook three days'
rations. The pronunciation of this word puzzled me no little. Everybody
said rash-ons, while I, though I had never before had occasion to use
the word, had thought of it as rãtions. I think I called it rãtions once
or twice before I got straight. I remembered Dr. Frost's advice to hold
fast any slightest clew, and felt that possibly this word might, in the
future, prove a beginning.
The troops knew that the order meant a march, perhaps a battle. For a
day or two past an indefinite rumour of some movement on the part of
Jackson's command had circulated among the men. Nobody seemed to know
where Jackson was; this, in itself, probably gave occasion for the talk.
From what I could hear, it seemed to be thought generally that Jackson
was marching on Washington, but some of the most serious of the men
believed exactly the contrary; they believed that Jackson was very near
to Lee's army.
The night of the 25th was exceedingly warm. After all was ready for the
march, I lay on my blanket and tried vainly to sleep. Joe Bellot was
lying not more than three feet from me, and I knew that he, too, was
awake, though he did not speak or move. Busy, and sometimes confused,
thoughts went through my mind. I doubted not that I should soon see
actual war, and I was far from certain that I could stand it. I had
never fired a shot at a man; no man had ever fired at me. I fully
appreciated the fact of the difference between other men and me;
perhaps I exaggerated my peculiarity. I had heard and had read that most
men in battle are able from motives of pride to do their duty; but I was
certainly not like most men. I was greatly troubled. The other men had
homes to fight for, and that they would fight well I did not doubt at
all; but I was called on to fight for an idea alone--for the abstraction
called State rights. Yet I, too, surely had a home in an unknown
somewhere, and these men were fighting for my home as well as theirs; if
I could not fight for a home of my own, I could fight for the homes of
my friends. My home, too, was a Southern home, vague, it is true, but as
real as theirs, and Southern homes were in danger from the invaders. I
_must_ fight for Southern homes--for _my_ home; but could I stand up
with my comrades in the peril of battle? Few men are cowards, but was I
not one of a few? perhaps unique even?
Of pride I had enough--I knew that. I knew that if I could but retain my
presence of mind I could support a timid physical nature by the
resources of reason in favour of my dignity; but, then, what is courage
if it is not presence of mind in the midst of danger? If my mind fail, I
shall have no courage: this is to think in a circle. I felt that I
should prefer death to cowardice--the thought gave me momentary comfort.
But do not all cowards feel just that way before the trial comes? A
coward must be the most wretched of men--not a man, an outcast from men.
And then, to kill men--was that preferable to being killed? I doubted it
and--perhaps it is strange to say it--the doubt comforted me. To be
killed was no worse than to kill.
Then I thought of General Lee; what force could it be that sustained
_him_ at this moment? If not now, at least shortly, he would give orders
which must result in the death of thousands; it was enough to craze a
general. How could he, reputed so good, give such orders? Could any
success atone for so much disaster? What could be in the mind of General
Lee to make him consent to such sacrifice? It must be that he feels
forced; he cannot do it willingly. Would it not be preferable to give up
the contest--to yield everything, rather than plunge the people of two
nations into despair and horror over so many wasted lives? For so many
stricken homes? For widows, orphans, poverty, ruin? What is it that
sustains General Lee? It is, it must be, that he is a mere soldier and
simply obeys orders. Orders from whom? President Davis. Then President
Davis is responsible for all this? On him falls the burden? No. What
then? The country.
And what is this thing that we call the country? Land? People? What is
land? I have no land. I have no people, so far as I know. But, supposing
that I have people and land--what is the country for which we fight?
Will the enemy take our people, and take our land, if we do not beat
them back? Yes, they will reduce our people to subjection. I shall
become a dependant upon them. I shall be constrained in my liberties;
part of my labour will go to them against my will. My property, if I
have any, will be taken from me in some way--perhaps confiscated, if not
wholly, at least in a measure, by laws of the conquerors. I shall not
be free.
But am I now free? If we drive back the enemy, shall I be free? Yes, I
shall be free, rightly free, free to aid the country, and to got aid
from the country, I shall be part of the country and can enjoy my will,
because I will to be part of my country and to help build up her
greatness and sustain and improve her institutions.
Institutions? What is an institution? We say government is an
institution. What is a government? Is it a body of men? No. What is it,
then? Something formed by the people for their supposed good, a growth,
a development--a development of what? Is it material? No, it is moral;
it is _soul_--then I thought I could see what is meant by the country
and by her institutions. The country is the spirit of the nation--and it
is deathless. It is not doomed to subjection; take the land--enslave the
people--and yet will that spirit live and act and have a body. Let our
enemies prevail over our armies; let them destroy; yet shall all that is
good in our institution be preserved even by our enemies; for a true
idea is imperishable and nothing can decay but the false.
Then why fight? Because the true must always war against the false. The
false and the true are enemies. But why kill the body in order to
spread, or even to maintain, the truth? Will the truth be better or
stronger by that?
Perhaps--yet no. War is evil and not good, and it is only by good that
evil can be overcome. But if our enemies come upon us, must we not
fight? The country wishes peace. Our enemies bring war. Must we submit?
We cannot submit. Submission to disgrace is repugnant to the spirit of
the nation; death is better than submission. But killing, is it not
crime? Is crime better than submission? No; submission is better than
crime But is not submission also a crime? At least it is an infringement
of the law of the nation's spirit. Then crime must be opposed by crime?
To avoid the crime of submission we must commit the crime of killing? It
seems so--but why? But why? Ah! yes; I think I see; it is because the
spirit of the nation is not equal to the spirit of the world. The
world-idea forbids killing and forbids submission, and demands life and
freedom for all; the spirit of the nation is not so unselfish; the
spirit of the nation exalts so-called patriotism; the world-spirit
raises high the principle of philanthropy universal. The country has not
developed the world-idea, and will not, except feebly; but she will at
last, and will be loyal to the spirit of the world. Then, unless I am
sustained by a greater power, I cannot go contrary to the spirit of the
South. I must kill and must be killed.
But can I stand the day of battle? Have I not argued myself into a less
readiness to kill? Will these thoughts or fancies--coming to me I know
not whence, and bringing to me a mental disturbance incomprehensible and
unique--comfort me in the hour of danger? Will not my conscience force
me to be a coward? Yet cowardice is worse than death.
I could not sleep; I was farther from sleep than ever. I rose, and
walked through long lines of sleeping men--men who on the morrow might
be still more soundly sleeping.
Captain Haskell was standing alone, leaning against the parapet. I
approached. He spoke kindly, "Jones, you should be asleep."
"Captain," I said; "I have tried for hours to sleep, but cannot."
"Let us sit down," said he; "and we will talk it over by ourselves."
His tone was unofficial. The Captain, reserved in his conduct toward the
men, seldom spoke to one of them except concerning duties, yet he was
very sympathetic in personal matters, and in private talk was more
courteous and kind toward a private than toward an equal. I understood
well enough that it was through sympathy that he had invited me
to unburden.
"Captain," I said, "I fear."
"May I ask what it is that you fear?"
"I fear that I am a coward."
"Pardon me for doubting. Why should you suppose so?"
"I have never been tried, and I dread the test."
"But," said he; "you must have forgotten. You were in a close place when
you were hurt. No coward would have been where you were, if the truth
has been told."
"That was not I; I am now another man."
"Allow me again to ask what it is that you seem to dread."
"Proving a coward," I replied.
"You fear that you will fear?" said he.
"That is exactly it."
"Then, my friend, what you fear is not danger, but fear."
"I fear that danger will make me fear."
"I imagine, sir, that danger makes anybody fear--at least anybody who
has something more than the mere fearlessness of the brute that cannot
realize danger."
"Do you fear, too, Captain?"
The Captain hesitated, and I was abashed at my boldness. I knew that his
silence was rebuke.
"I will tell you how I feel, Jones, since you permit me to speak of
myself," he said at last; "I feel that life is valuable, and not to be
thrown away lightly. I want to live and not die; neither do I like the
thought of being maimed for life. Death and wounds are very distasteful
to me. I feel that my body is averse to exposing itself to pain; I fear
pain; I fear death, but I do not fear fear. I do not think the fear of
death is unmanly, for it is human. Those who do not fear death do not
love life. Please tell me if you love life."
"I do not know, Captain; I suppose I do."
"Do you fear death?"
"What I fear now is cowardice. I suppose that if I were indifferent to
death I should have no fear of being afraid."
"I am sure that you kept your presence of mind the other day, in the
swamp," said he.
"I don't think I had great fear."
"Yet you were in danger there."
"Very little, I think, Captain."
"No, sir; you were in danger. At any moment a bullet might have ended
your life."
"I did not realize the situation, then."
"Well, I must confess that you had the advantage of me, then," said he.
"What? You, Captain? You felt that you were in danger?"
"Yes, Jones; every moment I knew our danger."
"But you did not fear."
"May I ask if you do not regard fear as the feeling caused by a
knowledge of danger?"
"I know, Captain,--I don't know how I know it,--but I know that a man
may fear and yet do his duty; but there are other men, and I am afraid
that I am one of them, who fear and who fail in duty."
"I congratulate you, sir; I wish all our men would fear to fail in
duty," said he; "we should have an invincible army in such case. An army
consisting, without exception, of such men, could not be broken. It is
those who flee, those who fail in duty, that cause disorganization. The
touch of the elbow is good for the weak, I think, sir; but for the man
who will do his duty such dependence should not be taught. Good men,
instructed to depend on comrades will be demoralized when comrades
forsake them. Our method of battle ought to be changed. Our ranks should
be more open. Many reasons might be urged for that change, but the one
we are now considering is enough. The close line makes good men depend
on weak men; when the weak fail, the strong feel a loss which is not
really a loss but rather an advantage, if they could but see it so.
Every man in the army ought to be taught to do his whole duty regardless
of what others do. Those who cannot be so taught ought not to fight,
sir; there are other duties more suited to them."
"And I fear that my case is just such a one," I said.
"There is fear and fear," said he; "how would you like for me to test
you now?"
"To test me?"
"Yes; I can make you a proposition that will test your courage." His
voice had become stern.
I hesitated. What was he going to do? I could not imagine. But I felt
that to reject his offer would be to accept fully the position into
which my fears were working to thrust me.
"Do it, Captain," said I; "make it. I want to be relieved of this
suspense."
"No matter what danger you run? Is danger better than suspense
concerning danger?"
I reflected again. At last I brought up all my nerve and replied, "Yes,
Captain, danger is better than fear."
"Why did you hesitate? Was it through fear?"
"Yes," said I; "but not entirely through fear; I doubted that I had the
right to incur danger uselessly."
"And how did you settle that?"
"I settle that by trusting to you, Captain."
He laughed; then he said: "The test that I shall give you may depress
you, but I am sure that you are going to be as good a soldier as Company
H can boast of having. Lieutenant Rhett, only yesterday, remarked that
you were the best-drilled man in the company, and showed astonishment
that a raw recruit, in less than two weeks, should gain such a standing.
I thought it advisable to say to him that your education had included
some military training, and he was satisfied." The Captain had dropped
his official manner. "It is clear to me, Jones, that you are more nearly
a veteran than any of us. I know that you have been in danger and have
been wounded, and your uniform, which you were wearing then, showed
signs of the very hardest service. I have little doubt, sir, that you
have already seen battle more than once."
"But, Captain, all that may be true and yet do me no good at all. I am a
different man."
"Since you allow me to enter into your confidence,--which I
appreciate,--I beg to say that your fears are not unnatural; I think
every man in the company has them. And I dare say, as a friend, that you
feel fear more sensitively because you live in the subjective; you feel
thrown back on yourself. Confess that you are exclusive."
"I am forced to be so, Captain."
"The men would welcome your companionship, sir."
"Yes, sir; but it is as you say: I feel thrown back on myself."
"And I think--though, of course I would not pretend to say it
positively--that is why your fears are not unnatural, though peculiar; I
fancy that you heighten them by your self-concentration. The world and
objects in it divert other men, while your attention is upon your own
feelings. Pardon me for saying that you think of little except yourself.
This new old experience of battle and peril you apply without dilution
to your soul, and you wonder what the effect will be. The other men
think of other men, and of home, and of a thousand things. You will be
all right in battle. I predict that the excitement of battle will be
good for you, sir; it will force you out of yourself."
"I have tried lately to take more interest in the world of other men and
other things," I said.
"Yes; I was glad to see you playing marbles to-day. Shall I give you
that test?"
"Yes, sir; if you please."
"I think, however, that you have already given proof that you do not
need it," said he.
"How so, Captain?"
"Why, we've been talking here for ten minutes since I proposed to test
you, and you have shown no suspense whatever in regard to it. Have you
lost interest in it?"
"Not at all, Captain; I have only been waiting your good time."
"And therein you have shown fortitude, which may differ from courage,
but I do not think it does. I am confident you will at once reject my
proposition. I don't know that I ought to make it; but, having begun,
I'll finish. What I propose is this: I will assign you some special duty
that will keep you out of battle--such as guarding the baggage, or other
duty in the rear."