At dawn of the morning of the 21st of July, an officer in plain undress
was busily writing at a table in a plainly-furnished apartment of a
farm-house near Manassas. He was of middle age and medium size, with
dark complexion, bold, prominent features, and steady, piercing black
eyes. His manner and the respectful demeanor of several officers in
attendance, rather than any insignia of office which he wore, bespoke
him of high rank; and the earnest attention which he bestowed upon his
labor, together with the numerous orders, written and verbal, which he
delivered at intervals to members of his staff, denoted that an affair
of importance was in hand. Several horses, ready caparisoned, were held
by orderlies at the door-way, and each aid, as he received instructions,
mounted and dashed away at a gallop.
The building was upon a slight elevation of land, and along the plain
beneath could be seen the long rows of tents and the curling smoke of
camp-fires; while the hum of many voices in the distance, with here and
there a bugle-blast and the spirit-stirring roll of drums, denoted the
site of the Confederate army. The reveille had just sounded, and the din
of active preparation could be heard throughout the camp. Regiments were
forming, and troops of horse were marshalling in squadron, while others
were galloping here and there; while, through the ringing of sabres and
the strains of marshal music, the low rumbling of the heavy-wheeled
artillery was the most ominous sound.
An orderly entered the apartment where General Beauregard was writing,
and spoke with one of the members of the staff in waiting.
"What is it, colonel?" asked the general, looking up.
"An officer from the outposts, with two prisoners, general." And he
added something in a lower tone.
"Very opportune," said Beauregard. "Let them come in."
The orderly withdrew and reentered with Captain Weems, followed by
Philip Searle and Rawbon. A glance of recognition passed between the
latter and Beauregard, and Seth, obeying a gesture of the general,
advanced and placed a small package on the table. The general opened it
hastily and glanced over its contents.
"As I thought," he muttered. "You are sure as to the disposition of the
advance?"
"Quite sure of the main features."
"When did you get in?"
"Only an hour ago. Their vanguard was close behind. Before noon, I think
they will be upon you in three columns from the different roads."
"Very well, you may go now. Come to me in half an hour. I shall have
work for you. Who is that with you?"
"Captain Searle."
"Of whom we spoke?"
"The same."
The general nodded, and Seth left the apartment. Beauregard for a second
scanned Philip's countenance with a searching glance.
"Approach, sir, if you please. We have little time for words. Have you
information to impart?"
"Nothing beyond what I think you know already. You may expect at every
moment to hear the boom of McDowell's guns."
"On the right?"
"I think the movement will be on your left. Richardson remains on the
southern road, in reserve. Tyler commands the centre. Carlisle, Bicket
and Ayre will give you trouble there with their batteries. Hunter and
Heintzelman, with fourteen thousand, will act upon your left."
"Then we are wrong, Taylor," said Beauregard, turning to an officer at
his side; and rising, the two conversed for a moment in low but earnest
tone.
"It is plausible," said Beauregard, at length. "Taylor, ride down to Bee
and see about it. Captain Searle, you will report yourself to Colonel
Hampton at once. He will have orders for you. Captain Weems, you will
please see him provided for. Come, gentlemen, to the field!"
The general and his staff were soon mounted and riding rapidly toward
the masses and long lines of troops that were marshalling on the plain
below.
Beverly stood at the doorway alone with Philip Searle. He was grave and
sad, although the bustle and preparation of an expected battle lent a
lustre to his eye. To his companion he was stern and distant, and they
both walked onward for some moments without a word. At a short distance
from the building, they came upon a black groom holding two saddled
horses.
"Mount, sir, if you please," said Beverly, and they rode forward at a
rapid pace. Philip was somewhat surprised to observe that their course
lay away from the camp, and in fact the sounds of military life were
lessening as they went on. They passed the brow of the hill and
descended by a bridle-path into a little valley, thick with shrubbery
and trees. At the gateway of a pleasant looking cottage Beverly drew
rein.
"I must ask you to enter here," he said, dismounting. "Within a few
hours we shall both be, probably, in the ranks of battle; but first I
have a duty to perform."
They entered the cottage, within which all was hushed and still; the
sounds of an active household were not heard. They ascended the little
stair, and Beverly pushed gently open the door of an apartment and
motioned to Philip to enter. He paused at first, for as he stood on the
threshold a low sob reached his ear.
"Pass in," said Beverly, in a grave, stern tone. "I have promised that I
would bring you, else, be assured, I would not linger in your presence."
They entered. It was a small, pleasant room, and through the lattice
interwoven with woodbine the rising sun looked in like a friendly
visitor. Upon a bed was stretched the form of a young girl, sleeping or
dead, it would be hard to tell, the features were so placid and
beautiful in repose. One ray of sunlight fell among the tangles of her
golden hair, and glowed like a halo above the marble-white brow. The
long dark lashes rested upon her cheek with a delicate contrast like
that of the velvety moss when it peeps from the new-fallen snow. Her
hands were folded upon her bosom above the white coverlet; they clasped
a lily, that seemed as if sculptured upon a churchyard stone, so white
was the flower, so white the bosom that it pressed. One step nearer
revealed that she was dead; earthly sleep was never so calm and
beautiful. By the bedside Oriana Weems was seated, weeping silently.
She arose when her brother entered, and went to him, putting her hands
about his neck. Beverly tenderly circled his arm about her waist, and
they stood together at the bedside, gazing on all that death had left
upon earth of their young cousin, Miranda.
"She died this morning very soon after you left," said Oriana, "without
pain and I think without sorrow, for she wore that same sweet smile that
you see now frozen upon her lips. Oh, Beverly, I am sorry you brought
_him_ here!" she added, in a lower tone, glancing with a shudder at
Philip Searle, who stood looking with a frown out at the lattice, and
stopping the sunbeam from coming into the room. "It seems," she
continued, "as if his presence brought a curse that would drag upon the
angels' wings that are bearing her to heaven. Though, thank God, she is
beyond his power to harm her now!" and she knelt beside the pillow and
pressed her lips upon the cold, white brow.
"She wished to see him, Oriana, before she died," said Beverly, "and I
promised to bring him; and yet I am glad she passed away before his
coming, for I am sure he could bring no peace with him for the dying,
and his presence now is but an insult to the dead."
When he had spoken, there was silence for a while, which was broken by
the sudden boom of a distant cannon. They all started at the sound, for
it awakened them from mournful memories, to yet perhaps more solemn
thoughts of what was to come before that bright sun should rise upon the
morrow. Beverly turned slowly to where Philip stood, and pointed sternly
at the death-bed.
"You have seen enough, if you have dared to look at all," he said. "I
have not the power, nor the will, to punish. A soldier's death to-day is
what you can best pray for, that you may not live to think of this
hereafter. She sent for you to forgive you, but died and you are
unforgiven. Bad as you are, I pity you that you must go to battle
haunted by the remembrance of this murder that you have done."
Philip half turned with an angry curl upon his lip, as if prepared for
some harsh answer; but he saw the white thin face and folded hands, and
left the room without a word.
"Farewell! dear sister," said Beverly, clasping the weeping girl in his
arms. "I have already overstaid the hour, and must spur hard to be at my
post in time. God bless you! it may be I shall never see you again; if
so, I leave you to God and my country. But I trust all will be well."
"Oh, Beverly! come back to me, my brother; I am alone in the world
without you. I would not have you swerve from your duty, although death
came with it; but yet, remember that I am alone without you, and be not
rash or reckless. I will watch and pray for you beside this death-bed,
Beverly, while you are fighting, and may God be with you."
Beverly summoned an old negress to the room, and consigned his sister to
her care. Descending the stairs rapidly, he leaped upon his horse, and
waving his hand to Philip, who was already mounted, they plunged along
the valley, and ascending the crest of the hill, beheld, while they
still spurred on, the vast army in motion before them, while far off in
the vanward, from time to time, the dull, heavy booming of artillery
told that the work was already begun.