The headquarters of the Army of the Potomac on the morning of August 4,
1864, were at City Point near where the Appomattox meets the James. Here
the grim, silent man in whose hands lay the destinies of the United
States sent out the telegrams which kept the Federal forces gnawing at
the cage in which Lee had shut himself and meanwhile held to his
strategic position south of Richmond. To his left and west lay
Petersburg still unconquered, but Petersburg could wait, for Early's
gray clad troopers were scourging the Shenandoah and the menace must be
removed. To this end Grant had sent a telegram to Washington three days
before expressing in unmistakable terms what he wished General Sheridan
and his cavalry to accomplish. They were to go over into the Shenandoah
and, putting themselves _south_ of the enemy, follow him to the death.
To which telegram the tall, lank, furrow-faced man in the White House
whose kindly heart was bursting with the strain replied in
characteristic fashion and told him that his purpose was exactly right.
And then, with a gleam of humor, warned him against influences in
Washington which would prevent its carrying out unless he forced it.
This message had come but a few minutes before and it had been received
with silent satisfaction for Grant knew now that Abraham Lincoln and he
were in perfect accord as to the means for swiftly bringing on the end.
But the plans must be well laid and to that end he must leave City Point
within a few hours and go north. And so he was standing at a window of
his headquarters this morning with his eyes resting unseeingly on the
camp, while his cool, quiet mind steadily forged out his schemes.
Unlike the headquarters of "play" armies where all is noise and
confusion and bloodied orderlies throw themselves off of plunging horses
and gasp out their reports, the room in which General Grant did his work
was strangely quiet.
It was a large, square room with high ceiling and wall paper which had
defied all the arts of Europe to render interesting in design. Furniture
was neither plentiful nor comfortable--a slippery, black horse-hair
sofa, a few horse-hair chairs and, at one side of the room, a table and
a desk, littered with papers, maps and files. At the table Grant's
adjutant, Forbes, sat writing. Facing him was the door opening out into
the hallway of the house where two sentries stood on guard. In the
silence which pervaded the room and in the quiet application to the work
in hand there was a perfect reflection of the mind of him who stood
impassive at the window with his back turned, a faint blue cloud of
cigar smoke rising above his head.
A quick step sounded in the corridor--the step of one who bears a
message. An orderly appeared in the doorway, spoke to the two sentries
and was passed in with a salute to Forbes.
"For General Grant," he said, holding out a folded note of white paper.
"Personal from Lieutenant Harris, sir."
At the sound of his name the General turned slowly and accepted the
note which the orderly presented. He took it without haste and yet
without any perceptible loss of time or motion and, as always, without
unnecessary words. Scanning it, he shifted his cigar to one corner of
his mouth where its smoke would not rise into his eyes, thought for an
instant, then nodded shortly.
"I'll see him. At once."
Dismissed, the orderly saluted and passed quickly out. The General, with
his chin in his collar and his cigar held between his fingers at nearly
the same level, moved back to the window and stood there silently as
before. He knew what Lieutenant Harris would wish to speak to him about.
A few weeks before a Lieutenant-Colonel of cavalry had been
court-martialed on the charge of allowing the escape of a spy. The court
had found him guilty and its findings had been submitted to the higher
authorities and endorsed by them. A copy of these reports now lay on his
desk. All this his Adjutant, Forbes, knew as well as the General
himself, but if Forbes had thought it worth while to speculate on the
extent of his commander's interest he might have guessed for years
without ever drawing one logical conclusion from all the hints that that
impassive face and figure gave him.
Again a ringing step in the corridor and this time Lieutenant Harris
came into the room, his hand going up in salute. But his General was
still looking out of the window, his eyes on a dead level. There was a
silence and then--without turning around--
"Well, Lieutenant, what is it?"
"A short conference, General, if you'll grant it. The case of
Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison." It was hard work to talk to one who kept
his back turned and Harris was embarrassed.
The smoke from the General's cigar still curled lazily upwards.
"Reprieve?" came the monosyllabic question.
Harris caught himself together and put all his feelings.
"No, General. A _pardon_!"
At once Grant wheeled and stood gazing at him keenly.
"_Pardon?_" he said, and he advanced with deliberation to the desk where
he stood with his eyes steady on Harris' face. "Lieutenant! Do you want
me to think you are out of your mind?"
Before Harris could reply Grant stopped him with a gesture and picked up
a batch of papers which lay on the desk.
"The man has been given every chance. He has been court-martialed--and
found guilty."
He dropped the papers in the case back on the desk. "And you--his
counsel--having failed to prove him otherwise now come to _me_--for
pardon."
He snapped his fingers. "Lieutenant, you are wasting time." And he
turned away, pausing for a moment to turn over a sheaf here and there on
his desk and meditate their contents. The incident of Lieutenant-Colonel
Morrison has been disposed of and, in another moment would be forgotten.
It was now or never for Harris and he answered quickly.
"I hope not, sir. Neither yours nor mine." And then, as the General
looked up with some surprise at this retort. "You have read the
findings of the court?"
"Yes," was the grim reply. "And approve the sentence. To-morrow he will
be shot."
"Yes, sir," acknowledged Harris. "Unless _you_ intervene."
At this curiously insistent plea for clemency the short, stocky bearded
man who, to so few, had the bearing of a great general, faced Lieutenant
Harris and gave him a look which made the young officer's bravery falter
for a long moment.
"_I?_" said the General, with a searching note in his voice which seemed
to probe coldly and with deadly accuracy among the strenuous emotions in
the young man's mind. "Harris--you are an officer of promise. Don't cut
that promise short." With a flick of his ashes to one side he turned
away. The cigar went back into the corner of his sardonic mouth.
Harris strode forward an impulsive step and threw out his hands.
"It is worth the risk. When a man is condemned to die--"
The General wheeled with more impatience than the Adjutant, Forbes, had
seen him exhibit through many vexatious, worrying months. His voice took
on a rasping note. He tapped the papers on the desk with grim
significance.
"Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison has failed in his military duty. He
released a Rebel spy--proved himself a traitor to his cause."
"A traitor, General?" protested the young officer. "Do you call a man a
traitor who fought as Morrison did a week ago? Who stood his ground till
his whole command was shot to pieces! And then stood alone--defending
his colors in the face of hell let loose!"
The appeal was impassioned, its sincerity and humanity undoubted. Yet it
seemingly only served to make the grim rules of war more unyielding than
ever.
Choosing his words with more than ordinary care, and speaking them in
firm, even tones, the General made his reply.
"No act of bravery can atone for a soldier's lapse from duty." He sat
down at his desk and began to write.
Under ordinary circumstances Lieutenant Harris might have accepted
defeat for there seemed no use in trying to break down that iron will or
touch the heart of this relentless soldier. But this was something more
than an ordinary case and Harris was more than simply Morrison's
counsel--he was his friend. The two had fought together through three
hard campaigns; they had shared food and water and shelter, had slept
together for warmth on sodden fields, had exchanged such confidences as
two officers from the same town in the North but of unequal rank may
exchange under the pressure of war-time emotions. If there was one man
living who knew Morrison's heart and appreciated his motives to the
uttermost it was his lieutenant and the young officer was prepared to
lose his commission, aye, even face prison for insubordination if
continued opposition to the Commander-in-Chief would result in a
re-hearing. And so he caught himself together for the second time and
returned to the charge.
"I do not offer his courage as a plea for pardon," he said, and turned
to his general with half a smile, "but still I find in Shakespeare--and
in Blackstone--the suggestion of tempering justice with mercy."
Grant tossed aside his pencil, repeating the last word slowly, bitterly:
"_Mercy!_"
He rose from his seat and stood beside his table, speaking with a low
but almost fierce intensity:
"They call me a war machine! I am! And you--and all the rest--are parts
of it! A lever! A screw! A valve! A wheel! A machine half human--yes! A
thing of muscle and bone and blood--but without a heart! A merciless
_machine_, whose wheels must turn and turn till we grind out this
rebellion to the dust of peace!"
He paused impressively, and in the hard, cold words which followed, all
hope for Morrison seemed to fade and die.
"If a wheel once fails to do its work--discard it!--for another and a
better one! _We want no wheels that slip their cogs!_"
The General ceased and turned to his littered table; but Harris was not
yet beaten.
"No, General," he answered bravely, "but there happens to be a flaw ...
in your machine's control." The General looked up, frowning sharply; but
Harris still went on: "In a military court we have condemned a man to
die--_and the facts have not been proved!_"
Amazed more at the young officer's obstinate temerity than his words the
General stared at him.
"How so?" he asked, with irony.
Harris opened out his hands with a simple gesture that seemed to leave
his logic to the judgment of any impartial observer.
"In times of peace, my profession is that of the Law. I know my
ground--and," in rising tones of sincerity, "I challenge you to shake it
in any civil court in Christendom."
"Strong words, young man," came the stern reply. "For your sake, I hope
they are warranted. What is your point? Get at it!"
Harris drew a short breath of relief. He had cleverly switched the
appeal from grounds on which he stood no chance whatever to those where
he did not fear any intellect in a fair fight.
"The evidence," he said calmly, "was purely circumstantial. In the first
place, it is alleged that my client captured a Rebel spy, one Herbert
Cary, who was hiding in the loft of a cabin."
The General's caustic tones interrupted. "To which fact," he said,
"there were only _ten_ witnesses."
"Yes, General," was the faintly smiling agreement. "Ten! But not one of
them actually _saw_ the man! They _believe_ he was there, but they
cannot swear to it."
Grant made a motion as of putting away something of no consequence.
"Immaterial--in view of the other facts. Well--what else?"
"Next, it is claimed that Morrison released this spy and allowed him to
enter the Union lines--without regard to consequences."
The General gave a short exclamation of impatience, and struck the
papers on his desk with the flat of his hand.
"And that is _proved_," he said, sharply. "Proved by several officers
who stopped your spy at points along the road."
He singled out a soiled piece of paper from the sheaf before him and
held it up, a piece of paper which bore writing on both sides.
"When taken, _this pass_ was found on his person. Not circumstantial
evidence, but _fact_. Signed on one side by R.E. Lee and, on the other,
by Colonel Morrison." He laughed shortly over the futility of argument
under such circumstances. "Do you presume to contest this, _too_?"
To his amazement the young officer facing him bowed easily and smiled in
turn.
"I _do_. Emphatically. _No pass_ was given Herbert Cary either by
Colonel Morrison _or_ General Lee."
"_What?_" cried the General angrily.
Harris only pointed.
"Read it, sir--if you please." He watched till Grant's eyes started to
scan the pass again, and then repeated the words which he knew so well.
"Pass _Virginia Cary_ and escort through Federal--and Confederate
lines."
"'Virginia Cary,' General, is a non-combatant and a child. 'Escort' may
mean a single person--or it may mean a whole troop of cavalry."
To his infinite relief and joy his Commanding General looked up at him
thoughtfully, then slowly rose from his desk and took a turn about the
room, followed by a faint blue trail of cigar smoke. He paused.
"And what does _Cary_ say?" he asked.
Again Harris smiled the quiet smile of the lawyer who has been
confronted with such questions before and knows well how to answer them.
"He, too, is on trial for his life. His evidence, naturally, was not
admitted."
"Ah! Then what says _Morrison_?"
"Nothing, sir," was the young lieutenant's calm reply. "The burden of
proof lies with the prosecution--not with the defendant."
"And this is your contention--your _legal_ flaw in my machine?" the
General asked sharply.
"It is."
"Very good, sir--very good. In that case we'll call in these silent
partners and dig into this case until we reach rock bottom!"
"Forbes," he ordered. "Send for the prisoner, Mr. Morrison--and the
Rebel, Herbert Cary. I want both of them here--at once!"
In the pause which followed the Adjutant's exit Harris interposed an
objection.
"Your method, General, is hardly just to the interests of my client."
Grant turned on him with something mere than impatience. He was growing
angry.
"Lieutenant Harris! Are you asking me to pardon a guilty man? It's the
truth I want--not legal technicalities. Next you'll be asking me not to
hang this Rebel spy because he has--a baby!"
He went back to his accustomed place at the window and stood looking out
again, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, the eternal cigar
smoke rising above his head. Then, to the young lieutenant's amazement,
he asked a question in tones of ordinary conversation.
"Harris," he said. "Who was the man who preferred these charges to start
with?"
"Corporal Dudley," was the eager answer.
"And there, General, is another point and a vital one that was not
brought out. In reporting his Colonel, Dudley was actuated not by a
spirit of military duty, but personal revenge."
"Revenge? Why?"
"Because Morrison shot and killed Dudley's brother--a Sergeant in his
command."
The General came back from his window.
"Again--why?"
"For insubordination--incendiarism--attempted desertion," came the swift
reply.
The General's eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch. He seated himself
at his desk and unrolled a map.
"Any witnesses of the Sergeant's death?" he asked evenly as he proceeded
to study his map.
"Unfortunately, only one," Harris replied. "An old negro--now in our
camp--answering to the name of William Lewis."
"Lewis--Lewis," said Grant thoughtfully. He referred for a moment to a
file of papers and then looked up. "Is that the old codger who's been
worrying my entire staff for permission to go through our lines to his
home?"
"Yes, General," said Harris, with a smile, for Unc' Billy's persistency
and his troubles were known to everyone he met.
"Good! It's about time we got even him," the General remarked
sardonically. "Have him in! See to it, Forbes." And again he bent over
his map.
Forbes, passing out again, paused as Harris gestured.
"You'll find him somewhere near the guard house," the Lieutenant said
with a flicker of a, smile. "The old man has been regularly camping out
there since he learned that his master was inside."
A minute passed and then, from a short distance away, came the sound of
a squad of soldiers marching. In single file, with the two prisoners in
line, the squad came into the hallway and stopped at the doorway.
"_Halt! Left face! Order arms! Prisoners file out!_" The two prisoners
stepped forward and entered the room.
Thanks to expert surgical work since he entered Union lines, Herbert
Cary's wounds had healed quickly while plenty of good food had done the
rest. His eyes may not have been bright with hope but at least they
were clear with health and his straight back and squared shoulders
showed that the man's fighting spirit had not left him even under the
adverse decision of a court-martial.
Of the two, Morrison seemed the graver and quieter. With his sword taken
from him and his shoulder straps ripped off the man who had been a
Lieutenant-Colonel in the Army of the Potomac only the day before stood
looking at his general without the slightest hope for clemency. Yet,
with all the sad, quiet look of resignation in his eyes, behind them
glowed a wonderful light--the light of self-sacrifice. For he had chosen
to put on the tender glove of humanity and grip hands with the mailed
gauntlet of war, and though he had been crushed yet even in this bitter
hour they could not take from him the knowledge that the Commander in
Chief of all spiritual armies would stand forever on his side. They
could take his sword and shoulder straps but they could not rob him of
that divine consolation.
And so the two stood with their eyes steady on the General--the
Confederate, hard and defiant--the Union officer with a strange, sad
glow on his face.
But the General paid them no attention. He was still studying the map
laid out before him on his desk, the cigar in the corner of his mouth
drawing one side of his face into harsh, deep lines. As a matter of
fact, Ulysses Simpson Grant was very far removed from harshness--he was
simply and solely efficiency personified. When nothing was to be said
General Grant said nothing. To do otherwise was waste.
Presently he looked up and saw that while Forbes had given the two
prisoners chairs directly in front of his desk one of the important
factors in the business in hand had not been produced.
"Well, Forbes, well? Where is the negro?" He asked crisply. "Bring him
in! Bring him in!"
"In a moment, General," responded the Adjutant, hastening to the doorway
as the tread of feet sounded again in the hallway. Dismissing the two
privates who had arrived with Uncle Billy between them he led the old
man down to the desk and left him there, bowing and scraping a little
and holding his hat in front of him in both hands.
"Wan' see _me_, suh?" ventured Uncle Billy, intruding delicately on the
General's calculations. "Here I is!"
General Grant looked up quickly and ran his eye over the old man.
"Your name!"
"Er--William Lewis, seh. Yas, seh."
"To whom do you belong?"
Although Uncle Billy's back was not particularly straight this sudden
question introduced a stiffening into it which made it more upright than
it had been in years.
"I b'longs to Cap'n Hubbert Cary, seh--of de Confed'it Army. Das who I
b'longs to. Yas, seh."
The General sat back a little in his chair and studied Uncle Billy. He
saw that after all the old negro was simply a natural slave--that he
probably had no other thought in his grayed head than that of faithful
service to his owner. But he would try him and see how far the old man
would go.
"I understand," he said, "that freedom has been offered you--and you
refused it. Is this true?"
"Yas, seh."
"_Why?_" asked the General quietly.
Uncle Billy stammered.
"Well--er--well, 'skuse me, Mars' Gen'l, but--but down whar _I_ lives at
de--de white gent'men understands a nigger better'n what you-all does.
Yas, seh."
General Grant may have smiled internally, but the only symptom of
amusement was the dry note in his voice.
"I see. But there has been some difference of opinion on the point."
He paused and then pointed past Uncle Billy directly at Morrison. "Do
you know that man?"
"Me?" said Uncle Billy. He turned and saw Morrison and instantly his
face lighted up. It made no difference to the old negro that Morrison's
uniform was mutilated--he could only see the familiar features of one
who had treated his dead mistress with perfect respect under trying
circumstances.
"Aw, yas, seh," he broke out, with a broad grin. "How you does, Cun'l. I
clar to--"
Uncle Billy stopped. His eyes had gone beyond Morrison to the man
sitting beside him and at the sight of that loved figure the old man
began to tremble. His voice lowered to a whisper and he began to totter
forward.
"Mars' Cary!" he said, as if he were looking on one risen from the dead.
He came a little nearer, with his hand stretched out as if to touch him
testingly--then suddenly dropped down on his knees before Gary who had
risen from his chair. "Bless Gawd, I done fin' you," he sobbed, his face
buried in his toaster's coat. "I done fin' you at last."
The General frowned.
"Forbes," he ordered. "Put a stop to that. Bring him back!"
But Uncle Billy paid not a bit of attention as the Adjutant sprang up.
All his thought was for his master and his own explanation.
"Dey wouldn' lemme git thru, seh!" he cried, pleading absolution from
what had seemed an inexcusable breach of trust. "Dey wouldn' gimme no
pass an' I'se des been stuck! Aw, Gawd, Mars' Cary--an' I axed 'em ev'y
day!"
"There now, Billy--don't," Cary said with a gesture of pity and unending
gratitude.
Uncle Billy rose slowly to his feet.
"Yas, seh. Yas, seh," he answered obediently. "'Skuse me, Mars' Gen'l. I
couldn' he'p it, seh. I--I couldn' he'p it. Dey wouldn' eben lemme see
him in de guard house--"
"That will do," interrupted the General firmly. "Listen to me. When did
you see Mr. Morrison--last?"
"Him?" said Uncle Billy, looking around at the Union officer.
"'Twas--'twas in de spring, seh. Yas, seh. De time de Yankees bu'nt us
out."
"How's that?" asked the General, not understanding.
Lieutenant Harris came forward a step.
"The act of incendiarism I spoke of, General--on the part of Sergeant
Dudley."
The General looked up and nodded.
"I see," he said, and Harris, knowing that due weight would be given the
fact let go a faint sigh of relief and stepped back.
The cigar came out of the General's mouth. "Tell me about it," he said
to Uncle Billy.
The old negro drew himself up and shifted his weight onto his other
foot.
"Well, seh, 'twas dis way. One mornin' de blue-bellies--'skuse me, seh,
de cav'lry gent'men. One mornin' de cav'lry gent'men come ridin' up,
lookin' fer horses an' fodder an'--an' Mars' Cary--an' anything else
what was layin' roun'. Yas, seh. An' des' befo' dis here gent'man come,"
with a bow at Morrison, "a low-lived white man took'n grab me by de
th'oat--an' choke me, seh. Den he 'sult Miss Hallie--"
"Miss Hallie?" queried the General.
"My mis'tiss, seh," answered Uncle Billy. "My mis'tiss, seh," he said
again and his hand went up to his eyes.
"The wife of Captain Cary," Harris said in a low tone and the General
nodded.
"Den--bless Gawd--de Cun'l come! He pick him down offn de front
po'ch--and put him under 'rest. Yas, seh. An' Miss Hallie, she sho' was
hoppin', Gen'l. She--"
"Never mind that," sighed the man whose creed was Patience. "Go on with
the story."
"Yas, seh. Thank'e, seh. 'Twas des lek I tell you, seh. An' arfter while
orders come to de cav'lry gent'men fer to light out fr'm dar in a hurry.
An' whilst dey was gettin' ready, seh, an' me an' de Cun'l was waitin'
roun' fer to proteck de property, de fire bus' right out de winders!
"Dat's right, Mars' Gen'l," Uncle Billy hurried to state, as the
General's eyebrows went up in surprise. "Dat's right. Den de front do'
flewed open, an' here come dat po' white trash rapscallion--wid de pine
knot in his han'. Yas, _seh_. He--"
"One moment!" snapped the General. "Was he running _towards_ his troop
or _away_ from it?"
"_Way_ fr'm it, seh," replied the old negro, with unmistakable
truthfulness, "t'odes de ice house whar Miss Hallie an' de chillun was
at. Yas, seh."
"And Mr. Morrison tried to stop him?"
"Ha!" cried Uncle Billy, with a chuckle. "He mo'n tried, seh. He _done_
it!"
The General nodded, his lips tight shut.
"So I understand. But what did he do--or say?"
At this question Uncle Billy suddenly developed dramatic abilities that
his master had never dreamed of.
"He say--" and Uncle Billy's arm shot out as he pointed something deadly
at an invisible foe--"he say, '_Halt! Dudley! Halt! Bang!_'"
Uncle Billy's hat dropped down on the floor with a whack. "Dat's all,
seh. Dat po' white trash--he drop lek a stuck pig, seh!"
The General's eyes were on his desk and for a moment there was a pause.
Finally, he lifted his head and looked at Morrison, who rose in salute.
"Mr. Morrison. You did well. Your Sergeant failed in his military
duty--and deserved the punishment. I commend your action."
Harris, listening with all his might, thought the words more favorable
than the tone in which they were spoken and his face brightened. Then he
heard the General speaking more sternly.
"The Federal powers of administrative justice now occupy precisely the
same position with regard to your own default."
Harris' face darkened. After the first just encomium--what was this that
was coming?
Relentless and inflexible the voice went on.
"The rules of war, as applied to a non-commissioned officer, must also
govern his superiors. As Sergeant Dudley deserved his bullet you merit
_yours_."
His eyes dropped from Morrison's face and he looked up at Harris.
"A bad witness for your client, Lieutenant," he said grimly, as he
nodded his head towards Uncle Billy. "You ought to study law! Take him
away," and he picked up a fresh cigar from a box in front of him and
tossed the old one out of the window.
Uncle Billy, with a puzzled look on his face, slowly yielded to the
touch of the two soldiers who stepped into the room at a gesture from
Forbes. He seemed to realize that his testimony had not been of much
avail though just why was indeed a mystery. One thing, however, was
quite clear.
"'Skuse me, Mars' Gen'l. I--I don't need dat ar pass home now. An' I
much obliged to you fer _not_ givin' it to me. Yas, seh. Thank'e, seh."
At the doorway he bowed with careful politeness to each occupant of the
fatal room. "Good mornin', Mars' Cary. Good mornin', gent'men. _Good_
mornin'."
With the disappearance of bewildered Uncle Billy the General swung
around on the officer who no longer wore his shoulder straps.
"Mr. Morrison," he said, in his distinct, even tones. "Your friend and
counsel, Lieutenant Harris, has applied to me for your pardon!"
"_Pardon?_" cried Morrison, springing to his feet with an exclamation of
amazement.
"Exactly," was the crisp response. "It comes from him--not from you. But
still, as an interested party, have you anything to say in your own
behalf?"
The Union officer stared at his general for a moment without replying.
Yes, there were many things that might be said--all of them honest
arguments in his own behalf, all of them weighted with Right and
Humanity but none of them worth putting into words in the face of this
deadly machine of war, this grim, austere, unyielding tribunal. He
wavered for a moment on his feet as a terrible wave of despair surged
over him, then made a faint gesture of negation.
"I have nothing to say, sir."
"Captain Cary!" ordered the General and, as Cary rose unsteadily to his
feet, "No. Keep your seat, sir; you are wounded. Is it true--as I learn
from this report--that during a skirmish a week ago you helped defend
the Union colors against your own people?"
Cary shot up from his chair with a fiery rush of anger.
"_I? No, sir!_ I defended the _man_--not the soldier, or his flag!"
"Ah!" ejaculated the General, leaning back in his chair and blowing out
a cloud of smoke in surprise. "You draw a rather fine distinction,
Captain. You saved the colors--_but you failed to save the man!_ You had
better have let him die--as an honorable soldier."
There was silence for a moment, and the General asked: "Is it true that
you were actuated by a debt of gratitude?"
"Yes," answered the Southerner, throwing back his head. "And a greater
debt than I can ever hope to pay. His mercy to--my little girl."
Without relaxing for a moment his grip on the points of the case, no
matter what human elements might be drawn into it, the General instantly
rose and shot out an accusing forefinger at the Confederate.
"And the pass he gave--_to you!_"
Their eyes clashed but the Southerner lowered his own not a whit and
backed them, furthermore, with honest anger.
"_To her!_" he answered, and drove the reply home with clenched jaws.
The General relaxed--and smiled.
"Another fine distinction," he said, resuming his seat. He knocked the
ashes from his cigar and presently looked up with another one of those
terribly vital questions which came so simply from his lips. "Did you
ever penetrate the Federal lines by means of a uniform--of blue?"
The Confederate drew back as he felt the assault on his rights as a
soldier.
"As to that, General Grant, there is--"
"Answer me!" came the sharp command. "'Yes' or 'No'!"
"One moment, General," interrupted Harris, with a lawyer's quick
objection. "If--"
"No interference, Harris," came the curt order. "Answer me, Captain.
'Yes' or 'No'!"
The Southerner's face flushed and he threw back his head with the superb
defiance that General Grant knew so well--which was his one eternal
stumbling block, and due to continue for another full year of blood.
"Under the rulings of court-martial law," the Confederate Captain said
in ringing tones, "I deny even _your_ right to the question."
To the surprise of everyone the General merely nodded.
"That is all, sir. Thank you," he said, and Cary, with a look of
surprise, slowly resumed his seat.
"Mr. Morrison!"
The Union officer rose and saluted.
"As a military servant of the United States Government you were ordered
to pursue this man and take him--dead or alive. In this you failed."
Morrison inclined his head gravely but shot a look of respectful
objection at his superior.
"In part--I failed."
Instantly the accusing forefinger was leveled at him across the desk and
the point made with terrible directness.
"_And knowing he was a spy!_"
Morrison shook his head.
"Not to my personal knowledge, sir. I hunted him many times; but never
while he wore a Federal uniform."
"And when you captured him?"
In reply, Morrison simply indicated Cary's tattered coat of gray.
"Ah! Then you _did_ capture him?"
"Yes," came the quiet answer.
"And he _was_ the escort mentioned in your pass."
"Yes," Morrison answered slowly.
"H'm," said the General. He rose and turned to Harris.
"I am afraid, my dear Harris, that in spite of fine spun distinctions
and your legal technicalities, the findings of our court were not far
wrong."
Dropping his handful of papers on the desk he caught Morrison's eye and
rasped out his analysis of the case.
"Captain Cary practically admits his guilt! _You_ were aware of it! And
yet you send him through the very center of our lines! A _pass_! Carte
blanche to learn the disposition of our forces--our weakness and our
strength--and to make his report in Richmond. He was an enemy--with a
price on his head! And you trusted him! _A spy!_"
As the General had been speaking the first few words of his contemptuous
summing up Morrison saw where they would lead and his manhood instantly
leaped up in reply.
"I trusted, not the spy, but _Herbert Cary_," he said with honest
courage. Then, as the General turned his back on him with a contemptuous
snap of his fingers--
"General! I have offered no defense. If the justice of court-martial law
prescribes a firing squad--I find no fault. I failed. I pay."
With a gesture which indicated Gary the disgraced officer of the Army of
the Potomac shot out his one and only defense of his action--at an
unyielding back.
"I took this man--hunted--wounded--fighting to reach the side of a
hungry child. I captured him and, by the rules of war, I was about to
have him shot. Then he asked me to get his little girl safely to
Richmond, and not to let her know--about him."
"And she believed in _me_. _Trusted_ me--even as I trusted Herbert Cary
to pierce the very center of your lines--as a father--not a spy!"
From behind the unyielding back came a statement of fact, firm and
pitiless.
"And it cost you your sword--your life."
Morrison centered his eyes on the back of the General's head and sent
his answer home with all the power of his voice and spirit.
"_And I have no regret_" he said. "In the duty of a military servant--I
have failed. But my prisoner still lives! I could _not_ accept the
confidence of his child--the trust of innocence--a baby's kiss--with the
blood of her father on my hands!" He dropped his hands and half turned
away.
The General turned, a little at a time--first his head and then his
shoulders.
"A very pretty sentiment," he remarked dryly. "But you seem to forget
that we are not making love but _war_."
With a supreme burst of anger at his helplessness before the brute
forces which would presently send him forth to the firing squad,
Morrison wheeled on his commanding general and flared forth with his
last reply.
"Yes, _war_! And the hellish laws that govern it. But there is another
law--_Humanity_! Through a trooper in my command the home of an enemy
was turned to ashes--his loved ones flung out to starve. When a helpless
tot had lost its mother and a father would protect it, then _war_
demands that I smash a baby's one last hope--in the name of the Stars
and Stripes. And then--to march back home, to a happy, triumphant
North--and meet _my_ baby--with the memory of a butcher in my heart--_By
Heaven, sir! I'd rather hang!_"
For a moment General and Colonel regarded each other fixedly and then
the General turned away to pace the floor. Presently he came to his
decision and walked slowly back to his desk.
"Lieutenant Harris," he said in tones whose significance could not be
misunderstood, "I was right. You have wasted your time--and mine."
Then he sighed wearily and made a last gesture to Forbes.
"_The guard_" he said.
It was all over.
And then, to the ears of the two prisoners who stood looking at one
another with sad eyes, came a sound which made both men start and look
again with apprehension written on their faces--the shrill scream of a
child who is being kept from something she has set her heart upon.
Another moment and there was a rush of tiny feet in the hall, whereupon
the two sentries crossed their rifles across the doorway. But what
might have proved a serious obstruction for a man was only an absurdity
to a child's quick wit and Virgie, with a little duck of her sunny head,
dodged quickly under the muskets and charged, flushed and panting, on
the General's desk.
"You shan't shoot Colonel Morrison," cried this astonishing new comer in
tones of shrill command as she stamped her little foot: "I won't let
you! You shan't! You shan't!"
A moment of displeased surprise on the part of the General. Then--
"Take the child out of here," he ordered.
"I won't _go_!" answered Virgie, tossing her curls back and standing her
ground with' angry eyes.
"Orderly!" called the General.
With a whirl Virgie dashed away from the desk, eluded the orderly and
threw herself into her father's arms.
"Oh, Daddy, Daddy! You won't let him shoot the Colonel. Daddy, you
won't! You won't!" She burst into a passionate flood of tears.
Cary lifted his hand to the General in a plea for a moment's respite
from force.
"General--please. She'll go."
He turned to the sobbing child and shook her gently. "Virgie! Virgie!
Listen, honey! _Remember General Lee!_" The bowed head rose from her
father's shoulder; the little shoulders stiffened, and eye to eye she
looked into the face of Cary as his pleading voice went on: "_He_
wouldn't want you to cry like this. He said--'She's a brave little
soldier to stay there all alone. Dixie and I are _proud_ of her.'"
The Littlest Rebel's chin went up, and she bravely choked back her sobs.
If this was what her General wanted, this her General would have, though
childhood's sobs are hard to check when a little heart is aching for the
pain of those she loves.
"Go now, darling," her father pleaded. "Go."
She kissed him, and turned in silent, slow obedience, casting a scowl at
the grim and silent General Grant, then moved toward the guarded door.
"Wait!" said a quiet voice.
"Harris! They say that fools and children speak the truth." He paused
and then said gently: "Come here, little girl. Come here and talk to
me."
Somewhat in fear now that the kind voice robbed her of her anger the
little pale faced child choked down her sobs and came slowly forward to
the desk. But, as she stood there, her courage returned and, marvel of
marvels, her tiny hand went up in imitation of a salute.
Grant dropped his chin in his hand so that their heads were nearly on a
level across his desk and looked at her with gentle kindness in his
eyes.
"The Littlest Rebel, eh?" he said in low tones. "How old are you?"
"S-s-s-even. Goin' on eight," responded Virgie, gulping down a sob and
nervously fingering her tattered dress.
"Ah, yes," he nodded. "And do you know the uniform of a Union
officer--when you see it?"
Virgie's small mouth dropped open at the absurdity of the question and
she almost laughed.
"A Yankee?" she queried with scorn. "Well, I reckon I _ought_ to--by
_this_ time."
"Very good," the brown bearded man nodded, and gently blew smoke at the
ceiling. "Now, tell me. When you lived at home--and afterwards in your
cabin--did your father come to see you often?"
Virgie's sunny head nodded in emphatic asseveration. "Yes, sir. Often."
"_How_ often?" asked the bearded man.
Virgie's fingers twisted themselves deep in her dress.
"I--I don't know, sir. But heaps of times."
"Good again," and the questioner actually smiled. "When your father
came, did he ever wear clothes that--that were not his own?"
Virgie turned a side-long look on her father but, as he could not help,
her puzzled eyes went back to the General.
"Well--well, lots of our men don't have hardly _any_ clo's," she said
pathetically.
Another smile broke the sternness of the General's face.
"That isn't what I mean," he explained gently. "Did he ever wear a coat
of blue--a _Yankee_ uniform?"
"_General_!" broke in Harris.
"Lieutenant!" Grant frowned. He turned back to Virgie and coaxed her a
little.
"Well? Tell me!"
With one bare big toe twisted under her foot and fingers interlocked in
agony the child turned a look of pure anguish on her silent, grave faced
father. This was torture--and she could not escape.
"Oh, Daddy, Daddy!" she burst forth with a wail of tragedy in her voice.
"_What must I tell him_?"
The father's lips, which had been closed against the pain that racked
him, softened with the perfect trust which went into his gentle command.
"The _truth_, Virgie. Whatever the General asks."
The General's observant eyes rested on the proud Southerner for an
instant, noted that his face was quite without anxiety, then went back
to the little child.
"Well, did he?" he asked.
"Y-y-y-es, sir," answered Virgie with a gulp.
The General nodded and his face grew grave again.
"I wonder if you even know what it means. A _spy_!"
"Yes, sir," said the Littlest Rebel, and dropped her eyes.
"Hm. And do you remember how many times he came that way?"
"Yes, sir," came the instant answer, and she threw up her head.
"_Once_."
"_Once?_" echoed the General, surprised. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, sir," she answered. She drew herself up proudly, forgetting the
poor, tattered dress, and her clear eyes rested fearlessly on two others
that read through them down into the pure whiteness of her soul.
"_Think!_" said the quiet voice again, while the perspiration started
out on the forehead of more than one listener. "And remember what your
father said just now. When was it?"
Again the fearless eyes of the child, the Littlest Rebel of them all,
rose to the gaze of the man whose iron heel was crushing them into the
ground and she made her answer--as crystal clear and truthful as if she
stood before the Throne on the last great day.
"When--when Daddy came through the woods an'--an' put my mamma in the
ground."
There was a silence. No one moved. Outside in the trees and bushes the
song the summer insects were singing suddenly burst upon, their ears and
the myriad noises of the camp, hitherto unnoticed, became a veritable
clamor, so complete was the stillness in the room. Everyone except,
perhaps, the child herself realized the vital importance of her answer
and now that it had been given the crisis had passed. The Littlest Rebel
had put an end to questioning. An audible sigh went up from everyone
except the man behind the desk.
This one turned his head slowly towards the Confederate prisoner.
"Captain Cary, is this true?"
"Yes, General," came the straightforward answer. "I went to your nearest
post with a flag of truce and asked permission to go to my dead wife. I
was refused. I went _without_ permission."
General Grant rose to his feet. Centering the other's eyes with his own
he spoke to him as one officer speaks to another when he expects the
truth and nothing but the truth.
"And you give me your word, as a soldier and a gentleman, that
once--once _only_--you wore a Federal uniform and that because of the
burial of your wife?"
"I do," answered Herbert Cary, a rebel to the last. "And that was the
only cause in heaven or hell that could have _induced_ me to wear it!"
For a moment the Commander of the Army of the Potomac surveyed the still
defiant prisoner, then turned his back and walked to the window where he
tossed away a much chewed cigar, meantime thinking out his last
analysis.
Here was a man who had been hunted tirelessly month after month as a
rebel spy. It was true that he was a spy and true that he had worn a
uniform of blue. Yet the fact had been established--by the spotless
honesty of a little child--that he had worn the uniform only so that he
might reach his home and bury his dead. And--went on the cool, quiet
mind--since the man was _not_ a spy how could a Union officer be
executed for assisting a _spy_ to escape?
Coming back to his desk again the General picked out another smoke, felt
of it thoughtfully, sniffed at it, then raised his quiet eyes.
"Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison," he said in clear, incisive tones, "_go
back to your command!_"
Five words. Five short, plain words, yet they made all the difference
between a firing squad and a chance at life again. There was a
silence--then a gasp from Morrison's dry throat. At the sound of his
title--at the sound of that blessed order which, by right of supreme
power, instantly restored him to his rank, the Union officer leaped to
his feet with a cry of joy. But it was not even for those around him in
that little room to know the wonderful vista of happiness which opened
up again before the eyes which only a moment ago had been doomed to
close in the sleep of a disgraceful death.
The General's hand went up in a gesture which checked his gratitude.
"The _next_ time you are forced to decide between military duty and
humanity--think twice!"
He turned to his desk and took up a small piece of paper, crumpled and
torn.
"Captain Cary," he said, "I sincerely regret that I cannot honor the
pass as given you by Colonel Morrison," and he turned the paper over,
"but I do honor the pass of your General--R.E. Lee."
He folded the paper and held it out to Cary who came forward as if in a
dream. Then the General turned his back again and began to rummage on
his desk. The incident was closed.
But there was a rush of bare, childish feet sand before he could escape
Virgie's brown little arms were round him and her dimpled chin was
pressed against his waist.
The General made no effort to release himself but looked down on her
with a softer light in his face than any of his men had seen there in
many months.
"And as for you, young lady, the next time you pervert my officers and
upset the discipline of the Federal Army--well, I don't know _what_ I'll
do with you."
He looked down into her face and read there a wistful feminine appeal
for outward and visible reconciliation.
"Oh, well," he said with mock resignation, "I suppose I've got to do
it," and he stooped and kissed her. Then he took up his campaign hat and
walked towards the door.
Behind him the child in her tattered dress and bare brown legs stood
still and threw out her arms to him in a last soft-voiced good-by.
"Thank you, Gen'ral," called the Littlest Rebel, with the light of
heaven in her eyes. "Thank you for Daddy and Colonel Morrison and _me_.
You're another mighty good damn Yankee!"
And then, with a cry of surpassing joy and love, she rushed back to
where the two men waited for her on their knees.