In the shade of a fringe of trees that edged the river bank a troop of
cavalry was drawn up in one long, thin line. Knee to knee, the silent,
blue-coated riders sat, waiting, waiting--not for a charge upon the
enemy, or orders for a foray through an already harried land. They
waited for a leader--a man who had led them through the heat and cold,
through peaceful valleys and the bloody ruck of battle; a man whom they
loved and trusted, fearing him only when they shirked a duty or
disobeyed the iron laws of war.
This man had been taken from them, himself a servant who had disobeyed
these laws, his sword dishonored, his shoulder straps ripped off before
their eyes. And now the troopers waited--and for what? An order had come
which put them on review, a long thin line of horsemen waiting on the
river bank, while the sun beat down on the parched red fields, and the
waters of the muddy James lazed by as they murmured their sad, low song.
The troopers were silent--waiting. A horse stamped idly in the dust, and
a saber rattled against a booted leg. A whisper ran down the line. The
eyes of the men turned slowly at the sight of a single rider who
advanced from the distant Union camp. He did not take the dusty road
which swept in a wide, half-circle to where the waiting troopers sat in
line, but jumped a low worm-fence and came straight across the fields.
An officer he was, erect in his saddle, chin up and shoulders squared.
On his shoulders his straps had been replaced, and his saber rattled
against his thigh to the rise and fall of his horse's stride.
Straight on he came till he checked his mount before the center of the
waiting line, and the troopers knew that Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison had
once more come into his own.
Their sabers rasped from out the scabbards and rose in a joyous, swift
salute, while Morrison's once dishonored sword acknowledged it.
"_'Tention_ ..._company!_"
The long line stiffened and waited for their officer to speak; yet the
voice was not the voice of an officer in command, but that of a comrade
and a friend.
"Thank you, boys! It's good to be back again." He swallowed something in
his throat and struggled manfully to speak in even tones. "I must ask
you to be quiet--and not to--"
He stopped. Again his troop had disobeyed him--disobeyed him to a man. A
shout went up, deep, joyous and uncontrolled, its echoes pulsing out
across the hot, red fields till it reached the distant camp; and Grant
looked up from a war map's crisscross lines, grunted, and lit a fresh
cigar.
And Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison sat his horse before his cheering line
of men, silent, happy, while two tears rolled, unheeded, down his
cheek--a soldier and a man!
His tenderness to a little child had torn him from his saddle and doomed
him to disgrace and death; and then, one line from her baby lips had
mounted him again and set him before his troopers on parade.
"_It was when ... Daddy came through the woods ... and put my mamma ...
in the ground_."
Two lives she had held--in her little hands--and had saved them both
with a dozen words of simple, unfaltering truth.
* * * * *
On the dusty pike which led to Virginia's capital another rider plodded
through the heat and haze. His coat, once gray, now hung in mud-stained
tatters about his form, but beneath his battered campaign hat his thin,
pale features were smoothed by a smile of happiness.
Behind his saddle, one hand gripped tightly in a rent in the soiled gray
coat, sat still another Rebel--the smallest of them all--her tiny legs
stretched out almost straight on the horse's wide, fat back.
"Daddy--how far is it to Richmon' now?"
The rider turned his head and pointed north.
"It's close now, honey. See that line of hills? That's Richmond. A mile
or two and we'll be at home."
Again they plodded on, past fields of shriveled corn whose stalks stood
silently in parched and wilted lines--lines that were like the ranks of
the doomed Confederacy--its stalks erect, yet sapped of the juice of
life. Where orchards once had flourished their rotted branches now hid
mouths of rifle pits, and low, red clay entrenchments stretched across
the fields.
"Daddy," broke out a piping voice, "don't you think we'd better make
this Yankee horse get up a little? 'Cause--'cause somethin' _else_ might
happen before we get there."
"It's all right, Virgie," her father answered, with a pat on her small,
brown knee. "These lines are ours, and I reckon we are safe at last."
They were. Two Rebels on a Yankee horse soon made their triumphant entry
into Richmond. They passed through Rockets, by the half-deserted wharves
on the river bank where a crippled gunboat lay, then clattered over the
cobble stones up Main Street till they reached the Square. On the State
House the Stars and Bars still floated; but the travelers did not
pause. Northward they turned, then westward again, till they stopped at
last before a silent, stately mansion, the headquarters of their
General--General Lee.
Before the open door two sentries stood, but as Cary and his charge
dismounted an orderly came down the steps and out of the iron gate. A
word or two from Cary and the orderly disappeared into the house,
returning soon with word that the visitors would be received--at once.
Up the stone steps went Virgie, holding tightly to her father's hand,
for now, as she neared her General, her little heart was pounding, and
her breath came eagerly and fast.
On the threshold of a dim and shaded room they paused and looked. He sat
there, at a table strewn with war maps and reports--a tall gray man in a
coat of gray--the soldier and the gentleman.
As father and child came in he rose to meet them, looking at the two
with eyes that seemed to hold the sadness and the tenderness of all the
world.
He knew their story; in fact, he had bent his every effort to the
saving of Cary's life. He had sent a courier to the camp of General
Grant below the city, asking a stay of sentence till the facts in the
case were cleared; and only a half hour before his courier had returned
with news of the prisoner's release.
And now, as he advanced and gave a courtly welcome to his trusted scout,
the hand of the Littlest Rebel once more went up in salute to a superior
officer.
"Gen'ral," she said, as she stole a glance at her father's smiling face,
"I've brought him back--with--with the pass you gave me, sir."
And the General stooped--six feet of him--till his lips were on a level
with Virgie's lips; then folded her closely into his great gray arms.
THE END
PEACE
Hushed is the rolling drum. The bugle's note
Breathes but an echo of its martial blast;
The proud old flags, in mourning silence, float
Above the heroes of a buried past.
Frail ivy vines 'round rusting cannon creep;
The tattered pennants droop against the wall;
The war-worn warriors are sunk in sleep,
Beyond a summons of the trumpet's call.
Do ye still dream, ye voiceless, slumbering ones,
Of glories gained through struggles fierce and long,
Lulled by the muffled boom of ghostly guns
That weave the music of a battle-song?
In fitful flight do misty visions reel,
While restless chargers toss their bridle-reins?
When down the lines gleam points of polished steel,
And phantom columns flood the sun-lit plains?
A breathless hush! A shout that mounts on high
Till every hoary hill from sleep awakes!
Swift as the unleashed lightning cleaves the sky,
The tumbling, tempest-rush of battle breaks!
The smoke-wreathed cannon launch their hell-winged shells!
The rattling crash of musketry's sharp sound
Sinks in the deafening din of hoarse, wild yells
And squadrons charging o'er the trampled ground!
Down, down they rush! The cursing riders reel
'Neath tearing shot and savage bayonet-thrust;
A plunging charger stamps with iron heel
His dying master in the battle's dust.
The shrill-tongued notes of victory awake!
The black guns thunder back the shout amain!
In crimson-crested waves the columns break,
Like shattered foam, across the shell-swept plain.
A still form lies upon the death-crowned hill,
With sightless eyes, gray lips that may not speak.
His dead hand holds his shot-torn banner still--
Its proud folds pressed against his bloodstained cheek.
O slumbering heroes, cease to dream of war!
Let hatreds die behind the tread of years.
Forget the past, like some long-vanished scar
Whose smart is healed in drops of falling tears.
Keep, keep your glory; but forget the strife!
Roll up your battle-flags so stained and torn!
Teach, teach our hearts, that still dream on in life,
To let the dead past sleep with those we mourn!
From pitying Heaven a pitying angel came.
Smiling, she bade the tongues of conflict cease.
Her wide wings fanned away the smoke and flame,
Hushed the red battle's roar. God called her Peace.
From land and sea she swept mad passion's glow;
Yet left a laurel for the hero's fame.
She whispered hope to hearts in grief bowed low,
And taught our lips, in love, to shape her name.
She sheathed the dripping sword; her soft hands pres't
Grim foes apart, who scowled in anger deep.
She laid two grand old standards down to rest,
And on her breast rocked weary War to sleep.
Peace spreads her pinions wide from South to North;
Dead enmity within the grave is laid.
The church towers ring their holy anthems forth,
To hush the thunders of the cannonade.
EDWARD PEPLE.