THE RECKONING
So it was war. We drew apart into hostile camps. By midwinter South
Carolina, Mississippi, Georgia, Alabama, Florida, Louisiana, Texas, had
withdrawn from the Union. There arose two capitals, each claiming a
government, each planning war: Washington and Richmond.
As for me, I had seen the flag on our far frontiers, in wide, free
lands. It was a time when each must choose for himself. I knew with whom
my own lot must be cast. I pledged myself to follow the flag of the
frontier, wherever it might go.
During the winter I busied myself, and when the gun of Sumpter came on
that sad day of April, I was ready with a company of volunteers who had
known some months of drill, at least, and who had been good enough to
elect me for their captain. Most of my men came from the mountains of
Western Virginia, where geography made loyalty, and loyalty later made a
State. I heard, remotely, that Colonel Meriwether would not join the
Confederacy. Some men of Western Virginia and Eastern Kentucky remained
with the older flag. Both the Sheratons, the old Colonel and his son
Harry, were of course for the South, and early in January they both left
home for Richmond. On the other hand, again, our friend Captain
Stevenson stood for the Federal government; and so I heard, also
indirectly, did young Belknap of the Ninth Dragoons, Regulars, a gallant
boy who swiftly reached distinction, and died a gallant man's death at
Shiloh later on.
My mother, all for peace, was gray and silent over these hurrying
events. She wept when she saw me in uniform and belt. "See," she said,
"we freed our slaves long ago. We thought as the North thinks. This war
is not for the Society of Friends." But she saw my father's blood in me
again, and sighed. "Go, then," she said.
All over the country, North and South, came the same sighed consent of
the women, "Go, then." And so we went out to kill each other, we who
should all have been brothers. None of us would listen. The armies
formed, facing each other on Virginia soil. Soon in our trampled fields,
and broken herds, and ruined crops, in our desolated homes and hearts,
we, brothers in America, learned the significance of war.
They crossed our little valley, passing through Alexandria, coming from
Harper's Ferry, these raw ninety-day men of McDowell and Patterson, who
thought to end the Confederacy that spring. Northern politics drove them
into battle before they had learned arms. By midsummer all the world
knew that they would presently encounter, somewhere near Manassas, to
the south and west, the forces of Beauregard and Johnston, then lying
within practical touch of each other by rail.
My men, most of them young fellows used to horse and arms, were brigaded
as infantry with one of the four divisions of McDowell's men, who
converged along different lines toward Fairfax. For nearly a week we lay
near the front of the advance, moving on in snail-like fashion, which
ill-suited most of us Virginians, who saw no virtue in postponing fight,
since we were there for fighting. We scattered our forces, we did not
unite, we did not entrench, we did not advance; we made all the mistakes
a young army could, worst of all the mistake of hesitancy.
It was not until the twentieth of July that our leaders determined upon
a flanking movement to our right, which was to cross Bull Run at the
Sudley Ford. Even so, we dallied along until every one knew our plans.
Back of us, the battle opened on the following day, a regiment at a
time, with no concert, no _plan_. My men were with this right wing,
which made the turning movement, but four brigades in all. Four other
brigades, those of Howard, Burnside, Keyes and Schenck, were lost
somewhere to the rear of us. Finally, we crossed and reached the left
flank of the Confederates under Beauregard, and swung south along Bull
Run. Our attack was scattering and ill-planned, but by three o'clock of
the next day we were in the thickest of the fighting around the slopes
which led up to the Henry House, back of which lay the Confederate
headquarters.
I saw the batteries of Rickett and Griffin of our Regulars advance and
take this height against the steadily thickening line of the
Confederates, who had now had full time to concentrate. There came a hot
cavalry charge upon the Zouave regiment on my left, and I saw the
Zouaves lie down in the woods and melt the line of that charge with
their fire, and save the battery for a time. Then in turn I saw that
blunder by which the battery commander allowed Cummings' men--the
Thirty-third Virginia, I think it was--deliberately to march within
stone's throw of them, mistaken for Federal troops. I saw them pour a
volley at short range into the guns, which wiped out their handlers, and
let through the charging lines now converging rapidly upon us. Then,
though it was but my first battle, I knew that our movement must fail,
that our extended line, lying upon nothing, supported by nothing, must
roll back in retreat along a trough road, where the horses and guns
would mow us down.
Stuart's men came on, riding through us as we broke and scattered.
Wheat's Louisiana Tigers came through our remnants as well. We had no
support. We did not know that back of the hill the Confederate recruits
were breaking badly as ourselves, and running to the rear. We were all
new in war. We of the invading forces caught the full terror of that
awful panic which the next day set the North in mourning, and the South
aflame with a red exultation.
All around us our lines wavered, turned and fled. But to some, who knew
the danger of the country back of us, it seemed safer to stay than to
run. To that fact I owe my life, and at least a little satisfaction that
some of us Virginians held our line for a time, even against those other
Virginians who came on at us.
We were scattered in a thin line in cover of heavy timber, and when the
pursuit came over us we killed a score of their men after they had
passed. Such was the confusion and the madness of the pursuit, that they
rolled beyond our broken line like a wave, scarce knowing we were there.
Why I escaped I do not know, for I was now easily visible, mounted on a
horse which I had caught as it came through the wood riderless. I was
passing along our little front, up and down, as best I could in the
tangle.
The pursuit went through us strung out, scattered, as disorganized as
our own flight. They were practically over us and gone when, as I rode
to the right flank of the remaining splinter of my little company, I
saw, riding down upon us, a splendid soldier, almost alone, and
apparently endeavoring to reach his command after some delay at the
rear. He was mounted on a fine horse--a great black animal. His tall
figure was clad in the gray uniform of the Confederates, with a black
hat sweeping back from his forehead. He wore cavalry boots and deep
gauntleted gloves, and in all made a gallant martial figure as he rode.
A few of our men, half witless with their terror, crossed his path. I
saw him half rise, once, twice, four times, standing in the stirrups to
enforce his saber cuts, each one of which dropped a man. He and his
horse moved together, a splendid engine of ruthless, butchery.
"Look out, Cap!" I heard a squeaking voice behind me call, and looking
down, I saw one of my men, his left arm hanging loose, resting his gun
across a log with his right. "Git out 'o the way," he repeated. "I'm
goin' to kill him." It was that new-made warrior, Andrew Jackson
McGovern, who had drifted back into our valley from some place, and
joined my company soon after its organization. I ordered the boy now to
drop his gun. "Leave him alone!" I cried. "He belongs to me."
It was Gordon Orme. At last, fate had relented for me. My enemy was at
hand. No man but Orme could thus ride my old horse, Satan. Now I saw
where the horse had gone, and who it was that owned him, and why Orme
was here.
I rode out to meet him. The keenness of the coming, encounter for the
time almost caused me to forget my anger. I seem never to have thought
but that fate had brought me there for that one purpose. He saw me
advance, and whirled in my direction, eager as myself; and presently I
saw also that he recognized me, as I did him.
This is to be said of Gordon Orme, that he feared no man or thing on
earth. He smiled at me now, showing his long, narrow teeth, as he came,
lightly twirling his long blade. Two pistols lay in my holsters, and
both were freshly loaded, but without thought I had drawn my sword for a
weapon, I suppose because he was using his. He was a master of the
sword, I but a beginner with it.
We rode straight in, and I heard the whistle of his blade as he circled
it about his head like a band of light. As we joined he made a cut to
the left, easily, gently, as he leaned forward; but it came with such
swiftness that had it landed I doubt not my neck would have been shorn
like a robin's. But at least I could ride as well as he or any other
man. I dropped and swerved, pulling out of line a few inches as we
passed. My own blow, back-handed, was fruitless as his.
We wheeled and came on again, and yet again, and each time he put me on
defense, and each time I learned more of what was before me to do. My
old servant, Satan, was now his servant, and the great black horse was
savage against me as was his rider. Wishing nothing so much as to kill
his own rival, he came each time with his ears back and his mouth open,
wicked in the old blood lust that I knew. It was the fury of his horse
that saved me, I suppose, for as that mad beast bored in, striving to
overthrow my own horse, the latter would flinch away in spite of all I
could do, so that I needed to give him small attention when we met in
these short, desperate charges. I escaped with nothing more than a rip
across the shoulder, a touch on the cheek, on the arm, where his point
reached me lightly, as my horse swerved away from the encounters. I
could not reach Orme at all.
At last, I know not how, we clashed front on, and his horse bore mine
back, with a scream fastening his teeth in the crest of my mount, as a
dog seizes his prey. I saw Orme's sword turn lightly, easily again
around his head, saw his wrist turn gently, smoothly down and extend in
a cut which was aimed to catch me full across the head. There was no
parry I could think, but the full counter in kind. My blade met his with
a shock that jarred my arm to the shoulder.
I saw him give back, pull off his mad horse and look at his hand, where
his own sword was broken off, a foot above the hilt. Smiling, he saluted
with it, reigning back his horse, and no more afraid of me than if I
were a child. He did not speak, nor did I. I pulled up my own horse, not
wishing to take the advantage that now was mine, but knowing that he
would not yield--that I must kill him.
He did so at his own peril who took Orme for a dullard. I watched him
closely. He saluted again with his broken sword, and made as though to
toss it from him, as indeed he did. Then like a flash his hand dropped
to his holster.
I read his thought, I presume, when he made his second salute. His
motion of tossing away the sword hilt gave me the fraction of time which
sometimes is the difference between life and death. Our fire was almost
at the same instant, but not quite. His bullet cut the epaulet clean
from my left shoulder; but he did not fire again, nor did I. I saw him
straighten up in his saddle, precisely as I had once seen an Indian
chieftain do under Orme's own fire. He looked at me with a startled
expression on his face.
At that moment there came from the edge of the woods the crack of a
musket. The great horse Satan pitched his head forward and dropped limp,
sinking to his knees. As he rolled he caught his rider under him. I
myself sprung down, shouting out some command toward the edge of the
wood, that they should leave this man to me.
Whether my men heard me or not I do not know. Perhaps they heard rather
the hoarse shouts of a fresh column in gray which came up in the
pursuit, fagged with its own running. When these new men passed me all
they saw was a bit of wood torn with shot and ball, and in the open two
figures, both dusty and gray, one helping the other from what seemed to
be a fall of his horse. Scenes like that were common. We were not
disturbed by the men of either side. We were alone presently, Gordon
Orme and I.
I stooped and caught hold of the hind leg of the great black horse, and
even as I had once turned a dead bull, so now I turned this carcass on
its back. I picked up the fallen rider and carried him to the woods, and
there I propped his body against a tree. Slowly he opened his eyes, even
pulled himself up more fully against the support.
"Thank you, old man," he said. "The horse was deucedly heavy--spoiled
that leg, I think." He pointed to his boot, where his foot lay turned to
one side. "I suffer badly. Be a good fellow and end it."
I answered him by tossing down one of his own pistols, both of which I
had secured against need. He looked at it, but shook his head.
"Let's talk it over a bit first," he said. "I'm done. I'll not make any
trouble. Did you ever know me to break parole?"
"No," said I, and I threw down the other weapon on the ground. "In
mercy to us both, Orme, die. I do not want to kill you now; and you
shall not live."
"I'm safe enough," he said. "It's through the liver and stomach. I can't
possibly get over it."
He stared straight ahead of him, as though summoning his will.
"_Swami_!" I heard him mutter, as though addressing some one.
"There, that's better," he said finally. He sat almost erect, smiling at
me. "It is _Asana_, the art of posture," he said. "I rest my body on my
ribs, my soul on the air. Feel my heart."
I did so, and drew away my hand almost in terror. It stopped beating at
his will, and began again! His uncanny art was still under his control!
"I shall be master here for a little while," he said. "So--I move those
hurt organs to ease the flow. But I can't stop the holes, nor mend them.
We can't get at the tissues to sew them fast. After a while I shall
die." He spoke clearly, with utter calmness, dispassionately. I never
saw his like among men.
I stood by him silently. He put his own hand on his chest. "Poor old
heart," he said. "Feel it work! Enormous pumping engine, tremendous
thing, the heart. Think what it does in seventy years--and all for
what--that we may live and enjoy, and so maybe die. What few minutes I
have now I owe to having trained what most folk call an involuntary
muscle. I command my heart to beat, and so it does."
I looked down at a strange, fascinating soul, a fearsome personality,
whose like I never knew in all my life.
"Will you make me a promise?" he said, smiling at me, mocking at me.
"No," I answered.
"I was going to ask you, after my death to take my heart and send it
back to my people at Orme Castle, Gordon Arms, in England--you know
where. It would be a kindness to the family." I gazed at him in a sort
of horror, but he smiled and went on. "We're mediaeval to-day as ever we
were. Some of us are always making trouble, one corner or the other of
the world, and until the last Gordon heart comes home to rest, there's
no peace for that generation. Hundreds of years, they've traveled all
over the world, and been lost, and stolen, and hidden. My father's is
lost now, somewhere. Had it come back home to rest, my own life might
have been different. I say, Cowles, couldn't you do that for me? We've
nearly always had some last friend that would--we Gordons."
"I would do nothing for you as a favor," I answered.
"Then do it because it is right. I'd rather it should be you. You've a
wrist like steel, and a mind like steel when you set yourself to do a
thing."
"I say, old man," he went on, a trifle weary now, "you've won. I'm jolly
well accounted for, and it was fair. I hope they'll not bag you when you
try to get out of this. But won't you promise what I've asked? Won't you
promise?"
It is not for me to say whether or not I made a promise to Gordon Orme,
or to say whether or not things mediaeval or occult belong with us
to-day. Neither do I expect many to believe the strange truth about
Gordon Orme. I only say it is hard to deny those about to die.
"Orme," I said, "I wish you had laid out your life differently. You are
a wonderful man."
"The great games," he smiled--"sport, love, war!" Then his face
saddened. "I say, have you kept your other promise to me?" he asked.
"Did you marry that girl--what was her name--Miss Sheraton?"
"Miss Sheraton is dead."
"Married?" he asked.
"No. She died within two months after the night I caught you in the
yard. I should have killed you then, Orme."
He nodded. "Yes, but at least I showed some sort of remorse--the first
time, I think. Not a bad sort, that girl, but madly jealous. Fighting
blood, I imagine, in that family!"
"Yes," I said, "her father and brother and I, all three, swore the same
oath."
"The same spirit was in the girl," he said, nodding again.
"Revenge--that was what she wanted. That's why it all happened. It was
what _I_ wanted, too! You blocked me with the only woman--"
"Do not speak her name," I said to him, quietly. "The nails on your
fingers are growing blue, Orme. Go with some sort of squaring of your
own accounts. Try to think."
He shrugged a shoulder. "My Swami said we do not die--we only change
worlds or forms. What! I, Gordon Orme, to be blotted out--to lose my
mind and soul and body and senses--not to be able to _enjoy_. No,
Cowles, somewhere there are other worlds, with women in them. I do not
die--I transfer." But sweat stood on his forehead.
"As to going, no ways are better than this," he mused, presently. "I
swear I'm rather comfortable now; a trifle numb--but we--I say, we must
all--all go some time, you know. Did you hear me?" he repeated, smiling.
"I was just saying that we must all go, one way or another, you know."
"I heard you," I said. "You are going now."
"Yes," he admitted, "one can't hold together forever under a pull like
this. You're an awfully decent sort. Give me a bit of paper. I want to
write." I found him a pencil and some pages of my notebook.
"To please you, I'll try to square some things," he said. "You've been
so deuced square and straight with me, all along. I'm--I'm Gordon, now,
I'm English. Word of a fighting man, my--my _friend_."
He leaned forward, peering down at the paper as though he did not
clearly see; but he wrote slowly for a time, absorbed in thought.
In all the death scenes which our country knew in thousands during those
years, I doubt if any more unbelievable than this ever had occurrence. I
saw the blood soaking all his garments, lying black on the ground about
him. I saw his face grow gray and his nails grow blue, his pallor deepen
as the veins lost their contents. I saw him die. But I swear that he
still sat there, calm as though he did not suffer, and forced his body
to do his will. And--though I ask a rough man's pardon for intruding my
own beliefs--since he used his last superb reserves to leave the truth
behind him, I myself thought that there must be somewhere an undying
instinct of truth and justice, governing even such as Gordon Orme; yes,
I hope, governing such as myself as well. Since then I have felt that
somewhere there must be a great religion written on the earth and in the
sky. As to what this could offer in peace to Gordon Orme I do not say.
His was a vast debt. Perhaps Truth never accepted it as paid. I do not
know.
There he sat, at last smiling again as he looked up. "Fingers getting
dreadfully stiff. Tongue will go next. Muscles still under the power for
a little time. Here, take this. You're going to live, and this is the
only thing--it'll make you miserable, but happy, too. Good-by. I'll not
stop longer, I think."
Like a flash his hand shot out to the weapon that lay near him on the
ground. I shrank back, expecting the ball full in my face. Instead, it
passed through his own brain!
His will was broken as that physical instrument, the brain, wonder seat
of the mysteries of the mind, was rent apart. His splendid mind no
longer ruled his splendid body. His body itself, relaxing, sank forward,
his head at one side, his hand dropping limp. A smile drew down the
corner of his mouth--a smile horrible in its pathos; mocking, and yet
beseeching.
* * * * *
At last I rubbed the blood from my own face and stooped to read what he
had written. Then I thanked God that he was dead, knowing how impossible
it would have been elsewise for me to stay my hand. These were the
words:
"I, Gordon Orme, dying July 21, 1861, confess that I killed John
Cowles, Senior, in the month of April, 1860, at the road near
Wallingford. I wanted the horse, but had to kill Cowles. Later took
the money. I was a secret agent, detailed for work among U.S. Army
men.
"I, Gordon Orme, having seduced Grace Sheraton, asked John Cowles
to marry her to cover up that act.
"I, Gordon Orme, appoint John Cowles my executor. I ask him to
fulfill last request. I give him what property I have on my person
for his own. Further, I say not; and being long ago held as dead, I
make no bequests as to other property whatsoever.--Gordon Orme. In
Virginia, U.S.A."
It was he, then, who had in cold blood killed my father! That horrid
riddle at last was read. In that confession I saw only his intent to
give me his last touch of misery and pain. It was some moments before I
could read all the puzzle of his speech, half of which had promised me
wretchedness, and half happiness. Then slowly I realized what I held in
my hand. It was the proof of his guilt, of my innocence. He had robbed
me of my father. He had given me--what? At least he had given me a
chance. Perhaps Ellen Meriwether would believe!
* * * * *
It was my duty to care for the personal belongings of Gordon Orme; but
regarding these matters a soldier does not care to speak. I took from
his coat a long, folded leather book. It was hours later, indeed late
the following morning, before I looked into it. During the night I was
busy making my escape from that fated field. As I came from the rear,
mounted, I was supposed to be of the Confederate forces, and so I got
through the weary and scattered columns of pursuit, already overloaded
with prisoners. By morning I was far on my way toward the Potomac. Then
I felt in my pockets, and opened the wallet I had found en Orme's body.
It held various memoranda, certain writings in cipher, others in foreign
characters, pieces of drawings, maps and the like, all of which I
destroyed. It contained also, in thin foreign notes, a sum large beyond
the belief of what an ordinary officer would carry into battle; and this
money, for the time, I felt justified in retaining.
Orme was no ordinary officer. He had his own ways, and his own errand.
His secret, however great it was--and at different times I have had
reason to believe that men high in power on both sides knew how great it
was, and how important to be kept a secret--never became fully known. In
all likelihood it was not his business actually to join in the fighting
ranks. But so at least it happened that his secret went into the unknown
with himself. He was lost as utterly as though he were a dark vision
passing into a darker and engulfing night. If I learned more than most
regarding him, I am not free to speak. He named no heirs beyond myself.
I doubt not it was his wish that he should indeed be held as one who
long ago had died.
Should Gordon Orme arise from his grave and front me now, I should
hardly feel surprise, for mortal conditions scarce seem to give his
dimensions. But should I see him now, I should fear him no more than
when I saw him last. His page then was closed in my life forever. It was
not for me to understand him. It is not for me to judge him.