Prescott was awakened from his sleep by his mother, who came to him in suppressed anxiety, telling him that a soldier was in the outer room with a message demanding his instant presence at headquarters. At once there flitted through his mind a dream of that long night, now passed, the flight together, the ride, the warm and luminous presence beside him and the last sight of her as she passed over the hill to the fires that burned in the Northern camp. A dream it was, vague and misty as the darkness through which they had passed, but it left a delight, vague and misty like itself, that refused to be dispelled by the belief that this message was from Mr. Sefton, who intended to strike where his armour was weakest.
With the power of repression inherited from his Puritan mother he hid from her pleasure and apprehension alike, saying:
"Some garrison duty, mother. You know in such a time of war I can't expect to live here forever in ease and luxury."
The letter handed to him by the messenger, an impassive Confederate soldier in butternut gray, was from the commandant of the forces in Richmond, ordering him to report to Mr. Sefton for instructions. Here were all his apprehensions justified. The search had been made, the soldiers had gone to the cottage of Miss Grayson, the girl was not there, and the Secretary now turned to him, Robert Prescott, as if he were her custodian, demanding her, or determined to know what he had done with her. Well, his own position was uncertain, but she at least was safe—far beyond the lines of Richmond, now with her own people, and neither the hand of Sefton nor of any other could touch her. That thought shed a pleasant glow, all the more grateful because it was he who had helped her. But toward the Secretary he felt only defiance.
As he went forth to obey the summons the city was bright, all white and silver and gold in its sheet of ice, with a wintry but golden sun above; but something was missing from Richmond, nevertheless. It suddenly occurred to him that Miss Grayson must be very lonely in her bleak little cottage.
He went undisturbed by guards to the Secretary's room—the Confederate Government was never immediately surrounded with bayonets—and knocked upon the door. A complete absence of state and formality prevailed.
The Secretary was not alone, and Prescott was not surprised. The President of the Confederacy himself sat near the window, and just beyond him was Wood, in a great armchair, looking bored. There were present, too, General Winder, the commander of the forces in the city, another General or two and members of the Cabinet.
"An inquisition," thought Prescott. "This disappointed Secretary would ruin me."
The saving thought occurred to him that if he had known of Miss Catherwood's presence in Richmond Mr. Sefton also had known of it. The wily Secretary must have in view some other purpose than to betray him, when by so doing he would also betray himself. Prescott gathered courage, and saluting, stood respectfully, though in the attitude of one who sought no favour.
All the men in the room looked at him, some with admiration of the strong young figure and the open, manly face, others with inquiry. He wondered that Wood, a man who belonged essentially to the field of battle, should be there; but the cavalry leader, for his great achievements, was high in the esteem of the Confederate Government.
It was the Secretary, Mr. Sefton, who spoke, for the others seemed involuntarily to leave to him subjects requiring craft and guile—a tribute or not as one chooses to take it.
"The subject upon which we have called you is not new to us nor to you," said the Secretary in expressionless tones. "We revert to the question of a spy—a woman. It is now known that it was a woman who stole the important papers from the office of the President. The secret service of General Winder has learned that she has been in this city all the while—that is, until the last night or two."
He paused here a few moments as if he would mark the effect of his words, and his eyes and those of Prescott met. Prescott tried to read what he saw there—to pierce the subconscious depths, and he felt as if he perceived the soul of this man—a mighty ambition under a silky exterior, and a character in which a dual nature struggled. Then his eyes wandered a moment to Wood. Both he and Sefton were mountaineers in the beginning, and what a contrast now! But he stood waiting for the Secretary to proceed.
"It has become known to us," continued the Secretary, "that this dangerous spy—dangerous because of the example she has set, and because of the connections that she may have here—has just escaped from the city. She was concealed in the house of Miss Charlotte Grayson, a well-known Northern sympathizer—a house which you are now known, Captain Prescott, to have visited more than once."
Prescott looked again into the Secretary's eyes and a flash of intelligence passed between them. He read once more in their depths the desire of this man to torture him—to drag him to the edge of the abyss, but not to push him over.
"There is a suspicion—or perhaps I ought to say a fear—that you have given aid and comfort to the enemy, this spy, Captain Prescott," said the Secretary.
Prescott's eyes flashed with indignant fire.
"I have been wounded five times in the service of the Confederacy," he replied, "and I have here an arm not fully recovered from the impact of a Northern bullet." He turned his left arm as he spoke. "If that was giving aid and comfort to the enemy, then I am guilty."
A murmur of approval arose. He had made an impression.
"It was by my side at Chancellorsville that he received one of his wounds," said Wood in his peculiar slow, drawling tones.
Prescott shot him a swift and grateful glance.
But the Secretary persisted. He was not to be turned aside, not even by the great men of the Confederacy who sat in the room about him.
"No one doubts the courage of Captain Prescott," he said, "because that has been proved too often—you see, Captain, we are familiar with your record—but even the best of men may become exposed to influences that cause an unconscious change of motive. I repeat that none of us is superior to it."
Prescott saw at once the hidden meaning in the words, and despite himself a flush rose to his face. Perhaps it was true.
The Secretary looked away toward the window, his glance seeming to rest on the white world of winter outside, across which the yellow streaks of sunlight fell like a golden tracery. He interlaced his fingers thoughtfully upon his knees while he waited for an answer. But Prescott had recovered his self-possession.
"I do not know what you mean," he said. "I am not accustomed, perhaps, to close and delicate analysis of my own motives, but this I will say, that I have never knowingly done anything that I thought would cause the Confederacy harm; while, on the contrary, I have done all I could—so far as my knowledge went—that would do it good."
As he spoke he glanced away from the Secretary toward the others, and he thought he saw the shadow of a smile on the face of the President. What did it mean? He was conscious again of the blood flushing to his face. It was the President himself who next spoke.
"Do you know where this woman is, Captain Prescott?" he asked.
"No, I do not know where she is," he replied, thankful that the question had come in such a form.
Wood, the mountaineer, moved impatiently. He was of an impetuous disposition, untrammeled by rule, and he stood in awe of nobody.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I can't exactly see the drift of all this talk. I'd as soon believe that any of us would be a traitor as Captain Prescott, an' I don't think we've got much time to waste on matters like this. Grant's a-comin'. I tell you, gentlemen, we've got to think of meetin' him and not of huntin' for a woman spy."
He spoke with emphasis, and again Prescott shot him another swift and grateful glance.
"There is no question of treason, General Wood," said Mr. Sefton placidly. "None of us would wrong Captain Prescott by imputing to him such a crime. I merely suggested an unconscious motive that might have made him deflect for a moment, and for a moment only, from the straight and narrow path of duty."
Prescott saw a cruel light in the Secretary's eyes and behind it a suggestion of enjoyment in the power to make men laugh or quiver as he wished; but he did not flinch, merely repeating:
"I have done my duty to the Confederacy as best I could, and I am ready to do it again. Even the children among us know that a great battle is coming, and I ask that I be permitted again to show my loyalty at the front."
"Good words from a good man," exclaimed Wood.
"General," said the President quietly, "comments either for or against are not conducive to the progress of an examination."
Wood took the rebuke in good part, lifted a ruler from the table and with an imaginary pocket-knife began to trim long shavings from it.
Prescott, despite his feeling that he had done no moral wrong—though technically and in a military sense he had sinned—could not escape the sensation of being on trial as a criminal, and his heart rose up in indignant wrath. Those five wounds were ample reply to such a charge. He felt these questions to be an insult, and cold anger against the Secretary who was seeking to entrap or torture him rose in his heart. There came with it a resolve not to betray his part in the escape of the girl; but they never asked him whether or not he had helped her in her flight. When he noticed this his feeling of apprehension departed, and he faced the Secretary, convinced that the duel was with him alone and that these others were but seconds to whom Mr. Sefton had confided only a part of what he knew.
The Secretary asked more questions, but again they were of a general nature and did not come to the point, as he made no mention of Miss Grayson or her cottage.
Wood said nothing, but he was growing more impatient than ever, and the imaginary shavings whittled by his imaginary knife were increasing in length.
"Gentlemen," he exclaimed, "it still 'pears to me that we are wastin' time. I know Prescott an' he's all right. I don't care two cents whether or not he helped a woman to escape. S'pose she was young and pretty."
All smiled saved Sefton and Prescott.
"General, would you let gallantry override patriotism?" asked the President.
"There ain't no woman in the world that can batter down the Confederacy," replied the other stoutly. "If that is ever done, it'll take armies to do it, and I move that we adjourn."
The President looked at his watch.
"Yes," he said, "we must go. Mr. Sefton, you may continue the examination as you will and report to me. Captain Prescott, I bid you good-day, and express my wish that you may come clear from this ordeal."
Prescott bowed his thanks, but to Wood, whose active intervention in his behalf had carried much weight, he felt deeper gratitude, though he said nothing, and still stood in silence as the others went out, leaving him alone with the Secretary.
Mr. Sefton, too, was silent for a time, still interlacing his fingers thoughtfully and glancing now and then through the window. Then he looked at Prescott and his face changed. The cruelty which had lurked in his eyes disappeared and in its place came a trace of admiration, even liking.
"Captain Prescott," he said, "you have borne yourself very well for a man who knew he was wholly in the power of another, made by circumstances his enemy for the time being."
"I am not wholly in the power of anybody," replied Prescott proudly. "I repeat that I have done nothing at any time of which I am ashamed or for which my conscience reproaches me."
"That is irrelevant. It is not any question of shame or conscience, which are abstract things. It is merely one of fact—that is, whether you did or did not help Miss Catherwood, the spy, to escape. I am convinced that you helped her—not that I condemn you for it or that I am sorry you did so. Perhaps it is for my interest that you have acted thus. You were absent from your usual haunts yesterday and the night before, and it was within that time that the spy disappeared from Miss Grayson's. I have no doubt that you were with her. You see, I did not press the question when the others were here. I halted at the critical point. I had that much consideration for you."
He stopped again and the glances of these two strong men met once more; Prescott's open and defiant, Sefton's cunning and indirect.
"I hear that she is young and very beautiful," said the Secretary thoughtfully.
Prescott flushed.
"Yes, young and very beautiful," continued the Secretary. "One might even think that she was more beautiful than Helen Harley."
Prescott said nothing, but the deep flush remained on his face.
"Therefore," continued the Secretary, "I should imagine that your stay with her was not unpleasant."
"Mr. Sefton," exclaimed Prescott, taking an angry step forward, "your intimation is an insult and one that I do not propose to endure."
"You mistake my meaning," said the Secretary calmly. "I intended no such intimation as you thought, but I wonder what Helen Harley would think of the long period that you have spent with one as young and beautiful as herself."
He smiled a little, showing his white teeth, and Prescott, thrown off his guard, replied:
"She would think it a just deed."
"Then you admit that it is true?"
"I admit nothing," replied Prescott firmly. "I merely stated what I thought would be the opinion of Helen Harley concerning an act of mercy."
The Secretary smiled.
"Captain Prescott," he said, "I am not sorry that this has happened, but be assured that I am not disposed to make war upon you now. Shall we let it be an armed peace for the present?"
He showed a sudden warmth of manner and an easy agreeableness that Prescott found hard to resist. Rising from the chair, he placed his hand lightly upon Robert's arm, saying:
"I shall go with you to the street, Captain, if you will let me."
Together they left the room, the Secretary indicating the way, which was not that by which Prescott had come. They passed through a large office and here Prescott saw many clerks at work at little desks, four women among them. Helen Harley was one of the four. She was copying papers, her head bent down, her brown hair low on her forehead, unconscious of her observers.
In her simple gray dress she looked not less beautiful than on that day when, in lilac and rose, drawing every eye, she received General Morgan. She did not see them as they entered, for her head remained low and the wintry sunshine from the window gleamed across her brown hair.
The Secretary glanced at her casually, as it were, but Prescott saw a passing look on his face that he could translate into nothing but triumphant proprietorship. Mr. Sefton was feeling more confident since the examination in the room above.
"She works well," he said laconically.
"I expected as much," said Prescott.
"It is not true that people of families used to an easy life cannot become efficient when hardship arrives," continued the Secretary. "Often they bring great zeal to their new duties."
Evidently he was a man who demanded rigid service, as the clerks who saw him bent lower to their task, but Helen did not notice the two until they were about to pass through a far door. Her cheeks reddened as they went out, for it hurt her pride that Prescott should see her there—a mere clerk, honest and ennobling though she knew work to be.
The press of Richmond was not without enterprise even in those days of war and want, and it was seldom lacking in interest. If not news, then the pungent comment and criticism of Raymond and Winthrop were sure to find attentive readers, and on the day following Prescott's interview with the Secretary they furnished to their readers an uncommonly attractive story.
It had been discovered that the spy who stole the papers was a beautiful woman—a young Amazon of wonderful charms. She had been concealed in Richmond all the while—perhaps she might be in the city yet—and it was reported that a young Confederate officer, yielding to her fascinations, had hidden and helped her at the risk of his own ruin.
Here, indeed, was a story full of mystery and attraction; the city throbbed with it, and all voices were by no means condemnatory. It is a singular fact that in war people develop an extremely sentimental side, as if to atone for the harsher impulses that carry them into battle. Throughout the Civil War the Southerners wrote much so-called poetry and their newspapers were filled with it. This story of the man and the maid appealed to them. If the man had fallen—well, he had fallen in a good cause. He was not the first who had been led astray by the tender, and therefore pardonable, emotion. What did it matter if she was a Northern girl and a spy? These were merely added elements to variety and charm. If he had made a sacrifice of himself, either voluntarily or involuntarily, it was for a woman, and women understood and forgave.
They wondered what this young officer's name might be—made deft surmises, and by piecing circumstance to circumstance proved beyond a doubt that sixteen men were certainly he. It was somewhat tantalizing that at least half of these men, when accused of the crime, openly avowed their guilt and said they would do it again. Prescott, who was left out of all these calculations, owing to the gravity and soberness of his nature, read the accounts with mingled amusement and vexation. There was nothing in any of them by which he could be identified, and he decided not to inquire how the story reached the newspapers, being satisfied in his own mind that he knew already. The first to speak to him of the matter was his friend Talbot.
"Bob," he said, "I wonder if this is true. I tried to get Raymond to tell me where he got the story, but he wouldn't, and as all the newspapers have it in the same way, I suppose they got it from the same source. But if there is such a girl, and if she has been here, I hope she has escaped and that she'll stay escaped."
It was pleasant for Prescott to hear Talbot talk thus, and this opinion was shared by many others as he soon learned, and his conscience remained at ease, although he was troubled about Miss Grayson. But he met her casually on the street about a week afterward and she said:
"I have had a message from some one. She is safe and well and she is grateful." She would add no more, and Prescott did not dare visit her house, watched now with a vigilance that he knew he could not escape; but he wondered often if Lucia Catherwood and he in the heave and drift of the mighty war should ever meet again.
The gossip of Richmond was not allowed to dwell long on the story of the spy, with all its alluring mystery of the man and the maid. Greater events were at hand. A soft wind blew from the South one day. The ice broke up, the snow melted, the wind continued to blow, the earth dried—winter was gone and spring in its green robe was coming. The time of play was over. The armies rose from their sleep in the snows and began to brush the rust from the cannon. Horses stretched themselves and generals studied their maps anew. Three years of tremendous war was gone, but they were prepared for a struggle yet more gigantic.
To those in Richmond able to bear arms was sent an order—"Come at once to the front"—and among them was Prescott, nothing loath. His mother kissed him a tearless good-by, hiding her grief and fear under her Puritan face.
"I feel that this is the end, one way or the other," she said.
"I hope so, mother."
"But it may be long delayed," she added.
To Helen he said a farewell like that of a boy to the girl who has been his playmate. Although she flushed a little, causing him to flush, too, deep tenderness was absent from their parting, and there was a slight constraint that neither could fail to notice.
Talbot was going with him, Wood and Colonel Harley were gone already, and Winthrop and Raymond said they should be at the front to see. Then Prescott bade farewell to Richmond, where in the interval of war he had spent what he now knew to be a golden month or two.
A large man sat in the shadow of a little rain-washed tent one golden May morning and gazed with unseeing eyes at the rich spectacle spread before him by Nature. The sky was a dome of blue velvet, mottled with white clouds, and against the line of the horizon a belt of intense green told where the forest was springing into new life under the vivid touch of spring. The wind bore a faint, thrilling odour of violets.
The leader was casting up accounts and trying in vain to put the balance on his own side of the ledger. He dealt much with figures, but they were never large enough for his purpose, and with the brave man's faith he could trust only in some new and strange source of supply. Gettysburg, that drawn field of glorious defeat, lay behind him, and his foe, as he knew, was gathering all his forces and choosing his ablest leader that he might hurl his utmost strength upon these thin battalions. But the soul of the lonely man rose to the crisis.
Everything about him was cast in a large mould, and the dignity and slow gravity of his manner added to his size. Thus he was not only a leader, but he had the look of one—which is far from being always so. Yet his habitual expression was of calm benevolence, his gestures whenever he moved were gentle, and his gray eyes shed a mild light. His fine white hair and beard contributed to his fatherly appearance. One might have pointed him out as the president of a famous college or the leader of a reform movement—so little does Nature indicate a man's trade by his face.
Those around the gray-haired chief, whose camp spread for miles through the green forest, were singularly unlike him in manner and bearing, and perhaps it was this sharp contrast that gave to him as he sat among his battalions the air of a patriarch. He was old; they were young. He was white of head, but one might search in vain through these ragged regiments for a gray hair. They were but boys, though they had passed through some of the greatest battles the world has ever known, and to-day, when there was a pause in the war and the wind blew from the south, they refused to be sad or to fear for the future. If the truth be told, the future was the smallest item in their reckoning. Men of their trade, especially with their youth, found the present so large that room was left for nothing else. They would take their ease now and rejoice.
Now and then they looked toward the other and larger army that lay facing them not far away, but it did not trouble them greatly. There was by mutual though tacit consent an interval of peace, and these foes, who had learned in fire and smoke to honour each other, would not break it through any act of bad faith. So some slept on the grass or the fresh-cut boughs of trees; others sang or listened to the music of old violins or accordions, while more talked on any subject that came into their minds, though their voices sank when it was of far homes not seen since long ago. Of the hostile camp facing theirs a like tale might have been told.
It seemed to Prescott, who sat near the General's tent, as if two huge picnic parties had camped near each other with the probability that they would join and become one in a short time—an illusion arising from the fact that he had gone into the war without any deep feeling over its real or alleged causes.
"Why do you study the Yankees so hard?" asked Talbot, who lay in the shade of a tree. "They are not troubling us, and I learned when I cut my eye teeth not to bother with a man who isn't bothering me—a rule that works well."
"To tell you the truth, Talbot," replied Prescott, "I was wondering how all this would end."
"The more fool you," rejoined Talbot. "Leave all that to Marse Bob. Didn't you see how hard he was thinking back there?"
Prescott scarcely heard his words, as his eyes were caught by an unusual movement in the hostile camp. He carried a pair of strong glasses, being a staff officer, and putting them to his eyes he saw at once that an event of uncommon interest was occurring within the lines of the Northern army. There was a great gathering of officers near a large tent, and beyond them the soldiers were pressing near. A puff of smoke appeared suddenly, followed by a spurt of flame, and the sound of a cannon shot thundered in their ears.
Talbot uttered an angry cry.
"What do they mean by firing on us when we're not bothering them?" he cried.
But neither shot nor shell struck near the lines of the Southern army. Peace still reigned unbroken. There was another flash of fire, another cannon shot, and then a third. More followed at regular intervals. They sounded like a signal or a salute.
"I wonder what it can mean?" said Prescott.
"If you want to find out, ask," said Talbot, and taking his comrade by the arm, he walked toward a line of Northern sentinels posted in a wood on their right.
"I've established easy communication," said Talbot; "there's a right good fellow from Vermont over here at the creek bank. He talks through his nose, but that don't hurt him. I traded him some whisky for a pouch of tobacco last night, and he'll tell us what the row is about."
Prescott accepted his suggestion without hesitation. It was common enough for the pickets on either side to grow friendly both before and after those terrific but indecisive battles so characteristic of the Civil War, a habit in which the subordinate officers sometimes shared while those of a higher rank closed their eyes. It did no military injury, and contributed somewhat to the smoothness and grace of life. The thunder of the guns, each coming after its stated interval, echoed again in their ears. A great cloud of yellowish-brown smoke rose above the trees. Prescott used his glasses once more, but he was yet unable to discover the cause of the commotion. Talbot, putting his fingers to his lips, blew a soft, low but penetrating whistle, like the distant note of a mocking-bird. A tall, thin man in faded blue, with a straggling beard on his face and a rifle in his hand, came forward among the trees.
"What do you want, Johnny Reb?" he asked in high and thin but friendly tones.
"Nothing that will cost you anything, Old Vermont," replied Talbot.
"Wall, spit it out," said the Vermonter. "If I'd been born in your State I'd commit suicide if anybody found it out. Ain't your State the place where all they need is more water and better society, just the same as hell?"
"I remember a friend of mine," said Talbot, "who took a trip once with four other men. He said they were a gentleman from South Carolina, a man from Maryland, a fellow from New York, and a damned scoundrel from Vermont. I think he hit it off just about right."
The Vermonter grinned, his mouth forming a wide chasm across the thin face. He regarded the Southerner with extreme good nature.
"Say, old Johnny Reb," he asked, "what do you fellows want anyway?"
"We'd like to know when your army is going to retreat, and we have come over here to ask you," replied Talbot.
The cannon boomed again, its thunder rolling and echoing in the morning air. The note was deep and solemn and seemed to Prescott to hold a threat. Its effect upon the Vermonter was remarkable. He straightened his thin, lean figure until he stood as stiff as a ramrod. Then dropping his rifle, he raised his hand and gave the cannon an invisible salute.
"This army never retreats again," he said. "You hear me, Johnny Reb, the Army of the Potomac never goes back again. I know that you have whipped us more than once, and that you have whipped us bad. I don't forget Manassas and Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, but all that's done past and gone. We didn't have good generals then, and you won't do it again—never again, I say. We're comin', Johnny Reb, with the biggest and best army we've had, and we'll just naturally sweep you off the face of the earth."
The emphasis with which he spoke and his sudden change of manner at the cannon shot impressed Prescott, coming, too, upon his own feeling that there was a solemn and ominous note in the sound of the gun.
"What do those shots mean?" he asked. "Are they not a salute for somebody?"
"Yes," replied the Vermonter, a glow of joy appearing in his eye. "Grant has come!"
"Ah!"
"He's to command us now," the Vermonter continued, "and you know what that means. You have got to stand up and take your medicine. You hear me telling you!"
A sudden thrill of apprehension ran through Prescott's veins. He had been hearing for a long time of this man Grant and his great deeds in the West, where no general of the South seemed able to stand before him. Now he was here in the East among that group of officers yonder, and there was nothing left for either side but to fight. Grant would permit no other choice; he was not like the other Northern generals—he would not find excuses, and in his fancy double and triple the force before him, but he would drive straight for the heart of his foe.
It was a curious chance, but as the echo of the last gun rolled away among the trees the skies were darkened by leaden clouds rolling up from the southwest and the air became somber and heavy. Prescott saw as if in a vision the mighty battles that were to come and the miles of fallen scattered through all the wilderness that lay around them.
But Talbot, gifted with a joyous soul that looked not far into the future, never flinched. He saw the cloud on the face of Prescott and the glow in the eyes of the Vermonter, but he was stirred by no tumult.
"Never mind," he said calmly. "You've got your Grant and you are welcome to him, but Marse Bob is back there waiting for him." And he nodded over his shoulder toward the tent where the lone man had been sitting. His face as he spoke was lighted by the smile of supreme confidence.
They thanked the man for his news and walked slowly back to their camp, Prescott thoughtful all the way. He knew now that the crisis had come.
The two great protagonists stood face to face at last.
When Robert announced the arrival of Grant to his Commander-in-Chief a single flash appeared in the eye of Lee and then the mask settled back over his face, as blank and expressionless as before.
Then Prescott left the General's tent and walked toward a little house that stood in the rear of the army, well beyond the range of a hostile cannon shot. The arrival of Grant, now conceded by North and South alike to be the ablest general on the Northern side, was spreading with great swiftness among the soldiers, but these boys, veterans of many fields, showed little concern; they lived in the present and thought little of "next week."
Prescott noted, as he had noted so many times before, the motley appearance of the army, but with involuntary motion he began to straighten and smooth his own shabby uniform. He was about to enter the presence of a woman and he was young and so was she.
The house was a cheap and plain structure, such as a farmer in that sterile region would build for himself; but farmer and family were gone long since, swept away by the tide of war, and their home was used for other purposes.
Prescott knocked lightly at the door and Helen Harley opened it.
"Can the Colonel see me?" he asked.
"He will see any one if we let him," she replied.
"Then I am just 'any one'!"
"I did not say that," she replied with a smile.
She stood aside and Prescott entered the room, a bare place, the rude log walls covered with neither lath nor plaster, yet not wholly lacking in proof that woman was present. The scanty articles of furniture were arranged with taste, and against the walls were tacked a few sheets from last year's New York and London illustrated weeklies. Vincent Harley lay on a pallet of blankets in the corner, a petulant look on his face.
"I'm glad to see you, Prescott," he said, "and then I'm not, because you fill my soul with envy. Here I am, tied to these blankets, while you can walk about and breathe God's air as you will. I wouldn't mind it so much if I had got that bullet in a big battle, say like Gettysburg, but to be knocked off one's horse as nice as you please in a beggarly little skirmish. It's too much, I say."
"You ought to be thankful that the bullet, instead of putting you on the ground, didn't put you under it," replied Prescott.
"Now, don't you try the pious and thankful dodge on me!" cried Harley. "Helen does it now and then, but I stop her, even if I have to be impolite to a lady. I wouldn't mind your feelings at all."
His sister sat down on a camp stool. It was easy to see that she understood her brother's temper and knew how to receive his outbursts.
"There you are again, Helen," he cried, seeing her look. "A smile like that indicates a belief in your own superiority. I wish you wouldn't do it. You hurt my vanity, and you are too good a sister for that."
Prescott laughed.
"I think you are getting well fast, Harley," he said. "You show too much energy for an invalid."
"I wish the surgeon thought the same," replied Harley, "but that doctor is feeble-minded; I know he is! Isn't he, Helen?"
"Perhaps he's keeping you here because he doesn't want us to beat the Yankees too soon," she replied.
"Isn't it true, Prescott, that a man is always appreciated least by his own family?" he asked.
He spoke as if in jest, but there was a trace of vanity, and Prescott hesitated for a reply, not wishing to appear in a false light to either brother or sister.
"Slow praise is worth the most," he replied ambiguously. Harley showed disappointment. He craved a compliment and he expected it.
While they talked Prescott was watching Helen Harley out of the corner of his eye. Outside were the wild soldiers and war; here, between these narrow log walls, he beheld woman and peace. He was seized with a sudden sick distaste of the war, its endless battles, its terrible slaughter, and the doubt of what was to come after.
Harley claimed his attention, for he could not bear to be ignored. Moreover, he was wounded, and with all due deference to his sister, the visit was to him.
"Does either army mean to move?" he asked.
"I think so; I came to tell you about it," replied Prescott.
Harley at once was full of eagerness. This touched him on his strongest side. He was a warrior by instinct, and his interest in the affairs of the army could never be languid.
"Why, what news have you?" he asked quickly.
"Grant has come!"
He uttered an exclamation, but for a little while made no further comment. Like all the others, he seemed to accept the arrival of the new Northern leader as the signal for immediate action, and he wished to think over it.
"Grant," he said presently, "will attack us, and you don't know what it costs me to be lying here. I must be up and I will. Don't you see what is coming? Don't you see it, I say?"
"What is it that you see?" asked Prescott.
"Why, General Lee is going to win the greatest victory of the age. He will beat their biggest army, led by their best General. Why, I see it now! It will be the tactics of Chancellorsville over again. What a pity Jackson is gone! But there's Wood. He'll make a circuit with ten thousand men and hit 'em on the right flank, and at the same time I'll go around with my cavalry and dig into 'em on the left. The Yankees won't be dreaming of it, for Bobby Lee will be pounding 'em in front and they'll have eyes only for him. Won't it be grand, magnificent!"
There was a flash in his eye now and he was no longer irritable or impatient.
"Isn't war a glorious game?" he said. "Of course it is best not to have war, but if we must have it, it draws out of a man the best that is in him, if he's any good at all."
There was a light knock at the door, and Prescott, who was contrasting brother and sister, noticed their countenances change oddly and in a manner as different as their characters. Evidently they knew the knock. She closed her lips tightly and a faint pink tint in her cheeks deepened. He looked up quickly and the light in his eyes spoke welcome. "Come in!" he called in a loud voice, but his sister said nothing.
The lady who entered was Mrs. Markham, as crisp as the breath of the morning. Her dress was fresh and bright in colour, a brilliant note in a somber camp.
"Oh, Colonel!" she cried, going forward and taking both of Harley's hands in the warmth of her welcome. "I have been so anxious to see you again, and I am glad to know that you are getting well."
A pleased smile came over Harley's face and remained there. Here was one, and above all a woman, who could appreciate him at his true value, and whom no small drop of jealousy or envy kept from saying so.
"You give me too much credit, Mrs. Markham," he said.
"Not at all, my dear Colonel," she replied vivaciously. "It is not enough. One who wins laurels on such a terrible field as war has a right to wear them. Do not all of us remember that great charge of yours just at the critical moment, and the splendid way in which you covered the retreat from Gettysburg. You always do your duty, Colonel."
"My brother is not the only man in the army who does his duty," said Miss Harley, "and there are so many who are always true that he does not like to be singled out for special praise."
Colonel Harley frowned and Mrs. Markham shot a warning side glance at Miss Harley. Prescott, keenly watching them both, saw a flash as of perfect understanding and defiance pass between two pairs of eyes and then he saw nothing more. Miss Harley was intent upon her work, and Mrs. Markham, blonde, smiling and innocent, was talking to the Colonel, saying to him the words that he liked to hear and soothing his wounded spirit.
Mrs. Markham had just come from Richmond to visit the General, and she told gaily of events in the Southern capital.
"We are cheerful there, Colonel," she said, "confident that such men as you will win for us yet. Oh, we hear what is going on. They print news on wall-paper, but we get it somehow. We have our diversions, too. It takes a thousand dollars, Confederate money, to buy a decent calico dress, but sometimes we have the thousand dollars. Besides, we have taken out all the old spinning-wheels and looms and we've begun to make our own cloth. We don't think it best that the women should spend all their time mourning while the men are at the front fighting so bravely."
Mrs. Markham chattered on; whatever might be the misfortunes of the Confederacy they did not seem to impress her. She was so lively and cheerful, and so deftly mingled compliments with her gaiety, that Prescott did not wonder at Harley's obvious attraction, but he was not sorry to see the frown deepen on the face of the Colonel's sister. The sound of some soldiers singing a gay chorus reached their ears and he asked Helen if she would come to the door of the house and see them. She looked once doubtfully at the other woman, but rose and went with him, the two who were left behind making no attempt to detain her.
"Too much watching is not good, Helen," said Prescott, reproachfully. "You are looking quite pale. See how cheerful the camp is! Did you ever before hear of such soldiers?"
She looked over the tattered army as far as she could see and her eyes grew wet.
"War is a terrible thing," she replied, "and I think that no cause is wholly right; but truly it makes one's heart tighten to see such devotion by ragged and half-starved soldiers, hardly a man of whom is free from wound or scar of one."
The rolling thunder of a cannon shot came from a point far to the left.
"What is that?" she asked.
"It means probably that the tacit truce is broken, but it is likely that it is more in the nature of a range-finding shot than anything else. We are strongly intrenched, and as wise a man as Grant will try to flank us out of here, before making a general attack. I am sure there will be no great battle for at least a week."
"And my brother may be well in that time," she said. "I am so anxious to see him once more in the saddle, where he craves to be and where he belongs."
There are women who prefer to see the men whom they love kept back by a wound in order that they might escape a further danger, but not of such was Helen. Prescott remembered, too, the single glance, like a solitary signal shot, that had passed between her and Mrs. Markham.
"We are all anxious to see Colonel Harley back in the saddle," he replied, "and for a good reason. His is one of our best sabers."
Then she asked him to tell her of the army, the nature of the position it now occupied, the movements they expected, and he replied to her in detail when he saw how unaffected was her interest. It pleased him that she should be concerned about these things and should understand them as he explained their nature; and she, seeing his pleasure, was willing to play upon it. So talking, they walked farther and farther from the house and were joined presently by the cheerful Talbot.
"It's good of you to let us see you, Miss Harley," he said. "We are grateful to your brother for getting wounded so that you had to come and nurse him; but we are ungrateful because he stays hurt so long that you can't leave him oftener."
Talbot dispensed a spontaneous gaiety. It was his boast that he could fall in love with every pretty girl whom he saw without committing himself to any. "That is, boys," he said, "I can hover on the brink without ever falling over, and it is the most delightful sensation to know that you are always in danger and that you will always escape it. You are a hero without the risk."
He led them away from more sober thoughts, talking much of Richmond and the life there.
They went back presently to the house and met Mrs. Markham at the door just as she was leaving.
"The Colonel is so much better," she said sweetly to Miss Harley. "I think that he enjoys the visits of friends."
"I do not doubt it," replied the girl coldly, and she went into the room.
Two men sat early the next morning in a tent with a pot of coffee and a breakfast of strips of bacon between them. One was elderly, calm and grave, and his face was known well to the army; the other was youngish, slight, dark and also calm, and the soldiers were not familiar with his face. They were General Lee and Mr. Sefton.
The Secretary had arrived from Richmond just before the dawn with messages of importance, and none could tell them with more easy grace than he. He was quite unembarrassed now as he sat in the presence of the great General, announcing the wishes of the Government—wishes which lost no weight in the telling, and whether he was speaking or not he watched the man before him with a stealthy gaze that nothing escaped.
"The wishes of the Cabinet are clear, General Lee," he said, "and I have been chosen to deliver them to you orally, lest written orders by any chance should fall into the hands of the enemy."
"And those wishes are?"
"That the war be carried back into the enemy's own country. It is better that he should feel its ills more heavily than we. You will recall, General, how terror spread through the North when you invaded Pennsylvania. Ah, if it had not been for Gettysburg!"
He paused and looked from under lowered eyelashes at the General. There had been criticism of Lee because of Gettysburg, but he never defended himself, taking upon his shoulders all the blame that might or might not be his. Now when Mr. Sefton mentioned the name of Gettysburg in such a connection his face showed no change. The watchful Secretary could not see an eyelid quiver.
"Yes, Gettysburg was a great misfortune for us," said the General, in his usual calm, even voice. "Our troops did wonders there, but they did not win."
"I scarcely need to add, General," said the Secretary, "that the confidence of the Government in you is still unlimited."
Then making deferential excuses, Mr. Sefton left the tent and Lee followed his retreating figure with a look of antipathy.
The Secretary wandered through the camp, watching everything. He had that most valuable of all qualities, the ability to read the minds of men, and now he set himself to the discovery of what these simple soldiers, the cannon food, were thinking. He did it, too, without attracting any attention to himself, by a deft question here, a suggestion there, and then more questions, always indirect, but leading in some fashion to the point. Curiously, but truly, his suggestions were not optimistic, and after he talked with a group of soldiers and passed on the effect that he left was depressing. He, too, looked across toward the Northern lines, and, civilian though he was, he knew that their tremendous infolding curve was more than twice as great as that forming the lines of the South. A singular light appeared in the Secretary's eyes as he noticed this, but he made no verbal comment, not even to himself.
The Secretary's steps led straight toward the house in which the wounded Colonel Harley lay, and when the voice bidding him to enter in response to his knock was feminine, he smiled slightly, entered with light step, and bowed with all the old school's courteous grace over the hand of Helen Harley.
"There are some women, Miss Harley," he said, "who do not fear war and war's alarms."
"Some, Mr. Sefton!" she replied. "There are many—in the South, I know—and there must be as many in the North."
"It is your generous heart that speaks," he said, and then he turned to Colonel Harley, who was claiming the attention of an old acquaintance.
The two men shook hands with great warmth. Here was one who received the Secretary without reserve. Miss Harley, watching, saw how her brother hung upon the words of this accomplished man of the world; how he listened with a pleased air to his praise and how he saw in the Secretary a great man and a friend.
He asked Helen presently if she would not walk with him a little in the camp and her brother seconded the idea. He was not intentionally selfish, and he loved his sister.
"She sits here all the time nursing me," he said, "when I'm almost well, and she needs the fresh air. Take her out, Mr. Sefton, and I'll thank you if she doesn't."
But she was willing to go. She was young; red blood flowed in her veins; she wished to be happy; and the world, despite this black cloud of war which hung over her part of it, was curious and interesting. She was not fond of close rooms and sick beds, so with a certain relief she walked forth by the side of the Secretary.
It was another of those beautiful days in May which clothe the Virginia earth in a gauze of spun silver. Nature was blooming afresh, and peace, disturbed by the vain battle of the night before, had returned to the armies.
"It seems to me a most extraordinary thing to behold these two armies face to face and yet doing nothing," said Helen.
"Wars consist of much more than battles," replied the Secretary.
"I am learning that," she said.
She looked about her with eager interest, custom not dimming to her the strange sights of an army in camp and on the eve of a great conflict. Nothing was like what she imagined it would be. The soldiers seemed to have no fear of death; in fact, nothing, if they could be judged by their actions, was further from their thoughts; they were gay rather than sad, and apparently were enjoying life with an indifference to circumstances that was amazing.
They were joined presently by Prescott, who thought it no part of his cue to avoid the Secretary. Mr. Sefton received him with easy courtesy, and the three strolled on together.
The Secretary asked the news of the camp, and Prescott replied that the Reverend Doctor Warren, a favourite minister, was about to preach to the soldiers.
"He is worth hearing," said Prescott. "Doctor Warren is no ordinary man, and this is Sunday, you know."
This army, like other armies, included many wild and lawless men who cherished in their hearts neither the fear of God nor the fear of man; but the South was religious, and if the battle or march did not forbid, Sunday was observed with the rites of the church. The great Jackson, so eager for the combat on other days, would not fight on Sunday if it could be helped.
The crowd was gathering already to hear the minister, who would address them from a rude little platform built in the centre of a glade.
The day was so calm, so full of the May bloom that Helen felt its peace steal over her, and for the moment there was no war; this was not an army, but just a great camp-meeting in the woods, such as the South often had and still has.
The soldiers were gathered already to the number of many thousands, some sitting on stumps and logs and others lying on the ground. All were quiet, inspired with respect for the man and his cloth.
"Let us sit here and listen," said Prescott, and the three, sitting on a convenient log, waited.
Doctor Warren, for he was an M.A. and a Ph.D. of a great American university and had taken degrees at another in Germany, ascended his rude forest pulpit. He was then about forty years of age; tall, thin, with straight black hair, slightly long, and with angular but intellectual features.
"A good man," thought Helen, and she was deeply impressed by his air of authority and the respect that he so evidently inspired.
He spoke to them as to soldiers of the cross, and he made his appeal directly to their hearts and minds, never to their passions. He did not inquire into the causes of the conflict in which they were engaged, he had no criticism for the men on the other side; he seemed rather to include them in his address. He said it was a great war, marked by many terrible battles as it would be marked by many more, and he besought them so to bear themselves that whatever the issue none could say that he had not done his duty as he saw it. And whether they fell in battle or not, that would be the great comfort to those who were at home awaiting their return.
Prescott noticed many general officers in the crowd listening as attentively as the soldiers. All sounds in the camp had died and the speaker's clear voice rose now and penetrated far through the forest. The open air, the woods, the cannon at rest clothed the scene with a solemnity that no cathedral could have imparted. The same peace enfolded the Northern army, and it required but little fancy to think that the soldiers there were listening, too. It seemed at the moment an easy and natural thing for them both to lay down their arms and go home.
The minister talked, too, of home, a place that few of those who heard him had seen in two years or more, but he spoke of it not to enfeeble them, rather to call another influence to their aid in this struggle of valour and endurance. Prescott saw tears rise more than once in the eyes of hardened soldiers, and he became conscious again of the power of oratory over the Southern people. The North loved to read and the South to hear speeches; that seemed to him to typify the difference in the sections.
The minister grew more fiery and more impassioned. His penetrating voice reached far through the woods and around him was a ring of many thousands. Few have ever spoken to audiences so large and so singular; of women there were not twenty, just men, and men mostly young, mere boys the majority, but with faces brown and scarred and clothing tattered and worn, men hardened to wounds and reckless of death, men who had seen life in its wildest and most savage phases. But all the brown and scarred faces were upturned to the preacher, and the eyes of the soldiers as they listened gleamed with emotional fire. The wind moaned now and then, but none heard it. Around them the smoky camp-fires flared and cast a distorting light over those who heard.
Prescott's mind, as he listened to the impassioned voice of the preacher and looked at the brown, wild faces of those who listened, inevitably went back to the Crusades. There was now no question of right or wrong, but he beheld in it the spirit of men stirred by their emotions and gathering a sort of superhuman fire for the last and greatest conflict, for Armageddon. Here was the great drama played against the background of earth and sky, and all the multitude were actors.
The spirit of the preacher, too, was that of the crusading priest. The battlefields before them were but part of the battle of life; it was their duty to meet the foe there as bravely as they met the temptation of evil, and then he preached of the reward afterward, the Heaven to come. His listeners began to see a way into a better life through such a death, and many shook with emotion.
The spell was complete. The wind still moaned afar, and the fires still flared, casting their pallid light, but all followed the preacher. They saw only his deepset, burning eyes, the long pale face, and the long black hair that fell around it. They followed only his promises of death and life. He besought them to cast their sins at the feet of the Master—to confess and prepare for the great day to come.
Prescott was a sober man, one who controlled his emotions, but he could not help being shaken by the scene, the like of which the world has not witnessed since the Crusades—the vast forest, the solemn sky overhead, the smoky fires below, and the fifty thousand in the shadow of immediate death who hung on the words of one man.
The preacher talked of olden days, of the men who, girding themselves for the fight, fell in the glory of the Lord. Theirs was a beautiful death, he said, and forgiveness was for all who should do as they and cast away their sins. Groans began to arise from the more emotional of the soldiers; some wept, many now came forward and, confessing their sins, asked that prayers be said for their souls. Others followed and then they went forward by thousands. Over them still thundered the voice of the preacher, denouncing the sin of this world and announcing the glory of the world to come. Clouds swept up the heavens and the fires burned lower, but no one noticed. Before them flashed the livid face and burning eyes of the preacher, and he moved them with his words as the helmsman moves the ship.
Denser and denser grew the throng that knelt at his feet and begged for his prayers, and there was the sound of weeping. Then he ceased suddenly and, closing his eyes and bending his head, began to pray. Involuntarily the fifty thousand, too, closed their eyes and bent their heads.
He called them brands snatched from the burning; he devoted their souls to God. There on their knees they had confessed their sins and he promised them the life everlasting. New emotions began to stir the souls of those who mourned. Death? What was that? Nothing. A mere dividing place between mortality and immortality, a mark, soon passed, and nothing more. They began to feel a divine fire. They welcomed wounds and death, the immortal passage, and they longed for the battlefield and the privilege of dying for their country. They thought of those among their comrades who had been so fortunate as to go on before, and expected joyfully soon to see them again.
Prescott looked up once, and the scene was more powerful and weird than any he had ever seen before. The great throng of people stood there with heads bowed listening to the single voice pouring out its invocation and holding them all within its sweep and spell.
The preacher asked the blessing of God on every one and finished his prayer. Then he began to sing: