The wound was on the side of the head, under the hair, and she remembered afterward how glad she was that the scar would always be hidden by the hair. Strong enough to examine the nature of the injury, she judged that it had been done by a fragment of shell, and she believed that the concussion and loss of blood, rather than any fatal wound, had caused Prescott's fall.
As she drew away the hair, washed the wound and bound it up with a strip from her own dress, she was filled with a divine gladness. Not only was she doing that which she wished most to do, but she was making repayment. He would have died there had she not found him, and no one else would have found him in that lone spot.
Not yet did she seek to move him or to bring help. She would have him to herself for awhile—would watch over him like a mother, and she could do as much as any surgeon. She was glad Helen and the other woman had turned aside, for she alone had found him. No one else could claim a share in saving him. He was for the time hers and hers alone, and in this she rejoiced.
As his pulse was growing stronger she knew that he would live. No doubt of it now occurred to her mind, and she was still happy. The battle of the day that was gone and of the day that was to come, and all the thousands, the living and the fallen, were alike forgotten. She remembered only him.
Again came the tramp of riderless horses, and for a moment she was in dread—not for herself, but for him—but again they turned and passed her by. When the low, threatening note of the cannon shot came once more she trembled lest the battle be renewed in the darkness and surge over this spot; but silence only followed the report. Misty forms filed past in the thicket. They were in blue, a regiment of her own people passing in the darkness. She crouched low in the grass, holding his head upon her knees, hiding again, not for herself, but for him. She would not have him a prisoner, but preferred to become one herself, and cared nothing for it. This was repayment. His pulse was growing stronger and stronger and he uttered half-spoken words while his head moved slightly upon her knees.
She did not know how long she had been there, and she looked back again toward the field. It was now wholly in darkness, then lighted dimly by a fitful flash of lightning. She must carry him to shelter, and without taking thought, she tried to lift him in her arms. He was heavy, lying like lead, and she put him down again, but very softly. She must go for help. Then she heard once more the tread of those riderless horses and feared for him. She could not leave him there alone. She made a mighty effort, lifted him in her arms, and staggered toward the battlefield.
The old house in the woods which still lay within the Confederate lines became a hospital before morning, and when General Wood turned away from it he beheld a woman staggering through the darkness, carrying a strange burden. It was Lucia Catherwood, and when she came nearer he knew that the burden was a man. He saw then that the girl's expression was one that he had never before seen on the face of woman. As he ran forward she gasped:
"Take him; it is Captain Prescott!"
Full of wonder, but with too much delicacy under his rough exterior to ask questions, the mountaineer lifted Prescott in his arms and carried him into the house, where he was placed on the bed beside Harley, who was unconscious, too. Lucia Catherwood followed alone. She had been borne up by the impulse of excessive emotion, but she was exhausted now by her mighty effort. She thought she was going to faint—she who had never fainted in her life—and leaned against the outside wall of the house, dizzy and trembling. Black shadows, not those of the night, floated before her eyes, and the house moved away; but she recovered herself in a few moments and went in.
Improvised beds and cots were in every room, and many of the wounded lay on the floor, too. Mixed with them were some in blue just as on the other side of the battlefield were some in gray mixed with the blue. There was a powerful odour of drugs, of antiseptics, and Helen and Mrs. Markham were tearing cloth into strips.
Prescott lay a long time awaiting his turn at the surgeon's hand—so long that it seemed to Lucia Catherwood it would never come; but she stayed by his side and did what she could, though conscious that both Mrs. Markham and Helen were watching her at times with the keenest curiosity, and perhaps a little hostility. She did not wonder at it; her appearance had been so strange, and was still so lacking in explanation, that they could not fail, after the influence of the battlefield itself had somewhat passed, to be curious concerning her. But she added nothing to what she had said, doing her work in silence.
The surgeon came at last and looked at Prescott's head and its bandages. He was a thin man of middle age, and after his examination he nodded in a satisfied way.
"You did this, I suppose," he said to Lucia—it was not the first woman whom he had seen beside a wounded man. When she replied in the affirmative, he added:
"I could not have done better myself. He's suffering chiefly from concussion, and with good nursing he'll be fit for duty again in a few weeks. You can stay with him, I suppose? You look strong, and women are good for such work."
"Yes; I will stay with him," she replied, though she felt a sudden doubt how she should arrange to do so.
The surgeon gave a few instructions and passed on—it was a busy night for him and all his brethren, and they could not linger over one man. Lucia still sat by the side of Prescott, applying cooling bandages, according to the surgeon's instructions, and no one sought to interfere with her.
The house, which contained so many wounded, was singularly quiet. Hardly one of them groaned. There was merely the sound of feet moving softly. Two or three lights burned very low. Outside was the same silence and darkness. Men came in or went away and the others took no notice.
A man entered presently, a slender man, of no particular presence, with veiled eyes, it seemed to Lucia, and she observed that his coming created a faint rustle of interest, something that had not happened with any other. He was not in uniform, and his first glance was for Helen Harley. Then he came toward Lucia and, bending down, looked keenly at the face of her patient.
"It is Captain Prescott," he said. "I am sorry. Is he badly hurt?"
"No," she replied; "he is suffering chiefly from concussion, the surgeon says, and will be well again in two or three weeks."
"With good nursing?"
"Yes, with good nursing." She glaced up in a little surprise.
Revelation, comprehension, resolve, shot over James Sefton's face. He was genuinely pleased, and as he glanced at Lucia Catherwood again her answering gaze was full of understanding.
"Your name is Lucia Catherwood," he said.
"Yes," she replied, without surprise.
"It does not matter how I knew it," he continued; "it is sufficient that I do know it. I know also that you are the best nurse Robert Prescott could have."
Her look met his, and, despite herself, the deep red dyed her face, even her neck. There was a swift look of admiration on the Secretary's face. Then he smiled amiably. He had every reason to feel amiable. He realized now that he had nothing to fear from Prescott's rivalry with Helen Harley so long as Lucia Catherwood was near. Then why not keep her near?
"You are to be his nurse," he continued, "and you must have the right to go through our lines, even to Richmond if necessary. Here is a pass for you."
He took pencil and paper from his pocket and wrote an order which he handed to her.
The Secretary's next concern was for Harley, and he spoke in low tones of him to Mrs. Markham and his sister. He had heard of his heroic charge at a critical moment—of a man rising from his bed of wounds to lead back his wavering regiment; the army was ringing with it. In the new republic such a hero should have a great reward. Helen flushed with pleasure, but Mrs. Markham, shrewder and keener, said nothing. Her own husband, unhurt, came an hour later, and he was proud of his wife at work there among the wounded. The Secretary stayed a long while, and Lucia felt at times that he was watching her with an eye that read her throughout; but when she saw him looking at Helen Harley she thought she knew the reason of his complacency. She, too, was acute.
The Secretary brought news of the battle, and as he prophesied that the next day would be bloodier than the one just closed, he glanced through the window at the black Wilderness with real awe upon his face.
Lucia followed his look, and despite herself she felt a certain pride. This general, who struck so hard and never ceased striking, was her general. She had known that it would be so, but these people about her had not known it until now. She felt in her heart that the end was coming, but she knew it would be over the roughest road ever traveled by a victorious army.
She formed plans, too, as she sat there, and was thankful for the pass that she concealed in her dress. No matter how it had come, she had it and it was all-powerful. She did not fear this Secretary whom others seemed to fear. If necessary she would go to Richmond again, and she would there join her cousin, Miss Grayson, her nearest living relative, who could now give her protection that no one could question.
About three o'clock in the morning a young man whose face and manner she liked came in and looked at Prescott. He showed deep concern, and then relief, when assured that the wound was not serious. His name was Talbot—Thomas Talbot, he said—and he was a particular friend of Prescott's. He gave Lucia one or two glances, but in a few moments he went away to take his part in the next day's battle.
Lucia dozed a little by and by, her sleep being filled with strange dreams. She was awakened by a low, distant sound, one that the preceding day had made familiar—the report of a cannon shot. She looked out of the window, and it was still so dark that the forest, but a short distance away, was invisible.
"They have begun early," she murmured.
She saw Prescott stir as if he had heard a call, and his eyes half opened. Then he made an effort to move, but she put her hand gently upon his forehead and he sank back to rest. She saw in his half-open eyes a fleeting look of comprehension, gratitude and joy, then the eyes closed again, and he floated off once more into the land of peace where he abode for the present. Lucia felt singularly happy and she knew why, for so engrossed was she in Prescott that she scarcely heard the second cannon shot, replying to the first. There came others, all faint and far, but each with its omen. The second day's battle had begun.
The supreme commanders of either side were now ready. Human minds had never been more busy than theirs had been. Grant was still preparing to attack; no thought of failure entered his resolute soul. If he did not succeed to-day, then he would succeed on the next day or next week or next month; he would attack and never cease attacking. Lee stood resolutely in his path, resolved to beat him back, not only on this line, but on every other line, always bringing up his thinning brigade for a new defense.
The Wilderness still held secrets for both, but they intended to solve them that day, to see which way the riddle ran, and the Wilderness itself was as dark, as calm and as somber as ever. It had been torn by cannon balls, pierced by rifle bullets and scorched by fire; but the two armies were yet buried in it and it gave no sign to the world outside.
In the house, despite the wounded, there was deep attention and a concern that nothing could suppress. The scattered cannon shots blended into a steady thunder already, but it was distant and to the watchers told nothing. The darkness, too, was still so great that they could see no flashes.
The Secretary, mounted on an Accomack pony, rode out of the woods and looked a little while at the house, then turned away and continued in the direction of the new battle. He was in a good humour that morning, smiling occasionally when no one could see. The combat already begun did not trouble Mr. Sefton, although it was his business there to see how it was going and supplement, or, rather, precede, the General's reports with such news as he could obtain, and so deft a mind as his could obtain much. Yet he was not worried over either its progress or its result. He had based his judgment on calculations made long ago by a mind free from passion or other emotion and as thoroughly arithmetical as a human mind can be, and he had seen nothing since to change the estimates then formed.
When he thought how they missed Jackson it was with no intention of depreciating Wood. Both were needed, and he knew that the mountain General would be wherever the combat was fiercest that day. And then, he might not come back! The Secretary pondered over this phase of the matter. He had been growing suspicious of late, and Wood was a good general, but he was not sure that he liked him. But pshaw! There was nothing to dread in such a crude, rough mountaineer.
He glanced to the left and saw there the heads of horses and horsemen rising and falling like waves as they swept over the uneven ground. He believed them to be Wood's troopers, and, taking his field-glass, he studied the figure that rode at their head. It was Wood, and the Secretary saw that they were about to strike the Northern flank. He was not a soldier, but he had an acute mind and a keen eye for effect. He recognized at once the value of the movement, the instinct that had prompted it and the unflinching way in which it was being carried out. "Perhaps Wood will fall there! He rides in the very van," he thought, but immediately repented, because his nature was large enough to admit of admiration for a very brave man.
The sun shone through the clouds a little and directly upon the point in the Northern lines where Wood was aiming to strike, and the Secretary watched intently. He saw the ranks of horsemen rising and falling quickly and then pausing for a second or two before hurling themselves directly upon the Northern flank. He saw the flash of sabers, the jets of white smoke from rifle or pistol, and then the Northern line was cut through. But new regiments came up, threw themselves upon the cavalry, and all were mingled in a wild pell-mell among the thickets and through the forests. Clouds of smoke, thick and black, settled down, and horse and foot, saber and gun were hidden from the Secretary.
"Stubborn! As stubborn as death!" he murmured; "but the end is as certain as the setting of the sun."
Turning his horse, he rode to a new hill, from which he made another long and careful examination. Then he rode a mile or two to the rear and stopped at a small improvised telegraph station, whence he sent three brief telegrams. The first was to President Jefferson Davis of the Southern Confederacy in Richmond; the others, somewhat different in nature, were for two great banking houses—one in London, the other in Paris—and these two despatches were to be forwarded from a seaport by the quickest steamer.
This business despatched, Mr. Sefton, rubbing his hands with pleasure, rode back toward the battle.
A figure, black-bearded, gallant and large, came within the range of his glasses. It was Wood, and the Secretary breathed a little sigh of sorrow. The General had come safely out of the charge and was still a troublesome entity, but Mr. Sefton checked himself. General Wood was a brave man, and he could respect such splendid courage and ability.
Thinking deeply on the way and laying many plans, he turned his pony and rode back toward the house which was still outside the area of battle, and the Secretary judged that it would not come within it on that day at least. More than one in that log structure waited to hear what news he would bring.
Prescott, shortly after daylight, had opened his ears to a dull, steady, distant sound, not unpleasant, and his eyes to a wonderful, luminous face—a face that he knew and which he once had feared he might never see again.
"Lucia Catherwood!" he said.
"Yes, it is I," she replied softly, so softly that no one else could hear.
"I think that you must have found me and brought me here," he said. An intuition had told him this.
She answered evasively: "You are not hurt badly. It was a piece of shell, and the concussion did the harm."
Prescott looked a question. "You will stay by me?" his eyes said to her as plain as day.
"Yes, I will stay by you," was her positive reply in the same language.
Then he lay quite still, for his head was dull and heavy; but it was scarcely an ache, and he did not suffer pain. Instead, a soothing content pervaded his entire system and he felt no anxiety about anything. He tried to remember his moments of unconsciousness, but his mind went back only to the charge, the blow upon the head, and the fall. There everything had stopped, but he was still sure that Lucia Catherwood had found him and somehow had brought him here. He would have died without her, of that he had no doubt, and by and by he should learn about it all.
Men came into the house and went away, but he felt no curiosity. That part of him seemed to be atrophied for the present, but after awhile something aroused his interest. It was not any of the men or women who passed and repassed, but that curious, dull, steady, distant sound which had beat softly upon his ears the moment he awoke. He remembered now that it had never ceased, and it began to trouble him, reminding him of the buzzing of flies on a summer afternoon when he was a boy and wanted to sleep. He wondered what it was, but his brain was still dulled and gave no information. He tried to forget but could not, and looked up at Lucia Catherwood for explanation, but she had none to offer.
He wished to go to sleep, but the noise—that soft but steady drumming on the ear—would not let him. His desire to know grew and became painful. He closed his eyes in thought and it came to him with sudden truth it was the sound of guns, cannon and rifles. The battle, taken up where it was left off the night before, was going on.
North and South were again locked in mortal strife, and the Wilderness still held its secret, refusing to name the victor. Prescott felt a sudden pang of disappointment. He knew the straits of the South; he knew that she needed every man, and he was lying there helpless on a bed while the persistent Grant was hammering away and would continue to hammer away as no general before him had done. He tried to move, but Lucia put her cool hand upon his forehead. That quieted him, but he still listened intently to the sound of battle, distinguishing with a trained ear the deep note of the cannon and the sharper crash of the rifle. All waited anxiously for the return of the Secretary, confident that he would come and confident that he would bring true news of the battle's fortunes. It required but a short acquaintance with Mr. Sefton to produce upon every one the impression that he was a man who saw.
The morning had not been without pleasure to Prescott. His nurse seemed to know everything and to fear nothing. Lucia understood her peculiar position. She had a full sense that she was an outsider, but she did not intend to go away, being strongly fortified by the feeling that she was making repayment. Once as she sat by Prescott, Helen came, too, and leaned over him. Lucia drew away a little as if she would yield to another who had a better claim, but Helen would not have it so.
"Do not go," she said. "He is yours, not mine."
Lucia did not reply, but a tacit understanding arose between the two women, and they were drawn toward each other as friends, since there was nothing to divide them.
The Secretary at that moment was riding slowly toward the house, turning now and then to look at the battle which yet hung in doubt, in its vast canopy of smoke. He studied it with keen eyes and a keener mind, but he could yet make nothing of it, and could give no news upon his arrival at the house.
The long day waned at last, but did not bring with its shadows any decrease in the violence of the battle. Its sound was never absent for a moment from the ears of those in the house, and the women at the windows saw the great pyramid of flame from the forest fire, but their anxiety was as deep as ever. No word came to indicate the result. Night fell, close, heavy and black, save where the forest burned, and suddenly the battle ceased.
News came at length that the South had held her lines. Grant had failed to break through the iron front of Lee. A battle as bloody as Gettysburg had been fought and nothing was won; forty thousand men had been struck down in the Wilderness, and Grant was as far as ever from Richmond.
The watchers in the house said little, but they rejoiced—all save Lucia Catherwood, who sat in silence. However the day might have ended, she did not believe the campaign had ended with it, and her hope continued.
A messenger arrived in haste the next day. The house must be abandoned by all who could go. Grant had turned on his left flank and was advancing by a new road. The Southern army must also turn aside to meet him.
It was as Lucia Catherwood expected. Meade, a victor at Gettysburg, had not attacked again. Grant, failing in the Wilderness, moved forward to fight within three days another battle as great.
The story of either army was the same. The general in his tent touched the spring that set all things in motion. The soldiers rose from the hot ground on which they lay in a stupor rather than sleep. Two streams of wounded poured to the rear, one to the North and one to the South. The horses, like their masters, worn and scarred like them, too, were harnessed to cannon and wagon; the men ate as they worked; there was no time for delay. This was to be a race, grand and terrible in its nature, with great battles as incidents. The stakes were high, and the players played with deadly earnestness.
Both Generals sent orders to hurry and themselves saw that it was done. The battle of yesterday and the day before was as a thing long past; no time to think of it now. The dead were left for the moment in the Wilderness as they had fallen. The air was filled with commands to the men, shouts to the horses, the sough of wheels in the mud, the breaking of boughs under weight, and the clank of metal. The Wilderness, torn now by shells and bullets and scorched by the fires, waved over two armies gloomier and more somber than ever, deserving to the full its name.
They were still in the Wilderness, and it had lost none of its ominous aspects. Far to left and right yet burned the forest fires set by the shells, flaring luridly in the intense blackness that characterized those nights. The soldiers as they hurried on saw the ribbons and coils of flame leaping from tree-top to tree-top, and sometimes the languid winds blew the ashes in their faces. Now and then they crossed parts of the forest where it had passed, and the earth was hot to their feet. Around them lay smouldering logs and boughs, and from these fallen embers tongues of flame arose. Overhead, the moon and stars were shut out by the clouds and smoke and vapour.
Even with a passion for a new conflict rising in them, the soldiers as they hurried on felt the weirdness, the satanic character of the battleground. The fitful flashes of lightning often showed faces stamped with awe; wet boughs of low-growing trees held them back with a moist and sticky touch; the low rumble of thunder came from the far horizon and its tremendous echo passed slowly through the Wilderness; and mingled again with this sound was an occasional cannon shot as the fringes of the two armies hastening on passed the time of night.
The tread of either army was heavy, dull and irregular, and the few torches they carried added little light to the glare of the lightning and the glow of the burning forest. The two marched on in the dark, saying little, making little noise for numbers so great, but steadily converging on Spottsylvania, where they were destined to meet in a conflict rivaling in somber grandeur that of the past two days.
The wounded and those who watched them in the old house learned a little of the race through the darkness. The change of the field of combat, the struggle for Spottsylvania and the wheel-about of the Southern army would leave them in the path of the North, and they must retreat toward Richmond.
The start next morning was through a torn and rent Wilderness, amid smoke and vapours, with wounded in the wagons, making a solemn train that wound its way through the forest, escorted on either flank by troopers, commanded by Talbot, slightly wounded in the shoulder. The Secretary had gone again to look on at the battle.
It was thus that Lucia Catherwood found herself on the way, of her own free will, to that Richmond from which she had recently escaped with so much trouble. There was no reason, real or conventional, why she should not go, as the precious pass from the Secretary removed all danger; and there in Richmond was Miss Grayson, the nearest of her blood. Helen removed the last misgiving.
"You will go with us? We need you," she said.
"Yes," replied Lucia simply; "I shall go to Richmond. I have a relative there with whom I can stay until the end of the war."
Helen was contented with this. It was not a time to ask questions. Then they rode together. Mrs. Markham was with them, quiet and keen-eyed. Much of the battle's spell had gone from her, and she observed everything, most of all Lucia Catherwood. She had noticed how the girl's eyes dwelled upon Prescott, the singular compound of strength and tenderness in her face, a character at once womanly and bold, and the astute Mrs. Markham began to wonder where these two had met before; but she said nothing to any one.
Prescott was in a wagon with Harley. Fate seemed to have linked for awhile these two who did not particularly care for each other. Both were conscious, and Prescott was sitting up, refreshed by the air upon his face, a heavy and noxious atmosphere though it was. So much of his strength had returned that he felt bitter regret at being unable to take part in the great movement which, he had gathered, was going on, and it was this feeling which united him and Harley for the time in a common bond of sympathy; but the latter presently spoke of something else:
"That was a beautiful girl who replaced your bandage this morning, Prescott. Upon my honour, she is one of the finest women I ever saw, and she is going with us, I hear. Do you know anything about her?"
Prescott did not altogether like Harley's tone, but he knew it was foolish to resent it and he replied:
"She is Miss Lucia Catherwood, a relative of Miss Charlotte Grayson, who lives in Richmond, and whom I presume she is going there to join. I have seen Miss Catherwood once or twice in Richmond."
Then he relapsed into silence, and Harley was unable to draw from him any more information; but Prescott, watching Lucia, saw how strong and helpful she was, doing all she could for those who were not her own. A woman with all a woman's emotions and sympathies, controlled by a mind and body stronger than those of most women, she was yet of the earth, real and substantial, ready to take what it contained of joy or sorrow. This was one of her qualities that most strongly attracted Prescott, who did not like the shadowy or unreal. Whilst he was on the earth he wished to be of it, and he preferred the sure and strong mind to the misty and dreamy.
He wished that she would come again to the wagon in which he rode, but now she seemed to avoid him—to be impelled, as it were, by a sense of shyness or a fear that she might be thought unfeminine. Thus he found scant opportunity during the day to talk to her or even to see her, as she remained nearly all the time in the rear of the column with Helen Harley.
Harley's vagrant fancy was caught. He was impressed by Lucia's tall beauty, her silence, her self-possession, and the mystery of her presence. He wished to discover more about her, who she was, whence she came, and believing Prescott to be his proper source of information, he asked him many questions, not noticing the impatient or taciturn demeanour of his comrade until Robert at last exclaimed with a touch of anger:
"Harley, if you wish to know so much about Miss Catherwood, you had better ask her these questions, and if she wishes she will answer them."
"I knew that before," replied Harley coolly; "and I tell you again, Prescott, she's a fine girl—none finer in Richmond."
Prescott turned his back in so far as a wounded man in that narrow space could turn, and Harley presently relapsed into silence.
They were yet in the Wilderness, moving among scrub pines, oaks and cedars, over ground moist with rain and dark with the shadow of the forest. It was Talbot's wish to keep in the rear of the Southern army until the way was clear and then turn toward Richmond. But this was not done with ease, as the Southern army was a shifting quantity, adapting its movements to those of the North; and Talbot often was compelled to send scouts abroad, lest he march with his convoy of wounded directly into the Northern ranks. Once as he rode by the side of Prescott's wagon he remarked:
"Confound such a place as this Wilderness; I don't think any region ever better deserved its name. I'll thank the Lord when I get out of it and see daylight again."
They were then in a dense forest, where the undergrowth was so thick that they broke a way through it with difficulty. The trees hung down mournful boughs dripping with recent rain; the wheels of the wagons and the feet of the horses made a drumming sound in the soft earth; the forest fire still showed, distant and dim, and a thin mist of ashes came on the wind at intervals; now and then they heard the low roll of a cannon, so far away that it seemed but an echo.
Thomas Talbot was usually a cheerful man who shut one eye to grief and opened the other to joy; but he was full of vigilance to-day and thought only of duty. Riding at the head of his column, alert for danger, he was troubled by the uncertainties of the way. It seemed to him that the two armies were revolving like spokes around a hub, and he never knew which he was going to encounter, for chance might bring him into the arc of either. He looked long at the gloomy forest, gazed at the dim fire which marked the latest battlefield, and became convinced that it was his only policy to push on and take the risk, though he listened intently for distant cannon shots and bore away from them.
They stopped about the middle of the afternoon to rest the horses and serve men and women with scanty food. Prescott felt so strong that he climbed out of the wagon and stood for a moment beside it. His head was dizzy at first, but presently it became steady, and he walked to Lucia Catherwood, who was standing alone by a great oak tree, gazing at the forest.
She did not notice him until she heard his step in the soft earth close behind her, when she started in surprise and alarm, exclaiming upon the risk he took and cautioning against exertion.
"My head is hard," he said, "and it will stand more blows than the one I received in the battle. Really I feel well enough to walk out here and I want to speak to you."
She was silent, awaiting his words. A shaft of sunshine pierced an opening in the foliage and fell directly upon her. Golden gleams appeared here and there in her hair and the colour in her cheeks deepened. Often Prescott had thought how strong she was; now he thought how very womanly she was.
"You are going with the wounded to Richmond?" he said.
"Yes," she replied. "I am going back to Miss Grayson's, to the house and the city from which you helped me with so much trouble and danger to escape."
"I am easier in my conscience because I did so," he said. "But Miss Catherwood, do you not fear for yourself? Are you not venturing into danger again?"
She smiled once more and replied in a slightly humourous tone:
"No; there is no danger. I went as one unwelcome before; I go as a guest now. You see, I am rising in the Confederacy. One of your powerful men, Mr. Sefton, has been very kind to me."
"What has he done for you?" asked Prescott, with a sudden jealous twinge.
"He has given me this pass, which will take me in or out of Richmond as I wish."
She showed the pass, and as Prescott looked at it he felt the colour rise in his face. Could the heart of the Secretary have followed the course of his own?
"I am here now, I may say, almost by chance," she continued. "After I left you I reached the main body of the Northern army in safety, and I intended to go at once to Washington, where I have relatives, though none so near and dear as Miss Grayson—you see I am really of the South, in part at least—but there was a long delay about a pass, the way of going and other such things, and while I was waiting General Grant began his great forward movement. There was nothing left for me to do then but to cling to the army—and—and I thought I might be of some use there. Women may not be needed on a battlefield, but they are afterward."
"I, most of all men, ought to know that," said Prescott, earnestly. "Don't I know that you, unaided, brought me to that house? Were it not for you I should probably have died alone in the Wilderness."
"I owed you something, Captain Prescott, and I have tried to repay a little," she said.
"You owe me nothing; the debt is all mine."
"Captain Prescott, I hope you do not think I have been unwomanly," she said.
"Unwomanly? Why should I think it?"
"Because I went to Richmond alone, though I did so really because I had nowhere else to go. You believe me a spy, and you think for that reason I was trying to escape from Richmond!"
She stopped and looked at Prescott, and when she met his answering gaze the flush in her cheeks deepened.
"Ah, I was right; you do think me a spy!" she exclaimed with passionate earnestness, "and God knows I might have been one! Some such thought was in my mind when I went to Miss Grayson's in Richmond. That day in the President's office, when the people were at the reception I was sorely tempted, but I turned away. I went into that room with the full intention of being a spy. I admit it. Morally, I suppose that I was one until that moment, but when the opportunity came I could not do it. The temptation would come again, I knew, and it was one reason why I wished to leave Richmond, though my first attempt was made because I feared you—I did not know you then. I do not like the name of spy and I do not want to be one. But there were others, and far stronger reasons. A powerful man knew of my presence in that office on that day; he could have proved me guilty even though innocent, and he could have involved with my punishment the destruction of others. There was Miss Grayson—how could I bring ruin upon her head! And—and——"
She stopped and the brilliant colour suffused her face.
"You used the word 'others,'" said Prescott. "You mean that so long as you were in Richmond my ruin was possible because I helped you?"
She did not reply, but the vivid colour remained in her face.
"It is nothing to me," said Prescott, "whether you were or were not a spy, or whether you were tempted to be one. My conscience does not reproach me because I helped you, but I think that it would give me grievous hurt had I not done so. I am not fitted to be the judge of anybody, Miss Catherwood, least of all of you. It would never occur to me to think you unwomanly."
"You see that I value your good opinion, Captain Prescott," she said, smiling slightly.
"It is the only thing that makes my opinion of any worth."
Talbot approached at that moment. Prescott introduced him with the courtesy of the time, not qualified at all by their present circumstances, and he regarded Talbot's look of wonder and admiration with a secret pleasure. What would Talbot say, he thought, if he were to tell him that this was the girl for whom he had searched Miss Grayson's house?
"Prescott," said Talbot, "a bruised head has put you here and a scratched arm keeps me in the same fix, but this is almost our old crowd and Richmond again—Miss Harley and her brother, Mrs. Markham, you and myself. We ought to meet Winthrop, Raymond and General Wood."
"We may," added Prescott, "as they are all somewhere with the army; Raymond is probably printing an issue of his paper in the rear of it—he certainly has news—and as General Wood is usually everywhere we are not likely to miss him."
"I think it just as probable that we shall meet a troop of Yankee cavalry," said Talbot. "I don't know what they would want with a convoy of wounded Confederates, but I'm detailed to take you to safety and I'd like to do it."
He paused and looked at Lucia. Something in her manner gave him a passing idea that she was not of his people.
"Still there is not much danger of that," he continued. "The Yankees are poor horsemen—not to be compared with ours, are they, Miss Catherwood?"
She met his gaze directly and smiled.
"I think the Yankee cavalry is very good," she said. "You may call me a Yankee, too, Captain Talbot. I am not traveling in disguise."
Talbot stroked his mustache, of which he was proud, and laughed.
"I thought so," he said; "and I can't say I'm sorry. I suppose I ought to hate all the Yankees, but really it will add to the spice of life to have with us a Yankee lady who is not afraid to speak her mind. Besides, if things go badly with us we can relieve our minds by attacking you."
Talbot was philosophical as well as amiable, and Prescott saw at once that he and Lucia would be good friends, which was a comfort, as it was in the power of the commander of the convoy to have made her life unpleasant.
Talbot stayed only a minute or two, then rode on to the head of the column, and when he was gone Lucia said:
"Captain Prescott, you must go back to your wagon; it is not wise for you to stay on your feet so long—at least, not yet."
He obeyed her reluctantly, and in a few moments the convoy moved on through the deep woods to the note of an occasional and distant cannon shot and a faint hum as of great armies moving. An hour later they heard a swift gallop and the figure of Wood at the head of a hundred horsemen appeared.
The mountaineer seemed to embrace the whole column in one comprehensive look that was a smile of pleasure when it passed over the face of Helen Harley, a glance of curiosity when it lingered on Lucia Catherwood, and inquiry when it reached Talbot, who quickly explained his mission. All surrounded Wood, eager for news.
"We're going to meet down here somewhere near a place they call Spottsylvania," said the General succinctly. "It won't be many days—two or three, I guess—and it will be as rough a meeting as that behind us was. If I were you, Talbot, I'd keep straight on to the south."
Then the General turned with his troopers to go. It was not a time when he could afford to tarry; but before starting he took Helen Harley's hand in his with a grace worthy of better training:
"I'll bring you news of the coming battle, Miss Harley."
She thanked him with her eyes, and in a moment he was gone, he and his troopers swallowed up by the black forest. The convoy resumed its way through the Wilderness, passing on at a pace that was of necessity slow owing to the wounded in the wagons and the rough and tangled nature of the country, which lost nothing of its wild and somber character. The dwarf cedars and oaks and pines still stretched away to the horizon. Night began to come down in the east and there the Wilderness heaved up in a black mass against the sullen sky. The low note of a cannon shot came now and then like the faint rumble of dying thunder.
Lucia walked alone near the rear of the column. She had grown weary of the wagons and her strong young frame craved exercise. She was seldom afraid or awed, but now the sun sinking over the terrible Wilderness and the smoke of battle around chilled her. The long column of the hurt, winding its way so lonely and silent through the illimitable forest, seemed like a wreck cast up from the battles, and her soul was full of sympathy. In a nature of unusual strength her emotions were of like quality, and though once she had been animated by a deep and passionate anger against that South with which she now marched, at this moment she found it all gone—slipped away while she was not noticing. She loved her own cause none the less, but no longer hated the enemy. She had received the sympathy and the friendship of a woman toward whom she had once felt a sensation akin to dislike. She did not forget how she had stood in the fringe of the crowd that day in Richmond and had envied Helen Harley when, in her glowing beauty, she received the tribute of the multitude. Now the two women were drawn together. Something that had been between them was gone, and in her heart Lucia knew what it was; but she rejoiced in a companionship and a friendship of her own sex when she was among those who were not of her cause.
It was impossible to resist sharing the feelings of the column: when it was in dread lest some wandering echo might be the tread of Northern horsemen, she, too, was in dread. She wanted this particular column to escape, but when she looked toward another part of the Wilderness, saw the dim light and heard the far rumble of another cannon shot, she felt a secret glow of pride. Grant was still coming, always coming, and he would come to the end. The result was no longer in doubt; it was now merely a matter of time and patience.
The sun sank behind the Wilderness; the night came down, heavy, black and impenetrable; slow thunder told of rain, and Talbot halted the convoy in the densest part of the forest, where the shelter would be best—for he was not sure of his way and farther marching in the dark might take him into the enemy's camp. All day they had not passed a single house nor met a single dweller in the Wilderness; if they had been near any woodcutter's hut it was hidden in a ravine and they did not see it. If a woodcutter himself saw them he remained in his covert in the thicket and they passed on, unspoken.
Talbot thought it best to camp where they were for the night, and he drew up the wagons in a circle, in the centre of which were built fires that burned with a smoky flame. All hovered around the blaze, as they felt lonely in this vast Wilderness and were glad when the beds of coal began to form and glow red in the darkness. Even the wounded in the wagons turned their eyes that way and drew cheer from the ruddy glow.
A rumour arose presently, and grew. It said that a Yankee woman was among them, traveling with them. Some one added that she bore a pass from the powerful Mr. Sefton and was going to Richmond, but why he did not know. Then they looked about among the women and decided that it could be none save Lucia; but if there was any feeling of hostility toward her it soon disappeared. Other women were with the column, but none so strong, none so helpful as she. Always she knew what to do and when to do it. She never grew tired nor lost her good humour; her touch had healing in it, and the wounded grew better at the sight of her face.
"If all the Yankees are like her, I wish I had a few more with this column," murmured Talbot under his breath.
Lucia began to feel the change in the atmosphere about her. The coldness vanished. She looked upon the faces that welcomed her, and being a woman she felt warmth at her heart, but said nothing.
Prescott crawled again from his wagon and said to her as she passed:
"Why do you avoid me, Miss Catherwood?"
A gleam of humour appeared in her eye.
"You are getting well too fast. I do not think you will need any more attention," she replied.
He regarded her with an unmoved countenance.
"Miss Catherwood," he said, "I feel myself growing very much worse. It is a sudden attack and a bad one."
But she passed on, disbelieving, and left him rueful.
The night went by without event, and then another day and another night, and still they hovered in the rear of their army, uncertain which way to go, tangled up in the Wilderness and fearing at any moment a raid of the Northern cavalry. They yet saw the dim fire in the forest, and no hour was without its distant cannon shot.
On the second day the two editors, Raymond and Winthrop, joined them.
"I've been trying to print a paper," said Raymond ruefully, "but they wouldn't stay in one place long enough for me to get my press going. This morning a Yankee cannon shot smashed the press and I suppose I might as well go back to Richmond. But I can't, with so much coming on. They'll be in battle before another day."
Raymond spoke in solemn tones (even he was awed and oppressed by what he had seen) and Winthrop nodded assent.
"They are converging upon the same point," said Winthrop, "and they are sure to meet inside of twenty-four hours."
When Lucia awoke the next morning the distant guns were sounding in her ears and a light flame burned under the horizon in the north. Day had just come, hot and close, and the sun showed the colour of copper through the veil of clouds hanging at the tops of the trees.
"It's begun," she heard Talbot say briefly, but she did not need his words to tell her that the armies were joined again in deadly strife in the Wilderness.
They ate breakfast in silence, all watching the glowing light in the north and listening to the thunder of the guns. Prescott, strong after his night's rest and sleep, came from the wagon and announced that he would not ride as an invalid any more; he intended to do his share of the work, and Talbot did not contradict him; it was a time when a man who could serve should be permitted to do it.
Talbot said they would remain in the camp for the present and await the fortunes of the battle; it was not worth while to continue a retreat when none knew in which direction the right path lay. But the men as they listened were seized with a fever of impatience. The flame of the cannon and the thunder of the battle had a singular attraction for them. They wished to be there and they cursed their fate because they were here. The wounded lamented their wounds and the well were sad because they were detailed for such duty; the new battle was going on without them, and the result would be decided while they waited there in the Wilderness with their hands folded. How they missed the Secretary with his news!
The morning went slowly on. The sun rose high, but it still shone with a coppery hue through the floating clouds, and a thick blanket of damp heat enclosed the convoy. The air seemed to tremble with the sound from the distant battle; it came in waves, and save for it the forest was silent; no birds sang in the trees, nothing moved in the grass. There was only the rumble of guns, coming wave upon wave. Thus hour after hour passed, and the fever of impatience still held the souls of those in this column. But the black Wilderness would tell no tale; it gave back the sound of conflict and nothing more. They watched the growing smoke and flame, the forest bursting into fresh fires, and knew only that the battle was fierce and desperate, as before.
Prescott's strength was returning rapidly, and he expected in another day or two to return to the army. The spirit was strong within him to make the trial now, but Talbot would not hear of it, saying that his wound was not healed sufficiently. On the morning of that second day he stood beside Lucia, somewhat withdrawn from the others, and for awhile they watched the distant battle. It was the first time in twenty-four hours that he had been able to speak to her. She had not seemed exactly to avoid him, but she was never in his path. Now he wished to hold her there with talk.
"I fear that you will be lonely in Richmond," he said at random.
"I shall have Miss Grayson," she replied, "and the panorama of the war will pass before me; I shall not have time for loneliness."
"Poor Richmond! It is desolate now."
"Its condition may become worse," she said meaningly.
He understood the look in her eyes and replied:
"You mean that Grant will come?"
"Yes!" she exclaimed, pointing toward the flame of the battle. "Can't you see? Don't you know, Captain Prescott, that Grant will never turn back? It is but three days since he fought a battle as great as Gettysburg, and now he is fighting another. The man has come, and the time for the South is at hand."
"But what a price—what a price!" said Prescott.
"Yes," she replied quickly; "but it is the South, not the North, that demands payment."
Then she stopped, and brilliant colour flushed into her face.
"Forgive me for saying such things at such a time," she said. "I do not hate anybody in the South, and I am now with Southern people. Credit it to my bad taste."
But Prescott would not have it so. It was he who had spoken, he said, and she had the right to reply. Then he asked her indirectly of herself, and she answered willingly. Hers had been a lonely life, and she had been forced to develop self-reliance, though perhaps it had taken her further than she intended. She seemed still to fear that he would think her too masculine, a bit unwomanly; but her loneliness, the lack of love in her life, made a new appeal to Prescott. He admired her as she stood there in her splendid young beauty and strength—a woman with a mind to match her beauty—and wondered how his fleeting fancy could ever have been drawn to any other. She was going to that hostile Richmond, where she had been in such danger, and she would be alone there save for one weak woman, watched and suspected like herself. He felt a sudden overwhelming desire to protect her, to defend her, to be a wall between her and all danger.
Far off on the northern horizon the battle flamed and rumbled, and a faint reflection of its lurid glow fell on the forest where they stood. It may be that its reflection fell on Prescott's ardent mind and hastened him on.
"Lucia," he exclaimed, "you are going back to Richmond, where you will be suspected, perhaps insulted! Give me the right to protect you from everybody!"
"Give you the right!" she exclaimed, in surprise; but as she looked at him the brilliant colour dyed her face and neck.
"Yes, Lucia," he said, "the greatest and holiest of all rights! Do you not see that I love you? Be my wife! Give me the right as your husband to stand between you and all danger!"
Still she looked at him, and as she gazed the colour left her face, leaving it very pale, while her eyes showed a dazzling hue.
The forgotten battle flamed and thundered on the horizon.
"No," she replied, "I cannot give you such a promise."
"Lucia! You do not mean that! I know you do not. You must care for me a little. One reason why you fled from Richmond was to save me!"
"Yes, I do care for you—a little. But do you care for me enough—ah! do not interrupt me! Think of the time, the circumstances! One may say things now which he might not mean in a cooler moment. You wish to protect me—does a man marry a woman merely to protect her? I have always been able to protect myself."
There was a flash of pride in her tone and her tall figure grew taller. Prescott flushed a little and dropped his eyes for a moment.
"I have been unfortunate in my words, but, believe me, Lucia, I do not mean it in that way. It is love, not protection, that I offer. I believe that I loved you from the first—from the time I was pursuing you as a spy; and I pursue you now, though for myself."
She shook her head sadly, though she smiled upon him. She was his enemy, she said—she was of the North and he of the South—what would he say to his friends in Richmond, and how could he compromise himself by such a marriage? Moreover, it was a time of war, and one must not think of love. He grew more passionate in his declaration as he saw that which he wished slipping from him, and she, though still refusing him, let him talk, because he said the things that she loved best to hear. All the while the forgotten battle flamed and thundered on the northern horizon. Its result and progress alike were of no concern to them; both North and South had floated off in the distance.
Talbot came that way as they talked, and seeing the look on their faces, started and turned back. They never saw him. Lucia remained fixed in her resolve and only shook her head at Prescott's pleading.
"But at least," said Prescott, "that 'no' is not to apply forever. I shall refuse to despair."
She smiled somewhat sadly without reply, and there was no opportunity to say more, as others drew near, among them Mrs. Markham, wary and keen-eyed as ever. She marked well the countenances of these two, but reserved her observations for future use.
The battle reclaimed attention, silhouetted as it was in a great flaming cloud against a twilight sky, and its low rumble was an unbroken note.
When night fell a messenger came with terrible news. Grant had broken through at last! The thin lines of the Confederates could not stand this steady, heavy hammering day after day. They must retreat through the Wilderness and draw fresh breath to fight again. Sadly the convoy took its way to the south, and in three hours it was enveloped by the remnants of a broken brigade, retreating in the fear of hot pursuit by both cavalry and infantry. The commander of the brigade, by virtue of his rank, became commander of the whole, and Talbot, longing for action, fell back to the rear, resolved to watch for the enemy.
Talbot hated to exercise authority, preferring to act alone; and now he became a picket, keen-eyed, alert, while his friends went into camp ahead on the bank of a narrow but deep river. Presently he heard shots and knew that the skirmishers of the enemy were advancing, though he wondered why they should show such pernicious activity on so black a night. They were in battle with some other retreating Southern force—probably a regiment, he thought—and if they wanted to fight he could not help it.
The desultory firing troubled the ears of Talbot as he trod to and fro on his self-imposed task, as he could not see the use of it. The day for fighting and the night for sleep and rest was the perfect division of a soldier's life.
The tail of the battle writhed on without regard for his feelings or theories, though its efforts became gradually feebler, and he hoped that by and by the decent part of both armies would settle into lethargy, leaving the night to the skirmishers, who never sleep and are without conscience.
He went back a little to an open spot where a detail of about twenty men were posted. But he did not remain with them long. Securing a rifle, he returned toward the enemy, resolved to watch on his own account—a voluntary picket.
Talbot was not troubled for his friends alone. The brigade had been beaten and driven back upon the river, and with the press of numbers against it he feared that the next day would bring its destruction. The coming of the night, covering friend and foe alike and making activity hazardous, was opportune, since it would give his comrades time to rest and gather their strength for the stand in the morning. He could hear behind him even now the heavy tread of the beaten companies as they sought their places in the darkness, the clank of gun wheels, and now and then the neigh of a tired horse.
The crash of a volley and another volley which answered came from his right, and then there was a spatter of musketry, stray shots following each other and quickly dying away. Talbot saw the flash of the guns, and the smell of burnt gunpowder came to his nostrils. He made a movement of impatience, for the powder poisoned the pure air. He heard the shouts of men, but they ceased in a few moments, and then farther away a cannon boomed. More volleys of rifle shots and the noise of the cheering or its echo came from his left; but unable to draw meaning from the tumult, he concluded at last it was only the smouldering embers of the battle and continued to walk his voluntary beat with steady step.
The night advanced and the rumbling in the encampment behind him did not cease at all, the sounds remaining the same as they were earlier in the evening—that is, the drum of many feet upon the earth, the rattle of metal and the hum of many voices. Talbot concluded that the men would never go to sleep, but presently a light shot up in the darkness behind him, rising eight or ten feet above the earth and tapering at the top to a blue-and-pink point. Presently another arose beside it, and then others and still others, until there were thirty, forty, fifty or more.
Talbot knew these were the campfires and he wondered why they had not been lighted before. At last the men would go to sleep beside the cheerful blaze. The fires comforted him, too, and he looked upon the rosy flame of each, shining there in the darkness, as he would have looked upon a personal friend. They took away much of his lonely feeling, and as they bent a little before the wind seemed to nod to him a kind of encouragement in the dangerous work upon which he had set himself. He could see only the tops of these rosy cones; all below was hidden by the bushes that grew between. He could not see even the dim figure of a soldier, but he knew that they were there, stretched out in long rows before the fires, asleep in their blankets, while others stood by on their arms, ready for defense should the pickets be driven in.
The troublesome skirmishers seemed to be resting just then, for no one fired at him and he could not hear them moving in the woods. The scattering shots down the creek ceased and the noises in the camp began to die. It seemed as if night were about to claim her own at last and put everybody to rest. The fires rose high and burned with a steady flame.
A stick broke under his feet with a crackling noise as he walked to and fro, and a bullet sang through the darkness past his ear. He fired at the flash of the rifle, and as he ran back and forth fired five or six times more, slipping in the bullets as quickly as he could, for he wished to create an illusion that the patrol consisted of at least a dozen men. The opposing skirmishers returned his fire with spirit, and Talbot heard their bullets clipping the twigs and pattering among the leaves, but he felt no great alarm, since the night covered him and only a chance ball could strike him.
His opponents were wary, and only two or three times did he see the shadows which he knew to be their moving figures. He fired at these but no answering cry came, and Talbot could not tell whether any of his bullets struck, though it did not matter. His lead served well enough as a warning, and the skirmishers must know that the nearer they came the better aim they would have to face. Presently their fire ceased and he was disappointed, as his blood had risen to fever heat and he was in fighting humour.
The night went on its slow way, and Talbot, stopping a moment to rest and listen for the skirmishers, calculated that it was not more than two hours until day. The long period through which he had watched began to press upon him. Weights dragged at his feet, and he noticed that his rifle when he shifted it from one shoulder to the other appeared many pounds heavier than before. His knees grew stiff and he felt like an old man; but he allowed himself no rest, continuing his walk back and forth at a slower pace, for he believed he could feel his joints grate as he stepped. He looked at the fires with longing and was tempted to go; but no, he must atone for the neglect of that chief of brigade.
Just when the night seemed to be darkest the skirmishers made another attack, rushing forward in a body, firing with great vigour and shouting, though hitherto they had fought chiefly in silence. Talbot considered it an attempt to demoralize him and was ready for it. He retreated a little, sheltered himself behind a tree and opened fire, skipping between shots from one tree to another in order that he might protect the whole of his battle line and keep his apparent numbers at their height.
His assailants were so near now that he could see some of them springing about, and one of his shots was followed by a cry of pain and the disappearance of the figure. After that the fire of his antagonists diminished and soon ceased. They had shown much courage, but seemed to think that the defenders were in superior numbers and a further advance would mean their own destruction.
Again silence came, save for the hum of the camp. The fires burnt brightly behind him, and far off in front he saw the flickering fires of the enemy. As the wind increased the lights wavered and the cones split into many streams of flame before it. The leaves and boughs whistled in the rush of air and the waters of the creek sang a minor chord on the shallows. Talbot had heard these sounds a hundred times when a boy in the wilderness of the deep woods, and it was easy enough for him to carry himself back there, with no army or soldier near. But he quickly dismissed such thoughts as would lull him only into neglect of his watch. After having kept it so long and so well it would be the height of weakness to fail now, when day could not be much more than two hours distant.
The silence remained unbroken. An hour passed and then another, and in the east he saw a faint shade of dark gray showing through the black as if through a veil.
The gray tint brightened and the black veil became thinner. Soon it parted and a bar of light shot across the eastern horizon, broadening rapidly till the world of hills, fields and forests rose up from the darkness. A trumpet sounded in the hostile camp.
Skirmishers filled the woods in front of Talbot and pressed toward him in a swarm.
"Surrender!" cried out one of them, an officer. "It is useless for you to resist! We are a hundred and you are one! Don't you see?"
Talbot turned and looked back at the fires burning in the empty camp of his comrades. The light of the morning showed everything, even to the last boat-load of the beaten brigade landing on the farther shore; he understood all.
"Yes, I will surrender," he said, as his eyes gleamed with sudden comprehension of his great triumph, "but I've held you back till the last company of our division has passed the river and is safe."