I found the library deserted, and paced the floor for fully half an hour before Caton appeared. Stung as I had been by Brennan's harsh, uncalled-for words, I yet shrank from the thought that I must now meet him in deadly combat. It was no fear of personal injury that troubled me; indeed I do not recall giving this the slightest consideration, for my mind was altogether concentrated upon what such a meeting must necessarily mean to Edith Brennan, and how it would affect all our future relationship. This was the thought that swayed and mastered me. I had pledged myself to avoid him, and indeed had used every means possible to that end. I was even willing to go forth stamped by his denunciation rather than involve her in such controversy. But the effort was fruitless, and I must now stand before him, or else forever forfeit my manhood. Thus the die was already cast, yet in one point I might still prove true to the spirit of my pledge, and retain her approbation—I could permit my antagonist to leave the field unscathed.
One who does not realize my feelings toward this man, my fierce resentment of every indignity he had heaped upon me, my intense rivalry, and my burning desire to punish him for a hundred mental wounds, cannot comprehend how difficult a battle I fought in those few moments in order that I might conquer myself. The time was none too long, yet my mind once thoroughly settled as to my duty to her, I became calm again, and confident as to the outcome. When Caton entered, flushed and visibly excited from what had evidently proven an acrimonious controversy, I greeted him with a smile.
“You appear to have experienced difficulties in regard to details,” I said curiously.
“There was much unnecessary talk,” he admitted, “but matters have been at last arranged to the satisfaction of all concerned. You are to meet at once, in the rear of the big tobacco shed, a spot entirely removed from observation. I have been compelled to accept pistols as the weapons, as we have nothing else here at all suitable for the purpose—cavalry sabres being far too cumbersome. Lieutenant Starr chances to possess two derringers exactly alike which we have mutually agreed upon. I hope this is satisfactory to you, Wayne?”
“I am not precisely an expert, but that does not greatly matter. Who acts for Brennan?”
“Captain Moorehouse, rather against his will, I think.”
“Very well, Caton; I am perfectly satisfied, and am, indeed, greatly obliged to you; yet before we go out I desire to speak a word or two with the utmost frankness.” I stood facing him, my hand resting lightly upon the writing-table, my eyes reading his expressive face. “As my second I wish you to comprehend fully my actions, and the motives that inspire them. If they are in any way unsatisfactory to your mind, you may feel at perfect liberty to withhold your services. I am now, and always have been, opposed to duelling; I believe it wrong in principle, and a travesty upon justice; but it is a custom of the South, a requirement among officers of our army, and after what has just occurred between Major Brennan and myself I cannot honorably refuse any longer to go out. Major Brennan has deliberately placed me in a position where I cannot avoid meeting him without losing all standing in my corps. I sought to escape, but was prevented by accident; now I simply yield to the inevitable. I feel confident you will not misconstrue these words; you surely know me sufficiently well so as not to attribute them to cowardice. I shall face him exactly in accordance with your arrangements, asking nothing upon my part, yielding him every satisfaction he can possibly desire—but I shall fire in the air.”
He stared at me incredulously, his face a perfect picture of amazement. “But, Wayne,” he stammered, “are you aware that Major Brennan is an expert with the pistol? that he holds the Sixth Corps trophy? Do you realize that he goes out deliberately intending to kill you?”
“I was not posted as to the first fact you mention, but have never entertained the slightest doubt as to the other. However, they do not in the least affect my decision.”
“But, man, it will be murder! I should never forgive myself if I sanctioned it.”
“That is exactly why I told you,” I said calmly; “and I am perfectly willing to stand alone and absolve you from all responsibility. Yet I do not desire you to suppose that I am at all quixotic in this—there is a personal reason why I am perfectly willing to risk my life rather than injure Major Brennan.”
His troubled eyes studied me intently, and then his face suddenly brightened with a new thought. “Wayne,” he asked, placing his hand upon my arm familiarly, “is it Mrs. Brennan?”
For an instant I hesitated, but his manly, honest countenance reassured me. “Between us only, it is,” I answered gravely; “but not the slightest blame attaches to her.”
“I do not wholly understand,” he said at last, “yet I do not doubt you may be perfectly right in your decision.” He extended his hand impulsively. “I know you to be a good soldier and a true gentleman; I will stand with you, Wayne, but I pledge this—if he takes advantage treacherously, and you fall (as God forbid!), I will face him myself; and when I do, there shall be no firing in the air.”
I wrung his hand silently, and my heart went out in unspeakable gratitude to this noble fellow, who, wearing the uniform of an enemy, had constantly proven himself my sincere friend. “Your words strengthen me greatly,” I managed to say at last. “Now let us go, and not keep the others waiting.”
I do not remember that we spoke, save once, while we passed out through the orchard into the field where the big tobacco shed stood. A group of soldiers were digging a grave behind one of the negro cabins, but other than these we saw no one. It was as we paused a moment to refasten the gate that I finally broke the silence between us.
“In the inner pocket of my shirt,” I said, “you will find directions which will enable you to communicate with my people.”
His eyes instantly filled with tears.
“Don't say that, Wayne,” he protested. “I will not believe it is destined to end so.”
“I certainly trust it is not,” I answered, smiling at him, and deeply touched by his show of genuine feeling, “but I have only you to rely upon in this matter if by any chance it does.”
The deserted field we were compelled to cross had long been neglected, and was now thickly overgrown with weeds. Not until we turned the corner of the great ramshackle building, which in other and more prosperous days had been dedicated to the curing of the leaf, did we perceive any signs of the presence of our antagonists. They were standing upon the farther side, directly opposite the door, and both bowed slightly as we approached. The Captain came toward us slowly.
“It is to be greatly regretted, gentlemen,” he said, with ceremonious politeness, “that we have no surgeon with us. However, neither contestant has any advantage in this respect. Lieutenant Caton, may I ask if the arrangements as already completed have proven satisfactory to your principal?”
“Entirely so.”
“Then if you will kindly step this way a moment we will confer as to certain details.”
Brennan was leaning in negligent attitude against the side of the building, his eyes fastened upon the ground, the blue smoke of a cigar curling lazily above his head. I glanced toward him, and then sought to amuse myself watching the queer antics of a gray squirrel on the rail fence beyond. I felt no desire for further thought, only an intense anxiety for them to hurry the preliminaries, and have the affair settled as speedily as possible. I was aroused by Moorehouse's rather nasal voice.
“Gentlemen, will you please take your positions. Major Brennan, you will stand three paces to the right of that sapling, facing directly south. Captain Wayne, kindly walk straight west from the shed door until you come opposite the Major's position.”
I noted Brennan throw away the stump of his cigar, and then I walked slowly forward until I reached the point assigned me. My heart was beating fast now, for I fully realized the probabilities of the next few minutes, and felt little doubt that serious injury, if not death, was to be my portion. Yet my trained nerves did not fail me, and outwardly I appeared fully as cool and deliberate as my opponent. Years of constant exposure to peril in every form had yielded me a grim philosophy of fatalism that now stood me in most excellent stead. Indeed, I doubt not, had I chosen to put it to the test, my hand would have proven the steadier of the two, for Brennan's face was flushed, and he plainly exhibited the intense animosity with which he confronted me.
How peculiarly the mind often operates in such moments of exciting suspense! I recall remarking a very slight stoop in Brennan's shoulders which I had never perceived before, I remember wondering where Moorehouse had ever discovered a tailor to give so shocking a fit to his coat, and finally I grew almost interested in two birds perched upon the limb of a tree opposite where I stood. I even smiled to myself over a jest one of the young officers had made an hour before. Yet with it all I remained keenly observant, and fully aware of each movement made by the others on the field. I saw Caton accept the derringer handed him and test it carefully, the long, slim, blue barrel looking deadly enough as he held it up between me and the sky. Then Moorehouse approached Brennan with its fellow in his grasp, and the Lieutenant crossed over, and stood beside me.
“Here is the gun, Wayne,” he said, “and I sincerely hope you have changed your decision. There is no mercy in Brennan's eyes.”
“So I notice,” I answered, taking the derringer from him, and examining it with some curiosity, “but I shall do as I said, nevertheless. It is not any sentiment of mercy I feel which spares him, but a duty that appeals to me even more strongly than hate.”
“By Heaven, I wish it were otherwise.”
I remained silent, for I could not say in my heart that I echoed his wish, and I cared not to go down in another minute with a lie upon my lips. The love of Edith Brennan, which I now felt assured was mine, was sweeter far to me than life.
“Who gives the word?” I questioned.
“I do; are you ready?”
“Perfectly.”
I held out my hand, and his fingers closed upon it with warm, friendly grip. The next moment Brennan and I stood, seemingly alone, facing each other, as motionless as two statues. His coat was buttoned to the throat, his cap-visor pulled low over his eyes, his pistol hand hanging straight down at his side, his gaze never wavering from me. I knew he was coolly, deliberately measuring the distance between us with as deadly a purpose as any murderer. The almost painful stillness was broken by Caton, and I marked the tremor in his voice.
“Are you both ready, gentlemen?”
“I am,” said Brennan.
“Ready,” I replied.
“The word will be one, two, three—fire; with a slight pause after the three. A report from either pistol before the final word is spoken I shall take personally. Be prepared now.”
There was a moment's pause; so still was it I heard the chirping of birds overhead, and the flutter of a leaf as it fell swirling at my feet. I saw Brennan as through a mist, and in its undulations there seemed to be pictures of the face of his wife, as if her spirit hovered there between us. To have shot then would have been like piercing her before reaching him.
“Ready!” said the voice once more; and as I saw Brennan's arm slowly rise, I lifted mine also, and covered him, noting, as I did so, almost in wonder, with what steadiness of nerve and wrist I held the slender gauge just beneath the visor of his cap. Deliberately, as though he dreaded the necessity, Caton counted:
“One; two; three—fire!”
My pistol exploded, the charge striking the limb above him, and I staggered backward, my hat torn from my head, a white line cut through my hair, and a thin trickle of blood upon my temple. I saw Caton rushing toward me, his face filled with anxiety, and then Brennan hurled his yet smoking derringer into the dirt at his feet with an oath.
“Damn it, Moorehouse,” he roared, fairly beside himself, “the charge was too heavy; it overshot.”
“Are you much hurt?” panted Caton.
“Merely pricked the skin.”
Then Brennan's angry voice rang out once more.
“I demand another shot,” he insisted loudly. “I demand it, I tell you, Moorehouse. This settles nothing, and I will not be balked just because you don't know enough to load a gun.”
Caton wheeled upon him, his blue eyes blazing dangerously.
“You demand a second shot?” he cried indignantly.
“Are you not aware, sir, that Captain Wayne fired in the air? It would be murder.”
“Fired in the air!” he laughed, as if it was a most excellent joke. “Of course he did, but it was because my ball disconcerted his aim. I fired a second the first, but his derringer was covering me.”
Caton strode toward him, his face white with passion.
“Let him have it his way,” I called after him, for now my own blood was up, “I shall not be guilty of such neglect again.”
He did not heed me, perhaps he did not hear.
“Major Brennan,” he said, facing him, his voice trembling with feeling, “I tell you Captain Wayne purposely shot in the air. He informed me before coming upon the field that he should do so. I positively refuse to permit him to face your fire again.”
Brennan's face blazed; chagrin, anger, disappointment fairly infuriated him, and he seemed to lose all self-control. “This is some cowardly trick!” he roared, glaring about him as if seeking some one upon whom he could vent his wrath. “Damn it, I believe my pistol was fixed to overshoot in order to save that fellow. I never missed such a shot before.”
Moorehouse broke in upon his raving, so astounded at these intemperate words as to stutter in his speech.
“D-do you d-dare to in-insinuate, Major Brennan” he began, “that I have—” he paused, his mouth wide open, staring toward the shed. Involuntarily we glanced in that direction also, wondering what he saw. There, in the open doorway, as in a frame, dressed almost entirely in white, her graceful figure and fair young face clearly defined against the dark background, stood Edith Brennan.
She exhibited no outward sign of agitation as she left her position and slowly advanced toward us. However fiercely her heart may have beaten she remained apparently calm and composed. Never before had I felt so completely dominated by her womanly spirit, while her very presence upon the field hushed in an instant the breathings of dispute. She never so much as glanced at either Brennan or myself, but ignored us totally as she drew near. Daintily lifting her skirts to keep them from contact with the weeds under foot, her head poised proudly, her eyes a bit disdainful of it all, she paused before Caton.
“Lieutenant,” she questioned in a clear tone which seemed to command an answer, “I have always found you an impartial friend. Will you kindly inform me as to the true meaning of all this?”
He hesitated, hardly knowing what to reply, but her imperious eyes were upon him—they insisted, and he stammered lamely:
“Two of the gentlemen, madam, were about to settle a slight disagreement by means of the code.”
“Were about?” she echoed, scornful of all deceit. “Surely I heard shots as I came through the orchard?” “One fire has been exchanged,” he reluctantly admitted. “And Captain Wayne has been wounded?”
I was not aware until that moment that she had even so much as noticed my presence.
“Very slightly, madam.”
“His opponent escaped uninjured?”
Caton bowed, glanced uneasily toward me, and then blurted forth impulsively: “Captain Wayne fired in the air, madam.”
She never glanced toward where I stood, yet I instantly marked the quick droop of her eyes, the faint pink that overspread her cheek. This slight confusion, unnoted save by eyes of love, was but momentary, still it was sufficient to apprise me that she both understood and approved my action.
“A most delightful situation, surely,” she said clearly and sarcastically. “One would almost suppose we had wholly reverted to barbarism, and that our boasted civilization was but mockery. Think of it,” and the proud disdain in her face held us silent, “not six hours ago that house yonder was the scene of a desperate battle. Within its blood-stained rooms men fought and died, cheering in their agony like heroes of romance. I saw there two men battling shoulder to shoulder against a host of infuriated ruffians, seeking to protect helpless women. They wore different uniforms, they followed different flags, by the fortune of war they were enemies, yet they could fight and die in defence of the weak. I thanked God upon my knees that I had been privileged to know such men and could call them friends. No nobler, truer, manlier deed at arms was ever done! Yet, mark you, no sooner is that duty over—scarcely are their dead comrades buried—when they forget every natural instinct of gratitude, of true manliness, and spring at each other's throat like two maddened beasts. I care not what the cause may be—the act is shameful, and an insult to every woman of this household. Even as I came upon the field voices were clamoring for another shot, in spite of the fact that one man stood already wounded. War may be excusable, but this is not war. Gentlemen, you have fired your last shot on this field, unless you choose to make me your target.”
I would that I possessed a picture of that scene—a picture which would show the varied expressions of countenance as those scornful words lashed us. She stood there as a queen might, and commanded an obedience no man among us durst refuse. Brennan's flushed face paled, and his lips trembled as he sought to make excuse.
“But, Edith,” he protested, “you do not know, you do not understand. There are wrongs which can be righted in no other way.”
“I do not care to know,” she answered coldly, “nor do I ever expect to learn that murder can right a wrong.”
“Murder! You use strong terms. The code has been recognized for centuries as the last resort of gentlemen.”
“The code! Has it, indeed? What gentlemen? Those of the South exclusively of late. That might possibly pardon your opponent, but not you, for you know very well that in the North no man of any standing would ever venture to resort to it. Moreover, even the code presupposes that men shall stand equal at its bar—I am informed that Captain Wayne fired in the air.”
He hesitated, feeling doubtless the uselessness of further protest, yet she permitted him small opportunity for consideration. “Major,” she said quietly but firmly, “I should be pleased to have you escort me to the house.”
These words, gently as they were spoken, still constituted a command. Her eyes were upon his face, and I doubt not he read within them that he would forfeit all her respect if he failed to obey. Yet he yielded with exceeding poor grace.
“As it seems impossible to continue,” he admitted bitterly, “I suppose I may as well go.” He turned and fronted me, his eyes glowing. “But understand, sir, this is merely a cessation, not an ending.”
I bowed gravely, not daring to trust my voice in speech, lest I should yield to the temptation of my own temper.
“Captain Wayne,” she said, glancing back across his broad blue shoulder, and I thought there was a new quality in her voice, the sting had someway gone out of it, “I shall esteem it a kindness if you will call upon me before you depart.”
“With pleasure,” I hastened to reply, my surprise at the request almost robbing me of speech, “but I shall be compelled to leave at once, as my troop is already under orders.”
“I shall detain you for only a moment, but after what you have passed through on our behalf I am unwilling you should depart without realizing our gratitude. You will find me in the library. Come, Frank, I am ready now.”
We remained motionless, watching them until they disappeared around the corner of the shed. Brennan walked with stern face, his step heavy, she with averted eyes, a slight smile of triumph curling her lip. Then Moorehouse stooped and picked up the derringer the Major had thrown away.
“By thunder, but she's right!” he exclaimed emphatically. “I tell you that's a mighty fine woman. Blame me, if she didn't face us like a queen.”
No one answered, and without exchanging another word we walked together to the house. There I found the remnant of my troop standing beside their horses, chaffing with a dozen idle Yankee cavalrymen who were lounging on the wide steps.
The time had come when I must say a final farewell and depart. Not the slightest excuse remained for further delay. I dreaded the ordeal, but no escape was possible, and I entered the house for what I well knew was to be the last time. My mind was gravely troubled; I knew not what to expect, how far I might venture to hope. Why had she desired to see me again? Surely the public reason she offered could not be the real one. Was it to confess that I had won her heart, or to show me by scornful words her indignation at my folly? What should I say, how could I act in her presence? These and a hundred other queries arose to perplex me.
Had she only been free, a maid whose hand remained her own to surrender as she pleased, I should never have hesitated, never have doubted her purpose; but now that could not be. I felt that every word and look between us already bordered upon sin, that danger to both alike lurked in each stolen glance and meeting. Better far we should have parted without further speech. I knew this, yet love constrained me, as it has constrained many another, and I lingered at her wish—a foolish moth fluttering to the flame.
As I knocked almost timidly at the closed library door a gentle voice said, “Come,” and I entered, my heart throbbing like a frightened girl's. She stood waiting me nearly in the centre of that spacious apartment, dressed in the same light raiment she had worn without, and her greeting was calm and friendly, yet tinged by a proud dignity I cannot describe. I believed for an instant that we were alone, and my blood raced through my veins in sudden expectancy; then my eyes fell upon Mrs. Minor comfortably seated in an armchair before the fire, and I realized that she was present to restrain me from forgetfulness. But in very truth my lady hardly needed such protection—her speech, her manner, her proud constraint told me at once most plainly that no existing tie between us had caused our meeting.
“Captain Wayne,” she said softly, her high color alone giving evidence of any memory of the past, “I scarcely thought that we should meet again, yet was not willing to part with you under any misunderstanding. I have learned from Lieutenant Caton the full particulars of your action in connection with Major Brennan. I wish you to realize that I appreciate your efforts to escape a hostile meeting, and esteem you most highly for your forbearance on the field. It was indeed a noble proof of true courage. May I ask, why did you fire in the air?”
Had she not held me so away from her by her manner I should have then and there told her all the truth. As it was I durst not.
“I felt convinced that if my bullet reached Major Brennan it would injure you. I preferred not to do that.”
She bowed gravely, while a kinder look, if I may use that expression, seemed to dominate her face.
“I believed it was for my sake you made the sacrifice.” She paused; then asked in yet lower tones: “Was my name mentioned during your contention—I mean publicly?”
“It was not; Caton alone is aware I refrained because of the reason I have already given you.”
“Your wound is not serious?”
“Too insignificant to be worthy of mention.”
She was silent, her eyes upon the carpet, her bosom rising and falling with the emotion she sought in vain to suppress.
“I thank you for coming to me,” she said finally. “I shall understand it all better, comprehend your motive better, for this brief talk. Whatever you may think of me in the future,” and she held out her hand with something of the old frankness in the gesture, “do not hold me as ungrateful for a single kindness you have shown me. I have not fully understood you, Captain Wayne; indeed, I doubt if I do even now, yet I am under great obligations which I hope some day to be able to requite, at least in part.”
“A thousand times they are already paid,” I exclaimed eagerly, forgetting for the moment the presence of her silent chaperon. “You have given me that which is more than life—”
“Do not, Captain Wayne,” she interrupted, her cheeks aflame. “I would rather forget. Please do not; I did not send to you for that, only to tell you I knew and understood. We must part now. Will you say goodbye?”
“If you bid me, yes, I will say good-bye,” I answered, my own self-control brought back instantly by her words and manner, “but I retain that which I do not mean to forget—your gracious words of invitation to the North.”
She stood with parted lips, as though she struggled to force back that which should not be uttered. Then she whispered swiftly:
“It is not my wish that you should.”
Was there ever such another paradox of a woman?
I knew not how to read her aright, for I scarce ever found her twice the same. Which represented the truth of her character—her cool dignity, her impetuous pride, or that gentle tenderness which befitted her so well? Which was the armor, which the heart of this fair lady of the North? As we rode down the path to the eastward, a snowy handkerchief fluttered for an instant at the library window. I raised my hat in silent greeting, and we were gone.
The close of the long and bitter struggle had come; to those who had cast their fortunes with the South it seemed almost as the end of the world. I had thought to write of those last sad days, to picture them in all their contrasting light and shadow, but now I cannot. There are thoughts too deep for human utterance, memories too sacred for the pen. I rejoice that I was a part of it; that to the lowering of the last tattered battle-flag I remained constant to the best traditions of my house. I cannot sit here now, beneath the protecting shadow of a flag for which my son fought and died, and write that I regret the ending, for years of peace have taught us of the South lessons no less valuable than did the war; yet do I rejoice to-day that, having once donned the gray, I wore it until the last shotted gun voiced its grim message to the North.
It is hardly more than a dream now, sometimes vague and shadowy, again distinct with living figures and historic scenes. I require but to close my eyes to behold once more those slender lines of ragged, weary, hungry men, to whom fighting had become synonymous with life. I pass again through the fiery rain of those last fierce battles, when in desperation we sought to check the unnumbered blue legions that fairly crushed us beneath their weight. The vividness of the memory burns my brain as by fire,—the ghastly faces of the dead, the unuttered agony of the wounded, the patient suffering of the living. Day by day, night by night, we grew less in numbers, and our thin lines contracted; divisions shrank into regiments, companies to platoons. Men knew that the inevitable was upon them, yet smiled into one another's face and went forth to die. It was pitiable; it was magnificent. Hungry we fought, unsheltered we slept; our dead were lying with the enemy, while we who yet lived for the duty of another day fronted the bayonets with hearts of courage and sadly prophetic souls. Everywhere to front and rear, to left and right, stretched that same blue wall tipped with cruel steel; in constant hail of iron the shells fell upon us, darkening the day-sky, and turning night into a hell of flame. There was no retreat, no loophole of escape; we could but stay, suffer, and perish. Like men afflicted with some incurable malady, we who were of that stricken remnant sternly, grimly looked into the eyes of death and waited for the end.
I saw it all; I held a part in it all. Upon that April day which witnessed the turning of the last sad page in this tragedy, I stood without the McLean house, ankle deep in the trampled mud of the yard, surrounded by a group of Federal officers. Within was my commander, the old gray hero of Virginia, together with the great silent soldier of the North.
Few about me spoke as we waited in restless agony. No one addressed me, and I think there must have been a look in my face which held them dumb. We knew well what hung upon the balance then; that within those humble walls was being consummated one of the great events of history. To the men in blue it meant home, and victory, and peace; to those in gray, suffering, and struggle, and defeat.
I know not how long I waited, standing beside my horse, with head half bowed upon his neck, seeing the figures about me as in a dream. At last the door was flung open, and those within came forth. He was in advance of them all. In that pale, stern, kindly face, and within the depths of those sorrowful gray eyes, I read instantly the truth—the Army of Northern Virginia was no more. Yet with what calm dignity did this defeated chieftain pass down that blue lane, his head erect, his eyes undimmed—as dauntless in that awful hour of surrender as when he rode before his cheering legions of fighting men. Only as he came to where I stood, and caught the look of suffering upon my face, did he once falter, and then I noted no more than the slight twitching of his lips beneath the short gray beard.
“Captain Wayne,” he said, with all his old-time courtesy, “I shall have to trouble you to ride to General Hills's division and request him to cease all firing at once.”
I turned reluctantly away from him, knowing full well in my heart I was bearing my last order, and rode at a hard trot down the road between long lines of waiting Federal infantry. I scarcely so much as saw them, for my head was bent low over the saddle pommel, and my eyes were blurred with tears.
The sun lay hot and golden over the dusty roads and fenceless fields. The air was vocal with blare of trumpets and roll of drums, while everywhere the eye rested upon blue lines and long columns of marching troops. I formed one of a little gray squad moving slowly southward—a mere fragment of the fighting men of the Confederacy, making their way homeward as best they might. As the roads forked I left them, for here our paths diverged, and it chanced I was the only one whose hope lay westward.
Silently, thoughtfully I trudged on for an hour through the thick red dust. My horse, sorely wounded in our last skirmish, limped painfully behind me, his bridle-rein flung carelessly over my arm. Out yonder, where the sun pointed the way with streams of fire, I was to take up life anew. Life! What was there left to me in that word? A deserted, despoiled farm alone awaited my coming; hardly a remembered face, scarcely a future hope. The glitter of a passing troop of cavalry drew my mind for an instant to Edith Brennan, but I crushed the thought. Even were she free, what had I now to place at her proud feet,—I, a penniless, defeated, homeless man? No, that was all over, even as the cause for which I had fought; love and ambition must lie buried in the same grave. The clothes I wore, that tattered suit of faded gray, soiled by months of hard service in the open, was all I possessed in the wide world, save the starved and wounded animal limping dejectedly at my heels. The mere conception of it, the picture of kneeling thus attired at her feet, brought with it a grim smile, which a deep heartache instantly chased away. Besides, she was not free, and no dream of love might inspire me to toil and hope. With clinched teeth I drove her memory from me, back into that dim past where lurked all that had been worthy in my life. Sternly I resolved that her face should henceforth abide with those others—the shadowy comrades of many a battlefield.
In this spirit I plodded on, my step heavy, my head bowed, wearied alike in heart and body. My temples throbbed with the heat of the sun, my eyes were dulled, my throat caked by the swirling dust. At a cross-roads a Federal picket halted me, and I aroused sufficiently to hand him the paper which entitled me to safe passage through the lines. He was a man well along in years, with thoughtful eyes and kindly face, and I spoke to him out of my sheer loneliness.
“No doubt you are rejoicing that the long struggle is so nearly ended?” I said as he handed me back the paper and motioned me to pass on. “Have you a family in the North?”
“A wife and five children up in Michigan, sir,” he answered civilly. “I guess they are counting the days now. And you, sir?”
“Oh, I have some acres of worn-out land over yonder, and but little else.”
“Well, you're a sight better off than some, I s'pect. It's been pretty tough on all of you, but if you fellows only work like you fought you'll have things a humming before long.”
There was homely comfort in his philosophy which for the moment cheered me. Perhaps he was right; the energy and bravery of the South, crippled as it now was, might yet conquer our present misfortune, and prove it a blessing in disguise. I had gone a hundred yards or more, this thought still in my mind, when I became aware that he was calling after me.
“Hey, there, you gray-back!” he shouted, “hold on a bit!”
As I came to a pause and glanced back, wondering if there could be anything wrong with my parole, he swung his cap and pointed.
“That officer coming yonder wants to speak with you.”
Across the open field at my right, hidden until then by a slight rise of ground, a mounted cavalryman was riding rapidly toward me, the wind blowing back his cape so as to make conspicuous its bright yellow lining. For the moment his lowered head prevented recognition, but as he cleared the ditch and came up smiling, I saw it was Caton.
“By Jove, Wayne, but this is lucky!” he exclaimed, springing to the ground beside me. “I've actually been praying for a week past that I might meet you. Holmes, of your service, told me you had pulled through, but everything is in such confusion that to hunt for you would have been the proverbial quest after a needle in a haystack. You have been paroled then?”
“Yes, I'm completely out of it at last,” I answered, feeling to the full the deep sympathy expressed by his face. “It was a bitter pill, but one which had to be taken.”
“I know it, old fellow,” and his hand-grasp on mine tightened warmly. “Of course I 'm glad, there's no use denying that, glad we won; glad the old Union has been preserved as our fathers gave it to us; glad slavery on this continent has passed away for ever, and so will you be before you die. Yet I am sincerely sorry for those who have given their all and lost. God knows you fought a good fight, fought as Americans only can, even though it was in a bad cause. That is the pity of it; such heroism, such sacrifice, and all wasted. If you have been beaten there is no disgrace in it, for no other nation in this world could ever have accomplished it. But this was a case of Greek meeting Greek, and we had the money, the resources, and the men. But, Wayne, I tell you, I do not believe there is to-day a spark of bitterness in the heart of a fighting Federal soldier. We fought you to a finish because it's in our blood; we whipped you because we were compelled to in order to preserve the Union, but we'd share our last cent, or last crust, with any gray-back now. I know I feel as if every paroled Confederate were a brother in need.”
“I know, Caton,” I said,—and the words came hard,—“your fighting men respect us, even as we do them. It has been a sheer game of which could stand the most punishment, and the weaker had to go down. I know all that, but, nevertheless, it is a terrible ending to so much of hope, suffering, and sacrifice.”
“Yes,” he admitted soberly, “you have given your all. But those who survive have a wonderful work before them. They must lay anew the foundations; they are to be the rebuilders of States. You were going home?”
I smiled bitterly at this designation of my journey's end.
“Yes, if you can so name a few weed-grown fields and a vacant negro cabin. I certainly shall have to lay the foundation anew most literally.”
“Will you not let me aid you?” he questioned eagerly. “I possess some means, and surely our friendship is sufficiently established to warrant me in making the offer. You will not refuse?”
“I must,” I answered firmly. “Yet I do not value the offer the less. Sometime I may even remind you of it, but now I prefer to dig, as the others must. I shall be the stronger for it, and shall thus sooner forget the total wreck.”
For a few moments we walked on together in silence, each leading his horse. I could not but note the contrast between us in dress and bearing. Victory and defeat, each had stamped its own.
“Wayne,” he asked at length, glancing furtively at me, as if to mark the effect of his words, “did you know that Mrs. Brennan was again with us?”
The name thus spoken set my heart to instant throbbing, but I sought to answer carelessly. Whatever he may have surmised, it was plainly my duty to hide our secret still.
“I was not even aware she had been away.”
“Oh, yes; she returned North immediately after your last parting, and came back only last week. So many wives and relatives of the officers have come down of late, knowing the war to be practically at an end, that our camp has become like a huge picnic pavilion. It is quite the fashionable fad just now to visit the front. Mrs. Brennan accompanied the wife of one of the division commanders from her State—Connecticut, you know.”
There was much I longed to ask regarding her, but I would not venture to fan his suspicions. In hope that I might turn his thought I asked, “And you; are you yet married?”
He laughed good-humoredly. “No, that happy day will not occur until after we are mustered out. Miss Minor is far too loyal a Virginian ever to become my wife while I continue to wear this uniform. By the way, Mrs. Brennan was asking Celia only yesterday if she had heard anything of you since the surrender.”
“She is at Appomattox, then?”
“No, at the headquarters of the Sixth Corps, only a few miles north from here.”
“And the Major?”
Caton glanced at me, a peculiar look in his face, but answered simply:
“Naturally I have had small intimacy with him after what occurred at Mountain View, but he is still retained upon General Sheridan's staff. At Mrs. Brennan's request we breakfasted together yesterday morning, but I believe he is at the other end of the lines to-day.”
We sat down upon a bank, our conversation drifting back to their uneventful ride northward, and later to our experiences during those last weeks of war. I have often reflected since on the vivid contrast we must have made while resting there, each holding the rein of his horse, our animals as widely differing in appearance as ourselves. Both were typical of the two services in those last days. Caton was attired in natty uniform, fleckless and well groomed, his linen immaculate, his buttons gleaming, the rich yellow stripes of his arm of the service making marked contrast with the blue he wore and the green he sat upon. I, on the other hand, was haggard from hard, sleepless service and insufficient food, my shapeless old slouch hat and dull gray jacket torn and disfigured, the marks of rank barely discernible.
But his manly, hopeful spirit reawakened my courage, and for the time I forgot disaster while listening to his story of love and his plans for the future. His one thought was of Celia and the Northern home so soon now to be made ready for her coming. The sun sank lower into the western sky, causing Caton to draw down his fatigue cap until its glazed visor almost completely hid his eyes. With buoyant enthusiasm he talked on, each word drawing me closer to him in bonds of friendship. But the time of parting came, and after we had promised to correspond with each other, I stood and watched while he rode rapidly back down the road we had traversed together. At the summit of the hill he turned and waved his cap, then disappeared, leaving me alone, with Edith's face more clearly than ever a torture to my memory of defeat,—her face, fair, smiling, alluring, yet the face of another man's wife.