Your loving son,
WILL
Then at the bottom of the last page:
Miss Wellcome decided she did not want to wait. She said if my brothers had married Southern girls I might do the same if I went to war before we were married, so we are going to marry this afternoon and I leave tomorrow. Your new daughter sends her love to you and mother and so do I . . .
Dan chuckled as he read this. It sounded so like Will, who was always apt to have a twinkle in his eye; and Dan decided that if he could be with Will it would be worth changing his decision to go home. The Army of the Potomac after its disastrous spring campaign was losing thousands of two-year troops whose time had run, and there were recurrent rumors of a movement by the Southern Army to take advantage of this weakness, so those soldiers who like Dan were willing to re-enlist could within reason make their own terms. Dan sought and received permission to re-enlist in Will’s regiment, and early in June he reported to the Sixth Wisconsin at White Oak Church.
II
The two brothers met after these many years almost with diffidence. Dan knew Will at once, but Dan too now wore a beard and for a moment Will did not recognize him. They clasped hands in a strong happiness, and then they began a cautious series of questions and answers, building a bridge across the gap between the present and the past. Will wanted to know how Dan came into a Wisconsin regiment, and Dan told him, and Will said Dan’s beard made him look a lot older.
‘I feel older,’ Dan assented. ‘I’ve had two years of this, you know. It takes the tuck out of a man.’
Will nodded gravely. ‘Have you been hit at all?’
‘Nothing to matter. A nick in the arm, and a cut head. I’ve never been in hospital.’
Will asked questions about the service Dan bad seen, about many impersonal things. At last, hesitantly, he inquired: ‘Have you heard anything from Tom and Mat?’
‘I saw a Lieutenant out of a Georgia regiment, a prisoner, who knew them.’ And Dan added eagerly, glad to have this news to tell: ‘He says Mat was married in the fall of ‘61.’
‘That’s good,’ Will declared, and he colored a little. ‘You know I’m married, too.’
‘Yes, father sent me your last letter,’ Dan assented. That’s how I knew where you were.’
‘Are you married yet?’
Dan shook his head. ‘No.’ He thought suddenly of Beth, and with a surprising pleasure. She must be sixteen now, nearly seventeen, almost a young lady. ‘No.’ he repeated, and laughed and said jokingly: ‘I’m waiting for Beth to grow up! You’ve all beaten me. Tom has two children, you know. Two, anyway.’
Will chuckled. ‘Beth? She always did like you.’ He asked awkwardly: ‘Are they all right, Mat and Tom?’
‘As far as anything I’ve heard.’ Dan wanted to ask whether Will had ever received that letter from Jenny, in which she wished Tom and Mat dead, but he could not bring himself to do so. Not even between him and his father had that moment been mentioned since.
Will turned again to impersonal matters. They tell me these Southerners are hard fighters.’
‘They’re fine infantry.’ Dan agreed. ‘So are ours, but the Rebels are better led. But our artillery is better than theirs, better guns and better handled.’
‘I haven’t been in a battle yet,’ Will confessed.
‘I thought you might have been at Chancellorsville.’
‘No. When I wrote father, I expected to start for Washington next day, but after we decided to be married I asked for extra leave, so I didn’t go to Washington till the second of May, and no one knew just where the Sixth was. I joined them here on the eighth.’
Dan asked: ‘Been here ever since?’
‘We marched down the Northern Neck.’ He grinned. ‘But the only thing that happened, a horse loaded with gear for the headquarters mess fell off a bridge and got rid of his load.’ And he asked: ‘Dan, do you think the Rebels will attack us here?’
‘No.’ Dan said positively. ‘No, not if Lee’s smart—and he is. Of course, he might beat us, but even if he did, it would be just another battle won, and he’s already won a lot of battles without settling anything. Fighting the North is like punching pillows, Will. The South is going to lose Vicksburg. That’s just a question of time, and it will be bad news when it comes. Lee needs some big success to counteract that, to cheer up the South—and maybe change England’s mind, make them recognize the Confederacy. I think he’ll invade the North, go up the Valley into Pennsylvania.’
‘What if he does?’
‘Why-we’ll go after him, keep between him and Washington.’
Will asked in a shy way: ‘Are you afraid, in a battle, Dan?’
‘Everybody is,’ Dan assured him.
‘I think I’ll probably be,’ Will confessed. ‘But if I can keep busy, I won’t run away.’
Dan chuckled. ‘You’ll be scared,’ he assented. ‘But you won’t run.’
Not till days later did it occur to Dan as strange and saddening that though they talked for an hour longer, they did not at that first reunion speak of their mother at all.
III
This camp near White Oak Church, pleasantly situated in a fine grove, faced the Rappahannock, and the Southern pickets on the opposite bank were not two hundred yards away; but both armies were quiet, there was no firing to and fro, and unless there were officers about, the pickets occasionally met to exchange newspapers and trade Northern coffee for Southern whiskey in the friendliest way. Nevertheless, this close proximity of the armies made both commanders nervous, and several times during the days that followed the regiment was turned out ready to move; but each time the orders were countermanded.
Dan told Will: ‘It’s just that every time a few Rebels march across a field, the balloon spots them and we have to get ready.’ General Hooker’s reconnoitering balloon, hanging in the air behind the lines, was a fair target for every jest. ‘Our men say Johnny Reb enjoys fooling the balloon!’
Through the first week of June these alarms were frequent, and once the troops had to lie in line of battle under a baking sun till their tempers ran short; but on the morning of June twelve—though none knew why—the regiment moved at last, marching twenty miles through dust and sun to Deep Run, moving on to Bealton Station, and on the third day to Bull Run. Dan told Will that night:
‘This is my third time here at Manassas. We were licked the first time and the second; but maybe this time we’ll be let off. I think Lee backed away from the Rappahannock and crossed into the Valley and headed north. If that’s so, we’re racing to catch him now.’
He was right in this guess, for they pushed steadily northward; and the first batch of newspapers brought word that Lee’s foragers were already in Pennsylvania. Dan and Will read the papers together.
‘If his advance is that far north,’ Dan pointed out, ‘it means he’s got a big start on us. Hooker’s balloon didn’t do us any good. Lee got away without our knowing it.’ One paper predicted another battle at Antietam, and he added: ‘I hope that doesn’t happen. I never want to see the place again. We were in reserve—I was in the Second Maine then—but we were one of the first into Sharpsburg after the Rebels pulled out, and I saw more dead men there than I’ve ever seen anywhere.’
Will nodded, and he said soberly: ‘Major Hauser tells me that the Sixth was slaughtered in the cornfield there.’ This Major Hauser was a German, with a background of training in European military schools. At Thun, in Switzerland, he had been a fellow student with Louis Napoleon, and he liked to tell in a roaring voice of the hilarious debauches they had together. He had served on Garibaldi’s staff, and his particular duty in the Sixth was to act as drillmaster of the line officers. He had made it a point to be friendly with Will, explaining cheerfully that a wise soldier always cultivated the surgical staff, so that if he were wounded he could count on some personal care.
They halted for two days at Broad Run, and since the newspapers said Lee’s men were foraging as they pleased in Pennsylvania
, Will could not understand this delay. ‘Why don’t we go climb his frame?’ he demanded. ‘We’re doing no good here!’
‘We’re protecting Washington!’ Dan told him in sardonic scorn. ‘That’s Hooker’s only idea. As long as Lee lets Washington alone—to hell with Pennsylvania! Hooker’ll edge along, keep between Lee and Washington, let Lee go clear to New York if he wants to. We’ll never fight Lee again if Hooker’s in command! He’s had his belly full.’
But they did move northward presently, marching all day and all night with occasional brief halts to Edwards Ferry, and then on through Poolsville to Barnesville. The next day they were early on the road through deep mud and a drizzle of rain which half-obscured the mountain wall to the west, beyond which Dan knew the main Confederate army was likewise pushing north up the Shenandoah Valley in a race to pour its main forces after its vanguard into the heart of Pennsylvania, to Harrisburg, or Philadelphia, or to Baltimore. He wondered if Tom and Mat were with that army, wondered whether in the coming conflict they would meet at last, remembered his mother’s injunction with a deep sorrow like a prayer.
On the long marches he felt within himself a constant impulse to hurry, hurry; and he was forever conscious of that other army over beyond the mountains which was racing northward along parallel lines. That army of Lee’s they were bound to intercept and to beat and to sweep off the last foot of Northern soil. He watched his men, helped the stragglers, multiplied himself as though he alone could win this race and the battle that was to come. The men were wet to the skin, eating soggy hardtack and salt pork, sleeping at night in wet blankets; but rain and mud were better than dust and sun. It was at least blissful to be cool.
They had better than two weeks of forced marches, with only a short respite at Broad Run, while that breathless race went on. The twenty- seventh saw them at South Mountain. Next day they marched to Frederick through the continuing rain, and then went on to Emmittsburg. On the evening of the thirtieth of June they made their bivouac on Marsh Creek, four or five miles southwest of Gettysburg.
They had heard a report two days before that Meade had relieved Hooker. Dan knew nothing of Meade or of his merits. ‘Anyone’s better than Hooker,’ he told Will. ‘But of course this may not be true.’ A constant flood of rumors, true and false, ran along the marching columns day by day. Men said that Confederate cavalry had cut the telegraph wires to Washington, and that Lee had captured Harrisburg and was marching on to Philadelphia, and that Lee was massing troops to hit their flank at Emmittsburg, and that Lee was coming down the Susquehanna to Baltimore, and that Lee was laying waste all Pennsylvania. The men discussed every rumor, but they were veterans, not easily disturbed by any tale. When the report of Meade’s appointment to the command was confirmed, the whole army felt a lift of spirit, glad to be free of Hooker, damning him and his balloons!
On this last day’s march they had had for the first time a feeling that their immediate goal was near. The Sixth had been the first regiment to cross the Pennsylvania line; and at Emmittsburg, students of the college there turned out to greet the troops and marched a few miles with them, watching the advance guard and flankers feeling for the enemy. That day small Confederate foraging parties scattered before the advance, and in the bivouac tonight dozens of curious farm folk came to welcome them as deliverers. Dan and Will talked with one of them, a fat and amiable man who rode a small horse which seemed half-smothered under the weight he carried, and who said his name was Berrows. The man had a curious impediment in his speech which made him substitute the letter V for T in many words; and as though to conceal this he talked very loudly and with little prompting.
‘Say, it’s high time you boys were showing up!’ he declared. ‘Folks around here have been acting like so many chickens with their heads off. Major Harrer came aromg ten days ago making a big speech about defending our homes, and they tried to get up a cavarry company around here. Wanted my horse, but I said I had to have him to run away on when Ree comes. They been out chasing Reb pickets and getting chased theirserves. It was horses mostry the Rebs wanted, so I kep’ out of their way.’
Dan asked: ‘Any Rebs around here now, except the stealing parties?’ ‘Nope. There was a rot of them came to Hagerstown and went on to Chambersburg and nigh to Harrisburg. Major Harrer sent one regiment out the Chambersburg Pike, here three-four days ago, but they run into the Rebs and got their hair singed and got chased back to Harrisburg. Then the same day some Rebs rode into Gettysburg shooting off their guns and hooting rike a bunch of Indians. Come arong some sordiers after them, five-six thousand by my guess, and the raggedest, dirtiest, tiredest rot of boys they was I ever see. Yes sir, I was sorry for them. They stayed in Gettysburg Friday night, wanted us to give them I don’t know what—or five thousand cash. Town Council tord ’em we didn’t have the one or the other, so they went on to York. I heard York gave them twenty-eight thousand cash to get out of town.’
Will said: ‘It’s been hard on you folks who live around here.’
‘Hard doings,’ Mr. Berrows agreed. Dan found himself wondering whether the man’s name was really Berrows or Bellows. ‘They’ve took what they wanted, gave scrip for it, craimed the scrip would be worth more than our money in a few days. But they got worried and reft, and some of our cavarry came day before yesterday. They’re out west of town now. But I’m grad you boys have got here, just the same. A man on a horse, if he don’t want to fight he can run away; but you boys that have to wark, you can’t get away if you want, so you have to stay and fight. Yes sir, you rook good to me.’ He added: ‘And you better get ready, too. There’s a heap of Rebs camped out arong the pike. Ree’s whore army’s handy, what I hear, coming through Cashtown Gap to head you off. Some of them came in as far as the Seminary this morning and put some pickets in Shead’s house, but they backed off toward Cashtown again. Buford’s cavarry scared them off, maybe; but I rook to see them back tomorrow, rooking for a fight.’
He said good night at last. ‘See you in the morning,’ he promised. ‘Give ’em what for, boys!’ And he ambled away. When he was gone, Dan said:
‘You know, Will, if Lee’s whole army’s near, that’s maybe a hundred thousand men.’
‘Why doesn’t General Meade wait till the rest of our men get here?’ Dan laughed. ‘You can’t always have your druthers in war, Will—not even if you’re a General. Meade won’t fight at long odds unless he has to, but maybe he can’t help himself. But we don’t have to worry about him.’ He chuckled, slapped Will’s shoulder. ‘You never have to worry in the army, Will. You just do what you’re told.’
IV
That night of the thirtieth of June was quiet, and the drizzle which had beset them on so much of their march north from Virginia had given way to clearing skies; but Dan slept little. He had no desire to sleep, anticipating the morrow. An easy two-hour march would bring them to Gettysburg. Probably, Dan thought, the nearest Confederates were no farther away to the westward; and he wondered whether it would be possible from some low hill—for instance, from the little rocky summit which before dark he had seen a mile or so northeast of their bivouac—to see the fires in the Confederate bivouacs. He found himself remembering some of the Confederates he had come to know, prisoners whom he had questioned, or enemy pickets ready enough to pass the time of day and discuss the war with you. War, he thought, in a remote lucidity, was a strange institution. You met a man some sunny morning by a brookside between the lines where each of you had gone to bathe, and the uniform he took off was gray, and the clothing you removed was blue; but when you were naked you looked much alike except that he was a little thinner than you. There were other slight differences. He talked in an easy, soft, friendly drawl; and he slurred his Vs’ and this Southerner washing himself in the same brook—which he called a creek—was a little more ready to talk about himself than you were. But otherwise you were much alike, and you met in friendly ways.
But if the next day some officer told you to fight, and some other officer told that
other man to fight, you would both do it. He might come bounding at you with his mouth open, screaming like a murderous maniac, and letting off his musket at you; and you would shoot at him, and if you missed him he would be at you with his bayonet unless you pinned him first, or cracked his skull with your musket butt. You and he could have been friends, given the opportunity; but you were ready enough to kill each other if someone told you to do so.
Dan wondered why, but at once he knew the answer. You were ready to fight each other because fundamentally that man believed one thing and you believed another. Perhaps it would never have occurred to either of you to fight over your beliefs if you had been let alone; but men—presumably wiser, certainly more passionate than either of you—had decided that you should fight, and you accepted their decision, and they appointed men to tell you when to fight, and you did it—freely and eagerly. And once a man began to fight, he would go on until he won or was beaten, if he were a man; but unless someone told you that the hour for fighting had come, you and that Rebel could be friends just the same.
The enigma was curious and perplexing and sorrowful, yet Dan thought to be a soldier was on the whole surprisingly peaceful and contenting. Now and then you had a job of fighting to do, and when that happened men were nothing but counters in a game, and the more of them you knocked over, the quicker you won, and blood and brains and guts and amputated arms and legs heaped in a pile outside the hospital tents ceased to be sickening evidence of the destruction of other human beings like yourself, but became just the meaningless debris which the game left behind on the playing field. But whether in battle or between whiles, you had never to make decisions; you just did what you were told.
You felt nothing in a fight. Beforehand, of course, you were afraid. That is, your hands perspired and your stomach was a knot of crawling worms, and your mouth was so dry you couldn’t spit. But once the thing began, you were like a spectator, seeing everything that happened with an extraordinary clarity, remembering scenes like tableaux in which every actor was motionless; and you were completely cool and calm even though you might hear yourself utter toneless screams of hate and rage as you fought. Then when the fighting was done you might be sick, and then if you were allowed to do so you slept for hours and hours and hours, as though you would never wake.
The Strange Woman Page 58