CHAPTER XVII
The smoke and spiteful crackle of the pickets' fusilade had risento one unbroken crash, solidly accented by the report of field guns.
Ambulances were everywhere driving to the rear at a gallop past thecentre and left sections of McDunn's Battery, which, unlimbered,was standing in a cotton field, the guns pointed southward acrossthe smoke rising below.
Claymore's staff, dismounted, stood near. The young generalhimself, jacket over one arm, was seated astride the trail of thesixth gun talking eagerly to McDunn, when across the rolling groundcame a lancer at full speed, plunging and bucketing in his saddle,the scarlet rags of the lance pennon whipping the wind. Thetrooper reined in his excited horse beside Claymore, saluted, andhanded him a message; and the youthful general, glancing at it, gotonto his feet in a hurry, and tossed his yellow-edged jacket of aprivate to an orderly. Then he faced the lancer:
"Tell Colonel Craig to hold his position no matter what it costs!"he exclaimed sharply. "Tell Colonel Arran that I expect him tostand by the right section of the 10th battery until it is safelyand properly brought off!" He swung around on Captain McDunn.
"Limber your battery to the rear, sir! Follow headquarters!" hesnapped, and threw himself into his saddle, giving his mount reinand heel with a reckless nod to his staff.
McDunn, superbly mounted, scarcely raised his clear, penetratingvoice: "Cannoneers mount gun-carriages; caissons follow; drivers,put spur and whip to horses--forward--march!" he said.
"Trot out!" rang the bugles; the horses broke into a swinging lopeacross the dry ridges of the cotton field, whips whistled, thecannoneers bounced about on the chests, guns, limbers and caissonsthumped, leaped, jolted, rose up, all wheels in the air at once,swayed almost to overturning, and thundered on in a tornado ofdust, leaders, swing team, wheel team straining into a franticgallop.
The powerful horses bounded forward into a magnificent stride;general and staff tore on ahead toward the turnpike. Suddenly,right past them came a driving storm of stampeding cavalry,panic-stricken, riding like damned men, tearing off and hurlingfrom them carbines, canteens, belts; and McDunn, white with rage,whipped out his revolver and fired into them as they rushed by in atorrent of red dust. From his distorted mouth vile epithetspoured; he cursed and damned their cowardice, and, standing up inhis stirrups, riding like a cossack at full speed, attempted to usehis sabre on the fugitives from the front. But there was nostopping them, for the poor fellows had been sent into fireignorant how to use the carbines issued the day before.
Into a sandy field all spouting with exploding shells and bulletsthe drivers galloped and steered the plunging guns. The driver ofthe lead team, fifth caisson, was shot clear out of his saddle, allthe wheels going over him and grinding him to pulp; piece andlimber whirled into a lane on a dead run, and Arthur Wye, drivingthe swing team, clinging to the harness and crawling out along thetraces, gained the saddle of the lead-horse.
"Bully for you!" shouted McDunn. "I hope to God that cowardlymonkey cavalry saw you!"
The left section swung on the centre to get its position; limberafter limber dashed up, clashing and clanking, to drop its gun;caisson after caisson rounded to under partial cover in the farmlane to the right.
The roar of the conflict along the river had become terrific; tothe east a New Jersey battery, obscured in flame-shot clouds, wasretiring by its twenty-eight-foot prolonges, using cannister; theremains of a New Hampshire infantry regiment supported the retreat;between the two batteries Claymore in his shirt, sleeves rolled tohis elbows, heavy revolver swinging in his blackened fist, wasgiving a tongue lashing to the stream of fugitives from the riverwoods.
"Where are you going! Hey! Scouting? Well scout to the front,damn you! . . . Where are _you_ going, young man? For ammunition?Go back to the front or I'll shoot you! Get along there youmalingerers! or, by God, I'll have a squadron of Arran'spig-stickers ride you down and punch your skins full of holes!Orderly! Ask Colonel Arran if he can spare me a squad of hislancers for a few minutes----"
The orderly saluted, coughed up a stream of blood, fell backwardoff his horse, scrambled to his feet, terror-stricken, both handspressed convulsively over his stomach!
"Damn them! They've got me. General!" he gasped--"they've g-gotme this time! There's a piece of shell inside me as big----"
He leaned weakly against his mild-eyed horse, nauseated; but it wasonly a spent ball on his belt plate after all, and a few momentslater, swaying and sickly, he forced his horse into a trot acrossthe hill.
A major of Claymore's staff galloped with orders to the Zouaves;but, as he opened his mouth to speak a shell burst behind him, andhe pitched forward on his face, his shattered arm doubling underhim.
"Drag me behind that tree. Colonel Craig!" he said coolly. "I'llfinish my orders in a moment." Major Lent and Colonel Craig gothim behind the tree; and the officer's superb will never faltered.
"Your new position must cover that bridge," he whispered faintly."The left section of McDunn's battery is already ordered to yoursupport. . . . How is it with you, Colonel? Speak louder----"
Colonel Craig, pallid and worn under the powder smears and sweat,wiped the glistening grime from his eye-glasses.
"We are holding on," he said. "It's all right, Major. I'll getword through to the General," and he signalled to some drummer boyslying quietly in the bushes to bring up a stretcher, just as theleft section of McDunn's battery burst into view on a dead run,swung into action, and began to pour level sheets of flame into thewoods, where, already, the high-pitched rebel yell was beginningagain.
A solid shot struck No. 5 gun on the hub, killing Cannoneer No. 2,who was thumbing the vent, and filling No. 1 gunner with splintersof iron, whirling him into eternity amid a fountain of dirt andflying hub-tires. Then a shell blew a gun-team into fragments,plastering the men's faces with bloody shreds of flesh; and theboyish lieutenant, spitting out filth, coolly ordered up thelimbers, and brought his section around into the road with abeautiful display of driving and horsemanship that drew raucouscheers from the Zouaves, where they lay, half stifled, firing atthe gray line of battle gathering along the edges of the woods.
And now the shrill, startling battle cry swelled to the hystericalpack yell, and, gathering depth and volume, burst out into afrantic treble roar. A long gray line detached itself from thewoods; mounted officers, sashed and debonaire, trotted jauntily outin front of it; the beautiful battle flags slanted forward; therecame a superb, long, low-swinging gleam of steel; and the Southlandwas afoot once more, gallant, magnificent, sweeping recklessly oninto the red gloom of the Northern guns.
Berkley, his face bandaged, covered with sweat and dust, sat hisworn, cowhide saddle in the ranks, long lance couched, watching,expectant. Every trooper who could ride a horse was needed now;hospitals had given up their invalids; convalescents and sick mengathered bridle with shaking fingers; hollow-eyed youngsterstightened the cheek-straps of their forage caps and waited, lancein rest.
In the furious smoke below them they could see the Zouaves runningabout like red devils in the pit; McDunn's guns continued to poursolid columns of flame across the creek; far away to the west theunseen Union line of battle had buried itself in smoke. Through itthe Southern battle flags still advanced, halted, tossed wildly,moved forward in jerks, swung to the fierce cheering, moved onhaltingly, went down, up again, wavered, disappeared in the cannonfog.
Colonel Arran, his naked sabre point lowered, sat his saddle, grayand erect. The Major never stirred in his saddle; only the troopcaptains from time to time turned their heads as some strickenhorse lashed out, or the unmistakable sound of a bullet hittingliving flesh broke the intense silence of the ranks.
Hallam, at the head of his troop, stroked his handsome moustachecontinually, and at moments spoke angrily to his restive horse. Hewas beginning to have a good deal of trouble with his horse, whichapparently wished to bolt, and he had just managed to drag thefretting animal back into position, when, with
out warning, thevolunteer infantry posted on the right delivered a ragged volley,sagged back, broke, and began running. Almost on their very heelsa dust-covered Confederate flying battery dropped its blackenedguns and sent charge after charge ripping through them, while outof the fringing woods trotted the gray infantry, driving inskirmishers, leaping fences, brush piles, and ditches, like leanhounds on the trail.
Instantly a squadron of the Lancers trampled forward, facing to thewest; but down on their unprotected flank thundered the Confederatecavalry, and from the beginning it had been too late for acounter-charge.
A whirlwind of lancers and gray riders drove madly down the slope,inextricably mixed, shooting, sabering, stabbing with tip andferrule.
A sabre stroke severed Berkley's cheek-strap, sheering throughvisor and button; and he swung his lance and drove it backward intoa man's face.
In the terrible confusion and tangle of men and horses he couldscarcely use his lance at all, or avoid the twirling lances of hiscomrades, or understand what his officers were shouting. It wasall a nightmare--a horror of snorting horses, panting, sweatingriders, the swift downward glitter of sabre strokes, thickeninglike sheeted rain.
His horse's feet were now entangled in brush heaps; a crowding,cursing mass of cavalrymen floundered into a half demolished snakefence, which fell outward, rolling mounts and riders into a wetgully, where they continued fighting like wild cats in a pit.
Yelling exultantly, the bulk of Confederate riders passed throughthe Lancers, leaving them to the infantry to finish, and rode atthe flying Federal infantry. Everywhere bayonets began to glimmerthrough the smoke and dust, as the disorganised squadrons ralliedand galloped eastward, seeking vainly for shelter to reform.
Down in the hollow an entire troop of Lancers, fairly intact, hadbecome entangled among the brush and young saplings, and theConfederate infantry, springing over the fence, began to bayonetthem and pull them from their horses, while the half-stunnedcavalrymen scattered through the bushes, riding hither and thitherlooking vainly for some road to lead them out of the bushy trap.They could not go back; the fence was too solid to ride down, toohigh to leap; the carbineers faced about, trying to make a stand,firing from their saddles; Colonel Arran, confused but cool, turnedhis brier-torn horse and rode forward, swinging his heavy sabre,just as Hallam and Berkley galloped up through the bushes, followedby forty or more bewildered troopers, and halted fo'r orders. Butthere was no way out.
Then Berkley leaned from his saddle, touched the visor of his cap,and, looking Arran straight in the eyes, said quietly:
"With your permission, sir, I think I can tear down enough of thatfence to let you and the others through! May I try?"
Colonel Arran said, quietly: "No man can ride to that fence andlive. Their infantry hold it."
"Two men may get there." He turned and looked at Hallam. "We'renot going to surrender; we'll all die here anyway. Shall we trythe fence together?"
For a second the silence resounded with the racket of theConfederate rifles; three men dropped from their saddles; thenHallam turned ghastly white, opened his jaws to speak; but no soundcame. Suddenly he swung his horse, and spurred straight toward theopen brush in the rear, whipping out his handkerchief and holdingit fluttering above his head.
Colonel Arran shouted at him, jerked his revolver free, and firedat him. A carbineer also fired after him from the saddle, butHallam rode on unscathed in his half-crazed night, leaving hisdeserted men gazing after him, astounded. In the smoke of anothervolley, two more cavalrymen pitched out of their saddles.
Then Berkley drove his horse blindly into the powder fog ahead; adozen brilliant little jets of flame pricked the gloom; his horsereared, and went down in a piteous heap, but Berkley landed on allfours, crawled hurriedly up under the smoke, jerked a board loose,tore another free, rose to his knees and ripped away board afterboard, shouting to his comrades to come on and cut their way out.
They came, cheering, spurring their jaded horses through the gap,crowding out across the road, striking wildly with their sabres,forcing their way up the bank, into a stubble field, and forward ata stiff trot toward the swirling smoke of a Union battery behindwhich they could see shattered squadrons reforming.
Berkley ran with them on foot, one hand grasping a friendlystirrup, until the horse he clung to halted abruptly, quivering allover; then sank down by the buttocks with a shuddering scream. AndBerkley saw Colonel Arran rising from the ground, saw him glance athis horse, turn and look behind him where the Confederateskirmishers were following on a run, kneeling to fire occasionally,then springing to their feet and trotting forward, riflesglittering in the sun.
A horse with an empty saddle, its off foreleg entangled in itsbridle, was hobbling around in circles, stumbling, neighing,tripping, scrambling to its feet again, and trying frantically togo on. Berkley caught the bridle, freed it, and hanging to theterrified animal's head, shouted to Colonel Arran:
"You had better hurry, sir. Their skirmishers are coming up fast!"
Colonel Arran stood quietly gazing at him. Suddenly he reeled andstumbled forward against the horse's flank, catching at the mane.
"Are you badly hurt, sir?"
The Colonel turned his dazed eyes on him, then slid forward alongthe horse's flank. His hands relaxed their hold on the mane, andhe fell flat on his face; and, Berkley, still hanging to the bit,dragged the prostrate man over on his back and stared into hisdeathly features.
"Where did they hit you, sir?"
"Through the liver," he gasped. "It's all right, Berkley. . . .Don't wait any longer-----"
"I'm not going to leave you."
"You must . . . I'm ended. . . . You haven't a--moment--tolose----"
"Can you put your arms around my neck?"
"There's no time to waste! I tell you to mount and run forit! . . . And--thank you----"
"Put both arms around my neck. . . . Quick! . . . Can you lockyour fingers? . . . This damned horse won't stand! Hold fast tome. I'll raise you easily. . . . Get the other leg over thesaddle. Lean forward. Now I'll walk him at first--holdtight! . . . Can you hang on, Colonel?"
"Yes--_my son_"
A wild thrill ran through the boy's veins, stopping breath andpulse for a second. Then the hot blood rushed stinging into hisface; he threw one arm around the drooping figure in the saddle,and, controlling the bridle with a grip of steel, started the horseoff across the field.
All around them the dry soil was bursting into little dustyfountains where the bullets were striking; ahead, dark smoke hungheavily. Farther on some blue-capped soldiers shouted to them fromtheir shallow rifle pits.
Farther on still they passed an entire battalion of regularinfantry, calmly seated on the grass in line of battle; and behindthese troops Berkley saw a stretcher on the grass and two men ofthe hospital corps squatted beside it, chewing grass stems.
They came readily enough when they learned the name and rank of thewounded officer. Berkley, almost exhausted, walked beside thestretcher, leading the horse and looking down at the stricken manwho lay with eyes closed and clothing disordered where a hastysearch for the wound had disclosed the small round blue hole justover the seat of the liver.
They turned into a road which had been terribly cut up by thewheels of artillery. It was already thronged with the debris ofthe battle, skulkers, wounded men hobbling, pallid malingerersedging their furtive way out of fire. Then ahead arose a terribleclamour, the wailing of wounded, frightened cries, the angry shoutsof cavalrymen, where a Provost Guard of the 20th Dragoons wasriding, recklessly into the fugitives, roughly sorting the goatsfrom the sheep, and keeping the way clear for the ambulances nowarriving along a cross-road at a gallop.
Berkley heard his name called out, and, looking up, saw Casson,astride a huge horse, signalling him eagerly from his saddle.
"Who in hell have you got there?" he asked, pushing his horse up tothe litter. "By God, it's Colonel Arran," he added in a modifiedvoice. "Is he very bad, Be
rkley?"
"I don't know. Can't you stop one of those ambulances, Jack? Iwant to get him to the surgeons as soon as possible----"
"You bet!" said Casson, wheeling his horse and displaying the newchevrons of a sergeant. "Hey, you black offspring of a yellowwhippet!" he bellowed to a driver, "back out there and be damnquick about it!" And he leaned from his saddle, and seizing theleaders by the head, swung them around with a volley of profanity.Then, grinning amiably at Berkley, he motioned the stretcherbearers forward and sat on his horse, garrulously superintendingthe transfer of the injured man.
"There's an emergency hospital just beyond that clump of trees," hesaid. "You'd better take him there. Golly! but he's hard hit. Iguess that bullet found its billet. There's not much hope whenit's a belly-whopper. Too bad, ain't it? He was a bully old boyof a colonel; we all said so in the dragoons. Only--to hell withthose lances of yours, Berkley! What cursed good are theyalongside a gun? And I notice your regiment has its carbineers,too--which proves that your lances are no good or you wouldn't havetwelve carbines to the troop. Eh? Oh, you bet your boots, sonny.Don't talk lance to me! It's all on account of those Frenchmen onLittle Mac's staff----"
"For God's sake shut up!" said Berkley nervously. "I can't standany more just now."
"Oh!" said Casson, taken aback, "I didn't know you were suchcronies with your Colonel. Sorry, my dear fellow; didn't mean toseem indifferent. Poor old gentleman. I guess he will pullthrough. There are nurses at the front--nice little things. Godbless 'em! Say, don't you want to climb up with the driver?"
Berkley hesitated. "Do you know where my regiment is? I ought togo back--if there's anybody to look after Colonel Arran----"
"Is that your horse?"
"No--some staff officer's, I guess."
"Where's yours?"
"Dead," said Berkley briefly. He thought a moment, then tied hishorse to the tail-board and climbed up beside the driver.
"Go on," he said; "drive carefully", and he nodded his thanks toCasson as the team swung north.
The Provost Guard, filing along, carbines on thigh, opened to lethim through; and he saw them turning in their saddles to peercuriously into the straw as the ambulance passed.
It was slow going, for the road was blocked with artillery andinfantry and other ambulances, but the driver found a lane betweenguns and caissons and through the dusty blue columns ploddingforward toward the firing line; and at last a white hospital tentglimmered under the trees, and the slow mule team turned into aleafy lane and halted in the rear of a line of ambulances whichwere all busily discharging their mangled burdens. The cries ofthe wounded were terrible.
Operating tables stood under the trees in the open air; assistantssponged the blood from them continually; the overworked surgeons,stripped to their undershirts, smeared with blood, worked coollyand rapidly in the shade of the oak-trees, seldom raising theirvoices, never impatient. Orderlies brought water in artillerybuckets; ward-masters passed swiftly to and fro; a soldier stood bya pile of severed limbs passing out bandages to assistants whoswarmed around, scurrying hither and thither under the quiet ordersof the medical directors.
A stretcher was brought; Colonel Arran opened his heavy lids asthey placed him in it. His eyes summoned Berkley.
"It's all right," he said in the ghost of a voice. "Whichever wayit turns put, it's all right. . . I've tried to livelawfully. . . . It is better to live mercifully. I think--she--wouldforgive. . . . Will you?"
"Yes."
He bent and took the wounded man's hand, in his.
"If I knew--if I _knew_--" he said, and his burning eyes searchedthe bloodless face beneath him.
"God?" he whispered--"if it were true----"
A surgeon shouldered him aside, glanced sharply at the patient,motioned the bearers forward.
Berkley sat down by the roadside, bridle in hand, head bowed in hisarms. Beside him his horse fed quietly on the weeds. In his earsrang the cries of the wounded; all around him he was conscious ofpeople passing to and fro; and he sat there, face covered, deadlytired, already exhausted to a stolidity that verged on stupor.
He must have slept, too, because when he sat up and opened his eyesagain it was nearly sundown, and somebody had stolen his horse.
A zouave with a badly sprained ankle, lying on a blanket near him,offered him bread and meat that stank; and Berkley ate it, strivingto collect his deadened thoughts. After he had eaten he filled thezouave's canteen at a little rivulet where hundreds of soldierswere kneeling to drink or dip up the cool, clear water.
"What's your reg'ment, friend?" asked the man.
"Eighth New York Lancers."
"Lord A'mighty! You boys did get cut up some, didn't you?"
"I guess so. Are you Colonel Craig's regiment?"
"Yes. We got it, too. Holy Mother--we got it f'r fair!"
"Is your Colonel all right?"
"Yes. Steve--his son--corporal, 10th Company--was hit."
"What!"
"Yes, sir. Plumb through the collar-bone. He was one of the firstto get it. I was turrible sorry for his father--fine old boy!--andhe looked like he'd drop dead hisself--but, by gosh, friend, whenthe stretcher took Steve to the rear the old man jest sot themclean-cut jaws o' his'n, an' kep' his gold-wired gig-lamps to thefront. An' when the time come, he sez in his ca'm, pleasant way:'Boys,' sez he, 'we're agoin' in. It's a part of the job,' sez he,'that has got to be done thorough. So,' sez he, 'we'll jest moseyalong kind o' quick steppin' now, and we'll do our part like weal'us does do it. For'rd--mar-r-rch!'"
Berkley sat still, hands clasped over his knees, thinking ofStephen, and of Celia, and of the father out yonder somewhere amidthe smoke.
"Gawd," said the zouave, "you got a dirty jab on your cocanut,didn't you?"
The bandage had slipped, displaying the black scab of the scarcelyhealed wound; and Berkley absently replaced it.
"That'll ketch the girls," observed the zouave with conviction."Damn it, I've only got a sprained ankle to show my girl."
"The war's not over," said Berkley indifferently. Then he got up,painfully, from the grass, exchanged adieux with the zouave, andwandered off toward the hospital to seek for news of Colonel Arran.
It appeared that the surgeons had operated, and had sent theColonel a mile farther to the rear, where a temporary hospital hadbeen established in a young ladies' seminary. And toward thisBerkley set out across the fields, the sound of the battle dinningheavily in his aching cars.
As he walked he kept a sullen eye out for his stolen horse, neverexpecting to see him, and it was with a savage mixture of surpriseand satisfaction that he beheld him, bestridden by two dirtymalingerers from a New York infantry regiment who rode on thesnaffle with difficulty and objurgations and reproached each otherfor their mutual discomfort.
How they had escaped the Provost he did not know; how they escapedabsolute annihilation they did not comprehend; for Berkley seizedthe bridle, swung the horse sharply, turning them both out of thesaddle; then, delivering a swift kick apiece, as they lay cursing,he mounted and rode forward amid enthusiastic approval from thedrivers of passing army waggons.
Long since the towering smoke in the west had veiled the sun; andnow the sky had become gray and thick, and already a fine drizzlingrain was falling, turning the red dust to grease.
Slipping, floundering, his horse bore him on under darkening skies;rain fell heavily now; he bared his hot head to it; raised hisface, masked with grime, and let the drops fall on the dark scarthat burned under the shifting bandage.
In the gathering gloom eastward he saw the horizon redden anddarken and redden with the cannon flashes; the immense battlerumour filled his ears and brain, throbbing, throbbing.
"Which way, friend?" demanded a patrol, carelessly throwing hishorse across Berkley's path.
"Orderly to Colonel Arran, 8th New York Lancers, wounded. Is thatthe hospital, yonder?"
"Them school buildin's," nodded the patrol. "Say, is your
colonelvery bad? I'm 20th New York, doin' provost. We seen you fellersat White Oak. Jesus! what a wallop they did give us----"
He broke off grimly, turned his horse, and rode out into a soggyfield where some men were dodging behind a row of shaggy hedgebushes. And far behind Berkley heard his loud, bullying voice:
"Git! you duck-legged, egg-suckin', skunk-backed loafers! Go on,there! Aw, don't yer talk back to me 'r I'll let m' horse bite yerpants off! Back yer go! Forrard! Hump! Hump! Scoot!"
Through the heavily falling rain he saw the lighted schoolbuildings looming among the trees; turned into the drive, accountedfor himself, gave his horse to a negro with orders to care for it,and followed a ward-master into an open-faced shed where a kettlewas boiling over a sheet-iron stove.
The ward-master returned presently, threading his way through amass of parked ambulances to the shed where Berkley sat on a brokencracker box.
"Colonel Arran is very low. I guess you'd better not bother himto-night."
"Is he--mortally hurt?"
"I've seen worse."
"He may get well?"
"I've seen 'em get well," said the non-committal ward-master.Then, looking Berkley over: "You're pretty dirty, ain't you? Areyou--" he raised his eyebrows significantly.
"I'm clean," said Berkley with the indifference habituated to filth.
"All right. They'll fix you up a cot somewhere. If Colonel Arrancomes out all right I'll call you. He's full of opium now."
"Did they get the bullet?"
"Oh, yes. I ain't a surgeon, my friend, but I hear a lot ofsurgeon talk. It's the shock--in a man of his age. The wound'sclean, so far--not a thread in it, I hear. Shock--andgangrene--that's what we look out for. . . . What's the news downby the river?"
"I don't know," said Berkley.
"Don't you know if you got licked?"
"I don't think we did. You'd hear the firing out here muchplainer."
"You're the 8th Cavalry, ain't you?"
"Yes."
"They say you got cut up."
"Some."
"And how about the Zouaves?"
"Oh, they're there yet," said Berkley listlessly. Fatigue wasoverpowering him; he was aware, presently, that a negro, carrying alantern, was guiding his stumbling steps into a small buildingwhere, amid piles of boxes, an army cot stood covered by a blanket.Berkley gave him a crumpled mess of paper money, and he almostexpired.
Later the same negro rolled a wooden tub into the room, half filledit with steaming water, and stood in profound admiration of hiswork, grinning at Berkley.
"Is you-all gwine bresh up, suh?" he inquired.
Berkley straightened his shoulders with an effort, unbuckled hisbelt, and slowly began to take off his wet uniform.
The negro aided him respectfully; that wet wad of dollars had doneits work profoundly.
"Yo' is de adjetant ob dis here Gin'ral ob de Lancers, suh? De po'ole Gin'ral! He done git shot dreffle bad, suh. . . . Jess youlay on de flo', suh, t'will I gits yo' boots off'n yo' laigs! Dar!Now jess set down in de tub, suh. I gwine scrub you wif desaddle-soap--Lor', Gord-a-mighty! Who done bang you on de haiddat-a-way?"--scrubbing vigorously with the saddle-soap all thewhile. "Spec' you is lame an' so' all over, is you? Now I'segwine rub you haid, suh; an' now I'se gwine dry you haid." Hechuckled and rubbed and manipulated, yet became tender as a womanin drying the clipped hair and the scarred temple. And, beforeBerkley was aware of what he was about, the negro lifted him andlaid him on the cot.
"Now," he chuckled, "I'se gwine shave you." And he fished out arazor from the rear pocket of his striped drill overalls, rubbedthe weapon of his race with a proud thumb, spread more soap overBerkley's upturned face, and fell deftly to work, wiping off theaccumulated lather on the seat of his own trousers.
Berkley remembered seeing him do it twice; then remembered no more.A blessed sense of rest soothed every bone; in the heavenlystillness and surcease from noise he drifted gently into slumber,into a deep dreamless sleep.
The old negro looked at him, aged face wrinkled in compassion.
"Po' li'l sodger boy," he muttered. "Done gib me fo' dollahs.Lor' Gor' a'mighty! Spec' Mars Linkum's men is all richer'n oleMiss."
He cast another glance at the sleeping man, then picked up theworn, muddy boots, threw the soiled jacket and breeches over hisarm, and shuffled off, shaking his grizzled head.
Ailsa Paige: A Novel Page 17