by Charles King
III.
Daybreak, and the broad expanse of valley opening away to the south isjust lighting up in chill, half-reluctant fashion, as though the nighthad been far too short or the revels of yester-even far too long. Thereis a swish and plash of rapid running waters close at hand, and here andthere, where the stream is dammed by rocky ridge, the wisps of fog riseslowly into air, mingling with and adding to the prevailing tone ofchilly gray. Through these fog-wreaths there stands revealed a massivebarrier of wooded and rock-ribbed heights, towering aloft and shuttingout the eastern sky, all their crests a-swim in floating cloud, alltheir rugged foothills dotted with the tentage of a sleeping army. Here,close at hand on the banks of the rushing river, a sentry paces slowlyto and fro, the dew dripping from his shouldered musket and beading onhis cartridge-box. The collar of his light-blue overcoat is muffled upabout his ears, and his forage cap is pulled far down over his blinkingeyes. As he paces southward he can see along the stream-bed camps andpale-blue ghosts of sentries pacing as wearily as himself in the wan andcheerless light. Trees are dripping with heavy charge of moisture thatthe faintest whiff of morning air sends showering on the bank beneath;and a little deluge of the kind coming suddenly down upon thisparticular sentry as he strolls under the spreading branches serves toaugment the expression of general weariness and disgust, which by nomeans distinguishes him from his more distant fellows, but evokes nofurther comment than a momentary huddling of head and shoulders into thedepths of the blue collar, and the briefest possible mention of the lastplace of all others one would be apt to connect with cooling showers.Facing about and slouching along the other way the sentry sees a picturethat, had he poetry or love of the grand and beautiful in his soul,would a thousand-fold compensate him for his enforced vigil. Everymoment, as the timid light grows bolder with its reinforcement from theeast, there opens a vista before his eyes that few men could look uponunmoved. To his right the brawling Shenandoah, swift and swirling, goesrushing through its last rapids, as though bent on having one final"hurrah" on its own account before losing its identity in the welcomingwaters of the Potomac. Hemming it in to the right--the east--andshutting out the crimson dawn are the massive bulwarks of the LoudonHeights climbing towards the changing heavens. Westward, less bold andjagged, but still a mighty barrier in almost any other companionship,are the sister heights of Bolivar, scarred and seamed with earth-workand rifle-pit, and bristling with _abattis_ and battery. Down theintervening valley plunges the Shenandoah and winds the macadam of thehighway, its dust subdued for the time being; while, straight away tothe front, mist-wreathed at their base from the sleeping waters of thewinding canal, cloud-capped at their lofty summit from the bank of vaporthat hovers along the entire range, rock-ribbed, precipitous,magnificent in silent, stubborn strength, the towering heights ofMaryland span the scene from east to west, and stand superb, thebackground to the picture. All as yet is sombre in tone, black, darkgreen, and brown and gray. The mist hangs heavy over everything, and thetwinkle of an occasional camp-fire is but the sodden glow of emberwhose life is long since burned out. But, see! Through the deep, jaggedrift where runs the Potomac, along the rock-bound gorge through which inages past the torrent burst its way, there creeps a host of tiny shaftsof color--the skirmishers, the _eclaireurs_, of the irresistible arrayof which they form but the foremost line--the coming army of the God ofDay. Here behind the frowning Loudon no such light troops venture; but,skilled riders as they are,
"Spurring the winds of the morning,"
they pour through the rocky gap, and now they find their lodgment onevery salient of the grim old wall beyond the broad Potomac. Here,there, everywhere along the southern face are glinting shafts or pointson rocks or ridge. Seam and shadow take on a purplish tinge. The hangingmass of cloud beams with answering smile upon its earthward face as goldand crimson and royal purple mantle the billowy cheeks. Now the rockslight up with warmer glow, and long, horizontal shadows are thrownacross the hoary curtain, and slowly the gorgeous cloud-crests lift awayand more and more the heights come gleaming into view. Now there arebreaks and caverns here and there through the shifting vapors, andhurried little glimpses of the cliffs beyond, and these cloud-caves growand widen, and broad sheets of yellow light seem warming up the drippingwall and changing into mist the clinging beads of dew. And now, faraloft, the fringe of firs and stunted oaks is seen upon the summit asthe sun breaks through the shimmering veil, and there, flutteringagainst the blue of heaven, circled in fleecy frame of vapor, glowing,waving in the sky, all aflame with tingeing sunshine, there leaps intoview the "Flag of the Free," crowning the Maryland heights and shiningfar up the guarded valley of the Shenandoah. A puff of smoke juts outfrom the very summit across the stream; the sentry eyes it with a sighof reviving interest in life; five, ten, twenty seconds he counts beforethe boom of the salute follows the sudden flash and wakes the echoes ofthe opposite cliffs.
Listen! Up on the westward heights, somewhere among those frowningbatteries, a bugle rings out upon the air--
"I can't get 'em up, I can't get 'em up, I can't get 'em up in the mo--orning,"
it merrily sings, and the rocks of Loudon echo back the spirited notes.Farther up the valley a distant drum rattles, and then, shrill andpiercing, with hoarse, rolling accompaniment, the fifes of some infantryregiment burst into the lively trills of the _reveille_. Another camptakes up the strain, off to the left. Then the soft notes of the cavalrytrumpets come floating up from the water-side, and soon, regiment afterregiment, the field-music is all astir and the melody of the initialeffort becomes one ringing, blaring, but most effectually wakingdiscord. Loud in the nearest camp the little drummers and fifers arethumping away at "Bonnie Lass o' Gawrie." Over by the turnpike the rivalcorps of the--th Connecticut are pounding out the cheerful strains inwhich Ireland's favored bard declared he would "Mourn the hopes thatleave," little dreaming that British fifes and drums would make itsoldier music--"two-four time"--all the world over. Halfway across thevalley, where the Bolivars narrow it, an Ohio regiment is announcing tothe rest of the army, within earshot, that it wakes to the realizationthat its "Name it is Joe Bowers," tooted and hammered in "six-eighttime" through the lines of "A" tents; and a New York Zouave organizationturns out of its dew-dripping blankets and cordially blasphemes themusicians who are expressing as their conception of the regimentalsentiment, "Oh, Willie, we have missed you." And so the chorus goes upand down the Shenandoah, and the time-worn melodies of the earliestwar-days--the days before we had "Tramp, tramp," and "Marching throughGeorgia" (which we never _did_ have in Virginia), and even lackadaisical"When this crew-el war is o-ver," are the matins of the soldiers of theUnion Army.
At last the uproar dies away. Here in the neighboring camp the sergeantsare rapidly calling the rolls, and some companies are so reduced innumber that no call over is necessary--a simple glance at the baker'sdozen of war-worn, grisly looking men is sufficient to assure thesergeant of the presence of every one left to be accounted for. In thisbrigade they are not turning out under arms just now, as is the customfarther to the front. It has been cruelly punished in the late battle,and is accorded a resting-spell pending the arrival of recruits fromhome. One first sergeant, who still wears the chevrons of a corporal, inmaking his report to his company commander briefly says:
"Rix came back last night, sir; returned to duty with his company."
"Hello, Hunnewell!" sings out the officer addressed, calling to the newadjutant, who is hurriedly passing by. "What does this mean? Are thewagons back?"
"No," says the adjutant, halting short with the willingness of a man whohas news to tell. "Some of the provost-marshal's men came up last nightfrom Point of Rocks and fetched Rix with them, and letters from thecolonel. Both he and Abbot made complaint of the man's conduct, and hadhim relieved and sent up here under guard. Heard about Abbot?"
"No--what?"
"He's appointed major and assistant adjutant-general, and goes to staffduty; and the colonel will be back this week."
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p; "Does he say who's to be quartermaster?" asks the lieutenant with eagerinterest, and forgetting to record his congratulations on thegood-fortune that has befallen his regimental comrade.
"No," says Mr. Hunnewell, with some hesitancy. "There's a hitch there.To begin with, does anybody know that a vacancy exists?"
"Why, Hollins has been missing now ever since the 18th of September,and he must be either dead or taken prisoner."
The adjutant looks around him, and, seeing other officers and men withinearshot, though generally occupied with their morning ablutions, hecomes closer to his comrade of the line and the two who have joined him,and speaks with lowered voice.
"There is some investigation going on. The colonel sent for such booksand papers of Hollins's as could be found about camp, and an order camelast night for Captain Dodge to report at once at Frederick. He wasbetter acquainted with Hollins than any one else--among the officersanyway--and he knew something about his whereabouts the other times hewas missing. This makes the third."
"Three times and out, say I," answers one of the party. "I heard sometalk at division headquarters when I was up there last night: thegeneral has a letter that Colonel Raymond wrote soon after he wasexchanged, but if it be anything to Hollins's discredit I wonder he didnot write to Putnam. He wouldn't want his successor to be burdened witha quartermaster whom he knew to be--well--shady, so to speak."
"That's the one thing I never understood about Abbot," says the captain,sipping the cup of coffee that a negro servant had just brought to him."Some more of that, Belshazzar; these gentlemen will join me. How he,who is so blue-blooded, seems to be on such terms of intimacy withHollins is what I mean," he explains. "It was through him that Hollinswas taken into companionship from the very start. He really isresponsible for him. They were class-mates, and no one else knewanything of him--except vaguely."
"Now there's just where you wrong Abbot, captain," answers Mr.Hunnewell, very promptly, "and I want to hit that nail on the head righthere. I thought just as you did, for a while; but got an inkling as tothe real state of the case some time ago. It wasn't Abbot who endorsedhim at all, except by silence and sufferance, you may say. Hollins wasat his tent day and night--always following him up and actually forcinghimself upon him; and one night, after Hollins had that first scrape,and came back under a cloud and went to Abbot first thing to intercedewith the colonel, I happened to overhear a piece of conversation betweenthem. Abbot was just as cold and distant as man could possibly be. Hetold him plainly that he considered his course discreditable to thewhole regiment, and especially annoying to him, because, said Abbot,'You have virtually made me your sponsor with every man who showed adisposition to repel you.' Then Hollins made some reply which I did notfully catch, but Abbot was angry, and anybody could have heard hisanswer. He told Hollins that if it had not been for the relationship towhich he alluded he could not have tolerated him at all, but that hemust not draw on it too often. Then Hollins came out, and I heard himmuttering to himself. He fawned on Abbot while he was in the tent, buthe was scowling and gritting his teeth when he left; and I heard himcursing _sotto voce_, until he suddenly caught sight of me. Then he wasall joviality, and took me by the arms to tell me how 'Paul, old boy,has been raking me over the coals. We were chums, you know, and hethinks a heap of me, and don't want the home people to know of mygetting on a spree,' was the way he explained it. Now, if you remember,it was Hollins who was perpetually alluding to his intimacy with theAbbots. Paul himself never spoke of it. What Palfrey once told me inWashington may explain it; he said that Hollins was distantly related tothe Winthrops, and that there was a time when he and Miss Winthrop werequite inseparable--you know what a handsome fellow he was when he firstjoined us?"
"Well," answers the captain, with the half-way and reluctant withdrawalof the average man who has made an unjust statement, "it may be as yousay, but all the same it was Abbot's tacit endorsement or tolerance thatenabled Hollins to hold a place among us as long as he has. If he hasbeen sheltered under the shadow of Abbot's wing, and turns out to be avagabond, so much the worse for the wing. All the same, I'm glad ofAbbot's promotion. Wonder whose staff he goes on?"
"Lieutenant," says a corporal, saluting the group and addressing hiscompany commander, "Rix says he would like to speak with the majorbefore breakfast. He was for going to headquarters alone just now, but Itold him he must wait until I had seen you."
The lieutenant glances quickly around. There, not ten paces away--hisforage cap on the back of his head, his hulking shoulders more bentthan ever, hands in his pockets and a scowl on his face--stands, orrather slouches, Rix. He looks unkempt, dirty, determinedly ugly, andvery much as though he had been in liquor most of the week, and wassober now only through adverse circumstances over which he had nocontrol.
"What do you want of the major, Rix?" demands the lieutenant, withmilitary directness.
"Well, I _want_ him--'n that's enough," says the ex-teamster, withsurly, defiant manner, and never changing his attitude. "I want t' knowwhat I'm sent back here for, like a criminal."
"Because you look most damnably like one," says the officer,impulsively, and then, ashamed of having said such a thing to one who ispowerless to resent, he tempers the wrath with which he would rebuke theman's insubordination, and, after an instant's pause, speaks moregently.
"Come here, Rix. Stand up like a man and tell me your trouble. If youhave been wronged in any way I'll see that you are righted; butrecollect what and where you are."
"I'm a man, by God! Good as any of you a year ago; better'n most of youfive years ago; an' now I'm ordered about by boys just out of theirteens. I'm not under Abbot's orders. Lieutenant Hollins is my officer;he'll fix me all right. Where's _he_, lieutenant? He's the man I want."
"Rix, you will only get into more trouble if you don't mend yourmanners," says the lieutenant, half agreeing with the muttered commentof a comrade, that the man had better be gagged forthwith, butdetermined to control his own temper. "As to Lieutenant Hollins, he hasnot been heard of since Antietam. Nobody knows what's become of him."
The effect of this announcement is startling. Rix turns ghastly white;his bloodshot eyes stare fearfully at his informant, then blink savagelyaround on one after another of the party. His fingers twitch nervously,and he clutches at his throat.
"Are--are you sure, lieutenant?" he gasps, all his insolence of mannergone.
"Sure, sir. He hasn't been seen or heard of since--"
"Why, my God! He told me back there at Boonsboro' that he would rideright over to camp--time I was going back with the colonel through theGap."
"Boonsboro'! Why, man, that was several days after the battle that youwent back with the colonel's ambulance! Then you've seen him since wehave. Where was it?"
But Rix has recovered his wits, such as they are. He has made a damagingadmission, and one that places him in a compromising position. Hequickly blurts forth a denial.
"No, no! It wasn't then. I misremembered. 'Twas when we went over thefirst time. He says to me right there at Boonsboro'--"
"You're lying, Rix," interposed the senior officer of the party, who hasbeen an absorbed listener. "You didn't go through Boonsboro' at all,first time over. We followed the other road, and you followed us. Itmust have been when you went back. Now what did the quartermaster say?"
But Rix sets his jaws firmly, and will tell no more. Twice he isimportuned, but to no purpose. Then the captain speaks again.
"We need not disturb the commanding officer until breakfast-time, butthere is no doubt in my mind this man can give important evidence. Iwill take the responsibility. Have Rix placed in charge of the guard atonce."
And when the corporal reappears it is with a file of men, armed withtheir Springfields. Between them Rix is marched away, a scared andhaggard-looking man.
For a moment the officers stand in silence, gazing after him. Then thecaptain speaks.
"That man could tell a story, without deviating a hair's-breadth fromthe truth, that would astonish
the commonwealth of Massachusetts, or Iam vastly mistaken in him. Does anybody know his antecedents?"
"He was our first quartermaster-sergeant, that's all I know of him,"answers Mr. Hunnewell; "but he was in bad odor with the colonel, Iheard, long before Cedar Mountain. He would have 'broken' him if it hadnot been for Hollins's intercessions."
"I mean his antecedents, before the outbreak of the war, not in theregiment. Where did Hollins get him? _Why_ did he get him, and have himmade quartermaster-sergeant, and stick to him as he did for months,after everybody else was convinced of his worthlessness? There issomething I do not understand in their relations. Do you remember, whenwe were first camped at Meridian Hill, Hollins and Rix occupied the sametent a few days, and the colonel put a stop to it? Hollins was furious,and tried to raise a point against the colonel. He pointed to the factthat in half the regiments around us the quartermaster was allowed tohave his sergeant for a tent-mate if he wanted to; and if ColonelRaymond had any objections, why didn't he say so before they left thestate? He had lived with him a whole month in camp there, and thecolonel never said a word. I confess that some of us thought that Rixwas badly treated when he was ordered to pitch his tent elsewhere, butthe colonel never permitted any argument. I heard him tell Hollins thatwhat was permissible while we were simply state troops was not to beconsidered precedent for his action when they were mustered into thenational service. In his regiment, as in the well-disciplined regimentsof any state, the officers and enlisted men must live apart."
"But Hollins claimed that Rix was a man of good birth and education, andthat he was coaching him for a commission," interposes one of the group.
"That was an afterthought, and had no bearing on the case anyway. I knowthat in this, as in some other matters, there were many of us who chafeda little at the idea of regular army discipline among us, but we knownow the colonel was right. As for Rix, he turned out to be a drunkardbefore we got within rifle-range of Virginia."
"Yet he was retained as quartermaster-sergeant."
"Because Hollins shielded him and kept him out of the way. I tell you,"puts in the captain, testily, "Colonel Raymond would have 'broken' himif he had not been taken at Ball's Bluff. Putnam didn't like tooverthrow Raymond's appointee without his full knowledge and consent,and so he hung on till after we got back to Alexandria. Even thenHollins had him detailed as driver on plea that his lame foot wouldprevent his marching. But Hollins is gone now and Mr. ex-Q. M. SergeantRix is safely jugged. Mark my words, gentlemen, he'll be needed whenHollins's papers are overhauled."
"Hullo! What's up now?" suddenly demands the adjutant. "Look atheadquarters."
From where they stand the broad highway up the valley is plainly visiblefor a mile or more, and to the right of the turnpike, on a little risingground, are pitched the tents of the division commander and his staff.Farther away, among some substantial farm-buildings, are to be seen thecavalrymen of the regular service who are attached, as escort andorderlies, to the headquarters of the Second Corps, and a dozen of thesegentry are plainly visible scurrying about between their little tentsand the picket-line, where their horses are tethered. It is evident thatthe whole troop is hurriedly saddling and that orderlies are riding offbeyond the buildings, each with one or more led horses--the "mounts" ofthe staff. Here, close at hand, among the tents of the Massachusettsmen, the soldiers have risen to their feet, and with coffee steamingfrom the battered tin cup in one hand and bread or bacon clutched in theother they are gazing with interest, but no sign of excitement, at thescene of evident action farther to the front. A year ago such signs ofpreparation at headquarters would have sent the whole regiment in eagerrush for its arms and equipments, but it has learned wisdom with itstwelve-month of campaigning. Not a shot has been heard up the valley. Itcan be no attack there. Yet something unquestionably has happened. Yes,the escort is "leading out." See! far up on the heights, to the west,the men are thronging on the parapets. They have a better view fromthere of what is going on at Sumner's headquarters. Next, shootingaround the building on the low rise to the right front, there comes astaff-officer at rapid gallop. Down the slope he rides, over the lowstone wall his charger bears him, and down the turnpike he speeds,heedless of the shouts of inquiry that seem to greet him from the campsthat flank the road. Sharp to his right he turns, at a little lane aquarter-mile away, and disappears among the trees. "Going to the cavalrycamps," hazards the adjutant, and determines that he had better get overto the major's tent--their temporary commander--and warn him"something's coming." Another minute, quick, pealing, spirited, thererings on the air the sound of a trumpet, and the stirring call of "Bootsand saddles!" startles the ear of many a late sleeper among theofficers. The sun is not yet shining in the valley; the dew is sparklingon every blade and leaf: but the Second Corps is all astir, and there isa cheer in the cavalry camp that tells of soldierly doings close athand. A light battery is parked just across the highway, and as the aidereappears, spurring from the lane out into the pike again, the officerssee how its young commander has vaulted into saddle and is ridingdown to intercept him so that not a minute be lost if the guns areneeded. They are. For though the aide comes by like a shot, he hasshouted some quick words to the captain of the battery, and the latterwaves his jaunty forage cap to his expectant bugler, standing, clarionin hand, by the guard-fire. "Boots and saddles!" again; and--drivers andcannoneers--the men drop their tin cups and plates, and leap for thelines of harness. Down comes the aide full tilt as before. Captain Leeruns to the roadside and hails him with familiar shout:
"What's up, Win?"
"_The whole troop is hurriedly saddling._"]
And gets no further answer than
"Tell you as I come back."
Meantime other aides have been scurrying to and fro; and far and near,up and down the Shenandoah and out across the valley, where the morningsunshine triumphs over the barring Loudon, the same stirring call ringsout upon the air. "Boots and saddles!" everywhere, and nowhere thelong-roll or the infantry assembly.
"Back to your breakfast, boys," says a tall and bearded sergeant."Whatever it is, it don't amount to shucks. The infantry isn't calledfor."
But that it amounts to more than "shucks," despite the footman'sepigram, is presently apparent when the staff-officer comes more slowlyback, easing his panting horse. The major has by this time turned out,and in boots and overcoat is striding over to the stone wall to get thenews.
"What is it, Win?" he asks.
And the aide-de-camp, bending low from the saddle and with grave face,replies,
"Stuart again, by Heaven! He whipped around our right, somewhere nearMartinsburg, last night, and is crossing at Williamsport now."
"_What!_ Why, we've got three corps over there about Antietam yet."
"Yes; and he'll go around them, just as he did round us, and be up inPennsylvania to-morrow. Where are your wounded?"
"Some over near Keedysville; the others, those we lost at SouthMountain, somewhere near Frederick. The colonel and Abbot were there atlast accounts. Why?"
"Because it will be just like him to go clean around us and come downthe Monocacy. If he should, they are gone, sure."