Westways: A Village Chronicle

by S. Weir Mitchell

  CHAPTER XXVII

  The effort to crush Lee's army by a frontal attack led to the disastrousdefeat of Cold Harbor, and Grant who was never personally routed resolvedto throw his army south of the James River. It involved a concealed nightmarch, while his lines were in many places but thirty to one hundred feetfrom the watchful Confederates. The utmost secrecy was used in regard tothe bold movement intended, but preparations for it demanded frequentreconnaissances and map-sketching on the part of the engineers. A nightof map-making after a long day in the saddle left John Penhallow on June6th a weary man lying on his camp-bed too tired to sleep. He heard Blakeask, "Are you at home, Penhallow?" Few men would have been as welcome asthe serious-minded New England captain who had met Penhallow from time totime since the engineer's mud-bath in the Pamunkey River.

  "Glad to get you by yourself," said Blake. "You look used up. Do keepquiet!"

  "I will, but sit down and take a pipe. Coffee, Josiah!" he called out."I am quite too popular by reason of Josiah's amazing ability to forage.If the Headquarters are within reach, he and Bill--that's the general'sman--hunt together. The results are surprising! But I learned long agofrom my uncle, Colonel Penhallow, that in the army it is well to askno unnecessary questions. My man is very intelligent, and as I keep himin tobacco and greenbacks, I sometimes fancy that Headquarters does notalways get the best out of the raids of these two contrabands."

  "I have profited by it, Penhallow. I have personal memories of thatyoung roast pig, I think your man called it a shoat. Your corps musthave caught it hard these last days. I suppose we are in for somethingunusual. You are the only man I know who doesn't grumble. Francis saysit's as natural to the beast called an army as barking is to a dog."

  "Of course, the habit is stupid, Blake. I mean the constant growl aboutthe unavoidable discomforts of war; but this last week has got me nearthe growling point. I have had two ague chills and quinine enough to ringchimes in my head. I haven't had a decent wash for a week, and really waris a disgustingly dirty business. You don't realize that in history, infiction, or in pictures. It's filthy! Oh, you may laugh!"

  "Who could help laughing?"

  "I can to-day. To-morrow I shall grin at it all, but just now I am halfdead. What with laying corduroys and bridging creeks, to be burnt up nextday, and Chickahominy flies--oh, Lord! If there is nothing else on handin the way of copies of maps, some general like Barnard has an insanecuriosity to reconnoitre. Then the Rebs wake up--and amuse themselves."

  Blake laughed. "You are getting pretty near to that growl."

  "Am I? I have more than impossible demands to bother me. What with somedespondent letters--I told you about my uncle's wound and the results, Ishould have a fierce attack of home-sickness if I had leisure to think atall."

  Blake had found in Penhallow much that he liked and qualities which wereresponsive to his own high ideal of the man and the soldier. He lookedhim over as the young engineer lay on his camp-bed. "Get anything buthome-sick, Penhallow! I get faint fits of it. The quinine of 'Get up,captain, and put out those pickets' dismisses it, or bullets. Lord, butwe have had them in over-doses of late. Francis has been hit twice butnot seriously. He says that Lee is an irregular practitioner. It isstrange that some men are hit in every skirmish; it would bleed thecourage out of me."

  "Would it? I have had two flesh wounds. They made me furiously angry. Youwere speaking of Lee--my uncle greatly admired him. I should like to knowmore about him. I had a little chance when we were trying to arrange atruce to care for the wounded. You remember it failed, but I had a fewminute's talk with a Rebel captain. He liked it when I told him how muchwe admired his general. That led him to talk, and among other things hetold me that Lee had no sense of humour and I gathered was a man ratherdifficult of approach."

  "He might apply to Grant for the rest of his qualities," said Blake. "Hewould get it; but what made you ask about sense of the humorous? I havetoo little, Francis too much."

  "Oh," laughed Penhallow, "from saint to sinner it is a goodmedicine--even for home-sickness."

  "And the desperate malady of love," returned Blake. "I shall not ventureto diagnose your need. How is that?"

  "I?--nonsense," laughed the engineer. "But seriously, Blake, abouthome-sickness; one of my best men has it badly--not the mild maladyyou and I may have."

  "You are quite right. It accounts for some desertions--not to the enemy,of course. I talked lately of this condition to a Dr. McGregor--"

  "McGregor!" returned Penhallow, sitting up. "Where is he? I'd like to seehim--an old comrade."

  "He is with our brigade."

  "Tell him to look me up. The engineers are easily found just now. He wasan old schoolmate."

  "I'll tell him. By the way, Penhallow, when asking for my mail to-day, Ipersuaded the post-master to give me your letters. Don't mind me--youwill want to read them--quite a batch of them."

  "Oh, they can wait. Don't go. Ah! here's Josiah with coffee."

  "How it does set a fellow up, Penhallow. Another cup, please. I had towait a long time for our letters and yours. Really that place was moretragic than a battlefield."

  "Why so? I send Josiah for my mail."

  "Oh, there were three cold-blooded men-machines returning letters. Iwatched them marking the letters--'not found'--'missing'--and so on."

  "Killed, I suppose--or prisoners."

  "Yes, awful, indeed--most sorrowful! Imagine it! Others were forwardingletters--heaps of them--from men who may be dead. You know how apt menare to write letters before a battle."

  "I wait till it is over," said Penhallow.

  "That post-office gave me a fit of craving for home and peace."

  "Home-sickness! What, you, Blake!"

  "Oh, that worst kind; home-sickness for a home when you have no home. Iwonder if in that other world we shall be home-sick for this."

  "That depends. Ah! here comes a reminder that we are in this world justnow--and just as we have begun one of our real talks."

  An orderly appeared with a note. Penhallow read it. He was on his feet atonce. "Saddle Hoodoo, Josiah. I must go. Come soon again, Blake. We havehad a good talk--or a bit of one."

  At four in the morning of June 14th, when John Penhallow with a group ofolder engineers looked across the twenty-one hundred feet of the JamesRiver they were to bridge, he realized the courage and capacity of thesoldier who had so completely deceived his wary antagonist. Before eleventhat night a hundred pontoons stayed by barges bridged the wide streamfrom shore to shore. Already the Second Corps under Hancock had beenhastily ferried over the river. The work on the bridge had been hard, andthe young Captain had had neither food nor rest. Late at night, the workbeing over, he recrossed the bridge, and after a hasty meal lay down onthe bluff above the James with others of his Corps and slept the uneasysleep of an overtired man. At dawn he was awakened by the multiple noisesof an army moving on the low-lying meadows below the bluff. Refreshed andfree from any demand on his time, he breakfasted at ease, and lightinghis pipe was at once deeply interested in what he saw. As he looked abouthim, he was aware of General Grant standing alone on the higher ground.He saw the general throw away his cigar and with hands clasped behind himremain watching in rapt silence the scene below him. "I wonder," thoughtPenhallow, "of what he is thinking." The face was grave, the manmotionless. The engineer turned to look at the matchless spectaclebelow him. The sound of bands rose in gay music from the approaches tothe river, where vast masses of infantry lay waiting their turn to cross.The guns of batteries gleamed in the sun, endless wagon-trains andambulances moved or were at rest. Here and there the wind of morningfluttered the flags and guidons with flashes of colour. The hum of agreat army, the multitudinous murmurs of men talking, the crack of whips,the sharp rattle of wagons and of moving artillery, made a strangeorchestra. Over all rose the warning shrieks of the gun-boat signals. Faror near on the fertile meadows the ripened corn and grain showed in greensquares between the masses of men and stirred in the morning breeze orlay trampled i
n ruin by the rude feet of war. It was an hour and a sceneto excite the dullest mind, and Penhallow intensely interested satfascinated by a spectacle at once splendid and fateful. The snake-likeprocession of infantry wagons and batteries moved across the bridge andwas lost to view in the forest. Penhallow turned again to look at hisgeneral, who remained statuesque and motionless. Then, suddenly themaster of this might of men and guns looked up, listened to Warren'sartillery far beyond the river, and with the same expressionless facecalled for his horse and rode away followed by his staff.

  The battle-summer of 1864 went on with the wearisome siege of Petersburgand the frequent efforts to cut the railways which enabled theConfederates to draw supplies from states which as yet had hardly feltthe stress of war.

  Late in the year the army became a city of huts, and there was theunexampled spectacle of this great host voting quietly in the electionwhich gave to Lincoln another evidence of the trust reposed in him. Theengineers had little to do in connection with the larger movements of thearmy, and save for the siege work were at times idle critics of theirsuperiors. The closing month of 1864 brought weather which made thewooden huts, usually shared by two officers, more comfortable than tents.The construction of these long streets of sheltering quarters brought outmuch ingenuity, and Penhallow profited by Josiah's clever devices andwatchful care. As the army was in winter-quarters, there was time enoughfor pleasant visiting, and for the engineers more than enough of dangerin the trenches or when called on to accompany some general officer as anaide during Grant's obstinate efforts to cut the railways on which Leerelied. Francis, not gravely wounded, was at home repairing damages; butnow, with snow on the ground and ease of intercourse, Blake was afrequent visitor in the engineer quarters. When Rivers also turned up,the two young men found the talk unrivalled, for never had the tallclergyman seemed more attractive or as happy.

  Of an afternoon late in November Penhallow was toasting himself by thesmall fire-place and deep in thought. He had had a long day in theintrenchments and one moment of that feeling of imminent nearness todeath which affects men in various ways. A shell neatly dropped in atrench within a few feet of where he stood, rolled over, spitting redflashes. The men cried, "Down, down, sir!" and fell flat. Somethinglike the fascination a snake exercises held him motionless; he never wasable to explain his folly. The fuse went out as he watched it--the shellwas a dead thing and harmless. The men as they rose eyed him curiously.

  "A near thing," he said, and with unusual care moved along a traverse,his duty over for the day. He took with him a feeling of mental confusionand of annoyed wonder.

  He found Josiah picking a chicken as he sat whistling in front of thetent. "There's been a fight, sir, about three o'clock, on our left. Billsays we beat."

  "Indeed!" It was too common news to interest him. He felt some singularcompleteness of exhaustion, and was troubled because of there being noexplanation which satisfied him. Asking for whisky to Josiah's surprise,he took it and lay down, as the servant said, "There's letters, sir, onthe table."

  "Very well. Close the tent and say I'm not well; I won't see any one."

  "Yes, sir. Nothing serious?"

  "No." He fell asleep as if drugged.

  Outside Josiah picked his lean chicken and whistled with such peculiarsweetness as is possible only to the black man. Everything interestedhim. Now and then he listened to the varied notes of the missiles faraway and attracting little attention unless men were so near that thewar-cries of shot and shell became of material moment. The day was cold,and an early November snow lay on the ground and covered the long rows ofcabins. Far to the rear a band was practising. Josiah listened, and witha negative head-shake of disapproving criticism returned to the featherpicking and sang as he picked:

  I wish I was in Dixie land,In Dixie land, in Dixie land.

  He held up the plucked fowl and said, "Must have been on short rations."

  The early evening was quiet. Now and then a cloaked horseman went bynoiseless on the snow. Josiah looked up, laid down the chicken, andlistened to the irregular tramp of a body of men. Then, as the head of along column came near and passed before him between the rows of huts, hestood up to watch them. "Prisoners," he said. Many were battle-grimed andin tatters, without caps and ill-shod. Here and there among them acaptured officer marched on looking straight ahead. The larger part weredejected and plodded on in silence, with heads down, while others staredabout them curious and from the cabins near by a few officers came outand many soldiers gathered. As usual there were no comments, no sign oftriumph and only the silence of respect.

  Josiah asked a guard where they came from. "Oh, Hancock's fight atHatcher's Run--got about nine hundred."

  The crowd of observers increased in number as the end of the line drewnear. Josiah lost interest and sat down. "Got to singe that chicken," hemurmured, with the habit of open speech of the man who had lived longalone. Suddenly he let the bird drop and exclaimed under his breath,"Jehoshaphat!"--his only substitute for an oath--"it's him!" Among thelast of the line of captured men he saw one with head bent down lookingneither to the right nor the left--it was Peter Lamb! At this moment twosoldiers ran forward and shouted out something to the officer bringing upthe rear. He cried, "Halt! take out that man." There was a littleconfusion, and Peter was roughly haled out of the mass. The officercalled a sergeant. "Guard this fellow well," and he bade the men whohad detected Lamb go with the guard.

  Soldiers crowded in on them. "What's the matter--who is he?" they asked.

  "Back, there!" cried the Lieutenant.

  "A deserter," said some one. "Damn him."

  Lamb was silent while between the two guards he was taken to the rear.Josiah forgot his chicken and followed them at a distance. He saw Lambhandcuffed and vainly protesting as he was thrust into the prison-hut ofthe provostry.

  Josiah asked one of the men who had brought about the arrest, "Who isthat man?"

  "Oh, he was a good while ago in my regiment--in our company too, the 71stPennsylvania--a drunken beast--name of Stacy--Joe Stacy. We missed himwhen we were near the North Anna--at roll-call."

  "What will they do with him?"

  "Shoot him, I hope. His hands were powder blacked. He was caught on theskirmish line."

  "Thank you." Josiah walked away deep in thought. He soon settled to theconclusion that the Rebs had found Peter and that perhaps he had had nochoice of what he would do and had had to enlist. What explanatory liePeter had told he could not guess.

  Josiah went slowly back to the tent. His chicken was gone. He laid thisloss on Peter, saying, "He always did bring me bad luck." Penhallow wasstill asleep. Ought he to tell him of Peter Lamb. He decided not to doso, or at least to wait. Inborn kindliness acted as it had done before,and conscious of his own helplessness, he was at a loss. Near to dusk helighted a pipe and sat down outside of Penhallow's hut. Servants ofengineer officers spoke as they passed, or chaffed him. His readiness fora verbal duel was wanting and he replied curtly. He was trying to makeout to his own satisfaction whether he could or ought to do anything buthold his tongue and let this man die and so disappear. He knew that hehimself could do nothing, nor did he believe anything could be done tohelp the man. He felt, however, that because he hated Peter, he was boundby his simply held creed to want to do something. He did not want to doanything, but then in confusing urgency there was the old mother, thecolonel's indulgent care of this drunken animal, and at last somepersonal realization of the loneliness of this man so near to death. Thenhe remembered that Mark Rivers was within reach. To get this clergyman tosee Peter would relieve him of the singular feeling of responsibilityhe could not altogether set aside. He was the only person who couldidentify Lamb. That, at least, he did not mean to do. He would find Mr.Rivers and leave to him to act as he thought best. He heard Penhallowcalling, and went in to find him reading his letters. After providingfor his wants, he set out to find the clergyman. His pass carried himwhere-ever he desired to go, and after ten at night he found Mark Riverswith the Chr
istian Commission.

  "What is it?" asked Rivers. "Is John ill?"

  "No, sir," and he told in a few sentences the miserable story, to theclergyman's amazement.

  "I will go with you," he said. "I must get leave to see him, but you hadbetter not speak of Peter to any one."

  Josiah was already somewhat indisposed to tell to others the story of theNorth Anna incident, and walked on in silence over the snow until at theprovost-marshal's quarters Rivers dismissed him.

  In a brief talk with the provost-marshal, Rivers learned that there hadbeen a hastily summoned court-martial, and in the presence of very clearevidence a verdict approved by General Grant. The man would be shot atseven the next morning. "A hopeless case, Mr. Rivers," said the Provost,"any appeal for reprieve will be useless--utterly useless--there will beno time given for appeal to Mr. Lincoln. We have had too much of thislately."

  Rivers said nothing of his acquaintance with the condemned man. He toohad reached the conviction, now made more definite, that needless painfor the old mother could be avoided by letting Peter die with the name hehad assumed.

  It was after twelve at night when the provost's pass admitted him to asmall wooden prison. One candle dimly lighted the hut, where a manacledman crouched by a failing fire. The soldier on guard passed out as theclergyman entered. When the door closed behind him, Rivers said, "Peter."

  "My God! Mr. Rivers. They say I'll be shot. You won't let them shootme--they can't do it--I don't want to die."

  "I came here because Josiah recognized you and brought me."

  "He must have told on me."

  "Told what? He did not tell anything. Now listen to me. You are certainto be shot at seven to-morrow morning. I have asked for delay--none willbe given. I come only to entreat you to make your peace with God--to tellyou that you have but these few hours in which to repent. Let me praywith you--for you. There is nothing else I can do for you; I have triedand failed. Indeed I tried most earnestly."

  "You can help if you will! You were always against me. You can telegraphColonel Penhallow. He will answer--he won't let them shoot me."

  Rivers who stood over the crouched figure laid a hand on his shoulder."If he were here he could do nothing. And even if I did telegraph him, heis in no condition to answer. He was wounded at Gettysburg and his mindis clouded. It would only trouble him and your mother, and not help you.Your mother would hear, and you should at least have the manliness toaccept in silence what you have earned."

  "But it's my life--my life--I can't die." Rivers was silent. "You won'ttelegraph?"

  "No. It is useless."

  "But you might do something--you're cruel. I am innocent. God let me beborn of a drunken father--I had to drink too--I had to. The Squirewouldn't give me work--no one helped me. I enlisted in a New Yorkregiment. I got drunk and ran away and enlisted in the 71st Pennsylvania.I stole chickens, and near to the North Anna I was cruelly punished. Thenthe Rebs caught me. I had to enlist. Oh, Lord! I am unfortunate. If Ionly could have a little whisky."

  Mark Rivers for a moment barren of answer was sure that as usual Peterwas lying and without any of his old cunning.

  "Peter, this story does not help you. You are about to die, and noone--can help you--I have tried in vain--nothing can save you. Why at atime so solemn as this do you lie to me? Why did you desert? and forstealing chickens? nonsense!"

  "Well, then, it was about a woman. Josiah knows--he saw it all. I didn'tdesert--I was tied to a tree--he could clear me. They left me tied. I hadto enlist; I had to!"

  "A woman!" Rivers understood. "If he were to tell, it would only makeyour case worse. Oh, Peter, let me pray for you."

  "Oh, pray if you want to. What's the good? If you won't telegraph theSquire, get me whisky; and if you won't do that, go away. Talk about Godand praying when I'm to be murdered just because my father drank! I don'twant any praying--I don't believe in it--you just go away and get mesome whisky. The Squire might have saved me--I wanted to quit from drinkand he just told me to get out--and I did. I hate him and--you."

  Rivers stood up. "May God help and pity you," he said, and so left him.

  He slept none, and rising early, prayed fervently for this wrecked soul.As he walked at six in the morning to the prison hut, he thought over theman who long ago had so defeated him. He had seemed to him more feeble inmind and less cunning in his statements than had been the case in formerdays. He concluded that he was in the state of a man used to drinkingwhisky and for a time deprived of it. When he met him moving under guardfrom the prison, he felt sure that his conclusion had been correct.

  As Rivers came up, the officer in charge said, "If, sir, as aclergyman you desire to walk beside this man, there is no objection."

  "Oh, let him come," said Peter, with a defiant air. Some one pitiful hadindulged the fated man with the liquor he craved.

  Rivers took his place beside Peter as the guards at his side fell back.Soldiers off duty, many blacks and other camp-followers, gathered insilence as the little procession moved over the snow, noiseless exceptfor the tramp of many feet and the rumble of the cart in which was anempty coffin.

  "Can I do anything for you?" said Rivers, turning toward the flushed faceat his side.

  "No--you can't." The man smelled horribly of whisky; the charitable aidmust have been ample.

  "Is there any message you want me to carry?"

  "Message--who would I send messages to?" In fact, Rivers did not know.He was appalled at a man going half drunk to death. He moved on, for alittle while at the end of his resources.

  "Even yet," he whispered, "there is time to repent and ask God to pardona wasted life." Peter made no reply and then they were in the open spaceon one side of a hollow square. On three sides the regiment stood intentas the group came near. "Even yet," murmured Rivers.

  Of a sudden Peter's face became white. He said, "I want to tell you onething--I want you to tell him. I shot the Squire at Gettysburg--I wish Ihad killed him--I thought I had. There!--I always did get even."

  "Stand back, sir, please," said a captain. Rivers was dumb with thehorror of it and stepped aside. The last words he would have said chokedhim in the attempt to speak.

  Six soldiers took their places before the man who stood with his handstied behind his back, his face white, the muscles twitching, while abandage was tied over his eyes.

  "He wants to speak to you, sir," said the captain.

  Rivers stepped to his side. "I did not tell my name. Tell my mother I wasshot--not how--not why."

  Rivers fell back. The captain let fall a handkerchief. Six rifles rangout, and Peter Lamb had gone to his account.

  The regiment marched away. The music of the band rang clear through thefrosty air. The captain said, "Where is the surgeon?" Tom McGregorappeared, and as he had to certify to the death bent down over thequivering body.

  "My God! Mr. Rivers," he said in a low voice, looking up, "it is PeterLamb."

  "Hush, Tom," whispered Rivers, "no one knows him except Josiah." Theywalked away together while Rivers told of Josiah's recognition of Lamb."Keep silent about his name, Tom," and then went on to speak of the man'srevengeful story about the Colonel, to Tom's horror. "I am sorry youtold me," said the young surgeon.

  "Yes, I was unwise--but--"

  "Oh, let us drop it, Mr. Rivers. How is John? I have been three times tosee him and he twice to see me, but always he was at the front, and asfor me we have six thousand beds and too few surgeons, so that I couldnot often get away. Does he know of this man's fate?"

  "No--and he had better not."

  "I agree with you. Let us bury his name with him. So he shot our dearColonel--how strange, how horrible!"

  "He believed that he did shoot him, and as the ball came from the linesof the 71st when the fight was practically at an end, it may be true. Hecertainly meant to kill him."

  "What an entirely, hopelessly complete scoundrel!" said McGregor.

  "Except," said Rivers, "that he did not want his mother to know how hedied."
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  "Human wickedness is very incomplete," said the surgeon. "I wonderwhether the devil is as perfectly wicked as we are taught to believe. Youthink this fellow, my dear old schoolmaster, was not utterly bad. Nowabout wanting his mother not to know--I for my part--"

  "Don't, Tom. Leave him this rag of charity to cover a multitude of sins.Now, I must leave you. See John soon--he is wasted by unending anddangerous work--with malaria too, and what not; see him soon. He is asplendid replica of the Colonel with a far better mind. I wish he were athome."

  "And I that another fellow were at home. Good-bye."

  McGregor called at John's tent, but learned that at six he had gone onduty to the trenches.