CHAPTER XXIX
When late in March Grant about to move left the engineer brigade at CityPoint, the need to corduroy the rain-soaked roads called some of thecorps to the front, and among them John Penhallow. As usual whenunoccupied they were set free to volunteer for staff duty. It thuschanced that Penhallow found himself for a time an extra aide to GeneralJohn Parke.
The guarded outer lines of the defences of Petersburg included forestswith here and there open spaces and clumps of trees. More than a halfmile away from the enemy, on rising ground, amid bushes and trees, laythe army corps of General Parke. It was far into the night. The men werecomfortably asleep, for on this second of April, the air was no longerchilly and there were no tents up. In the mid-centre of the corps-linebehind the ridge a huge fire marked the headquarters. As the great logsblazed high, they cast radiating shadows of tree trunks, which were andwere not as the fire rose or fell. Horses tied to the trees moveduneasily when from far and near came the clamour of guns. Now and then aman sat up in the darkness and listened, but this was some new recruit.For the most of the sleepers the roar of guns was less disturbing thanthe surly mosquitoes and the sonorous trumpeting of a noisy neighbour.Aides dismounted near the one small tent in the wood shadows, and comingout mounted horses as tired as the riders and rode away into the night.Here and there apart black servants and orderlies slept the deep sleep ofirresponsibility and among them Josiah. Beside the deserted fire JohnPenhallow sat smoking. A hand fell on his shoulder.
"Halloa, Blake!" he said, "where did you come from?"
"I am on Wright's staff. I am waiting for a note I am to carry. Therewill be no sleep for me to-night. We shall attack at dawn--a squarefrontal attack through slashes, chevaux-de-frises and parapets; but themen are keen for it, and we shall win."
"I think so--the game is nearly played out."
"I am sorry for them, Penhallow."
"And I. I was thinking when you came of the pleasant West Point friendswho may be in those woods yonder, and of the coming agony of thatwonderful crumbling host of brave men, and of my uncle's friend, RobertLee. I shall be a happy man when I can take their hands again."
"How many will be left?" said Blake.
"God knows--we shall, I hope, live to be proud of them."
"My friend Francis sees always the humorous side of war--I cannot."
"It does have--oh, very rarely--its humorous side," returned Penhallow,"but not often for me. His mocking way of seeing things is doublyunpleasant because no man in the army is more in earnest. This orchestraof snoring men would amuse him."
As Blake sat down, he said, "I wonder if they are talking the language ofthat land--that nightly bourne from which we bring back so little. Listento them!"
"That's so like you, Blake. I was reflecting too when you came on thegood luck I had at the North Anna when you pulled me out. Mark Riversonce said that I was good at making acquaintances, but slow at makingfriendships."
"Thank you," said Blake, understanding him readily. "I am somewhat likeyou."
The solemnity of the night and of the fate-laden hours had opened fora minute the minds of two men as reserved and reticent as are mostwell-bred Americans, who as a rule lack the strange out-spoken franknessof our English kin.
"Oh! here is my summons," said Blake. "Good luck to you, Penhallow. Ihave about the closing of this war a kind of fear I have never hadbefore."
"That is natural enough," returned Penhallow, "and I fancy it is notuncommon. Let us part with a more pleasant thought. You will come andshoot with me at Grey Pine in the fall? Bye-bye."
Blake rode away. His friend deep in thought and unable to sleep watchedthe dying fire. The night hours ran on. Obedient to habit he wound hiswatch. "Not asleep," said a pleasant voice. He rose to face the slightfigure and gently smiling face of General Parke.
"What time is it, Penhallow?"
"Four o'clock, sir."
"I have sent back Captain Blake with a word to General Wright, but hewill have too long a ride. I want you to carry this same request. Bytaking the short cut in front of our lines, you can get there in a thirdof the time. You will keep this side of our pickets to where our lineturns, then go through them and down the slope a bit. For a shortdistance you will be near the clump of trees on the right. If it ispicketed--there are no pickets nearer--you will have to ride hard. Oncepast the angle of their line you are safe. Am I clear?"
"Certainly, sir. There is some marshy ground--I climbed a tree and lookedit over yesterday--it won't stop the men, but may slow a horse."
"I see. Here is my note."
Penhallow tucked it in his belt and roused Josiah. "See to the girth," hesaid. "Is Hoodoo in good order?"
"Yes, sir. Where you going, Master John?"
"A little errand. Make haste."
"I know those little errands," said the black. "The good Lord care forhim," he murmured, as the man he loved best was lost in the darkness.
He was aware of the great danger of his errand and was at once in thatstate of intensity of attention which sharpens every sense. He rode forthe fourth of a mile between the long lines of infantry now astir hereand there, and then an officer saw him through their picket-line. "Goodluck to you!" he said. "I think the Rebs have no outlying pickets, butthe woods are full of them."
Penhallow rode down a slight incline, and remembering that the marshlower down might be difficult turned aside and came on a deep gully. Thenight was still dark, but a faint glow to eastward made haste desirable.The gully, as he rode beside it, flattened out, but at once he felt thathis horse was in trouble on marshy ground. He dismounted and led him,but always the better footing lay nearer to the clump of trees. He madeup his mind to ride for it. While on foot he had been as yet hardlyvisible. A shot from the salient group of trees decided him. He mountedand touched Hoodoo with the spur. The horse bounded forwards too quicklyto sink in the boggy ground. Then a dozen shots told the rider he hadbeen seen. Something like the feeling of a blow from a stick was felt ashis left arm fell with gripped reins, and the right arm also dropped.Hoodoo pitched forward, rose with a gallant effort, and sinking downrolled to left upon the rider's leg.
The horse lay still. Penhallow's first sensation was astonishment; thenhe began to make efforts to get free. His arms were of no use. He triedto stir his horse with the spur of the free foot. It had no effect.Something must be wrong with him. He had himself a feeling of weakness hecould not comprehend, aware that he had no wound of the trunk. Hisuseless arms made all effort vain, and the left foot under the weight ofthe horse began to feel numb. The position struck him as past help untilour people charged. He thought of Francis's axiom that there was nothingso entirely tragic as to be without some marginalia of humour. The ladsmiled at his use of the word. His own situation appealed to him asridiculous--a man with a horse on him waiting for an army to lift it off.
The left elbow began to recover from the early insensibility of shock andto be painful. Then in the dim light, as he lifted his head, he was awareof a Rebel soldier in front covering him with a revolver. Penhallow criedout with promptness, "I surrender--and I am shot through both arms."
The soldier said, "You are not worth taking--guess you'll keep till welick the Yanks," and walking around the helpless officer he appropriatedhis revolver.
"Can you get my horse up?" said John.
"Horse up! I want your boots."
"Well, pull them off--I can't."
"Oh, don't you bother, I'll get them." With this he knelt down and beganon the boot which belonged to the leg projecting beneath the horse. "Darnit! They're just my size." As he tugged at it, Hoodoo dying and convulsedstruck out with his fore legs and caught the unlucky soldier full in thebelly. The man gave a wild cry and staggering back fell.
Penhallow craned over the horse's body and broke into laughter. It hurthis arm, but he gasped with fierce joy, "Francis would call him afreebooter." Then he fell back and quite helpless listened. Unable toturn his head, he heard behind him the wild rush of men. Leaping
overhorse and man they went by. He got a look to right and left. They torethrough the slashes, dropping fast and facing a furious fusillade werelost to sight in the underbrush. "By George! they've won," he exclaimedand fell back. "They must have carried the parapet." He waited. Inabout a half hour a party of men in grey went by. An officer in bluecried out, "Up the hill, you beggars!" More of the grey men followed--abattle-grimed mob of hundreds.
"Halloa!" called Penhallow. "Get this horse up. Put your hand in mypocket and you will find fifty dollars." They stopped short and a halfdozen men lifted the dead animal. "Thank you, set me on my feet," saidPenhallow. "Empty my pockets--I can't use my arms." They did it well, andtaking also his watch went on their way well pleased.
John stood still, the blood tingling in his numb foot. "Halloa!" hecried, as the stretcher-bearers and surgeons came near. A headquarterssurgeon said, "We thought you were killed. Can you walk?"
"No--hit in both arms--why the deuce can't I walk?"
"Shock, I suppose."
A half hour later he was in a hospital tent and a grim old army surgeonhandling his arms. "Right arm flesh-wound--left elbow smashed. You willlikely have to lose the arm."
"No, I won't," said Penhallow, "I'd as leave die."
"Don't talk nonsense. They all say that. See you again."
"You will get ten dollars," said John to a hospital orderly, "if you willfind Captain Blake of General Wright's staff."
"I'll do it, sir."
Presently his arms having been dressed, he was made comfortable withmorphia. At dusk next morning his friend Blake sat down beside his cot."Are you badly hurt?" he said. A certain tenderness in the voice was likea revelation of some qualities unknown before.
"I do not know. For about the first time in my life I am sufferingpain--I mean constant pain, with a devilish variety in it too. The sameball, I believe, went through some muscle in the right arm and smashed myleft elbow. It's a queer experience. The surgeon-in-charge informed methat I would probably lose the arm. The younger surgeon says the ballwill become what he calls encysted. They probed and couldn't find it.Isn't that Josiah I hear?"
"Yes, I will bring him in."
In a moment they came back. "My God! Master John, I been looking for youall night and this morning I found Hoodoo dead. Didn't I say he'd bringyou bad luck. Oh, my!--are you hurt bad?"
"Less noise there," said an assistant surgeon, "or get out of this."
"He'll be quiet," said Blake, "and you will have the decency to be lessrough." The indignant doctor walked away.
"Poor Hoodoo--he did his best," murmured John. "Get me out of this,Blake. It's a hell of suffering. Take me to Tom McGregor at City Point."
"I will, but now I must go. General Parke hopes you are doing well. Youwill be mentioned in his despatches."
"That is of no moment--get me to McGregor. Hang the flies--I can't fightthem."
John never forgot the ambulance and the rough railway ride to City Point,nor his pleasure when at rest in the officers' pavilion he waited for hisold playmate. As I write I see, as he saw, the long familiar ward, theneat cots, the busy orderlies. He waited with the impatience ofincreasing pain. "Well, Tom," he said, with an effort to appear gay,"here's your chance at last to get even."
McGregor made brief reply as he uncovered the wounded joint. Then he saidgravely, "A little ether--I will get out the ball."
"No ether, Tom, I can stand it. Now get to work."
"I shall hurt you horribly."
"No ether," he repeated. "Go on, Tom."
McGregor sat beside him with a finger on the bounding pulse andunderstood its meaning and the tale it told. "It will not be long, John,"and then with attention so concentrated as not even to note the one stirof the tortured body or to hear the long-drawn groan of pain, he rose tohis feet. "All right, John--it's only a slug--lucky it was not a musketball." He laid a tender hand on the sweating brow, shot a dose of morphiainto the right arm, and added, "You will get well with a stiff joint. Nowgo to sleep. The right arm is sound, a flesh-wound."
"Thanks," said John, "we are even now, Tom. Captain Blake telegraphedyour father, Tom--but write, please."
"To whom, John?"
"To Leila--but do not alarm them."
"I will write. In a week or two you must go home. That is the medicineyou need most. You will still have some pain, but you will not lose thearm."
"Thank you--but what of the army? I am a bit confused as to time. Parkeattacked on the second of April, I think. What day is this?"
"Oh, they got out of Petersburg that night--out of Richmond too. Lee isdone for--a day or two will end it."
"Thank God," murmured John, "but I am so sorry for Lee."
"Can't say I am."
"Oh, that blessed morphia!"
"Well, go to sleep--I will see you again shortly. I have other fellows tolook after. In a few minutes you will be easy. Draw the fly-nets,orderly."
Of all that followed John Penhallow in later years remembered mostdistinctly the half hour of astonishing relief from pain. As his sensesone by one went off guard, he seemed to himself to be watching withincrease of ease the departure of some material tormentor. In after yearshe recalled with far less readiness the days of varied torment whichrequired more and more morphia. Why I know not, the remembrance of painas time goes by is far less permanent than that of relief or of an hourof radiant happiness. Long days of suffering followed as the torturednerves recorded their far-spread effects in the waste of the body andthat failure of emotional control which even the most courageous feelwhen long under the tyranny of continuous pain. McGregor watched himwith anxiety and such help as was possible. On the tenth of April Johnawakened after a night of assisted sleep to find himself nearly freefrom pain. Tom came early into the ward.
"Good news, John," he said. "Lee has surrendered. You look better. Yourresignation will be accepted, and I have a leave of absence. Economy isthe rule. We are sending the wounded north in ship-loads. Home! Home! oldfellow, in a week."
The man on the cot looked up. "You have a letter, I see," and as he spokebroke into childlike tears, for so did long suffering deal with the mostself-controlled in those terrible years, which we do well to forgive, andto remember with pride not for ourselves alone. The child-man on the bedmurmured, "Home was too much for me."
The surgeon who loved him well said, "Read your letter--you are not theonly man in this ward whom pain has made a baby. Home will complete yourcure--home!"
"Thank you, Tom." He turned to the letter and using the one half-usefulhand opened it with difficulty. What he first felt was disappointment atthe brevity of the letter. He was what Blake called home-hungry. Withacute perception, being himself a homeless man, Blake made his diagnosisof that form of heart-ache which too often adds a perilously depressingagency to the more material disasters of war. Pain, fever, the inevitableward odours, the easier neighbour in the next bed who was of a mindto be social, the flies--those Virginia flies more wily than Lee'stroopers--and even trifling annoyances made Penhallow irritable. Hebecame a burden to hospital stewards and over-worked orderlies, and nowthe first look at Leila's letter disturbed him, and as he read he becameindignant:
"DEAR JOHN: Mr. Blake's telegram telling us of your wound caused us someanxiety, which was made less by Dr. McGregor's somewhat hastily writtenletter. Aunt Ann thought it was excusable in so busy a man. Poor UncleJim on hearing it said, 'Yes, yes--why didn't John write--can't be muchthe matter.' This shows you his sad failure. He has not mentioned itsince.
"It is a relief to us to know that you were not dangerously hurt. Itseems as if this sad war and its consequences were near to end. Let ushear soon. Aunt Ann promises to write to you at once.
"Yours truly,
"LEILA GREY."
He threw the letter down, and forgetting that he had asked Blake and thedoctor not to alarm his people, was overcome by the coldness of Leila'sletter. He lay still, and with eyes quite too full felt that life had forhim little of that which once made it sweet with
what all men hold mostdear. He would have been relieved if he could have seen Leila when aloneshe read and read again McGregor's letter, and read with fear between thelines of carefully guarded words what he would not say and for days muchfeared to say. She sat down and wrote to John a letter of such tenderanxiety as was she felt a confession she was of no mind to make. He wasin no danger. Had he been, she would have written even more frankly. Buther trouble about her uncle was fed from day to day by what her auntcould not or would not see, and it was a nearer calamity and more andmore distressing. Then she sat thinking what was John like now. She sawthe slight figure, so young and still so thoughtful, as she had smiled inher larger experience of men when they had sat and played years ago withviolets on the hillside of West Point. No, she was unprepared to commitherself for life, for would he too be of the same mind? For a moment shestood still indecisive, then she tore up her too tender letter and wrotethe brief note which so troubled him. She sent it and then was sorry shehad not obeyed the impulse of the kindlier hour.
The nobler woman instinct is apt to be armed by nature for defensivewarfare. If she has imagination, she has in hours of doubt some sense ofhumiliation in the vast surrender of marriage. This accounts for certainof the cases of celibate women, who miss the complete life and have noready traitor within the guarded fortress to open the way to love. Somesuch instinctive limitations beset Leila Grey. The sorrow of a great, anearer and constant affection came to her aid. To think of anything likelove, even if again it questioned her, was out of the question whilebefore her eyes James Penhallow was fading in mind.
John Penhallow was shortly relieved by McGregor's order that he shouldget some exercise. It enabled him to escape the early surgical visit andthe diverse odours of surgical dressings which lingered in the long wardwhile breakfast was being served. There were more uneasy sleepers than hein the ward and much pain, and crippled men with little to look forwardto. The suffering he saw and could not lessen had been for John one ofthe depressing agencies of this hospital life. The ward was quiet when heawoke at dawn of April 13th. He quickly summoned an orderly and enduredthe daily humiliation of being dressed like a baby. He found Josiahwaiting with the camp-chair at the door as he came out of the ward.
"How you feeling, Master John?"
"Rather better. What time is it? That Reb stole my watch." Even yet itwas amusing. He laughed at the remembrance of having been relieved by theprisoners of purse and watch.
For Josiah to extract his own watch was as McGregor said somethinglike a surgical operation. "It's not goin', Master John. It's been losingtime--like it wasn't accountable. What's it called watch for if it don'twatch?"
This faintly amused John. He said no more, but sat enjoying the earlymorning quiet, the long hazy reaches of the James River, the awakening oflife here and there, and the early stir among the gun-boats.
"Get me some coffee, Josiah," he said. "I am like your watch, losing timeand everything else."
Josiah stood over him. His unnatural depression troubled a simple mindmade sensitive by a limitless affection and dog-like power to feelwithout comprehending the moods of the master.
"Captain John, you was sayin' to me yesterday you was most unfortunate. Ijust went away and kept a kind of thinkin' about it."
"Well, what conclusion did you come to?" He spoke wearily.
"Oh, I just wondered if you'd like to change with me--guess you wouldn'tfor all the pain?"
Surprised at the man's reflection, John looked up at the black kindlyface. "Get me some coffee."
"Yes, sir--what's that?" The morning gun rang out the sunrise hour."What's that, sir?" The flag was being hoisted on the slope below them."It's stopped at half-mast, sir! Who's dead now?"
"Go and ask, Josiah." McGregor came up as he spoke.
"The President was killed last night, John, by an assassin!"
"Lincoln killed!"
"Yes--I will tell you by and by--now this is all we know. I must make myrounds. We leave to-morrow for home."
John sat alone. This measureless calamity had at once on thethoughtful young soldier the effect of lessening the influences ofhis over-sensitive surrender to pain and its attendant power to weakenself-control. Like others, in the turmoil of war he had given too littlethought to the Promethean torment of a great soul chained to the rock ofduty--the man to whom like the Christ "the common people listenedgladly." He looked back over his own physical suffering with sense ofshame at his defeat, and sat up in his chair as if with a call on hisworn frame to assert the power of a soul to hear and answer the summonsof a great example.
"Thank you, Josiah," he said cheerfully. "No coffee is like yours to seta fellow up." A greater tonic was acting. "We go home to-morrow."
"That's good. Listen, sir--what's that?"
"Minute guns, Josiah. Have you heard the news?"
"Yes, sir--it's awful; but we are going home to Westways."
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