“I leave all to you, loving you, wishing what you wish, content with what you give — and take — so that you do give and take and keep and hold for life.
“It is very dusky; the lights, red and white, glimmer on every transport. We feel the sea-swell a little. Celia left us, going ashore at Acquia Creek. She takes the cars to Richmond and then to Paigecourt. Letty sits beside me on deck. There were two cases of fever aboard and we went down into a dreadfully ill-smelling cabin to do what we could. Now we are here on deck again. Some officers are talking very gaily with Letty. I am ending my letter to you — wherever you are, my darling, under these big, staring stars that look down at me out of space. I don’t want my ghost to be blown about up there — unless it belongs to you. That is the only fear of death I ever have or ever had — that I might die before you had all of me there is to give.”
CHAPTER XV
Toward the end of June, as Claymore’s new provisional brigade of Sykes’s division, Fitz John Porter’s superb corps d’armee, neared the designated rendezvous, some particularly dirty veteran regiments, bivouacked along the fields, crowded to the roadside, fairly writhing in their scorn and derision.
“Fresh fish! Oh — h! Fresh fi — sh!” they shouted. “My God, boys, just see them pretty red pants! Mother! Come and look. Oh, papa, what are they? Sa — ay, would you gentlemen kindly tell us poor old sodgers what kind ov a hell ov a, dressmaker cut out them pantalettes? I wish I could go out to play with these nice, perlite little boys? Oh, children! why didn’t you bring your nursemaids with you?”
The 3rd Zouaves marched past the jeering veterans, grinding their teeth, but making no effort at retort. They knew well enough by this time that any attempt to retort would be worse than useless.
As the head of the column of the 8th Lancers appeared from the West at the forks of the other road, the dingy veterans fairly danced in malicious delight:
“Excuse us,” they simpered, kissing their dirty finger-tips to the horsemen, “ex-cuse us, please, but do tell us how you left dear old Fift’ Avenoo. Them rocking hosses need a leetle new paint where they sit down, me lords. Hey, you ain’t got any old red silk stockings we can use for guidons, have you? Oh, Alonzo darling! curl my hair an’ wet me with expensive cologne!”
Colonel Egerton’s 20th Dragoons, being in blue and orange, got off easier, though the freshness of their uniforms was tremendously resented; but McDunn’s 10th Flying Battery, in brand new uniforms, ran the full fierce fire of chaff; the indignant cannoneers were begged to disclose the name of the stage line which had supplied their battery horses; and Arthur Wye, driving the showy swing team of No. 6, Left Section, shouted back in his penetrating voice:
“If you want to know who sells broken-down nags to suckers, it’s Simon Cameron! — you Dutch-faced, barrel-bellied, Pennsylvania scuts!”
A bull-like bellow of laughter burst from the battery; even Captain McDunn’s grin neutralised the scowling visage he turned to conceal it. And the fury of the Pennsylvanians knew no bounds; for, from general to drummer boy, the troops of that great State were horribly sensitive to any comment on the Hon. Mr. Cameron’s horse transactions.
Warren’s matchless brigade followed; but the 6th Lancers had seen
service and they were not jeered; nor were the 5th and 10th
Zouaves, the 1st Connecticut Heavy Artillery and the Rhode Island
Battery.
Berkley, riding with his troop, bridle loose in both gauntleted hands, lance swinging wide from stirrup and elbow loop, looked to the left and noticed Warren’s regiments swinging out across the breezy uplands. Half an hour later he saw the 3rd Zouaves enter a wheat field to the left of the road, form on their colour front, unsling knapsacks, and stack arms. McDunn’s battery found a gap in the fence and followed, the guns bumping and bouncing out over a potato field; and presently Egerton’s Dragoons turned sharply to the right and entered a cool road that ran along a bushy hollow.
The 8th Lancers kept straight on for five or six hundred yards, until they encountered their regimental quartermaster and camping party. Then they wheeled to the right, passed through a thin belt of shade trees, across a splendid marl drive and a vast unkempt lawn. Beyond this they skirted a typical planter’s house of the better class, with its white galleries, green blinds, quarters, smoke houses, barns, and outhouses innumerable; and halted, each troop moving to a point a little in the rear of where its horses were to be secured, and forming one rank. The bugles sounded “Dismount!” Eight hundred sun-burned riders set foot to sod, details were made to hold the horses, lances were stacked, picket ropes fixed, shelter tents erected, sabre and bridle hung on the twelve weapons of the troop-carbineers, and the standard carried to Colonel Arran’s tent.
Directly to the right was a gentle declivity with a clear, rapid stream splashing the bottom grasses. Beyond the stream a low green hill rose, concealing the landscape and the river beyond.
And here, on the breezy meadow slope, Egerton’s Dragoons went into camp and sent out their fatigue parties and grand guards.
Company and squadron streets were laid out, sinks dug, shelter tents pitched, firewood brought, horses picketed. Twenty paces in front of each pile of tents the kitchens were established; all the regimental cavalry waggons came up promptly and were parked in the rear of the picket line for sick horses; the belated and hated sutler of the 8th Lancers drove hastily in, deaf to the blandishments of veterans along the roadside, who eyed him malevolently and with every desire to work him substantial harm.
Late in the afternoon there was much visiting along the lines and between distant camps; the day was cloudless and perfect; magnolia and china-berry scented the winds which furrowed every grassy hillside; flags fluttered, breezy gusts of bugle music incited the birds to rivalry. Peace and sunshine lay over all, and there was nothing sinister to offend save, far along the horizon, the low, unbroken monotone of cannon, never louder, never lower, steady, dull, interminable; and on the southern horizon a single tall cloud, slanting a trifle to the east, like a silver pillar out of plumb.
Berkley’s attention was directed to it by a suspicious comrade; they both gazed at it curiously, listening to the low mutter of the cannonade; then Berkley frowned, folded both gauntlets, placed them in his belt, passed his hand over his freshly shaven chin, and, pocketing his cob pipe, sauntered forth to visit and gossip with those he knew in other camps.
“Hello, Burgess,” he said humorously; “how are you making out?”
His late valet’s arm twitched instinctively toward the salute he dared not offer; he glanced stealthily right and left before answering:
“I am doing very well, sir, thank you.”
“I told you to cut out the ‘sir,’ didn’t I?”
“Yes, sir — beg pardon — —”
Berkley eyed him. “You’ve got your chance,” he said. “Your rank and mine are equal. Do you take pleasure in continually reminding yourself of your recent position of servitude?”
“Sir? — beg pardon — —”
“Can’t you help it? Is it born in you?”
Burgess stood silent, considering, then he lifted his ugly face and looked hard at Berkley.
“I am not ashamed of having served you. I am more comfortable under orders. . . . I liked to dress you up . . . I wish to God it was that way now.”
“Don’t you want your independence?”
“My independence,” repeated Burgess, “I had it — more of it when I was looking out for you, sir, than I have now in this damn regiment — —”
“Well, what did you enlist for?”
“You’ve asked me that many times, sir, and I don’t know. . . . I’d rather be around, handy like — —”
“You’ll get killed some day, don’t you know it?”
“No, sir. I guess you’ll look out for me. You always did.”
“How the devil can I prevent one of those big shells from knocking you off your horse!”
Burgess, patient, undisturbed, le
t the, question go with a slight smile.
“What a jackass you are!” said Berkley irritably; “here’s a dollar to get some pie. And if you can cheat that cursed sutler, do it!”
He himself purchased two big pies from the sutler after an angry haggle in which he was easily worsted; and he munched away contentedly as he walked toward the lines of the 3rd Zouaves, his spurs and sabre jingling, Burgess following respectfully at heel.
“Hello, Steve!” he called out to a sun-burnt young zouave who was drying his freshly washed turban in the hill breeze. “I always heard you fellows wore infant’s underclothes, but I never believed it before!”
“That’s my turban, you idiot!” retorted Stephen, turning red as several of McDunn’s artillerymen began to laugh. But he came over and shook hands and accepted a big piece of pie without further resentment. “Hello, Burgess,” he added.
“How do you do, sir.”
“That damned Dutch sutler of ours,” commented Berkley, “puts clay in his pie-erust. We’ll certainly have to fix him before long. How are you, Steve, anyway?”
“Both socks full of tallow; otherwise I’m feeling fine,” said the boy. “Did you hear those dirty Bucktail veterans back there poking fun at us? Well, we never answer ’em nowadays; but the Zouaves are getting fearfully sick of it; and if we don’t go into battle pretty soon there’ll be a private war on—” he winked— “with those Pennsylvanians, you bet. And I guess the Lancers will be in it, too.”
Berkley cast an evil eye on a pair of Pennsylvania soldiers who had come to see how the Zou-zous made camp; then he shrugged his shoulders, watching Burgess, who had started away to roam hungrily around the sutler’s camp again.
“After all,” he said, “these veterans have a right to jeer at us. They’ve seen war; and now they know whether they’ll fight or run away. It’s more than we know, so far.”
“Well, I tell you,” said Stephen candidly, “there’s no chance of my running away. A fellow can’t skedaddle when his father’s looking at him. Besides, Phil, I don’t know how it is, but I’m not very much afraid, not as much as I thought I’d be.”
Berkley looked at him curiously. “Have you been much under fire?”
“Only that affair at the Blue Bridge — you know yourself how it was. After the first shell had made me rather sick at my stomach I was all right — except that I hated to see father sitting up there on his horse while we were all lying snug in the wheat. . . . How did you feel when the big shells came over?”
“Bad,” said Berkley briefly.
“Sick?”
“Worse.”
“I don’t see why you should feel queer, Phil — after that bully thing you did with the escort — —”
“Oh, hell!” cut in Berkley savagely, “I’m sick of hearing about it. If you all knew that I was too scared to realise what I was doing you’d let up on that episode.”
Stephen laughed. “I hope our boys get scared in the same way. . . . Hello, here’s a friend of yours I believe — —”
They turned to encounter Casson, the big dragoon, arm in arm with the artilleryman, Arthur Wye.
“Give us some pie, you son of a gun!” they suggested unceremoniously; and when supplied and munching, they all locked arms and strolled out across the grass toward the hill, where already, dark against the blinding blue, hundreds of idle soldiers had gathered to sit on the turf and stare at the tall cloud on the horizon, or watch the signal officer on the higher hill beyond, seated at his telescope, while, beside him, a soldier swung dirty square flags in the wind,
As they arrived on the crest a quick exclamation escaped them; for there, beyond, mile on mile, lay the armed host of which their regiments were tiny portions.
“Lord!” said Stephen in a low, surprised voice, “did you fellows know that the whole army was near here?”
“Not I,” said Berkley, gazing spellbound out across the rolling panorama of river, swamp, woods, and fields. “I don’t believe it occurs very often, either — the chance to see an entire army all at once, encamped right at your feet. What a lot of people and animals!”
They sat down, cross-legged, enjoying their pie, eyes wandering wonderingly over the magic landscape. Here and there a marquee marked some general’s headquarters, but except for these there were no tents save shelter tents in sight, and not so many of these, because many divisions had bivouacked, and others were in cantonments where the white cupola of some house glimmered, or the thin spire of a church pierced green trees.
Here and there they noted and pointed out to each other roads over which cavalry moved or long waggon trains crept. Down along the swamps that edged the river they could see soldiers building corduroy, repairing bridges, digging ditches, and, in one spot, erecting a fort.
“Oh, hell,” said Casson, whose regiment, dismounted, had served muddy apprenticeship along the York River, “if they’re going to begin that kind of thing again I’d rather be at home laying gas pipes on Broadway!”
“What kind of thing?” demanded Stephen.
“That road making, swamp digging — all that fixing up forts for big guns that nobody has a chance to fire because the Johnnies get out just when everything’s ready to blow ’em into the Union again. A — h!” he added in disgust, “didn’t we have a dose of that at Yorktown and Williamsburg? Why doesn’t Little Mac start us hell-bent for Richmond and let us catch ’em on the jump?”
For a while, their mouths full of pie, the soldiers, with the exception of Berkley, criticised their commander-in-chief, freely — their corps commanders, and every officer down to their particular corporals. That lasted for ten minutes. Then one and all began comparing these same maligned officers most favourably with other officers of other corps; and they ended, as usual, by endorsing their commander-in-chief with enthusiasm, and by praising every officer under whom they served.
Then they boasted of their individual regiments — all except Berkley — extolling their discipline, their marching, their foraging efficiency, their martyr-like endurance.
“What’s your Colonel like, anyway?” inquired Casson, turning to
Berkley.
“He’s a good officer,” said the latter indifferently.
“Do you like him?”
“He has — merit.”
“Jerusalem!” laughed Wye, “if that isn’t a kick in the seat of his pants!”
Berkley reddened. “You’re mistaken, Arthur.”
“Didn’t you tell me at Alexandria that you hated him?”
“I said that — yes. I was disappointed because the Westchester Horse was not attached to John Casson’s regiment. . . . I don’t — dislike Colonel Arran.”
Berkley was still red; he lay in the grass on his stomach, watching the big cloud pile on the horizon.
“You know,” said Casson, “that part of our army stretches as far as that smoke. We’re the rear-guard.”
“Listen to the guns,” said Wye, pretending technical familiarity even at that distance. “They’re big fellows — those Dahlgrens and Columbiads — —”
“Oh, bosh!” snapped Casson, “you can’t tell a howitzer from a rocket!”
Wye sat up, thoroughly offended. “To prove your dense ignorance, you yellow-bellied dragoon, let me ask you a simple question: When a shell is fired toward you can you see it coming?”
“Certainly. Didn’t we see the big shells at Yorktown — —”
“Wait! When a solid shot is fired, can you see it when it is coming toward you?”
“Certainly — —”
“No you can’t, you ignoramus! You can see a shell coming or going; you can see a solid shot going — never coming from the enemy’s guns. Aw! go soak that bull head of yours and wear a lady-like havelock!”
The bickering discussion became general for a moment, then, still disputing, Casson and Wye walked off toward camp, and Stephen and Berkley followed.
“Have you heard from your mother?” asked the latter, as they sauntered along over the grass.
“Yes, twice. Father was worried half to death because she hadn’t yet left Paigecourt. Isn’t it strange, Phil, that after all we’re so near mother’s old home? And father was all against her going, I tell you, I’m worried.”
“She has probably gone by this time,” observed Berkley.
The boy nodded doubtfully; then: “I had a fine letter from Ailsa. She sent me twenty dollars,” he added naively, “but our sutler has got it all.”
“What did Ailsa say?” asked Berkley casually.
“Oh, she enquired about father and me — and you, too, I believe. Oh, yes; she wanted me to say to you that she was well — and so is that other girl — what’s her name?”
“Letty Lynden?”
“Oh, yes — Letty Lynden. They’re in a horrible kind of a temporary hospital down on the York River along with the Sisters of Charity; and she said she had just received orders to pack up and start west with the ambulances.”
“West?”
“I believe so.”
After a silence Berkley said:
“I heard from her yesterday.”
“You did!”
“Yes. Unless your father already knows, it might be well to say to him that Ailsa’s ambulance train is ordered to rendezvous in the rear of the 5th Provisional Corps head-quarters.”
“Our corps!”
“That looks like it, doesn’t it? The 5th Provisional Corps is
Porter’s.” He turned and looked back, out across the country.
“She may be somewhere out yonder, at this very moment, Steve.” He made a vague gesture toward the west, stood looking for a while, then turned and walked slowly on with head lowered.
“I wish my mother and Ailsa were back in New York,” said the boy fretfully. “I don’t see why the whole family should get into hot water at the same time.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me very much if Ailsa’s ambulance landed beside your mother’s door at Paigecourt,” said Berkley. “The head-quarters of the 5th Corps cannot be very far from Paigecourt.” At the cavalry lines he offered his hand to Stephen in farewell.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 503