"Water! Water! Help! Someone—give water!"

Virgie, with dilated eyes and heaving breast, crouched low as long as she could and then gave up everything to the pitiful appeal ringing in her ears. Quick as a flash, she sped away on bare feet over rocks and sharp, pointed branches of fallen trees to the spring, where she caught up a cup and filled it to the brim. Another swift rush and she reached the fallen man in blue and had the cup at his lips, while her arm went under his head to lift it.

"Virgie!" her father cried, frantic at the sight. With a great leap he was at her side, forcing her down to the ground and covering her with his body.

The trooper's head sank back and his eyes began to dull.

"May God bless ye, little one," he murmured. "Heaven—Mary—!" His lips gave out one long, shuddering sigh. His body grew slack and his chin fell. Trooper Harry O'Connell had fought his last fight—had passed to his final review.

One look at the boyish face so suddenly gone gray and bloodless and Gary caught Virgie up in his arms. "Come dear, you can't help him any more," and with a crouching run they were back once more in the shelter of the wall.

And now the shriek of the shells and the whine of the bullets came shriller than before. All around them the twigs were dropping, while the acrid powder smoke rolled in through the trees and burnt their eyes and throats. Again came men in blue retreating and among them an officer on horseback, wheeling his animal madly around among them and shouting encouragement as he tried to face them to the front. "Keep at it, men," Morrison was crying, half mad with rage. "One decent stand and we can hold them. Give it to them hard. Stand, I tell you. Stand!"

All around him, however, men were falling and those who were left began to waver. "Steady, men! Don't flinch," came the shout again. "Ah-hah, you would, would you? Coward!"

Morrison's sword held flatwise, thudded down on the back of a man who had flung away his gun. "Get back in the fight, you dog! Get back!"

He whipped out his revolver and pointed it till the gun had been snatched up, then fired all its chambers at the oncoming hordes in gray.

"One more stand," he yelled. "One more—"

Beside him the color sergeant gave a moan and bent in the middle like a hinge. Another slackening of his body and the stricken bearer of the flag plunged from his saddle, the colors trailing in the dust.

Morrison spurred his mount toward the fallen man, bending to grasp the colors from the tight gripped hand; but even as he bent, his horse went down. He leaped to save himself, then turned once more, snatched at the flag of his routed regiment and waved it above his head.

"Stand, boys, and give it to 'em!"

A shout went up—not from the men he sought to rally to his flag, but from those who would win it at a cost of blood, for his troopers were running on a backward road, and Morrison fought alone. The "gray devils" were all around him now, and he backed against the wall, fighting till his sword was sent spinning from his fist by the blow of a musket butt; then, grasping the color-pole in both his hands, he parried bayonet thrusts and saber strokes, panting, breathing in hot, labored gasps, and cursing his enemies from a hoarse, parched throat.

A hideous, unequal fight it was, and soon Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison must fall as his colors fell and be trampled in the dust; yet now through an eddying drift of smoke came another ragged Southerner, a grim, gaunt man whose voice was as hoarse as Morrison's, who had grasped a saber from the blood stained rocks and waved it above his head.

"Back, boys! Don't kill that man!"

Among them he plunged till he reached the side of Morrison, then turned and faced the brothers of his country and his State. With a downward stroke he arrested a saber thrusts and then struck upward at a rifle's mouth as it spit its deadly flame.

"Don't kill him! Do you hear?" he cried, as he beat at the bayonet points. "I'm Cary! Herbert Cary!—on the staff of General Lee!"

For an instant the attacking Southerners stood aghast at the sight of this raging man in gray who defended a Yankee officer; and yet he had made no saber stroke to wound or kill; instead, his weapon had come between their own and the life of a well-nigh helpless foe. For a moment more they paused and looked with wondering eyes, and in that moment their victory was changed to rout.

A bugle blared. A thundering rush of hoof beats sounded on the road, and the Union reenforcements swept around the curve. Six abreast they came, a regiment of strong, straight riders, hungry for battle, hot to retrieve the losing fortune of the day. The road was too narrow for a concentrated rush, so they streamed into the fields on either side, re-formed, and swept like an avalanche of blue upon their prey. The guns in the woods now thundered forth afresh, their echoes rolling out across the hills, and the attacking Rebels turned and fled, like leaves before a storm.

On one side of the road, Morrison and Cary shrank down beside the wall to let the Union riders pass; on the other, all that was left of the Rebel force ran helter-skelter for a screen of protecting trees. But before the last one disappeared he threw up his gun and fired, haphazard, in the direction whence he had come.

As if in reply came the sound of a saber falling from a man's hand and striking on a stone. Under his very eyes and just as he was putting out his hand to grip the others Morrison saw Herbert Cary sinking slowly to the ground.

And then, through the yellow dust clouds and the powder smoke and all the horrid reek of war, a child came running with outstretched arms and piteous voice—a frightened child, weeping for the father who had thrown himself headlong into peril to save another's life and who, perhaps, had lost his own.



CHAPTER IX

The headquarters of the Army of the Potomac on the morning of August 4, 1864, were at City Point near where the Appomattox meets the James. Here the grim, silent man in whose hands lay the destinies of the United States sent out the telegrams which kept the Federal forces gnawing at the cage in which Lee had shut himself and meanwhile held to his strategic position south of Richmond. To his left and west lay Petersburg still unconquered, but Petersburg could wait, for Early's gray clad troopers were scourging the Shenandoah and the menace must be removed. To this end Grant had sent a telegram to Washington three days before expressing in unmistakable terms what he wished General Sheridan and his cavalry to accomplish. They were to go over into the Shenandoah and, putting themselves south of the enemy, follow him to the death. To which telegram the tall, lank, furrow-faced man in the White House whose kindly heart was bursting with the strain replied in characteristic fashion and told him that his purpose was exactly right. And then, with a gleam of humor, warned him against influences in Washington which would prevent its carrying out unless he forced it.

This message had come but a few minutes before and it had been received with silent satisfaction for Grant knew now that Abraham Lincoln and he were in perfect accord as to the means for swiftly bringing on the end. But the plans must be well laid and to that end he must leave City Point within a few hours and go north. And so he was standing at a window of his headquarters this morning with his eyes resting unseeingly on the camp, while his cool, quiet mind steadily forged out his schemes.

Unlike the headquarters of "play" armies where all is noise and confusion and bloodied orderlies throw themselves off of plunging horses and gasp out their reports, the room in which General Grant did his work was strangely quiet.

It was a large, square room with high ceiling and wall paper which had defied all the arts of Europe to render interesting in design. Furniture was neither plentiful nor comfortable—a slippery, black horse-hair sofa, a few horse-hair chairs and, at one side of the room, a table and a desk, littered with papers, maps and files. At the table Grant's adjutant, Forbes, sat writing. Facing him was the door opening out into the hallway of the house where two sentries stood on guard. In the silence which pervaded the room and in the quiet application to the work in hand there was a perfect reflection of the mind of him who stood impassive at the window with his back turned, a faint blue cloud of cigar smoke rising above his head.

A quick step sounded in the corridor—the step of one who bears a message. An orderly appeared in the doorway, spoke to the two sentries and was passed in with a salute to Forbes.

"For General Grant," he said, holding out a folded note of white paper. "Personal from Lieutenant Harris, sir."

At the sound of his name the General turned slowly and accepted the note which the orderly presented. He took it without haste and yet without any perceptible loss of time or motion and, as always, without unnecessary words. Scanning it, he shifted his cigar to one corner of his mouth where its smoke would not rise into his eyes, thought for an instant, then nodded shortly.

"I'll see him. At once."

Dismissed, the orderly saluted and passed quickly out. The General, with his chin in his collar and his cigar held between his fingers at nearly the same level, moved back to the window and stood there silently as before. He knew what Lieutenant Harris would wish to speak to him about. A few weeks before a Lieutenant-Colonel of cavalry had been court-martialed on the charge of allowing the escape of a spy. The court had found him guilty and its findings had been submitted to the higher authorities and endorsed by them. A copy of these reports now lay on his desk. All this his Adjutant, Forbes, knew as well as the General himself, but if Forbes had thought it worth while to speculate on the extent of his commander's interest he might have guessed for years without ever drawing one logical conclusion from all the hints that that impassive face and figure gave him.

Again a ringing step in the corridor and this time Lieutenant Harris came into the room, his hand going up in salute. But his General was still looking out of the window, his eyes on a dead level. There was a silence and then—without turning around—

"Well, Lieutenant, what is it?"

"A short conference, General, if you'll grant it. The case of Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison." It was hard work to talk to one who kept his back turned and Harris was embarrassed.

The smoke from the General's cigar still curled lazily upwards.

"Reprieve?" came the monosyllabic question.

Harris caught himself together and put all his feelings.

"No, General. A pardon!"

At once Grant wheeled and stood gazing at him keenly.

"Pardon?" he said, and he advanced with deliberation to the desk where he stood with his eyes steady on Harris' face. "Lieutenant! Do you want me to think you are out of your mind?"

Before Harris could reply Grant stopped him with a gesture and picked up a batch of papers which lay on the desk.

"The man has been given every chance. He has been court-martialed—and found guilty."

He dropped the papers in the case back on the desk. "And you—his counsel—having failed to prove him otherwise now come to me—for pardon."

He snapped his fingers. "Lieutenant, you are wasting time." And he turned away, pausing for a moment to turn over a sheaf here and there on his desk and meditate their contents. The incident of Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison has been disposed of and, in another moment would be forgotten. It was now or never for Harris and he answered quickly.

"I hope not, sir. Neither yours nor mine." And then, as the General looked up with some surprise at this retort. "You have read the findings of the court?"

"Yes," was the grim reply. "And approve the sentence. To-morrow he will be shot."

"Yes, sir," acknowledged Harris. "Unless you intervene."

At this curiously insistent plea for clemency the short, stocky bearded man who, to so few, had the bearing of a great general, faced Lieutenant Harris and gave him a look which made the young officer's bravery falter for a long moment.

"I?" said the General, with a searching note in his voice which seemed to probe coldly and with deadly accuracy among the strenuous emotions in the young man's mind. "Harris—you are an officer of promise. Don't cut that promise short." With a flick of his ashes to one side he turned away. The cigar went back into the corner of his sardonic mouth.

Harris strode forward an impulsive step and threw out his hands.

"It is worth the risk. When a man is condemned to die—"

The General wheeled with more impatience than the Adjutant, Forbes, had seen him exhibit through many vexatious, worrying months. His voice took on a rasping note. He tapped the papers on the desk with grim significance.

"Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison has failed in his military duty. He released a Rebel spy—proved himself a traitor to his cause."

"A traitor, General?" protested the young officer. "Do you call a man a traitor who fought as Morrison did a week ago? Who stood his ground till his whole command was shot to pieces! And then stood alone—defending his colors in the face of hell let loose!"

The appeal was impassioned, its sincerity and humanity undoubted. Yet it seemingly only served to make the grim rules of war more unyielding than ever.

Choosing his words with more than ordinary care, and speaking them in firm, even tones, the General made his reply.

"No act of bravery can atone for a soldier's lapse from duty." He sat down at his desk and began to write.

Under ordinary circumstances Lieutenant Harris might have accepted defeat for there seemed no use in trying to break down that iron will or touch the heart of this relentless soldier. But this was something more than an ordinary case and Harris was more than simply Morrison's counsel—he was his friend. The two had fought together through three hard campaigns; they had shared food and water and shelter, had slept together for warmth on sodden fields, had exchanged such confidences as two officers from the same town in the North but of unequal rank may exchange under the pressure of war-time emotions. If there was one man living who knew Morrison's heart and appreciated his motives to the uttermost it was his lieutenant and the young officer was prepared to lose his commission, aye, even face prison for insubordination if continued opposition to the Commander-in-Chief would result in a re-hearing. And so he caught himself together for the second time and returned to the charge.

"I do not offer his courage as a plea for pardon," he said, and turned to his general with half a smile, "but still I find in Shakespeare—and in Blackstone—the suggestion of tempering justice with mercy."

Grant tossed aside his pencil, repeating the last word slowly, bitterly:

"Mercy!"

He rose from his seat and stood beside his table, speaking with a low but almost fierce intensity:

"They call me a war machine! I am! And you—and all the rest—are parts of it! A lever! A screw! A valve! A wheel! A machine half human—yes! A thing of muscle and bone and blood—but without a heart! A merciless machine, whose wheels must turn and turn till we grind out this rebellion to the dust of peace!"

He paused impressively, and in the hard, cold words which followed, all hope for Morrison seemed to fade and die.

"If a wheel once fails to do its work—discard it!—for another and a better one! We want no wheels that slip their cogs!"

The General ceased and turned to his littered table; but Harris was not yet beaten.

"No, General," he answered bravely, "but there happens to be a flaw ... in your machine's control." The General looked up, frowning sharply; but Harris still went on: "In a military court we have condemned a man to die—and the facts have not been proved!"

Amazed more at the young officer's obstinate temerity than his words the General stared at him.

"How so?" he asked, with irony.

Harris opened out his hands with a simple gesture that seemed to leave his logic to the judgment of any impartial observer.

"In times of peace, my profession is that of the Law. I know my ground—and," in rising tones of sincerity, "I challenge you to shake it in any civil court in Christendom."

"Strong words, young man," came the stern reply. "For your sake, I hope they are warranted. What is your point? Get at it!"

Harris drew a short breath of relief. He had cleverly switched the appeal from grounds on which he stood no chance whatever to those where he did not fear any intellect in a fair fight.

"The evidence," he said calmly, "was purely circumstantial. In the first place, it is alleged that my client captured a Rebel spy, one Herbert Cary, who was hiding in the loft of a cabin."

The General's caustic tones interrupted. "To which fact," he said, "there were only ten witnesses."

"Yes, General," was the faintly smiling agreement. "Ten! But not one of them actually saw the man! They believe he was there, but they cannot swear to it."

Grant made a motion as of putting away something of no consequence. "Immaterial—in view of the other facts. Well—what else?"

"Next, it is claimed that Morrison released this spy and allowed him to enter the Union lines—without regard to consequences."

The General gave a short exclamation of impatience, and struck the papers on his desk with the flat of his hand.

"And that is proved," he said, sharply. "Proved by several officers who stopped your spy at points along the road."

He singled out a soiled piece of paper from the sheaf before him and held it up, a piece of paper which bore writing on both sides.

"When taken, this pass was found on his person. Not circumstantial evidence, but fact. Signed on one side by R.E. Lee and, on the other, by Colonel Morrison." He laughed shortly over the futility of argument under such circumstances. "Do you presume to contest this, too?"

To his amazement the young officer facing him bowed easily and smiled in turn.

"I do. Emphatically. No pass was given Herbert Cary either by Colonel Morrison or General Lee."

"What?" cried the General angrily.

Harris only pointed.

"Read it, sir—if you please." He watched till Grant's eyes started to scan the pass again, and then repeated the words which he knew so well.

"Pass Virginia Cary and escort through Federal—and Confederate lines."

"'Virginia Cary,' General, is a non-combatant and a child. 'Escort' may mean a single person—or it may mean a whole troop of cavalry."

To his infinite relief and joy his Commanding General looked up at him thoughtfully, then slowly rose from his desk and took a turn about the room, followed by a faint blue trail of cigar smoke. He paused.

"And what does Cary say?" he asked.

Again Harris smiled the quiet smile of the lawyer who has been confronted with such questions before and knows well how to answer them.

"He, too, is on trial for his life. His evidence, naturally, was not admitted."

"Ah! Then what says Morrison?"

"Nothing, sir," was the young lieutenant's calm reply. "The burden of proof lies with the prosecution—not with the defendant."

"And this is your contention—your legal flaw in my machine?" the General asked sharply.

"It is."

"Very good, sir—very good. In that case we'll call in these silent partners and dig into this case until we reach rock bottom!"

"Forbes," he ordered. "Send for the prisoner, Mr. Morrison—and the Rebel, Herbert Cary. I want both of them here—at once!"

In the pause which followed the Adjutant's exit Harris interposed an objection.

"Your method, General, is hardly just to the interests of my client."

Grant turned on him with something mere than impatience. He was growing angry.

"Lieutenant Harris! Are you asking me to pardon a guilty man? It's the truth I want—not legal technicalities. Next you'll be asking me not to hang this Rebel spy because he has—a baby!"

He went back to his accustomed place at the window and stood looking out again, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, the eternal cigar smoke rising above his head. Then, to the young lieutenant's amazement, he asked a question in tones of ordinary conversation.

"Harris," he said. "Who was the man who preferred these charges to start with?"

"Corporal Dudley," was the eager answer.

"And there, General, is another point and a vital one that was not brought out. In reporting his Colonel, Dudley was actuated not by a spirit of military duty, but personal revenge."

"Revenge? Why?"

"Because Morrison shot and killed Dudley's brother—a Sergeant in his command."

The General came back from his window.

"Again—why?"

"For insubordination—incendiarism—attempted desertion," came the swift reply.

The General's eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch. He seated himself at his desk and unrolled a map.

"Any witnesses of the Sergeant's death?" he asked evenly as he proceeded to study his map.

"Unfortunately, only one," Harris replied. "An old negro—now in our camp—answering to the name of William Lewis."

"Lewis—Lewis," said Grant thoughtfully. He referred for a moment to a file of papers and then looked up. "Is that the old codger who's been worrying my entire staff for permission to go through our lines to his home?"

"Yes, General," said Harris, with a smile, for Unc' Billy's persistency and his troubles were known to everyone he met.

"Good! It's about time we got even him," the General remarked sardonically. "Have him in! See to it, Forbes." And again he bent over his map.

Forbes, passing out again, paused as Harris gestured.

"You'll find him somewhere near the guard house," the Lieutenant said with a flicker of a, smile. "The old man has been regularly camping out there since he learned that his master was inside."

A minute passed and then, from a short distance away, came the sound of a squad of soldiers marching. In single file, with the two prisoners in line, the squad came into the hallway and stopped at the doorway.

"Halt! Left face! Order arms! Prisoners file out!" The two prisoners stepped forward and entered the room.

Thanks to expert surgical work since he entered Union lines, Herbert Cary's wounds had healed quickly while plenty of good food had done the rest. His eyes may not have been bright with hope but at least they were clear with health and his straight back and squared shoulders showed that the man's fighting spirit had not left him even under the adverse decision of a court-martial.

Of the two, Morrison seemed the graver and quieter. With his sword taken from him and his shoulder straps ripped off the man who had been a Lieutenant-Colonel in the Army of the Potomac only the day before stood looking at his general without the slightest hope for clemency. Yet, with all the sad, quiet look of resignation in his eyes, behind them glowed a wonderful light—the light of self-sacrifice. For he had chosen to put on the tender glove of humanity and grip hands with the mailed gauntlet of war, and though he had been crushed yet even in this bitter hour they could not take from him the knowledge that the Commander in Chief of all spiritual armies would stand forever on his side. They could take his sword and shoulder straps but they could not rob him of that divine consolation.

And so the two stood with their eyes steady on the General—the Confederate, hard and defiant—the Union officer with a strange, sad glow on his face.

But the General paid them no attention. He was still studying the map laid out before him on his desk, the cigar in the corner of his mouth drawing one side of his face into harsh, deep lines. As a matter of fact, Ulysses Simpson Grant was very far removed from harshness—he was simply and solely efficiency personified. When nothing was to be said General Grant said nothing. To do otherwise was waste.

Presently he looked up and saw that while Forbes had given the two prisoners chairs directly in front of his desk one of the important factors in the business in hand had not been produced.

"Well, Forbes, well? Where is the negro?" He asked crisply. "Bring him in! Bring him in!"

"In a moment, General," responded the Adjutant, hastening to the doorway as the tread of feet sounded again in the hallway. Dismissing the two privates who had arrived with Uncle Billy between them he led the old man down to the desk and left him there, bowing and scraping a little and holding his hat in front of him in both hands.

"Wan' see me, suh?" ventured Uncle Billy, intruding delicately on the General's calculations. "Here I is!"

General Grant looked up quickly and ran his eye over the old man.

"Your name!"

"Er—William Lewis, seh. Yas, seh."

"To whom do you belong?"

Although Uncle Billy's back was not particularly straight this sudden question introduced a stiffening into it which made it more upright than it had been in years.

"I b'longs to Cap'n Hubbert Cary, seh—of de Confed'it Army. Das who I b'longs to. Yas, seh."

The General sat back a little in his chair and studied Uncle Billy. He saw that after all the old negro was simply a natural slave—that he probably had no other thought in his grayed head than that of faithful service to his owner. But he would try him and see how far the old man would go.

"I understand," he said, "that freedom has been offered you—and you refused it. Is this true?"

"Yas, seh."

"Why?" asked the General quietly.

Uncle Billy stammered.

"Well—er—well, 'skuse me, Mars' Gen'l, but—but down whar I lives at de—de white gent'men understands a nigger better'n what you-all does. Yas, seh."

General Grant may have smiled internally, but the only symptom of amusement was the dry note in his voice.

"I see. But there has been some difference of opinion on the point."

He paused and then pointed past Uncle Billy directly at Morrison. "Do you know that man?"

"Me?" said Uncle Billy. He turned and saw Morrison and instantly his face lighted up. It made no difference to the old negro that Morrison's uniform was mutilated—he could only see the familiar features of one who had treated his dead mistress with perfect respect under trying circumstances.

"Aw, yas, seh," he broke out, with a broad grin. "How you does, Cun'l. I clar to—"

Uncle Billy stopped. His eyes had gone beyond Morrison to the man sitting beside him and at the sight of that loved figure the old man began to tremble. His voice lowered to a whisper and he began to totter forward.

"Mars' Cary!" he said, as if he were looking on one risen from the dead. He came a little nearer, with his hand stretched out as if to touch him testingly—then suddenly dropped down on his knees before Gary who had risen from his chair. "Bless Gawd, I done fin' you," he sobbed, his face buried in his toaster's coat. "I done fin' you at last."

The General frowned.

"Forbes," he ordered. "Put a stop to that. Bring him back!"

But Uncle Billy paid not a bit of attention as the Adjutant sprang up. All his thought was for his master and his own explanation.

"Dey wouldn' lemme git thru, seh!" he cried, pleading absolution from what had seemed an inexcusable breach of trust. "Dey wouldn' gimme no pass an' I'se des been stuck! Aw, Gawd, Mars' Cary—an' I axed 'em ev'y day!"

"There now, Billy—don't," Cary said with a gesture of pity and unending gratitude.

Uncle Billy rose slowly to his feet.

"Yas, seh. Yas, seh," he answered obediently. "'Skuse me, Mars' Gen'l. I couldn' he'p it, seh. I—I couldn' he'p it. Dey wouldn' eben lemme see him in de guard house—"

"That will do," interrupted the General firmly. "Listen to me. When did you see Mr. Morrison—last?"

"Him?" said Uncle Billy, looking around at the Union officer. "'Twas—'twas in de spring, seh. Yas, seh. De time de Yankees bu'nt us out."

"How's that?" asked the General, not understanding.

Lieutenant Harris came forward a step.

"The act of incendiarism I spoke of, General—on the part of Sergeant Dudley."

The General looked up and nodded.

"I see," he said, and Harris, knowing that due weight would be given the fact let go a faint sigh of relief and stepped back.

The cigar came out of the General's mouth. "Tell me about it," he said to Uncle Billy.

The old negro drew himself up and shifted his weight onto his other foot.

"Well, seh, 'twas dis way. One mornin' de blue-bellies—'skuse me, seh, de cav'lry gent'men. One mornin' de cav'lry gent'men come ridin' up, lookin' fer horses an' fodder an'—an' Mars' Cary—an' anything else what was layin' roun'. Yas, seh. An' des' befo' dis here gent'man come," with a bow at Morrison, "a low-lived white man took'n grab me by de th'oat—an' choke me, seh. Den he 'sult Miss Hallie—"

"Miss Hallie?" queried the General.

"My mis'tiss, seh," answered Uncle Billy. "My mis'tiss, seh," he said again and his hand went up to his eyes.

"The wife of Captain Cary," Harris said in a low tone and the General nodded.

"Den—bless Gawd—de Cun'l come! He pick him down offn de front po'ch—and put him under 'rest. Yas, seh. An' Miss Hallie, she sho' was hoppin', Gen'l. She—"

"Never mind that," sighed the man whose creed was Patience. "Go on with the story."

"Yas, seh. Thank'e, seh. 'Twas des lek I tell you, seh. An' arfter while orders come to de cav'lry gent'men fer to light out fr'm dar in a hurry. An' whilst dey was gettin' ready, seh, an' me an' de Cun'l was waitin' roun' fer to proteck de property, de fire bus' right out de winders!

"Dat's right, Mars' Gen'l," Uncle Billy hurried to state, as the General's eyebrows went up in surprise. "Dat's right. Den de front do' flewed open, an' here come dat po' white trash rapscallion—wid de pine knot in his han'. Yas, seh. He—"

"One moment!" snapped the General. "Was he running towards his troop or away from it?"

"Way fr'm it, seh," replied the old negro, with unmistakable truthfulness, "t'odes de ice house whar Miss Hallie an' de chillun was at. Yas, seh."

"And Mr. Morrison tried to stop him?"

"Ha!" cried Uncle Billy, with a chuckle. "He mo'n tried, seh. He done it!"

The General nodded, his lips tight shut.

"So I understand. But what did he do—or say?"

At this question Uncle Billy suddenly developed dramatic abilities that his master had never dreamed of.

"He say—" and Uncle Billy's arm shot out as he pointed something deadly at an invisible foe—"he say, 'Halt! Dudley! Halt! Bang!'"

Uncle Billy's hat dropped down on the floor with a whack. "Dat's all, seh. Dat po' white trash—he drop lek a stuck pig, seh!"

The General's eyes were on his desk and for a moment there was a pause. Finally, he lifted his head and looked at Morrison, who rose in salute.

"Mr. Morrison. You did well. Your Sergeant failed in his military duty—and deserved the punishment. I commend your action."

Harris, listening with all his might, thought the words more favorable than the tone in which they were spoken and his face brightened. Then he heard the General speaking more sternly.

"The Federal powers of administrative justice now occupy precisely the same position with regard to your own default."

Harris' face darkened. After the first just encomium—what was this that was coming?

Relentless and inflexible the voice went on.

"The rules of war, as applied to a non-commissioned officer, must also govern his superiors. As Sergeant Dudley deserved his bullet you merit yours."

His eyes dropped from Morrison's face and he looked up at Harris.

"A bad witness for your client, Lieutenant," he said grimly, as he nodded his head towards Uncle Billy. "You ought to study law! Take him away," and he picked up a fresh cigar from a box in front of him and tossed the old one out of the window.

Uncle Billy, with a puzzled look on his face, slowly yielded to the touch of the two soldiers who stepped into the room at a gesture from Forbes. He seemed to realize that his testimony had not been of much avail though just why was indeed a mystery. One thing, however, was quite clear.

"'Skuse me, Mars' Gen'l. I—I don't need dat ar pass home now. An' I much obliged to you fer not givin' it to me. Yas, seh. Thank'e, seh." At the doorway he bowed with careful politeness to each occupant of the fatal room. "Good mornin', Mars' Cary. Good mornin', gent'men. Good mornin'."

With the disappearance of bewildered Uncle Billy the General swung around on the officer who no longer wore his shoulder straps.

"Mr. Morrison," he said, in his distinct, even tones. "Your friend and counsel, Lieutenant Harris, has applied to me for your pardon!"

"Pardon?" cried Morrison, springing to his feet with an exclamation of amazement.

"Exactly," was the crisp response. "It comes from him—not from you. But still, as an interested party, have you anything to say in your own behalf?"

The Union officer stared at his general for a moment without replying. Yes, there were many things that might be said—all of them honest arguments in his own behalf, all of them weighted with Right and Humanity but none of them worth putting into words in the face of this deadly machine of war, this grim, austere, unyielding tribunal. He wavered for a moment on his feet as a terrible wave of despair surged over him, then made a faint gesture of negation.

"I have nothing to say, sir."

"Captain Cary!" ordered the General and, as Cary rose unsteadily to his feet, "No. Keep your seat, sir; you are wounded. Is it true—as I learn from this report—that during a skirmish a week ago you helped defend the Union colors against your own people?"

Cary shot up from his chair with a fiery rush of anger.

"I? No, sir! I defended the man—not the soldier, or his flag!"

"Ah!" ejaculated the General, leaning back in his chair and blowing out a cloud of smoke in surprise. "You draw a rather fine distinction, Captain. You saved the colors—but you failed to save the man! You had better have let him die—as an honorable soldier."

There was silence for a moment, and the General asked: "Is it true that you were actuated by a debt of gratitude?"

"Yes," answered the Southerner, throwing back his head. "And a greater debt than I can ever hope to pay. His mercy to—my little girl."

Without relaxing for a moment his grip on the points of the case, no matter what human elements might be drawn into it, the General instantly rose and shot out an accusing forefinger at the Confederate.

"And the pass he gave—to you!"

Their eyes clashed but the Southerner lowered his own not a whit and backed them, furthermore, with honest anger.

"To her!" he answered, and drove the reply home with clenched jaws.

The General relaxed—and smiled.

"Another fine distinction," he said, resuming his seat. He knocked the ashes from his cigar and presently looked up with another one of those terribly vital questions which came so simply from his lips. "Did you ever penetrate the Federal lines by means of a uniform—of blue?"

The Confederate drew back as he felt the assault on his rights as a soldier.

"As to that, General Grant, there is—"

"Answer me!" came the sharp command. "'Yes' or 'No'!"

"One moment, General," interrupted Harris, with a lawyer's quick objection. "If—"

"No interference, Harris," came the curt order. "Answer me, Captain. 'Yes' or 'No'!"

The Southerner's face flushed and he threw back his head with the superb defiance that General Grant knew so well—which was his one eternal stumbling block, and due to continue for another full year of blood.

"Under the rulings of court-martial law," the Confederate Captain said in ringing tones, "I deny even your right to the question."

To the surprise of everyone the General merely nodded.

"That is all, sir. Thank you," he said, and Cary, with a look of surprise, slowly resumed his seat.

"Mr. Morrison!"

The Union officer rose and saluted.

"As a military servant of the United States Government you were ordered to pursue this man and take him—dead or alive. In this you failed."

Morrison inclined his head gravely but shot a look of respectful objection at his superior.

"In part—I failed."

Instantly the accusing forefinger was leveled at him across the desk and the point made with terrible directness.

"And knowing he was a spy!"

Morrison shook his head.

"Not to my personal knowledge, sir. I hunted him many times; but never while he wore a Federal uniform."

"And when you captured him?"

In reply, Morrison simply indicated Cary's tattered coat of gray.

"Ah! Then you did capture him?"

"Yes," came the quiet answer.

"And he was the escort mentioned in your pass."

"Yes," Morrison answered slowly.

"H'm," said the General. He rose and turned to Harris.

"I am afraid, my dear Harris, that in spite of fine spun distinctions and your legal technicalities, the findings of our court were not far wrong."

Dropping his handful of papers on the desk he caught Morrison's eye and rasped out his analysis of the case.

"Captain Cary practically admits his guilt! You were aware of it! And yet you send him through the very center of our lines! A pass! Carte blanche to learn the disposition of our forces—our weakness and our strength—and to make his report in Richmond. He was an enemy—with a price on his head! And you trusted him! A spy!"

As the General had been speaking the first few words of his contemptuous summing up Morrison saw where they would lead and his manhood instantly leaped up in reply.

"I trusted, not the spy, but Herbert Cary," he said with honest courage. Then, as the General turned his back on him with a contemptuous snap of his fingers—

"General! I have offered no defense. If the justice of court-martial law prescribes a firing squad—I find no fault. I failed. I pay."

With a gesture which indicated Gary the disgraced officer of the Army of the Potomac shot out his one and only defense of his action—at an unyielding back.

"I took this man—hunted—wounded—fighting to reach the side of a hungry child. I captured him and, by the rules of war, I was about to have him shot. Then he asked me to get his little girl safely to Richmond, and not to let her know—about him."

"And she believed in me. Trusted me—even as I trusted Herbert Cary to pierce the very center of your lines—as a father—not a spy!"

From behind the unyielding back came a statement of fact, firm and pitiless.

"And it cost you your sword—your life."

Morrison centered his eyes on the back of the General's head and sent his answer home with all the power of his voice and spirit.

"And I have no regret" he said. "In the duty of a military servant—I have failed. But my prisoner still lives! I could not accept the confidence of his child—the trust of innocence—a baby's kiss—with the blood of her father on my hands!" He dropped his hands and half turned away.

The General turned, a little at a time—first his head and then his shoulders.

"A very pretty sentiment," he remarked dryly. "But you seem to forget that we are not making love but war."

With a supreme burst of anger at his helplessness before the brute forces which would presently send him forth to the firing squad, Morrison wheeled on his commanding general and flared forth with his last reply.

"Yes, war! And the hellish laws that govern it. But there is another law—Humanity! Through a trooper in my command the home of an enemy was turned to ashes—his loved ones flung out to starve. When a helpless tot had lost its mother and a father would protect it, then war demands that I smash a baby's one last hope—in the name of the Stars and Stripes. And then—to march back home, to a happy, triumphant North—and meet my baby—with the memory of a butcher in my heart—By Heaven, sir! I'd rather hang!"

For a moment General and Colonel regarded each other fixedly and then the General turned away to pace the floor. Presently he came to his decision and walked slowly back to his desk.

"Lieutenant Harris," he said in tones whose significance could not be misunderstood, "I was right. You have wasted your time—and mine."

Then he sighed wearily and made a last gesture to Forbes.

"The guard" he said.

It was all over.

And then, to the ears of the two prisoners who stood looking at one another with sad eyes, came a sound which made both men start and look again with apprehension written on their faces—the shrill scream of a child who is being kept from something she has set her heart upon. Another moment and there was a rush of tiny feet in the hall, whereupon the two sentries crossed their rifles across the doorway. But what might have proved a serious obstruction for a man was only an absurdity to a child's quick wit and Virgie, with a little duck of her sunny head, dodged quickly under the muskets and charged, flushed and panting, on the General's desk.

"You shan't shoot Colonel Morrison," cried this astonishing new comer in tones of shrill command as she stamped her little foot: "I won't let you! You shan't! You shan't!"

A moment of displeased surprise on the part of the General. Then—

"Take the child out of here," he ordered.

"I won't go!" answered Virgie, tossing her curls back and standing her ground with' angry eyes.

"Orderly!" called the General.

With a whirl Virgie dashed away from the desk, eluded the orderly and threw herself into her father's arms.

"Oh, Daddy, Daddy! You won't let him shoot the Colonel. Daddy, you won't! You won't!" She burst into a passionate flood of tears.

Cary lifted his hand to the General in a plea for a moment's respite from force.

"General—please. She'll go."

He turned to the sobbing child and shook her gently. "Virgie! Virgie! Listen, honey! Remember General Lee!" The bowed head rose from her father's shoulder; the little shoulders stiffened, and eye to eye she looked into the face of Cary as his pleading voice went on: "He wouldn't want you to cry like this. He said—'She's a brave little soldier to stay there all alone. Dixie and I are proud of her.'"

The Littlest Rebel's chin went up, and she bravely choked back her sobs. If this was what her General wanted, this her General would have, though childhood's sobs are hard to check when a little heart is aching for the pain of those she loves.

"Go now, darling," her father pleaded. "Go."

She kissed him, and turned in silent, slow obedience, casting a scowl at the grim and silent General Grant, then moved toward the guarded door.

"Wait!" said a quiet voice.

"Harris! They say that fools and children speak the truth." He paused and then said gently: "Come here, little girl. Come here and talk to me."

Somewhat in fear now that the kind voice robbed her of her anger the little pale faced child choked down her sobs and came slowly forward to the desk. But, as she stood there, her courage returned and, marvel of marvels, her tiny hand went up in imitation of a salute.

Grant dropped his chin in his hand so that their heads were nearly on a level across his desk and looked at her with gentle kindness in his eyes.

"The Littlest Rebel, eh?" he said in low tones. "How old are you?"

"S-s-s-even. Goin' on eight," responded Virgie, gulping down a sob and nervously fingering her tattered dress.

"Ah, yes," he nodded. "And do you know the uniform of a Union officer—when you see it?"

Virgie's small mouth dropped open at the absurdity of the question and she almost laughed.

"A Yankee?" she queried with scorn. "Well, I reckon I ought to—by this time."

"Very good," the brown bearded man nodded, and gently blew smoke at the ceiling. "Now, tell me. When you lived at home—and afterwards in your cabin—did your father come to see you often?"

Virgie's sunny head nodded in emphatic asseveration. "Yes, sir. Often."

"How often?" asked the bearded man.

Virgie's fingers twisted themselves deep in her dress.

"I—I don't know, sir. But heaps of times."

"Good again," and the questioner actually smiled. "When your father came, did he ever wear clothes that—that were not his own?"

Virgie turned a side-long look on her father but, as he could not help, her puzzled eyes went back to the General.

"Well—well, lots of our men don't have hardly any clo's," she said pathetically.

Another smile broke the sternness of the General's face.

"That isn't what I mean," he explained gently. "Did he ever wear a coat of blue—a Yankee uniform?"

"General!" broke in Harris.

"Lieutenant!" Grant frowned. He turned back to Virgie and coaxed her a little.

"Well? Tell me!"

With one bare big toe twisted under her foot and fingers interlocked in agony the child turned a look of pure anguish on her silent, grave faced father. This was torture—and she could not escape.

"Oh, Daddy, Daddy!" she burst forth with a wail of tragedy in her voice. "What must I tell him?"

The father's lips, which had been closed against the pain that racked him, softened with the perfect trust which went into his gentle command.

"The truth, Virgie. Whatever the General asks."

The General's observant eyes rested on the proud Southerner for an instant, noted that his face was quite without anxiety, then went back to the little child.

"Well, did he?" he asked.

"Y-y-y-es, sir," answered Virgie with a gulp.

The General nodded and his face grew grave again.

"I wonder if you even know what it means. A spy!"

"Yes, sir," said the Littlest Rebel, and dropped her eyes.

"Hm. And do you remember how many times he came that way?"

"Yes, sir," came the instant answer, and she threw up her head. "Once."

"Once?" echoed the General, surprised. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir," she answered. She drew herself up proudly, forgetting the poor, tattered dress, and her clear eyes rested fearlessly on two others that read through them down into the pure whiteness of her soul.

"Think!" said the quiet voice again, while the perspiration started out on the forehead of more than one listener. "And remember what your father said just now. When was it?"

Again the fearless eyes of the child, the Littlest Rebel of them all, rose to the gaze of the man whose iron heel was crushing them into the ground and she made her answer—as crystal clear and truthful as if she stood before the Throne on the last great day.

"When—when Daddy came through the woods an'—an' put my mamma in the ground."

There was a silence. No one moved. Outside in the trees and bushes the song the summer insects were singing suddenly burst upon, their ears and the myriad noises of the camp, hitherto unnoticed, became a veritable clamor, so complete was the stillness in the room. Everyone except, perhaps, the child herself realized the vital importance of her answer and now that it had been given the crisis had passed. The Littlest Rebel had put an end to questioning. An audible sigh went up from everyone except the man behind the desk.

This one turned his head slowly towards the Confederate prisoner.

"Captain Cary, is this true?"

"Yes, General," came the straightforward answer. "I went to your nearest post with a flag of truce and asked permission to go to my dead wife. I was refused. I went without permission."

General Grant rose to his feet. Centering the other's eyes with his own he spoke to him as one officer speaks to another when he expects the truth and nothing but the truth.

"And you give me your word, as a soldier and a gentleman, that once—once only—you wore a Federal uniform and that because of the burial of your wife?"

"I do," answered Herbert Cary, a rebel to the last. "And that was the only cause in heaven or hell that could have induced me to wear it!"

For a moment the Commander of the Army of the Potomac surveyed the still defiant prisoner, then turned his back and walked to the window where he tossed away a much chewed cigar, meantime thinking out his last analysis.

Here was a man who had been hunted tirelessly month after month as a rebel spy. It was true that he was a spy and true that he had worn a uniform of blue. Yet the fact had been established—by the spotless honesty of a little child—that he had worn the uniform only so that he might reach his home and bury his dead. And—went on the cool, quiet mind—since the man was not a spy how could a Union officer be executed for assisting a spy to escape?

Coming back to his desk again the General picked out another smoke, felt of it thoughtfully, sniffed at it, then raised his quiet eyes.

"Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison," he said in clear, incisive tones, "go back to your command!"

Five words. Five short, plain words, yet they made all the difference between a firing squad and a chance at life again. There was a silence—then a gasp from Morrison's dry throat. At the sound of his title—at the sound of that blessed order which, by right of supreme power, instantly restored him to his rank, the Union officer leaped to his feet with a cry of joy. But it was not even for those around him in that little room to know the wonderful vista of happiness which opened up again before the eyes which only a moment ago had been doomed to close in the sleep of a disgraceful death.

The General's hand went up in a gesture which checked his gratitude.

"The next time you are forced to decide between military duty and humanity—think twice!"

He turned to his desk and took up a small piece of paper, crumpled and torn.

"Captain Cary," he said, "I sincerely regret that I cannot honor the pass as given you by Colonel Morrison," and he turned the paper over, "but I do honor the pass of your General—R.E. Lee."

He folded the paper and held it out to Cary who came forward as if in a dream. Then the General turned his back again and began to rummage on his desk. The incident was closed.

But there was a rush of bare, childish feet sand before he could escape Virgie's brown little arms were round him and her dimpled chin was pressed against his waist.

The General made no effort to release himself but looked down on her with a softer light in his face than any of his men had seen there in many months.

"And as for you, young lady, the next time you pervert my officers and upset the discipline of the Federal Army—well, I don't know what I'll do with you."

He looked down into her face and read there a wistful feminine appeal for outward and visible reconciliation.

"Oh, well," he said with mock resignation, "I suppose I've got to do it," and he stooped and kissed her. Then he took up his campaign hat and walked towards the door.

Behind him the child in her tattered dress and bare brown legs stood still and threw out her arms to him in a last soft-voiced good-by.

"Thank you, Gen'ral," called the Littlest Rebel, with the light of heaven in her eyes. "Thank you for Daddy and Colonel Morrison and me. You're another mighty good damn Yankee!"

And then, with a cry of surpassing joy and love, she rushed back to where the two men waited for her on their knees.



CHAPTER X

In the shade of a fringe of trees that edged the river bank a troop of cavalry was drawn up in one long, thin line. Knee to knee, the silent, blue-coated riders sat, waiting, waiting—not for a charge upon the enemy, or orders for a foray through an already harried land. They waited for a leader—a man who had led them through the heat and cold, through peaceful valleys and the bloody ruck of battle; a man whom they loved and trusted, fearing him only when they shirked a duty or disobeyed the iron laws of war.

This man had been taken from them, himself a servant who had disobeyed these laws, his sword dishonored, his shoulder straps ripped off before their eyes. And now the troopers waited—and for what? An order had come which put them on review, a long thin line of horsemen waiting on the river bank, while the sun beat down on the parched red fields, and the waters of the muddy James lazed by as they murmured their sad, low song.

The troopers were silent—waiting. A horse stamped idly in the dust, and a saber rattled against a booted leg. A whisper ran down the line. The eyes of the men turned slowly at the sight of a single rider who advanced from the distant Union camp. He did not take the dusty road which swept in a wide, half-circle to where the waiting troopers sat in line, but jumped a low worm-fence and came straight across the fields.

An officer he was, erect in his saddle, chin up and shoulders squared. On his shoulders his straps had been replaced, and his saber rattled against his thigh to the rise and fall of his horse's stride.

Straight on he came till he checked his mount before the center of the waiting line, and the troopers knew that Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison had once more come into his own.

Their sabers rasped from out the scabbards and rose in a joyous, swift salute, while Morrison's once dishonored sword acknowledged it.

"'Tention ...company!"

The long line stiffened and waited for their officer to speak; yet the voice was not the voice of an officer in command, but that of a comrade and a friend.

"Thank you, boys! It's good to be back again." He swallowed something in his throat and struggled manfully to speak in even tones. "I must ask you to be quiet—and not to—"

He stopped. Again his troop had disobeyed him—disobeyed him to a man. A shout went up, deep, joyous and uncontrolled, its echoes pulsing out across the hot, red fields till it reached the distant camp; and Grant looked up from a war map's crisscross lines, grunted, and lit a fresh cigar.

And Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison sat his horse before his cheering line of men, silent, happy, while two tears rolled, unheeded, down his cheek—a soldier and a man!

His tenderness to a little child had torn him from his saddle and doomed him to disgrace and death; and then, one line from her baby lips had mounted him again and set him before his troopers on parade.

"It was when ... Daddy came through the woods ... and put my mamma ... in the ground."

Two lives she had held—in her little hands—and had saved them both with a dozen words of simple, unfaltering truth.

* * * * *

On the dusty pike which led to Virginia's capital another rider plodded through the heat and haze. His coat, once gray, now hung in mud-stained tatters about his form, but beneath his battered campaign hat his thin, pale features were smoothed by a smile of happiness.

Behind his saddle, one hand gripped tightly in a rent in the soiled gray coat, sat still another Rebel—the smallest of them all—her tiny legs stretched out almost straight on the horse's wide, fat back.

"Daddy—how far is it to Richmon' now?"

The rider turned his head and pointed north.

"It's close now, honey. See that line of hills? That's Richmond. A mile or two and we'll be at home."

Again they plodded on, past fields of shriveled corn whose stalks stood silently in parched and wilted lines—lines that were like the ranks of the doomed Confederacy—its stalks erect, yet sapped of the juice of life. Where orchards once had flourished their rotted branches now hid mouths of rifle pits, and low, red clay entrenchments stretched across the fields.

"Daddy," broke out a piping voice, "don't you think we'd better make this Yankee horse get up a little? 'Cause—'cause somethin' else might happen before we get there."

"It's all right, Virgie," her father answered, with a pat on her small, brown knee. "These lines are ours, and I reckon we are safe at last."

They were. Two Rebels on a Yankee horse soon made their triumphant entry into Richmond. They passed through Rockets, by the half-deserted wharves on the river bank where a crippled gunboat lay, then clattered over the cobble stones up Main Street till they reached the Square. On the State House the Stars and Bars still floated; but the travelers did not pause. Northward they turned, then westward again, till they stopped at last before a silent, stately mansion, the headquarters of their General—General Lee.

Before the open door two sentries stood, but as Cary and his charge dismounted an orderly came down the steps and out of the iron gate. A word or two from Cary and the orderly disappeared into the house, returning soon with word that the visitors would be received—at once.

Up the stone steps went Virgie, holding tightly to her father's hand, for now, as she neared her General, her little heart was pounding, and her breath came eagerly and fast.

On the threshold of a dim and shaded room they paused and looked. He sat there, at a table strewn with war maps and reports—a tall gray man in a coat of gray—the soldier and the gentleman.

As father and child came in he rose to meet them, looking at the two with eyes that seemed to hold the sadness and the tenderness of all the world.

He knew their story; in fact, he had bent his every effort to the saving of Cary's life. He had sent a courier to the camp of General Grant below the city, asking a stay of sentence till the facts in the case were cleared; and only a half hour before his courier had returned with news of the prisoner's release.

And now, as he advanced and gave a courtly welcome to his trusted scout, the hand of the Littlest Rebel once more went up in salute to a superior officer.

"Gen'ral," she said, as she stole a glance at her father's smiling face, "I've brought him back—with—with the pass you gave me, sir."

And the General stooped—six feet of him—till his lips were on a level with Virgie's lips; then folded her closely into his great gray arms.



THE END



PEACE

Hushed is the rolling drum. The bugle's note Breathes but an echo of its martial blast; The proud old flags, in mourning silence, float Above the heroes of a buried past. Frail ivy vines 'round rusting cannon creep; The tattered pennants droop against the wall; The war-worn warriors are sunk in sleep, Beyond a summons of the trumpet's call.

Do ye still dream, ye voiceless, slumbering ones, Of glories gained through struggles fierce and long, Lulled by the muffled boom of ghostly guns That weave the music of a battle-song? In fitful flight do misty visions reel, While restless chargers toss their bridle-reins? When down the lines gleam points of polished steel, And phantom columns flood the sun-lit plains?

A breathless hush! A shout that mounts on high Till every hoary hill from sleep awakes! Swift as the unleashed lightning cleaves the sky, The tumbling, tempest-rush of battle breaks! The smoke-wreathed cannon launch their hell-winged shells! The rattling crash of musketry's sharp sound Sinks in the deafening din of hoarse, wild yells And squadrons charging o'er the trampled ground!

Down, down they rush! The cursing riders reel 'Neath tearing shot and savage bayonet-thrust; A plunging charger stamps with iron heel His dying master in the battle's dust. The shrill-tongued notes of victory awake! The black guns thunder back the shout amain! In crimson-crested waves the columns break, Like shattered foam, across the shell-swept plain.

A still form lies upon the death-crowned hill, With sightless eyes, gray lips that may not speak. His dead hand holds his shot-torn banner still— Its proud folds pressed against his bloodstained cheek.

O slumbering heroes, cease to dream of war! Let hatreds die behind the tread of years. Forget the past, like some long-vanished scar Whose smart is healed in drops of falling tears. Keep, keep your glory; but forget the strife! Roll up your battle-flags so stained and torn! Teach, teach our hearts, that still dream on in life, To let the dead past sleep with those we mourn!

From pitying Heaven a pitying angel came. Smiling, she bade the tongues of conflict cease. Her wide wings fanned away the smoke and flame, Hushed the red battle's roar. God called her Peace. From land and sea she swept mad passion's glow; Yet left a laurel for the hero's fame. She whispered hope to hearts in grief bowed low, And taught our lips, in love, to shape her name.

She sheathed the dripping sword; her soft hands pres't Grim foes apart, who scowled in anger deep. She laid two grand old standards down to rest, And on her breast rocked weary War to sleep. Peace spreads her pinions wide from South to North; Dead enmity within the grave is laid. The church towers ring their holy anthems forth, To hush the thunders of the cannonade.

EDWARD PEPLE.

THE END