VII

A SECOND DISASTER

"Our fortune on the sea is out of breath. And sinks most lamentably."—SHAKESPEARE.

The winter brought an almost endless routine of drill, guard, and picket duty and digging.

The division was on duty near Budd's Ferry. Dr. Khayme's quarters were a mile to the rear of our left. I was a frequent visitor at his tents. After Willis's return to duty, which was in November, he and I spent much of our spare time at the Sanitary camp. It was easy to see what attracted Jake. It did not seem to me that Dr. Khayme gave much thought to the sergeant, but Lydia gravely received his adoration silently offered, and so conducted herself in his presence that I was puzzled greatly concerning their relations. I frequently wondered why the sergeant did not confide in me; we had become very intimate, so that in everything, except his feeling for Miss Khayme, I was Willis's bosom friend, so to speak; in that matter, however, he chose to ignore me.

One night—it was the night of February 6-7, 1862—I was at the Doctor's tent. Jake was sergeant of the camp guard and could not be with us. The Doctor smoked and read, engaging in the conversation, however, at his pleasure. Lydia seemed graver than usual. I wondered if it could be because of Willis's absence. It seemed to me impossible that this dignified woman could entertain a passion for the sergeant, who, while of course a very manly fellow, and a thorough soldier in his way, surely was not on a level with Miss Khayme. As for me, ah! well; I knew and felt keenly that until my peculiar mental phases should leave me never to return, love and marriage were impossible—so the very truth was, and always had been, that I had sufficient strength to restrain any incipient desire, and prudence enough to avoid temptation. My condition encouraged introspection. I was almost constantly probing my own mind, and by mere strength of will, which I had long cultivated until—I suppose there is no immodesty in saying it—I could govern myself, I drew back from every obstacle which my judgment pronounced insurmountable. The Doctor had been of the greatest help to me in this development of the will, and especially in that phase or exercise of it called self-control; one of his common sayings was, "He who resists the inevitable increases evil."

Ever since when as a boy I had yielded to his friendly guidance, Dr. Khayme had evidently felt a sense of proprietorship in respect to me, and I cherished such relationship; yet there had been many times in our recent intercourse when I had feared him; so keen was the man's insight. The power that he exercised over me I submitted to gratefully; I felt that he was a man well fitted for counselling youth, and I had so many proofs of his good-will, even of his affection, that I trusted him fully in regard to myself; yet, with all this, I felt that his great knowledge, and especially his wonderful alertness of judgment, which amounted in many cases seemingly to prophetic power almost, were doubtful quantities in relation to the war. I believed that he was admitted to high council; I had frequent glimpses of intimations—seemingly unguarded on his part—that he knew beforehand circumstances and projects not properly to be spoken of; but somehow, from a look, or a word, or a movement now and then, I had almost reached the opinion that Dr. Khayme was absolutely neutral between the contestants in the war of the rebellion. He never showed anxiety. The news of the Ball's Bluff disaster, which touched so keenly the heart of the North, and especially of Massachusetts, gave him no distress, to judge from his impassive face and his manner; yet it is but just to repeat that he showed great interest in every event directly relating to the existence of slavery. He commended the acts of General Butler in Virginia and General Fremont in Missouri, and hoped that the Southern leaders would impress all able-bodied slaves into some sort of service, so that they would become at least morally subject to the act of Congress, approved August 6, which declared all such persons discharged from previous servitude. In comparing my own attitude to the war with the Doctor's, I frequently thought that he cared nothing for the Union, and I cared everything; that he was concerned only in regard to human slavery, while I was willing for the States themselves to settle that matter; for I could see no constitutional power existing in the Congress or in the President to abolish or even mitigate slavery without the consent of the party of the first part. I was in the war not on account of slavery, certainly, but on account of the preservation of the Union; Dr. Khayme was in the war—so far as he was in it at all—not for the Union, but for the abolition of slavery.

On this night of February 6, the Doctor smoked and read and occasionally gave utterance to some thought.

"Jones," said he, "we are going to have news from the West; Grant advances."

"I trust he will have better luck than McDowell had," was my reply.

"He will; I don't know that he is a better general, but he has the help of the navy."

"But the rebels have their river batteries," said I.

"Yes, and these batteries are costly, and will prove insufficient; if the North succeeds in this war, and I see no reason to doubt her success if she will but determine to succeed, it will be through her navy."

I did not say anything to this. The Doctor smoked, Lydia sat looking dreamily at the door of the stove.

After a while I asked: "Why is it that we do not move? February is a spring month in the South."

The Doctor replied, "It is winter here, and the roads are bad."

"Is it not winter in Kentucky and Tennessee?"

"Grant has the help of the navy; McClellan will move when he gets the help of the navy."

"What good can the navy do between Washington and Richmond?"

"The James River flows by Richmond," said the Doctor.

I had already heard some talk of differences between our general and the President in regard to a removal of the Army of the Potomac to Fortress Monroe. I asked the Doctor if McClellan would advance on Richmond by the Peninsular route, as it was called.

"He will if he is allowed to do so," replied the Doctor; "at least," he added, "that is my opinion; in fact, I am so well convinced of it that I shall make preparation at once to remove my camp to some good place near Fort Monroe."

This intention was new to me, and it gave me great distress. What I should do with myself after the Doctor had gone, I did not know; I should get along somehow, of course, but I should miss my friends sadly.

"I am very sorry to hear it, Doctor," said I, speaking to him and looking at Lydia; her face was impervious.

"Oh," said the Doctor, with his rare and peculiar smile, "maybe we can take you with us; you would only be going ahead of your regiment."

Lydia's face was still inflexible, her eyes on the fire. I wished for a chance to bring Willis's name to the front, but saw none.

"I don't see how that could be done, Doctor; I confess that I should like very much, to go with you, but how can I got leave of absence?"

"Where there is a will there is a way."

"Yes, but I have no will; I have only a desire," said I, gloomily.

"Well," said the Doctor, "I have will enough for both of us and to spare."

"You mean to say that you can get me leave of absence?"

"Wait and see. When the time comes, there will be no trouble, unless things change very greatly meanwhile."

I bade my friends good night and went back to my hut. The weather was mild. My way was over hills and hollows, making me walk somewhat carefully; but I did not walk carefully enough—I stumbled and fell, and bruised my back.

The next day I was on camp guard. The weather was intensely cold. A bitter wind from the north swept the Maryland hills; snow and rain and sleet fell, all together. For two hours, alternating with, four hours' relief, I paced my beat back and forth; at six o'clock, when I was finally relieved, I was wet to the skin. When I reached my quarters, I went to bed at once and fell into a half sleep.

Some time in the forenoon I found Dr. Khayme bending over me, with his hand on my temples.

"You have had too much of it," said he.

I looked up at him and tried to speak, but said nothing. Great pain followed every breath. My back seemed on fire.

The Doctor wanted to remove me to his own hospital tent, but dreaded that I was too ill. Yet there was no privacy, the hut being occupied by four men. Dr. Khayme found means to get rid of all my messmates except Willis; they were crowded into other quarters. The surgeon of the Eleventh had given the Doctor free course.

For two weeks Willis nursed me faithfully. Dr. Khayme came every day—on some days several times. Lydia never came.

One bright day, near the end of February, I was placed in a litter and borne by four men to the Doctor's hospital tent. My father came. This was the first time he and Dr. Khayme met. They became greatly attached.

My progress toward health, was now rapid. Willis was with me whenever he was not on duty. The Doctor's remedies gave way to simple care, in which Lydia was the chief priest. Lydia would read to me at times—but for short times, as the Doctor forbade my prolonged attention, I was not quite sure that Lydia was doing me good; I liked the sound of her voice, yet when she would cease reading I felt more nervous than before, and I could not remember what she had read. So far as I could see, there was no understanding between Lydia and Willis; yet it was very seldom that I saw them together.

One evening, after the lamps were lighted, my father told us that he would return home on the next day. "Jones is in good hands," said he, "and my business demands my care; I shall always have you in remembrance, Doctor; you have saved my boy."

The Doctor said nothing. I was sitting up in bed, propped with pillows and blankets.

"The Doctor has always been kind to me, Father," said I; "ever since he received the letter you wrote him in Charleston, he has been my best friend."

"The letter I wrote him? I don't remember having written him a letter," said my father.

"You have forgotten, Father," said I; "you wrote him a letter in which you told him that you were sure he could help me. The Doctor gave me the letter; I have it at home, somewhere."

The Doctor was silent, and the subject was not continued.

Conversation began again, this time concerning the movements and battles in the West. The Doctor said; "Jones, the news has been kept from you. On February 6, General Grant captured Fort Henry, which success led ten days later to the surrender of Buckner's army at Fort Donelson."

"The 6th of February, you say?" I almost cried; "that was the last time I saw you before I got sick; on that very day you talked about Grant's coming successes!"

"It did not need any great foresight for that," said the Doctor.

"You said that Grant had the navy to help him, and that he certainly would not fail."

"And it was the navy that took Fort Henry," said my father.

On the day following that on which my father left us, I was sitting in a folding chair, trying to read for the first time since my illness began.

Dr. Khayme entered, with a paper in his hand. "We'll go, my boy," said he; "we'll go at once and avoid the crowd."

"Go where, Doctor?"

"To Fort Monroe," said he.

"Go to Fortress Monroe, and avoid the crowd?"

"Yes, we'll go."

"What are we going there for?"

"Don't you remember that I thought of going there?"

"When was it that you told me, Doctor?"

"On the night before you became ill. I told you that if General McClellan could have his way, he would transfer the army to Fort Monroe, and advance on Richmond by the Peninsular route."

"Yes, I begin to remember."

"Well, President Lincoln has yielded to General McClellan's urgent arguments; the movement will be begun as soon as transportation can be provided for such an operation; it will take weeks yet."

"And you are going to move down there?"

"Yes, before the army moves; this is your written authority to go with me; don't you want to go?"

"Yes; that I do," said I.

"The spring is earlier down there by at least two weeks," said the Doctor; "the change will mean much to you; you will be ready for duty by the time your regiment comes."

Lydia was not in the tent while this conversation was going on, but she came in soon afterward, and I was glad to see that she was certainly pleased with the prospect of moving. Her eyes were brighter. She began at once to get together some loose things, although we had several days in which to make our preparations. I could not keep from laughing at her; at the same time I felt that my amusement was caused by her willingness to get away for a time from the army, rather than by anything else.

"So you are in a hurry to get away," I said.

"I shall be glad to get down there," she replied, "and I have the habit of getting ready gradually when we move. It saves worry and fluster when the time comes." Her face was very bright.

"That is the longest speech you have made to me in a week," said I.

She turned and looked full at me; then her expression changed to severity, and she went out.

That night Willis came; before he saw me he had learned that we were to go; he was very blank.

* * * * *

The 6th of March found us in camp in the Doctor's tents pitched near Newport News. The weather was mild; the voyage had helped me. I sat outside in the sunshine, enjoying the south wind. With the help of the Doctor's arm or of Lydia's—given, I feared, somewhat unwillingly—I walked a little. These were happy days; I had nothing to do but to convalesce. The Southern climate has always helped me. I was recovering fast.

I liked the Doctor more than ever, if possible. Every day we talked of everything, but especially of philosophy, interesting to both of us, though of course I could not pretend to keep pace with, his advanced thought. We talked of the war, its causes, its probable results.

"Jones, it matters not how this war shall end; the Union will be preserved."

I had never before heard him make just this declaration, though I had had intimations that such was his opinion. I was glad to hear this speech. It seemed to place the Doctor in favour of the North, and I felt relieved.

"Continue," I begged.

"You know that I have said many times that the war is unnecessary; that all war is crime."

"Yes."

"Yet you know that I have maintained that slavery also is a crime and must be suppressed."

"Yes, and I confess that you have seemed inconsistent."

"I know you think the two positions contradictory; but both these views are sound and true. War is a crime; slavery is a crime: these are two truths and they cannot clash. I will go farther and say that the North is right and the South is right."

"Doctor, you are astonishing. You will find it hard to convince me that both of these statements can be true."

"Well, are you ready to listen?"

"Ready and willing. But why is it that you say both sections are right? Why do you not prove that they are both wrong? You are speaking of crime, not virtue."

"Of course they are both wrong in the acts of which we are speaking; but in regard to the principles upon which they seem to differ, they are right, and these are what I wish to speak of."

"Well, I listen, Doctor."

"Then first let me say that the world is ruled by a higher power than General McClellan or Mr. Jefferson Davis."

"Agreed."

"The world is ruled by a power that has far-reaching, even eternal, purpose, and the power is as great as the purpose; the power is infinite."

"I follow you."

"This power cannot act contrary to its own purpose, nor can it purpose what it will not execute."

"Please illustrate, Doctor."

"Suppose God should purpose to make a world, and instead of making a world should make a comet."

"He would not be God," said I, "unless the comet should happen to be in a fair way of becoming a world."

"Exactly; to act contrary to His purpose would be caprice or failure."

"Yes; I see, or think I do."

"Not difficult at all; I simply say that war is a crime and slavery a crime. Two truths cannot clash."

"Then you mean to say that God has proposed to bring slavery into existence, and war, also?"

"Not at all. What I mean to say in that His purpose overrules and works beyond both. Man makes slavery, and makes war; God turns them into means for advancing His cause."

"Perhaps I can understand, Doctor, that what you say is true. But I do not see how the South can be right."

"What are all those crowds of people doing down on the battery?" asked Lydia, suddenly.

It was about two o'clock. We had walked slowly toward the beach.

"They are all looking in our direction," said Dr. Khayme; "they see something that interests them."

Across the water in the southeast could be seen smoke, which the wind blew toward us. Some officers upon a low sand-hill near us were looking intently through their field-glasses.

"I'll go and find out," said the Doctor; "stay here till I return."

We saw him reach the hill; one of the officers handed him a glass; he looked, and came back to us rapidly.

"We are promised a spectacle; I shall run to my tent for a glass," said he.

"What is it all about, Father?" asked Lydia.

"A Confederate war-vessel," said he, and was gone.

"I hope she will be captured," said I; "and I have no doubt she will."

"You have not read the papers lately," said Lydia.

"No; what do you mean?"

"I mean that there are many rumours of a new and powerful iron steamer which the Confederates have built at Norfolk," she replied.

"Iron?"

"Yes, they say it is iron, or at least that it is protected with iron, so that it cannot be injured."

"Well, if that is the case, why do we let our wooden ships remain here?"

The Doctor now rejoined us. He handed me a glass. I could see a vessel off toward Norfolk, seemingly headed in our direction. Lydia took the glass, and exclaimed, "That must be the Merrimac! what a strange-looking ship!"

The crowds on the batteries near Newport News and along the shore were fast increasing. The Doctor said not a word; indeed, throughout the prodigious scene that followed he was silent, and, to all seeming, emotionless.

Some ships of-war were at anchor not far from the shore. With the unaided eye great bustle could be seen on these ships; two of them were but a very short distance from us.

The smoke in the south came nearer. I had walked and stood until I needed rest; I sat on the ground.

Now, at our left, toward Fortress Monroe, we could see three ships moving up toward the two which were near us.

The strange vessel come on; we could see a flag flying. The design of the flag was two broad red stripes with a white stripe between.

The big ship was nearer; her form was new and strange; a large roof, with little showing above it. She seemed heading toward Fortress Monroe.

Suddenly she swung round and came slowly on toward our two ships near Newport News.

The two Federal ships opened their guns upon the rebel craft; the batteries on shore turned loose on her.

Lydia put her hands to her ears, but soon took them away. She was used to wounds, but had never before seen battle.

From above—the James River, as I afterward knew—now came down some smaller rebel ships to engage in the fight, but they were too small to count for much.

Suddenly the Merrimac fired one gun, still moving on toward our last ship—the ship at the west; still she moved on, and on, and on, and struck our ship with her prow, and backed.

The Union ships continued to fire; the batteries and gunboats kept up their fire.

The big rebel boat turned and made for our second ship, which was now endeavouring to get away. The Merrimac fired upon her, gun after gun.

Our ship stuck fast, and could not budge, but she continued to fire.

The ship which had been rammed began to lurch and at last she sank, with her guns firing as she went down.

Lydia's face was the picture of desolation. Her lips parted. The Doctor observed her, and drew his arm within his own; she sighed heavily, but did not speak.

The rebel ship stood still and fired many times on our ship aground; and white flags were at last seen on the Union vessel.

Now the small rebel ships approached the prize, but our shore batteries, and even our infantry on shore, kept up a rapid fire to prevent the capture. Soon the small ships steamed away, and the great craft fired again and again into the surrendered vessel, and set her afire.

Then still another Union ship took part in the contest; she also was aground, yet she fought the rebel vessels.

The great ship turned again and steamed toward the south until she was lost in the thickening darkness. Meanwhile, the burning ship was a sheet of flame; we could see men leap from her deck; boats put off from the shore.

"The play is over; let's go to supper," said the Doctor.

"I want no food," said I.

"You must not stay in this air; besides, you will feel better when you have eaten," he replied.

Lydia was silent; her face was wet with tears.

Groups of soldiers stood in our way; some were mad with excitement, gesticulating and cursing; others were mute and white. I heard one say, "My God! what will become of the Minnesota to-morrow?"

The Doctor's face was calm, but tense. My heart seemed to have failed.

The burning Congress threw around us a light brighter than the moon; each of us had two shadows.

We sat down to supper, "Doctor," said I, "how can you be so calm?"

"Why, my boy," he said, "I counted on such, long ago—and worse; besides, you know that I believe everything will come right."

"What is to prevent the Merrimac from destroying our whole fleet and then destroying our coast?"

"God!" said Dr. Khayme.

Lydia, kissed him and burst into weeping.

* * * * *

So far as I can remember, I have passed no more anxious night in my life than the night of the 8th of March, 1862. My health did not permit me to go out of the tent; but from the gloomy rumours of the camps I knew that my anxiety was shared by all. Strange, I thought, that my experience in war should be so peculiarly disastrous. Bull Run had been but the first horror; here was another and possibly a worse one. The East seemed propitious to the rebels; Grant alone, of our side, could gain victories.

The burning ship cast a lurid glare over land and sea; dense smoke crept along the coast; shouts came to my ears—great effort, I knew, was being made to get the Minnesota off; nobody could have slept that night.

The Doctor made short absences from his camp. At ten o'clock he came in finally; a smile was on his face. Lydia had heard him, and now came in also.

"Jones," said he, "what will you give me for good news?"

"Oh, Doctor," said I, "don't tantalize me."

Lydia was watching the Doctor's face.

"Well," said he, "I must make a bargain. If I tell you something to relieve your fears, will you promise me to go to sleep?"

"Yes; I shall be glad to go to sleep; the quicker the better."

"Well, then, the Merrimac will meet her match if she comes out to-morrow."

"What do you mean, Doctor?"

"I mean that a United States war-vessel, fully equal to the Merrimac, has arrived."

Lydia left the tent.

I almost shouted. I could no more go to sleep than I could fly. I started to get out of bed. The Doctor put his hand on my head, and gently pressed me back to my pillow.



VIII

THE TWO SOUTHS

"Yet spake yon purple mountain, Yet said yon ancient wood, That Night or Day, that Love or Crime, Lead all souls to the Good."—EMERSON

About two in the morning I was awaked by a noise that seemed to shake the world. The remainder of the night was full of troubled dreams.

I thought that I saw a battle on a vast plain. Two armies were ranked against each other and fought and intermingled. The dress of the soldiers in the one army was like the dress of the soldiers in the other army, and the flags were alike in colour, so that no soldier could say which flags were his. The men intermingled and fought, and, not able to know enemy from friend, slew friend and enemy, and slew until but two opponents remained; these two shook hands, and laughed, and I saw their faces; and the face of one was the face of Dr. Khayme, but the face of the other I did not know.

Now, dreams have always been of but little interest to me. I had dreamed true dreams at times, but I had dreamed many more that were false. In my ignorance of the powers and weaknesses of the mind, I had judged that it would be strange if among a thousand dreams not one should prove true. So this dream passed for the time from my mind.

We had breakfast early. The Doctor was always calm and grave. Lydia looked anxious, yet more cheerful. There was little talk; we expected a trial to our nerves.

After breakfast the Doctor took two camp-stools; Lydia carried one; we went to a sand-hill near the beach.

To the south of the Minnesota now lay a peculiar vessel. No one had ever seen anything like her. She seemed nothing but a flat raft with a big round cistern—such as are seen in the South and West—amidships, and a very big box or barrel on one end.

The Merrimac was coming; there were crowds of spectators on the batteries and on the dunes.

The Monitor remained near the Minnesota; the Merrimac came on. From each of the iron ships came great spouts of smoke, from each the sound of heavy guns. The wind drove away the smoke rapidly; every manoeuvre could be seen.

The Merrimac looked like a giant by the side of the other, but the other was quicker.

They fought for hours, the Merrimac slowly moving past the Monitor and firing many guns, the Monitor turning quickly and seeming to fire but seldom. Sometimes they were so near each other they seemed to touch.

At last they parted; the Monitor steamed toward the shore, and the great Merrimac headed southward and went away into the distance.

Throughout the whole of this battle there had been silence in our little group, nor did we hear shout or word near us; feeling was too deep; on the issue of the contest depended vast results.

When the ships ended their fighting I felt immense relief; I could not tell whether our side had won, but I know that the Merrimac had hauled off without accomplishing her purpose; I think that was all that any of us knew. At any moment I should not have been astonished to see the Merrimac blow her little antagonist to pieces, or run her down; to my mind the fight had been very unequal.

"And now," said the Doctor, as he led the way back to his camp, "and now McClellan's army can come without fear."

"Do you think," I asked, "that the Merrimac is so badly done up that she will not try it again?"

"Yes," he replied; "we cannot see or tell how badly she is damaged; but of one thing we may feel sure, that is, that if she could have fought longer with hope of victory, she would not have retired; her retreat means that she has renounced her best hope."

The dinner was cheerful. I saw Lydia eat for the first time in nearly two days. She was still very serious, however. She had become accustomed in hospital work to some of the results of battle; now she had witnessed war itself.

After dinner the conversation naturally turned upon the part the navy would perform in the war. The Doctor said that it was our fleet that would give us a final preponderance over the South.

"The blockade," said he, "is as nearly effective as such a stupendous undertaking could well be."

"It seems that the rebels find ways to break it at odd times," said I.

"Yes, to be sure; but it will gradually become more and more restrictive. The Confederates will be forced at length to depend upon their own resources, and will be shut out from the world."

"But suppose England or France recognizes the South," said Lydia.

"Neither will do so," replied her father, "England, especially, thinks clearly and rightly about this war; England cares nothing about states' rights or the reverse; the heart of England, though, beats true on the slavery question; England will never recognize the South."

"You believe the war will result in the destruction of slavery?" I asked,

"Of racial slavery, yes; of all slavery, nominally. If I did not believe that, I should feel no interest in this war."

"But President Lincoln has publicly announced that he has no intention of interfering with slavery."

"He will be forced to interfere. This war ought to have been avoided; but now that it exists, it will not end until the peculiar institution of the South is destroyed. But for the existence of slavery in the South, England would recognize the South. England has no political love for the United States, and would not lament greatly the dissolution of the Union. The North will be compelled to extinguish slavery in order to prevent England from recognizing the South. The Union cannot now be preserved except on condition of freeing the slaves; therefore, Jones, I am willing to compromise with you; I am for saving the Union in order to destroy slavery, and you may be for the destruction of slavery in order to save the Union!

"The Union is destroyed if secession succeeds; secession will succeed unless slavery is abolished; it cannot be abolished by constitutional means, therefore it will be abolished by usurpation; you see how one crime always leads to another."

"But," said I, "you assume that the South is fighting for slavery only, whereas her leaders proclaim loudly that she is fighting for self-government."

"She knows that it would be suicidal to confess that she is fighting for slavery, and she does not confess it even to herself. But when we say 'the South,' let us be sure that we know what we mean. There are two Souths. One is the slaveholding aristocracy and their slaves; the other is the common people. There never was a greater absurdity taught than that which Northern writers and newspapers have spread to the effect that in the South there is no middle class. The middle class is the South. This is the South that is right and wholesome and strong. The North may defeat the aristocracy of the South, and doubtless will defeat it; but never can she defeat the true South, because the principle for which the true South fights is the truth—at least the germ of truth if not the fulness of it.

"The South is right in her grand desire and end; she is wrong in her present and momentary experiment to attain that end. So also the North is right in her desire, and wrong in her efforts.

"The true South will not be conquered; the aristocracy only will go down. Nominally, that is to say in the eyes of unthinking men, the North will conquer the South; but your existing armies will not do it. The Northern idea of social freedom, unconscious and undeveloped, must prevail instead of the Southern idea of individual freedom; but how prevail? By means of bayonets? No; that war in which ideas prevail is note fought with force. Artillery accomplishes naught. I can fancy a battlefield where two great armies are drawn up, and the soldiers on this side and on that side are uniformed alike and their flags are alike, but they kill each other till none remains, and nothing is accomplished except destruction; yet the principle for which each fought remains, though all are dead."

For a time I was speechless.

At length I asked, "But why do you imagine their uniforms and flags alike?"

He replied, "Because flag and uniform are the symbols of their cause, and the real cause, or end, of both, is identical."

"Doctor," I began; but my fear was great and I said no more.



IX

KILLING TIME

"Why, then, let's on our way in silent sort."—SHAKESPEARE.

Lydia was kept busy in the hospital; her evenings, however, were spent with her father.

Before the Army of the Potomac began to arrive, I had recovered all my old vigour, and had become restless through inaction. Nobody could say when the Eleventh would come. The troops, as they landed, found roomy locations for their camps, for the rebels were far off at Yorktown, and with only flying parties of cavalry patrolling the country up to our pickets. I had no duty to do; but for the Doctor's company time would have been heavy on my hands.

About the last of March the army had reached Newport News, but no Eleventh. What to do with myself? The Doctor would not move his camp until the eve of battle, and he expressed the opinion that there would be no general engagement until we advanced much nearer to Richmond.

On the 2d of April, at supper, I told Dr. Khayme that I was willing to serve in the ranks of any company until the Eleventh should come.

"General McClellan has come, and your regiment will come in a few days," he replied; "and I doubt if anybody would want you; the troops now here are more than are needed, except for future work. Besides, you might do better. You have good eyes, and a good memory as long as it lasts; you might make a secret examination of the Confederate lines."

"A what? Oh, you mean by myself?"

"Yes."

"Do you think it practicable?" I asked.

"Should I have suggested it if I do not?"

"Pardon me, Doctor; but you were so sudden."

"Well, think of it," said he.

"Doctor, if you'll put me in the way to do it, I'll try it!" I exclaimed, for, somehow, such work had always fascinated me. I did not wish to become a spy, or to act as one for a day even, but I liked the thought of creeping through woods and swamps and learning the positions and movements of the enemy. In Charleston, in my school days, and afterward, I had read Gilmore Simms's scouting stories with, eagerness, and had worshipped his Witherspoon.

"When will you wish to begin?" asked the Doctor.

"Just as soon as possible; this idleness is wearing; to-day, if possible."

"I cannot let you go before to-morrow," said he; "I must try to send you off properly."

When Lydia came in that night, and was told of our purposes by the Doctor, I fancied that she became more serious instantly. But she said little, and I could only infer that she might be creating in her brain false dangers for a friend.

By the next afternoon, which, was the 3d of April, everything was ready for me. The Doctor showed me in his stores-tent a sober suit of gray clothes, not military clothes, but of a cut that might deceive the eye at a distance, yet when closer seen would exonerate the wearer from any suspicion that he was seriously offering himself as a Confederate.

"Now, I had to guess at it," said the Doctor; "but I think it will fit you well enough."

It did fit well enough; it was loose and comfortable, and, purposely, had been soiled somewhat after making. The Doctor gave me also a black felt hat.

"Have you studied the map I gave you?" he asked.

"Yes, I can remember the roads and streams thoroughly," I answered.

"Then do not take it; all you want is a knife and a few trivial things such as keys in your pocket, so that if you should be searched nothing can be proved. Leave all your money in bills behind; coin will not be bad to take; here are a few Confederate notes for you."

"Do I need a pass?"

"Yes; here is a paper that may hang you if you are caught by the Confederates; use it to go through your lines, and then destroy it; I want you to get back again. If you should be captured, a pass would betray you; if your men got you and will not let you go, it will not be difficult to explain at headquarters."

"I suppose you have already explained at headquarters?"

"Don't ask questions. Now you must sit down and eat; you don't know when you will get another meal."

At dusk I started. My purpose was to avoid our own pickets and reach before dawn a point opposite the right of the rebel line, which was believed to rest on James River, near or at Mulberry Island, or Mulberry Point; I would then watch for opportunities, and act accordingly, with the view of following up the rebel line, or as near to it as possible.

I took no gun or anything whatever to burden me. I was soon outside the guard line of the camp. My way at first was almost due north by the Young's Mill road. Darkness quickly came, and I was glad of it. The stars gave me enough light. My road was good, level, sandy—a lane between two rail fences almost hidden with vines and briers. At my left and behind me I could hear the roar of the surf.

When I had gone some two miles, I thought I hoard noises ahead, I stopped, and put my ear to the ground. Cavalry. Were they our men, or rebels? I did not want to be seen by either. I slipped into a fence corner. A squad rode by, going toward Hampton, no doubt. I waited until they had passed out of sight, and then rose to continue my tramp, when suddenly, before I had made a step, another horseman rode by, following the others. If he had looked in my direction, he would have seen me; but he passed on with his head straight to the front. I supposed that this last man was on duty as the rear of the squad.

Now I tore up my pass into little bits and tossed them away. The party of cavalry which, had passed me, I believed, were our patrol, and that I should find no more of our men; so I was now extremely cautious in going forward, not knowing how soon I might run against some scouting party of the rebels.

The road soon diverged far from the shore; the ground was sandy and mostly level; and in many places covered with, a thick, small growth. The imperfect light gave me no extended vision, but from studying the map before I had set out I had some idea of the general character of the country at my right, as well as a pretty accurate notion of the distance I must make before I should come near to the first rebel post; though, of course, I could not know that such post had not been abandoned, or advanced even, within the last few hours.

I went on, then, keeping a sharp lookout to right and left and straight ahead, and every now and then stopping to listen. My senses were alert; I thought of nothing but my present purposes; I felt that I was alone and dependent upon myself, but the feeling was not greatly oppressive.

Having gone some four or five miles, I saw before me a fence running at a right angle to the road I was on; this fence was not continued to the left of my road, so I supposed that at this fence was the junction of the road to Little Bethel, and as I had clearly seen before I started that at this junction there was danger of finding a rebel outpost, or of falling upon a rebel scouting party, I now became still more cautious, moving along half bent on the edge of the road, and at last creeping on my hands and knees until I reached the junction.

There was nobody in sight. I looked long up the road toward Little Bethel; I went a hundred yards or so up this road, found nothing, and returned to the junction; then continued up the road toward Young's Mill. The ground here I knew must be visited frequently by the rebels, and my attention became so fixed that I started at the slightest noise. The sand's crunching under my feet sounded like the puffing of a locomotive. The wind made a slight rippling with the ends of the tie on my hat-band, I cut the ends off, to be relieved of the distraction.

I was going at the rate of a mile a day, attending to my rear as well as to my advance, when I heard, seemingly in the road to Bethel, at my rear and right, the sound of stamping hoofs. I slunk into a fence corner, and lay perfectly still, listening with all my ears. The noise increased; it was clear that horsemen from the Bethel road were coming into the junction, a hundred yards in my roar.

The noises ceased. The horsemen had come to a halt.

But had they come to a halt? Perhaps they had ridden down the road toward Newport News.

Five minutes, that seemed an hour, passed; then I heard the hoof-beats of advancing cavalry, and all at once a man darted into my fence corner and lay flat and still.

It is said that at some moments of life, and particularly when life is about to end, as in drowning, a man recalls in an instant all the deeds of his past. This may or may not be true; but I know, at least, that my mind had many thoughts in the situation in which I now found myself.

I felt sure that the party advancing on the road behind me were rebels.

They were now but a few yards off.

An instant more, and they would pass me, or else they would discover me.

If I should spring to my feet and run up the road, the horsemen would ride me down at once.

If I should climb the fence, my form, outlined against the sky, would be a mark for many carbines.

If I should lie still, they might pass without seeing me.

But what could I expect from my companion?

Who was he? ... Why was he there? ... Had he seen me? ... Had the rebels, if indeed they were rebels, seen him? ... If so, were they pursuing him?

But no; they were not pursuing him, for he had come from the direction of Young's Mill. He would have met the horsemen had he not hidden.

If I could but know that he had seen me, my plan surely would be to lie still.

Yes, certainly, to lie still ... if these riders were rebels.

But to lie still if my companion was a friend to the rebels? If he was one of theirs, should I lie still?

No; certainly not, unless I preferred being taken to being shot at.

If the horsemen were Union troops, what then? Why, in that case, my unknown friend must be a rebel; and if I should decide to let the troops pass, I should be left unarmed, with a rebel in two feet of me.

Yet, if the cavalry were our men, and the fugitive a rebel, still the question remained whether he had seen me.

It seemed impossible for him not to see me. Could he think I was a log? Certainly not; there was no reason for a log to be in such a place; there were no trees large enough, and near enough to justify the existence of a log in this place.

All these thoughts, and more also, passed through my mind while the horsemen moved ten paces; and before they had moved ten paces more, I had come to a decision.

I had decided to lie still.

There could be but one hope: if I should run, I could not get away. I would lie still. If the unknown should prove to be a friend, my case might be better than before; if he should prove to be an enemy, I must act prudently and try to befool him. I must discover his intentions before making mine known. He, also, must be in a great quandary.

The horsemen passed. They passed so near that I could have told whether they were from the North or the South by their voices, but they did not speak.

There was not enough light for me to see their uniforms, and, indeed, I did not look at them, but instinctively kept my face to the ground.

The horsemen passed on up the road toward Young's Mill.

Now there was silence. I yet lay motionless. So did my companion. I was right in one thing; he knew of my presence, else he would now rise and go his way. He knew of my presence, yet he did not speak; what was the matter with him?

But why did not I speak? I concluded that he was fearing me, just as I was fearing him.

But why should he fear me, when, he could not doubt that I was hiding from the same persons whom he had shunned to meet?

But I was there first; he had not known that I was there; his hiding in a fence corner was deliberate, in order to escape the observation of the horsemen; his hiding in this particular fence corner was an accident.

Who is he? What is he thinking about, that he doesn't do something? He has no reason to fear me.

But fear has no reason. If he is overcome with fear, he dreads everything. He has not recovered from the fright the horsemen gave him.

But why do I not speak? Am I so overcome with fear that I cannot speak to a man who flees and hides? I will speak to him—

"Mahsa," said he, humbly, right in my ear.

I sat bolt upright; so did he.

"Speak low," said I; "tell me who you are."

"Who, me?"

"Yes, you; what is your name?"

"My name Nick."

"What are you doing here?"

"Who, me?"

"Yes, you; what are you doing here?"

"I'se des' a-restin', mahsa; I'se mighty tired."

"You are hiding from the soldiers."

"What sojers, mahsa?"

Clearly Nick was no simpleton; he was gaining time; he might not yet know which side I belonged to. I must end this matter. The night was cool. I had no blanket or overcoat. While walking I had been warm, but now I was getting chilly.

Yet, after all, suppose Nick was not a friend. However, such, a supposition was heterodox; every slave must desire freedom; a slave who does not wish to be free is an impossibility.

"Who were the soldiers who rode by just now?"

"I dunno, mahsa."

"Then, why did you hide from them?"

"Who, me?"

"Yes; why did you run and hide?"

"De s'caze I dunno who dey is."

This was very simple; but it did not relieve the complication. I must be the first to declare myself.

"Were they not—" I checked myself in time, I was going to say rebels, but thought better of it; the word would declare my sympathies. I was not so ready, after all.

"W'at dat you gwine to say, mahsa?"

Neither was Nick ready to speak first; he was a quick-witted negro.

"I was going to ask if they were Southern soldiers."

"You dunno who dey is, mahsa?"

Yes; Nick was sharp; I must be discreet now, and wary—more so. I knew that many Confederate officers had favourite slaves as camp servants, slaves whom they thought so attached to them as to be trustworthy. Who could know, after all, that there were no exceptions amongst slaves? My doubts became so keen that I should not have believed Nick on his oath. He might tell me a lie with the purpose of leading me into a rebel camp. I must get rid of him somehow.

"Mahsa," said Nick, "is you got any 'bacco?"

"No" said I; then, "yes, I have some smoking tobacco."

"Dat's mighty good hitse'f; won't you please, sa', gimme a little?"

I was not a smoker, but I knew that there was a little loose tobacco in one of my pockets; how it came to be there I did not know.

"Thankee; mahsa; dis 'bacoo makes me bleeve you is a—" Nick hesitated,

"A what?"

"A good man," said Nick.

"Nick," I said, "I want to go up the road."

"W'at fur you gwine up de road, mahsa?"

"I want to see some people up there."

Nick did not reply. Could he fear that I was wanting to take him into the Southern lines? It looked so.

The thought almost took away any fear I yet had that he might betray me. His hesitation was assuring.

I repeated, "I want to see—I mean I want to look at—some people up the road."

"Dem sojers went up the road des' now, mahsa."

"Do you think they will come back soon?"

"I dunno, mahsa; maybe dey will en' maybe dey won't."

"Didn't you come from up the road?"

"Mahsa, how come you ain't got no gun?"

This threatened to be a home-thrust; but I managed to parry it; and to give him as good.

"Do Southern officers carry guns?"

"You Southern officer, mahsa?"

"Southern officers carry swords and pistols," said I; "didn't you know that, Nick?"

"Mahsa," said Nick, very seriously.

"What is it, Nick?"

"Mahsa, fo' God you ain't no Southern officer."

"What makes you think so, Nick?"

"Caze, of you was a Southern officer you wouldn't be a-gwine on lak you is; you 'ud des' say, 'Nick, you dam black rascal, git back to dem breswucks on' to dat pick en' to dat spade dam quick, or I'll have you strung up;' dat's w'at you'd say."

Unless Nick was intentionally fooling me, he was not to be feared. He was willing for me to believe that he had run away from the Confederates.

"But suppose I don't care whether you get back or not; there are enough niggers working on the fortifications without you. I'd like to give you a job of a different sort," said I, temptingly.

"W'at dat job you talkin' 'bout, mahsa?"

"I want you to obey my orders for one day,"

"W'at I hatto do, mahsa?"

"Go up the road with me," said I.

Nick was silent; my demand did not please him; yet if he wanted to betray me to the rebels, now was his chance. I interpreted his silence to mean that he wanted to go down the road, that is to say, that he wanted, to make his way to the Union army and to freedom. I felt so sure of this that I should not have been surprised if he had suddenly set out running down the road; yet I supposed that he was still in doubt of my character and feared a pistol-shot from me. He was silent so long that I fully made up my mind that I could trust him a little.

"Nick," said I, "look at my clothes. I am neither a Southern officer nor a Northern officer. I know what you want: you want to go to Fortress Monroe. You shall not go unless you serve me first; if you serve me well, I will help you in return. Go with me for one day, and I'll make it worth your while."

"W'at you want me to go wid you fer? W'at I hatto do?"

"Guide me," said I; "show me the way to the breastworks; show me how to see the breastworks and not be seen myself."

"Den w'at you gwine do fer me?"

It amused me to see that Nick had dropped his "mahsa." Did he think it out of place, now that he knew I was not a Southern soldier?

"Nick, I will give you a dollar for your day's work; then I will give you a note to a friend of mine, and the note will bring you another dollar and a chance to make more."

Nick considered. The dollar was tempting; as to the note, the sequel showed that he did not regard it of any importance, finally, he said that if I would make it two dollars he would be my man, I felt in my pockets, and found about four dollars, I thought, and at once closed the bargain.

"Now; Nick," said I, "here is a dollar; go with me and be faithful, and I will give you another before dark to-morrow."

"I sho' do it," said Nick, heartily; "now w'at I hatto do?"

"Where is the first Confederate post?"

"You mean dem Southern sojers?"

"Yes."

"You mean dem dat's do fust a-gwine up de road, or dem dat's fust a-comin' down de road?"

"The nearest to us in this direction," said I, pointing.

"Dey is 'bout half a mile up dis road," said Nick.

"Did you see them?"

"I seed 'em fo' true, but dey didn't see me."

"How did you keep them from seeing you?"

"I tuck to do bushes; ef dey see me, dey string me up."

"How long ago was it since you saw them?"

"Sence sundown," said Nick,

"When did you leave the breastworks?"

"Las' night."

"And you have been a whole day and night getting here?"

"In de daytime I laid up," said Nick; "caze I dunno w'en I might strak up wid 'em."

"How far have you come in all?"

"'Bout 'leben or ten mile, I reckon. I laid up in de Jim Riber swamp all day."

"Did you have anything to eat?"

"Yassa; but I ain't got nothin' now no mo'."

"Do you know where we can get anything to eat to-morrow?"

"Dat I don't; how is we a-gwine to hole out widout sum'hm to eat?"

"We must risk it. I hope we shall not suffer."

"Dis country ain't got nothin' in it," said Nick; "de folks is almos' all done gone to Richmon' er summers[1] en' I don't know w'at we's a-gwine to do; I don't. I don't know w'at we's a-gwine to do fer sum'hm to eat. And I don't know w'at I's a-gwine to do fer 'bacco nudda."

[1] Somewhere [Ed.].

"Well, Nick, I can give you a little more tobacco; but I expect you to find something to eat; if you can find it, I will pay for it."

We were wasting time; I wanted to make a start.

"Now, Nick" said I; "I want to go to Young's Mill, or as near it as I can get without being seen."

"Dat all you want to do?" asked Nick.

"No; I want to do that first; then I want to see the breastworks. First, I want to go to Young's Mill."

"W'ich Young's Mill?" asked Nick; "dey is two of 'em."

"Two?"

"Yassa; one Young's Mill is by de chu'ch on de Worrick road; de yudda one is de ole Young's Mill fudda down on de creek."

"I want the one on the Warwick road," said I.

"Den dat's all right," said Nick; "all you got to do is to keep dis straight road."

"But we must not show ourselves," said I.

"Don't you fret about dat; I don't want nobody to see me nudda; des' you follow me."

Nick left the road, I following. We went northeast for half a mile, then northwest for a mile or more, and found ourselves in the road again.

"Now we's done got aroun' 'em," said Nick; "we's done got aroun' de fust ones; we's done got aroun' 'em; dis is twicet I's done got aroun' 'em, 'en w'en I come back I's got to git aroun' 'em agin."

"How far is it to Young's Mill, Nick?"

"I 'spec' hit's 'bout fo' mile," said Nick.

We were now within the rebel lines, and my capture might mean death. We went on, always keeping out of the road. Nick led the way at a rapid and long stride, and I had difficulty in keeping him in sight. The night was getting cold, but the walk heated me. Here and there were dense clumps of small trees; at the little watercourses there was larger growth. The roar of the sea was heard no longer. It must have been about midnight.

We came upon swampy ground; just beyond it a road crossed ours.

"Stop a little, Nick," said I.

Nick came to a halt, and we talked in low tones; we could see a hundred yards in every direction.

"Where does that road go?" I asked.

"Dat road," said Nick, pointing to the left; "hit goes to ole Young's Mill."

"How far is old Young's Mill?"

"I dunno ezackly; I reckon 'bout fo' mile."

"Where does the right-hand lead?"

"Hit goes to Mis Cheeseman's," said Nick; "en' at Mis Cheeseman's dey is calvry, on' at ole Young's Mill dey is calvry, but dey is on de yudda side o' de creek."

"How far is it to Mrs. Cheeseman's?"

"I dunno ezackly; I reckon 'bout fo' mile."

We went on. The ground was again swampy. We came to a road running almost west; a church stood on the other side of the road.

"Dat's Danby Chu'ch," said Nick, "en' dat road hit goes to Worrick."

"And where does the right-hand lead?"

"Hit goes to Mis Cheeseman's," said Nick.

"And where is Young's Mill?" I asked.

"Hit's right on dis same road we's on, en not fur off, nudda."

We had now almost reached my first objective. I knew that Nick was telling me the truth, in the main, for the plan of the map was still before my mind's eye.

"Can we get around Young's Mill without being seen?" I asked.

"Dey's a picket-line dis side," said Nick.

"How far this side?"

"'Bout a quauta' en' a ha'f a quanta.'"

"How near can we get to the picket-line?"

"We kin git mos' up to 'em, caze dey's got de trees cut down."

"The trees cut down in their front?"

"Yassa; dey's got mos' all de trees out down, so dey is."

"And we can get to this edge of the foiled timber?"

"Yassa; we kin git to de falled timba', but we's got to go roun' de pon'."

"And if we go around the pond first; we shall then find the picket-line?"

"De picket-line at Young's Mill?"

"Yes."

"Ef we gits roun' de pon', we'll be done got roun' de picket-line, en' de trees w'at dey cut down, en' Young's Mill, en' all."

"Well, then, Nick, lead the way around the pond, and keep your eyes wide open."

Nick went forward again, but more slowly for a while; then he turned to the right, through the woods. We went a long distance and crossed a creek on a fallen log. I found that this negro could see in the darkness a great deal better than I could; where I should have groped my way, had I been alone, he went boldly enough, putting his foot down flat as though he could see where he was stepping. Nick said that there were no soldiers in these woods and swamps; they were all on the road and at Young's Mill, now a mile at our left.

At length we reached the road again. By this time I was very tired; but, not wanting to confess it, I said to Nick that we should wait by the side of the road for a while, to see if any soldiers should pass. We sat in the bushes; soon Nick was on his back, asleep, and I was not sorry to see him go to sleep so quickly, for I felt sure that he would not have done so if he had meant to betray me.

I kept awake. Only once did I see anything alarming. A single horseman came down the road at a leisurely trot, and passed on, his sabre rattling by his side. When the sound of the horse's hoofs had died away, I aroused Nick, and we continued west up the road. At last Nick stopped.

"What's the matter now, Nick?" I whispered.

"We's mos' up on dem pickets ag'in," he said.

"Again? Have we gone wrong?"

"We ain't gone wrong—but we's mos' up on dem pickets ag'in," he repeated.

"Where are we?"

"We's gittin' mos' to Worrick; ef we gits up to de place, den w'at you gwine to do?"

"I want to stay there till daylight, so that I can see them and know how many they are."

"Den w'at you gwine to do?"

"Then I want to follow their line as near as I can, going toward Yorktown."

"Den all I got to say is dat hit's mighty cole to be a-layin' out in de woods widout no fiah en' widout no kiver en' widout noth'n' to eat."

"That's true, Nick; do you know of any place where we could get an hour or two of sleep without freezing?"

"Dat's des' w'at I was a-gwine to say; fo' God it was; ef dat's w'at you gwine to do; come on."

He led the way again, going to the left. We passed through woods, then a field, and came to a farmhouse,

"Hold on. Nick," said I; "it won't do to go up to that house."

"Dey ain't nobody dah," said Nick; "all done runned off to Richmon' er summers."

The fences were gone, and a general air of desolation marked the place.

Nick went into an outhouse—a stable with a loft—- and climbed up into the loft. I climbed up after him. There was a little loose hay in the loft; we speedily stretched ourselves. I made Nick promise to be awake before sunrise, for I feared the place would be visited by the rebels.



X

THE LINE OF THE WARWICK

"Thus are poor servitors, While others sleep upon their quiet beds, Constrained to watch in darkness, rain, and cold." —Shakespeare.

When I lay down I was warm from walking, and went to sleep quickly. When I awoke I was cold; in fact, the cold woke me.

I crept to the door of the stable and looked out; at my left the sky was reddening. I aroused Nick, who might have slept on for hours had he been alone.

The sun would soon warm us; but what were we to do for food? Useless to search the house or kitchen or garden; everything was bare. I asked Nick if he could manage in any way to get something to eat. He could not; we must starve unless accident should throw food in our way.

A flock of wild geese, going north, passed high. "Dey'll go a long ways to-day," said Nick; "ain't got to stop to take on no wood nor no water."

We bent our way toward the Warwick road. At the point where we reached it, the ground was low and wet, but farther on we could see dryer ground. We crossed the road and went to the low hills. From a tree I could see the village of Warwick about a mile or so to the west, with the road, in places, running east. There seemed to be no movement going on. Nick was lying on the ground, moody and silent. I had no more tobacco.

I came down from the tree and told Nick to lead the way through the woods until we could get near the rebel pickets where their line crossed the road.

About nine o'clock we were lying in the bushes near the edge of felled timber, through an opening in which, ran the road at our left. At long intervals a man would pass across the road where it struck the picket-line.

Both from the map and from Nick's imperfect delivery of his topographical knowledge I was convinced that the main rebel line was behind the Warwick River, and that here was nothing but an outpost; and I was considering whether it would not be best to turn this position on the north, reach the river as rapidly as possible, and make for Lee's Mill, which I understood was the rebel salient, and see what was above that point, when I heard galloping in the road behind us. Nick had heard the noise before it reached my ears.

A rebel horseman dashed by; at the picket-line he stopped, and remained a few moments without dismounting; then went on up the road toward Warwick Court-House.

At once there was great commotion on the picket-line. We crept up as near as we dared; men were hurrying about, getting their knapsacks and falling into ranks. Now came a squadron of cavalry from down the road; they passed through the picket-line, and were soon lost to sight. Then the picket marched off up the road. Ten minutes more and half a dozen cavalrymen came—the rear-guard of all, I was hoping—and passed on.

The picket post now seemed deserted. Partly with the intention of getting nearer the river, but more, I confess, with the hope of appeasing hunger, Nick and I now cautiously approached the abandoned line. We were afraid to show ourselves in the road, so we crawled through the felled timber.

The camp was entirely deserted. Scattered here and there over the ground were the remains of straw beds; some brush arbours—improvised shelters—were standing; we found enough broken pieces of hardtack to relieve our most pressing want.

I followed the line of felled timber to the north; it ended within two hundred yards of the road.

"Nick," said I; "what is between us and the river in this direction?" pointing northwest.

"Noth'n' but woods tell you git down in de bottom," said Nick.

"And the bottom, is it cultivated? Is it a field?"

"Yassa; some of it is, but mos' of it ain't."

"Are there any more soldiers on this side of the river?"

"You mean 'long here?"

"Yes."

"Well, I dunno ezackly; I reckon dey is all gone now; but dey is some mo' up on dis side, up higher, up on de upper head o' de riber, whah Lee's Mill is."

"How far is it to Lee's Mill?"

"Hit's mos' fo' mile."

"How deep is the river above Lee's Mill?"

"Riber is deep down below de mill."

"Is the river deep here?" pointing west.

"Yassa; de tide comes up to Lee's Mill."

"Are there no Southern soldiers below Lee's Mill?"

"Dey goes down dat-away sometimes."

"Are there any breastworks below Lee's Mill?"

"Down at de mill de breswucks straks off to de Jim Riber up at de Pint."

"Up at what Point?"

"Up at de Mulberry Pint."

"And right across the river here, there are no breastworks?"

"No, sa'; dey ain't no use to have 'em dah."

Feeling confident that the movements I had seen indicated the withdrawal of at least some of the rebel outposts to their main line beyond the Warwick, and that I could easily and alone reach the river and follow it up—since the rebel line was on its other bank or beyond—I decided to let Nick go.

"Nick," said I; "I don't believe I shall need you any more now."

"You not a-gwine to gimme dat yudda dolla'?"

"Oh, yes; of course I shall pay you, especially if you will attend closely to what I tell you; you are to serve me till night, are you not?"

"Yassa."

"Well, I want you to go to the Union army at Newport News for me. Will you do it?"

"Yassa."

"Now, Nick, you must look sharp on the road and not let the rebels catch you."

"I sho' look sharp," said Nick.

"And look sharp for the Union army, too; I hope you will meet some Union soldiers; then you will be safe."

"I sho' look sharp," said Nick.

"I want you to carry a note for me to the Union soldiers."

"Yassa."

I wrote one word on a scrap of paper that I had picked up in the rebel camp. I gave the paper to Nick.

"Throw this paper away if you meet any rebels; understand?"

"Yassa."

"When you meet Union soldiers, you must give this paper to the captain."

"Yassa."

"The captain will ask you what this paper means, and you must tell him that the Southern soldiers are leaving Warwick Court-House, and that the paper is to let him know it."

"Yassa; I sho' do it; I won't do noth'n' but look sharp, en' I won't do noth'n' but give dis paper to de cap'n."

"Then here is your other dollar, Nick. Good-by and good luck to you."

Nick started off at once, and I was alone again.

My next objective was Lee's Mill, which I know was on the Warwick River some three miles above. Without Nick to help my wits, my cautiousness increased, although I expected to find no enemy until I was near the mill. I went first as nearly westward as I could know; my purposes were to reach the river and roughly ascertain its width and depth; if it should be, as Nick had declared, unfordable in these parts, its depth would be sufficient protection to the rebels behind it, and I would waste no time in examining its course here. Through the undergrowth I crept, sometimes on my hands and knees, and whenever I saw an opening in the woods before me, I paused long and looked well before either crossing or flanking it. After a while I reached heavy timber in the low ground, which I supposed lay along the river. At my left was a cleared field, unplanted as yet, and in the middle of the field a dwelling with outhouses. I approached the house, screening myself behind a rail fence. The house was deserted. I passed through the yard. There was no sign of any living thing, except a pig which scampered away with a loud snort of disapproval. The house was open, but I did not enter it; the windows were broken, and a mere glance showed me that the place had been stripped.

Again I plunged into the woods, and went rapidly toward the river, for I began to fear that I had been rash in coming through the open. Soon I struck the river, which here bent in a long curve across the line of my march. The river was wide and deep.

At once I felt confidence in Nick's declarations. There could be little need for Confederate fortifications upon the other side of this unfordable stream.

It must have been about noon; I thought I heard firing far to my rear, and wondered what could be going on back there.

Leaving the river, I directed my steps toward the northeast. So long as I was in the woods I went as rapidly as I could walk, and the country, even away from the river, was much wooded. My knowledge of the map placed Lee's Mill northeast of Warwick, and northeast I went, but for fully three hours I kept on and found no river again. I felt sure that I had leaned too far to the east, and was about to turn square to my left and seek the river, when I saw before me a smaller stream flowing westward. I did not understand. I knew that I had come a much greater distance than three miles; I had crossed two large roads running north; this stream was not down on the map. Suddenly the truth was seen; this stream was the Warwick itself, and above Lee's Mill; here it was small, as Nick had intimated.

I turned westward; I had come too far; there must be a great angle in the river below me, and that angle must be at Lee's Mill.

Not more than a hunched yards down the stream there was a dam, seemingly a new dam made of logs and earth. At the time I could not understand why it was there. On the other side of the water, which seemed to be deep, though narrow; I could hear a drum beating. A road, a narrow country road, ran seemingly straight into the water. Only a few steps to my left there was an elbow of the road, I moved to this elbow, keeping in the bushes, and looked down on the water. There was no sign of a ferry; I could see the road where it left the water on the other side, and I could see men passing back and forth across the road some two or three hundred yards away.

For a long time I racked my brains before I understood the meaning of this road's going into deep water. What could it mean? Certainly there was a reason for it, and a strong reason. The ordinary needs of the country would require a ferry, and there was no ferry. I had looked long and closely, and was sure there was no ferry, and was almost as sure that there never had been one. The road before my eyes was untravelled; the ruts were weeks old, without the sign of a fresh track since the last rains; the road was not now used, that was a certainty.

When was this road used? ... The whole situation became clear; the road had been a good road before the rebels came; when they fortified their lines they rendered the road useless. They destroyed the ford by building the dam below.

I made my way down the stream, little elated at my solution of what at first had seemed a mystery, for I felt that Nick would have told me offhand all about it.

In less than a mile I came to another road running into deep water. Now, thought I, if my solution is correct, we shall shortly see another dam, and it was not five minutes before I came in sight of the second dam.

I climbed a tree near by; I could see portions of a line of earthworks on the other side of the river. The line of works seemed nearly straight, at least much more nearly so than the river was. To attack the Confederate lines here would be absurd, unless our troops could first destroy the dams and find an easy crossing.

By this time the middle of the afternoon had passed, and I was famishing. I believed it impossible that I should be able to get any food, and the thought made me still hungrier; yet I cast about me to see if there was any way to get relief. I blamed myself for not having brought food from camp. I had made up my mind to remain this night near the river, as I could not get back to camp, seeing that my work was not yet done, until the next day; so I must expect many hours of sharp hunger unless I could find food.

I now felt convinced that on the rebel left there was a continuous line of works behind the Warwick, from Lee's Mill up to Yorktown, and all I cared to prove was whether that line had its angle at the former place, as Nick had declared, and as seemed reasonable to me from every consideration. I would, then, make my way carefully down the river to Lee's Mill, and if possible finish my work before sunset; but my hunger was so great that I thought it advisable to first seek food. So, deferring my further progress down the stream, I set out in an easterly direction by the road which had crossed previously above the second dam, in the hope that this road would lead me to some house where help could be found, for I was now getting where risks must be run; food was my first need.

However, I did not expose myself, but kept out of the road, walking through this woods. My road was soon enlarged by another road joining it, coming in from the north and seeming well worn from recent use. I had been walking for nearly a mile when I heard a noise behind me—clearly the noise of horses coming. I lay flat behind a bush which grew by a fallen tree. Three horsemen—rebels—passed, going southward. They passed at a walk, and were talking, but their words could not be distinguished. The middle man was riding a gray horse.

About half a mile, or perhaps less, farther on, the woods became less dense, and soon I came to a clearing; in this clearing was what the Southern people call a settlement, which consisted of a small farmhouse with, a few necessary outbuildings.

Hitched to the straight rail fence that separated, the house yard from the road, were three horses, one of them gray, with saddles on their backs. I was not more than fifty yards distant from the horses, and could plainly see a holster in front of one of the saddles.

No sound came from the house. I lay down and watched and listened. The evening was fast drawing on, and there were clouds in the west, but the sun had not yet gone down, and there would yet be an hour or two of daylight. I feared that my approach to Lee's Mill must be put off till the morrow.

A woman came out of the house and drew a bucket of water at the well in the yard. She then returned into the house, with her pail of water. Now the sound of men's voices could be heard, and the stamping of heavy foot within the house; a moment afterward three men came out and approached the horses.

The woman was standing at the door; one of the men shaded his eyes with his hand and looked toward the west, where a dazzling cloud-edge barely hid the sun from view. He was looking directly over my head; dropping his hand he said, "An hour high, yit." This man was nearer to me than the others were. I could less distinctly hear the words of the others, but when this one got near their horses a conversation was held with the woman standing in the doorway, and the voices on both sides were raised.

"Yes," said one of the men, preparing to mount the gray horse, "yes, I reckin this is the last time we'll trouble you any more."

"Your room's better'n your company," said the woman, whose words, by reason of her shrill voice, as well as because she was talking toward me, were more distinctly heard than the man's.

"Now don't be ungrateful," said the man, who by this time was astride his horse; "you've not lost anything by me. If the Yanks treat you as well as us, you may thank your God."

"Self-praise is half scandal," said the woman; "I'm willin' to risk 'em if God sends 'em."

The man, turning his horse and riding after his two companions, shouted back: "Hit's not God as is a sendin' 'em; hit's somebody else!"

"You seem to be mighty well acquainted!" fired the woman, as a parting shot.

When the man had overtaken his comrades at the turning of the road, I had but little reluctance in going into the house. The woman stared at me. My gray civilian clothes caught her eye; evidently she did not know what to think of me. She said nothing, and stood her ground in the middle of the floor.

I first asked for a drink of water; she point to the bucket, in which there was a common gourd for a dipper. I quenched my thirst; then I said; "Madam, I will pay you well if you will let me have what cold food you have in the house."

"Did you see them men a-ridin' away from here jest now?" she asked.

"I heard some voices," said I; "who were they?"

"They was some of our men; three of 'em; they et up most ev'ything I had, so I hain't got much."

"See what there is," said I, "and please be as quick as you can."

She went into another room, and speedily returned with a "pone" of corn-bread.

"This is all they is," she said.

"Have you no potatoes? no bacon?"

"I've got some bacon," she said; "but it ain't cooked."

"Let me have a pound or two, anyway," said I.

She brought out a large piece of bacon. "My ole man's gone down to Worrick to-day," she said, "an' won't be back tell night; an' you soldiers, a-leavin' the country all at oncet, hit makes me feel kinder skittish."

"Yes," said I; "I don't wonder at your alarm, for they say the Yankees are coming. I don't suppose they will be here before to-morrow, though—maybe not till the day after."

"Them other men said they was the last to go," she replied; "but I reckin they didn't know you was a-comin' on behind 'em."

"No," said I; "if they had known I was coming, they wouldn't have run off and left me so; I might have ridden behind one of them. I don't suppose I can overtake them now, unless they atop again."

"That you can't," said she; "they won't have no call to stop tell they git to the camp, an' hit's jest this side of the mill."

"How far is it to Lee's Mill?" I asked,

She looked at me suspiciously, and I feared that I had made a mistake.

"Hit's not fur," she replied; "hain't you never been thar?"

"Nut by this road," I answered. "How much shall I pay you?"

"Well, Mister, I don't know; set your own price."

I handed her a silver half-dollar. Her eyes fastened on me. I had made another mistake.

"If that is not enough," said I, "you shall have more," showing her a one-dollar Confederate note.

"Oh, this is a plenty," she replied; "but I was a-wonderin' to see silver agin."

"I have kept a little for hard times," I said.

"You have? Well, the sight of it is cert'n'y good for sore eyes."

"Can I reach Lee's Mill before dark?" I asked.

"Well, I reckin you kin, ef you walk fast enough," she said; "anyhow, you kin git to the camp on this side."

"Well, good day, madam; I wish you well," said I.

"Good-by, Mister," she said.

I had already opened the gate, when I heard her come to the door; she raised her voice a little, and said,—

"When you git to the big road, you'll be in a mile o' the mill."

So long as I was in sight of the house I kept in the road, but as soon as I got through the clearing, I struck off to the right through the woods. I was seeking some hiding place where I could eat and sleep.

When, early in the morning, I had seen the pickets retire from the post near Warwick, I had thought that the rebels were all withdrawing to their main lines; this thought had received some corroboration from the firing heard in my rear later in the day; I had believed the Union troops advancing behind me; but afterward I had seen other rebels at the woman's house, and I now doubted what I had before believed. Besides, it was clear from the woman's words that there was a rebel post this side of Lee's Mill, and I was yet in danger.

The woods wore dense. Soon I saw before me a large road running west, the big road of which the woman had spoken, no doubt. I crept up to it, and, seeing no one in either direction, ran across it, and into the woods beyond. I went for half a mile or more, in a southwest course, and found a spot where I thought I could spend the night in safety. For fear of being detected I dug a hole, with my knife, in the earth, and piled the loose earth around the hole; then I lighted a fire of dry sticks at the bottom. Night had not yet come, but it was very gloomy in this dense thicket surrounded by woods; I had little fear that any reflection or smoke would betray me, for the thicket was impenetrable to the view of any one who should not come within two rods. I broiled my bacon and toasted my bread, and though I fared very well, yet after eating I wanted water and chose to remain thirsty rather than in the darkness to search for a spring or a stream in the woods.

I quenched the fire with the loose earth; I raked up leaves with my hands and made a bed. I had no covering, but the night was not cold, threatening rain, and the thicket sheltered me from the wind.

Some time in the night I awoke to find that I had dreamed of lying in a mountain brook with my mouth up stream and the water running through my whole body. My mouth was parched. I must have water at any risk.

I set out in I know not what direction. I had put the remains of my supper into my coat pocket, for my judgment told me that in all likelihood I could never return to the spot I was leaving.

Before I had been walking ten minutes, I knew that I was completely lost; I went through thickets and briers, over logs and gullies, round and round, I suspect, for hour in and hour out, until just before day I saw the reflection of fire through the woods, and at the same time almost fell into a small pool. It was the reflection of the light by the pool which at once showed me the water and saved me from finding it with a sense other than sight.

I drank and drank again; then I wondered what the fire meant. Although it seemed far off, I was afraid of it; likely enough it was some rebel camp-fire; I had no idea whither I had wandered, I turned my back on the light, and walked until I could see it no more; then I stretched myself under a tree, but could not sleep. Day was coming.

After a while it began to rain, and I had a most uncomfortable time of it. It required considerable effort of will on my part to determine to move, for I did not know which way to start. I set out, however, and had gone a short distance, when I noticed the green moss at the root of a large tree, and I remembered that I had read in stories of Indians and hunters that such moss always grows on the north side of the trees. So I then turned westward, for I knew that I had crossed no road in my wanderings of the night, and I also know that the main road from Warwick Court-House to Lee's Mill was at the west. A little at my left I saw a great tree with a sloping trunk, and I went to it for shelter; it was raining harder. When I reached the tree I saw a road just beyond. I sat under the tree, the inclined trunk giving me shelter from the rain and hiding me from the road. While eating the remains of my supper, I heard the tramp of horses, and looking out cautiously, saw a company of rebel cavalry going northward at a trot. At the same time I could distinctly hear skirmish firing behind me, not half a mile off, seemingly. The rain still fell and I held my place.

All at once I saw two men in the road; they were Union soldiers—infantry—skirmishers.

Before I could speak to them I was aware of the fact that an advancing line of our skirmishers was on either side of me.

"Hello, here!" cried one of them; "who are you?"

"Keep your place in line, Private Lewis," said an officer, coming up, "I'll attend to that man."

"Privates Jones and George, halt! Skirmishers, fill intervals to the right!"

Two men came to the lieutenant.

"Who are you, sir?" asked the lieutenant.

"Private Berwick, Eleventh Massachusetts," said I.

"Do you know anything of the enemy? Speak quick!"

"They are this side of Lee's Mill, Lieutenant, but I got lost in the night, and I don't even know where I am now. About fifty of their cavalry went by ten minutes ago."

The line went on in the rain.

The lieutenant placed me in charge of the two men, ordering them to take me at once to the rear, and to report to General Davidson. I have never learned the name of that lieutenant; he had some good qualities.

Meanwhile a sharp skirmish was going on in front, and our line did not seem to advance. A section of artillery dashed by. I began to understand that, if I had gone on a few hundred yards, I should have run upon the enemy in force.

I was brought before General Davidson. He was on horse, at the head of his brigade. He asked me my name.

"Jones Berwick, General," said I.

"What is your business?"

"I am a private, sir, in the Eleventh Massachusetts."

He smiled at this; then he asked, still smiling, "Where is your regiment?"

"It is in camp below Washington, General, I suppose; at least, it had not reached Newport News on the evening of the day before yesterday."

"How is it that you are here while your regiment is still near Washington?"

"I had surgeon's leave to precede my regiment on account of my health, General."

"And this is the way you take care of your health, is it, by lying out in the woods in the rain?"

"It was a month ago, General, that the surgeon dismissed me, and I am now fully recovered."

General Davidson looked serious. "You were at Newport News on day before yesterday?"

"I was near Newport News, sir, at the Sanitary camp. General McClellan had just arrived at Fortress Monroe; so I heard before I left."

"And what are you doing here? I think you have the Southern accent."

"I have been told so before, General; but I am not a Southerner; I came out to observe the rebel lines."

"By whose authority?"

Now, I could have told General Davidson that I had had a pass, signed by such an officer; but I feared to do so, lest some complication should arise which would give trouble to such an officer, for Dr. Khayme had not fully informed me about my privileges.

"It was only a private enterprise, General."

"Tell me all about it," he said.

I said briefly that, on the day before, I had passed up the Warwick River; and that the main line of the enemy lay behind it; that the fords had been destroyed by dams, and that there were no rebels on this side of the river now, in my opinion, except pickets, and possibly a force just in front of Lee's Mill.

"But do you not hear the rebel artillery now?" he asked.

"I think, General, that the rebel artillery is firing from the other side of the river, but I admit that I am not sure of it. Night came on me yesterday before I could reach Lee's Mill, and I have nothing but hearsay in regard to that place."

"What have you heard?"

I told him what the woman had said.

"What proof can you give me that you are not deceiving me?" he asked sternly.

"I do not know, General," said I, "that I can give you any proof; I wish I could; perhaps you can so question me as to satisfy you."

The general sent a courier to the front. He then wrote a line on a piece of paper, and handed the note to another courier, who rushed off to the rear. In a few minutes an officer rode up from the rear; he saluted General Davidson, who spoke earnestly to him in a low tone. I could easily guess that he was speaking of me.

Then, the officer approached me, and asked many questions about my service:—where I was from—where was my regiment from—who was its colonel—who was my captain—how I had come to the army ahead of my regiment, etc. To all these questions I gave brief and quick replies. Then the officer asked for a detailed account of my scout, which I gave him in as few words as I knew how to use. When I spoke of Nick, his eye brightened; when I spoke of giving Nick a note, he nodded his head. Then he asked, "What did you write?"

"The word going," I said.

"Have you a pencil?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Here, take this, and write the word going," he said, handing me a small blank-book.

On a leaf of the book I wrote the word, and my signature below.

Then the officer took another book from his pocket, and looked attentively at both books.

Then he said: "General, I think there is something in what he says. Better be careful of your advance."

And to me, "You must need rest and food; come with me, Mr. Berwick."

That night I slept in Dr. Khayme's tent.



XI

FORT WILLIS

"This is the sergeant, Who like a bold and hardy soldier fought." —SHAKESPEARE.

After having been well treated at General Keyes's headquarters, I had been given a seat in an ambulance going back to Newport News. The officer who had questioned me proved to be one of the general's aides. The negro Nick had succeeded in avoiding the rebels, and had delivered my message, with which my handwriting showed identity; moreover, General Keyes, when the matter was brought to his attention, immediately declared with a laugh that his friend Khayme's protege was a "brick."

The physical and mental tension to which I had been continuously subjected for more than two days was followed by a reaction which, though natural enough, surprised me by its degree. I lay on a camp-bed after supper, utterly done. The Doctor and Lydia sat near me, and questioned me on my adventures, as they ware pleased to term my escapade. Lydia was greatly interested in my account of my visit to the woman's house; the Doctor's chief interest was centred on Nick.

"Jones," said he, "you were right from a purely prudential point of view in testing the negro well; but in your place I should have trusted him the instant I learned that he was a slave."

"But, Father," said Lydia; "you surely don't think that all the slaves wish to be free."

"No, I don't; but I believe that every man slave, who has independence of character sufficient to cause him to be alone at night between two hostile armies, wishes to be free."

"You are right, Doctor," said I; "but you must admit, I think, that at the time I could hardly reason so clearly as you can now."

This must have been said very sleepily, for Lydia exclaimed, "Father, Mr. Berwick needs rest."

"Yes, madam; he needs rest, but not such as you are thinking of. Let me fully unburden himself in a mild and gentlemanly way; then he can sleep the sleep of the just."

"Oh, Father, your words sound like a funeral service."

"I am alive, Miss Lydia; and you know the Doctor believes that the just live forever."

"The just? I believe everybody lives forever, and always did live."

"Even, the rebels?" then I thought that I should have said "slaveholders."

"Rebels will live forever, but they will cease to be rebels, that is, after they have accomplished their purposes, and rebellion becomes unnecessary."

"Then, you admit at last that rebellion, and consequently war, are necessary?"

"No, I don't see how you can draw such an inference," said the Doctor; "rebellion cannot make war necessary, and hostility to usurped authority is always right."

"How can there be such without war as a consequence?" I asked languidly.

"Father," said Lydia, "please let Mr. Berwick rest."

"Madam, you are keeping him from going to sleep; I am only making him sleepy."

Lydia retired.

I wondered if the Doctor knew to the full what he was saying. He continued: "Well, Jones, I'll let you off now on that subject; but I warn you that it is the first paper on the programme for to-morrow. By the way, you will have but a few days' rest now; your regiment is expected on the tenth."

"Glad to hear it, Doctor."

"So you think the Confederate lines are very strong?"

"Yes, they are certainly very strong, at least that part of them that I saw. What they are near Yorktown, I cannot say, of course."

"I can see one thing," said the Doctor.

"What is that?"

"The map we have is incorrect."

"How so?"

"It makes the Warwick creek too short and too straight."

"I found it very long," said I; "and it is wide, and it is deep, and it cannot be turned on the James River side except by the fleet."

"The fleet is not going to turn that line; the fleet is doing nothing, and probably will do nothing until the Merrimac is disposed of."

"Doctor, how in the world do you get all your information?"

"By this and that," said the Doctor.

"How we are to get at the rebels I can't see," said I.

"On the Yorktown end of their line," replied the Doctor.

"It seems to me a singular coincidence," said I, "that our troops should have been advancing behind me all day yesterday."

"Do you object?" he asked.

"Not at all; I was about used up when they found me. What I should have done I don't well see."

"You would have been compelled to start back," he said.

"Yes," said I, "and I had no food, and should have been compelled to wait till night to make a start."

Dr. Khayme was exceedingly cheerful; he smoked incessantly and faster than he usually smoked. The last thing I can remember before sleep overcame my senses was the thought that the idol's head looked alive, and that the smoke-clouds which rose above it and half hid the Doctor's face were not mere forms that would dissipate and be no more; they seemed living beings—servants attendant on their master's will.

* * * * *

The next day was cold and damp. I went out but little. I wrote some letters, and rested comfortably. The Doctor gave me the news that Yorktown had been invested, and that there was promise of a siege instead of a battle.

"They have found the Confederate lines too strong to be taken by assault," said he; "and while McClellan waits for reenforcements, there will be nothing to prevent the Confederates from being reenforced; so mote it be."

"What! You are not impatient?"

"Certainly not."

"And you are willing for the enemy to be reenforced?"

"Oh, yes; I know that the more costly the war the sooner it will end."

"I think McClellan ought to have advanced before," said I; "he is likely to lose much time now."

"He has plenty of time; he has all the time there is."

"All the time there is! that means eternity."

"Of course; he has eternity, no more and no less."

"That is a long time," said I, thinking aloud.

"And as broad as it is long," said the Doctor; "everything will happen in that time."

"To McClellan?"

"Why not to McClellan? To all."

"Everything is a big word, Doctor."

"No bigger than eternity."

"And McClellan will win and will lose?"

"Yes."

"I hardly understand, Doctor, what you mean by saying that everything will happen."

"I mean," said he, "that change and eternity are all the conditions necessary to cause everything to come to pass."

"The rebels will win and the North will win?"

"Yes; both of these seemingly contradictory events will happen."

"You surely are a strange puzzle."

"I give myself enough time, do I not?"

"But time can never reconcile a contradiction."

"The contradiction is only seeming."

"Did both Confederates and Union troops win the battle of Bull Run?"

"The Confederates defeated the Federals," said the Doctor; "but the defeat will prove profitable to the defeated. What I mean by saying both North and South will win, you surely know; it is that the divine purpose, working in all the nations, will find its end and accomplishment, and this purpose is not limited, in the present wicked strife, to either of the combatants. What the heart of the people of both sections wants will come; what they want they fight for; but it would have come without war, as I was about to tell you last night, when you interrupted me by going to sleep."

"Yes," said I, laughing, "you were going to tell me how rebellion could exist and not bring war."

"And Mr. Berwick made his escape," said Lydia.

"But you promised to give it to me to-day, Doctor."

"Give it to me! That is an expression which I have heard used in two senses," said the Doctor.

"Well, you were giving it to me last night; now be so good as to give it."

"Better feel Mr. Berwick's pulse first, Father."

"You people are leagued against me," said he; "and I shall proceed to punish you."

"By refusing me?"

"No; by giving it to you. I said, did I not, that rebellion does not necessarily bring war?"

"That is the postulate," I replied.

"Then, first, what is rebellion?"

"Rebellion," said I, "rebellion—rebellion," seeking a definition, "rebellion is armed hostility, within a nation or state, to the legalized government of the nation or state."

"I am willing to accept that," said the Doctor; "now let us see if there have not been cases of rebellion without war. What do you say of Jeroboam and the ten tribes?"

"I say that there was about to be war, and the Almighty put a stop to it."

"That is all I pray for," said the Doctor; "then, what do you say of Monk?"

"What Monk?"

"The general of the commonwealth, who restored Charles the Second."

"Monk simply decided a dilemma," said I. "I don't count that a rebellion; the people were glad to settle matters."

"Well, we won't count Monk; what do you say—"

"No more, Doctor," I interrupted; "I admit that rebellion does not bring war when, the other party won't fight."

"But it is wrong to fight," he said.

"Then every rebellion ought to succeed," said I.

"Certainly it ought, at least for a time. What I am contending is that every revolution should be peaceable. Would not England have been wiser if she had not endeavoured to subdue the colonies? Suppose the principle of peace were cherished: the ideas that would otherwise cause rebellion would be patiently tested; the men of new or opposite ideas would no longer be rebels; they would be statesmen; a rebellion would be accepted, tried, and defeated by a counter rebellion, both peaceable. It is simply leaving things to the will of the majority. Right ideas will win, no matter what the opposition to them. Better change the arena of conflict. A single champion of an idea would once challenge a doubter and prove his hypothesis by the blood of the disputant; you do the same thing on a great scale. The Southern people—very good people as you and I have cause to know—think the constitution gives them the right, or rather cannot take away the right, to withdraw from the Union; you Northern people think they deserve death for so thinking, and you proceed to kill them off; you intend keeping it up until too few of them are left to think fatally; but they will think, and your killing them will not prove your ideas right."

"And so you would settle it by letting them alone? Yes, I know that is what you think should be done. But how about slavery?" I asked, thinking to touch a tender spot.

"The North should have rebelled peaceably against slavery; many a Southern man would have joined this peaceable rebellion; the idea would have won, not at once, neither will this war be won at once; but the idea would have won, and under such conditions, I mean with the South knowing that the peaceable extension of knowledge concerning principle was involved, instead of massacre according to the John Brown idiocy, a great amelioration in the condition of the slave would have begun immediately. The South, would have gradually liberated the slaves."

"Doctor, you are saying only that we are far from perfection."

"No; I am saying more than that; I am saying that we ought to have ideals, and strive to reach them."

* * * * *

On the 12th we learned that Hooker's division had landed at Ship Point, and had formed part of the lines investing Yorktown. On the next day I rejoined my company. Willis gave a yell when he saw me coming. The good fellow was the same old Willis—strong, brave, and generous. We soon went off for a private chat.

"What have you been doing with, yourself all this time?" he asked.

"I've been with. Dr. Khayme—at Newport News, you know. Our camp was never moved once; what have you been doing?"

"Same old thing—camp guard, and drill, and waiting our turn to come. Say, Berwick, do you know the new drill?"

"What new drill?"

"Hardee."

"You don't say!"

"Fact. Whole division."

"Do you like it better?"

"Believe I do."

"We'll have no time to drill here," said I; "we'll have enough, to do of another sort."

Yet I was compelled to make the change, which referred to the manual of arms, Hardee's tactics, in which, system the piece is carried in the right hand at shoulder arms, having been substituted for Scott's, which provides for the shoulder on the left side. There was no actual drill, however, and my clumsy performance—clumsy compared with, that of the other men of the company who had become accustomed to the change—was limited to but little exercise, and was condoned by the sergeants because of my inexperience.

I noticed that Willis did not mention Lydia's name. I did not expect him to mention it, though. I knew he was wanting to hear of her; and I did not feel that I ought to volunteer in giving him information concerning the young lady. He asked me about Dr. Khayme, however, and thus gave me the chance to let him know that the Doctor himself would move his quarters to the rear of our lines, but that his daughter would remain at the hospital at Newport News until the army should advance beyond Yorktown.

And now, for almost a full month, we fronted the rebel lines of Yorktown. Our regiment was in the trenches much of the time, and frequently in the rifle-pits. The weather was bad; rain fell almost every other day, and at night we suffered from cold, especially on the picket-lines, where no fires were allowed. I suppose I stood the hardships as well as most of the men, but I could not have endured much more. Willis's programme of the campaign had been completely upset; he had said that we should take Yorktown in a week and pursue the routed rebels into Richmond, and now we were doing but little—so far as we could see—to bring matters to a conclusion. The artillery of the rebels played on our lines; and our guns replied; the pickets, too, were frequently busy popping away at each other, and occasionally hitting their marks. Ever since the siege of Yorktown, where I saw that great quantities of lead and iron were wasted, and but few men hurt,—though Dr. Khayme maintained that the waste became a crime when men were killed,—I have had a feeling of disgust whenever I have read the words "unerring rifles." More lies have been told about wars and battles, and about the courage of men, and patriotism, and so forth, than could be set down in a column of figures as long as the equator. From April 13 to May 4 the casualties of the Army of the Potomac before Yorktown did not reach half of one per cent. The men learned speedily to dodge shells, and I remember hearing one man say that he dodged a bullet. He saw a black spot seemingly stationary, and knew at once that the thing was coming in a straight line for his eye. The story was swallowed, but I think nobody believed it, except the hero thereof, who was a good soldier, however, and ordinarily truthful. How can you expect a man, who is supremely interested in a small incident, to think it small? For my part, it was a rarity to see even a big shell, unless it was a tired one. I dodged per order, mostly. Of course, when I saw the smoke of a cannon, and know that the cannon was looking toward me, I got under cover without waiting for the long roll; but it was amusing sometimes to hear fellows cry out, "I see a shell coming this way," at the smoke of a gun, and have everybody seeking shelter, when no sound of a shell would follow, the missile having gone into the woods half a mile to our right or left.