CHAPTER I
The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and
the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills,
resting.2 As the
landscape changed from brown to green, the army awakened, and began
to tremble with eagerness at the noise of rumors. It cast its eyes
upon the roads, which were growing from long troughs of liquid mud
to proper thoroughfares. A river, amber-tinted in the shadow of its
banks, purled at the army’s feet; and at night, when the stream had
become of a sorrowful blackness, one could see across it the red,
eyelike gleam of hostile campfires set in the low brows of distant
hills.
Once a certain tall soldier3 developed
virtues and went resolutely to wash a shirt. He came flying back
from a brook waving his garment bannerlike. He was swelled with a
tale he had heard from a reliable friend, who had heard it from a
truthful cavalryman, who had heard it from his trustworthy brother,
one of the order-lies at division headquarters. 4 He
adopted the important air of a herald in red and gold.
“We’re goin’ t’ move t’ morrah—sure,” he said
pompously to a group in the company street. “We’re goin’ ‘way up
the river, cut across, an’ come around in behint ’em.”
To his attentive audience he drew a loud and
elaborate plan of a very brilliant campaign. When he had finished,
the blue-clothed men scattered into small arguing groups between
the rows of squat brown huts. A negro teamster who had been dancing
upon a cracker box with the hilarious encouragement of twoscore
soldiers was deserted. He sat mournfully down. Smoke drifted lazily
from a multitude of quaint chimneys.
“It’s a lie! that’s all it is—a thunderin’ he!”
said another private loudly. His smooth face was flushed, and his
hands were thrust sulkily into his trousers’ pockets. He took the
matter as an affront to him. “I don’t believe the derned old army’s
ever going to move. We’re set. I’ve got ready to move eight times
in the last two weeks, and we ain’t moved yet.”
The tall soldier felt called upon to defend the
truth of a rumor he himself had introduced. He and the loud one
came near to fighting over it.
A corporal began to swear before the assemblage. He
had just put a costly board floor in his house, he said. During the
early spring he had refrained from adding extensively to the
comfort of his environment because he had felt that the army might
start on the march at any moment. Of late, however, he had been
impressed that they were in a sort of eternal camp.
Many of the men engaged in a spirited debate. One
outlined in a peculiarly lucid manner all the plans of the
commanding general. He was opposed by men who advocated that there
were other plans of campaign. They clamored at each other, numbers
making futile bids for the popular attention. Meanwhile, the
soldier who had fetched the rumor bustled about with much
importance. He was continually assailed by questions.
“What’s up, Jim?”
“Th’ army’s goin’ t’ move.”
“Ah, what yeh talkin’ about? How yeh know it
is?”
“Well, yeh kin b‘lieve me er not, jest as yeh like.
I don’t care a hang.”
There was much food for thought in the manner in
which he replied. He came near to convincing them by disdaining to
produce proofs. They grew much excited over it.
There was a youthful private who listened with
eager ears to the words of the tall soldier and to the varied
comments of his comrades. After receiving a fill of discussions
concerning marches and attacks, he went to his hut and crawled
through an intricate hole that served it as a door. He wished to be
alone with some new thoughts that had lately come to him.
He lay down on a wide bunk that stretched across
the end of the room. In the other end, cracker boxes were made to
serve as furniture. They were grouped about the fireplace. A
picture from an illustrated weekly was upon the log walls, and
three rifles were paralleled on pegs. Equipments hung on handy
projections, and some tin dishes lay upon a small pile of firewood.
A folded tent was serving as a roof The sunlight, without, beating
upon it, made it glow a light yellow shade. A small window shot an
oblique square of whiter light upon the cluttered floor. The smoke
from the fire at times neglected the clay chimney and wreathed into
the room, and this flimsy chimney of clay and sticks made endless
threats to set ablaze the whole establishment.
The youth was in a little trance of astonishment.
So they were at last going to fight. On the morrow, perhaps, there
would be a battle, and he would be in it. For a time he was obliged
to labor to make himself believe. He could not accept with
assurance an omen that he was about to mingle in one of those great
affairs of the earth.
He had, of course, dreamed of battles all his
life—of vague and bloody conflicts that had thrilled him with their
sweep and fire. In visions he had seen himself in many struggles.
He had imagined peoples secure in the shadow of his eagle-eyed
prowess. But awake he had regarded battles as crimson blotches on
the pages of the past. He had put them as things of the bygone with
his thought-images of heavy crowns and high castles. There was a
portion of the world’s history which he had regarded as the time of
wars, but it, he thought, had been long gone over the horizon and
had disappeared forever.
From his home his youthful eyes had looked upon the
war in his own country with distrust. It must be some sort of a
play affair. He had long despaired of witnessing a Greeklike
struggle.5 Such
would be no more, he had said. Men were better, or more timid.
Secular and religious education had effaced the throat-grappling
instinct, or else firm finance held in check the passions.
He had burned several times to enlist. Tales of
great movements shook the land.They might not be distinctly
Homeric, but there seemed to be much glory in them. He had read of
marches, sieges, conflicts, and he had longed to see it all. His
busy mind had drawn for him large pictures extravagant in color,
lurid with breathless deeds.
But his mother had discouraged him. She had
affected to look with some contempt upon the quality of his war
ardor and patriotism. She could calmly seat herself and with no
apparent difficulty give him many hundreds of reasons why he was of
vastly more importance on the farm than on the field of battle. She
had had certain ways of expression that told him that her
statements on the subject came from a deep conviction. Moreover, on
her side, was his belief that her ethical motive in the argument
was impregnable.
At last, however, he had made firm rebellion
against this yellow light thrown upon the color of his ambitions.
The newspapers, the gossip of the village, his own picturings, had
aroused him to an uncheck able degree. They were in truth fighting
finely down there. Almost every day the newspapers printed accounts
of a decisive victory
One night, as he lay in bed, the winds had carried
to him the clan-goring of the church bell as some enthusiast jerked
the rope frantically to tell the twisted news of a great
battle.This voice of the people rejoicing in the night had made him
shiver in a prolonged ecstasy of excitement. Later, he had gone
down to his mother’s room and had spoken thus: “Ma, I’m going to
enlist.”
“Henry, don’t you be a fool,” his mother had
replied. She had then covered her face with the quilt. There was an
end to the matter for that night.
Nevertheless, the next morning he had gone to a
town that was near his mother’s farm and had enlisted in a company
that was forming there. When he had returned home his mother was
milking the brindle cow. Four others stood waiting. “Ma, I’ve
enlisted,” he had said to her diffidently There was a short
silence. “The Lord’s will be done, Henry,” she had finally replied,
and had then continued to milk the brindle cow.
When he had stood in the doorway with his soldier’s
clothes on his back, and with the light of excitement and
expectancy in his eyes almost defeating the glow of regret for the
home bonds, he had seen two tears leaving their trails on his
mother’s scarred cheeks.
Still, she had disappointed him by saying nothing
whatever about returning with his shield or on it. He had privately
primed himself for a beautiful scene. He had prepared certain
sentences which he thought could be used with touching effect. But
her words destroyed his plans. She had doggedly peeled potatoes and
addressed him as follows: “You watch out, Henry, an’ take good care
of yerself in this here fighting business—you watch out, an’ take
good care of yerself. Don’t go a-thinkin’ you can lick the hull
rebel army at the start, because yeh can’t.Yer jest one little
feller amongst a hull lot of others, and yeh’ve got to keep quiet
an’ do what they tell yeh. I know how you are, Henry.
“I’ve knet yeh eight pair of socks, Henry, and I’ve
put in all yer best shirts, because I want my boy to be jest as
warm and comf‘able as anybody in the army. Whenever they get holes
in ’em, I want yeh to send ‘em right-away back to me, so’s I kin
dern ’em.
“An’ allus be careful an’ choose yer comp‘ny.
There’s lots of bad men in the army, Henry. The army makes ’em
wild, and they like nothing better than the job of leading off a
young feller like you, as ain’t never been away from home much and
has allus had a mother, an’ a-learning ‘em to drink and swear. Keep
clear of them folks, Henry. I don’t want yeh to ever do anything,
Henry, that yeh would be ’shamed to let me know about. Jest think
as if I was a-watchin’ yeh. If yeh keep that in yer mind allus, I
guess yeh’ll come out about right.
“Yeh must allus remember yer father, too, child,
an’ remember he never drunk a drop of licker in his life, and
seldom swore a cross oath.
“I don’t know what else to tell yeh, Henry,
excepting that yeh must never do no shirking, child, on my account.
If so be a time comes when yeh have to be kilt or do a mean thing,
why, Henry, don’t think of anything ‘cept what’s right, because
there’s many a woman has to bear up ’ginst sech things these times,
and the Lord’ll take keer of us all.
“Don’t forgit about the socks and the shirts,
child; and I’ve put a cup of blackberry jam with yer bundle,
because I know yeh like it above all things. Good-by, Henry. Watch
out, and be a good boy.”
He had, of course, been impatient under the ordeal
of this speech. It had not been quite what he expected, and he had
borne it with an air of irritation. He departed feeling vague
relief
Still, when he had looked back from the gate, he
had seen his mother kneeling among the potato parings. Her brown
face, upraised, was stained with tears, and her spare form was
quivering. He bowed his head and went on, feeling suddenly ashamed
of his purposes.
From his home he had gone to the seminary to bid
adieu to many schoolmates. They had thronged about him with wonder
and admiration. He had felt the gulf now between them and had
swelled with calm pride. He and some of his fellows who had donned
blue were quite overwhelmed with privileges for all of one
afternoon, and it had been a very delicious thing. They had
strutted.
A certain light haired girl had made vivacious fun
at his martial spirit, but there was another and darker girl whom
he had gazed at steadfastly, and he thought she grew demure and sad
at sight of his blue and brass. As he had walked down the path
between the rows of oaks, he had turned his head and detected her
at a window watching his departure. As he perceived her, she had
immediately begun to stare up through the high tree branches at the
sky. He had seen a good deal of flurry and haste in her movement as
she changed her attitude. He often thought of it.
On the way to Washington his spirit had soared. The
regiment was fed and caressed at station after station until the
youth had believed that he must be a hero. There was a lavish
expenditure of bread and cold meats, coffee, and pickles and
cheese. As he basked in the smiles of the girls and was patted and
complimented by the old men, he had felt growing within him the
strength to do mighty deeds of arms.
After complicated journeyings with many pauses,
there had come months of monotonous life in a camp. He had had the
belief that real war was a series of death struggles with small
time in between for sleep and meals; but since his regiment had
come to the field the army had done little but sit still and try to
keep warm.
He was brought then gradually back to his old
ideas. Greeklike struggles would be no more. Men were better, or
more timid. Secular and religious education had effaced the
throat-grappling instinct, or else firm finance held in check the
passions.
He had grown to regard himself merely as a part of
a vast blue demonstration. His province was to look out, as far as
he could, for his personal comfort. For recreation he could twiddle
his thumbs and speculate on the thoughts which must agitate the
minds of the generals. Also, he was drilled and drilled and
reviewed, and drilled and drilled and reviewed.
The only foes he had seen were some pickets along
the river bank. They were a sun-tanned, philosophical lot, who
sometimes shot reflectively at the blue pickets. When reproached
for this afterward, they usually expressed sorrow, and swore by
their gods that the guns had exploded without their permission. The
youth, on guard duty one night, conversed across the stream with
one of them.6 He was a
slightly ragged man, who spat skillfully between his shoes and
possessed a great fund of bland and infantile assurance. The youth
liked him personally.
“Yank,” the other had informed him, “yer a right
dum good feller.” This sentiment, floating to him upon the still
air, had made him temporarily regret war.
Various veterans had told him tales. Some talked of
gray, be-whiskered hordes who were advancing with relentless curses
and chewing tobacco with unspeakable valor; tremendous bodies of
fierce soldiery who were sweeping along like the Huns.a Others
spoke of tattered and eternally hungry men who fired despondent
powders. “They’ll charge through hell’s fire an’ brimstone t’ git a
holt on a haversack, an’ sech stomachs ain’t a-lastin’ long,” he
was told. From the stories, the youth imagined the red, live bones
sticking out through slits in the faded uniforms.
Still, he could not put a whole faith in veterans’
tales, for recruits were their prey. They talked much of smoke,
fire, and blood, but he could not tell how much might be lies. They
persistently yelled “Fresh fish!”b at him,
and were in no wise to be trusted.
However, he perceived now that it did not greatly
matter what kind of soldiers he was going to fight, so long as they
fought, which fact no one disputed. There was a more serious
problem. He lay in his bunk pondering upon it. He tried to
mathematically prove to himself that he would not run from a
battle.
Previously he had never felt obliged to wrestle too
seriously with this question. In his life he had taken certain
things for granted, never challenging his belief in ultimate
success, and bothering little about means and roads. But here he
was confronted with a thing of moment. It had suddenly appeared to
him that perhaps in a battle he might run. He was forced to admit
that as far as war was concerned he knew nothing of himself
A sufficient time before he would have allowed the
problem to kick its heels at the outer portals of his mind, but now
he felt compelled to give serious attention to it.
A little panic-fear grew in his mind. As his
imagination went forward to a fight, he saw hideous possibilities.
He contemplated the lurking menaces of the future, and failed in an
effort to see himself standing stoutly in the midst of them. He
recalled his visions of broken-bladed glory, but in the shadow of
the impending tumult he suspected them to be impossible
pictures.
He sprang from the bunk and began to pace nervously
to and fro. “Good Lord, what’s th’ matter with me?” he said
aloud.
He felt that in this crisis his laws of life were
useless. Whatever he had learned of himself was here of no avail.
He was an unknown quantity. He saw that he would again be obliged
to experiment as he had in early youth. He must accumulate
information of himself, and meanwhilehe resolved to remain close
upon his guard lest those qualities of which he knew nothing should
everlastingly disgrace him. “Good Lord!” he repeated in
dismay.
After a time the tall soldier slid dexterously
through the hole. The loud private followed. They were
wrangling.
“That’s all right,” said the tall soldier as he
entered. He waved his hand expressively. “You can believe me or
not, jest as you like. All you got to do is to sit down and wait as
quiet as you can. Then pretty soon you’ll find out I was
right.”
His comrade grunted stubbornly. For a moment he
seemed to be searching for a formidable reply. Finally he said:
“Well, you don’t know everything in the world, do you?”
“Didn’t say I knew everything in the world,”
retorted the other sharply. He began to stow various articles
snugly into his knapsack.
The youth, pausing in his nervous walk, looked down
at the busy figure. “Going to be a battle, sure, is there, Jim?” he
asked.
“Of course there is,” replied the tall soldier. “Of
course there is.You jest wait ‘til to-morrow, and you’ll see one of
the biggest battles ever was. You jest wait.”
“Thunder! said the youth.
“Oh, you’ll see fighting this time, my boy, what’ll
be regular out-and-out fighting,” added the tall soldier, with the
air of a man who is about to exhibit a battle for the benefit of
his friends.
“Huh!” said the loud one from a corner.
“Well,” remarked the youth, “like as not this
story’ll turn out jest like them others did.”
“Not much it won‘t,” replied the tall soldier,
exasperated. “Not much it won’t. Didn’t the cavalry all start this
morning?”7 He glared
about him. No one denied his statement. “The cavalry started this
morning,” he continued. “They say there ain’t hardly any cavalry
left in camp. They’re going to Richmond, or some place, while we
fight all the Johnnies. c It’s
some dodge like that. The regiment’s got orders, too. A feller what
seen ’em go to headquarters told me a little while ago. And they’re
raising blazes all over camp—anybody can see that.”
“Shucks!” said the loud one.
The youth remained silent for a time. At last he
spoke to the tall soldier. “Jim!”
“What?”
“How do you think the reg‘ment ’ll do?”
“Oh, they’ll fight all right, I guess, after they
once get into it,” said the other with cold judgment. He made a
fine use of the third person. “There’s been heaps of fun poked at
‘em because they’re new, of course, and all that; but they’ll fight
all right, I guess.”
“Think any of the boys ’ll run?” persisted the
youth.
“Oh, there may be a few of ‘em run, but there’s
them kind in every regiment, ’specially when they first goes under
fire,” said the other in a tolerant way. “Of course it might happen
that the hull kit-and-boodled might
start and run, if some big fighting came first-off, and then again
they might stay and fight like fun. But you can’t bet on nothing.
Of course they ain’t never been under fire yet, and it ain’t likely
they’ll lick the hull rebel army all-to-oncet the first time; but I
think they’ll fight better than some, if worse than others.That’s
the way I figger.They call the reg‘ment ’Fresh fish’ and
everything; but the boys come of good stock, and most of ‘em ’ll
fight like sin after they oncet git shootin’,” he added, with a
mighty emphasis on the last four words.
“Oh, you think you know—” began the loud soldier
with scorn.
The other turned savagely upon him. They had a
rapid altercation, in which they fastened upon each other various
strange epithets.
The youth at last interrupted them. “Did you ever
think you might run yourself, Jim?” he asked. On concluding the
sentence he laughed as if he had meant to aim a joke. The loud
soldier also giggled.
The tall private waved his hand. “Well,” said he
profoundly, “I’ve thought it might get too hot for Jim Conklin in
some of them scrimmages, and if a whole lot of boys started and
run, why, I s‘pose I’d start and run. And if I once started to run,
I’d run like the devil, and no mistake. But if everybody was
a-standing and a-fighting, why, I’d stand and fight. Be
jiminey,e I
would. I’ll bet on it.”
“Huh!” said the loud one.
The youth of this tale felt gratitude for these
words of his comrade. He had feared that all of the untried men
possessed a great and correct confidence. He now was in a measure
reassured.