Chapter I.

The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs

revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting. 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 camp-fires set in the low brows of distant hills.

Once a certain tall soldier 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 orderlies at division

headquarters. 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’ lie!” said another private

loudly. His smooth face was flushed, and his hands were thrust sulkily

into his trouser’s 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. 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 uncheckable

degree. They were in truth fighting finely down there. Almost every day

the newspaper printed accounts of a decisive victory.

One night, as he lay in bed, the winds had carried to him the

clangoring 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, 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. 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, bewhiskered

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. 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 veteran’s 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!” 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

meanwhile he 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 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?” 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. 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-boodle 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, 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 great and correct

confidence. He now was in a measure reassured.