 | CHAPTER XXXIV.
LILLIE'S ATTENTION IS RECALLED TO THE RISING GENERATION. Miss Ravenel's conversion from secession to loyalty |  |
34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
LILLIE'S ATTENTION IS RECALLED TO THE RISING GENERATION.
On or about the first of January, 1865, Lillie chanced to
go out on a shopping excursion, and descended the stairway
of the hotel just in time to catch sight of a newly
arrived guest, who was about entering his room on the
first story. One servant directed the unsteady step and
supported the wavering form of the stranger, while another
carried a painted wooden box eighteen or twenty
inches square, which seemed to be his sole baggage. As
Lillie was in the broad light and the invalid was walking
from her down a dark passage, she could not see how thin
and yellow his face was, nor how weather-stained, threadbare,
and even ragged was his fatigue uniform. But she
could distinguish the dark blue cloth, and gilt buttons
which her eye never encountered now without a sparkle
of interest.
She had reached the street before the question occurred
to her, Could it be Captain Colburne? She reasoned that
it could not be, for he had written to them only a fortnight
the time of his regiment would not be up for ten days yet.
Nevertheless she made her shopping tour a short one for
thinking of that sick officer, and on returning to the hotel
she looked at the arrival-book, regardless of the half-dozen
students who lounged against the office counter. There,
written in the clerk's hand, was “Capt. Colburne, No. 18.”
As she went up stairs she could not resist the temptation
of passing No. 18, and was nearly overcome by a sudden
impulse to knock at the door. She wanted to see her best
friend, and to know if he were really sick, and how sick,
and whether she could do anything for him. She determined
to send a servant to make instant inquiries; but on
reaching her room she found her father playing with
Ravvie.
“Papa, Captain Colburne is here,” were her first words.
“Is it possible!” exclaimed the Doctor, leaping up with
delight. “Have you seen him?”
“Not to speak with him. I am afraid he is sick. He
was leaning on the porter's arm. He is in number eighteen.
Do go and ask how he is.”
“I will. You are certain that it is our Captain Colburne?”
“It must be,” answered Lillie as he went out; and then
thought with a blush, “Will papa laugh at me if I am
mistaken?”
When Ravenel rapped at the door of No. 18, a deep but
rather hoarse voice answered, “Come in.”
“My dear friend!” exclaimed the Doctor, rushing into
the room; but the moment that he saw the Captain he
stopped in surprise and dismay.
“Don't get up,” he said. “Don't stir. Bless me! how
long have you been in this way?”
“Only a little while—a month or two,” answered Colburne
with his customary cheerful smile. “Soon be all
right again. Sit down.”
He was stretched at full length on his bed, evidently
his face sallow and features sharpened. The eyes
themselves were heavy and dull with the effects of the
opium which he had taken to enable him to undergo the
day's journey. Besides his long brown mustache, which
had become ragged with want of care, he had on a beard
of three weeks' growth; and his face and hands were
stained with the dust and smirch of two days' continuous
railroad travel, which he had not yet had time to wash
away—in fact, as soon as he had reached his room he had
thrown himself on the bed and fallen asleep. His only
clothing was a summer blouse of dark blue flannel, a common
soldier's shirt of knit woolen, Government trousers
of coarse light-blue cloth without a welt, and brown Government
stockings worn through at toe and heel. On the
floor lay his shoes, rough kip-skin brogans, likewise of Government
issue. All of his clothing was ineradically stained
with the famous mud of Virginia; his blouse was threadbare
where the sword-belt went, and had a ragged bullet-hole
through the collar. Altogether he presented the
spectacle of a man pretty thoroughly worn out in field
service.
“Is that all you wear in this season?” demanded, or
rather exclaimed the Doctor. “You will kill yourself.”
Colburne's answering laugh was so feeble that its cheerfulness
sounded like mockery.
“There isn't a chance of killing me,” he said. “I am
not cold. On the contrary, I am suffering with the heat
of these fires and close rooms. It's rather odd, considering
how run down I am. But actually I have been quarreling
all the way home to keep my window in the car
open, I was so stifled for want of air. Three years spent
out of doors makes a house seem like a Black Hole of Calcutta.”
“But no vest!” urged the Doctor. “It's enough to
guarantee you an inflammation of the lungs.”
“I hav'n't seen my vest nor any part of my full uniform
don't know till you try it how hardy a soldier can be,
even when he is sick. My only bed-clothing until about
the first of November was a rubber blanket. I will tell
you. When we left Louisiana in July we thought we
were going to besiege Mobile, and consequently I only
took my flannel suit and rubber blanket. It was enough
for a southern summer campaign. Henry had all he could
do to tote his own affairs, and my rations and frying-pan.
You ought to have seen the disgust with which he looked
at his bundle. He began to think that he would rather
be respectable, and industrious, and learn to read, than
carry such a load as that. His only consolation was that
he would soon steal a horse. Well, I hav'n't seen my trunk
since I left it on store in New Orleans, and I don't know
where it is, though I suppose it may be in Washington
with the rest of the baggage of our division. I tell you
this has been a glorious campaign, this one in the Shenandoah;
but it has been a teaser for privations, marching,
and guard-duty, as well as fighting. It is the first time
that I ever knocked under to hardships. Half-starved by
day, and half-frozen by night. I don't think that even
this would have laid me out, however, if I hadn't been
poisoned by the Louisiana swamps. Malarious fever is
what bothers me.”
“You will have to be very careful of yourself,” said the
Doctor. He noticed a febrile agitation in the look and
even in the conversation of the wasted young hero which
alarmed him.
“Oh no,” smiled Colburne. “I will be all right in a
week or two. All I want is rest. I will be about in less
than a week. I can travel now. You don't realize how a
soldier can pick himself up from an ordinary illness. Isn't
it curious how the poor fellows will be around on their
pins, and in their clothes till they die? I think I am
rather effeminate in taking off my shoes. I only did it
out of compliment to the white coverlet. Doesn't it look
ashamed of my filthiness, although I didn't suspect it until
I got into the confines of peaceful civilization. I assure
you I am a tolerably tidy man for our corps in its present
condition. I am a very respectable average.”
“We are all ready here to worship your very rags.”
“Well. After I get rid of them. I must have a citizen's
suit as soon as possible.”
“Can't you telegraph for your trunk?”
“I have. But that's of no consequence. No more uniform
for me. I am home to be mustered out of service.
I can't stay any longer, you understand. I am one of the
original officers, and have never been promoted, and so go
out with the original organization. If we could have re-enlisted
eighteen men more, we should have been a full
veteran regiment, and I could have staid. I came home
before the organization. I was on detached duty as staff-officer,
and so got a leave of absence. You see I wanted
to be here as early as possible in order to make out my
men's account, and muster-out rolls. I have a horrible
amount of work to do this week.”
“Work!” exclaimed Ravenel. “You are no more fit
to work than you are to fly. You can't work, and you
sha'n't.”
“But I must. I am responsible. If I don't do this job
I may be dismissed the service, instead of being mustered
out honorably. Do you think I an going to let myself be
disgraced? Sooner die in harness!”
“But, my dear friend, you can't do it. Your very talk
is feverish; you are on the edge of delirium.”
“Oh no! I can't help laughing at you. You don't know
how much a sick man can do, if he must. He can march
and fight a battle. I have done it, weaker than this.
Thank God, I have my company papers. They are in
that box—all my baggage—all I want. I can make my
first muster-out roll to-morrow, and hire somebody to do
the four copies. You see it must be done, for my men's
measure in field service. I have gone almost mad about
that box during the past six months; wanted it every day
and couldn't have it for lack of transportation; the War
Department demanding returns, and hospitals demanding
descriptive lists of wounded men; one threatening to stop
my pay, and another to report me to the Adjutant-General;
and I couldn't make out a paper for lack of that box.
If I had only known that we were coming to Virginia, I
could have prepared myself, you see; I could have made
out a memorandum-book of my company accounts to
carry in my pocket; but how did I know?”
He spoke as rapidly and eagerly as if he were pleading
his case before the Adjutant-General, and showing cause
why he should not be dishonorably dismissed the service.
After a moment of gloomy reflection he spoke again, still
harping on this worrying subject.
“I have six months' unfinished business to write up, or
I am a disgraced man. The Commissary of Musters will
report me to the Adjutant-General, and the Adjutant-General
will dismiss me from the service. It's pretty justice,
isn't it?”
“But if you are a staff-officer and on detached service?”
“That doesn't matter. The moment the muster-out day
comes, I am commandant of company, and responsible for
company papers. I ought to go to work to-day. But I
can't. I am horribly tired. I may try this evening.”
“No no, my dear friend,” implored the Doctor. “You
mustn't talk in this way. You will make yourself sick.
You are sick. Don't you know that you are almost delirious
on this subject?”
“Am I? Well, let's drop it. By the way, how are
you? And how is Mrs. Carter? Upon my honor I have
been shamefully selfish in talking so much about my
affairs. How is Mrs. Carter, and the little boy?”
“Very well, both of them. My daughter will be glad
to see you. But you mustn't go out to-day.”
“No no. I want some clothes. I can't go out in these
filthy rags. I am loaded and disreputable with the sacred
southern soil. If you will have the kindness to ring the
bell, I will send for a tailor. I must be measured for a
citizen's suit immediately.”
“My dear fellow, why won't you undress and go to
bed? I will order a strait-jacket for you if you don't.”
“Oh, you don't know the strength of my constitution,”
said Colburne, with his haggard, feverish, confident smile.
“Upon my soul, you look like it!” exclaimed the Doctor,
out of patience. “Well, what will you have for dinner?
Of course you are not going down.”
“Not in these tatters—no. Why, I think I should like
—let me see—some good—oysters and mince pie.”
The Doctor laughed aloud, and then threw up his hands
desperately.
“I thought so. Stark mad. I'll order your dinner myself,
sir. You shall have some farina.”
“Just as you say. I don't care much. I don't want
anything. But it's a long while since I have had a piece
of mince pie, and it can't be as bad a diet as raw pork
and green apples.”
“I don't know,” answered the Doctor. “Now then,
will you promise to take a bath and go regularly to bed
as soon as I leave you?”
“I will. How you bully a fellow! I tell you I'm not
sick, to speak of. I'm only a little worried.”
When Ravenel returned to his own apartment he found
Lillie waiting to go down to dinner.
“How is he?” she asked the moment he opened the
door.
“Very badly. Very feverish. Hardly in his right
mind.”
“Oh no, papa,” remonstrated Lillie. “You always exaggerate
such things. Now he isn't very bad; is he? Is
he as sick as he was at Donnelsonville? You know how
Is he?”
She took a strong interest in him; it was her way to
take an interest and to show it. She had much of what
the French call expansion, and very little of self-repression
whether in feeling or speech.
“I tell you, my dear, that I am exceedingly anxious.
He is almost prostrated by weakness, and there is a febrile
excitement which is weakening him still more. No immediate
danger, you understand; but the case is certainly
a very delicate and uncertain one. So many of these noble
fellows die after they get home! I wouldn't be so anxious,
only that he thinks he has a vast quantity of company
business on hand which must be attended to at once.”
“Can't we do it, or some of it, for him?”
“Perhaps so. I dare say. Yes, I think it likely. But
now let us hurry down. I want to order something suitable
for his dinner. I must buy a dose of morphine, too,
that will make him sleep till to-morrow morning. He
must sleep, or he won't live.”
“Oh, papa! I hope you didn't talk that way to him.
you are enough to frighten patients into the other world,
you are always so anxious about them.”
“Not much danger of frightening him,” groaned the
Doctor. “I wish he could be scared—just a little—just
enough to keep him quiet.”
After dinner the Doctor saw Colburne again. He had
bathed, had gone to bed, and had an opiated doze, but
was still in his state of fevered nervousness, and showed
it, unconsciously to himself, in his conversation. Just now
his mind was running on the subject of Gazaway, probably
in connection with his own lack of promotion; and
he talked with a bitterness of comment, and an irritation
of feeling which were very unusual with him.
“You know the secret history of his rehabilitation,”
said he. “Well, there is one consolation in the miserable
affair. He fooled our sly Governor. You know it was
lieutenant-colonelcy, he should show his gratitude by
carrying his district for our party, and then resign to make
way for the Governor's nephew, Major Rathbun. But it
seems Gazaway had his own ideas. He knew a trick or
two besides saving his bacon on the battle-field. His plan
was that he should be the candidate for Congress from the
district. When he found that he couldn't make that work,
he did the next best thing, and held on to his commission.
Wasn't it capital? It pays me for being overlooked, during
three years, in spite of the recommendations of my
colonel and my generals. There he is still, Lieutenant-Colonel,
with the Governor's nephew under him to do his
fighting and field duty. I don't know how Gazaway got
command of the conscript camp where he has been for the
last year. I suppose he lobbied for it. But I know that
he has turned it to good account. One of my sergeants
was on detached duty at the camp, and was taken behind
the scenes. He told me that he made two hundred dollars
in less than a month, and that Gazaway must have
pocketed ten times as much.”
“How is it possible that they have not ferreted out such
a scoundrel!” exclaims the horror-stricken Doctor.
“Ah! the War Department has had a great load to
carry. The War Department has had its hands too full
of Jeff Davis to attend to every smaller rascal.”
“But why didn't Major Rathbun have him tried for his
old offences? It was the Major's interest to get him out
of his own way.”
“Those were condoned by the acceptance of his resignation.
Gazaway died officially with full absolution; and
then was born again in his reappointment. He could go
to work with clean hands to let substitutes escape for five
hundred dollars a-piece, while the sergeant who allowed
the man to dodge him got fifty. Isn't it a beautiful
story?”
“Shocking! But this is doing you harm. You don't
make you hold your tongue till to-morrow morning.”
“Oh, opium. I have been living on it for the last forty-eight
hours—the last week.”
“Twelve more hours won't hurt you. You must stop
thinking and feeling. I tell you honestly that I never saw
you in such a feverish state of excitation when you were
wounded. You talk in a manner quite unlike yourself.”
“Very well,” said Colburne with a long-drawn sigh, as
if resigning himself by an effort to the repugnant idea of
repose.
Here we may as well turn off Lieutenant-Colonel Gazaway,
since he will not be executed by any act of civil or
military justice. Removed at last from the conscript
camp, and ordered to the front, he at once sent in his resignation,
backed up by a surgeon's certificate of physical
disability, retired from the service with a capital of ten or
fifteen thousand dollars, removed to New York, set up a
first-class billiard-saloon, turned democrat once more, obtained
a couple of city offices, and now has an income of
seven or eight thousand a-year, a circle of admiring henchmen,
and a reputation for ability in business and politics.
When he speaks in a ward meeting or in a squad of speculators
on 'Change, his words have ten times the influence
that would be accorded in the same places to the utterances
of Colburne or Ravenel. I, however, prefer to write
the history of these two gentlemen, who appear so unsuccessful
when seen from a wordly point of view.
Fearing to disturb Colburne's slumbers, Ravenel did not
visit him again until nine o'clock on the following morning.
He found him dressed, and looking over a mass of
company records, preparatory to commencing his muster-out
roll.
“You ought not to do that,” said the Doctor. “You
are very feverish and weak. All the strength you have is
from opiates, and you tax your brain fearfully by driving
it on such fuel.”
“But it must be done, Doctor,” he said with a scowl,
as if trying to see clearly through clouds of fever and morphine.
“It is an awful job,” he added with a sigh. “Just
see what it is. I must have the name of every officer and
man that ever belonged to the company—where, when,
and by whom enlisted—where, when, and by whom mustered
in—when and by whom last paid—what bounty
paid and what bounty due—balance of clothing account
—stoppages of all sorts—facts and dates of every promotion
and reduction, discharge, death and desertion—number
and date of every important order. Five copies!
Why don't they demand five hundred? Upon my soul, it
doesn't seem as if I could do it.”
“Why not make some of your men do it?”
“I have none here. I am the only man who will go out
on this paper. There is not a man of my original company
who has not either re-enlisted as a veteran, or deserted,
or died, or been killed, or been discharged because of
wounds, or breaking down under hardships.”
“Astonishing!”
“Very curious. That Shenandoah campaign cut up
our regiment wonderfully. We went there with four hundred
men, and we had less than one hundred and fifty
when I left.”
The civilian stared at the coolness of the soldier, which
seemed to him much like hard-heartedness. The latter
rubbed his forehead and eyes, not affected by these tremendous
recollections, but simply seeking to gain clearness
of brain euough to commence his talk.
“You must not work to-day,” said the Doctor.
“I have only three days for the job, and I must work
to-day.”
“Well—go on then. Make your original, which is, I
suppose, the great difficulty; and my daughter and I will
make the four others.”
“Will you? How kind you are!”
At nine o'clock of the following morning Colburne delivered
that day and the next the father and daughter finished
the four copies, while Colburne lay in bed, too sick and
dizzy to raise his head. On the fourth day he went by
railroad to the city of , the primary rendezvous of
the regiment, and was duly mustered out of existence as
an officer of the United States army. Returning to New
Boston that evening, he fainted at the door of the hotel,
was carried to his room by the porters, and did not leave
his bed for forty-eight hours. At the end of that time he
dressed himself in his citizen's suit, and called on Mrs.
Carter. She was astonished and frightened to see him,
for he was alarmingly thin and ghastly. Nevertheless,
after the first startled exclamation of “Captain Colburne!”
she added with a benevolent hypocrisy, “How much better
you look than I thought to see you!”
He held both her hands for a moment, gazing into her
eyes with a profound gratification at their sympathy, and
then said, as he seated himself, “Thank you for your anxiety.
I am going to get well now. I am going to give
myself three months of pure, perfect rest.”
The wearied man pronounced the word rest with a
touching intonation of pleasure.
“Don't call me Captain,” he resumed. “The very word
tires me, and I want repose. Besides, I am a citizen, and
have a right to the Mister.”
“He is mortified because he was not promoted,” thought
Lillie, and called him by the threadbare title no more.
“It always seems to be our business to take care of you
when you are sick,” she said. “We nursed you at Taylorsville—that
is, till we wanted some fighting done.”
“That seems a great while ago,” replied Colburne meditatively.
“How many things have happened since then!”
he was about to say, but checked the utterance for fear of
giving her pain.
“Yes, it seems a long time ago,” she repeated soberly,
for she too thought how many things had happened since
give to the idea. He continued to gaze at her earnestly
and with profound pity in his heart, while his memory
flashed over the two great incidents of maternity and
widowhood. “She has fought harder battles than I have,”
he said to himself, wondering meanwhile to find her so
little changed, and deciding that what change there was
only made her more charming. He longed to say some
word of consolation for the loss of her husband, but he
would not speak of the subject until she introduced it.
Lillie's mind also wondered shudderingly around that bereavement,
and then dashed desperately away from it,
without uttering a plaint.
“Can I see the baby?” he asked, after these few moments
of silence.
She colored deeply, not so much with pleasure and
pride, as with a return of the old virginity of soul. He
understood it, for he remembered that she had blushed in
the same manner when she met him for the first time after
her marriage. It was the modesty of her womanhood,
confessing, “I am not what I was when you saw me last.”
“He is not a baby,” she laughed. “He is a great boy,
more than a year old. Come and look at him.”
She led the way into her room. It was the first time
that he had ever been in her room, and the place filled
him with delicious awe, as if he were in the presence of
some sweet sanctity. Irish Rosann, sitting by the bedside,
and reading her prayer-book, raised her old head and
took a keen survey of the stranger through her silver-rimmed
spectacles. On the bed lay a chubby urchin, well
grown for a yearling, his fair face red with health, sunburn,
and sleep, arms spread wide apart, and one dimpled
leg and foot outside of the coverlet.
“There is the Little Doctor,” she said, bending down
and kissing a dimple.
It was a long time since she had called him “Little General,”
or, “Little Brigadier.” From the worship of the
altogether, to the earlier and happier worship of the parent.
“Does he look like his grandfather?” asked Colburne.
“Why! Can't you see it? He is wonderfully like
him. He has blue eyes, too. Don't you see the resemblance?”
“I think he has more chins than your father. He has
double chins all the way down to his toes,” said Colburne,
pointing to the collops on the little leg.
“You mustn't laugh at him,” she answered. “I suppose
you have seen him enough. Men seldom take a
longer look than that at a baby.”
“Yes. I don't want to wake him up. I don't want
the responsibility of it. I wouldn't assume the responsibilities
of an ant. I haven't the energy for it.”
They returned to the little parlor. The Doctor came in,
and immediately forced the invalid to lie on a sofa, propping
him up with pillows and proposing to cover him with
an Affghan.
“No,” said Colburne. “I beg pardon for my obstinacy,
but I suffer with heat all the time.”
“It is the fever,” said the Doctor. “Remittent malarious
fever. It is no joke when it dates from Brashear
City.”
“It it not being used to a house,” answered Colburne,
stubborn in faith in his own health. “It is wearing a
vest and a broadcloth coat. I really am not strong enough
to bear the hardships of civilization.”
“We shall see,” said the Doctor gravely. “The Indians
die of civilization. So does many a returned soldier.
You will have to be careful of yourself for a long time to
come.”
“I am,” said Colburne. “I sleep with windows open.”
“Why didn't you write to us that you were sick?”
asked Lillie.
“I didn't wish to worry you. I knew you were kind
enough to be worried. What was the use?”
She thought that it was noble, and just like him, but
she said nothing. She could not help admiring him, as he
lay there, for looking so sick and weak, and yet so cheer
ful and courageous, so absolutely indifferent to his state
of bodily depression. There was not in his face or manner
a single shadow of expression which seemed like an
appeal for pity or sympathy. He had the air of one who
had become so accustomed to suffering as to consider it a
common-place matter not worthy of a moment's despondency,
or even consideration. His look was noticeably
resolute, and energetic, yet patient.
“You are the most resigned sick man that I ever saw,”
she said. “You make as good an invalid as a woman.”
“A soldier's life cultivates some of the Christian virtues,”
he answered; “especially resignation and obedience. Just
see here. You are roused at midnight, march twenty
miles on end, halt three or four hours, perhaps in a pelting
rain; then you are faced about, marched back to your old
quarters and dismissed, and nobody ever tells you why or
wherefore. You take it very hard it first, but at last you
get used to it and do just as you are bid, without complaint
or comment. You no more pretend to reason concerning
your duties than a millstone troubles itself to understand
the cause of its revolutions. You are set in motion,
and you move. Think of being started out at early
dawn and made to stand to arms till daylight, every
morning, for six weeks running. You may grumble at it,
but you do it all the same. At last you forget to grumble
and even to ask the reason why. You obey because you
are ordered. Oh! a man learns a vast deal of stoical virtue
in field service. He learns courage, too, against sickness
as well as against bullets. I believe the war will
give a manlier, nobler tone to the character of our nation.
The school of suffering teaches grand lessons.”
“And how will the war end?” asked Lillie, anxious, as
every citizen was, to get the opinion of a soldier on this
great question.
“We shall beat them, of course.”
“When?”
“I can't say. Nobody can. I never heard a military
man of any merit pretend to fix the time. Now that I am
a civilian, perhaps I shall resume the gift of prophecy.”
“Mr. Seward keeps saying, in three months.”
“Well, if he keeps saying so long enough he will hit it.
Mr. Seward hasn't been serious in such talk. His only object
was to cheer up the nation.”
“So we shall beat them?” cheerfully repeated the converted
secessionist. “And what then? I hope we shall
pitch into England. I hate her for being so underhandedly
spiteful toward the North, and false toward the South.”
“Oh no; don't hate her. England, like every body
else, doesn't like a great neighbor, and would be pleased
to see him break up into small neighbors. But England
is a grand old nation, and one of the lights of the world.
The only satisfaction which I should find in a war with
England would be that I could satisfy my curiosity on a
point of professional interest. I would like to see how
European troops fight compared with ours. I would
cheerfully risk a battle for the spectacle.”
“And which do you think would beat?” asked Lillie.
“I really don't know. That is just the question. Marengo
against Cedar Creek, Leipsic against the Wilderness.
I should like, of all things in the world, to see the
trial.”
Thus they talked for a couple of hours, in a quiet way,
strolling over many subjects, but discussing nothing of
deep personal interest. Colburne was too weak to have
much desire to feel or to excite emotions. In studying
the young woman before him he was chiefly occupied in
detecting and measuring the exact change which the potent
incidents of her later life had wrought in her expression.
He decided that she looked more serious and more
earnest than of old; but that was the total of his fancied
discoveries; in fact, he was too languid to analyze.
| CHAPTER XXXIV.
LILLIE'S ATTENTION IS RECALLED TO THE RISING GENERATION. Miss Ravenel's conversion from secession to loyalty | |