 | CHAPTER VIII. Tiger-lilies |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
..... And in his brain,
Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit
After a voyage, he hath strange places crammed
With observation, the which he vents
In mangled forms. Oh that I were a fool!”
As You Like It.
In the early morning of May 7th, John Briggs and
Philip Sterling lay sleeping peacefully in No. 78 of that
charming old Virginia hotel which stands like a reservoir
to receive the stream of passengers flowing into it
from the great channel of the Petersburg and Weldon
railroad.
Simultaneously entered into this room two visitors,
one from heaven and the other from the hotel-office.
These were a sun-ray which flashed in through the
window, and a black waiter who opened the door half-way
and inserted his dark and dignified phiz there-through.
The sun-ray, retaining its penchant for windows, continued
its course and entered into Philip Sterling's soul by
the windows of it. It shone on his eyes, passed through,
and produced upon the soul inside some vague impression
that darkness was gone and light was about; under
which impression Philip Sterling threw open the shutters
of his soul-windows. The black waiter, on the
contrary, true to his instincts, retained his penchant for
the doors, of the soul.
“Glad to see you sleep so comfuttuble, sah! Compliment
to de house, sah! Bin knockin' ten minutes
or mo', sah! Note for you; gemplim waitin' at de door
on de hoss send compliments, an' tell de boys he in a
hell of a hurry, sah!”
Philip placed his mouth at the ear of John Briggs
and blew strenuously. In his sleep the blowee was
straightway nightmared with the dream that all the
winds of heaven had drawn to a focus in his ear, where
they did yell and hound him on through the world.
“Get up, John. Note from the major. Wants us
to ride with him immediately, before breakfast. Horses
saddled, at the door,” said Philip, reading from the
note.
As John Briggs was pulling on his right sock, his eye
fell on the open note lying on the table.
“I see,” said he, laughing, “the major retains his affectionate
propensity for calling us pet names, Phil.
Did you notice the sweet term of endearment wherewith
he commences his yepistle? `You damned lazy
hounds,' quoth he, `I want you!”' &c., &c.
Oh that I had but time, while these boys are dressing,
to submit a little dissertation upon “Individual Character
as displayed in pulling on socks and breeches o' mornings,
together with a View of Humanity at the Moment of
Emergence from the general Couch of Slumber,” but who
hath time to say aught while a Confederate soldier was
dressing, — a matter of two minutes and less! Moreover
the horses wait down-stairs, and Major M— is
fuming, being the most restless of mortals. Yet, oh
that I had time!
“Mount, boys!” cried the major, as the two young
men descended the steps. “Haygood 's out on the railroad,
and he 's going to have a devilish hard time of it
this morning.”
As they rode down the street, John Briggs whistled
long, like a boatswain i' the calm.
“Phe-ee-ee-w!” observed he. “Phil, I 'm hungry!
I could eat dog. I could masticate adamant. I could
deglutite a fortress, or a chain-shot, or the major's conscience,
there, — and I 'll stop, for that 's the hardest
simile extant. Methinks I see the early pies, borne on
the heads of the daughters of Afric. Hast in thy purse,
my friend, aught wherewithal a gentleman might buy —
a pie?”
“That have I,” said Philip proudly, — “and thereby
hangs a tale. I drew two months' wages t' other day.
It was twenty-two dollars. I met three friends, and we
four drank: one gill, of such whiskey, apiece. Four
drinks at five dollars per drink, is twenty dollars. The
residuum and sweet overplus of my two months' wages
thou beholdest there!” he said, and flaunted a two dollar
bill like a triumphal flag upon the breeze.
“Here, Dinah,” quoth Briggs, “give us a pie. Dinah,
these be pale and feeble pies, — how much for one of
'em?”
“Two dollars, sah!”
“Now an I had had Golconda in my pocket, she had
surely said Golconda was the price of a pie: which is,
in the vernacular, she would `size my pile!' What, Dinah!
This large bill, this most rare and radiant sweet
bill, with the pathetic inscription thereupon! `Six months
after the ratification of a treaty of peace, I promise to pay!'
disburse! — Here, Relentless! receive the pathetic
inscription! and give me a pie: and now my money is
gone, my future is black as thou, Dinah — till pay-day.”
In silence rode they on. “Methinks,” presently said
Briggs, meditatively biting into the last half of his pie,
— “methinks I see within this pie” —
“What is it, John; a fly, or a cockroach?” tenderly
inquired the major.
“Or a lock of hair?” suggested Phil.
“Gentlemen, it is a most monstrous thing, — it is
worse than flies and larger than cockroaches and it
strangleth more chokingly than hair: for it is — the
degeneracy and downfall of my country! Hear me!
Philip Sterling, do you remember, oh, do you remember
how, when we passed herethrough two years ago, you
and I did straggle into Ledbetter's bakery, and sat
down at a marble-topped table and took a pie and a
glass of milk? Compare that time with this! Sir,”
— appealing to the major as he rose into the pathetic-sublime,
— “the crust of that pie (at Ledbetter's two
years ago) was dark with richness! The crust of it
was short, ladies and gentlemen; short as — as the major's
nose, there; short as rations; short as life compared
with eternity; in short, it was as short as pie-crust. It
did melt upon the tongue sweetly; languidly dissolving
into a vague deliciousness, as the sweet day dissolves
into mysterious twilight. Moreover, between these
dainty crusts our am'rous tongues discovered liberal largesse
of th' integrant fruit, — peach, and other the like
confections, sugared and spiced, which with the creamy
milk did mingle and marry-in rarely, patly, like `two
to noble words;' like dreamy star-light shimmering
into dreamy dawn-light i' the early morn. Thinking
of those pies I have much contempt for Apicius, Heliogabalus
& Co.
“But alas, and woe is me, Alhama!
“I contrast this pie with those pies.
“I observe with pain and smearing, that molasses,
otherwise sorghum, hath entirely superseded sugar.
“I observe that this crust hath a weakly-white
and wan aspect, and a familiar tang it leaveth as it departeth,
admonisheth my secret soul of bacon-fat that
went to the making of it, vice lard, deceased.
“And as for the spices, they have shared the doom
of Ilium and of the buried past; fuit; they are not.
“And I do remember that those large pies were
vended to the happy at the rate of twenty-five cents
each, whereas these small pies bring two dollars:
stated generally, the price proceedeth upon the inverse
ratio to the size.
“Sir, and gentlemen of the jury! aside, my lords,
from the moral degradation evinced by this low pass to
which the once pure pie is come, — how can men be
raised to fight upon such villainous coward's-pabulum
as this?
“Is this, O ye delegates of the diet of worms, is
this” — holding up the last ragged mouthful between
finger and thumb — “to be the sweet reward and
guerdon of the battle-grimed veteran, just come from
the big wars? Forbid it, Mars! — which is to say,
cook better ones, mothers!” concluded the speaker, and
meekly, in absence of mind, swallowed the last piece.
“Eheu, Pius Eneas! I” —
“Hold your gab, boys! Listen!” interposed the
major.
Stopping the horses a moment, they heard the sound
of a cannon booming in the direction of Richmond.
Another and another followed. Presently came a loud
report which seemed to loosen the battle as a loud
thunder-peal releases the rain, and the long musketry-rattle
broke forth.
“Haygood 's having a rough time of it. Let 's get
there, hearties! It 'll be three more of us, anyhow,”
said the major, sticking spurs to his horse.
They approach the outskirts of the storm of battle.
There lies a man, in bloody rags that were gray, with
closed eyes. The first hailstone in the advancing
edge of the storm has stricken down a flower. The
dainty petal of life shrivels, blackens: yet it gives
forth a perfume as it dies; his lips are moving, — he
is praying.
The wounded increase. Here is a musket in the
road: there is the languid hand that dropped it, pressing
its fingers over a blue-edged wound in the breast.
Weary pressure, and vain, — the blood flows steadily.
More muskets, cartridge-boxes, belts, greasy haversacks,
strew the ground.
Here come the stretcher-bearers. They leave a
dripping line of blood. “Walk easy as you kin, boys,”
comes from a blanket which four men are carrying by
the corners. Easy walking is desirable when each
step of your four carriers spurts out the blood afresh,
or grates the rough edges of a shot bone in your
leg.
The sound of a thousand voices, eager, hoarse, fierce
all speaking together yet differently, comes through
the leaves of the undergrowth. A strange multitudinous
noise accompanies it, — a noise like the tremendous
sibilation of a mile-long wave just before it breaks.
It is the shuffling of two thousand feet as they march
over dead leaves.
“Surely that can't be reserves; Haygood did n't
have enough for his front! They must be falling back:
hark! there 's a Yankee cheer. Good God! Here 's
three muskets on the ground, boys! Come on!” said
the major, and hastily dismounted.
The three plunge through the undergrowth. Waxen
May-leaves sweep their faces; thorns pierce their
hands; the honeysuckles cry “Wait!” with alluring
perfumes; gnarled oak-twigs wound the wide-opened
eyes.
It is no matter.
They emerge into an open space. A thousand men
are talking, gesticulating, calling to friends, taking
places in rank, abandoning them for others. They are
in gray rags.
“Where 's Haygood?”
He is everywhere! On right flank cheering, on left
flank rallying, in the centre commanding: he is ubiquitous;
he moves upon the low-sweeping wing of a battle
genius: it is supernatural that he should be here
and yonder at once. His voice suddenly rings out, —
“Form, men! We 'll run 'em out o' that in a second.
Reinforcements coming!”
“What 's the matter with the Yanks? Look, Phil!”
says Briggs.
The Federals, having driven the small Confederate
force from the railroad, stop in their charge as soon as
they have crossed the track. Behind their first is a
second line. As if on parade this second line advances
to the railroad, and halts. “Ground arms!” Their
muskets fall in a long row, as if in an armory-rack.
The line steps two paces forward. It stoops over the
track. It is a human machine with fifty thousand
clamps, moved by levers infinitely flexible. Fifty thousand
fingers insert themselves beneath the stringers of
the road. All together! They lift, and lay over, bottom
upwards, a mile of railroad.
But, O first line of Federals, you should not have
stopped! The rags have rallied. Their line is formed,
in the centre floats the cross-banner, to right and left
gleam the bayonets like silver flame-jets, unwavering,
deadly; these, with a thousand mute tongues, utter a
silent yet magnificent menace.
“Charge! Steady, men!”
The rags flutter, the cross-flag spreads out and reveals
its symbol, the two thousand sturdy feet in hideous
brogans, or without cover, press forward. At first
it is a slow and stately movement; stately in the mass,
ridiculous if we watch any individual leg, with its knee
perhaps showing through an irregular hole in such pantaloons!
The step grows quicker. A few scattering shots
from the enemy's retiring skirmishers patter like the
first big drops of the shower.
From the right of the ragged line now comes up a
single long cry, as from the leader of a pack of hounds
who has found the game. This cry has in it the uncontrollable
with a dry harsh quality that conveys an uncompromising
hostility. It is the irresistible outflow of some
fierce soul immeasurably enraged, and it is tinged with
a jubilant tone, as if in anticipation of a speedy triumph
and a satisfying revenge. It is a howl, a hoarse battlecry,
a cheer, and a congratulation, all in one.
They take it up in the centre, they echo it on the
left, it swells, it runs along the line as fire leaps along
the rigging of a ship. It is as if some one pulled out in
succession all the stops of the infernal battle-organ, but
only struck one note which they all speak in different
voices.
The gray line nears the blue one, rapidly. It is a thin
gray wave, whose flashing foam is the glitter of steel
bayonets. It meets with a swell in the ground, shivers
a moment, then rolls on.
Suddenly thousands of tongues, tipped with red and
issuing from smoke, speak deadly messages from the
blue line. One volley? A thousand would not stop
them now. Even if they were not veterans who know
that it is safer at this crisis to push on than to fall
back, they would still press forward. They have forgotten
safety, they have forgotten life and death: their
thoughts have converged into a focus which is the one
simple idea, — to get to those men in blue, yonder.
Rapid firing from the blue line brings rapid yelling
from the gray.
But look! The blue line, which is like a distant
strip of the sea, curls into little waves; these dash together
in groups, then fly apart. The tempest of panic
has blown upon it. The blue uniforms fly, flames issue
and the battle has degenerated to a chase.
John Briggs and Philip had started side by side.
But the swaying line, the excitement of the chase in
which the fastest man, either pursuing or pursued, was
the happiest also, had drawn them asunder.
Briggs overtook a color-sergeant.
“Surrender!”
“B'lieve I will. Got me!”
“Hurr—!” It is probable that John Briggs finished
this exclamation with a sigh of ineffable delight. For
he was at this moment, in the Jean Paul sense, promoted.
A random bullet entered his mouth; and, with
that eagerness to escape which argues the soul's great
contempt for the body, through this small aperture
leaped out John Briggs' ascending spirit. Philip was
not near to congratulate him upon this heavenly brevet,
conferred purely for gallantry on the world's field.
But when the day of separated friends comes, then
what shakings of the hand, then what felicitations
poured on fine John Briggs, that he won his bay so
well and with so much less pain of life than we!
Philip was wild with the fascination of victory. It
was an enchantment that urged him on. He saw nothing,
knew nothing, to right or left; a spell in front drew
him forward. He was far ahead of the line. Something
behind a smoke called out, —
“Surrender!”
Philip raised his gun. His left arm suddenly felt
paralyzed and he was half-blind with pain. The next
moment a form which loomed before his hot eyes like a
blue mountain, lifted a musket to what seemed an immeasurable
an infinite diamond. The musket descended with a
sidewise deflection and fell upon his eye as if a meteor
had crashed into it. He felt himself falling, and
fainted.
| CHAPTER VIII. Tiger-lilies | |