University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

Philip Sterling attempted to open his eyes. One
of them unclosed, but the other refused to do him that
good turn: it had swollen fearfully.

“John,” said he faintly, without turning his head,
“believe I 'm hurt a little.”

“Humph?” replied a gruff voice.

Slowly and wearily, Philip turned upon his side. A
Federal soldier stood near him. Through an opening
he saw strange trees and hills whirling past him in a
wild gigantic dance. As his eye moved from point to
point, his slow ideas gradually shaped themselves into
the conclusion that he was lying upon the deck of a
steamer in rapid motion.

The surprise of this idea stimulated him. He rose
to a sitting posture, remained so a moment, then caught
hold of a stanchion and assisted himself to stand. The
delicious breeze of the May-morning blew upon his
fevered head, cooled him, and strengthened him.

To Philip, a tree was always equal to a dream; a hill
was but a surface that slanted his soul upwards; a dell
was only a vase that brought forth its own flowers, and
every stream held truth, white-bosomed, like a naiad,
in its depths. To-day he had all these. The hours
flew past him as rapidly as the trees on the banks. At
four o'clock they rounded the curve which leads into

Burwell's Bay. Philip watched the shore with intense
yet furtive eagerness. He wished to discover some
trace of his comrades; but he feared to attract the attention
of the officers standing about the deck lest they
also should discover some sign of the hostile scouts on
the shore.

Presently the face of the continuous bluff grew familiar
to him. At this moment an officer who had been
also curiously regarding the shore, called out, —

“Lend me your glass a minute, quartermaster!”

The quartermaster aye-aye'd-sir, handed him the
glass, touched his hat, and resumed his beat.

“Thought I saw a man dodging about amongst those
trees over yonder,” said the officer, adjusting the glass
to his eye. He looked steadily towards the shore for
some moments.

“Well, by old Gideon!” exclaimed he, without taking
the glass from his eye; “a cosy spying-nook as ever I
saw, and be damned to 'em!”

“What is it, chief?” inquired several voices.

“A real Johnny Reb over there, stuck in the face o'
the bluff like a sand-martin, bi-God, in a hole! Got
his spy-glass and all, too, and gazing away at us as if he
was reading a newspaper! Let 's give him the news,
what d'ye say?”

He ran to the gun on the starboard quarter.

“Bear a hand; we 'll run her out ourselves. How 's
she charged?”

“Shell, sir; two seconds.”

“Too much. Run in a grape-pill over it. 'T is n't
four hundred yards from here to the impudent rascal
yonder. Now then. Let me aim her. So.”

“Fire!”

Philip's heart thrilled and sickened.

The channel makes inward at this point. It is not
more than a quarter of a mile from the shore. The
shell and the grape-shot howled and screamed in an
agony of delight, like bloodhounds long held and just
unleashed when a few springs bring them on the victim.

The chief raised his glass.

“Damned if he is n't gone up,” said he, “or gone
down, more likely. Can't see anything of him.”

“Good God!” thought Philip, “who 's killed? Was
it Flem, or Paul Rübetsahl, or honest Cain, or Aubrey?”

Vague ideas ran through his mind. They were something
like this; life — death — friendship — strange —
how does God have the heart to allow it — don't understand
— insane if I think — wait — wait!

The steamer touched at Newport News wharf.
Two passengers came aboard, of whom one was in blue
and the other in dirty gray. This was all that Philip
noticed as he glanced at them and fell back into his
sorrowful reflections. If he had looked more closely,
he would have discovered that the man in gray looked
at him twice, the last time with a grin of triumph
which soon darkened into an expression of hatred and
revenge.

Philip must needs moralize.

“The skies,” said he to himself, “smile, no matter
who frowns. They are unmindful of men. And so
are the waters. Two years ago these very waves floated
our Merrimac proudly: there are the masts of the
frigate she sunk that day. Now they float, full as
proudly, the hostile keels of our enemies.

“Ah, Nature has no politics. She 'll grow a rose as
well for York as Lancaster; and mayhap beat both
down next minute with a storm!

“She has no heart; else she never had rained on
Lear's head.

“She has no eyes; for, seeing, she never could
have drowned that dainty girl, Ophelia.

“She has no ears; or she would hear the wild
Sabian hymns to Night and prayers to Day that men
are uttering evermore.

“O blind, deaf, no-hearted Beauty, we cannot woo
thee, for thou silently contemnest us; we cannot force
thee, for thou art stronger than we; we cannot compromise
with thee, for thou art treacherous as thy seas:
what shall we do, we, unhappy, that love thee, coquette
Nature?”

This inquiry of Philip Sterling's received immediate
answer, — from the lips of a dead man. For at this
moment he heard some one saying in a low voice, —

“Toes up, boys!”

He looked towards the sound. A wounded prisoner
had just died. Philip stepped to his cot.

Winged victory, in the likeness of a smile, dwelt
upon the dead man's face. This still smile contained
the ineffable repose of a marble statue, and something
more, namely, the potential energy and smooth irresistible
activity of a victorious soul. Spiritual force, confident,
calm, untrammelled, — this is the meaning of
such a smile on such a face.

Philip perceived it.

He stood at the bow of the boat looking seaward
until she ran alongside the wharf at Fortress Monroe.