Part 4

“Of course you can’t,” said the man; “and, if you could, of course you wouldn’t tell me. There, I don’t want no more to say to you. Just git, that’s all you’ve got to do.”

Ned went back full of this new temptation. The other pickets were dispersed, the river rolled on invitingly, and Tom seemed to be sleeping more quietly than before.

“Perhaps I can get him exchanged in the morning,” said Ned, “since he’s so ill. I am glad that he is sleeping.”

Just at this moment, Tom awoke hurriedly, and looked about him wildly and vacantly, then fell back again.

“Oh, if Ned were only here!” he groaned,――“if Ned were only here!”

“Ned is here, Tom, close beside you, as always,” said Ned, softly.

“If Ned were here,” muttered Tom, “he would help me. O Ned, Ned! do come, do please come and help me to see my mother!”

“I will,” whispered Ned, solemnly. Not an instant was to be lost. Without daring to think, without daring to look around him, then he lifted Tom and laid him in the boat. The keel grated on the pebbly shore. He started nervously and turned; but the faithless picket was laboriously sleeping. In an instant more he had thrown off his outer garments; and, with the rope of the boat tied around his neck, he half swam, half drifted, with the strong current down the stream. Weak from his late sickness, and the excitement and efforts of the night, his swimming soon exhausted him; and he clung to the side of the boat, and drifted with it. The sky now was marked with black cloud-rifts, that made strange and fantastic outlines on its luminous background; and the white light of the moon was growing gray. On each side of him he saw the black trees standing in groups, now dense, now scattered, along the shores; while ever in his ears was the strange murmur of the torrent, broken only by Tom’s incoherent muttering as he lay in the boat. Then suddenly came the sharp report of a rifle; and he knew that his escape was discovered at last. He heard the bullets whistle by him, then one grazed the side of the boat, but luckily did not come near Tom. At last the firing ceased; but the boat seemed to be drifting into a little cove. He made one desperate effort to push her more into the main current, but in vain; for his strength was now entirely gone. Then he gave one cry, as he saw the first faint gleam of dawn in the east, and the boat struck him, bruised and fainting, against the shore. He crawled feebly upon the bank, the rope still around his neck; and then, stunned and bruised, all consciousness forsook him. The last thing which he knew was, that the birds were just beginning to twitter in the trees.

* * * * *

When he awoke it was later in the day; and the warm light and air of the forenoon was streaming into his tent. An orderly was standing by the entrance.

“Where is Tom?” he asked hoarsely.

“The captain is there;” and the orderly pointed to the other side of the tent, where Ned saw a figure lying muffled in coats and blankets. He hardly dared to ask what he dreaded to learn, his voice seemed clogged and heavy in his throat; and finally, when he did speak, it was in a hoarse and tremulous whisper:――

“Is he dead?”

“Dead?” said the orderly, surprised; “why, no, colonel! But he is dreadfully sick; and they are going to take him to the hospital, after you have seen him and spoken with him.”

“Go outside,” said Ned, briefly, “and let no one enter under any pretext whatever.” And, as the orderly obeyed, he threw himself down beside Tom, who was sleeping restlessly under the influence apparently of some opiate.

He looked at him, laid his hand upon his forehead, and then bent over and kissed his hot face.

“Tom,” he said. But there was no answer, no movement. “I have come to bid you good-by, Tom,” he said; “I am going back to deliver myself up.” But still Tom slept, and groaned.

“Not one word of good-by, Tom,” said poor Ned. “And yet this is the last time――the very last time――God help me!――that we shall see each other, that I shall see you. O my darling, my darling, my darling! please hear me. The only one I have ever loved at all, the only one who has ever loved me. The last words that you heard from me were those of anger and impatience, and now, poor fellow! you cannot speak even to say good-by. Hear me say it. When you get well again, have some memory of my bending over you and saying it, and telling you that I was saying good-by, good-by, good-by! O Tom, my darling! don’t forget it. If you knew how I love you, how I have loved you in all my jealous, morbid moods, in all my exacting selfishness,――O Tom! my darling, my darling! can’t you say one word, one little word before we part,――just one little word, if it were only my name? Oh, please, please speak to me! Don’t you remember when we were examined for college together? You sat across the hall. I saw you there; and I wanted to go over and help you. And your picture, Tom, that we quarrelled about,――I have it now, Tom; it will be with me when they bury me. Tom, don’t you remember that picture? It was the night when I determined to go to war that you gave me that picture; it was just before we enlisted. O Tom! why did I let you come at all? You will see your mother, Tom; and you will go home now, and marry, and be happy, and forget me. Oh, no, no, no, Tom! you won’t do that; you can’t do that. You won’t forget Ned, darling; he was something to you; and you were all the world to him. O Tom! Tom! please say one word to him.” He stopped and was silent. Tom only moaned restlessly in his sleep; and there seemed to be a painful death-like silence inside the tent, while outside was the bright life of the morning and the busy murmur of the camp.

“Ah, well!” he said, “it is better so. He would not let me go if he were conscious; he would say that I must stay with him; and that cannot be. He need not know that I am dead, as I shall be, until he himself is well once again. Good-by, Tom! good-by! and God bless you forever, my darling!”

And calmly, yet with a dreadful pang at his heart, he stooped, and once more kissed the flushed face of his friend; then quickly, as if impelled by some force not his own, without daring to look backward, he rushed from the tent.

IX.

THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

“The morn broke in upon his solemn dream; And still with steady pulse and deepening eye, ‘Where bugles call,’ he said, ‘and rifles gleam, I follow though I die.’”

Stonewall Jackson sat in his tent, writing rapidly on a rough pine table. There was in the man, in spite of his old coat stained here and there with mud, and his awkwardness of position and figure, an appearance of power,――power conscious and self-sustaining. At a first glance he seemed an old Virginia farmer; but an instant’s careful scrutiny showed, beneath his awkward simplicity, the grace of a true soldier, while the slow, hesitating speech had in it an undertone which made it evident that at times each word might be charged with fire and eloquence and life. As he moved one hand to brush back the thinned hair on his temples, this hot afternoon, a staff-officer entered the tent.

“I have some curious news, General,” he said.

“What is it?” asked Jackson, briefly; for a word was a power with this man, and he never wasted power.

“The prisoner who broke his parole this morning has returned here,” said the officer.

“What!” exclaimed Jackson, “has he given himself up?”

“Yes, General; they have him in confinement, and he has asked to see you.”

“To see me, lieutenant!” said Stonewall Jackson. “That will make no difference. He is to be shot at sunrise.”

“Very well, General;” and the lieutenant turned to depart.

“Stop a moment, though,” said Jackson. “I should like to know what defence, what excuse he has to offer. Have him brought here.”

“Very well, General. But he is to be shot?”

“Certainly, sir!”

Jackson laid down his pen, and folded his arms before him on the rough board which served him as a writing-table. He had not long to wait. In less than five minutes, Ned appeared, guarded by two soldiers, his face pale but determined. He met Stonewall Jackson’s scrutinizing look clearly and fearlessly, yet respectfully. “You may withdraw,” said Jackson to the men. “Now, sir, you wish to see me. What have you to say?”

“I broke my parole this morning,” said Ned.

“I know it, sir,” said Jackson; “and, having some compunction for your violation of honor, you have tried as a manœuvre giving yourself up again. You have made a mistake, sir.”

“It is just because I knew you would misconstrue my motive and my action thus that I asked to see you,” said Ned. “I wish to explain.”

“No explanation is possible, sir,” cried Stonewall Jackson; “and this will avail you nothing.”

“Oh! wait a moment,” cried Ned, impetuously. “Don’t deceive yourself. I know what I am doing; I knew a few hours ago, when I left the Union lines, what I was doing. I came here to die,――to be shot! Do you hear,――to be shot! I broke my parole; I expected no mercy from you,――I ask for none, I would take none. I claim only my right, and my right is death.”

“Then why did you give yourself up, if you knew death must be your fate?” asked Jackson.

“Death has not frightened me very much,” said Ned, contemptuously.

“There is something about you,” said Stonewall Jackson, “which makes me wish to respect you. I see you are not a coward.”

“And I wish you to see that I am not a liar,” answered Ned. “I gave myself up to death; and I wish you to bear witness, that, having sinned, I accepted the penalty.”

“But why sin?” said Stonewall Jackson.

“I will tell you why,” said Ned. “I have only one person in the world to care for: I have no family, no relatives, only this one friend. He was all the world to me, and I was something to him. When the war broke out, I enlisted, and he went with me. We have been side by side through everything. He saved my life in battle at the risk of his own; and a few weeks ago, when I was taken sick by fever, and he had a leave of absence, he gave up his home, he sacrificed everything, to watch by me. Last night he was taken sick while with the party at the bridge, when in another day he would have been with his mother at Washington. You paroled me. I was left there with him, and he raved and groaned until I could bear it no longer. Every word he said seemed to stab me to the heart. Then I saw the river and the boat; the men were scattered, and the means of escape were at hand. I hesitated. I thought of my parole; and then I thought of him a prisoner, an invalid, a corpse perhaps, if he waited here, while back of us his mother was hastening to meet her only son. He had given up so much for me, and what had I done for him? It seemed as if I must get him away; and then he cried out again, ‘Ned, Ned, won’t you help me?’ And I said, ‘Yes!’ And I knew that _yes_ was death to me. Oh! you see I am prepared. I have not tried to arouse your sympathy or your compassion, I have only told you the bare facts. Do you think, if I hoped for life, if I cared for pardon from you, that I could not say more, that I could not pour out words of fire and blood to show you what our friendship is, and what last night’s temptation was? I ask no mercy; and you could give me none if you wished it: my act must bring its consequences. Only I wished you to see that I was neither liar nor coward; that, having forfeited my life, I did not evade the payment of my debt; in a word, that I was enough of a gentleman to be worthy of the great privilege of serving in my country’s cause.”

“Sir,” said Jackson, “you are not only a gentleman, but a soldier. I love war for itself, I glory in it; but it saddens me when it brings with it the useless sacrifice of such a life as yours.”

“I am not a soldier,” said Ned, quietly. “I hate war; I hate to have to long for the death of such a man as you are. But I am ready for all that, when there is a cause at stake.”

“A cause at stake!” said Stonewall Jackson. “Well, God be with the right!”

“God is with the right,” said Ned; “and time will show us which is the right. Ah! if I could live to see that time!”

“Be thankful rather,” said Jackson, “that you are going to die before you find you are in the wrong. I wish you had been with me in this campaign.”

“If it had been possible,” said Ned, and then he stopped.

“I should like,” said Stonewall Jackson, slowly, “though doubtless you consider me a rebel and a traitor, to have you shake hands with me.”

“Not with a rebel or a traitor,” said Ned, “but with a sincere and honest man whom I respect and honor;” and with this grasp of hands, these two great souls gazed in each other’s eyes.

“And now you know what I must say,” said Stonewall Jackson.

“I know it,” Ned replied.

“Do not think me cruel, do not think me lacking in human feeling,” Stonewall Jackson continued; “but war has its duties as well as peace. God help those who must execute these duties!”

“There is but one thing you can do,” said Ned, tranquilly.

“There is but one thing I can do,” repeated Jackson. “You will be shot at sunrise.” He called the men outside. “Give this gentleman,” he said, “as good accommodations as the camp affords. See that he is left by himself, and is undisturbed to-night.――All letters, all directions, which you may wish to give, shall be forwarded to the North,” he continued, addressing Ned; “and if you wish anything to be done about burial”――

“I shall wish nothing,” said Ned.

“In that case,” said Jackson, with princely courtesy, “I have only to say farewell.” He rose again, and took Ned’s hand; then the soldiers marched away, and he was left in his tent alone.

X.

THE LAST LETTER HOME.

DEAR PROFESSOR,――I am writing to you the last words I shall ever say, the last thoughts I shall ever think, the last farewell to all I have ever known and loved. To-morrow, at daybreak, I am to be shot. There is nothing that can possibly prevent it,――this is my last night on earth. Am I resigned to my lot? am I willing to lose my life? I cannot tell, it seems so like a dream. It is terrible to me to think that this is the end of all my youth and hope; and you will understand me when I say that I do dread and fear death. Yet I am calm and self-possessed. I am half dead already, indeed, for my end seems inevitable; and I do not suffer so much as I wonder. I seem to have lost all volition, and, as it were, to have gone out of myself. A little while ago I wound up my watch; and then the uselessness of that performance struck me, and I said, half aloud, “Poor Ned!” and then laughed at myself for doing it. As my laugh died away, there was a cold silence around which chilled me through and through. Yes, I must be half dead already. It is only when I think of Tom that the life seems to rush back again; and as I believe this sort of torpor is well for me, I dare not trust to myself write to him. Besides, he must get well; and so you must try and keep my death hidden from him for a time. You can tell him, better than I could, that my last thought will be of him, and that I cannot trust myself to say farewell to him. Even now, I have this cruel uncertainty about his health, and I do not know but what you may lose us both.

Stonewall Jackson is a hero. I never thought that I could say that of any rebel, but I am glad that I have known him. He will work us more terrible injury, I fear; but I am sure that he will not live long. The excitement of this war is killing him; and here, when I so thoroughly admire him, I have to rejoice that he is doomed. How strange war is,――stranger and stranger now than ever! Oh! if I could only see the end,――if I could only know whether we shall gain our country by all this blood, and if Tom will live, I could die perfectly contented. There is Tom again, you see. I have to think of him in spite of myself. When you tell him my story, you can give him this letter, if he wants it, as perhaps he will.

And now good-by for yourself. It is not well for me to write,――it brings me back to life too much; but I cannot die without telling you something of my feeling for you. Do you think that I have not fully appreciated all your sympathy, all your kindness, all the wealth of intellect and culture which you have laid before me? I always have had a sort of hope, that some time, when I should win some great honor, and the world should applaud, I could say, “Look here; here is the man to whom I owe all this; here is the man who advised me, who guided me; the man with the strong soul and the woman’s tenderness, who loved youth and beauty, and sympathized with sorrow. You take off your hats to me; but I kneel before him.” But all that is over now, and you have only a numb good-by from a man who is to be shot in a few hours.

My body will not be sent North. When I am dead, I am dead; and here or there, it matters not where it is buried, to me nor to any one else. But if you ever want to think of me, and to feel that I am near, walk through the yard at Harvard, over by Holworthy, in the lovely evenings of the spring weather. It was at such a season, and at such a time, that I last saw the dear old place; and, if I ever can be anywhere on earth again, it is there that I should choose to be. Ah, if I could only see Harvard once again! God bless it forever and forever! I wonder how many visions of its elm-trees have swept before dying eyes here in Virginia battle-fields!

Ah, well! there is only good-by to say once more. When he asks for me, tell him that I constantly think of him, that I am well and happy. Don’t let him know the truth until he is clearly out of danger, and then tell him all. It is not so very hard to bear; and I am sure now that I shall never be forgotten by him, and that nothing can ever come between us now. Tell him the only thing, after God, worth living for and worth dying for, is our country,――our noble country. Oh! she must be strong and glorious and united, at any cost. I feel it and I know it. And now good-by, once more and forever.

He sealed and directed the letter; then, throwing himself on the blanket in the corner of the tent, fell into a deep, refreshing slumber. He woke to feel the grasp of a hand upon his shoulder, to see a file of men beside him. Without a word he rose and went with them. They led him out a little from the camp, where it seemed quiet. He saw them stand before him; he heard one preliminary order given, and caught the flash of rifle-barrels in the early morning sunlight. Then there was a noise and disturbance in the camp beyond, and a voice cried out:――

“It’s an attack by the Federals!”

Ned turned involuntarily. And with these words, in one great sweeping flood, his life came back. No more numbness, no more indifference; but, in that one instant, every drop of blood in his veins seemed charged with electric power, and the morning air was like nectar. He stood there, strong, like a man; and then there was one report, and he fell dead,――dead in the dust of the Virginia soil.

XI.

AFTERWARDS.

This is the one picture that has been ever before my eyes, even in the wild regions of Nevada and the undulating lawns and woody slopes of California. In the snow-clad forests of the Sierra Nevada, and even in the tropical glory of sky and air in Arizona, amid the noise and bustle of the camp, with heavenly peace and loveliness above, and murderous savages, thirsting for our blood lying in deadly ambush all around, I still have seen this picture. A dead man lying with his face to the earth; while close by his side one little spot of dust seems blackened and congealed by blood.

And afterwards? The sunshine steals softly and furtively through the darkened windows of a happy Northern home. It is June, and the perfume of the roses is on the air. In an easy-chair half sits, half reclines, a pale girl, with a happy face, looking down with a perfect smile at Tom, who sits at her feet. And near by stands a nurse, holding in her arms a baby,――a baby whose two gelatinous arms beat the air wildly, while his voice is raised in a shrill note, which may be triumph or which may be agony.

“By Jove!” Tom says admiringly, “his high notes are stunning; ar’n’t they, Nettie?”

“Tom,” replies Nettie, threateningly, “dare to make fun of your offspring again, and we will leave you, and start for Indiana. Won’t we, Baby?”

To this question, reply is given by an absurd inclination of the head on one side and another wheezy shriek.

“I am not laughing, I am not laughing,” Tom hastens to remark, lest the threat of Indiana should be repeated; “so don’t get angry, Baby. I say, Nettie, we must have a name for him. We can’t call him Baby all the time, you know.”

“He was named long ago, Tom,” said Nettie, “though of course I had to wait. We must call him ‘Ned;’ we couldn’t call him by any other name.”

“Thank you, darling,” said Tom, gravely; “that is the way you make me love you more and more every day.” And he kisses his wife, and, rising, takes the baby and looks on its face, while his eyes are filled with tears.

* * * * *

And afterwards? The Professor’s room at Harvard is still as it was when we first knew it, with the photograph still hanging over the mantel-piece. And the Professor sits there gazing at it more lonely now than ever before. He is growing quite old; he is very sarcastic and astonishing; and dreadful stories are current among the students in regard to his severity against culprits in the meetings of the Faculty. There are two or three who know him, and to whom he is very kind. They heard him tell the story of his boys, and they heard poor Ned’s last letter. But the Professor declared then that he should never speak of the subject again; and the few who heard him saw that the rest of his life must be sad. And now, as he takes up the notes and emendations of his old lecture on “Domestic Arts,” whose turn has come again, his eye falls on the picture. Again it is the spring weather, again the fresh breeze enters his room. He rises and walks to the window.

“I wonder if he is near,” he says, half aloud. “‘It was in such a season and at such a time, that I last saw the dear old place; and, if ever I can be on earth again, it is there that I should wish to be.’ Poor Ned! Poor Ned!”

And, as he sits in his chair again, the picture fades from my view, and I see only the moonlight on our mountain camp, and hear the wailing of the western wind.

And afterwards? Once more the country is intact, freed from the deadly perils which assailed her. We know now what the words “our country” mean,――rocks which the Atlantic lashes with its spray; broad uplands and vast prairies where almost spontaneously fruit and grain seem to spring forth from the rich soil; and barren hills as well, with only the sage-brush for vegetation, within whose secret treasure-houses lie great masses of gold and silver ore. From the summits of the Sierra Nevada you can stand at midsummer in a forest where wreaths of snow lie on the trees, and can gaze far down into valleys, thousands of feet beneath, where there are rippling streamlets, and masses of flowers of the most brilliant and the most delicate hues. This wonderful country, that is still in its infancy, that is nursing men of every nation to form a new nation; this country, that, with all its imperfections, stands now on the grand basis of universal freedom,――justifies not merely enthusiasm, but any loss of human life which may aid in its preservation. These friends, these brothers, knew what was the true meaning of life, and with that knowledge, gained by zeal and study, offered their lives as a sacrifice. Woe to our country should the great debt owed to these heroes be ever forgotten!