Since I had been in Company H, I had never spoken to a woman except the nurses in the hospitals. I had seen many women in Richmond and elsewhere. No face of my recollection fitted with the face of my dream. None seemed it's equal in sweetness and dignity.

I had written love letters at the dictation of one or two of the men. I had read love stories. I felt as the men had seemed to feel, and as the lovers in the stories had seemed to feel.

No one knew, since the Captain's death, even the short history of myself that I knew. I grew morose. The men avoided me, all but one—Jerry Butler. Somehow I found myself messing with him. He was a great forager, and kept us both in food. The rations were almost regular, but the fat bacon and mouldy meal turned my stomach. The other men were in good health, and ate heartily of the coarse food given them. Butler had bacon and meal to sell.

The men wondered what was the matter with me. Their wonder did not exceed my own. Butler invited my confidence, but I could not decide to say a word; one word would have made it necessary to tell him all I knew. He would have thought me insane.

I did my duty mechanically, serving on camp guard and on picket regularly, but feeling interest in nothing beyond my own inner self.

At times the battle of Manassas and the spot in the forest would recur to me with great vividness and power. Where and what was my original regiment? I pondered over the puzzle, and I had much time in which to ponder. I remembered that Dr. Frost had told me that if ever I got the smallest clew to my past, I must determine then and there to never let it go.

Sometimes instants of seeming recollection would flash by and be gone before I could define them. They left no result but doubt—sometimes fear. Doubts of the righteousness of war beset me—not of this war, but war. I had a vague notion that in some hazy past I had listened to strong reasons against war. Were they from the Captain? No; he had been against war, but he had fought for the South with relish—they did not come from him. None the less—perhaps I ought to say therefore—did they more strongly impress me, for I indistinctly knew that they came from some one who not only gave precept but also lived example.

Who was he? I might not hope to know.

Added to these doubts concerning war, there were in my mind at times strong desires for a better life—a life more mental. The men were good men—serious, religious men. Nothing could be said against them; but I felt that I was not entirely of them, that they had little thought beyond their personal duties, which they were willing always to do provided their officers clearly prescribed them, and their personal attachments, in which I could have no part. Of course there were exceptions.

I felt in some way that though the men avoided me, they yet had a certain respect for me—for my evident suffering, I supposed. Yet an incident occurred which showed me that their respect was not mere pity. The death of our Captain had left a vacancy in Company H. A lieutenant was to be elected by the men. The natural candidate was our highest non-commissioned officer, who was favoured by the company's commander. The officer in command did not, however, use influence upon the men to secure votes. My preference for the position was Louis Bellot, who had been dangerously wounded at Manassas, and who, we heard, would soon return to the company. I took up his cause, and, without his knowledge, secured enough votes to elect him.

* * * * *

On the 8th of October we advanced to the river. For me it was a miserable march. My mind was in torture, and my strength was failing. Doubts of the righteousness of war had changed to doubts of this war. It was not reason that caused these doubts. Reason told me that the invaders should be driven back. The South had not been guilty of plunging the two countries into war; the South had tried to avert war. The only serious question which my mind could raise upon the conduct of the South was: Had we sufficiently tried to avert war? Had we done all that we could? I did not know, and I doubted.

As we advanced, I looked upon long lines of infantry and cannon marching on to battle, and I thought of all this immense preparation for wholesale slaughter of our own countrymen with horror in my heart. Why could not this war have been avoided? I did not know, but I felt that an overwhelming responsibility attached somewhere, for it was not likely that all possibilities of peace had been exhausted by our people.

As to the Yankees, I did not then think of them. Their crimes and their responsibilities were their own. I had nothing to do with them; but I was part of the South, and the Southern cause was mine, and upon me also weighed the crime of unjust war if it were unjust upon our side.

The thought of the Captain gave me great relief. He had shown me the cause of the South; he had died for it; it could not be wrong. I looked in the faces of the officers and men around me and read patient endurance for the right. I was comforted. I laughed at myself and said, Berwick, you are getting morbid; you are bilious; go to the doctor and get well of your fancies.

Then the thought of the Northern cause came to me. Do not the Federal soldiers also think their cause just? If not, what sort of men are they? They must believe they are right. And one side or the other must be wrong. Which is it? They are millions, and we are millions. Millions of men are joined together to perpetrate wrong while believing that they are right? Can such a condition be?

Even supposing that most men are led in their beliefs by other men in whose judgment they have confidence, are the leaders of either side impure?

No; if they are wrong, they are not wrong intentionally. Men may differ conscientiously upon state policy, even upon ethics.

Then must I conclude that the North, believing itself right, is wrong in warring upon the South? What is the North fighting for? For union and for abolition of slavery; but primarily for union.

And is union wrong? Not necessarily wrong.

What is the South, fighting for? For State rights and for slavery; but principally for State rights.

And is the doctrine of State rights wrong? Not necessarily wrong.

Then, may both North, and South be right?

The question startled me. I had heard that idea before. Where? Not in the army, I was certain. I tried hard to remember, but had to confess failure. The result of my thought was only the suggestion that both of two seemingly opposite thoughts might possibly be true.

On that night I dreamed of my childhood. My dream took me to a city, where I was at school under a teacher who was my friend, and at whose house I now saw him. The man's face was so impressed upon my mind that when I awoke I retained his features. All day of the 9th, while we were crossing the Rapidan and continuing our march through Madison Court-House and on through Culpeper, I thought of the face of my dream. I thought of little else. Food was repugnant. I had fever, and was full of fancies. I was surprised by the thought that I had twice already been ill in the army. Once was at the time of the battle of Fredericksburg; but when and where was the other? I did not know, yet I was sure that I had been sick in the army before I joined Captain Haskell's company, and before I ever saw Dr. Frost.

Long did I wonder over this, and not entirely without result. Suddenly I connected the face of my dream with my forgotten illness. But that was all. My old tutor was a doctor and had attended me. I felt sure of so much.

Then I wondered if I could by any means find the Doctor's name. Some name must be connected with the title. That he was Dr. Some-one I had no doubt. I tried to make Dr. Frost's face fit the face of my dream, but it would not fit. Besides, I knew that Dr. Frost had never been my teacher.

We had gone into bivouac about one o'clock, some two miles north of Madison Court-House. This advance was over ground that was not unfamiliar to me. The mountains in the distance and the hills near by, the rivers and the roads, the villages and the general aspect of this farming country, had been impressed upon my mind first when alone I hurried forward to join Jackson's command on its famous march around Pope; and, later, when we had returned from the Shenandoah Valley after Sharpsburg, and more recently still, on our retreat from Pennsylvania.

What General Lee's purposes were now, caused much speculation in the camp. It was evident that, if the bulk of the army had not as yet uncovered Richmond, our part of it was very far to the left. We might be advancing to the Valley, or we might be trying to get to Meade's rear, just as Jackson had moved around Pope in sixty-two; another day might show. The most of the men believed that we were on a flank march similar to Jackson's, and some of them went so far as to say that both Ewell's and Hills corps were now near Madison Court-House.

I felt but little interest in the talk of the men. My mind was upon myself. I gave my comrades no encouragement to speak with me, but lay apart, moody and feverish. Occasionally my thought, it is true, reverted to the situation of the army, but only for a moment. Something was about to be done; but if I could have controlled events, I would not have known what to choose. One thing, however, began to loom clear through the dim future: if we were working to get to Meade's rear, that general was in far greater danger than he had been at Gettysburg. With Lee at Manassas Junction, between Meade and Washington, the Army of the Potomac would yield from starvation, or fight at utter disadvantage; and there was no army to help near by, as McClellan's at Alexandria in sixty-two.

The night brought no movement.



XXXVI

THE ALPHABET

"I stoop not to despair; For I have battled with mine agony, And made me wings wherewith to overfly The narrow circus of my dungeon wall."—BYRON.

On the next day, the 10th, we marched through Culpeper. I recognized the place; I had straggled through it on the road to Gettysburg. Again we went into bivouac early.

That afternoon I again thought of Dr. Frost's advice to hold to any clew I should ever get and work it out; I had a clew: I wondered how I could make a step toward an end.

To recover a lost name seemed difficult. The doctor had said will was required. My will was good. I began with the purpose of thinking all names that I could recall. My list was limited. Naturally my mind went over the roll of Company H, which, from having heard so often, I knew by heart. Adams, Bell, Bellot, and so on; the work brought an idea. I remembered hearing some one say that a forgotten name might be recovered with the systematic use of the alphabet. I wondered why I had not thought at once of this. I felt a great sense of relief. I now had a purpose and a plan.

At once I began to go through the A-b's. The first name I could get was Abbey; the next, Abbott, and so on, through all names built upon the letter A. I knew nobody by such names. My lost name might be one of these, but it did not seem to be, and I had nothing to rely upon except the hope that the real name, when found, would kindle at its touch a spark in my memory. Finally all the A's were exhausted—nothing.

Then I took up regularly and patiently the B's. They resulted in nothing. I tried C, both hard and soft, thinking intently whether the sound awoke any response in my brain.

I abandoned the soft C, but hard C did not sound impossible; I stored it up for future examination.

Then I went through D and E, and so on down to G, which I separated into two sounds, as I had already done with C, soft and hard. This examination resulted in my putting hard G alongside of hard C.

H, I, and J were examined with like result—nothing.

The K was at once given a place with the preferred letters.

L, M, N, O were speedily rejected.

At P I halted long, and at last decided to hold it in reserve, but not to give it equal rank with the others.

Q gave me little trouble. I ran down all possible names in Q-u, and rejected all.

The remainder of the letters were examined and discarded.

In order of seniority I now had the following initial letters: C hard, G hard, and K, with P a possibility.

It was now very late, but I could not sleep. My mind was active, though I found to my surprise that it was more nearly calm than it had been for days. I knew that I ought to sleep, but I seemed on track of discovery. It had taken me hours of unremitting labour to get where I was,—monotonous but interesting labour—and it would likely take me hours more to advance a single step farther.

A sudden idea presented itself. What if the name was a very unusual name, one, in fact, that I had never heard, or seen written, except as the name of this Doctor? This thought included other thoughts—one was the idea of a written name. I had been following but one line of approach, while there were two,—sound and form. I had not considered the written approach, but now I saw the importance of that process. Another thought was, whether it would help me for the name to be not merely unusual, but entirely unknown. I could not decide this question. I saw reasons for and against. If it was an utterly unknown name, except as applied to the Doctor, I might never recover it; I might continue to roll names and names through my brain for years without result, if my brain could bear such thought for so long. I pictured in fancy an old man who had forgotten in time his own name, and had accepted another, wasting, and having wasted, the years of his life in hunting a word impossible and valueless. But I fought this fear and put it to sleep. The uncommon name would cause me to reject all common names, perhaps at first presentation; my attention would be concentrated on peculiar sounds and forms. If my mind were now in condition to respond to the name, I might get it very soon.

In debating this point, I suppose that I lost sight of my objective, for I sank to sleep.

At daylight I was awake. My mind held fast the results of the night's work. I wrote as follows:—

C G K.... P

Before we marched I had arranged in groups the names that impressed me. I had C without any following.

For G, I had Gayle, or Gail.

For K, Kame, Kames, Kean, Key, Kinney, Knight.

For P, only Payne.

We marched. My head was full of my list of names. I knew them without looking at what I had written.

All at once I dropped the C. I had failed to add to the bare initial—nothing in my thought could follow that C.

Why had I held the C so long? There must be some reason. What was its peculiarity? The question was to be solved before I would leave it. It did not take long. I decided that I had been attracted to it simply because its sound was identical with K. Then K loomed up large in my mind and took enormous precedence.

The name Payne was given up.

But another, or rather similar, question arose in regard to Payne. If K was so prominent, why had Payne influenced me? It took me an hour to find the reason, but I found it, for I had determined to find it. It was simple, after all—the attraction lay in the letters a-y-n-e. At once I added to my K's the name Kayne, although the name evoked no interest. Thinking of this name, I saw that Kane was much easier and added it to my list, wondering why I had not thought of it before.

The process of exclusion continued. Why Kinney? And why Knight? The peculiarity in Kinney seemed to be the two syllables; I did not drop the name, but tried to sound each of my others as two syllables.

"What's that you say, Jones?"

It was Butler, marching by my side, that asked the question.

I stammered some reply. I had been saying aloud, "Gay-le, Ka-me, Ka-mes, Kay-me."

The march continued. I knew not whether we were passing through woods or fields. My head was bent; my eyes looked on the ground, but saw it not. My mouth was shut, but words rolled their sounds through my ears—monotonous sounds with but one or two consonants and one or two vowels.

Suddenly association asserted itself. I thought of Captain Haskell's quotation from some Persian poet; what was the poet's name? I soon had it—Khayyam—pronounced Ki-yam, I added Khayyam and Kiyam to my list. We marched on.

Why Knight? I did not know. My work seemed to revolve about K-h. I felt greatly encouraged with Khayyam,—pronounced Ki-yam,—which had the K sound, and in form had the h. But was there nothing more in Knight? Nothing except the ultimate t and the long vowel, and the vowel I had also in Ki-yam; the lines converged every way toward Ki, or toward K-h-a-y, pronounced Ki.

Again I tried repeatedly, using the long sound of i: "Gi-le, Ki-me, Ki-me, Ki-me, Ki-me," and kept on repeating Ki-me, involuntarily holding to the unfamiliar sound.

For a long time I worked without any result, and I became greatly puzzled. Then a help came. The name was that of a doctor. I repeated over and over, "Doctor Gay-le, Doctor Ka-me, Doctor Ka-mes, Doctor Kay-ne, Doctor Gi-le, Doctor Ki-me, Doctor Ki-mes, Doctor Ki-yam." The last name sounded nearly right.

The face of my dream was yet easily called up—a swarthy face with bright black eyes and a great brow. I repeated all the words again, and at each name I brought my will to bear and tried to fit the face to the name: "Doctor Gay-le, they do not fit; Doctor Ka-me, they do not fit; Doctor Kay-ne; no; Doctor Gi-le; still less Doctor Ki-me, Doctor Ki-me, Doctor Ki-me."

The words riveted me. They did not satisfy me, yet they dominated all other words. The strangeness of the name did not affect me; in fact, the name was neither strange nor familiar; and just because the name did not sound strange, I took courage and hope. I reasoned that such a name ought to sound strange, and that it did not was cheering. I was on the brink of something, I knew not what.

We stacked arms by the side of the road, and Ewell's corps marched by on a road crossing ours; it took so long to go by that we were ordered to bivouac.

My brain was in a stir. I asked myself why I should attach so great importance to the recovery of one man's name, and I answered that this one name was the clew to my past life, and was the beginning of my future life; the recovery of one name would mean all recovery; I had resolved to never abandon the pursuit of this name, and I felt convinced that I should find it, and soon. What was to result I would risk; months before, I had not had the courage to wish to know my past, but now I would welcome change. I was wretched, alone in the world, tired of life; I would hazard the venture. Then, too, I knew that if my former condition should prove unfortunate or shameful, I still had the chance to escape it—by being silent, if not in any other way. Nothing could be much worse than my present state.

That afternoon and night we were on picket, having been thrown forward a mile from the bivouac of the division. There was now but one opinion among the men, who were almost hilarious,—Lee's army was flanking Meade, that is, Ewell and Hill, for Longstreet had been sent to Georgia with his corps. But why were we making such short marches? Several reasons were advanced for this. Wilson said we were getting as near as possible first, "taking a running start," to use his words. Youmans thought that General Lee wanted to save the army from straggling before the day of battle. Mackay thought Ewell would make the long march, and that we must wait on his movement. Wilson said that could not be so, as Ewell had marched to our right.

Nobody had any other belief than that we were getting around Meade. We were now almost at the very spot, within a few miles of it, from which Jackson's rapid march to Pope's rear had begun, while Meade now occupied Pope's former position. Could General Lee hope that Meade, with Pope's example staring him in the face, would allow himself to be entrapped? This question was discussed by the men.

Mackay thought that the movement of our army through the Valley last June, when we went into Pennsylvania, would be the first thing Meade would recall.

Wilson answered this by saying that the season was too far advanced for Meade to fear so great a movement; still, Wilson thought that General Meade would hardly suppose that Lee would try to effect the very thing he had once succeeded in; besides, he said, every general must provide against every contingency, but it is clearly impossible to do so, and in neglecting some things for others, he runs his risks and takes his chances. Meade would not retreat until he knew that the flank movement was in progress; to retreat in fear of having to retreat would be nonsense; and if Meade waited only a few hours too long, it would be all up with him; and that if he started too early, Lee might change his tactics and follow the retreat.

On the picket-line my search was kept up. We were near the North Fork of the Rappahannock. No enemy was on our side of the river, at least in our front. Before nightfall we had no vedettes, for we overlooked the river, and every man was a vedette, as it were. I lay in the line, trying to take the first step leading to the reconstruction of my life.

"Doctor Ki-me, Doctor Ki-me, Doctor Ki-me."

The words clung to me obstinately. Every other name had been abandoned, I asked not why; involuntarily all words with weaker power to hold me had been dropped. Yet Ki-me, strong as it was, was imperfect. It did not seem wrong, but deficient rather; something was needed to complete it—what was that something?

Evening was drawing on. Again I thought of Khayyam, and I wondered why. I vexed my brain to know why. Was it because Khayyam was a poet? No; that could be no reason. Was it because he was a Persian? I could see no connection there. Was it because of the peculiar spelling of the name? It might be. What was the peculiarity? One of form, not sound. I must think again of the written or printed name, not the sound only of the word.

Then I tried "Doctor Khay-me," but failed.

I knew that I had said "Ki-me," and had not thought "Khay-me."

By an effort that made my head ache, I said "Doctor Ki-me," and simultaneously reproduced "Doctor Khay-me" with letters before my brain. It would not do.

Yet, though this double process had failed, I was not discouraged. I thought of no other name. Everything else had been definitely abandoned. Without reasoning upon it I knew that the name was right, and I knew, as if by intuition, how to proceed to a conclusion. I tried again, and knew beforehand that I should succeed.

This last time—for, as I say, I knew it would be the last—I did three things.

There was yet light. I was lying in my place in the line, on top of the hill, a man five paces from me on either side. I wrote "Doctor Khayme." I held the words before my eyes; I called the face of my dream before me; I said to the face, "Doctor Ki-me."



XXXVII

A DOUBLE

"One of these men is genius to the other; And so of these: which is the natural man, And which the spirit? Who deciphers them?" —SHAKESPEARE.

The Doctor was before me. I saw a woman by his side. She was his daughter. I know her name—Lydia.

Where were they now? Where were they ever? Her face was full of sweetness and dignity—yes, and care. It would have been the face of my fancy, but for the look of care.

Unutterable yearning came upon me. I could not see the trees on the bank of the river.

For an instant I had remained without motion, without breath. Now I felt that I must move or die.

I rose and began to stamp my feet, which seemed asleep. Peculiar physical sensations shot through my limbs. I felt drunk, and leaned on my rifle. My hands were one upon the other upon the muzzle, my chin resting on my hands, my eyes to the north star, seeing nothing.

Nothing? Yes; beyond that nothing I saw a vision—a vision of paradise.

The vision changed. I saw two men in gray running across a bare hill; a shell burst over their heads; one threw up his hands violently, and fell. The picture vanished.

Another picture was before me. The man—not the one who had fallen—was making his painful way alone in the night; he went on and on until he was swallowed by the darkness.

Again he appeared to me. He was sitting in a tent; an officer in blue uniform was showing him a map. I could see the face of neither officer nor man; both were in blue.

Farther back into the past, seemingly, this man was pushed. I saw him standing on a shore, with Dr. Khayme and Lydia. I saw him sick in a tent, and Dr. Khayme by him—yes, and Lydia.

Still further the scene shifts back. I see the man in blue helping another man to walk. They go down into a wood and hide themselves in a secret place. I can see the spot; I know it; it is the place I saw at Manassas. The man helps his companion. The man breaks his gun. The two go away.

So, after all, that gun at Manassas had never been mine; it had belonged to this man.

Who was this man?

A soldier, evidently.

What was his name?

I did not know.

Why did he sometimes wear a blue uniform?

He must be a Confederate spy; of course he is a Confederate spy.

My memory refused to abandon this man. I had known that I should recover the Doctor, and I had supposed that the Doctor's name would be the key to unlock all the past, so that my memory would be suddenly complete and continuous, but now I found the Doctor supplanted by a strange man whose name even I did not know, and who acted mysteriously, sometimes seeming to be a Confederate and at other times a Federal. I must exert my will and get rid of this man: he disturbs me; he is not real, perhaps. I have eaten nothing; I have fever; perhaps this man is a creation of my fever. I will get rid of him.

I forced the Doctor to appear. This time he was sitting in an ambulance, but not alone. The man was with him. I banished the picture, and tried again.

Another scene. The Doctor, and the man, and Willis lying hidden in a straw stack. Ah! Willis! That name has come back.

Who is Willis?

I do not know; only Willis.

It is a mistake to be following up the man. Can I not recall the Doctor without this disturbing shape? I try hard, and the Doctor's face flits by and vanishes before I can even tell its outline.

I forced the Doctor to appear and reappear; but he would remain an instant only and be gone; instead of him, this strange man persisted, and contrary to my will.

My heart misgave me. Had I been following a delusion? Was there no Dr. Khayme, after all, and worse than that, no Lydia? Her face was again before me. That look of care—or worse than care, anxiety—could it be mere fancy? No; the face was the face of my fancy, but the look was its own. I recognized the face, but the expression was not due to my thought or to my error; it was independent of me.

I saw the Doctor and Lydia and Willis and the Man! Always the Man! Lydia, even, could not lay the ghost of the strange Man who sometimes wore blue and sometimes gray.

Night fell. I was posted as a vedette near the river. There was nothing in my front. The stars came out and the moon. I thought of the moon at Chancellorsville, and of the moon at Gettysburg, and of my Captain, lying in a soldier's grave in the far-off land of the enemy. My brain was not clear. I had a buzzing in my ears. I doubted all reality. My fancy bounded from this to that. My nerves were all unstrung. I felt upon the boundary edge of heaven and hell. I knew enough to craze me should I learn no more. I watched the moon; it took the form of Lydia's face; a tree became the strange Man who would not forsake me.

Who was the Man? He gave no clew to his identity. He was mysterious. His acts were irregular. He must be imaginary only. The others are real. I know the Doctor and his name. I know Lydia and her name. I know Willis and his name. The Man's face and name are unknown; yet does he come unbidden and uppermost and always.

I made an effort to begin at the end of my memory and go back. I retraced our present march—then back to the Valley—then Falling Waters—Hagerstown—Gettysburg—the march into Pennsylvania—Chancellorsville—illness—the march to Fredericksburg—Shepherdstown—Sharpsburg—Harper's Ferry—Manassas—the SPOT, with a broken gun and with Willis—Ah! a new thought, at which I stagger for an instant—then my wound at Gaines's Mill—then Dr. Frost, and that is all.

But I have a new discovery: Willis was the injured man at second Manassas.

But no; that could not be second Manassas—it was first Manassas.

Distinctly Willis was shot at first Manassas; the Man helped Willis. Why should he help Willis?

Another and puzzling thought: How should I know Willis—a Yankee soldier?

I know his face and I know his name.

I must hunt this thought down.

Is it that I have heard this story? Not in my present time of experience. Is it that Willis was made prisoner that day—he and his companion, there in the woods? It might have been so.

But did I not see the strange man break his gun and go away from the spot? He was not captured.

Yet I may have been hidden in the woods near by, watching these two men. I must try to remember whether I saw what became of them.

Then I imagine myself hidden behind a log. I watch the strange man; he binds up Willis's leg. I see him help the sergeant—there! again a thought—Willis was a sergeant. Why could I not see that before—with the stripes on his arm? Of course hidden near by I could see that Willis was a sergeant; but how could I know that his name was Willis? Possibly I heard the strange man call him Jake—So! again it comes. I have the full name.

But I must follow them if I can. The strange man helps Willis to rise, and puts his gun under the sergeant's shoulder for a crutch, and helps him on the other side. They begin to move, but Willis drops the gun, for it sinks into the soft ground, and is useless. Then the strange man breaks his gun and the two go away. I see them moving slowly through the woods—but strange! they are no farther from me than before. I must have really followed them that day. They go on and get into the creek, and climb with difficulty the farther bank, and rest. Again they start—they reach a stubble field; I see some straw stacks; the strange man kneels by one of the stacks and works a hollow; he tells Willis to lie down; then he speaks to Willis again, and I can hear every word he says: he tells Willis to go to sleep; that he will try to get help; that if he does not return by noon to-morrow, Willis must look out for himself—maybe he'd better surrender. And Willis says, "God bless you, Jones."

And now I have the man's name, Jones—a name common enough.

I must hunt this Jones down—where have I known a Jones? But I must not now be diverted by him; I must stick to Willis.

Then I watch Willis, but only for an instant; I feel entrained by Jones, and I go with Jones even though I want to see what becomes of Willis.

It gets dark, yet I can see Jones. He goes rapidly, though I feel that he is weary. He stands on a narrow road, and I hear sounds of rattling harness, and he sees a wagon moving. He stops and looks at the wagon; I see a man get out of the wagon—a very small man; the man says, "Is that you, Jones?" Then I wonder who this man is, and though I wonder I yet know that he is Dr. Khayme. Jones sinks to the ground; the Doctor calls for brandy. Then the Doctor and Jones and the wagon turn, round in my head and all vanish, and I find myself a vedette on the North Fork of the Rappahannock, and pull myself together with a jerk.

It had been vivid, intense, real. I did not understand it, but I could not doubt it.

The relief came, and I went back to the picket-line and took my place near the right of Company H.

What next? I had come to a stop. Jones had fallen to the ground, and that was as far as I could get. What had happened to him after that?

My interest in Jones had deepened. I had tried to get rid of him and failed; now, when he disappeared of himself, I tried to see him, and failed. I wish to say that my memory served me no longer in regard to Jones. There was a blank—a blank in regard to Jones and in regard to myself also. I had got to the end of that experience, for I had no doubt that it was an experience of my own in some incomprehensible connection with Jones.

Then I return to Willis again—and, wonder of wonders, I see Jones and Dr. Khayme with Willis at the straw. There is another man also. Who is he? I do not know. He and Jones lift Willis into an ambulance, and all go away into darkness.

My mind was now in a tangle. Jones had abandoned Willis, yet had not abandoned him. Which of the two incidents was true? Neither? Both? If both, which followed the other? I did not know.

I try to follow Willis; I cannot. I try to follow Dr. Khayme; I fail. I had tried to follow Jones, and had succeeded in a measure; I try again, and fail.

Now I see this fact, which seems to me remarkable: I cannot remember Willis or the Doctor alone—Jones is always present.

Jones—Jones—where have I known a man named Jones? Jones, the corporal in Company H, was killed at Gettysburg; he is the only Jones I can recall. Yet I must have had relations with a different Jones; who was he? I must try to get him.

The Doctor's face again; Jones, too, is there. Jones is with the Doctor in a tent at night, and they are getting ready—getting ready for what? A package has been made. They are talking. The lights are put out and I lose the Doctor, but I can yet see Jones. In the dim light of the stars he comes out of the tent; a man on a horse is near; he holds another horse, ready saddled. Jones mounts, and the two ride away. And I hear Jones ask, "What is your name?" and I hear the man reply, "Jones."

What folly!

But the other Jones asks also, "Don't you know me?" and then another picture comes before me, but dimly, for it seems almost in the night: Jones—this new Jones—is standing near a prostrate horse as black as jet and is prisoner in the hands of Union men, and the other Jones is there, too, and I see that he is joyful that Jones is caught. What utter folly! Is everybody to be named Jones? I have followed one Jones and have found two—possibly three. Who is the true Jones? Is there any true Jones? Has my fevered brain but conjured up a picture, or series of pictures, of events that never had existence? Why should one Jones be glad that another Jones was caught? I give up this new Jones.

Now I was thinking without method—in a daze. Every line had resulted in an end beyond which was a blank, or else confusion. I gave myself up to mere revery.

Somehow, I had trust; I felt that I was at a beginning which was also an end. I had come far. I had recovered the name of Dr. Khayme, and of Lydia, of Sergeant Jake Willis, of Jones, with possibly another Jones; with these names I ought to work out the whole enigma. I knew that Jones was the man who had broken his gun; the man who had helped Willis; the man who had been under the bursting shell on the hill. Yes, and another thought,—the man who had been wounded there.

I knew that Lydia was the Doctor's daughter. A few more relations found would untangle everything. But how to find more? I must think. Yet thinking seemed weak. I believed that if I could quit thinking, the thing would come of itself. Yet how to quit thinking? I remembered that I had received lessons upon the power of the will from Captain Haskell and ... from ... somebody ... who?—Why, Doctor Khayme, of course.

And now another new thought, or fancy. What relation, if any, could there be between the Captain and the Doctor? In a confused way I groped in the tangle of this question until I became completely lost again, having gained, however, the knowledge that Dr. Khayme had taught me concerning the will.

I lay back and closed my eyes, to try to banish thought; the effort was vain. I opened my eyes, and dreamed. I could recall the Doctor's dark face, his large brow, his bright eyes, and a pipe—yes, a pipe, with its carven bowl showing a strange head; and I could recall more easily the Captain's long jaw, and triangle of a face, and even the slight lisp with which he spoke. What relationship had these two men? If Captain Haskell had ever known Dr. Khayme, should I not have heard him speak of the Doctor? I had known the Captain since I had known the Doctor; where had I known the Doctor? Where had I known him first? He had been my teacher. Where? I remembered—in Charleston! But why does the Doctor associate with Willis, who is distinctly a Federal soldier, and with Jones, who is sometimes a Federal? I can see the Doctor in an ambulance—and in a tent; he must be a surgeon.

Ah! yes; Willis is a prisoner, after all, and in the Confederate hospital.

The thought of a possible relationship between the Doctor and the Captain continued to come. Why should I think of such a possibility? My brain became clearer. My people must be in Charleston. The Captain may have known the Doctor in Charleston. They may have been friends. They talked of similar subjects—at least, they had views which affected me similarly. Yet that might mean nothing. I tried to give up the thought.

Again the Doctor's face, and the Captain. For one short instant these two men seemed to me to be at once identical and separate—even opposite. How preposterous! Yet at the same moment I remembered that the Captain once had said he was not sure that there was such a condition as absolute individuality. Preposterous or not, the thought, gone at once, had brought another in its train: I had never seen these two men together, and I had never seen the Doctor without Jones. Wherever the Doctor was, there was Jones also. Here came again the former glimmering notion of double and even opposite identity. Was Jones two? He was seemingly a Federal and a Confederate. I had supposed, weakly, that he was a Confederate spy in a Federal uniform; but his conduct at Manassas had not borne out the supposition. He had even broken his gun rather than have it fall into the hands of Confederates, and had helped a wounded Federal. Yet, again, that conduct might have been part of a very deep plan. What plan? To deceive the enemy so fully that he would be received everywhere as one of them? Yes; or rather to act in entire conformity with his supposed character. He must always act the complete Federal when with federals, so that no suspicion should attach to him. No doubt he had remained in the Federal camp until he had got the information needed, and had returned to the Confederates before he had been wounded by the shell.

So, all these fancies had resulted in worse than nothing; every effort I had made, on these lines, had but entangled me more. That Jones was a Confederate spy, was highly probable; this absurd notion of a double had drawn me away from the right track; he was a double, it is true, but only on the surface; he was a Confederate acting the Federal.

Jones interests me intensely. There is something extraordinary about him. No man that I ever saw or heard of seems to possess his capacity to interest me. Yet his only peculiarity is that he changes clothing. No, not his only one; he has another: he is absolutely ubiquitous.

That he has some close relationship with me is clear. Why clear? Just because I cannot get rid of him? Is that a reason? Nothing is clear. My head is not clear. All this mysterious Jones matter may be delusion. Dr. Khayme is fact, and Lydia is fact, and Willis; but as to this Jones, or these Joneses, I doubt. Doubt is not relief. Jones remains. Wherever I turn I find him. He will not down. If he is a fact, he must be the most important person related to my life. More so than Lydia?

What is Jones to me? My mind confesses defeat and struggles none the less. Could he be a brother? Can it be possible, after all, that my name is B. Jones? Anything seems possible. Yet a thought shows me that this supposition is untenable. If I am Berwick Jones, and the spy was my brother, I should have heard of him long ago.

Why? why should I hear of him, when I could not hear of myself? The Confederate army may have had a score of spies named Jones, and I had never heard of one of them.

But if he had been my brother, he would have hunted me, and would have found me! That was it.

This thought was more reasonable—but ... he might have been killed!

He must have been killed by the shell on the hill ... yes ... that is why I can trace him no farther. I have never seen him since. Why had I at first assumed that he had been wounded only? I see that I assumed too much—or too little. I had seen him under the fire, and had seen him no more; that was all.

Yet I knew absolutely and strangely that Jones had not been killed.

It is certain that the memory, in retracing a succession of events, does not voluntarily take the back track; it goes over the ground again, just as the events succeeded, from antecedent to consequent, rather than backward. It is more difficult—leaving memory aside—to take present conditions and discover the unknown which evolved these conditions, than to take present conditions and show what will be evolved from them. Of course, if we already know what preceded these conditions, there is no discovery to be claimed—and that is what I am saying: that with our knowledge of the present, the future is not a discovery; it is a mere development naturally augured from the present. An incapable general means defeat, but defeat does not imply an incapable general.

Now, I had been trying to begin with Jones on the bare hill where I had seen him latest, and to go back, but my efforts had only proved the truth of the foregoing. I had only jumped back a considerable distance, and from the past had followed Jones forward as well as my imperfect powers permitted; again I had jumped back and had followed him until he met the Doctor in the night. The episode of lifting Willis into the ambulance seemed a separate event of very short duration. My mind had unconsciously appreciated the difficulty of working backward, and had in reality endeavoured to avoid that almost impossible process by dividing Jones into several periods and following the events of each period in order of time and succession. I now, without having willed to think it, became conscious of this difficulty, and I yielded at once to suggestion. I would begin anew, and would help the natural process.

First I tried to sum up results. I found these: first, Jones, in blue, helps another man in blue and I follow him until I lose him when he reaches the Doctor. Second, Jones, in blue, and the Doctor come to Willis again—and then I lose Jones and all of them. Third, Jones—alone and in gray—is in the act of falling, with a shell bursting over him, and I lose him.

I had no doubt of the order in which these events had occurred, and none, whatever of the fact that all of Jones's life had been lost to me, if not indeed to himself, when I saw him fall. Now I wanted to find connecting events; I wanted to know how to join the Jones at the secret place in the woods with the Jones that I had seen fall, and I set my memory to work, but obtained nothing. The scene on the hill seemed unrelated to that of Willis.

There was remembrance, it is true, of Jones walking through a forest at night, but the scene was so indistinct that I could make nothing out of it; I could not decide even whether it had occurred before the time of Manassas. Then, too, there was recollection of Jonas in a tent, and of an officer in blue showing him a map, and I could also remember that I had seen or heard that Jones had been on a shore with the Doctor and Lydia. These events had no connection. Between Jones in blue and Jones in gray there were gaps which I could not cross.

Yet I set myself diligently to the task of joining these events with the more important ones; taxing my memory, diving into the past, hunting for the slightest clews.

And there was another event, farther back seemingly in the dim past, that I could faintly recall—Jones, sick in a tent with the Doctor attending him ... yes, and some one else in the tent. I strained my head to recall this scene more clearly. In this case Jones had no uniform; neither did the others wear uniform. And now a new doubt—why in a tent and without uniform?

For a moment I tried to settle this question by answering that the Confederate troops had not been provided with uniforms at so early a period; but the answer proved unsatisfactory. I knew or felt that Doctor Khayme's relationship with me was so near that, had he been a Confederate surgeon, he would have found me long since.

Yet the Doctor might be dead, as well as Jones, was the thought which followed.

But I knew again that Jones was still alive. How I knew it, I could not have told, but I knew it.

Then, too, there was a strange feeling of something like intuition in my knowing that Jones was sick—why should Jones not be wounded rather than sick? How could I know that this scene in the tent was not the sequence of the scene of the bursting shell? But I say that I knew Jones was sick, and not wounded. How could I know this?

And there was yet a third instance of unreasoning knowledge—I knew that Jones was in gray in the night and in a dense forest.

I examined myself to see whether I believed in intuition, and I reached the conclusion that only one of these events was an instance of knowledge without a foundation in reason. I knew that Jones was in gray in the dark night. Had I been told so? Had he told me so? I knew that he had been sick. Had he told me so? In any case, I knew these things and knew that my knowledge was simple. But how could I know that Jones was now alive?

Why should Jones be alive? The only answer I could then make was, that I felt sure of the fact. I had no reason to advance to myself for this knowledge, or feeling. I felt that it was more than intuition. I felt that it was experience, not the experience of sight or hearing or any of the senses, but experience nevertheless—subconscious, if you wish to call it so in these days. Though the experience was inexplicable, it was none the less valid. I wondered at myself for thinking this, yet I did not doubt. There are many avenues to the soul. To know that a man is alive, seeing him walk is not essential, nor hearing him speak, nor touching his beating pulse; he may be motionless and dumb, yet will he have the life of expression and intelligence in his face. Communication between mind and mind does not depend on nearness or direction. But I saw no face. Intelligence resides not in feature; the change of feature is but one of its myriad effects. The mind of the world affects every individual mind ... where did I hear such an idea advanced? From whom? Dr. Khayme, beyond a doubt.

I was sure of it. And then opened before me a page, and many pages, of the past, in which I read the Doctor's philosophy.

I remembered his opinions ... he was a disbeliever in war ... why, then, was he in the army?

Perhaps he was not in the army. Yet was he not doing service as a surgeon? Was he not attending to Jones, sick in a tent? But the tent itself did not prove the existence of an army. The Doctor wore no uniform.

But a tent is strong presumption of an army. Was the Doctor a surgeon? And the ambulance ... the tent coupled with the ambulance made the army almost certain. And Jones and Willis, both soldiers, assisted by the Doctor ... yes, the Doctor must be an army surgeon, although he wears no uniform. Perhaps he wears uniform only on occasions; when at work at his calling he puts it off.

I have gained a position, from which I must examine everything anew—in a new light.

I consider the Doctor a surgeon in the army. Why has he not found me? Again comes that thought of double personality, and this time it will not down so easily. I can remember the Doctor's utterances upon the universal mind, and upon the power of the will. I can remember that I had almost feared him ... and suddenly I remember that Willis had said that the Doctor could read the mind ... WHAT! WHO? I? JONES?

My brain reeled. I was faint and dizzy. If the order to march had come, I could not have moved.

What was this new and strange knowledge? How had it come? I had simply remembered that Willis had told Jones that the Doctor could tell what another man was thinking, and I had known that Willis had spoken the words to ME!

Then I was Jones. No wonder I could not get rid of him, for he had my mind in his body. One mind in two bodies? How could that be? But I remember that the Captain warned me against attributing to mind extension or divisibility or any property of matter. I am a double—perhaps more. Who knows but that the relation of mind with mind is the relation of unity? It must be so. I can see that I am Jones. No wonder that I felt tired when he was weary; no wonder that I knew he wore gray in the night; no wonder that I knew he was not dead.

Yes, the broken gun was mine; I have been a Confederate spy. I am Jones Berwick and I am Berwick Jones.



XXXVIII

IDENTITY

"Which, is the side that I must go withal? I am with both: each army hath a hand; And, in their rage, I having hold of both, They whirl asunder, and dismember me."

—SHAKESPEARE.

I had been in the battle of Manassas, fighting in the ranks of blue soldiers—yes, I remember the charge and the defeat and the rout. How vividly I now remember the words—strange I thought them then—of Dr. Khayme. He had said that it might be a spy's duty to desert even, in order to accomplish his designs.

Had this suggestion been made before the fact? I am again in a mist. But what matter? I had not deserted in reality; I had only pretended to desert. Yet I think it strange that I cannot remember what Jones Berwick felt when deciding to act the deserter. Had he found pretended desertion necessary?

Yes, undoubtedly; unless he had passed himself off as a deserter he could not have been received into the Yankee army, and I now knew that I was once in that army.

But why could I not have joined it as a recruit?

Simply because Jones Berwick was in the Confederate army; I could not have easily gone North to enlist.

But could I not have clothed myself at once as a Union soldier, so that there would have been no need of desertion?

No; I could not have answered questions; I should have been asked my regiment; I should have been ordered back to my regiment. I remember the difficulty I had met with when I joined, or when Berwick Jones joined, Company H. I had been compelled to lay aside the Confederate uniform, and join as a recruit dressed in civilian's clothing, merely because I could not bear to have questions asked. So, when I had played the Federal, if I had presented myself in a blue uniform, I could not have answered questions, and the requirement to report to my company would have destroyed my whole plan.

Yet it was just possible that I had succeeded in obtaining civilian's clothing, and had joined the Federals as a pretended recruit, just as I had joined Company H later. This was less unlikely when coupled with the thought that possibly my first experience in this course had had some hidden influence on my second.

But why is it that I cannot recall my first service as a Confederate? The question disturbs me. My peculiar way of forgetting must be the reason. When, as Jones Berwick the Confederate, I became Berwick Jones the Federal, there must have come upon my mind a phase of oblivion similar to that which clouded it when I became a Confederate again.

Yet this explanation is weak. No such thing could occur twice just at the critical time ... unless ... some power, mysterious and profound.... What was Dr. Khayme in all this?

And another thought, winch bewilders me no less. On my musket I had carved J.B. I was Jones Berwick as a Federal. Then I must always have been Berwick Jones when a Confederate. How did I ever get to be Berwick Jones? How did I ever become Jones Berwick? Which was I at first? Had I ever deserted? Had I ever been a spy? I doubt everything.

My mind became clearer. I could connect events: the first Manassas, or Bull Bun; the helping of Willis; the meeting with the Doctor; the return to Willis; the shore and the battle of the ships; the Merrimac; the line of the Warwick; the lines at Hanover; the night tramp in the swamp; crossing the hill; a blank, which my double memory knew how to fill, and the subsequent events of my second service in our army. Nothing important seemed lacking since the battle of Bull Run. Before that battle everything was confusion. My home was still unknown. The friends of my former life, so far as I could remember, had been Federals, if Dr. Khayme and Lydia could be called Federals.

Yet I supposed my home was Charleston. My memory now began with that city. There were but two great gaps remaining to be filled: first, my life before I was at school under the Doctor; second, my life at home and in the Confederate army before I pretended to desert to the Federals.

I am Jones Berwick and I am Berwick Jones? What an absurdity! Let reason work; the idea is preposterous! What does it mean? Can it mean any more than that you were known at one time as Jones Berwick and at another time as Berwick Jones? It is insanity to think that you are two persons at once. Have you imagined that now, while you are a Confederate again, there is also a you in the Yankee army? When your connection with the Confederates was interrupted you were received by the Federals as Jones Berwick; the J.B. on the gunstock shows that well enough; but when you became a Confederate again, your name was reversed because of that diary!

I took out the diary. It was too dark to read, but I knew every word of the few lines in it,—B. Jones, on the fly-leaf.

And now I recall that the Doctor had told me to write in the little book.... What was his purpose? To deceive the enemy in case I should be taken? Yes.

But—I was going to become a Confederate again!

Did the Doctor know that?

Yes; he knew it. At least he provided for such a change; the words he dictated were for a Confederate's diary. He knew it? Yes; he helped me on with the Confederate uniform!

Then why should he think that additional effort—the diary—was required to make Confederates believe a Confederate a Confederate?

Could I not at once have named my original company and its officers? Why this child's play of the diary?

I studied hard this phase of the tangle.

Perhaps the Doctor wanted me to be able to prove myself to the first party of Confederates I should meet. Yes; that is reasonable. I might have been subjected to much embarrassing questioning—and to detention—but for something on my person to give substance to my statement. The Doctor was far-sighted. He had protected me.

But how could I make a statement? How could I know what to say to a party of Confederates? I laughed at the question, and especially at the thought which had caused it. I had actually forgotten, for the moment, that I was a real Confederate, and had begun to imagine that I had been a Federal trying to get into the Confederate lines, and whom the Doctor was helping to do so.

But, was the Doctor a Confederate? He must have been a Confederate. If so, what was he, too, doing in the Federal camp? He, too, a spy? He and I were allies? Possibly.

But is it not more likely that he was deceived in me? Did he not think me a Union soldier? If so, he thought that he was helping me to play the spy in the interest of the Federals.

What, then? Why, then the Doctor was, after all, a surgeon in the Union army.

But I knew that the Doctor was thoroughly opposed to war; he would not fight; he took no side; he even argued with me ... God! what was it that he argued? And what in me was he arguing against? He had contended—I remember it—that the war would destroy slavery, and that was what he wanted to be done; and I had contended that the Union was pledged by the Constitution to protect slavery, and all I wanted was the preservation of the Union.

A cold shudder came through me.

In an instant I could see better. Such talk had been part of my plan. I had even succeeded in blinding the Doctor. Yet this thought gave little pleasure. To have deceived the Doctor! I had thought him too wise to allow himself to be deceived.

Yet any man may be cheated at times. But, had I lent myself to a course which had cheated Dr. Khayme? This was hard to believe. I became bewildered again. No matter which way I looked, there was a tangle. I have not got to the bottom of this thing.

Of two things one must be true: first, Dr. Khayme is a Confederate and my ally; second, I have been such a skilful spy that I have deceived him with all his wisdom and all my reluctance to deceive him. Which of these two things is true?

Let me look again at the first. I am sure that the Doctor was in some way attached to the army. What army? I know. I know not only that it was the Union army, but I know even that it was McClellan's army. I remember now the Doctor's telling me about movements that McClellan would make. These things happened in McClellan's army while I was a spy. To suppose that the Doctor was my ally comports with his giving me information of McClellan's movements. He was a surgeon, and, of course, a Confederate; he certainly was from Charleston, and must have been a Confederate. But, on the other hand, I remember clearly his great hostility to slavery, and his hostility, no less great, to war. From this it seems that he could not have been a Confederate.

Let me look at the second. I am sure that I was a spy and that I was in McClellan's army. I am equally sure that the Doctor knew that I was a spy. He had even argued in favour of my work as a spy. How, then, could I deceive him? There is but one answer: he thought me a Union spy, and that I was to go into the Confederate lines to get information, when the opposite was true.

Now the first proposition seems clearly contradictory. The Doctor was not a Confederate, and I feel sure that he did not know that I was a Confederate spy. I give up the first proposition.

Since one of the two is true, and the first is not, then the second must be the truth. I must have played the spy so well that even Dr. Khayme had been deceived.

Yet I can remember no deceit in my mind. I was a spy, and my business was deceit; yet in regard to the Doctor I feel sure that I was open and frank. The second proposition, while possible, I reject, at least for a time.

Can I decide that neither of two opposite things can be true? How absurd! Yet I recall an utterance of the Doctor, "There is nothing false absolutely;" and I recall another, "To examine a question thoroughly, be not content with looking at two sides of it; look at three."

Let me try again, then, and see if by any possibility there be a third alternative. The first, namely, that the Doctor is a Confederate, is untrue; the second, namely, that I deceived him, is untrue: what is a possible third?

I fail to see what else is possible ... wait ... let me put myself in the Doctor's place. Let me consider his antislavery notions and his invulnerability to deceit. He sends me, as he thinks, into the Confederate lines as a Union spy. Why?

Because he believes I am a Union spy. Well, what does that show but that he is deceived? The reasoning turns on itself. It will not do. Where is the trouble? There is a way out, if I could but find it.

What is that third alternative? Can it be that the Doctor knew I was a Confederate and wished to help me return to my people? He was opposed to war, and would take no part in it; was he indifferent in regard to the success of the Federals? No; he wished for the extinction of slavery. Yet Captain Haskell was a Confederate, but he argued for a modification of slavery, and for gradual emancipation.

Could Dr. Khayme have had such, affection for me that he would do violence to his own sentiments for my sake? Was he willing for me to go back to the Confederate army? Perhaps one man more or fewer does not count. Possibly he helped me for the purpose of doing me good, knowing that he was doing the Union cause no harm.

But would he not know that the information I should take to the Confederates would be worth many men? He would be seriously injuring his cause.

Perhaps he made me promise not to use my information. No; that could not be true. He was above such conduct, and his affection for me was too sincere to admit the purpose of degrading me; neither would I have yielded.

And now I see other inconsistencies in all of these suppositions. For the Doctor to know that I was a Confederate, and at the same time help me to act the Union spy, would be deceit on his part. I am forced to admit that he knew my true character and that I knew he knew me.

But, MY GOD! Willis did not know me!

An instant has shown me Willis's face, his form, his red hair, as he attacked me at the close of the day at second Manassas! That look of relenting, when his powerful arm refused to strike me; that look of astonishment,—all now show that, in the supreme moment preceding death, he knew my face and was thunderstruck to find me a Confederate!

Willis had never known me as a Confederate; then why should the Doctor have known me as such?

Yet I am sure that Dr. Khayme has been to me much nearer than Willis ever was, and much more important to my life. And, besides, I feel that Willis could have been more easily deceived. I know that Willis did not know me, but the Doctor knew me, for he helped me return to the Confederates.

... Poor Willis! ... he refused to strike! ...

But why did Willis relent? Even after he knew that I was a rebel, he had refused to strike! Refused to strike a traitor? Why? Why?

I fear for my reason....

* * * * *

I must cease to follow these horrible thoughts. I must try another line. So far as I know, I have never given the Confederates the information gained from the Yankees: why? Because I could not. My wound had caused me to forget. Now, had the Doctor been able to read the future? If he had such power, his course in regard to me could be understood. He knew that I should become unable to reveal anything to injure his cause, therefore he was willing to help me return to the Confederate army. There, at last, was a third alternative, but a bare possibility only. Was it even that?

To assume that the Doctor, even with all his wonderful insight, knew what would become of me, was nonsense. To suppose he could read the future was hardly less violent than to suppose he could control the future. Mind is powerful, but there are limits. What are the limits? Had not the Doctor spoken to me of this very subject? He had reasoned against there being limits to the power of the mind ... notwithstanding my resistance to the thought I still think it; I am still thinking of the possibility that the Doctor controlled me, and caused me to lose the past in order that thus he might not be accessory to a betrayal of his own cause.

This view explains—but how can I grant the impossible? Yet how can I place a limit to the power of mind? God is mind ... and if there is a man on earth who can do such miracles, that man is Dr. Khayme.

But, another thought—why should the Doctor have been willing for me to suffer so? If he knew that I should be hurt—and that I should endure mortification—and be without friends—and long hopeless of all good—why should he do me such injury? Would it not have been better for me to remain in the Union army? I could not see any reason for his subjecting me to so bitter an experience—but wait—did he not contend that every human being must go through an infinity of experience? That being true—or true to his thought—he might be just in causing me to endure what I have endured.

Now the whole course of events, at least all since Bull Run, seems clear if I can but know—or even believe—that any man has such superhuman power. Can I believe it?

Again it is my time for vedette duty. I relieve Butler. Not long till dawn, I think. Far to my left I hear sounds, as if an army is stirring. My time will be short on post. Where was I? Yes; the supernatural power of the Doctor.

What would the possession of such power imply? To see future events and control them! Divine power? Yes, in degree, at least. But the mind, is it not divine? I have seen the Doctor do marvellous things. That letter of my father's was a mystery.... What! My father!

The sounds increase; the army is moving; the day is near.

I have a father? Who is my father?

The thought brings me to my feet.

I had been sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree. Far in front stretches the dark valley of the Hedgeman River. Confused noises come from rear and left. The vedettes will be withdrawn at once, no doubt, for the march begins. Where is my father? Where he is there should I be also. Suddenly light comes; I know that the letter was signed Jones Berwick, Sr. From what place was it written? I do not know. But I know that my father is the man in the tent where the Doctor attends me sick.

I make a step forward.

Owens, on my left a hundred yards, shouts, "Jones, come on; the line is moving back; we are ordered back!"

I open my mouth to reply to him, but think better of it.

I understand.

I am going to my father.

A flood of recollection has poured upon me.

I am the happiest—no, the most wretched—man on earth.



XXXIX

REPARATION

"Unthread the rude eye of rebellion, And welcome home again discarded faith." —SHAKESPEARE.

My past life had rushed tumultuously upon me. Oh! the misery of it would have slain me there, a rebel picket, but that balance was made by its all coming.

I must turn my back upon my comrades, but I should go to my father. The Southern cause must be forsaken, but I should recover my country.

At roll-call in Company H, no voice would henceforth respond to my name distorted. My comrades would curse my memory. It must be my duty to battle against friends by whose sides I had faced danger and death. The glory of the Confederate victories would now bring me pain and not joy. Oh! the deepness of the woe!

But, on the other hand, I should recover my life and make it complete. I must atone for the unconscious guilt of a past gorgeous yet criminal—a past which I had striven to sow with the seeds of a barbarous future. I should be with the Doctor; I should be myself, and always myself, for I knew that my mind should nevermore suffer a repetition of the mysterious affliction which had changed me. My malady had departed forever; and with this knowledge there had come upon the glimmering emotions of repressed passion the almost overpowering consciousness that there was a woman in the world.

I sought the low ground bordering the river. My companions had gone; I would go. There was none to stop me; none to know my going. I wept and laughed. I had no fear. Nothing was present—all was past and future. I was strong and well. With my healing had come a revolution of another kind—a physical change which I felt would make of me a different creature from the poor moody rebel in rags, or even the groping Yankee spy of the day and of the year before.

How I loved and pitied the men of Company H! They were devoted and true. No matter what should befall them, they would continue to be true and loyal to their instincts of duty. Misfortune, even the blackest disaster, seems before them; but I know them for courage and for fortitude to be the equals, at least, of any who may conquer them. Their soldierly honour will be maintained even when they go down in defeat, as they must; never will shame lay its touch upon their ways, no matter what their destiny. I honour them, more now since I know the might of their enemies; I love them; I am proud of their high deeds, but I am done with them. In my heart alone can I do them reverence. My hand must be against them, as it has been for them.

Raetions? Rations! The Federals say rations! Why did I not follow that clew?

* * * * *

Poor old Willis! ... he refused to strike! ...

* * * * *

I went up the sloping edge of the river's brink, seeking a place to cross. My mind was wondrously alert. At my right the dawn was lighting the sky. Behind me and at my left, I could hear the well-known sounds of a moving army—an army which had been my pride and now must be my enemy. How often had I followed the red flag! How I had raised my voice in the tumult of the charge—mingling no dissentient note in the mighty concert of the fierce old rebel yell!

What will they think of me? I know full well what they will think, and the knowledge makes my heart ache and almost cease to beat. They will say—some of them—that Jones has gone to the Yankees; not at once will they say that, but in a week or two when hope of my return has been abandoned—and a few will say that Jones has lost his mind and has wandered off. The first—the unkind—will be right, and they will be wrong. The others—the generous—will be utterly wrong. I have not lost my mind; I have found it, and found it "for good." The report of my desertion will come to Adjutant Haskell and to Dr. Frost, perhaps. Will they tell? I hope not. Will they suspect the truth? I wish it, but I cannot hope it.

Let Berwick Jones be dead and buried and forgotten; let Jones Berwick live from this night as he never lived. The Doctor says men live forever. I believe it. If man can live through the worse than death which I have passed through alive, he is eternal. I shall never die. On through the ages! That bright star—almost the only one left in the graying sky—has but the age of an infant. I saw it born!

I found a shallow place in the river and crossed. The sun was up; I kept it on my right. What should I do and say when I should reach our men? Our men! how odd the thought sounded! I must get to them quickly. The rebels were moving. The whole of two corps of infantry were seeking to fall upon our rear. I must hasten, or there would be a third Bull Run.

But what can I say? How can I make them believe? How can I avoid being captured, and brought before the officers as a rebel? I will call for Dr. Khayme to bear out my words. I will appeal to General Morell and to General Grover. But all this will take time. The loss of a day, half a day, an hour, means defeat. Meade's army ought to be falling back now. To retreat at once may save it—to delay means terrible disaster.

I hasten on, thinking always what I shall say, what I shall do, to make the generals believe. Oh! if I can but cause a speedy retreat of the army, a safe retreat from the toils laid for its destruction, I shall be happy. I will even say that my service as a Confederate was a small price to pay ... what had the Doctor said? He had said that my infirmity was a power! He had said that he could imagine cases in which my peculiar affliction would give great opportunity for serving the country. What a mind that man has! He is to be feared. I wonder if he has had active part in what has befallen me.

I keep a straight north course over hill and hollow, through wood and field, crossing narrow roads that lead nowhere. Farmhouses and fields and groves and streams and roads I pass in haste, knowing or feeling that I shall find no help here. Here I shun nothing; here I seek nothing—beyond this region are the people I want. What can I say? what can I prove? This is the question that troubles me. If I say that I am a Union soldier, I must tell the whole truth, and that I cannot do; besides, it would not be believed. If I say I am a deserter, my declarations as to Lee's movement will not be taken without suspicion. What shall I do? If I could but get a horse; if I could but get Federal clothing; I might hope to find a horse, but to get a blue uniform seems impossible. I must go as I am, and as I can. If I could but find Dr. Khayme! But I know not how to find him. If he is yet with the army, he is somewhere in its rear. Is he yet with the army? Is he yet alive? And Lydia? My God, what might have happened to her in so many long months! Yet, I have trust. I shall find the Doctor, and I shall find Lydia, but I cannot go at once to them; I must lose no time; to seek the Doctor might be ruin. I must go as fast as possible to the general headquarters.

To the southeast I hear the boom of a distant gun—and another. I hurry on. What do they mean by fighting down there?

I keep looking out for a horse, but I see none—none in the fields or roads or pastures or lots. This war-stricken land is bare. No smoke rises from the farmhouses. The fields are untilled; the roads are untravelled. There are no horses in such a land.

I reach a wide public road running east and west, Hoof-prints cover the road—hoof-prints going west; our cavalry; I almost shout and weep for joy. The cavalry will certainly detect Lee's movement. That is, if they go far enough west.

Again the dull booming of cannon in the far southeast. What does it mean? It means, I know it, I feel certain of it, it means that Lee is preventing Meade's retreat by deceiving him. Those guns are only to deceive.

On the wide public road I turn eastward—straight down the road. Other cavalry may be coming or going.

The road turns sharply toward the northeast. I cease to follow it. I go straight eastward, hoping to shorten the way and find the road beyond the hill. What is that I see through the trees? It looks like a man. It is a man, and in blue uniform. From mere habit I cock my rifle and hold it at the ready. I cannot see that he is armed. I go straight to him. He is lying on the ground, with his back toward me. He hears me. He rises to his feet. He is unarmed. He is greatly astonished, but is silent.

"What are you doing here?"

"I surrender," he says.

"Very well, then," I say; "guide me at once to the nearest body of your men."

He opens wide eyes. He says, "All right, if that's your game."

He leads me in a southerly direction, takes a road toward the west, and goes on. Suddenly he says, "You are coming over to us?"

"Yes."

"Then let me have the gun," he says.

I do not reply at once. Why does he want the gun? Is it in order to claim that he has captured me? If so, my information will not be believed; it may be thought intended to mislead. Then again, it is not impossible that this man is a deserter; if that be the case, he wants to march me back to the rebels, just as I am marching him back to the Union army. He may be a Confederate spy. I shall not give him the gun. But I will make him talk.

"What do you want with the gun?"

"Oh, never mind. Keep your gun; it don't make any difference," he says.

He keeps on, going more rapidly than before. We go up hill and down hill, hardly changing direction.

Suddenly he says, without looking back at me, "Say, Johnny, what made you quit?"

"My mind changed," I say.

He looks back at me; I can see contempt in his face. He says, "I wouldn't say that, if I was you."

"Why not, since it is true?"

"It will do you no good."

"But why?"

"True men don't change their minds. But it's all one to me. Do as you please."

He is right, I think. Nobody will believe me if I speak the whole truth.

I say no more. Soon we see cavalry. We walk straight to them. Their leader speaks to my companion. "Thomas, you seem to have done a good job. How did you happen to get him?"

"I didn't get him. He got me. He says he has come over."

"Captain," I say, "send me at once to General Meade. I have information of extreme importance to give him."

"Well, now, my good fellow," he says, "just give it to me, if you please."

"I am ready to give you the information," I say, "but I must make a condition." "What is your condition?" he asks, frowning slightly.

"That you will not seek to know who I am, and that you will send me to General Meade at once."

"It seems to me that you are making two conditions."

"Well, sir," I reply, "the first is personal, and ought not to count. If you object to it, however, I withdraw it."

"Then, who are you?"

"I decline to say."

"Well, it makes no difference to me who you are, but I should like to know how I am to rely on what you tell."

"Captain," I say, "we are losing valuable time. Put me on a horse, and send me under guard to General Meade; you ride with me until I tell what I have to tell."

"That sounds like good sense. Here, Thomas, get your horse, and another for this man."

Two minutes pass and we are on the road. The captain says: "You see, I am giving you an escort rather than a guard. You served Thomas; now let him serve you. What is it you want to tell?"

"Ewell and Hill are at this moment marching around our—I mean your flank."

"The devil you say! Infantry?"

"The whole of Ewell's corps and the whole of Hill's—six divisions."

"How do you know that? How am I to know that you are telling me the truth?"

"I am in your hands. Question me and see if I lie in word or countenance."

"When did Ewell begin his march?"

"I do not know."

"When did Hill march?"

"He began to move on the 8th."

"Where was he before that date?"

"In camp near Orange Court-House."

"Who commands the divisions of Hill's corps?"

"Heth, Anderson, and Wilcox."

"Which division is yours?"

"Please withdraw that question."

"With great pleasure. Where did Hill's corps camp on the night of the 8th?"

"Near the Rapidan, on the south side."

"Where did Hill camp on the night of the 9th?"

"About two miles this side of Madison Court-House."

"Where on the 10th?"

"The night of the 10th near Culpeper."

"And where on the 11th?"

"Last night Hill's corps was just south, of North Fork; only a few miles from Jeffersonton."

"And where was Ewell's corps?"

"I know nothing of Ewell's corps, except one thing: it passed Hill's yesterday afternoon."

"Going up?"

"No, sir; it went toward our right."

"Do you know how many divisions are under Ewell?"

"Three."

"Who commands them?"

"Early, Johnson, and Rodes."

"Where is Hill's corps to-day?"

"It began to move up the river at daybreak."

"Is that all you have of importance?"

"Yes, sir; and I know what I say. General Meade is in danger. General Lee's movement corresponds exactly, thus far, with Jackson's march last year around General Pope." I say this very earnestly, and continue: "You ought to know that I am telling you the truth. A man coming into your lines and ordering an unarmed man to take him to you, ought to be believed."

"There is something in that," he says; "yet it would not be an impossible method of deceiving; especially if the man were tired of life," and he looks at me searchingly. I return his look, but say nothing. I know that my appearance is the opposite of prepossessing. The homeliest rebel in the South is not uglier than I am. The strain to which I have been subjected for days and weeks, and especially for the last forty-eight hours, must be telling fearfully upon me. Uncouth, dirty, ragged, starved, weak through fever and strong through unnatural excitement, there can be no wonder that the captain thinks me wild. He may suspect that such a creature is seeking the presence of General Meade in order to assassinate him.

"Captain," said I, "you have my arms. Search me for other weapons. Bind my hands behind my back, and tie my feet under this horse's belly. All I ask is to have speech with General Meade. If I am not wretchedly mistaken, I can find men near him who will vouch for me."

"Halt!" said he. "Now, Thomas, you will continue to escort this gentleman to headquarters. Wait there for orders, and then ride for your life to General Gregg. Bring back the extra horse."

He wrote a note or something, and handed it to Thomas.

"Now," said he to me, "I cannot say that I trust you are telling the truth, for the matter is too dangerous. I hope you are deceived in some way. Good luck to you."

He put spurs to his horse and galloped west.

I had yielded my gun to Thomas. At his saddle hung a carbine, and his holsters were not empty.

"Six paces in front of me, sir!" says Thomas.

We go on at a trot. It is now fully twelve o'clock. We are nearing the river again. We cart hear the rumbling of railroad trains, directly in front but far away.

The speed we are making is too slow. I dig my heels into my horse's sides; he breaks into a gallop. "Stop!" roars Thomas. I do not stop. I say nothing. I know he will not shoot. He threatens and storms, but keeps his distance. At length, he makes his horse bound to my side, and I feel his hand on my collar.

"Are you crazy?" he shouts.

I fear that he means what he says. I pull in my horse. Such, a suspicion may ruin my plan.

After a time we began to see camps ahead. We passed through the camps. We passed troops of all arms and wagon trains.

At last we reached headquarters. Thomas reported to an aide, giving him the note. I was admitted, still under Thomas's guard, before the general. He was surrounded by many officers and couriers and orderlies. The aide approached the general, who turned and looked at me. The general held the note in his hand.

"What is your name?" he asked."

"Jones Berwick, Jr., sir," said I.

"What brigade?"

"McGowan's."

"What state is McGowan's brigade from?"

"South Carolina."

"What division?"

"Wilcox's."

"How many brigades are in that division?"

"Four, General."

"Name them."

"Lane's, Scales's, Thomas's, and McGowan's."

"From what states?"

"Lane's and Scales's are from North Carolina. Thomas's brigade is from Georgia."

"When, did you leave the reb—when did you leave the enemy?"

"This morning, sir, before daylight"

"You say that a movement was in progress?"

"Yes, sir."

"What?"

"General Lee's army was moving up the river, sir."

"Up what river?"

"The Hedgeman. The North Fork."

"You say the army? General Lee's army?"

"Yes, sir; all but Longstreet's corps, which has gone to Georgia."

"Did you see the other troops?"

"Yes, sir; all of the Second and the Third corps."

"Did you see both corps?"

"I was in Hill's corps, General, and Ewell's passed Hill's in the afternoon of yesterday; Ewell's corps was many hours passing."

The officers standing about were attentive, even serious. General Meade's face showed interest, but not grave concern.

"How can I know that you are not deceiving me?"

"I have nothing on me to prove my character, General, but there are some officers and men in your army who would vouch, for me if they were here."

"Who are they?"

"General Morell is one, sir."

All the officers, as well as the general, now stared at me. I saw one of them tap his forehead.

"What are you to General Morell?" asked the commander.

"General Grover also would vouch for me, sir."

"You do not answer my question. Answer promptly, and without evasion. What are you to General Morell?"

"Nothing now, sir. Our relations have ceased, yet I am sure that he would know me and believe me."

"What are you to General Grover?"

"He knew me, General"

"Well, sir, neither General Morell nor General Grover is now with this army. You have a peculiar way of calling for absent witnesses."

"I believe, General, that General Fitz-John Porter would bear me out."

"General Porter is no longer in this army."

"Then General Butterfield."

"General Butterfield is no longer in this army."

I was staggered. What I was trying to do was to avoid calling for Dr. Khayme, who, I feared, would betray me through surprise. What had become of all these generals? Even General McClellan, who by bare possibility might have heard of me through General Morell, was, as I knew very well, far from this army. Certainly the war had been hard on the general officers of this Army of the Potomac. I would risk one more name.

"Then, General, I should be glad to see Colonel Blaisdell."

"What Colonel Blaisdell? What regiment?"

"Eleventh Massachusetts, sir."

General Meade looked at an officer. The officer shook his head slightly.

"Nor is Colonel Blaisdell here, my good fellow. Now I am going to ask you some questions, and I think it well to advise you to answer quickly and without many words. How do you happen to know that the colonel of the Eleventh Massachusetts is named Blaisdell?"

I did not know what to say. If I had been with General Meade alone, I should have confided in him at this moment—yet the idea again came that he would have considered me a lunatic. I had to answer quickly, so I said, "I had friends in that regiment, General."

The officers had gathered around their commander as close as etiquette allowed. They were looking on, and listening—some of them very serious—others with sneers."

"Name one of your friends."

"John Lawler, sir."

"What company?"

"Company D."

An officer wrote something, and an orderly went off.

"Now," said the general, "how is it that you seem to know General Grover and General Butterfield—stop! What brigade did General Grover command? Where was it that you knew him?"

"General, I beg of you that you will not force me to answer. The information I bring you is true. What I might say of General Grover would not prove me to be true. I beg to ask if Dr. Khayme, of the Sanitary Commission, is with the army?"

"Yes," said the general, after again questioning his aide with a look.

"He will vouch for me, sir," said I.

A second orderly was sent off.

All the officers now looked grave. The general continued to question me. I had two things to think of at once,—replies to the general, and a plan to prevent a scene when the Doctor appeared.

"How far up the river was Lee's infantry this morning?"

"Near Jeffersonton, sir, moving on up." How could I keep the Doctor quiet? I knew not. I could only hope that his wonderful self-control would not even now desert him.

"How do you know they were still moving?"

"Hill's corps began to move just before day. I could hear the movement, sir." Doctor Khayme might save me or might undo me; on his conduct depended my peace for the future. If he should betray me, I should henceforth be a living curiosity.

"Why did you not start yesterday, sir?" asked the general.

The question was hard. It did not seem relevant. I knew not how to answer. I was silent.

"I asked why you did not start yesterday?"

"Start where, General?"

"For this army. Did you not know on yesterday that Lee was moving? If you intended to be of service to us, why did you delay?"

Here was an opening.

"Circumstances were such that I could not leave yesterday, General; besides, it was only last night that I became convinced of the nature of General Lee's movement." I was hoping that I could give the Doctor some signal before he should speak—before he should recognize me. I was determined to prevent his exposing me, no matter at what personal risk.

"And how did you become convinced?" asked the general.

"It was the universal opinion of the men that convinced me, General. But that was only additional to the circumstances of position and direction of march."

"The men? What do the men know of such things?"

"The men I speak of, General, were all familiar with the country, from having marched over it many times. They were in the August campaign of last year; they said that the present movement could mean nothing except a repetition of General Jackson's flank march of last year."

The general looked exceedingly grave. His eyes were always upon me. The officers were very silent—motionless, except for glances one at another.

"Were you in Lee's campaigns last year?"

"Yes, sir."

"Were you under Jackson or Longstreet?"

"I was in Jackson's corps, General."

"Did you make the march under him?"

"Yes, sir."

"And this march of Ewell and Hill seems similar to your march of last year?"

"General, last year, on August 24th, I rejoined General Jackson's corps at the very place where I left Hill's corps this morning. On August 25th last year General Jackson crossed the Hedgeman River on his flank march. Hill's corps this morning began to move toward the crossing of the river."

"Have you seen General Lee in the last few days?"

"No, sir; but I have seen men who said they saw him."

"Do you know him when you see him?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you seen General Hill in the last few days?"

"Yes, sir—many times."

"Have you seen General Ewell?"

"I would not know General Ewell, sir."

"How, then, do you know that his corps is up the river?"

"His entire corps passed ours, sir, marching to our right."

"When?"

"Yesterday, General."

"You are sure it was Ewell's whole corps?"

"It was a great column of infantry and nineteen batteries; it took many hours to march by us. Many of the men in the different brigades told us they were of Ewell's corps. None of us doubted it, General."

The questions of the general continued. I thought that they were for the purpose of testing me; their forms were various, without change of substance.

The first orderly returned, followed closely by the second. They reported to an aide, who then spoke in a low voice to General Meade. Soon I saw Dr. Khayme approaching.

The Doctor looked as ever. I said hurriedly to General Meade, "General, I beg that you let me see Dr. Khayme alone; let me go to meet him, if but a few yards."

The general looked at his aide, then shook his head.

I cried out: "Doctor, hold your peace! Say nothing but yes or no!"

General Meade and all his staff looked at me with anger.

The Doctor had come up. He said not a word.

Intense gravity was all over him.

General Meade said, "Doctor, do you know this man?"

"Yes, sir."

"Who is he?"

The Doctor smiled very faintly, then became serious again, and shook his head; "I obey orders, General," he said.

"Then reply," said the general.

"I am commanded to say yes or no," said the Doctor. "I suppose, however, there is no objection?" looking at me. I inclined my head. Etiquette could no longer restrain the staff. We were all in a huddle.

"He is Jones Berwick," said Dr. Khayme.

"Do you vouch for him?"

"Yes, General."

"He brings information of great import, if true; there is immense danger in accepting it, if false."

"I will answer for him with my life, General."

"But may he not be deceived? May you not be deceived in him? And he will tell nothing except what he wishes to tell!"

"General, let me say a few words to him and to you."

"All right." He made a movement, and his staff dispersed—very reluctantly, no doubt, but quickly enough.

"Now, Jones, my dear boy," said the Doctor, "I think you may confide in the general. You see, General, there is a private matter in which my friend here is greatly interested, and which he does not want everybody to hear."

"He may rely on my confidence in matters personal—and if he is bringing me the truth, he may rely on my protection," said the general; "now speak up and convince me, and be quick."

"General," I said, "I went into the rebel army as a Union spy. I am a regularly enlisted man in the Eleventh Massachusetts."

Dr. Khayme said, "That is true, General."

"Then," roared the general, "then why the hell did you take so long to tell it?"

He dashed off from us. He called his aides. He began sending despatches like the woods afire.



XL

CONCLUSION

"And all that was death Grows life, grows love, Grows love."—BROWNING.

The Doctor held my hand.

Couriers and aides had gone flying in every direction. A hubbub rose; clouds of dust were in the west and north and east and south—everywhere. The Army of the Potomac was retreating.

But not the whole army as yet. Beyond the Rappahannock were three corps,—the Sixth, the Fifth, and the Second, under Sedgwick, Sykes, and Warren,—which General Meade had thrown forward on the morning of this day, in the belief that Lee was retiring. Until these troops should succeed in recrossing to the north side of the river, a strong force must hold the bridges.

Thomas had left my gun. The Doctor shouldered it. I think this was the first gun he had ever touched. He took me with him.

Long lines of wagons and cannon were driving northward and eastward on every road. The Doctor said little. Tears were in his eyes and sobs in his voice. I had never seen him thus.

We reached the Sanitary Camp. The tents were already struck, and the wagons ready to move.

"Stay here one moment, my boy," the Doctor said.

He left me and approached an ambulance, into which I could not see; all its curtains were down. He raised the corner of a curtain, remained there while one might count a hundred—or a million—and came back to me.

"Now get in, Jones," he said, preparing to mount his horse.

I got in.

By my side was a woman ... weeping.

* * * * *

Lee's guns are grumbling in all the southwest quadrant of the horizon. In the west Gregg's cavalry impedes the advance of A.P. Hill; in the south Fitzhugh Lee is pressing hard upon Buford.

The retreat continues; I hold a woman's hand in mine.

* * * * *

Past the middle of an autumn night, where thick forests added to the darkness fitfully relieved by the fires of hasty bivouacs, there sat, apart from cannon and bayonets and sleeping battalions, a group of three.

One was a man of years and of thought and of many virtues—at least a sage, at least a hero.

One was a woman, young and sweet and pure and devoted.

One was a common soldier.

THE END