they told her that berkley had gone up the hill toward the firing line.
on the windy hill-top, hub deep in dry, dead grass, a section of a battery was in action, the violent light from the discharges lashing out through the rushing vapours which the wind flattened and drove, back into the hollow below so that the cannoneers seemed to be wading waist deep in fog.
the sick and wounded on their cots and stretchers were coughing and gasping in the hot mist; the partly erected tents had become full of it. and now the air in the hollow grew more suffocating as fragments of burning powder and wadding set the dead grass afire, and the thick, strangling blue smoke spread over everything.
surgeons and assistants were working like beavers to house their patients; every now and then a bullet darted into the vale with an evil buzz, rewounding, sometimes killing, the crippled. to add to the complication and confusion, more wounded arrived from the firing line above and beyond to the westward; horses began to fall where they stood harnessed to the caissons; a fine, powerful gun-team galloping back to refill its chests suddenly reared straight up into annihilation, enveloped in the volcanic horror of a shell, so near that ailsa, standing below in a clump of willows, saw the flash and smoke of the cataclysm and the flying disintegration of dark objects scattering through the smoke.
far away on the hillside an artilleryman, making a funnel of his hands, shouted for stretchers; and ailsa, repeating the call, managed to gather together half a dozen overworked bearers and start with them up through the smoke.
deafened, blinded, her senses almost reeling under the nerve-shattering crash of the guns, she toiled on through the dry grass, pausing at the edge of charred spaces to beat out the low flames that leaped toward her skirts.
there was a leafy hollow ahead, filled with slender, willow-trees, many of them broken off, shot, torn, twisted, and splintered. dead soldiers lay about under the smoke, their dirty shirts or naked skin visible between jacket and belt; to the left on a sparsely wooded elevation, the slope of which was scarred, showing dry red sand and gravel, a gun stood, firing obliquely across the gully into the woods. long, wavering, irregular rings of smoke shot out, remaining intact and floating like the rings from a smoker's pipe, until another rush and blast of flame scattered them.
the other gun had been dismounted and lay on its side, one wheel in the air, helpless, like some monster sprawling with limbs stiffened in death. behind it, crouched close, squatted some infantry soldiers, firing from the cover of the wreckage. behind every tree, every stump, every inequality, lay infantry, dead, wounded, or alive and cautiously firing. several took advantage of the fallen battery horses for shelter. only one horse of that gun-team remained alive, and the gunners had lashed the prolonge to the trail of the overturned cannon and to the poor horse's collar, and were trying to drag the piece away with the hope of righting it.
this manoeuvre dislodged the group of infantry soldiers who had taken shelter there, and, on all fours, they began crawling and worming and scuffling about among the dead leaves, seeking another shelter from the pelting hail of lead.
there was nothing to be seen beyond the willow gully except smoke, set grotesquely with phantom trees, through which the enemy's fusillade sparkled and winked like a long level line of fire-flies in the mist.
the stretcher bearers crept about gathering up the wounded who called to them out of the smoke. ailsa, on her knees, made her way toward a big cavalryman whose right leg was gone at the thigh.
she did what she could, called for a stretcher, then, crouching close under the bank of raw earth, set her canteen to his blackened lips and held it for him.
"don't be discouraged," she said quietly, "they'll bring another stretcher in a few moments. i'll stay here close beside you until they come."
the cavalryman was dying; she saw it; he knew it. and his swollen lips moved.
"don't waste time with me," he managed to say.
"then—will you lie very still and not move?"
"yes; only don't let the horse step on me."
she drew her little note-book and pencil from the pocket of her gown and gently lowered her head until one ear was close to his lips.
"what is your name and regiment?"
his voice became suddenly clear.
"john casson—egerton's dragoons. . . . mrs. henry casson, islip, long island. my mother is a widow; i don't—think she—can—stand——"
then he died—went out abruptly into eternity.
beside him, in the grass, lay a zouave watching everything with great hollow eyes. his body was only a mass of bloody rags; he had been shot all to pieces, yet the bleeding heap was breathing, and the big sunken eyes patiently watched ailsa's canteen until she encountered his unwinking gaze. but the first swallow he took killed him, horribly; and ailsa, her arms drenched with blood, shrank back and crouched shuddering under the roots of a shattered tree, her consciousness almost deserting her in the roaring and jarring and splintering around her. she saw more stretcher bearers in the smoke, stooping, edging their way—unarmed heroes of many a field who fell unnoted, died unrecorded on the rolls of glory.
a lieutenant of artillery, powder-blackened, but jaunty, called down to her from the bank above:
"look out, little lady. we're going to try to limber up, and we don't want to drop six horses and a perfectly good gun on top of you!"
somebody seized her arm and dragged her across the leaves; and she struggled to her knees, to her feet, turned, and started to run.
"this way," said berkley's voice in her ear; and his hand closed on hers.
"phil—help me—i don't know where i am!"
"i do. run this way, under the crest of the hill. . . . dr. connor told me that you had climbed up here. this isn't your place! are you stark mad?"
they ran on westward, panting, sheltered by the grassy crest behind which soldiers lay firing over the top of the grass—long lines of them, belly flattened to the slope, dusty blue trousers hitched up showing naked ankles and big feet pendant. behind them, swords drawn, stood or walked their officers, quietly encouraging them or coolly turning to look at ailsa and berkley as they hurried past.
in a vast tobacco field to their left, just beyond a wide cleft in the hills, a brigade of cavalry was continually changing station to avoid shell fire. the swallow-tailed national flags, the yellow guidons with their crossed sabres, the blue state colours, streamed above their shifting squadrons as they trotted hither and thither with the leisurely precision of a peaceful field day; but here and there from the trampled earth some fallen horse raised its head in agony; here and there the plain was dotted with dark heaps that never stirred.
the wailing flight of bullets streamed steadily overhead, but, as they descended, the whistling, rushing sound grew higher and fainter. they could see, on the plain where the cavalry was manoeuvring, the shells bursting in fountains of dirt, the ominous shrapnel cloud floating daintily above.
far away through the grassy cleft, on wooded hillsides, delicately blue, they could see the puff of white smoke shoot out from among the trees where the confederate batteries were planted, then hear the noise of the coming shell rushing nearer, quavering, whistling into a long-drawn howl as it raced through the gray clouds overhead.
while he guided her among the cedars at the base of the hill, one arm around her body to sustain her, he quietly but seriously berated her for her excursion to the firing line, telling her there was no need of it, no occasion for anybody except the bearers there; that dr. connor was furious at her and had said aloud that she had little common-sense.
ailsa coloured painfully, but there was little spirit left in her, and she walked thankfully and humbly along beside him, resting her cheek, against his shoulder.
"don't scold me; i really feel half sick, phil. . . . from where did you come?" she added timidly.
"from the foot bridge. they wanted a guard set there. i found half a dozen wounded men who could handle a musket. lord, but the rebels came close to us that time! when we heard those bullets they were charging the entire line of our works. i understand that we've driven them all along the line. it must be so, judging from the sound of the firing."
"did our hospital burn?"
"only part of one wing. they're beginning to move back the wounded already. . . . now, dear, will you please remain with your superiors and obey orders?" he added as they came out along the banks of the little stream and saw the endless procession of stretchers recrossing the foot bridge to the left.
"yes. . . . i didn't know. i saw part of a battery blown up; and a soldier stood on the hill and shouted for stretchers. there was nobody else to start them off, so i did it."
he nodded. "wait here, dear. i will run over and ask dr. connor whether they have moved colonel arran——"
"colonel arran! oh, philip! i forgot to tell you—" she clutched his arm in her excitement, and he halted, alarmed.
"has anything happened to him?" he demanded.
"he asked for you."
"is he worse?"
"i fear so."
"dying?"
"phil—i am afraid so. he—he—thinks that you are his son!"
"w-what are you saying!" he stammered: "what are you trying to tell me, ailsa?"
"phil—my darling!—don't look that way!" she exclaimed, frightened.
"what way?" he laughed as though crazed. "where is he? do you know? i want to see him. you better let me see him."
"i'll go with you, phil; i'll be close beside you. you mustn't become so terribly excited; i didn't know what i was saying; i think he is delirious——"
"where is he? i can't endure this much longer," he kept repeating in a vacant way as they forced a path among the litters and ambulances, and came out through the smoke blowing from a pile of debris that lay where the east wing of the seminary had once stood. charred and battered, every window smashed, and the blackened rafters of the roof still smouldering, the east wing rose before them, surrounded by the wounded.
a surgeon told them that colonel arran had been carried out of the barn, but to what place he did not know. letty with dr. benton passed them by the stables, but they knew only that colonel arran, lying on a litter, had been placed in an ambulance which had started for azalea court house.
this was confirmed by dr. connor, who came hurrying by and who halted to scowl heartily at ailsa.
"no more of that!" he said roughly. "when i want a nurse on the firing line i'll detail her. i've sent two hundred invalids to the landing, and i wanted you to go with them and when i looked around for you i saw you kiting for the line of battle! that's all wrong, mrs. paige! that's all wrong! you look sick anyway. are you?"
"no. i'll go now, if you'll let me, dr. connor."
"how are you going to get there? i haven't another ambulance to send—not a horse or a mule——"
"i—i'll walk," she said with a sob in her throat. "i am fearfully sorry—and ashamed——"
"there, there," muttered dr. connor, "i didn't mean all i said. it was a brave thing to do—not that your pluck mitigates the offence! be a little more considerate; think a little faster; don't take to your legs on the first impulse. some fool told me you'd been killed—and that made—made me—most damnably angry!" he burst out with a roar to cover the emotion working at his mouth and eyes.
he seized ailsa's hand and shook it vigorously.
"excuse my profanity. i can't avoid it when i think of you—dead! there, there. i'm an old fool and you're a—younger one. see if you can find somebody to take you to azalea. i want that batch of invalids carefully watched. besides, there's a furlough there for you. don't say one word! you're not well, i tell you. i had to send those invalids back; the place here is atrociously crowded. try to find some way of getting to the landing. and take care of your pretty little self for god's sake!"
she promised, shook hands with him again, disengaged herself from the crowd around her, turned about to search for berkley, and caught sight of him near the stables, saddling his horse. he buckled the last strap as she came up; turned a blank gaze on her, and did not appear to comprehend her question for a moment. then, nodding in a dazed way, he lifted her to the saddle in front, swung up behind her, passed one arm around her waist, gathered bridle, and edged his way carefully through the crowd out into the road.
the 3rd zouaves in heavy marching order filled the road with their scarlet column, moving steadily southward; and ailsa, from her perch on the saddle, called to colonel craig and major lent, stretching out her hot little hand to them as she passed.
engineers blocked their progress farther on, then wisconsin infantry, young giants in blue, swinging forward in their long loose-limbered stride; then an interminable column of artillery, jolting slowly along, the grimy gunners swaying drowsily on their seats, officers nodding half asleep in their saddles.
"philip," she ventured timidly.
"yes."
"is there—anything—you wish to tell me? anything that
i—perhaps—have a faint shadow of a right to know?"
for a long time they rode in silence, her question unanswered. a narrow cart road—less of a road than a lane—led east. he turned his horse into it.
for a moment no sound broke the silence save the monotonous clank of his sabre and the creak of girth and saddle.
"ailsa!"
"yes, phil."
"move closer; hold very tight to me; clasp both arms around my neck. . . . are you seated firmly?"
"yes, phil."
he encircled her slender body with his right arm and, shaking out the bridle, launched his horse at a gallop down the sandy lane. her breath and his mingled as they sped forward; the wind rushed by, waving the foliage on either hand; a steady storm of sand and gravel rained rattling through the bushes as the spurred horse bounded forward, breaking into a grander stride, thundering on through the gathering dusk.
swaying, cradled in his embrace, her lips murmured his name, or, parted breathless, touched his, as the exquisitely confused sense of headlong speed dimmed her senses to a happy madness.
trees, bushes, fences flew past and fled away behind in the dusk. it seemed to her as though she was being tossed through space locked in his arms; infinite depths of shadow whirled and eddied around her; limitless reaches, vistas unfathomable stretched toward outer chaos into which they were hurled, unseeing, her arms around his neck, her soft face on his breast.
then a lantern flashed; voices sounded in far-off confusion; more lanterns twinkled and glimmered; more voices broke in on their heavenly isolation.
was the divine flight ended?
somebody said: "colonel arran is here, and is still alive, but his mind is clouding. he says he is waiting for his son to come."
dizzy, burning hot, half blinded, she felt herself swung out of space onto the earth again, through a glare of brightness in which celia's face seemed to be framed, edged with infernal light. . . . and another face, camilla's, was there in the confusing brilliancy; and she reeled a little, embraced, held hot and close; and in her dulled ears drummed celia's voice, murmuring, pitying, complaining, adoring:
"honey-bell—oh, my little honey-bud! i have you back in my a'ms, and i have my boy, and i'm ve'y thankful to my heavenly master—i certainly am, honey-bee!—fo' his goodness and his mercy which he is showing eve'y day to me and mine."
and camilla's pale face was pressed against her hot cheeks and the girl's black sleeve of crape encircled her neck.
she whispered: "i—i try to think it reconciles me to losing jimmy.
. . . war gave me stephen. . . . yet—oh, i cannot understand why
god's way must sometimes be the way of battle!"
ailsa saw and heard and understood, yet, all around her fell an unreal light—a terrible fiery radiance, making voices the voices, of phantoms, forms the outlines of ghosts.
through an open door she saw a lamp-lit room where her lover knelt beside a bed—saw a man's arm reach feebly toward him—and saw no more. everything wavered and dazzled and brightened into rainbow tints around her, then to scarlet; then velvety darkness sprang up, through which she fell into swift unconsciousness.
one of the doctors, looking at her as she lay on the hospital cot, dropped his hand gravely on her thin wrist.
"you cannot tell me anything that i don't know about mrs. paige," he said wearily. "this is a complete breakdown. it's come just in time, too, that girl has been trying to kill herself. i understand that her furlough has arrived. you'd better get her north on the next transport. i guess that our angels are more popular in our hospitals just now than they would be tuning little gilt harps aloft. we can't spare 'em, mrs. craig, and i guess the most high can wait a little longer."
doctor, ward-master, apothecary, and nurses stood looking down at the slim, fever-flushed shape moving restlessly on the cot—babbling soft inconsequences, staring out of brilliant eyes at nothing.
the doctor whispered to the apothecary, and his gesture dismissed those who stood around her waiting in silence.
