chance for chance that I should ride straight to the enemy on the
Richmond road.

I took the left. To go to the river meant almost the loss of hope
thereafter. I would go toward the enemy for a little distance, but would
take the first bridle-path to the right, some road or bridle-path
branching out of this, and running up the river. But my progress became
exceedingly slow, for I feared always to miss seeing some blind road
leading to the right, and my carefulness again cost me a little time,
perhaps, for I found a path, and took it, going with great caution for a
furlong, to find that it entered a larger road. If I had not taken this
path, I should have soon reached this good road at its junction, and
time would have been saved by increased speed; yet I did not blame
myself, and went on with renewed hope and faster, for although the moon
was getting far down the sky, my road was good and was running straight
toward my end.

But at length, as I was going over a sandy stretch, I heard hoof-beats
behind me, and the sound grew, and I knew that some night rider was
following fast. What is he? A rebel or a Federal? Loud ring the strokes
of the horse's irons and louder behind me; I must run or I must
slip aside.

I chose to let him pass. To be pursued would have been to throw up the
game; all then would have been lost. I left the road and hid in the
shadowy woods. On came the rider, and as the thundering hoofs hit the
road within ten paces of my stand, I saw again the black horse belly to
the ground in the moonlight.

Almost at once I started in pursuit. I would keep this man before me; if
he should run upon rebels, the alarm would reach me; so long as he
should be in my front, safety for me was at the front and danger
elsewhere. I pursued, keeping within sight where the road stretches were
long, going slowly where the ground was hard, lest the noise of my
approach should be heard. Yet I had no difficulty; the courier was
straining every nerve to reach his destination, and regarded not his
rear. He crossed roads in haste, and by this I knew that the road was to
him familiar; he paused never, but kept his horse at an even gallop
through forest and through field, while I followed by jerks, making my
horse run at times, and again, fearing I was too near, bringing him back
to slower speed. For miles I followed the black horse.

But now I saw that the night was further spent than I had supposed;
light was coming behind me, and the moon was low in the west. How far to
the end? The black horse is going more slowly; he has gone many weary
miles more than mine has gone; his rider is urging him to the utmost; I
can see him dig his spurs again and again into the sides of the noble
beast, and see him strike, and I see him turn where the road turns ahead
of me, and I ride faster to recover him; and now I see black smoke
rising at my right hand, and I hear the whistle of the Union steam
vessels, and I almost cry for joy, and at the turning of the road my
horse rears and almost throws me to the ground, and I see the black
horse lying dead, and I spur my horse to pass, and give a cry of terror
as a man springs from the left, with carbine presented, and shouts,
"Your horse! your horse! Dismount at once, or I'll blow your
brains out!"

For the rider of the black horse was a Confederate!

Shall I ever forget that moment of dismay and anguish? Even as I write
the thrill of horror returns, and I see a picture of the past:--the
daybreak; a lonely road in the forest; two men and two horses, each pair
as unlike as life and death, for one's horse was dead and the other man
was about to die. Had I been so utterly foolish! Why had I conceived
absolutely that this rider was a Federal? How could a Federal know the
road so well that he had gone over it at full speed, never hesitating,
never deflecting into a wrong course? The instant before, I had been in
heaven, for I had known my safe destination was at hand; now, I felt
that my end had come to me, for my terror was for myself and not for a
lost mission, and I cannot remember that in that smallest second of time
any other hope was in me but that of riding this man down and reaching
our troops with a mortal bullet in my body.

In a second the world may be changed--in a second the world _was_
changed. I saw my captor's gun drop from his hands; I saw his hands go
up. I looked round; in the road behind me--blessed sight--were two
Union soldiers with their muskets levelled at the man in gray.

"Take me at once to General Franklin."

Again I was thunderstruck--two voices had shouted the same words!

The revulsion turned me stomach-sick; the rider of the black horse was a
Federal in disguise!

*       *       *       *       *

General Franklin advanced, and met the enemy advancing. For no error on
my part, my mission was a failure.

"How could you know the road so well for the last ten miles of it?" I
asked of Jones, the rider of the black horse.

"That horse was going home!"

"A horse captured from the rebels?"

"No; impressed only yesterday from a farmer near the landing. You see he
had already made that road and was not in the best condition to make it
again so soon; then I had to turn about more than once. I suppose that
horse must have made nearly a hundred miles in twenty-four hours."

Jones was of Porter's escort, and had on this occasion served as General
Porter's messenger.

On the next day, the 8th, I returned to the Sanitary Camp.



XIV

OUT OF SORTS

"Your changed complexions are to me a mirror
Which shows me mine changed too; for I must be
A party in this alteration, finding
Myself thus altered with it."--SHAKESPEARE.

It would have been quite impossible for me to analyze my feeling for Dr.
Khayme. His affection for me was unconcealed, and I was sure that no
other man was received as his companion--not that he was distant, but
that he was not approached. By nature I am affectionate, but at that
time my emotions were severely and almost continually repressed by my
will, because of a condition of nervous sensitiveness in regard to the
possibility of an exposure of my peculiarity, so that I often wondered
whether the Doctor fully understood the love and reverence I bore him.

On the morning following the day last spoken of--that is to say, on the
morning of May 9th--Dr. Khayme rode off to the old William and Mary
College, now become a hospital, leaving me to my devices, as he said,
for some hours. I was sitting on a camp-stool in the open air, busily
engaged in cleaning my gun and accoutrements, when I saw a man coming
toward me. It was Willis.

"Where is the Doctor?" he asked.

"Gone to the hospital; want to see him?"

"That depends."

"He will be back in an hour or two. Boys all right?" I brought out a
camp-stool; Willis remained standing.

"Oh, yes; what's left of 'em. Say, Berwick, what's this I hear about
your being detailed for special work?"

"So," said I.

"What in the name o' God will you have to do?"

Willis's tone was not so friendly as I had known it to be; besides, I
had observed that he called me Berwick rather than Jones. His attitude
chilled me. I did not wish to talk to him about myself. We talk about
personal matters to personal friends. I suppose, too, that I am peculiar
in such things; at any rate, so great was my distaste to talking now
with Willis on the subject in question that I did not succeed in hiding
my feeling.

"Oh," says he, "you needn't say it if you don't want to."

"I feel," said I, "as though I should be speaking of personal matters,
perhaps too personal."

"Well, I don't want to force myself on anybody," said he; then he asked,
"How long are you going to stay with Dr. Khayme?"

It flashed upon me in an instant that Willis was jealous,--not of the
little distinction that had been shown me,--but in regard to Lydia, and
I felt a great desire to relieve him of any fear of my being or becoming
his rival. Yet I did not see how I could introduce a subject so
delicate. In order to gain time, I replied: "Well, I don't know exactly;
I am subject to orders from brigade headquarters. If no orders come, I
shall stay here a day or two; if we march, I suppose I shall march with
the company, unless the division is in the rear."

"If the division marches and Dr. Khayme remains here, what will you do?"
he asked.

This was increasing, I thought; to encourage him to proceed, I asked,
"Why do you wish to know?"

"Because," said he, hesitatingly, "because I think you ought to show
your hand."

"Please tell me exactly what you mean by that," said I.

"You know very well what I mean," he replied.

"Let us have no guesswork," said I; "if you want to say anything, this
is a good time for saying it."

"Well, then, I will," said he; "you know that I like Miss Lydia."

"Well?"

"And I thought you were my friend."

"I am your friend."

"Then why do you get into my way?"

"If I am in your way, it is more than I know," said I; "what would you
have me to do?"

"If you are my friend, you will keep out of my way."

"Do you mean to say that I ought not to visit the Doctor?"

"If you visit the Doctor, you ought to make it plain to him why you
visit him."

"Sergeant," said I; "Dr. Khayme knows very well why I visit him. I have
no idea that he considers me a bidder for his daughter."

"Well; you may be right, and then again, you may be wrong."

"And you would have me renounce Dr. Khayme's society in order to favour
your hopes?"

"I did not say that. You are perfectly welcome to Dr. Khayme's company;
but I do think that you ought not to let him believe that you want
Miss Lydia."

"Shall I tell him that you say that?"

"I can paddle my own canoe; you are not my mouthpiece," he replied
angrily.

"Then would you have me tell him that I do not want Miss Lydia?"

"Tell him what you like, or keep silent if you like; all I've got to say
is that if you are my friend you will not stand in my way."

"It seems to me, Sergeant," said I, "that you are forcing me into a very
delicate position. For me to go to Dr. Khayme and explain to him that my
attachment to him is not a piece of hypocrisy played by me in order to
win his daughter, would not be satisfactory to the Doctor or to me, or
even to Miss Khayme."

"Why not to her?" he asked abruptly.

"Because my explanation could not be made except upon my assumption that
she supposes me a suitor; it would amount to my saying, 'I don't want
you,' and more than that, as you can easily see. I decline to put myself
into such a position. I prefer to assume that she does not regard me as
a suitor, and that the Doctor receives me only as an old pupil. I beg
you to stay here until the Doctor comes, and talk to him yourself. I can
promise you one thing: I shall not hinder you; I'll give you a
clear field."

"Do you mean to say that you will give me a clear field with Miss
Lydia?"

"Not exactly that, but very nearly. You have no right to expect me to
say to anybody that Miss Lydia does not attract me, and it would be
silly, presumptuous, conceited in me to yield what I have not. I can
tell you this: I have not spoken a word to Miss Lydia that I would not
speak to any woman, or to any man for that matter, and I can say that I
have not one degree of claim upon her."

"Then you will keep out of my way?"

"I repeat that I am not in your way. If I should say that I will keep
out of your way, I would imply what is not true; the young lady is
absolutely free so far as I am concerned."

At this point the Doctor came up. He shook hands with Willis and went
into his tent. I urged Willis to follow, but he would not. I offered to
lead the conversation into the matter in which he was so greatly
interested, but he would not consent.

The Doctor reappeared. "Lydia will be here to-night," he said.

"You surprise me, Doctor."

"Yes; but I am now pretty sure that we shall be here for a week to
come, and we shall not move our camp before the rear division moves.
Lydia will find enough to do here."

Willis soon took his leave. I accompanied him for a short distance; on
parting with him I told him that he might expect to see me again
at night.

"What!" said he; "you are going to leave the Doctor?"

"Yes," I replied; "expect me to-night."

Willis looked puzzled; he did not know what to say, and said nothing.

When I entered the Doctor's tent, I found him busily writing. He looked
up, then went on with his work. Presently, still continuing to write, he
said, "So Willis is angry."

"Why do you say so, Doctor?"

"Anybody could have seen it in his manner," said he.

I tried to evade. "He was out of sorts," said I.

"What does 'out of sorts' mean?" asked the Doctor. Then, before I could
reply, he continued: "I have often thought of that expression; it is a
good one; it means to say gloomy, depressed, mentally unwell, physically
ill perhaps. Yes, Willis is out of sorts. Out of sorts means mixed,
unclassified, unassorted, having one's functions disordered. One who
cannot separate his functions distinctly is unwell and, necessarily,
miserable. Willis showed signs of dementia; his brain is not acting
right. I think I can cure him."

I said nothing. In the Doctor's tone there was not a shade of sarcasm.

He continued: "Perfect sanity would be impossible to predicate of any
individual; doubtless there are perfectly sane persons, that is, sane at
times, but to find them would be like finding the traditional needle. I
suppose our good friend Willis would rank higher than the average, after
all is said."

"Willis is a good soldier," said I, "and a good sergeant."

"Yes, no doubt he is; he ought to know that he is just the man for a
soldier and a sergeant, and be content."

Now, of course, I knew that Dr. Khayme, by his clear knowledge of
nature, not to say more, was able to read Willis; but up to this time I
had not suspected that Willis's hopes in regard to Lydia had alarmed or
offended my learned friend; so I continued to beat round the subject.

"I cannot see," said I, "why Willis might not aspire to a commission. If
the war continues, there will be many chances for promotion."

"The war will continue," he said, "and Willis may win a commission. The
difference between a lieutenant and a sergeant is greater in pay than in
qualification; in fact, a good orderly-sergeant is a rarer man than a
good captain. Let Willis have his commission. Let that be his ambition,
if he persists in murdering people."

The Doctor was yet writing busily. I wondered whether his words were
intended as a hint for me to speak to Willis; of course I could do
nothing of the kind. I felt that this whole affair was very delicate.
Willis had gone so far as to make me infer that he was very much afraid
of me: why? Could it be possible that he saw more than I could see? No,
that was a suggestion of mere vanity; he simply dreaded Dr. Khayme's
well-known partiality for me; he feared, not me, but the Doctor. I was
uneasy. I examined myself; I thought of my past conduct in regard to
Lydia, and found nothing to condemn. I had been rather more distant, I
thought, than was necessary. I must preserve this distance.

"Doctor," said I, "good-by till to-morrow; I shall stay with the company
to-night."

He looked up. "You will see Willis?"

"Yes, sir; I suppose so."

"You might say to him, if you think well, that I thought he left us
rather abruptly to-day, and that I don't think he is very well."

"I hope to see you again to-morrow, Doctor."

"Very well, my boy; good-by till to-morrow; you will find me here by ten
o'clock."

When I reached the company I did not see Willis; he was off on duty
somewhere. On the next morning, however, he came in, and everything
passed in the friendliest way possible, at first. Evidently he was
pleased with me for absenting myself from Lydia. But he soon learned
that I was to return to the Sanitary Camp, and his countenance
changed at once.

"What am I to think of you?" he asked.

"I trust you will think well of me," I replied; "I am doing you no
wrong. You are not well. The Doctor noticed it."

"He said that I was not well?"

"Yes."

"Well, he is wrong for once; I am as well as I ever was in my life."

"He said you left very suddenly yesterday."

"I suppose I did leave suddenly; but I saw no reason to remain longer."

"Willis," said I, "let us talk seriously. Why do you not speak to Miss
Lydia and her father? Why not end this matter one way or the other?"

"I haven't seen Miss Lydia since you left us in February," said he; "how
can I speak to her?"

"But you can speak to Dr. Khayme."

"Yes, I could speak to Dr. Khayme, but I don't consider him the one to
speak to first, and to tell you the truth I'm afraid of it. It's got to
be done, but I feel that I have no chance; that's what's hurting me."

"Then I'd have it over with, as soon as possible," said I.

"That's easier said than done; but I intend to have it over; it's doing
me no good. I wish I'd never seen her."

"Why don't you write?"

"I've thought of that, but I concluded I wouldn't. It looked cowardly
not to face the music."

"My dear fellow," said I, "there is no cowardice in it at all. You ought
to do it, or else bury the whole thing, and I don't suppose you can
do that."

"No, I can't do that; if I don't see her shortly, I shall write."

I was very glad to hear this. From what he had just said, coupled with
my knowledge of the Doctor and of Lydia, I did not think his chance
worth a penny, and I felt certain that the best thing for him to do was
to bring matters to a conclusion. He would recover sooner.

At ten o'clock I was with Dr. Khayme. He told me that Lydia had arrived
in the night, and that he had just accompanied her to the hospital.

"And how is our friend Willis to-day?" he asked; "is he a little less
out of sorts?"

"He is friendly to-day, Doctor."

"Did you tell him that I remarked about his abrupt manner?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. I now I want to talk to you about your future work, Jones. I
have thought of your suggestion that you wear Confederate uniform, while
scouting."

"And you do not oppose it?"

"Decide for yourself. I cannot conscientiously take part in war; all I
can do is to endeavour to modify its evil, and try to turn it to good."

The Doctor talked long and deeply upon these matters, and ended by
saying that he would get me Confederate clothing from some wounded
prisoner. Then he began a discussion of the principles which the
respective sections were fighting for.

"Doctor," said I; "awhile ago, when I was urging that a scout would be
of greater service to his cause if he disguised himself, as my friend
Jones does, you seemed to doubt my assertion that the best thing for the
rebels was their quick defeat."

"I remember it."

"Please tell me what you have in mind."

"It is this, Jones: America must be united, or else dis-severed. I
believe in the world-idea; although I condemn this war, I believe in the
Union. The difference between us is, that I do not believe and you do
believe that the way to preserve the Union is going to war. But war has
come. Now, since it has come, I think I can see that an easy defeat of
the Southern armies will not bring about a wholesome reunion. For the
people of the two sections to live in harmony, there must be mutual
respect, and there must be self-respect. An easy triumph over the South
would cause the North great vainglory and the South great humiliation.
Granting war, it should be such as to effect as much good and as little
harm as possible. The South, if she ever comes back into the Union
respecting herself, must be exhausted by war; she must be able to know
that she did all she could, and the North must know that the South
proved herself the equal of the North in everything manly and
respectable. So I say that I should fear a future Union founded upon an
easy submission; there would be scorners and scorned--not friends."



XV

WITH THE DOCTOR ON THE RIGHT

"The respects thereof are nice and trivial,
All circumstances well considered."
--SHAKESPEARE.

For some days the brigade remained near Williamsburg. We learned that a
part of the army had gone up York River by water, and was encamped near
White House, and that General McClellan's headquarters were at or near
that place.

Then the division moved and camped near Roper's Church. We heard that
the rebels had destroyed the _Merrimac_. Heavy rains fell. Hooker's
division was still in reserve, and had little to do except to mount camp
guard. I had nothing to do. We had left Dr. Khayme in his camp near
Williamsburg.

I had not seen Lydia, Willis's manner changed from nervousness to
melancholy. It was a week before he told me that he had written to Miss
Lydia, and had been refused. The poor fellow had a hard time of it, but
he fought himself hard, and I think I helped him a little by taking him
into my confidence in regard to my own troubles. I was moved to do this
by the belief that, if I should tell Willis about my peculiarities,
which in my opinion would make marriage a crime for me, he would find
companionship in sorrow where he had thought to find rivalry, and cease
to think entirely of his own unhappiness. I was not wrong; he seemed to
appreciate my intention and to be softened. I endeavoured also to stir
up his ambition as a soldier, and had the great pleasure of seeing him
begin seriously to study tactics and even strategy.

From Roper's Church we moved by short marches in rear of the other
divisions of the army, until, on the 21st, we were near the
Chickahominy, and still in reserve. Here I received a note from the
Doctor, who informed me that his camp was just in our rear. I went
at once.

"Well," said he, "how do you like doing nothing?"

"I haven't quite tired of it yet," I said.

"Your regiment has had a good rest."

"I wonder how much longer we shall be held in reserve."

"A good while yet, to judge from what I can hear," he said. "I am
authorized to move to the right, and of course that means that I shall
be in greater demand there."

"I wish I could go with you," said I.

"Why should you hesitate to do so?" he asked; "what are your orders?"

"There has been no change. I have no orders at all except to keep the
adjutant of the Eleventh informed as to my whereabouts."

"How frequently must you report in person?"

"There was nothing said about that. I suppose a note will do," said I.

"Your division was so severely handled at Williamsburg that I cannot
think it will be brought into action soon unless there should be a
general engagement. If you can report in writing every two or three
days, you need not limit your work or your presence to any particular
part of the line."

"But the right must be many miles from our division."

"No," said the Doctor; "from Hooker's division to your present right is
not more than five miles; the distance will be greater, though, in a
few days."

"What is going on, Doctor?"

"McDowell is at Fredericksburg, with a large Confederate force in his
front, and--but let me get a map and show you the situation."

He went to a small chest and brought out a map, which he spread on a
camp-bed.

"Here you see Fredericksburg; McDowell is just south of it. Here, about
this point, called Guiney's, is a Confederate division under General
Anderson. McClellan has urged Washington to reënforce his right by
ordering McDowell to march, thus," describing almost a semicircle which
began by going south, then southeast, then southwest; "that would place
McDowell on McClellan's right flank, here. Now, if McDowell reënforces
McClellan, this entire army cannot cross the Chickahominy, and if
McDowell does not reënforce McClellan, this entire army cannot cross the
Chickahominy."

"Then in neither event can this army take Richmond," said I.

"Don't go too fast; I am speaking of movements for the next ten days;
afterward, new combinations may be made. In case McDowell comes, it will
take ten days for his movement to be completed, and your right wing
would move to meet him if need be, rather than move forward and leave
him. To move forward would expose McDowell's flank to the Confederates
near Guiney's, and it is feared that Jackson is not far from them. Am
I clear?"

"Yes; it seems clear that our right will not cross; but suppose McDowell
does not come."

"In that case," said the Doctor, "for McClellan's right to cross the
Chickahominy would be absurd, for the reason that a Confederate force,
supposed to be from Jackson's army, has nearly reached Hanover
Court-House--here--in the rear of your right, if you advance; besides,
to cross the Chickahominy with the whole army would endanger your
supplies. You see, this Chickahominy River is an awkward thing to cross;
if it should rise suddenly, the army on the south side might starve
before the men could get rations; all that the Confederates would have
to do would be to prevent wagon trains from crossing the bridges. And
another thing--defeat, with the river behind the army, would mean
destruction. McClellan will not cross his army; he will throw only his
left across."

"But why should he cross with any at all? It seems to me that with a
wing on either side, he would be in very great danger of being beaten
in detail."

"You are right in that. But he feels compelled to do something; he makes
a show of advancing, in order to keep up appearances; the war department
already thinks he has lost too much time and has shown too little
aggressiveness. McClellan is right in preferring the James River as a
base, for he could there have a river on either flank, and his base
would be protected by the fleet; but this theory was overthrown at first
by the _Merrimac_, and now that she is out of the way the clamour of the
war department against delay prevents a change of base. So McClellan
accepts the York as his base, but prepares, or at least seems to
prepare, for a change to the James, by throwing forward his left."

"But the left has not been thrown forward."

"It will be done shortly."

"What would happen if McDowell should not be ordered to reënforce us?"

"McDowell has already been ordered to reënforce McClellan, and the order
has been countermanded. The Washington authorities fear to uncover
Washington on account of Jackson's presence in the Shenandoah Valley. If
McDowell remains near Fredericksburg 'for good,' as we used to say in
South Carolina, McClellan will be likely to get everything in readiness,
then wait for his opportunity, and throw his right wing also across the
Chickahominy, with the purpose of ending the campaign in a general
engagement before his supplies are endangered. But this will take time.
So I say that no matter what happens, except one thing, there will be
nothing done by Hooker for ten days; he will stay in reserve."

"What is that one thing which you except, Doctor?"

"A general attack by the Confederates."

"And you think that is possible?"

"Always possible. The Confederates are quick to attack." "And you think
they are ready to attack?"

"No; I think there is no reason to expect an attack soon, at any rate a
general attack; but when McClellan throws his left wing over the
Chickahominy, the Confederates may attack then."