Ailsa Paige: A Novel

by Robert W. Chambers

  CHAPTER XXI

  Early in October the Union Cavalry began their favourite pastime of"chasing" Stuart. General Pleasanton with a small force and ahorse battery began it, marching seventy-eight miles in twenty-fourhours; but Stuart marched ninety in the same time. He had to.

  About ten o'clock in the morning of October tenth, General Buford,chief of cavalry, set the 6th Pennsylvania Lancers galloping afterStuart. Part of the 1st Maine Cavalry joined the chase; but Stuartflourished his heels and cantered gaily into Pennsylvania to theamazement and horror of that great State, and to the unboundedmortification of the Union army. He had with him the 1st, 3d, 4th,5th and 9th Virginia Cavalry; the 7th and 9th North Carolina, andtwo Legions; and after him went pelting the handful that McClellancould mount. A few tired troopers galloped up to Whitens Ford justas Stuart crossed in safety; and the gain of "chasing" Stuart wasover. Never had the efficiency of the Union Cavalry been at such alow ebb; but it was low-water mark, indeed, and matters weredestined to mend after a history of nearly two years of neglect,disorganisation, and misuse.

  Bayard took over the cavalry south of Washington; Pleasantoncollected the 6th Regulars, the 3d Indiana, the 8th New York, the8th Pennsylvania, and the 8th Illinois, and started in to domischief with brigade head-quarters in the saddle.

  The 8th New York went with him, but the 8th New York Lancers,reorganising at Orange Hill, were ordered to recruit the depletedregiment to twelve companies.

  In August, Berkley's ragged blue and yellow jacket had been gailyembellished with brand-new sergeant's chevrons; at the Stone Bridgewhere the infantry recoiled his troop passed over at a gallop.

  The War Department, much edified, looked at the cavalry and beganto like it. And it was ordered that every cavalry regiment beincreased by two troops, L and M. Which liberality, in combinationwith Colonel Arran's early reports concerning Berkley's conduct,enabled the company tailor to sew a pair of lieutenant'sshoulder-straps on Berkley's soiled jacket.

  But there was more than that in store for him; it was all very wellto authorise two new troops to a regiment, but another matter torecruit them.

  Colonel Arran, from his convalescent couch in the North, wrote toGovernor Morgan; and Berkley got his troop, and his orders to go toNew York and recruit it. And by the same mail came the firstletter Ailsa had been well enough to write him since her transferNorth on the transport _Long Branch_.

  He read it a great many times; it was his only diversion whileawaiting transportation at the old Hygeia Hotel, where, in companywith hundreds of furloughed officers, he slept on the floors in hisblanket; he read it on deck, as the paddle-wheeled transportweighed anchor, swung churning under the guns of the greatFortress--so close that the artillerymen on the water-battery couldhave tossed a biscuit aboard--and, heading north-east, passed outbetween the capes, where, seaward, the towering black sides of asloop of war rose, bright work aglitter, smoke blowing fitfullyfrom her single funnel.

  At Alexandria he telegraphed her: "Your letter received, I am on myway North," and signed it with a thrill of boyish pride: "Philip O.Berkley-Arran, Capt. Cavalry, U. S. V."

  To his father he sent a similar telegram from the Willard inWashington; wasted two days at the State, War, and Navy for anaudience with Mr. Stanton, and finally found himself, valise inhand, waiting among throngs of officers of all grades, all arms ofthe service, for a chance to board his train.

  And, as he stood there, he felt cotton-gloved fingers fumbling forthe handle of his valise, and wheeled sharply, and began to laugh.

  "Where the devil did you come from, Burgess? Did they give you afurlough?"

  "Yes, Captain."

  "Well, you got more than I. What's the matter; do you want tocarry my bag?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You don't have to."

  "No, Captain. . . . If you don't object, sir, I'll carry it."

  They found seats together; Philip, amused, tried to extract fromBurgess something besides the trite and obvious servant'spatter--something that might signify some possibility of a latentindependence--the germ of aspiration. And extracted nothing.Burgess had not changed, had not developed. His ways were Philip'sways; his loftier flights mounted no higher toward infinity thanthe fashions prevailing in the year 1862, and their suitability tohis master's ultimate requirements.

  For his regiment, for its welfare, its hopes, its glory, heapparently cared nothing; nor did he appear to consider the part hehad borne in its fluctuating fortunes anything to be proud of.

  Penned with the others in the brush field, he had done stolidlywhat his superiors demanded of him; and it presently came out thatthe only anxiety that assailed him was when, in the smoke of thetangled thickets, he missed his late master.

  "Well, what do you propose to do after the regiment is musteredout?" inquired Philip curiously.

  "Wait on you, sir."

  "Don't you _want_ to do anything else?"

  "No, sir."'

  Philip looked at him, smiling.

  "I suppose you like my cigars, and my brandy and my linen?"

  The ghost of .a grin touched the man's features.

  "Yes, sir," he said with an impudence that captivated Philip.

  "All right, my friend; I can stand it as long as you can. . . .And kindly feel in my overcoat for a cigar wrapped in paper. I'llgo forward and smoke for a while."

  "Sir?"

  "The cigar--I put it in my overcoat pocket wrapped in a bit ofpaper. . . . You--you don't mean to tell me that it's not there!"

  Burgess searched the pockets with a perfectly grave face.

  "It ain't here; no, sir."

  Philip flung himself into the corner of his seat, making no effortto control his laughter:

  "Burgess," he managed to say, "the dear old days are returningalready. I'll stay here and read; you go forward and smoke thatcigar. Do you hear?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Again, just as he had done every day since leaving camp, he rereadAilsa's letter, settling down in his corner by the dirty, rattlingwindow-pane:

  "Everybody writes to you except myself. I know they have told youthat it is taking a little longer for me to get well than anybodyexpected. I was terribly tired. Your father has been so sweet;everybody has been good to me--Celia, poor little Camilla, andStephen. I know that they all write to you; and somehow I havebeen listlessly contented to let them tell you about home matters,and wait until my strength returned. But you must not doubt whereevery waking memory of mine has centred; my thoughts have circledalways around that central vortex from which, since I first laideyes on you, they have never strayed.

  "Home news is what all good soldiers want; I write for you all Iknow:

  "The city is the same hot, noisy, dirty, dusty, muddy, gridiron,changed in nowise except that everywhere one sees invalid soldiers;and there are far too many officers lounging about, presumably onfurlough--too many Captain Dash's, twirling black moustaches infront of fashionable hotels. There are no powder stains on theiruniforms, no sun-burn on their cheeks. They throng the city; andit is a sinister phenomenon.

  "I think Broadway was never as lively, never quite as licentious.Those vivid cafes, saloons, concert halls, have sprung upeverywhere; theatres, museums, gardens are in full blast; shops arecrowded, hotels, street cars, stages overflowing with careless,noisy, overdressed people. The city is _en fete_; and somehow whenI think of that Dance of Death thundering ceaselessly just south ofus, it appalls me to encounter such gaiety and irresponsibility inthe streets.

  "Yet, after all, it may be the safety-valve of a brave people.Those whirling daily in the Dance of Death have, at least, theexcitement to sustain them. Here the tension is constant andterrible; and the human mind cannot endure too much tragedy.

  ". . . They say our President fits a witticism to the tragedy ofevery battle-field; but it may be to preserve his own reasonthrough these infernal years. He has the saddest eyes of any mansince the last Martyr died.

  "England behaves badly. It was her
God-given opportunity to standby us. She has had chance after chance since the last patriot diedfrom lack of food and air in this sad old city of New York. . . .The Prince Consort is kind; his wife is inclined to be what he is.Napoleon is the sinister shape behind the arras; and the Torygovernment licks his patent-leather boots. Vile is the attitude ofEngland, vile her threats, her sneers, her wicked contempt of agreat people in agony. Her murderous government, bludgeon in hand,stands snarling at us in Mexico; her ministers glare at us fromevery war port; her press mocks in infamous caricature our unhappyPresident; only her poor are with us--the poor of England whom ourwar is starving. Again and again we have forgiven her. But now,standing on our blood-wet battle-fields, can we ever again forgive?

  "You have heard from your family and from Celia, so what news Iwrite may be no news. Yet I know how it is with soldiers; theynever tire of such repetitions.

  "Your father is slowly recovering. But he will never sit hissaddle again, dear. Don't expect it; the war is over as far as heis concerned. But never have my eyes beheld such happiness, suchgratitude, such adoration as I see in his eyes when your letterscome. I think the burden of his conversation is you. I never hearhim speak of anything else. Your father walks now; and by the timeyou are here he will be able to drive on Fifth Avenue and in thenew Central Park. But he is not the man who left this city at thehead of his regiment. His hair and moustache are white as snow;there are a thousand tiny wrinkles on his hands and features. Allthat heavy colour is gone; only a slight flush remains on his thinface. He is very handsome, Phil. Once, never dreaming of what wastrue, I thought he resembled you. Do you recollect my saying soonce? Even you would recognise the likeness now. He is absorbed,wrapped up in you. . . . I can see, now, that he always has been.How blind we are! How blind!

  "Celia, the darling, has not changed one particle. She is theprettiest thing you ever saw, cheerful, clever, courageous,self-possessed, devoted to Stephen, whose leave has been extendedand who plays the role of a pale and interesting invalid hero withplacid satisfaction to himself, adored and hovered over by Paigeand Marye and all their girl friends. But when poor littleCamilla, in her deep mourning, appears at the door, he clears outthe others with a tyranny characteristic of young men; and I'msomewhat sorry for his mother and sisters. But it's theinevitable; and Camilla is the sweetest thing.

  "Celia hears often from Curt, Poor Major Lent! It seems too hardthat Camilla should be left so utterly alone in the world. TheMajor died as he would have wished to die, Curt writes. It was atthat terrible Stone Bridge--where God was merciful to me when yoursquadron galloped across.

  "He was found, seated against a tree, stone dead, one handstiffened over the Mexican war medal at his throat. Curt says hisface was calm, almost smiling. Camilla has his sword and medals.

  "Did you know that your friend John Casson was dead? I was withhim; I did not know he was a friend of yours. He displayed thesame patience, the same desire not to be troublesome that so manybadly wounded do.

  "Letty asked me to say that a zouave of the 5th Regiment, a Mr.Cortlandt, was also killed. So many, many people I knew or hadheard of have been killed or have died of disease since the warbegan. One sees a great many people wearing mourning in thecity--crape is so common, on sword-hilts, on arms, veils, gowns,bonnets.

  "Letty made the loveliest bride you or I ever beheld. Usuallybrides do not look their best, but Letty was the most charming,radiant, bewildering creature--and so absurdly young--as thoughsuddenly she had dropped a few years and was again beginning thatgirlhood which I sometimes thought she had never had.

  "Dr. Benton is a darling. He looks twenty years younger and wearsa monocle! They are back from their honeymoon, and are planning tooffer their services to the great central hospital at Philadelphia.

  "Dear, your letter breaking the news to me that Marye Mead wasburned when the cavalry burned Edmund Ruffin's house was no news tome. I saw it on fire. But, Philip, there was a fiercer flameconsuming me than ever swept that house. I thank God it Isquenched for ever and that my heart and soul, refreshed, made new,bear no scars now of that infernal conflagration.

  "I sit here at my window and see below me the folds of the dearflag stirring; in my ears, often, is the noise of drums from thedusty avenue where new regiments are passing on into theunknown--no longer the unknown to us--but the saddest of all truths.

  "Sometimes Celia comes from the still, leafy seclusion of FortGreene Place, to love me, caress me, gently jeer at me for the hintof melancholy in my gaze, shaming me for a love-sick thing thatdroops and pines in the absence of all that animates her soul andbody with the desire to live.

  "She is only partly right; I am very tired, Phil. Not that I amill. I am well, now. It only needs you. She knows it; I havealways known it. Your love, and loving you, is all that life meansto me.

  "I see them all here--Celia fussing with my trousseau, gowns,stockings, slippers, hovering over them with Paigie and Marye inmurmurous and intimate rapture. They lead me about to shops and inbusy thoroughfares; and I see and understand, and I hear my ownvoice as at an infinite distance, and I am happy in the sameindefinite way. But, try as I may, I cannot fix my thoughts onwhat I am about, on the pretty garments piled around me, on thenecessary arrangements to be made, on the future--our future! Icannot even think clearly about that. All that my mind seems ableto contain is my love for you, the knowledge that you are coming,that I am to see you, touch you.

  "I try to realise that I am to be your wife; the heavenly realityseems vaguely impossible. Yet every moment I am schooling myselfto the belief, telling myself that it is to be, repeating thedivine words again and again. And all I am capable ofunderstanding is that I love you, and that the world stands still,waiting for you as I wait; and that without you nothing is real,and I move in a world of phantoms.

  "I have been to the mirror to look at myself. To be certain, Ialso asked Celia. She says that you will not be disappointed.

  "She sat here searching the morning paper for news of her husband'sregiment, but found none. What women endure for men no man thatever lives can understand.

  "She is perfectly cheerful about it all. And, oh, such a rebel!She read aloud to me with amused malice the order from the WarDepartment which does away with regimental bands and substitutes abrigade band.

  "I sca'cely blame them,' she observed; 'I'd be ve'y glad myse'f tohear less of Yankee Doodle and the Star-spangled Banner. When theylet President Davis alone, and when Curt comes home, I've got someve'y pretty songs fo' him to learn to appreciate.'

  "She's down stairs now, seated at the piano, singing very softly toherself some gaily impudent rebel song or other. I know it's arebel song by the way she sings it.

  "And, as I sit here, alone, thinking of how I love you--far away Ihear the 'old line's bugle'--the quaint, quick rhythm of the fifesand drums; and it stirs depths in me where my very soul lieslistening--and the tears spring to my eyes. And I try tounderstand why every separate silver star in the flag is mine tohold, mine to rescue and replace, mine to adore. And I try tounderstand why all of it is part of the adoration of you, and ofGod who gave you to me--Philip--Philip--my lover, my country, myGod--worshipped and adored of men!"

  "Philip--Philip--my lover, my country, myGod--worshipped and adored of men!"]

  THE END