The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce — Volume 2: In the Midst of Life: Tales of Soldiers and Civilians

by Ambrose Bierce

  KILLED AT RESACA

  The best soldier of our staff was Lieutenant Herman Brayle, one of thetwo aides-de-camp. I don't remember where the general picked him up;from some Ohio regiment, I think; none of us had previously known him,and it would have been strange if we had, for no two of us came from thesame State, nor even from adjoining States. The general seemed to thinkthat a position on his staff was a distinction that should be sojudiciously conferred as not to beget any sectional jealousies andimperil the integrity of that part of the country which was still aninteger. He would not even choose officers from his own command, but bysome jugglery at department headquarters obtained them from otherbrigades. Under such circumstances, a man's services had to be verydistinguished indeed to be heard of by his family and the friends of hisyouth; and "the speaking trump of fame" was a trifle hoarse fromloquacity, anyhow.

  Lieutenant Brayle was more than six feet in height and of splendidproportions, with the light hair and gray-blue eyes which men so giftedusually find associated with a high order of courage. As he was commonlyin full uniform, especially in action, when most officers are content tobe less flamboyantly attired, he was a very striking and conspicuousfigure. As to the rest, he had a gentleman's manners, a scholar's head,and a lion's heart. His age was about thirty.

  We all soon came to like Brayle as much as we admired him, and it waswith sincere concern that in the engagement at Stone's River--our firstaction after he joined us--we observed that he had one mostobjectionable and unsoldierly quality: he was vain of his courage.During all the vicissitudes and mutations of that hideous encounter,whether our troops were fighting in the open cotton fields, in the cedarthickets, or behind the railway embankment, he did not once take cover,except when sternly commanded to do so by the general, who usually hadother things to think of than the lives of his staff officers--or thoseof his men, for that matter.

  In every later engagement while Brayle was with us it was the same way.He would sit his horse like an equestrian statue, in a storm of bulletsand grape, in the most exposed places--wherever, in fact, duty,requiring him to go, permitted him to remain--when, without trouble andwith distinct advantage to his reputation for common sense, he mighthave been in such security as is possible on a battlefield in the briefintervals of personal inaction.

  On foot, from necessity or in deference to his dismounted commander orassociates, his conduct was the same. He would stand like a rock in theopen when officers and men alike had taken to cover; while men older inservice and years, higher in rank and of unquestionable intrepidity,were loyally preserving behind the crest of a hill lives infinitelyprecious to their country, this fellow would stand, equally idle, on theridge, facing in the direction of the sharpest fire.

  When battles are going on in open ground it frequently occurs that theopposing lines, confronting each other within a stone's throw for hours,hug the earth as closely as if they loved it. The line officers in theirproper places flatten themselves no less, and the field officers, theirhorses all killed or sent to the rear, crouch beneath the infernalcanopy of hissing lead and screaming iron without a thought of personaldignity.

  In such circumstances the life of a staff officer of a brigade isdistinctly "not a happy one," mainly because of its precarious tenureand the unnerving alternations of emotion to which he is exposed. From aposition of that comparative security from which a civilian wouldascribe his escape to a "miracle," he may be despatched with an order tosome commander of a prone regiment in the front line--a person for themoment inconspicuous and not always easy to find without a deal ofsearch among men somewhat preoccupied, and in a din in which questionand answer alike must be imparted in the sign language. It is customaryin such cases to duck the head and scuttle away on a keen run, an objectof lively interest to some thousands of admiring marksmen. In returning--well, it is not customary to return.

  Brayle's practice was different. He would consign his horse to the careof an orderly,--he loved his horse,--and walk quietly away on hisperilous errand with never a stoop of the back, his splendid figure,accentuated by his uniform, holding the eye with a strange fascination.We watched him with suspended breath, our hearts in our mouths. On oneoccasion of this kind, indeed, one of our number, an impetuousstammerer, was so possessed by his emotion that he shouted at me:

  "I'll b-b-bet you t-two d-d-dollars they d-drop him b-b-before he g-getsto that d-d-ditch!"

  I did not accept the brutal wager; I thought they would.

  Let me do justice to a brave man's memory; in all these needlessexposures of life there was no visible bravado nor subsequent narration.In the few instances when some of us had ventured to remonstrate, Braylehad smiled pleasantly and made some light reply, which, however, had notencouraged a further pursuit of the subject. Once he said:

  "Captain, if ever I come to grief by forgetting your advice, I hope mylast moments will be cheered by the sound of your beloved voicebreathing into my ear the blessed words, 'I told you so.'"

  We laughed at the captain--just why we could probably not haveexplained--and that afternoon when he was shot to rags from an ambuscadeBrayle remained by the body for some time, adjusting the limbs withneedless care--there in the middle of a road swept by gusts of grape andcanister! It is easy to condemn this kind of thing, and not verydifficult to refrain from imitation, but it is impossible not torespect, and Brayle was liked none the less for the weakness which hadso heroic an expression. We wished he were not a fool, but he went onthat way to the end, sometimes hard hit, but always returning to dutyabout as good as new.

  Of course, it came at last; he who ignores the law of probabilitieschallenges an adversary that is seldom beaten. It was at Resaca, inGeorgia, during the movement that resulted in the taking of Atlanta. Infront of our brigade the enemy's line of earthworks ran through openfields along a slight crest. At each end of this open ground we wereclose up to him in the woods, but the clear ground we could not hope tooccupy until night, when darkness would enable us to burrow like molesand throw up earth. At this point our line was a quarter-mile away inthe edge of a wood. Roughly, we formed a semicircle, the enemy'sfortified line being the chord of the arc.

  "Lieutenant, go tell Colonel Ward to work up as close as he can getcover, and not to waste much ammunition in unnecessary firing. You mayleave your horse."

  When the general gave this direction we were in the fringe of theforest, near the right extremity of the arc. Colonel Ward was at theleft. The suggestion to leave the horse obviously enough meant thatBrayle was to take the longer line, through the woods and among the men.Indeed, the suggestion was needless; to go by the short route meantabsolutely certain failure to deliver the message. Before anybody couldinterpose, Brayle had cantered lightly into the field and the enemy'sworks were in crackling conflagration.

  "Stop that damned fool!" shouted the general.

  A private of the escort, with more ambition than brains, spurred forwardto obey, and within ten yards left himself and his horse dead on thefield of honor.

  Brayle was beyond recall, galloping easily along, parallel to the enemyand less than two hundred yards distant. He was a picture to see! Hishat had been blown or shot from his head, and his long, blond hair roseand fell with the motion of his horse. He sat erect in the saddle,holding the reins lightly in his left hand, his right hanging carelesslyat his side. An occasional glimpse of his handsome profile as he turnedhis head one way or the other proved that the interest which he took inwhat was going on was natural and without affectation.

  The picture was intensely dramatic, but in no degree theatrical.Successive scores of rifles spat at him viciously as he came withinrange, and our own line in the edge of the timber broke out in visibleand audible defense. No longer regardful of themselves or their orders,our fellows sprang to their feet, and swarming into the open sent broadsheets of bullets against the blazing crest of the offending works,which poured an answering fire into their unprotected groups with deadlyeffect. The artillery on both sides joined the battle, punctuating
therattle and roar with deep, earth-shaking explosions and tearing the airwith storms of screaming grape, which from the enemy's side splinteredthe trees and spattered them with blood, and from ours defiled the smokeof his arms with banks and clouds of dust from his parapet.

  My attention had been for a moment drawn to the general combat, but now,glancing down the unobscured avenue between these two thunderclouds, Isaw Brayle, the cause of the carnage. Invisible now from either side,and equally doomed by friend and foe, he stood in the shot-swept space,motionless, his face toward the enemy. At some little distance lay hishorse. I instantly saw what had stopped him.

  As topographical engineer I had, early in the day, made a hastyexamination of the ground, and now remembered that at that point was adeep and sinuous gully, crossing half the field from the enemy's line,its general course at right angles to it. From where we now were it wasinvisible, and Brayle had evidently not known about it. Clearly, it wasimpassable. Its salient angles would have afforded him absolute securityif he had chosen to be satisfied with the miracle already wrought in hisfavor and leapt into it. He could not go forward, he would not turnback; he stood awaiting death. It did not keep him long waiting.

  By some mysterious coincidence, almost instantaneously as he fell, thefiring ceased, a few desultory shots at long intervals serving rather toaccentuate than break the silence. It was as if both sides had suddenlyrepented of their profitless crime. Four stretcher-bearers of ours,following a sergeant with a white flag, soon afterward moved unmolestedinto the field, and made straight for Brayle's body. Several Confederateofficers and men came out to meet them, and with uncovered headsassisted them to take up their sacred burden. As it was borne toward uswe heard beyond the hostile works fifes and a muffled drum--a dirge. Agenerous enemy honored the fallen brave.

  Amongst the dead man's effects was a soiled Russia-leather pocketbook.In the distribution of mementoes of our friend, which the general, asadministrator, decreed, this fell to me.

  A year after the close of the war, on my way to California, I opened andidly inspected it. Out of an overlooked compartment fell a letterwithout envelope or address. It was in a woman's handwriting, and beganwith words of endearment, but no name.

  It had the following date line: "San Francisco, Cal., July 9, 1862." Thesignature was "Darling," in marks of quotation. Incidentally, in thebody of the text, the writer's full name was given--Marian Mendenhall.

  The letter showed evidence of cultivation and good breeding, but it wasan ordinary love letter, if a love letter can be ordinary. There was notmuch in it, but there was something. It was this:

  "Mr. Winters, whom I shall always hate for it, has been telling that atsome battle in Virginia, where he got his hurt, you were seen crouchingbehind a tree. I think he wants to injure you in my regard, which heknows the story would do if I believed it. I could bear to hear of mysoldier lover's death, but not of his cowardice."

  These were the words which on that sunny afternoon, in a distant region,had slain a hundred men. Is woman weak?

  One evening I called on Miss Mendenhall to return the letter to her. Iintended, also, to tell her what she had done--but not that she did it.I found her in a handsome dwelling on Rincon Hill. She was beautiful,well bred--in a word, charming.

  "You knew Lieutenant Herman Brayle," I said, rather abruptly. "You know,doubtless, that he fell in battle. Among his effects was found thisletter from you. My errand here is to place it in your hands."

  She mechanically took the letter, glanced through it with deepeningcolor, and then, looking at me with a smile, said:

  "It is very good of you, though I am sure it was hardly worth while."She started suddenly and changed color. "This stain," she said, "is it--surely it is not--"

  "Madam," I said, "pardon me, but that is the blood of the truest andbravest heart that ever beat."

  She hastily flung the letter on the blazing coals. "Uh! I cannot bearthe sight of blood!" she said. "How did he die?"

  I had involuntarily risen to rescue that scrap of paper, sacred even tome, and now stood partly behind her. As she asked the question sheturned her face about and slightly upward. The light of the burningletter was reflected in her eyes and touched her cheek with a tinge ofcrimson like the stain upon its page. I had never seen anything sobeautiful as this detestable creature.

  "He was bitten by a snake," I replied.