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

by Ambrose Bierce

  THE COUP DE GRACE

  The fighting had been hard and continuous; that was attested by all thesenses. The very taste of battle was in the air. All was now over; itremained only to succor the wounded and bury the dead--to "tidy up abit," as the humorist of a burial squad put it. A good deal of "tidyingup" was required. As far as one could see through the forests, among thesplintered trees, lay wrecks of men and horses. Among them moved thestretcher-bearers, gathering and carrying away the few who showed signsof life. Most of the wounded had died of neglect while the right tominister to their wants was in dispute. It is an army regulation thatthe wounded must wait; the best way to care for them is to win thebattle. It must be confessed that victory is a distinct advantage to aman requiring attention, but many do not live to avail themselves of it.

  The dead were collected in groups of a dozen or a score and laid side byside in rows while the trenches were dug to receive them.

  Some, found at too great a distance from these rallying points, wereburied where they lay. There was little attempt at identification,though in most cases, the burial parties being detailed to glean thesame ground which they had assisted to reap, the names of the victoriousdead were known and listed. The enemy's fallen had to be content withcounting. But of that they got enough: many of them were counted severaltimes, and the total, as given afterward in the official report of thevictorious commander, denoted rather a hope than a result.

  At some little distance from the spot where one of the burial partieshad established its "bivouac of the dead," a man in the uniform of aFederal officer stood leaning against a tree. From his feet upward tohis neck his attitude was that of weariness reposing; but he turned hishead uneasily from side to side; his mind was apparently not at rest. Hewas perhaps uncertain in which direction to go; he was not likely toremain long where he was, for already the level rays of the setting sunstraggled redly through the open spaces of the wood and the wearysoldiers were quitting their task for the day. He would hardly make anight of it alone there among the dead.

  Nine men in ten whom you meet after a battle inquire the way to somefraction of the army--as if any one could know. Doubtless this officerwas lost. After resting himself a moment he would presumably follow oneof the retiring burial squads.

  When all were gone he walked straight away into the forest toward thered west, its light staining his face like blood. The air of confidencewith which he now strode along showed that he was on familiar ground; hehad recovered his bearings. The dead on his right and on his left wereunregarded as he passed. An occasional low moan from somesorely-stricken wretch whom the relief-parties had not reached, and whowould have to pass a comfortless night beneath the stars with his thirstto keep him company, was equally unheeded. What, indeed, could theofficer have done, being no surgeon and having no water?

  At the head of a shallow ravine, a mere depression of the ground, lay asmall group of bodies. He saw, and swerving suddenly from his coursewalked rapidly toward them. Scanning each one sharply as he passed, hestopped at last above one which lay at a slight remove from the others,near a clump of small trees. He looked at it narrowly. It seemed tostir. He stooped and laid his hand upon its face. It screamed.

  * * * * *

  The officer was Captain Downing Madwell, of a Massachusetts regiment ofinfantry, a daring and intelligent soldier, an honorable man.

  In the regiment were two brothers named Halcrow--Caffal and CreedeHalcrow. Caffal Halcrow was a sergeant in Captain Madwell's company, andthese two men, the sergeant and the captain, were devoted friends. In sofar as disparity of rank, difference in duties and considerations ofmilitary discipline would permit they were commonly together. They had,indeed, grown up together from childhood. A habit of the heart is noteasily broken off. Caffal Halcrow had nothing military in his taste nordisposition, but the thought of separation from his friend wasdisagreeable; he enlisted in the company in which Madwell wassecond-lieutenant. Each had taken two steps upward in rank, but betweenthe highest non-commissioned and the lowest commissioned officer thegulf is deep and wide and the old relation was maintained withdifficulty and a difference.

  Creede Halcrow, the brother of Caffal, was the major of the regiment--acynical, saturnine man, between whom and Captain Madwell there was anatural antipathy which circumstances had nourished and strengthened toan active animosity. But for the restraining influence of their mutualrelation to Caffal these two patriots would doubtless have endeavored todeprive their country of each other's services.

  At the opening of the battle that morning the regiment was performingoutpost duty a mile away from the main army. It was attacked and nearlysurrounded in the forest, but stubbornly held its ground. During a lullin the fighting, Major Halcrow came to Captain Madwell. The twoexchanged formal salutes, and the major said: "Captain, the coloneldirects that you push your company to the head of this ravine and holdyour place there until recalled. I need hardly apprise you of thedangerous character of the movement, but if you wish, you can, Isuppose, turn over the command to your first-lieutenant. I was not,however, directed to authorize the substitution; it is merely asuggestion of my own, unofficially made."

  To this deadly insult Captain Madwell coolly replied:

  "Sir, I invite you to accompany the movement. A mounted officer would bea conspicuous mark, and I have long held the opinion that it would bebetter if you were dead."

  The art of repartee was cultivated in military circles as early as 1862.

  A half-hour later Captain Madwell's company was driven from its positionat the head of the ravine, with a loss of one-third its number. Amongthe fallen was Sergeant Halcrow. The regiment was soon afterward forcedback to the main line, and at the close of the battle was miles away.The captain was now standing at the side of his subordinate and friend.

  Sergeant Halcrow was mortally hurt. His clothing was deranged; it seemedto have been violently torn apart, exposing the abdomen. Some of thebuttons of his jacket had been pulled off and lay on the ground besidehim and fragments of his other garments were strewn about. His leatherbelt was parted and had apparently been dragged from beneath him as helay. There had been no great effusion of blood. The only visible woundwas a wide, ragged opening in the abdomen.

  It was defiled with earth and dead leaves. Protruding from it was a loopof small intestine. In all his experience Captain Madwell had not seen awound like this. He could neither conjecture how it was made nor explainthe attendant circumstances--the strangely torn clothing, the partedbelt, the besmirching of the white skin. He knelt and made a closerexamination. When he rose to his feet, he turned his eyes in differentdirections as if looking for an enemy. Fifty yards away, on the crest ofa low, thinly wooded hill, he saw several dark objects moving aboutamong the fallen men--a herd of swine. One stood with its back to him,its shoulders sharply elevated. Its forefeet were upon a human body, itshead was depressed and invisible. The bristly ridge of its chine showedblack against the red west. Captain Madwell drew away his eyes and fixedthem again upon the thing which had been his friend.

  The man who had suffered these monstrous mutilations was alive. Atintervals he moved his limbs; he moaned at every breath. He staredblankly into the face of his friend and if touched screamed. In hisgiant agony he had torn up the ground on which he lay; his clenchedhands were full of leaves and twigs and earth. Articulate speech wasbeyond his power; it was impossible to know if he were sensible toanything but pain. The expression of his face was an appeal; his eyeswere full of prayer. For what?

  There was no misreading that look; the captain had too frequently seenit in eyes of those whose lips had still the power to formulate it by anentreaty for death. Consciously or unconsciously, this writhing fragmentof humanity, this type and example of acute sensation, this handiwork ofman and beast, this humble, unheroic Prometheus, was imploringeverything, all, the whole non-ego, for the boon of oblivion. To theearth and the sky alike, to the trees, to the man, to whatever took formin sense or consciousness, this
incarnate suffering addressed thatsilent plea.

  For what, indeed? For that which we accord to even the meanest creaturewithout sense to demand it, denying it only to the wretched of our ownrace: for the blessed release, the rite of uttermost compassion, the_coup de grace_.

  Captain Madwell spoke the name of his friend. He repeated it over andover without effect until emotion choked his utterance.

  His tears plashed upon the livid face beneath his own and blindedhimself. He saw nothing but a blurred and moving object, but the moanswere more distinct than ever, interrupted at briefer intervals bysharper shrieks. He turned away, struck his hand upon his forehead, andstrode from the spot. The swine, catching sight of him, threw up theircrimson muzzles, regarding him suspiciously a second, and then with agruff, concerted grunt, raced away out of sight. A horse, its forelegsplintered by a cannon-shot, lifted its head sidewise from the groundand neighed piteously. Madwell stepped forward, drew his revolver andshot the poor beast between the eyes, narrowly observing itsdeath-struggle, which, contrary to his expectation, was violent andlong; but at last it lay still. The tense muscles of its lips, which haduncovered the teeth in a horrible grin, relaxed; the sharp, clean-cutprofile took on a look of profound peace and rest.

  Along the distant, thinly wooded crest to westward the fringe of sunsetfire had now nearly burned itself out. The light upon the trunks of thetrees had faded to a tender gray; shadows were in their tops, like greatdark birds aperch. Night was coming and there were miles of hauntedforest between Captain Madwell and camp. Yet he stood there at the sideof the dead animal, apparently lost to all sense of his surroundings.His eyes were bent upon the earth at his feet; his left hand hungloosely at his side, his right still held the pistol. Presently helifted his face, turned it toward his dying friend and walked rapidlyback to his side. He knelt upon one knee, cocked the weapon, placed themuzzle against the man's forehead, and turning away his eyes pulled thetrigger. There was no report. He had used his last cartridge for thehorse.

  The sufferer moaned and his lips moved convulsively. The froth that ranfrom them had a tinge of blood.

  Captain Madwell rose to his feet and drew his sword from the scabbard.He passed the fingers of his left hand along the edge from hilt topoint. He held it out straight before him, as if to test his nerves.There was no visible tremor of the blade; the ray of bleak skylight thatit reflected was steady and true. He stooped and with his left hand toreaway the dying man's shirt, rose and placed the point of the sword justover the heart. This time he did not withdraw his eyes. Grasping thehilt with both hands, he thrust downward with all his strength andweight. The blade sank into the man's body--through his body into theearth; Captain Madwell came near falling forward upon his work. Thedying man drew up his knees and at the same time threw his right armacross his breast and grasped the steel so tightly that the knuckles ofthe hand visibly whitened. By a violent but vain effort to withdraw theblade the wound was enlarged; a rill of blood escaped, running sinuouslydown into the deranged clothing. At that moment three men steppedsilently forward from behind the clump of young trees which hadconcealed their approach. Two were hospital attendants and carried astretcher.

  The third was Major Creede Halcrow.