Woven with the Ship: A Novel of 1865

by Cyrus Townsend Brady

  THE FINAL PROPOSITIONS

  A DRAMA OF THE CIVIL WAR

  "Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them?"

  SHAKESPEARE

  I.--AT THE TOP OF THE HILL

  There wasn't a harder body of fighters in the army of the UnitedStates than "Kirke's Lambs." The only resemblance between this modernregiment and the famous body of horse which divided dishonors withJeffreys after Sedgemoor, nearly two hundred years before, was in thename of their commander, for they were held under too iron a rule todegenerate into brutal and ferocious excesses. Besides, Kirke and thegenerals he served under always gave that body of hard riders plentyto do, so that they found an easy vent for their superfluous energiesin legitimate fighting,--if any can be so called.

  Kirke had grown up with the regiment from a subaltern to the colonel.Drafts had restored its depleted members from time to time, but in thespring of 1865 the Civil War was about over, and it was not considerednecessary to complete its quota by an infusion of new blood then.There was but a handful of them left, therefore. The others--well,they said the bodies of "Kirke's Lambs" blazed a pathway from theMississippi to the sea.

  Kirke was an iron man everywhere and in everything,--in his business,in his regiment, and in his family, which now consisted of onesolitary woman. The single child who had blessed the union had diedbefore the war. The woman had been left alone for over four years.Kirke had never left the front and what he conceived to be his duty.He was a reticent, self-contained, undemonstrative man, whoseaffection made no show on the surface, though the current of it ranvery still and deep. He actually idolized the woman who bore his nameand had borne his son. On the death of that son he had made no greatdisplay of grief, though it cut him to the heart; and in general hegave little outward evidence of any strong affection to the poor, weakwife left so much alone and pining, like every woman in a like case.

  She was a nervous, high-strung little body, utterly unable to seebeneath the outward show; not strong enough to fathom Kirke'sdepths,--her heart was too light a plummet,--and it was a wonder toJack Broadhead, who was Kirke's dearest friend and the second incommand of the "Lambs," how she ever inspired the devotion that he,with better insight, divined that Kirke cherished for her.

  Well, what was left of the regiment was out scouting. It had beenordered to clear up the remains of a Carolina brigade of Confederateswhich had been making things pleasant for the left flank of Sherman'sarmy all the way to the sea and afterwards. One morning in February aparty of some two hundred and fifty troopers, all that was left of the"Lambs," galloped over a rough road up a narrow valley toward the baseof a buttress-like, tree-clad hill, upon the top of which layensconced the remains of that brigade.

  They called it a brigade in the Confederate army, but it was really nomore of a brigade than were some of Washington's during theRevolution: it was a handful of perhaps one hundred and fiftydesperate, half-starved, ragged men, whose rifles and the bronzed,tense look of the hunted veteran at bay alone proclaimed themsoldiers. They lay snug behind a hastily improvised breastwork on thecrest of the hill. And they had retreated just as far as they intendedto go. This was the limit.

  Above them from an impromptu tree-trunk staff flapped and fluttered aragged and tattered Confederate flag,--their last. They might haveretreated farther, but to have gone northward would have thrown theminto the arms of a division ranging the country, which would meantheir annihilation or, if they scattered, their disintegration. Kirkehad been pursuing them for a day or two. They knew his detachment, andin a spirit of reckless pugnacity they determined to have one good,square, stand-up fight before they quit the game, which everybody nowknew was a losing one from the Confederate stand-point, with theinevitable end in plain sight. They had fought together during fouryears; they would fight together once more, let the end be what itwould. A dangerous crowd to tackle.

  With a skill which should have been manipulating an army, Hoyle, thebrigadier-general in command of the remains, had disposed his men sothat there was only one practicable way to attack them, and that wasstraight up the mountain. Their flanks were protected by ravines, andtheir rear could not be come at save by a detour of many miles overthe mountains.

  Kirke, halting his men at the foot of the hill, realized the situationas soon as he saw it. Could they take the hill by a direct frontattack in the face of such a body of men, desperate old soldiers, whocould shoot as straight and as fast as the remnants of that brigadecould? Yet what else was there to do? He could not retire; he had beendirected to put that brigade out of action, capture, or destroy it. Hecould not besiege it and starve it out. It was a problem.

  While he was hesitating, Jack Broadhead, who had been left behind athead-quarters for a day, came galloping up with a few troopers as hisescort. His quick, soldierly eye took in the desperate situation.After the necessary salutes had been exchanged a little conversationtook place.

  "That is a strong position, Bob."

  "It is that, Jack."

  "That fellow is a soldier, every inch of him."

  "We knew that before."

  "Yes. Well, what are you going to do about it?"

  "I hardly know. Think we can take it?"

  "Well, I don't know. Looks dubious. But we've got a crowd here thatwill storm hell itself, if somebody leads, you know."

  "I'll lead, but this is worse than hell."

  "Oh, by the way," Broadhead burst out, as a flash of recollection cameto him, "I have a letter for you. It came just as I was leavinghead-quarters."

  He fumbled in the breast of his jacket, and as Kirke stretched out hishand indifferently he gave him the letter. The man's face changedslightly. A look of softness mitigated the iron aspect of his visage.

  "Ah," he said, in a rarely communicative moment, "from my wife."

  He tore it open. A glance put him in possession of its contents. Againhis face changed. It was hard and grim at best, but never, thoughtBroadhead, as he watched him, had he exhibited a grimmer and harderlook than at this moment. And there was a gleam almost of agony in theman's eyes. His lips trembled,--and for Kirke's lips to tremble was athing unheard of! Broadhead saw him clench his teeth together and by amighty effort regain his self-control. During the struggle he hadcrushed the letter in his hand.

  After a minute he unclosed his fingers, smoothed out the paper, tookout his pencil, and wrote a brief endorsement upon the bottom of it,signed his name, folded it up, and thrust it in the pocket of hiscoat.

  "If anything happens to me, Broadhead,"--and there was a harsher ringthan usual in his voice,--"this letter is to go back--to--to my--thewriter."

  "Very good," said Broadhead, who knew his superior too well toquestion him as to what had occurred. "I take it that you have decidedto attack?"

  "Yes. Men," said Kirke, wheeling his horse and facing the ironveterans who had come to love him as few soldiers were ever loved bytheir men, "there is that rebel brigade on the top of thathill,--what's left of them. You know what they are. We have testedtheir mettle in a dozen fights. Now we have to wipe them out. It isprobable that a large part of us will be wiped out in the process, butthat's no matter. Dismount and tie the horses. We want every man inaction. Leave your sabres. We'll depend upon carbines and revolvers.We'll go up and pull that flag off that hill. The trees will cover ustill we get near the crest. Halt there, form up, and make a rush forit. Save your fire until you get to the top."

  The cheer that came in response was more like the growl of an angryanimal. The men instantly followed the example of their leader anddismounted. Their horses were tied to the trees and saplings in thevalley, and the men, circling the hill in a long line with Kirke inthe centre and well in the lead, followed by Broadhead a shortdistance after, began to move up the slope through the trees.

  It was still as death at the top. There was no sign of life there savethe flag which rippled and fluttered gayly in the bree
ze. It was abright, sunny morning. The cool touch of spring in the air made lifesweet to all that possessed it. In the grim silence the men clamberedup the steep slope and slowly neared the crest. Suddenly there was apuff of white smoke from the little log breastwork on the top. Amoment later the crack of a rifle rolled down the hill, and the mannearest Kirke fell on the slope, rolled against a tree, and lay still.He had rashly exposed himself, and he was gone. They were good shots,those Johnnies.

  The men as they advanced sought instinctively such cover as theycould, skipping from tree to tree. Every once in a while, however, oneof them would expose himself in the open, and the exposure was alwaysfollowed by a shot which more than once caught its mark. The crest wasbare of trees, and the command arrived at the edge of the clearingwith some loss, and cautiously concentrated, hesitating a momentbefore breaking out into the open and rushing the hill.

  "Now, men," said Kirke, "you see what we have to do. The quicker we doit the better for us. Give me that flag," he added, turning to thecolor-bearer. "Gibson,"--to his bugler,--"stand by to sound the chargewhen I give the signal."

  There was nothing dramatic about Kirke, it was all a matter of purebusiness with him; but the men thought they had never seen so splendida figure as he when he tore off his cap, jerked his revolver from hisbelt, seized the flag with his left hand, and stepped out in the open.

  He nodded his head to the alert Gibson, and the shrill notes of thecharge echoed through the hills. Ere it had died away the men heardtheir colonel say, "Come on!"

  It was always Kirke's way to say "Come" rather than "Go."

  With a mighty roar they sprang from the shelter of the trees anddashed for the ridge. A terrific volley greeted them. With a crashlike thunder, which echoed and re-echoed through the hills, theConfederate fire was poured upon them. Had it not been that most ofthe men, firing down the hill, overshot the mark, the "Lambs" wouldhave been blown into eternity. As it was, many of them fell, but therest plunged dauntlessly into the smoke through which the red of theflag could dimly be discerned waving in the advance.

  Again the rifles of the brigade cracked out, and this time sent theirmessengers of death crashing full into the face of Kirke's men. Thistime the carnage was terrible; there were many dead, but the blood ofthe living was up: they would have charged a moving express train.They tore recklessly through the smoke toward the top, following theflag.

  Before the rifles could be reloaded the "Lambs" were at thebreastwork, Kirke still in the lead. To leap the log walls was thework of a moment. The brigade was ready for them. The carbines crackedagain and again; there was a grim, ghastly, awful struggle on the topof that hill around the foot of the Confederate flag-staff--thensilence.

  When the fighting stopped the few "Lambs" who were left leaned pantingon their carbines, blood dripping from the gunstocks, surveying thetangled mass of dead and dying. The brigade had been annihilated.

  Broadhead sprang to the staff to haul down the flag. He was nonplussedto find that there were no halliards, and that some one had evidentlyclimbed a tree, which had been denuded of its limbs for the purpose,and nailed the flag there. He turned to look for Kirke, when, in thesmoke that yet covered the field, he distinctly saw the man lift hisrevolver, pull its trigger, and blow out his brains.

  In the confusion after the little battle, fortunately, no one noticedthe action but himself. He was utterly at a loss to fathom the meaningof the suicide, but he quickly resolved that no one should know of it.

  They buried the brigade with the dead "Lambs" around the foot of thestaff, and Broadhead left the flag flying above them. He might havechopped down the tree and taken it, but it seemed fitting that the menwho had defended it should have that last honor. The wind would whipit out in a day or two at best. Taking their wounded, they retracedtheir steps as they could, thinking that Kirke had been killed in theaction, an opinion which Broadhead's report sedulously fostered.Broadhead carefully preserved Kirke's revolver, which he took from hisdead hand, the letter, which he found in his breast pocket, his watchand sword, and a lock of his black curly hair.

  II.--IN THE ROOM IN THE NIGHT

  When the war was over, and they were mustered out soon afterwards,Broadhead hastened to Philadelphia and drove immediately to Kirke'shouse. It was empty. There was no sign of life about it. As he stoppedon the doorstep in the late afternoon, wondering vaguely what hadhappened and what he should do next, the door of the adjoining houseopened and a woman came out, of whom he made inquiry for Mrs. Kirke.

  "Mrs. Kirke!" said the woman, in surprise. "And who may you be, may Iask?"

  "I am--I was--Colonel Kirke's dearest friend."

  "Is Colonel Kirke dead?"

  "Yes."

  "And a good thing, too," said the woman.

  "Madam," cried Broadhead, indignantly, "do you realize what you say?"

  "Certainly I do. Don't you know about Mrs. Kirke?"

  "No. Is she dead?"

  "It would be better if she were," she answered. "She ran away twomonths ago with a man named Allen, and after she left she sent me aletter enclosing the key of her house and requesting that I give it toColonel Kirke when he returned from the war. So long as he is gone, Iguess you might as well have it. Wait; I'll fetch it."

  The woman turned back into the house as she spoke. This, thoughtBroadhead, sadly, was the explanation of it all. That letter. He hadnever examined it. He had held it sacred, but now he felt that he mustopen it. It might give him some clew as to the whereabouts of thewoman. Yet he hesitated.

  When the woman gave him the key he entered the lonely house. He wentupstairs and sat down in Kirke's study, and there, overcoming hishesitation, he read the letter. It was the letter of a weak,hysterical woman, reproaching her husband for his lack of love, hisseeming neglect, for her loneliness, and ended by saying that she hadgone off with a man who loved her, and that he should never see heragain. Kirke's endorsement was brief and as terse as the man'scharacter.

  "I have been to blame," he had written. "I did love you. I do. Godonly knows how much. I hope you may be happy. We are about to attack astrong position. I feel sure that after it is over I shall trouble youno more. You can marry the man--damn him!--and be happy."

  How characteristic that was, thought Jack Broadhead, as he read,--thatlast touch! He cursed the man yet spared the woman. For a long timeBroadhead sat there in that house, thinking, thinking, thinking. Hewondered if he were the only mourner for poor Kirke. The twilight andthen the darkness came stealing over the town, and still he sat there.By and by he heard a step--a hesitant, faltering step--in the hallway.He remembered now that he had left the street door open. He sat stilland listened. The step mounted the stairs. It came along the shorthall and stopped at the entrance of the library. He sat by the openwindow. The wandering figure was that of a woman. She saw the soldiersilhouetted in the darkness against the light from the street lampoutside.

  "Robert! Robert!" she cried. "You have come back! Thank God!"

  Broadhead rose to his feet.

  "No," he said, quietly, "it is not Colonel Kirke."

  "Mr. Broadhead!" exclaimed the woman.

  "Yes, Mrs.--Mrs.--er--Allen, is it not?"

  "No, no!" she shrieked, shrinking back. "My--my husband?"

  "Do you mean Colonel Kirke?"

  "Yes. I have no other."

  "And Allen?"

  "He has cast me off, turned me away."

  "Haven't you heard?"

  "I have heard nothing. I have been blind--in hell--since----"

  "Yes, I know."

  "But Robert?"

  "He is dead."

  The woman sank into a chair, shuddering.

  "When? How? Did he get my letter?"

  "Yes. He was killed at the capture of a little hill in North Carolinaon the day he received your letter. Here it is."

  "Did he say anything before----"

  "There is a message written in it."

  "Give it me."

  Striking a light at the gas-bracket, Broadhea
d handed her the letter.She read it through dry-eyed while he watched her. She had been apretty, sweet, dainty, attractive-looking little woman, now she was ahaggard, broken wreck.

  "And he was killed by the enemy?" she asked at last.

  "Madam," said Broadhead, sternly, "you shall hear the truth. He shothimself on the top of the hill the day of the battle with thisrevolver," laying the weapon on the table. "Here is his sword and hiswatch and a lock of his hair. I suppose you don't care for them."

  "I care for everything that belonged to him more than Heaven itself."

  "You are free now," said Broadhead; "you can marryyour--your--friend."

  "Never! He has driven me away, cast me off, and I hate him! I hatedhim from the very moment--I shall be free, anyway. He said nothingbefore he died?"

  "Nothing."

  "And this is all you can tell me?"

  "All."

  "Will you leave me now?"

  "What? Alone in this empty house?"

  "It's my house, isn't it? I am still Mrs. Kirke, am I not?"

  "Yes, of course, but--I----"

  "Will you go, please? You have discharged your errand. You have toldme the dreadful truth. For God's sake, leave me!"

  "May I not do something----"

  "Nothing,--nothing. You may come back to-morrow morning and advisewhat to do. I am alone now, you see."

  Broadhead stood uncertainly before her.

  "Go, go!" she pleaded. "Don't you see that I wish to be alone for alittle? You have been very good to me. I thank you."

  She hesitatingly put out her hand to him.

  "Won't you shake hands with me?" she pleaded. "I did very wrong. Ifell very low. But I am very sorry."

  Upon an impulse for which he rejoiced ever after, Broadhead claspedthe thin, tiny hand in his own, held it a moment, bent low over it,and, with old-fashioned gallantry, kissed it,--that soiled, wastedhand!

  "I forgive you," he said, and the voice of the dead seemed to speak tothe woman through his lips.

  He turned and left her alone,--alone in the darkness, alone with hermemories, alone with her sorrow, alone with her repentance, alone withthe weapon.

  She lifted the heavy revolver with trembling hand. There was a singlecartridge left in the chamber.

  The next morning, in great anxiety, Broadhead came back to the house.He found the woman sitting quite white and still where he had lefther, and the revolver was empty!