Joseph A. Altsheler – The Complete Collection

Chapter 40

The supreme commanders of either side were now ready. Human minds had never been more busy than theirs had been. Grant was still preparing to attack; no thought of failure entered his resolute soul. If he did not succeed to-day, then he would succeed on the next day or next week or next month; he would attack and never cease attacking. Lee stood resolutely in his path, resolved to beat him back, not only on this line, but on every other line, always bringing up his thinning brigade for a new defense.

The Wilderness still held secrets for both, but they intended to solve them that day, to see which way the riddle ran, and the Wilderness itself was as dark, as calm and as somber as ever. It had been torn by cannon balls, pierced by rifle bullets and scorched by fire; but the two armies were yet buried in it and it gave no sign to the world outside.

In the house, despite the wounded, there was deep attention and a concern that nothing could suppress. The scattered cannon shots blended into a steady thunder already, but it was distant and to the watchers told nothing. The darkness, too, was still so great that they could see no flashes.

The Secretary, mounted on an Accomack pony, rode out of the woods and looked a little while at the house, then turned away and continued in the direction of the new battle. He was in a good humour that morning, smiling occasionally when no one could see. The combat already begun did not trouble Mr. Sefton, although it was his business there to see how it was going and supplement, or, rather, precede, the General's reports with such news as he could obtain, and so deft a mind as his could obtain much. Yet he was not worried over either its progress or its result. He had based his judgment on calculations made long ago by a mind free from passion or other emotion and as thoroughly arithmetical as a human mind can be, and he had seen nothing since to change the estimates then formed.

When he thought how they missed Jackson it was with no intention of depreciating Wood. Both were needed, and he knew that the mountain General would be wherever the combat was fiercest that day. And then, he might not come back! The Secretary pondered over this phase of the matter. He had been growing suspicious of late, and Wood was a good general, but he was not sure that he liked him. But pshaw! There was nothing to dread in such a crude, rough mountaineer.

He glanced to the left and saw there the heads of horses and horsemen rising and falling like waves as they swept over the uneven ground. He believed them to be Wood's troopers, and, taking his field-glass, he studied the figure that rode at their head. It was Wood, and the Secretary saw that they were about to strike the Northern flank. He was not a soldier, but he had an acute mind and a keen eye for effect. He recognized at once the value of the movement, the instinct that had prompted it and the unflinching way in which it was being carried out. "Perhaps Wood will fall there! He rides in the very van," he thought, but immediately repented, because his nature was large enough to admit of admiration for a very brave man.

The sun shone through the clouds a little and directly upon the point in the Northern lines where Wood was aiming to strike, and the Secretary watched intently. He saw the ranks of horsemen rising and falling quickly and then pausing for a second or two before hurling themselves directly upon the Northern flank. He saw the flash of sabers, the jets of white smoke from rifle or pistol, and then the Northern line was cut through. But new regiments came up, threw themselves upon the cavalry, and all were mingled in a wild pell-mell among the thickets and through the forests. Clouds of smoke, thick and black, settled down, and horse and foot, saber and gun were hidden from the Secretary.

"Stubborn! As stubborn as death!" he murmured; "but the end is as certain as the setting of the sun."

Turning his horse, he rode to a new hill, from which he made another long and careful examination. Then he rode a mile or two to the rear and stopped at a small improvised telegraph station, whence he sent three brief telegrams. The first was to President Jefferson Davis of the Southern Confederacy in Richmond; the others, somewhat different in nature, were for two great banking houses--one in London, the other in Paris--and these two despatches were to be forwarded from a seaport by the quickest steamer.

This business despatched, Mr. Sefton, rubbing his hands with pleasure, rode back toward the battle.

A figure, black-bearded, gallant and large, came within the range of his glasses. It was Wood, and the Secretary breathed a little sigh of sorrow. The General had come safely out of the charge and was still a troublesome entity, but Mr. Sefton checked himself. General Wood was a brave man, and he could respect such splendid courage and ability.

Thinking deeply on the way and laying many plans, he turned his pony and rode back toward the house which was still outside the area of battle, and the Secretary judged that it would not come within it on that day at least. More than one in that log structure waited to hear what news he would bring.

* * * * *

Prescott, shortly after daylight, had opened his ears to a dull, steady, distant sound, not unpleasant, and his eyes to a wonderful, luminous face--a face that he knew and which he once had feared he might never see again.

"Lucia Catherwood!" he said.

"Yes, it is I," she replied softly, so softly that no one else could hear.

"I think that you must have found me and brought me here," he said. An intuition had told him this.

She answered evasively: "You are not hurt badly. It was a piece of shell, and the concussion did the harm."

Prescott looked a question. "You will stay by me?" his eyes said to her as plain as day.

"Yes, I will stay by you," was her positive reply in the same language.

Then he lay quite still, for his head was dull and heavy; but it was scarcely an ache, and he did not suffer pain. Instead, a soothing content pervaded his entire system and he felt no anxiety about anything. He tried to remember his moments of unconsciousness, but his mind went back only to the charge, the blow upon the head, and the fall. There everything had stopped, but he was still sure that Lucia Catherwood had found him and somehow had brought him here. He would have died without her, of that he had no doubt, and by and by he should learn about it all.

Men came into the house and went away, but he felt no curiosity. That part of him seemed to be atrophied for the present, but after awhile something aroused his interest. It was not any of the men or women who passed and repassed, but that curious, dull, steady, distant sound which had beat softly upon his ears the moment he awoke. He remembered now that it had never ceased, and it began to trouble him, reminding him of the buzzing of flies on a summer afternoon when he was a boy and wanted to sleep. He wondered what it was, but his brain was still dulled and gave no information. He tried to forget but could not, and looked up at Lucia Catherwood for explanation, but she had none to offer.

He wished to go to sleep, but the noise--that soft but steady drumming on the ear--would not let him. His desire to know grew and became painful. He closed his eyes in thought and it came to him with sudden truth it was the sound of guns, cannon and rifles. The battle, taken up where it was left off the night before, was going on.

North and South were again locked in mortal strife, and the Wilderness still held its secret, refusing to name the victor. Prescott felt a sudden pang of disappointment. He knew the straits of the South; he knew that she needed every man, and he was lying there helpless on a bed while the persistent Grant was hammering away and would continue to hammer away as no general before him had done. He tried to move, but Lucia put her cool hand upon his forehead. That quieted him, but he still listened intently to the sound of battle, distinguishing with a trained ear the deep note of the cannon and the sharper crash of the rifle. All waited anxiously for the return of the Secretary, confident that he would come and confident that he would bring true news of the battle's fortunes. It required but a short acquaintance with Mr. Sefton to produce upon every one the impression that he was a man who saw.

The morning had not been without pleasure to Prescott. His nurse seemed to know everything and to fear nothing. Lucia understood her peculiar position. She had a full sense that she was an outsider, but she did not intend to go away, being strongly fortified by the feeling that she was making repayment. Once as she sat by Prescott, Helen came, too, and leaned over him. Lucia drew away a little as if she would yield to another who had a better claim, but Helen would not have it so.

"Do not go," she said. "He is yours, not mine."

Lucia did not reply, but a tacit understanding arose between the two women, and they were drawn toward each other as friends, since there was nothing to divide them.

* * * * *

The Secretary at that moment was riding slowly toward the house, turning now and then to look at the battle which yet hung in doubt, in its vast canopy of smoke. He studied it with keen eyes and a keener mind, but he could yet make nothing of it, and could give no news upon his arrival at the house.

The long day waned at last, but did not bring with its shadows any decrease in the violence of the battle. Its sound was never absent for a moment from the ears of those in the house, and the women at the windows saw the great pyramid of flame from the forest fire, but their anxiety was as deep as ever. No word came to indicate the result. Night fell, close, heavy and black, save where the forest burned, and suddenly the battle ceased.

News came at length that the South had held her lines. Grant had failed to break through the iron front of Lee. A battle as bloody as Gettysburg had been fought and nothing was won; forty thousand men had been struck down in the Wilderness, and Grant was as far as ever from Richmond.

The watchers in the house said little, but they rejoiced--all save Lucia Catherwood, who sat in silence. However the day might have ended, she did not believe the campaign had ended with it, and her hope continued.

A messenger arrived in haste the next day. The house must be abandoned by all who could go. Grant had turned on his left flank and was advancing by a new road. The Southern army must also turn aside to meet him.

It was as Lucia Catherwood expected. Meade, a victor at Gettysburg, had not attacked again. Grant, failing in the Wilderness, moved forward to fight within three days another battle as great.

The story of either army was the same. The general in his tent touched the spring that set all things in motion. The soldiers rose from the hot ground on which they lay in a stupor rather than sleep. Two streams of wounded poured to the rear, one to the North and one to the South. The horses, like their masters, worn and scarred like them, too, were harnessed to cannon and wagon; the men ate as they worked; there was no time for delay. This was to be a race, grand and terrible in its nature, with great battles as incidents. The stakes were high, and the players played with deadly earnestness.