IX
THE MONTJOY BLOOD AGAIN
A month later Dan heard of Virginia's death when, at the end of the SevenDays, he was brought wounded into Richmond. As he lay upon church cushionson the floor of an old warehouse on Main Street, with Big Abel shaking atattered palm-leaf fan at his side, a cavalryman came up to him and heldout a hand that trembled slightly from fatigue.
"I heard you were here. Can I do anything for you, Beau?" he asked.
For an instant Dan hesitated; then the other smiled, and he recognized JackMorson.
"My God! You've been ill!" he exclaimed in horror. Jack laughed and let hishand fall. The boyish colour was gone from his face, and he wore anuntrimmed beard which made him look twice his age.
"Never better in my life," he answered shortly. "Some men are made ofindia-rubber, Montjoy, and I'm one of them. I've managed to get into mostof these blessed fights about Richmond, and yet I haven't so much as a pinprick to show for it. But what's wrong with you? Not much, I hope. I'vejust seen Bland, and he told me he thought you were left at Malvern Hillduring that hard rain on Tuesday night. How did you get knocked over,anyway?"
"A rifle ball went through my leg," replied Dan impatiently. "I say, BigAbel, can't you flirt that fan a little faster? These confounded fliesstick like molasses." Then he held up his left hand and looked at it with agrim smile. "A nasty fragment of a shell took off a couple of my fingers,"he added. "At first I thought they had begun throwing hornets' nests fromtheir guns--it felt just like it. Yes, that's the worst with me so far;I've still got a bone to my leg, and I'll be on the field again beforelong, thank God."
"Well, the worst thing about getting wounded is being stuffed into a holelike this," returned Jack, glancing about contemptuously. "Whoever has hadthe charge of our hospital arrangements may congratulate himself that hehas made a ghastly mess of them. Why, I found a man over there in thecorner whose leg had mortified from sheer neglect, and he told me that thesupplies for the sick had given out, and they'd offered him cornbread andbacon for breakfast."
Dan began to toss restlessly, grumbling beneath his breath. "If you eversee a ball making in your direction," he advised, "dodge it clean or takeit square in the mouth; don't go in for any compromises with a gun, theyaren't worth it." He lay silent for a moment, and then spoke proudly. "BigAbel hauled me off the field after I went down. How he found me, God onlyknows, but find me he did, and under fire, too."
"'Twuz des like pepper," remarked Big Abel, fanning briskly, "but soon es Iheah dat Marse Dan wuz right flat on de groun', I know dat dar warn' nobodyter go atter 'im 'cep'n' me. Marse Bland he come crawlin' out er de bresh,wuckin' 'long on his stomick same es er mole, wid his face like a rabbitw'en de dawgs are 'mos' upon 'im, en he sez hard es flint, 'Beau he's downover yonder, en I tried ter pull 'im out, Big Abel, 'fo' de Lawd I did!'Den he drap right ter de yerth, en I des stop long enough ter put a tinbucket on my haid 'fo' I began ter crawl atter Marse Dan. Whew! dat arbucket hit sutney wuz a he'p, dat 'twuz, case I des hyeard de cawna-poppin' all aroun' hit, en dey ain' never come thoo yit.
"Well, suh, w'en I h'ist dat bucket ter git a good look out dar dey wuza-fittin' twel dey bus', a-dodgin' in en out er de shucks er wheat dat deydone pile 'mos' up ter de haids. I ain' teck but one good look, suh, den Idrap de bucket down agin en keep a-crawlin' like Marse Bland tole me twel Igit 'mos' ter de cawn fiel' dat run right spang up de hill whar de big gunswuz a-spittin' fire en smoke. En sho' 'nough dar wuz Marse Dan lyin' unnera pine log dat Marse Bland hed roll up ter 'im ter keep de Yankees f'omhittin' 'im; en w'en he ketch sight er me he des blink his eyes fur aminute en laugh right peart.
"'Wat dat you got on yo' haid, Big Abel?' he sez."
"Big Abel's a hero, there's no mistake," put in Dan, delighted. "Do youknow he lifted me as if I were a baby and toted me out of that God-forsakencorn field in the hottest fire I ever felt--and I tipped the scales at ahundred and fifty pounds before I went to Romney."
"Go way, Marse Dan, you ain' nuttin' but a rail," protested Big Abel, andcontinued his story. "Atter I done tote him outer de cawn fiel' en thoo debresh, den I begin ter peer roun' fer one er dese yer ambushes, but derewarn' nairy one un um dat warn' a-bulgin' a'ready. I d'clar dey des bulgedtwel dey sides 'mos' split. I seed a hack drive long by wid two gemmena-settin' up in hit, en one un em des es well es I is,--but w'en I heltMarse Dan up right high, he shake his haid en pint ter de udder like hekinder skeered. 'Dis yer's my young brudder,' he sez, speakin' sof'; 'endis yer's my young Marster,' I holler back, but he shake his haid agin endrive right on. Lawd, Lawd, my time's 'mos' up, I 'low den--yes, suh, Ido--but w'en I tu'n roun' squintin' my eyes caze de sun so hot--de sun hewuz kinder shinin' thoo his back like he do w'en he hu't yo' eyes en youcyan' see 'im--dar came a dump cyart a-joltin' up de road wid a speckledmule hitch ter it. A lot er yuther w'ite folks made a bee line fer dat ardump cyart, but dey warn' 'fo' me, caze w'en dey git dar, dar I wuza-settin' wid Marse Dan laid out across my knees. Well, dey lemme go--deybleeged ter caze I 'uz gwine anyway--en de speckled mule she des laid back'er years en let fly fer Richmon'. Yes, suh, I ain' never seed sech a mulees dat. She 'uz des es full er sperit es a colt, en her name wuz Sally."
"The worst of it was after getting here," finished Dan, who had lainregarding Big Abel with a proud paternal eye, "they kept us trundling roundin that cart for three mortal hours, because they couldn't find a hole toput us into. An uncovered wagon was just in front of us, filled with poorfellows who had been half the day in the sweltering heat, and we made theprocession up and down the city, until at last some women rushed up withtheir servants and cleared out this warehouse. One was not over sixteen andas pretty as a picture. 'Don't talk to me about the proper authorities,'she said, stamping her foot, 'I'll hang the proper authorities when theyturn up--and in the meantime we'll go to work!' By Jove, she was a trump,that girl! If she didn't save my life, she did still better and saved myleg."
"Well, I'll try to get you moved by to-morrow," said Jack reassuringly."Every home in the city is filled with the wounded, they tell me, but Iknow a little woman who had two funerals from her house to-day, so she maybe able to find room for you. This heat is something awful, isn't it?"
"Damnable. I hope, by the way, that Virginia is out of it by now."
Jack flinched as if the words struck him between the eyes. For a moment hestood staring at the straw pallets along the wall; then he spoke in a queervoice.
"Yes, Virginia's out of it by now; Virginia's dead, you know."
"Dead!" cried Dan, and raised himself upon his cushion. The room went blackbefore him, and he steadied himself by clutching at Big Abel's arm. At theinstant the horrors of the battle-field, where he had seen men fall likegrass before the scythe, became as nothing to the death of this one younggirl. He thought of her living beauty, of the bright glow of her flesh, andit seemed to him that the earth could not hide a thing so fair.
"I left her in Richmond in the spring," explained Jack, gripping himselfhard. "I was off with Stuart, you know, and I thought her mother would getto her, but she couldn't pass the lines and then the fight came--the one atSeven Pines and--well, she died and the child with her."
Dan's eyes grew very tender; a look crept into them which only Betty andhis mother had seen there before.
"I would have died for her if I could, Jack, you know that," he saidslowly.
Jack walked off a few paces and then came back again. "I remember theGovernor's telling me once," he went on in the same hard voice, "that if aman only rode boldly enough at death it would always get out of the way. Ididn't believe it at the time, but, by God, it's true. Why, I've gonestraight into the enemy's lines and heard the bullets whistling in my ears,but I've always come out whole. When I rode with Stuart round McClellan'sarmy, I was side by side with poor Latane when he fell in the skirmish atOld Church, and I sat stock still on my horse and waited for a fellow toclub me with his sabre, but he wouldn't; he looked at me as if he thought Ihad gone crazy, and actually shook his head. Som
e men can't die, confoundit, and I'm one of them."
He went out, his spurs striking the stone steps as he passed into thestreet, and Dan fell back upon the narrow cushions to toss with fever andthe memory of Virginia--of Virginia in the days when she wore her rose-pinkgown and he believed he loved her.
At the door an ambulance drew up and a stretcher was brought into thebuilding, and let down in one corner. The man on it was lying very still,and when he was lifted off and placed upon the blood-soaked top of the longpine table, he made no sound, either of fear or of pain. The close odoursof the place suddenly sickened Dan and he asked Big Abel to draw him nearerthe open window, where he might catch the least breeze from the river; butoutside the July sunlight lay white and hot upon the bricks, and when hestruggled up the reflected heat struck him down again. On the sidewalk hesaw several prisoners going by amid a hooting crowd, and with his oldinstinct to fight upon the weaker side, he hurled an oath at the tormentersof his enemies.
"Go to the field, you crows, and be damned!" he called.
One of the prisoners, a ruddy-cheeked young fellow in private's clothes,looked up and touched his cap.
"Thank you, sir, I hope we'll meet at the front," he said, in a rich Irishbrogue. Then he passed on to Libby prison, while Dan turned from the windowand lay watching the surgeon's faces as they probed for bullets.
It was a long unceiled building, filled with bright daylight and thebuzzing of countless flies. Women, who had volunteered for the service,passed swiftly over the creaking boards, or knelt beside the pallets asthey bathed the shattered limbs with steady fingers. Here and there a childheld a glass of water to a man who could not raise himself, or sat fanningthe flies from a pallid face. None was too old nor too young where therewas work for all.
A stir passed through the group about the long pine table, and one of thesurgeons, wiping the sweat from his brow, came over to where Dan lay, andstopped to take breath beside the window.
"By Jove, that man died game," he said, shaking his handkerchief at theflies. "We took both his legs off at the knee, and he just gripped thetable hard and never winked an eyelash. I told him it would kill him, buthe said he'd be hanged if he didn't take his chance--and he took it anddied. Talk to me about nerve, that fellow had the cleanest grit I eversaw."
Dan's pulses fluttered, as they always did at an example of pure pluck.
"What's his regiment?" he asked, watching the two slaves who, followed bytheir mistresses, were bringing the body back to the stretcher.
"Oh, he was a scout, I believe, serving with Stuart when he was wounded.His name is--by the way, his name is Montjoy. Any relative of yours, Iwonder?"
Raising himself upon his elbow, Dan turned to look at the dead man besidehim. A heavy beard covered the mouth and chin, but he knew the sunken blackeyes and the hair that was like his own.
"Yes," he answered after a long pause, "he is a relative of mine, I think;"and then, while the man lay waiting for his coffin, he propped himself uponhis arm and followed curiously the changes made by death.
At his first recognition there had come only a wave of repulsion--the olddisgust that had always dogged the memory of his father; then, with thedead face before his eyes, he was aware of an unreasoning pride in theblood he bore--in the fact that the soldier there had died pure game to thelast. It was as a braggart and a bully that he had always thought of him;now he knew that at least he was not a craven--that he could take blows ashe dealt them, from the shoulder out. He had hated his father, he toldhimself unflinchingly, and he did not love him now. Had the dead man openedhis eyes he could have struck him back again with his mother's memory for aweapon. There had been war between them to the grave, and yet, despitehimself, he knew that he had lost his old boyish shame of the Montjoyblood. With the instinct of his race to glorify physical courage, he hadseen the shadow of his boyhood loom from the petty into the gigantic. JackMontjoy may have been a scoundrel,--doubtless he was one,--but, with allhis misdeeds on his shoulders, he had lived pure game to the end.
A fresh bleeding of Dan's wound brought on a sudden faintness, and he fellheavily upon Big Abel's arm. With the pain a groan hovered an instant onhis lips, but, closing his eyes, he bit it back and lay silent. For thefirst time in his life there had come to him, like an impulse, theknowledge that he must not lower his father's name.
BOOK FOURTH
THE RETURN OF THE VANQUISHED