CHAPTER XVII
CLEAVE AND JUDITH
The hospital at Charlottesville, unlovely and lovely, ghastly and vital,brutal, spiritual, a hell of pain and weakness, another region ofendeavour and helpfulness, a place of horror, and also of strangesmiling, even of faint laughter, a country as chill as death and as warmas love--the hospital at Charlottesville saw the weary morning grow toweary noon, the weary noon change toward the weary latter day. The womenwho nursed the soldiers said that it was lovely outside, and that allthe peach trees were in bloom. "We'll raise you a little higher," theysaid, "and you can see for yourself. And look! here is your broth, sogood and strengthening! And did you hear? We won on the Peninsulato-day!"
At four o'clock Judith Cary gave to another her place beside a typhoidpallet and came out into the emerald and rose, the freshness andfragrance of the spring. The Greenwood carriage was waiting. "We'll go,Isham," said Judith, "by the University for Miss Lucy."
Isham held open the door. "No'm, Miss Judith. Miss Lucy done sont wuhddat de ladies'll be cuttin' out nuniforms clean 'twel dark. She say don'wait fer her--Mrs. Carter'll bring her home."
Judith entered the carriage. An old acquaintance, passing, paused tospeak to her. "Isn't there a greater stir than usual?" she asked.
"Some of General Ewell's men are over from Gordonsville. There goesGeneral Dick Taylor now--the one in grey and white! He's a son, youknow, of Zachary--Old Rough and Ready. General Jackson, too, has anofficer here to-day, checking the stores that came from Richmond.--Howis it at the hospital?"
"It is very bad," said Judith. "When the bands begin to play I laugh andcry like all the rest, and I wave and clap my hands, and I would fighton and on like the rest of you, and I do not see that, given people asthey are, the war could have been avoided, and I would die to win, and Iam, I hope, a patriot--and yet I do not see any sense in it! It hurts meas I think it may hurt the earth. She would like, I believe, somethingbetter than being a battlefield.--There is music again! Yesterday a mandied, crying for the band to hush. He said it drowned something heneeded to hear."
"Yes, yes," replied her friend, nodding his head. "That is perfectlytrue. That is very true, indeed!--That band's coming from the station.They're looking for a regiment from Richmond.--That's a good band! Whatare they playing--?"
"Bright flowers spring from the hero's grave, The craven knows no rest,-- Thrice cursed the traitor and the knave, The hero thrice is blessed--"
The Greenwood carriage rolled out of the town into the April country.The fruit trees were in bloom, the woods feathering green, the quiet andthe golden light inestimable after the moaning wards. The carriage wentslowly, for the roads were heavy; moreover the former carriage horseswere gone to the war. These were two from the farm, somewhat old andstiff, willing, but plodders. They went half asleep in the softsunshine, and Isham on the box went half asleep too. Judith would havebeen willing to sleep, but she could not. She sat with her gaze upon thefair spring woods and the amethystine hills rising to blue skies. Thecarriage stopped. Isham bent down from the box. "Miss Judith, honey, ergent'man's on de road behin' us, ridin' ter overtek de kerridge."
"Wait for him, then," said Judith. "There is some message, perhaps."
While they waited she sat with folded hands, her eyes upon the purplehills, her thoughts away from Albemarle. The sound that Isham made ofsurprise and satisfaction did not reach her. Until she saw Cleave's faceat the window she thought him somewhere in the Valley--fighting,fighting! in battle and danger, perhaps, that very day.
Her eyes widened, her face had the hush of dawn; it was turned towardhim, but she sat perfectly still, without speaking. Only the door wasbetween them, the glass down. He rested his clasped hands on the ledge,and his dark, moved face looked in upon her. "Judith," he said, "I didnot know.--I thought it was one of the others.... I hope that you are alittle glad to see me."
Judith looked at him a moment longer, then swayed a little forward. Shebent her head. Her cheek touched his clasped hands, he felt her kissupon them, and her forehead resting there.
There was a moment's silence, deep, breathless, then Cleave spoke."Judith ... Am I mad?"
"I believe that you love me," she said. "If you do not, it does notmatter.... I have loved you for two years."
"Maury Stafford?"
"I have never believed that you understood--though what it was that madeyou misunderstand I have never guessed.... There is no Maury Stafford.There never was."
He opened the door. "Come out," he said. "Come out with me into thelight. Send the carriage on."
She did so. The road was quiet, deserted, a wide bright path between theevening hills. Dundee following them, they walked a little way untilthey came to a great rock, sunk in the velvet sward that edged a wood.Here they sat down, the gold light bathing them, behind them fairyvistas, fountains of living green, stars of the dogwood and purplesprays of Judas tree. "How I misunderstood is no matter now," saidCleave. "I love you, and you say that you love me. Thank God for it!"
They sat with clasped hands, their cheeks touching, their breathmingling. "Judith, Judith, how lovely are you! I have seen you always,always!... Only I called it 'vision,' 'ideal.' At the top of every deedI have seen your eyes; from the height of every thought you havebeckoned further! Now--now--It is like a wonderful home-coming ... andyet you are still there, above the mountains, beckoning, drawing--Thereand here, here in my arms!... Judith--What does 'Judith' mean?"
"It means 'praised.' Oh, Richard, I heard that you were wounded atKernstown!"
"It was nothing. It is healed.... I will write to your father at once."
"He will be glad, I think. He likes you.... Have you a furlough? Howlong can you stay?"
"Love, I cannot stay at all. I am on General Jackson's errand. I mustride on to Gordonsville--It would be sweet to stay!"
"When will you come again?"
"I do not know. There will be battles--many battles, perhaps--up anddown the Valley. Every man is needed. I am not willing to ask even ashort furlough."
"I am not willing that you should.... I know that you are in dangerevery day! I hear it in the wind, I see it in every waving bough.... Oh,come back to me, Richard!"
"I?" he answered, "I feel immortal. I will come back."
They rose from the rock. "The sun is setting. Would you rather I went onto the house? I must turn at once, but I could speak to them--"
"No. Aunt Lucy is in town, Unity, too.... Let's say good-bye before wereach the carriage."
They went slowly by the quiet road beneath the flowering trees. Thelight was now only on the hilltops; the birds were silent; only thefrogs in the lush meadows kept up their quiring, a sound quaintlymournful, weirdly charming. A bend of the road showed them Isham, thefarm horses, and the great old carriage waiting beneath a tulip tree.The lovers stopped, took hands, moved nearer each to the other, restedeach in the other's arms. Her head was thrown back, his lips touched herhair, her forehead, her lips. "Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye!"
He put her in the carriage, kissed her hands as they lay on the doorledge, and stood back. It was not far to the Greenwood gates; the old,slow horses moved on, the carriage rounded a leafy turn, the road wasleft to the soldier and his horse.
Cleave rode to Gordonsville that night as though he carried Heaven withhim. The road was fair, the moon was high. Far-flung, beautiful odoursfilled the air; the red ploughed earth sent its share, the floweringfruit trees theirs, the flowers in the wood, the mint by the stream. Alight wind swung them as from a censer; the moved air touched the youngman's forehead. He took off his hat; he rode rapidly with head heldhigh. He rode for hours, Dundee taking the way with even power, amagnificently silent friend. Behind, on an iron grey, came the orderly.Riding thus together, away from organization and discipline, therelations between the two men, officer and private, were perfectlydemocratic. From Rude's Hill across the Massanuttons and from Swift RunGap to Charlottesville they had been simply com
rades and fellowVirginians. They were from adjoining counties, where the one hadpractised law and the other had driven a stage. There were differencesin breeding, education, and employment; but around these, recognized byboth, stretched the enormous plane of humanity. They met there in simplebrotherliness. To-night, however, Cleave had spoken for silence. "I wantto be quiet for a while, Harris.--There is something I have to thinkof."
THE LOVERS]
The night was all too short for what he had to think of. The pink flushof dawn, the distant view of Ewell's tents, came too soon. It was hardto lower the height and swell of the mind, to push back the surgingthoughts, to leave the lift and wonder, the moonlight, and the floweringway. Here, however, were the pickets; and while he waited for thecorporal of the guard, standing with Harris on a little hill, beforethem the pink sky, below them a peach orchard, pink too, with alace-like mist wreathing the trees, he put golden afternoon andmoonlight night in the bottom of his heart and laid duty atop.
Ewell's camp, spread over the rolling hills and lighted by a splendidsunrise, lay imposingly. To the eyes of the men from the Valley theordered white tents of Trimble's and Taylor's and the Maryland line hadan air luxuriously martial. Everything seemed to gleam and shine. Theguns of the parked batteries gave back the light, the colours seemedsilken and fine, the very sunrise gun had a sonorousness lacking toChew's Blakeley, or to McLaughlin's six-pounders, and the bugles blowingreveille a silvery quality most remarkable. As for the smoke from thecamp-fires--"Lord save us!" said Harris, "I believe they're broilingpartridges! Of all the dandy places!"
Cleave laughed. "It's not that they are so fine, but that we are soweather-beaten and rusty! They're only in good working-day trim. We'llhave to polish up at Rude's Hill."
"This is the 1st Maryland on the hillside," said the guide the corporalhad given; "there with the blue flag. Mighty fine feathers, but I reckonthey're gamecocks all right! Elzey's Brigade's over beside thewoods--Virginian to the backbone. Trimble's got a fine lot--Georgiansand Alabamians and Mississippians. Here come some of the 2d VirginiaCavalry! Ain't they pretty?"
They were. But Harris stood up for the absent Valley. "Huh! Ashby's goodenough for me! Ashby's got three stallions--the white he's fondest of,and a black like a piece of coal, and a red roan--"
The guide nodded energetically. "Oh, we think a heap of Ashby ourselves!There ain't anybody that the men listen about more eagerly. We ain'tsetting up on this side of the mountains to beat _him_! But I reckon the2d and the 6th'll do right well when they get a chance. Yes, sir,General Taylor's Brigade. He's got a lot of Frenchmen fromLouisiana--Acadians I've heard them called--and they can't speak a wordof English, poor souls!--There goes their band again. They're alwaysplaying, dancing, and cooking rice. We call them Parlavoos--name oftheir county, I reckon.--He's got Wheat's Battalion, too. Sorrow a bitof a Frenchman there--they're Irish Tartars!--That's headquarters, sir.By the apple orchard."
An aide brought Cleave to a fair-sized central tent, set beside a greatwine sap just coming into bloom. Around it was a space of trodden earth,to one side a cheerful fire and a darky cook, in front a pine table,over which a coloured boy was spreading a very clean tablecloth. Out ofthe tent came a high, piping voice. "Good-morning, Hamilton! What is it?What is it?--An officer from General Jackson? All right! All right! gladto see him. Tell him to wait--Jim, you black idiot, what have I donewith that button?"
The aide smiled, Cleave smiled. There was something in the voice thatannounced the person, quaintly rough, lovable and gallant,--"dear DickEwell." He came out presently, a small man with a round bald head, hooknose and bright eyes.
"This the officer? Glad to see you, Major--Major Cleave? Stay tobreakfast. Bob, you black rascal, another plate! Can't give youmuch,--mysterious inward complaint, myself,--can't eat anything butfrumenty.--Well, sir, how is General Jackson?"
"Quite well, general."
"Most remarkable man! Wants to tie a bandage round everybody's eyes buthis own!"--all this plaintively treble. "Would ask to have it off if Iwas facing a firing party, and in the present circumstances don't likeit at all!--Did you happen to meet any of my couriers?"
"Yes, general. One at the foot of the Massanuttons, one in Elk RunValley."
"Got to send them. Got to ask what to do. By God, out on the plains withfifty dragoons I'd know! And here President Davis has made me amajor-general, and I don't know!--Draw up to the table, sir, draw up!You can drink coffee; I can't. Can't sleep at night; don't want to liedown; curl up on the ground and think of my fifty dragoons.--Well, sir,and what does General Jackson say?"
"I have a letter for you, sir."
He presented it. Ewell, head on one side like a bird, took and openedthe paper. "I really do believe the sun's up at last! What does he say?'_Move in three days by Stanardsville. Take a week's rations. Rest onSunday. Other directions will be given as needed._' Hm! Highlycharacteristic! Never anything more than a damned dark lantern!--Well,it's something to know that we're going by Stanardsville and are to reston Sunday! Where is Stanardsville?"
"It is a few miles this side of Swift Run Gap."
The general helped his guest to cornbread and himself began uponfrumenty. "All right! I'll move, and I suppose when I get there oldJackson'll vouchsafe another gleam.--Bob, you damned Ethiopian, whereare your wits? Fill Major Cleave's cup.--Glad to welcome you, major, toCamp Ewell. Pretty tidy place, don't you think?"
"I do indeed, sir."
"Have you seen Dick Taylor's beauties--his Creoles and Tigers and HarryHayes, 7th Louisiana? The Maryland Line, too, and Trimble and Elzey?Damned fine army! How about yours over there?" He indicated the BlueRidge with a bird-like jerk, and helped himself again to frumenty.
"Your description applies there, too, sir. It's a little rough andready, but--it's a damned fine army!"
"Kernstown didn't shake it?"
"Kernstown was as much a victory as a defeat, sir. No, it didn't shakeit."
"_Morale_ good?"
"Extraordinarily so. That army is all right, sir."
"I wish," said Ewell plaintively, "that I knew what to make of GeneralJackson. What do you make of him, major?"
"I make a genius, sir."
Ewell raised his shoulder and ducked his head, his bright round eyesmuch like a robin's. "And he isn't crazy?"
"Not in the very least."
"Well, I've had my doubts. I am glad to hear you say that. I want tothink mighty well of the man who leads me. That Romney trip now?--ofcourse, I only heard Loring's side. He doesn't just wind in and out ofmountains for the fun of doing it?"
"I think that, generally speaking, he has some other object in view,sir. I think that acquaintance with General Jackson will show you what Imean. It develops confidence in a very marked fashion."
Ewell listened bright-eyed. "I am glad to hear you say that, for damnme, confidence is what I want! I want, sir, to be world-without-end-surethat my commanding officer is forever and eternally right, and then Iwant to be let go ahead!--I want to be let feel just as though I were acaptain of fifty dragoons, and nothing to do but to get back to post bythe sunset gun and report the work done!--And so you think that when myforce and old Jackson's force get together we'll do big things?"
"Fairly big, sir. It is fortunate to expect them. They will arrive thesooner."
Ewell bobbed his head. "Yes, yes, that's true! Now, major, I'm going toreview the troops this morning, and then I'll write an answer forGeneral Jackson, and you'll take it to him and tell him I'm coming on byStanardsville, just as he says, and that I'll rest on Sunday. Maybe evenwe'll find a church--Presbyterian." He rose. "You'd better come withme.--I've got some more questions to ask. Better see my troops, too. OldJackson might as well know what beautiful children I've got. Have youany idea yourself what I'm expected to do at Stanardsville?"
"I don't know what General Jackson expects, sir. But my own idea is thatyou'll not be long at Stanardsville."
"He'll whistle again, will he?"
"I think so. But I speak
without authority."
"There's an idea abroad that he means to leave the Valley--comeeast--cross the mountains himself instead of my crossing them. What doyou think of that?"
"I am not in his council, sir. The Valley people would hate to see himgo."
"Well, all that I can say is that I hope Banks is puzzled, too!--Jim,Jim! damn you, where's my sword and sash?"
As they went Ewell talked on in his piping voice. "General Jacksonmustn't fling my brigades against windmills or lose them in themountains! I'm fair to confess I feel anxious. Out on the plains when wechase Apaches we chase 'em! We don't go deviating like a love vine allover creation.--That's Harry Hayes's band--playing some Frenchy thing orother! Cavalry's over there--I know you've got Ashby, but Flournoy andMunford are right wicked, too!"
"The--Virginia is with you, sir?"
"Yes. Fine regiment. You know it?"
"I know one of its officers--Major Stafford."
"Oh, we all know Maury Stafford! Fine fellow, but damned restless.General Taylor says he is in love. I was in love once myself, but Idon't remember that I was restless. He is. He was with Loring buttransferred.--You went to Romney together?"
"Yes, we went together."
"Fine fellow, but unhappy. Canker somewhere, I should say. Here we are,and if General Jackson don't treat my army well, I'll--I'll--I'll knowhe's crazy!"
The review was at last over. Back under the wine sap Ewell wrote hisanswer to Jackson, then, curled in a remarkable attitude on the benchbeneath the tree ("I'm a nervous major-general, sir. Can't help it.Didn't sleep. Can't sleep."), put Cleave through a catechism searchingand shrewd. His piping, treble voice, his varied oaths and quaintlypetulant talk, his roughness of rind and inner sweetness made him,crumpled under the apple tree, in his grey garb and cavalry boots, withhis bright sash and bright eyes, a figure mellow and olden out of anancient story. Cleave also, more largely built, more muscular, a littletaller, with a dark, thin, keen face, the face of a thinkingman-at-arms, clad in grey, clean but worn, seated on a low stool beneaththe tinted boughs, his sword between his knees, his hands clasped overthe hilt, his chin on his hands--Cleave, too, speaking of skirmishes, ofguns and horsemen, of the massed enemy, of mountain passes and fordablerivers, had the value of a figure from a Flemish or Venetian canvas. Theform of the moment was of old time, old as the smell of apple blossomsor the buzzing of the bees; old as these and yet persistently, too, ofthe present as were these. The day wore on to afternoon, and at last themessenger from Jackson was released.
The--Virginia had its encampment upon the edge of a thick and venerablewood, beech and oak, walnut and hickory. Regimental headquarters wasindeed within the forest, half a dozen tents pitched in a glade sylvanenough for Robin Hood. Here Cleave found Stafford sitting, writing,before the adjutant's tent. He looked up, laid down his pen and rose."Ah! Where did you come from? I thought you in the Valley, in trainingfor a brigadier!" He came forward, holding out his hand. "I am glad tosee you. Welcome to Camp Ewell!"
Cleave's hand made no motion from his side. "Thank you," he said. "Itis good when a man can feel that he is truly welcome."
The other was not dull, nor did he usually travel by indirection. "Youwill not shake hands," he said. "I think we have not been throwntogether since that wretched evening at Bloomery Gap. Do you bear malicefor that?"
"Do you think that I do?"
The other shrugged. "Why, I should not have thought so. What is it,then?"
"Let us go where we can speak without interruption. The woods downthere?"
They moved down one of the forest aisles. The earth was carpeted withdead leaves from beneath which rose the wild flowers. The oak wasputting forth tufts of rose velvet, the beech a veil of pale and satinygreen. The sky above was blue, but, the sun being low, the space beneaththe lacing boughs was shadowy enough. The two men stopped beside thebole of a giant beech, silver-grey, splashed with lichens. "Quiet enoughhere," said Stafford. "Well, what is it, Richard Cleave?"
"I have not much to say," said Cleave. "I will not keep you manymoments. I will ask you to recall to mind the evening of the seventeenthof last April."
"Well, I have done so. It is not difficult."
"No. It would, I imagine, come readily. Upon that evening, MauryStafford, you lied to me."
"I--"
"Don't!" said Cleave. "Why should you make it worse? The impressionwhich, that evening, you deliberately gave me, you on every afteroccasion as deliberately strengthened. Your action, then and since,brands you, sir, for what you are!"
"And where," demanded Stafford hoarsely, "where did you get thisprecious information--or misinformation? Who was at the pains topersuade you--no hard matter, I warrant!--that I was dealing falsely?Your informant, sir, was mistaken, and I--"
A shaft of sunshine, striking between the boughs, flooded the space inwhich they stood. It lit Cleave's head and face as by a candle closelyheld. The other uttered a sound, a hard and painful gasp. "You have seenher!"
"Yes."
"Did she tell you that?"
"No. She does not know why I misunderstood. Nor shall I tell her."
"You have seen her--You are happy?"
"Yes, I am happy."
"She loves you--She is going to marry you?"
"Yes."
The wood stood very quiet. The shaft of light drew up among the boughs.Stafford leaned against the trunk of the beech. He was breathingheavily; he looked, veritably, a wounded man. "I will go now," saidCleave. "I had to speak to you and I had to warn you. Good-day."
He turned, the leaves crisp beneath his footfall. "Wait," said Stafford."One moment--" He drew himself up against the beech. "I wish to tell youwhy I--as you phrase it--lied to you. I allowed you to rest under thatimpression which I am not sure that I myself gave you, because I thoughther yet trembling between us, and that your withdrawal would beadvantageous to my cause. Not for all of Heaven would I have had her turnto you! Now that, apparently, I have lost her irrevocably, I will tell youthat you do not love her as I do. Have I not watched you? Did she dieto-day, you would go on to-morrow with your _Duty_--_Duty_--_Duty_--! Forme, I would kill myself on her grave. Where you and I were rivals andenemies, now we are enemies. Look out for me, Richard Cleave!" He began tolaugh, a broken and mirthless sound. "Look out for me, Richard Cleave. Go!"
"I shall," said Cleave. "I will not keep a watch upon you in such amoment, nor remember it. I doubt neither your passion nor yoursuffering. But in one thing, Maury Stafford, you have lied again. I loveas strongly, and I love more highly than you do! As for yourthreats--threatened men live long."
He turned, left the forest glade and came out into the camp lying nowbeneath the last rays of the sun. That evening he spent with Ewell andhis staff, passed the night in a friendly tent, and at dawn turnedDundee's head toward the Blue Ridge.