The Long Roll
ruin his reputation, that he wasn't giddy, that the doctor in Winchester
had told him that after you got well from typhoid fever you were stronger
than you ever had been before, that Mr. Rat would think he was malingering,
that--that--that--Richard lifted him into the ambulance and laid him upon
the straw which several of the sick pushed forward and patted into place.
The surgeon gave a restorative. The elder brother waited until the boy's
eyes opened, stooped and kissed him on the forehead, and went away. Now
Will said that he was rested, and that it was all a fuss about nothing
anyway, and it was funny, travelling like animals in a circus, and wasn't
it most feeding time anyway? Corbin Wood had a bit of bread which he
shared, and two or three convalescents in a corner took up the circus idea.
"There ain't going to be another performance this year! We're going into
winter quarters--that's where we're going. Yes, siree, up with the polar
bears--" "And the living skeletons--" "Gosh! I'm a warm weather crittur!
I'd jest like to peacefully fold the equator in my arms an' go to sleep."
"Oh, hell!--Beg your pardon, sir, it just slipped out, like one of the
snake charmer's rattlers!" "Boys, jes' think of a real circus, with all the
women folk, an' the tarletan, an' the spangles, an' the pink lemonade, an'
the little fellers slipping under the ropes, an' the Grand Parade coming
in, an' the big tent so hot everybody's fanning with their hats--Oh, Lord!"
"Yes, and the clown--and the ring master--" "_What d'ye think of our ring
master?_" "Who d'ye mean? _Him?_ Think of him? I think he's a damned clown!
Don't they call him Fool Tom--"
Will rose from the straw. "While I am by, I'll allow no man to reflect
upon the general commanding this army--"
A Georgian of Loring's, tall, gaunt, parched, haggard, a college man and
high private astray from his own brigade, rose to a sitting posture.
"What in hell is that young cockerel crowing about? Is it about the
damned individual at the head of this army? I take it that it is. Then I
will answer him. The individual at the head of this army is not a
general; he is a schoolmaster. Napoleon, or Caesar, or Marlborough, or
Eugene, or Cromwell, or Turenne, or Frederick wouldn't turn their heads
to look at him as they passed! But every little school-yard martinet
would! He's a pedagogue--by God, he's the Falerian pedagogue who sold
his pupils to the Romans! Oh, the lamb-like pupils, trooping after him
through flowers and sunshine--straight into the hands of Kelly at
Romney, with Rosecrans and twenty thousand just beyond! Yaaah! A
schoolmaster leading Loring and all of us! Let him go back to Lexington
and teach the Rule of Three, for by God, he'll never demonstrate the
Rule of One!"
He waved a claw-like hand. "Kindly do not interrupt. Stiff, fanatic,
inhuman, callous, cold, half mad and wholly rash, without military
capacity, ambitious as Lucifer and absurd as Hudibras--I ask again what
is this person doing at the head of this army? Has any one confidence in
him? Has any one pride in him? Has any one love for him? In all this
frozen waste through which he is dragging us, you couldn't find an echo
to say 'One!' Oh, you needn't shout 'One!' You're not an echo; you're
only a misguided V. M. I. cadet! And you don't count either, chaplain!
With all respect to you, you're a non-combatant. And that Valley man
over there--he doesn't count either. He belongs to the Stonewall
Brigade. He's one of Major-General T. J. Jackson's pet lambs. They're
school-teachers' favourites. All they've got to do is to cheer for their
master.--Hip, hip, hooray! Here's Old Jack with his hand lifted and his
old cap pulled low, and his sabre carried _oblikely_, and his 'God has
been very good to us to-day, men!' Yaaah--Look out! What are you about?"
The cadet and the Valley man threw themselves across the straw, upon the
Georgian. Corbin Wood crawled over and separated them. "Boys, boys!
You're quarrelling just because you're sick and tired and cold and
fretful! Try to be good children. I predict there'll come a day when
we'll _all_ cheer like mad--our friend from Georgia, too--all cheer like
mad when General Jackson goes by, leading us to victory! Be good now. I
was at the circus once, when I was a little boy, when the animals got to
fighting--"
The way over Bear Garden was steep, the road a mere track among
boulders. There were many fallen trees. In places they lay across the
road, abatis thrown there by the storm to be removed by half-frozen
hands while the horses stood and whinnied. The winter day was failing
when Stonewall Jackson, Ashby, and a portion of the cavalry with the
small infantry advance, came down by precipitous paths into Bloomery
Gap. Here, in a dim hollow and pass of the mountains, beside a shallow,
frozen creek, they bivouacked.
From the other side of Bear Garden, General Loring again sent Stafford
forward with a statement, couched in terms of courtesy three-piled and
icy. The aide--a favourite with his general--had ventured to demur. "I
don't think General Jackson likes me, sir. Would not some other--"
Loring, the Old Blizzard of two years later--had sworn. "Damn you,
Maury, whom does he like? Not any one out of the Stonewall Brigade!
You've got a limberer wit than most, and he can't make you cower--by the
Lord, I've seen him make others do it! You go ahead, and when you're
there talk indigo Presbyterian!"
"There" was a space of trampled snow underneath a giant pine. A picket
on the eastern side of the stream pointed it out, three hundred yards
away, a dark sentinel towering above the forest. "He's thar. His staff's
this side, by the pawpaw bushes." Stafford crossed the stream, shallow
and filled with floating ice, climbed the shelving bank, and coming to
the pawpaw bushes found Richard Cleave stooping over the small flame
that Tullius had kindled and was watchfully feeding with pine cones.
Cleave straightened himself. "Good-evening, Stafford! Come to my tiny,
tiny fire. I can't give you coffee--worse luck!--but Tullius has a
couple of sweet potatoes."
"I can't stay, thank you," said the other. "General Jackson is over
yonder?"
"Yes, by the great pine. I will take you to him." The two stepped from
out the ring of pawpaws, Stafford, walking, leading his horse. "General
Loring complains again?"
"Has he not reason to?" Stafford looked about him. "Ugh! steppes of
Russia!"
"You think it a Moscow march? Perhaps it is. But I doubt if Ney
complained."
"You think that we complain too much?"
"What do you think of it?"
Stafford stood still. They were beside a dark line of cedars, skirting
the forest, stretching toward the great pine. It was twilight; all the
narrow valley drear and mournful; horses and men like phantoms on the
muffled earth. "I think," said Stafford deliberately, "that to a
Napoleon General Loring would not complain, nor I bear his message of
complaint, but to General Jackson we will, in the interests of all,
continue to make representations."
"In the interests of all!" exclaimed Cleave. "I beg that you will
qualify that statement. Garnett's Brigade and Ashby's Cavalry have not
complained."
"No. Many disagreeable duties are left to the brigades of General
Loring."
"I challenge that statement, sir. It is not true."
Stafford laughed. "Not true! You will not get us to believe that. I
think you will find that representations will be forwarded to the
government at Richmond--"
"Representations of disaffected soldiers?"
"No, sir! Representations of gentlemen and patriots. Remonstrances of
brave men against the leadership of a petty tyrant--a diseased mind--a
Presbyterian deacon crazed for personal distinction--"
Cleave let his hand fall on the other's wrist. "Stop, sir! You will
remember that I am of Garnett's Brigade, and, at present, of General
Jackson's military family--"
Stafford jerked his wrist away. He breathed hard. All the pent
weariness, irritation, wrath, of the past most wretched days, all the
chill discomfort of the hour, the enmity toward Cleave of which he was
increasingly conscious, the very unsoundness of his position and
dissatisfaction with his errand, pushed him on. Quarrel was in the air.
Eight thousand men had, to-day, found their temper on edge. It was not
surprising that between these two a flame leaped. "Member of Garnett's
Brigade and member of General Jackson's military family to the
contrary," said Stafford, "these are Russian steppes, and this is a
march from Moscow, and the general in command is no Napoleon, but a fool
and a pedant--"
"I give you warning!"
"A crazy Barebones masquerading as a Cromwell--"
The other's two hands on the shoulders of General Loring's aide had
undoubtedly--the weight of the body being thrown forward--the appearance
of an assault. Stafford's foot slipped upon the freezing snow. Down he
came to the earth, Cleave upon him. A voice behind them spoke with a
kind of steely curtness, "Stand up, and let me see who you are!"
The two arose and faced Stonewall Jackson. He had come upon them
silently, out from the screen of blackening cedars. Now he blocked their
path, his lips iron, his eyes a mere gleaming line. "Two squabblers
rolling in the snow--two staff officers brawling before a disheartened
army! What have you to say for yourselves? Nothing!"
Stafford broke the silence. "Major Cleave has my leave to explain his
action, sir."
Jackson's eyes drew to a yet narrower line. "Your leave is not
necessary, sir. What was this brawl about, Major Cleave?"
"We quarrelled, sir," said Cleave slowly. "Major Stafford gave
utterance to certain sentiments with which I did not agree, and ... we
quarrelled."
"What sentiments? Yes, sir, I order you to answer."
"Major Stafford made certain statements as to the army and the
campaign--statements which I begged to contradict. I can say no more,
sir."
"You will tell me what statements, major."
"It is impossible for me to do that, sir."
"My orders are always possible of execution, sir. You will answer me."
Cleave kept silence. The twilight settled closer; the dark wall of the
cedars seemed to advance; a hollow wind blew through the forest. "Why, I
will tell you, sir!" said Stafford impatiently. "I said--"
Jackson cut him short. "Be silent, sir! I have not asked you for your
report. Major Cleave, I am waiting."
Cleave made a slight gesture, sullen, weary, and determined. "I am very
sorry, sir. Major Stafford made certain comments which I resented. Hence
the action of a moment. That is all that I can say, sir."
Stafford spoke with curt rapidity. "I said that these were Russian
steppes and that this was a march from Moscow, but that we had not a
Napoleon to soften privation for us. I said that the Stonewall Brigade
was unduly favoured, that the general commanding was--"
He got no further. "Silence, sir," said Jackson, "or I will bring you
before a court martial! You will come with me now to my tent. I will
hear General Loring's latest communication there." He turned upon
Cleave. "As for you, sir, you will consider yourself under arrest, first
for disobedience of orders, second for brawling in camp. You will march
to-morrow in the rear of your regiment."
He towered a moment, then with a jerk of his hand went away, taking with
him the officer from Loring. Stafford had a moment in which to make a
gesture of anger and deprecation--a gesture which the other acknowledged
with a nod; then he was gone, looking back once. Cleave returned to
Tullius and the small fire by the pawpaw bushes.
An hour later when his regiment came down into Bloomery Gap, he found
the colonel and made his report. "Why, damn it all!" said the colonel.
"We were backing you for the brush. Hunting weather, and a clean run