The Long Roll
There ain't anybody that the men listen about more eagerly. We ain't
setting up on this side of the mountains to beat _him_! But I reckon the
2d 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 from
Louisiana--Acadians I've heard them called--and they can't speak a word
of English, poor souls!--There goes their band again. They're always
playing, dancing, and cooking rice. We call them Parlavoos--name of
their county, I reckon.--He's got Wheat's Battalion, too. Sorrow a bit
of 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 great
wine 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 of
the tent came a high, piping voice. "Good-morning, Hamilton! What is it?
What is it?--An officer from General Jackson? All right! All right! glad
to see him. Tell him to wait--Jim, you black idiot, what have I done
with that button?"
The aide smiled, Cleave smiled. There was something in the voice that
announced the person, quaintly rough, lovable and gallant,--"dear Dick
Ewell." He came out presently, a small man with a round bald head, hook
nose and bright eyes.
"This the officer? Glad to see you, Major--Major Cleave? Stay to
breakfast. Bob, you black rascal, another plate! Can't give you
much,--mysterious inward complaint, myself,--can't eat anything but
frumenty.--Well, sir, how is General Jackson?"
"Quite well, general."
"Most remarkable man! Wants to tie a bandage round everybody's eyes but
his own!"--all this plaintively treble. "Would ask to have it off if I
was facing a firing party, and in the present circumstances don't like
it at all!--Did you happen to meet any of my couriers?"
"Yes, general. One at the foot of the Massanuttons, one in Elk Run
Valley."
"Got to send them. Got to ask what to do. By God, out on the plains with
fifty dragoons I'd know! And here President Davis has made me a
major-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 lie
down; 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 opened
the 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 on
Sunday. Other directions will be given as needed._' Hm! Highly
characteristic! Never anything more than a damned dark lantern!--Well,
it's something to know that we're going by Stanardsville and are to rest
on 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 upon
frumenty. "All right! I'll move, and I suppose when I get there old
Jackson'll vouchsafe another gleam.--Bob, you damned Ethiopian, where
are your wits? Fill Major Cleave's cup.--Glad to welcome you, major, to
Camp Ewell. Pretty tidy place, don't you think?"
"I do indeed, sir."
"Have you seen Dick Taylor's beauties--his Creoles and Tigers and Harry
Hayes, 7th Louisiana? The Maryland Line, too, and Trimble and Elzey?
Damned fine army! How about yours over there?" He indicated the Blue
Ridge with a bird-like jerk, and helped himself again to frumenty.
"Your description applies there, too, sir. It's a little rough and
ready, 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 shake
it."
"_Morale_ good?"
"Extraordinarily so. That army is all right, sir."
"I wish," said Ewell plaintively, "that I knew what to make of General
Jackson. What do you make of him, major?"
"I make a genius, sir."
Ewell raised his shoulder and ducked his head, his bright round eyes
much 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 to
think mighty well of the man who leads me. That Romney trip now?--of
course, I only heard Loring's side. He doesn't just wind in and out of
mountains 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 I
mean. It develops confidence in a very marked fashion."
Ewell listened bright-eyed. "I am glad to hear you say that, for damn
me, confidence is what I want! I want, sir, to be world-without-end-sure
that my commanding officer is forever and eternally right, and then I
want to be let go ahead!--I want to be let feel just as though I were a
captain of fifty dragoons, and nothing to do but to get back to post by
the sunset gun and report the work done!--And so you think that when my
force and old Jackson's force get together we'll do big things?"
"Fairly big, sir. It is fortunate to expect them. They will arrive the
sooner."
Ewell bobbed his head. "Yes, yes, that's true! Now, major, I'm going to
review the troops this morning, and then I'll write an answer for
General Jackson, and you'll take it to him and tell him I'm coming on by
Stanardsville, just as he says, and that I'll rest on Sunday. Maybe even
we'll find a church--Presbyterian." He rose. "You'd better come with
me.--I've got some more questions to ask. Better see my troops, too. Old
Jackson might as well know what beautiful children I've got. Have you
any idea yourself what I'm expected to do at Stanardsville?"
"I don't know what General Jackson expects, sir. But my own idea is that
you'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--come
east--cross the mountains himself instead of my crossing them. What do
you think of that?"
"I am not in his council, sir. The Valley people would hate to see him
go."
"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 Jackson
mustn't fling my brigades against windmills or lose them in the
mountains! I'm fair to confess I feel anxious. Out on the plains when we
chase Apaches we chase 'em! We don't go deviating like a love vine all
over creation.--That's Harry Hayes's band--playing some Frenchy thing or
other! Cavalry's over there--I know you've got Ashby, but Flournoy and
Munford 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 I
don't remember that I was restless. He is. He was with Loring but
transferred.--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 know
he's crazy!"
The review was at last over. Back under the wine sap Ewell wrote his
answer to Jackson, then, curled in a remarkable attitude on the bench
beneath the tree ("I'm a nervous major-general, sir. Can't help it.
Didn't sleep. Can't sleep."), put Cleave through a catechism searching
and shrewd. His piping, treble voice, his varied oaths and quaintly
petulant talk, his roughness of rind and inner sweetness made him,
crumpled under the apple tree, in his grey garb and cavalry boots, with
his bright sash and bright eyes, a figure mellow and olden out of an
ancient story. Cleave also, more largely built, more muscular, a little
taller, with a dark, thin, keen face, the face of a thinking
man-at-arms, clad in grey, clean but worn, seated on a low stool beneath
the tinted boughs, his sword between his knees, his hands clasped over
the hilt, his chin on his hands--Cleave, too, speaking of skirmishes, of
guns and horsemen, of the massed enemy, of mountain passes and fordable
rivers, had the value of a figure from a Flemish or Venetian canvas. The
form of the moment was of old time, old as the smell of apple blossoms
or the buzzing of the bees; old as these and yet persistently, too, of
the present as were these. The day wore on to afternoon, and at last the
messenger from Jackson was released.
The--Virginia had its encampment upon the edge of a thick and venerable
wood, beech and oak, walnut and hickory. Regimental headquarters was
indeed within the forest, half a dozen tents pitched in a glade sylvan
enough 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 training
for a brigadier!" He came forward, holding out his hand. "I am glad to
see you. Welcome to Camp Ewell!"
Cleave's hand made no motion from his side. "Thank you," he said. "It
is good when a man can feel that he is truly welcome."
The other was not dull, nor did he usually travel by indirection. "You
will not shake hands," he said. "I think we have not been thrown
together since that wretched evening at Bloomery Gap. Do you bear malice
for 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 down
there?"
They moved down one of the forest aisles. The earth was carpeted with
dead leaves from beneath which rose the wild flowers. The oak was
putting forth tufts of rose velvet, the beech a veil of pale and satiny
green. The sky above was blue, but, the sun being low, the space beneath
the lacing boughs was shadowy enough. The two men stopped beside the
bole of a giant beech, silver-grey, splashed with lichens. "Quiet enough
here," said Stafford. "Well, what is it, Richard Cleave?"
"I have not much to say," said Cleave. "I will not keep you many
moments. I will ask you to recall to mind the evening of the seventeenth
of last April."
"Well, I have done so. It is not difficult."
"No. It would, I imagine, come readily. Upon that evening, Maury
Stafford, you lied to me."
"I--"
"Don't!" said Cleave. "Why should you make it worse? The impression
which, that evening, you deliberately gave me, you on every after
occasion as deliberately strengthened. Your action, then and since,
brands you, sir, for what you are!"
"And where," demanded Stafford hoarsely, "where did you get this
precious information--or misinformation? Who was at the pains to
persuade 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 in
which they stood. It lit Cleave's head and face as by a candle closely
held. The other uttered a sound, a hard and painful gasp. "You have seen
her!"
"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 breathing
heavily; he looked, veritably, a wounded man. "I will go now," said
Cleave. "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 you