The Red Book Magazine/Volume 15/Number 4/Loves of War

OR weeks the rank and file in both armies had sympathized with the impatience of their great leaders.

Grant was hungry to open the spring campaign, when, he believed, Petersburg must fall—and hasten the end of the war. Lee already had agreed with Mr. Davis that the city was no longer tenable and that, once spring offered dry roads, the army must make its escape. Thus March brought a tang of nervous expectancy even to the humblest.

Fillmore, second lieutenant in McKenzie's cavalry, seemed oblivious of his companion's presence, as he leaned against his horse and stared at the grim, defiant redoubts, now hardly discernible in the thickening night. The nine months' siege was responsible for much of the character and age in his boyish face, as well as for the intensity of his mental pre-occupation. His friend again addressed him, but he paid no heed. His frowning gaze was turned toward the leaden horizon, as if through the gathering gloom he could behold Richmond, a score of miles away, crouching in fear of capture and prepared to capitulate, once Petersburg had fallen. Then with softer yearning eyes he followed the sky-line to the east, where he knew the noble Lincoln was waiting at City Point, watching the course of events.

“What's on your mind? Will you please wake up?” querulously repeated the other youth, who was in civilian's clothes.

“Beg pardon, William; I was thinking,” apologized Fillmore with a start. “Where's your horse?”

“I left him back there a bit. Where do you ride to-night?”

The opacity of the hour concealed the increased color in Fillmore's tanned face, as he turned his back to the sullen city, and awkwardly confessed: “I was going out to see your sister. Will you return with me?”

“I hardly think you can see Nancy to-night. She intends going to her aunt's,” dissuaded William.

Fillmore slowly wheeled and stretched a hand toward the flickering lights of the enemy. “Petersburg is about to fall,” he cried in an impassioned voice. “And with it must fall Richmond. Then the life of the rebellion will die out, and we who are left will return to peaceful ways. But those of us who are not destined to return will be the better for one more touch of peace and womanliness before we go.

His companion bent his brows sharply. “What has that to do with my sister?” he demanded.

“William, I have been calling on Miss Nancy for quite a few months now. You must know that I love her. She is the only good thing I've seen on the banks of the Appomattox. You knew I loved her?”

“I suspected as much,” replied William in a low voice. “But I do not know that she returns your feeling.”

“Don't say you think she is indifferent to me,” cried Fillmore, clutching the other's arm. “My God, man! think what it means to me! When my heart's been sick, I've thought of her out there on the Thatcher pike. It seems but yesterday I first saw her. I was nursing a lame horse in the rear of a scouting party and stopped there to rest. Since then I have come almost to believe she does not think unfavorably of me.”

William shook his head unseeen [sic] and sought to discourage him: “I fear her interest in you is only friendly.”

“You are pretty cruel, old man. I will ask her to-night.”

“She will not be at home. You had better put off your visit for a few days.”

“To-night is my last chance—perhaps.” Then he paused awkwardly.

“Why?” half whispered William.

Fillmore bit his lip. “I forgot myself, I musn't [sic] say another word—”

“Meaning you can't trust the Pauldings, eh?” demanded William. “Well, maybe Nance will forgive that innuendo, but I will not.”

“Will, Will!” remonstrated Fillmore, holding the other back as he turned to stalk angrily away. “How can you be so absurd? I know you and your people are true blue, but I ought not even to have hinted at my orders—still it isn't exactly breaking the spirit of the law to say we move to-morrow—under Ord. Petersburg is doomed.”

“Doomed!” hoarsely repeated the young man, removing his hat and mopping his brow.

“Yes, Will; the siege is about ended,” assured Fillmore. “That is why I wanted to see your sister to-night. It may be my last ride on the Thatcher pike.”

As he spoke he swept his mind clear of all but thoughts of her, and the deep lines that did not belong in the lineaments of youth softened—almost seemed to disappear. For the moment he could see only her grave, gray eyes and quaint little face as she had stood by the ragged fence that first day.

“Maybe I'm mistaken about her feelings toward you,” suggested Will in a low voice. “Anyway, she'll be home in a few days and then you can find out for yourself,”

“We move early to-morrow,” muttered Fillmore. “Some of us wont [sic] come back. Well, Will, if I'm alive I'll be out by the end of the week. Perhaps—until then, it is just as well if I do not know the truth. God bless her!”

“Ay, God bless her!” gently murmured the other. Then after a pause of some moments he inquired, “And what part does Sheridan play to-morrow?”

“He will whirl up from Dinwiddie and menace Lee's right,” Fillmore answered without hesitation. Then he caught himself sharply, and said: “But not a word of this, even to the folks at home. I was thinking aloud. It would be almost a crime to give that information even to a brother soldier. Perhaps it counts less in your case.”

“Trust me,” and William held out his hand; “I must go now; we'll meet again soon, old man. And may we always retain our regard for each other.”

“Tut, Will; that's a queer thing to say; of course we will,” he half laughed, half complained. “I'm not going to be snuffed out. I've just made up my mind I shall pull through this thing; and whether Miss Nancy says yea or nay, you and I will be good friends—always. Good-night.” Their hands met in a fumbling clasp; and then the night drew a curtain between them and Fillmore, mounting his horse, could follow the other only as an incautious step occasionally plunged him splashing into a mudhole.

Ordinarily this parting, on the eve of some desperate endeavor, had been very hard for Fillmore; for he looked upon Will as his brother. But the latter's doubts as to the status of Nancy Paulding's affection had robbed all other sorrows of their stings. Fillmore was oblivious to the raw wind and ghost-like swirls of mist, sweeping in from the Appomattox, just as he failed to realize he might just now have parted for the last time from his friend. Unconscious of the night, his memory hung an Autumn's westering sun in a turquoise sky and canopied with glory a gray-eyed maid, standing near an open door—and waiting for him.

Then he remembered William's persistent discouraging; and it hurt him. He feared that Will knew more than his friendship would allow him to say. And yet—if he did know it, it would become him as a friend to speak truthfully—and end all doubt. If the hurt must be given, let it be given quickly, Fillmore told himself. In the game of war there is but scant chance to hark back over old trails, and the love-sick soldier who would draw a post obit on the future must act with great decision.

“Will may be right, but when a man's about to take a chance of stopping a bullet he'd like to know for sure,” he muttered. “It's bad business carrying unanswered questions along in your kit to eternity. If she said 'no' I'd have nothing to come back for. If she said 'yes,' I'd fight like the devil—

“H'm! why not? If she's gone I'll follow and overtake her. Propriety be hanged; it is a matter of life or death to me. I have until morning anyway.”

And with this sudden resolve he reined his horse about and soon was spurring along the Thatcher pike.

The few miles were covered at a gallop, the youth riding with head bowed and the problems of the night and road left for his mount to solve. That his trust was not misplaced was evidenced when the sagacious animal turned in from the pike and slowly picked a path to a clump of trees, a few rods from the house. Fillmore emerged from his dreams with a jolt and gazed anxiously at the low, squat building. Then his heart thumped nervously, for a yellow glow in the window made him hope he was in time.

Still, it might be her father—and as he approached the door he swung from the path, unable to deny his hungry eyes longer. The cheap curtains were drawn closely, only showing points and threads of light where long usage had scored its victories. But at one side his gaze found an opening that disclosed the room. At first he did not understand; then incredulity filled his face, only to give way before a fiercer emotion. With an articulate cry he staggered back, clawing at his saber.

The man in Confederate gray stood with outstretched arms, in a pose of farewell that was accented by his hat and gloves on a nearby chair. The girl was only fitfully revealed by the fluttering light of a solitary candle.

This was the tableau Lieutenant Fillmore saw, when with revolver drawn and saber under his left arm, he burst in over the threshold.

“Don't move, Mr. William Paulding,” he growled, ignoring the white face of the girl that was brought into uncanny relief as she shrank deeper into the shadows,

“Why are you here?” she whispered, her eyes haggard with horror as the potentials of a tragedy unfolded before her.

“Fillmore!” was all William could ejaculate.

“What do you want?” the girl asked again.

“I shall take this man to camp long enough to have him shot,” gritted Fillmore, his tone trembling with passion; and with a quick movement he advanced and removed his prisoner's belt.

“To have him shot?” dully repeated the girl, the sudden agony seeming to harden her face into ice.

“You can hold me only as a prisoner of war,” cried William, now finding his voice. “I am wearing my own uniform.”

“You're a damn spy,” grimly corrected Fillmore, his throat contracting as he more fully grasped the significance of his discovery. The true import of William's uniform; his many visits to camp; his professed friendship; his curiosity; the girl's encouragement of the Northern officer's visits—were now as clearly revealed to Fillmore's comprehension as each twig and leaf in a forest is brought out in unforgettable detail by one flash of lightning in the night. The worst hurt of all was the knowledge that—she—had played a part in the plot.

“I am in uniform,” persisted William, his face blanching, but showing no cowardly fear.

“You can not mean to take him from here and treat him as a spy,” whispered the girl, approaching closer.

“He shall pay the full price,” choked Fillmore, extending his left arm to keep her back.

“What harm can he do if you let him go?” she pleaded.

“Harm?” and he laughed harshly. “Maybe not much. And to think of all the questions cunningly put to me throughout all these months! And the Pauldings were such staunch Northerners!”

“We never posed as Northerners until you came along and took it for granted,” she defended, her eyes sparkling. “We were born in Virginia and—we are loyal to our state.”

“And I am loyal to Abe Lincoln's government,” he cried, his face settling in new lines of rigidity. “Off with that coat, William. Now, right about face.”

“Lieutenant Fillmore, will you not allow me to talk with you one moment?” begged the girl, grasping his arm, and seeking to pull him away. She was fearing now she had set in motion, in the person of this young soldier with the haggard face, a horrible, relentless machine.

“No! no!” he mumbled, endeavoring to shake her off—and for the moment neglecting his prisoner.

The latter's eyes narrowed as he noted that the menacing revolver muzzle wavered. His teeth flashed in a brief smile.

He seemed to be standing with lax muscles—but in reality he was gathering himself for a spring.

“Stand aside, Miss Paulding,” commanded Fillmore.

“You would send me from you?” she murmured in a low voice.

He turned and gazed at her with a cruel smile distorting his face. But he was not jeering her; he was mocking himself and his boyish trustfulness.

“Stand back, Miss Paulding,” he politely repeated.

Before either of the others could anticipate his purpose, the prisoner had launched his lithe body forward. At the outset Fillmore was borne backwards, but did not lose his feet. The two clinched and became one writhing, panting unit. In giving back under the impact of the shock, Fillmore had dropped his weapons, and was further handicapped by William's having muffled the coat about his head. He was blinded and half choked; and yet rage burned him so fiercely that he fought on.

The girl remained mute, yet with lips slightly parted, as if trying to voice her terror. Then as the combatants whirled near her she quickly pushed a chair behind the lieutenant and they crashed to the floor.

Then she gave one sharp, short, scream.

Fillmore appreciated to the full her act of treachery—her outcry telling him much; and he was spurred on to superhuman efforts. Almost as soon as his shoulders touched the boards his opponent was hurled aside and halfway across the room. Quickly rising to his knees, Fillmore regained his revolver and once more grimly commanded:

“Attention. Right about face!”

“He shall not go with you,” she cried brokenly, the old incisiveness gone from her voice. The futility of her effort to aid in defeating him had exhausted her spirit.

“March!” growled Fillmore, staggering to his feet and licking his bloody lips. He viciously jabbed the muzzle of the long revolver into the prisoner's back.

With shoulders squared and head erect, although his face was white with the thought of death, William started for the door, his eyes conveying one last farewell to the sobbing girl.

“Stop!” she screamed. “Stop! stop!”

The wild note of entreaty caused Fillmore to pause, despite his setness and savagery of purpose. “You make it hard for all of us,” he reminded her irritably.

“You must not take him,” she whimpered; “he is so young.”

“He is a spy,” thundered Fillmore. “His tongue must be stopped. Would to God mine had been, before I babbled the secrets that hold men's lives. D'you know what it means if he gets inside the city?” And trembling with emotion he pointed in the direction of Petersburg, while his prisoner stiffly stood at attention. “It means death for my friends, men as young as he. It means poverty, loneliness and bitter old age for folks up North. By heavens! it means the same for you folks down here. I aint drawing any geography line of suffering; the quicker this war is over, the happier the South will be. Attention, prisoner! Right wheel—march!”

“Oh, as you love me, stop!” she cried. “Let him go! Let him go!”

“Stop it, Nance!” hoarsely commanded William.

“I had come here—to speak of love,” Fillmore stammered, unheeding his prisoner's protest. Then, passionately: “What's the use to talk? It's all impossible.”

“If you will let him go, I will promise you he shall remain here with father and me till morning—when he can harm no one. Father will be here soon,” she wildly continued, creeping to him on her knees, and fumbling for his hand.

“For God's sake, Nancy, not that! Get up and compose yourself,” groaned William, raising her to her feet.

“No, you shall not die. It's a dog's death!” she cried. Then to Fillmore, speaking very slowly: “If you will let him go I will—love you—”

Fillmore slowly lowered his weapon, and, turning to study her frenzied face, leaned on his prisoner's shoulder in the old boyish way. “Love me!” he whispered, his lips twitching. “That would be a rich price for you to pay.

“No, no! It is impossible, of course. I understand your willingness to sacrifice yourself; and I know that a man who would release a spy is not worthy of a good woman's love. It is shameful that you were forced to say those words—and yet they win.”

And, straightening, he spun his prisoner around, bringing him face to face with the girl. “Here's your prisoner, Miss Paulding. Keep him here till morning. I shall have a guard down the road. If he is seen outside he will be shot. I shall give orders to that effect. It may seem as if I did not trust you thoroughly, Miss Paulding; but at least you have won his life.”

And he turned and opened the door.

She ran after him, but on the threshold he halted and faced about, raising a hand and motioning her to fall back. His face looked a drab white against the sinister darkness of the night. His eyes were heavy, as if with physical pain. But as he gazed, it seemed as if his own anguish had begotten a pity for her suffering, and not unkindly, but very wearily, he explained:

“I should have told you, Miss Paulding, that I glanced through the window on approaching the door. I saw your guest kneeling at your feet. He is not your brother. It is your lover I have released. Good-night. Good-by.”

The assault of Wright and Park on the outer works of Petersburg at four o'clock in the gray light of morning was successful. Lieutenant Fillmore waited, as thousands of others were only waiting, for the word that the enemy had evacuated the city. His men were as tigers in leash, eager to throw their sabers between the Appomattox and Richmond.

The last few days had been a horrible dream to him, relieved only when fierce fighting had stifled every thought but the wish to plunge gladly into the promise of death.

A hospital orderly saluted and stood at attention:

“Lieutenant Fillmore, a wounded prisoner is asking for you. I think he is an officer,” he said.

Hardly realizing that he was heeding a message Fillmore made his way to where groups of infantry were depositing wounded men in a long row. Then he found himself bending over a white-faced youth, whose whimsical smile caused him to gasp: “Will!”

“Bill Trevers, at your service,” murmured the other. “Second cousin to the incomparable Nancy, and at one time masquerading as her brother.”

“Can I do anything for you?” gently asked Fillmore, all anger gone in the presence of approaching death.

“No—yes; that is—for her you can. I didn't budge till morning, that time. She and the old man and I sat it out in the kitchen. She played square.”

“I know, I know! But you're hurt—let me get you a surgeon.”

“My wounds are past surgeons,” replied Trevers, speaking with difficulty. “But you can heal more serious hurts. That night—when you looked through the window—”

“Yes, yes,” whispered Fillmore.

“She had just rejected me—She loves you—She said so,” the lips flutteringly whispered. “'Ride out—the Thatcher pike—to-night—waiting for you.”

The life-light went out of his eyes, and Fillmore gently crossed the smoke-grimed hands on the still breast of his comrade.