Books: His Sombre Rivals

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Graham's wound at last was wellnigh healed, and the time was drawing
near for his return to the army. His general had given such a very
favorable account of the circumstances attending his offence, and of
his career as a soldier both before and after the affair, that the
matter was quietly ignored. Moreover, Hilland, as a soldier and by
reason of the loyal use of his wealth, stood very high in the
estimation of the war authorities; and the veteran major was not
without his surviving circle of influential friends. Graham,
therefore, not only retained his rank, but was marked for promotion.

Of all this, however, he thought and cared little. If he had loved
Grace before, he idolized her now. And yet with all her deep affection
for him and her absolute trust, she seemed more remote than ever. In
the new phase of her grief she was ever seeking to do little things
which she thought would please him. But this was also true of her
course toward Mrs. Mayburn, especially so toward her father, and also,
to a certain extent, toward the poor and sick in the vicinity. Her one
effort seemed to be to escape from her thoughts, herself, in a
ceaseless ministry to others. And the effort sometimes degenerated
into restlessness. There was such a lack of repose in her manner that
even those who loved her most were pained and troubled. There was not
enough to keep her busy all the time, and yet she was ever impelled to
do something.

One day she said to Graham, "I wish I could go back with you to the
war; not that I wish to shed another drop of blood, but I would like
to march, march forever."

Shrewd Mrs. Mayburn, who had been watching Grace closely for the last
week or two, said quietly: "Take her back with you, Alford. Let her
become a nurse in some hospital. It will do both her and a lot of poor
fellows a world of good."

"Mrs. Mayburn, you have thought of just the thing," cried Grace. "In a
hospital full of sick and wounded men I could make my life amount to
something; I should never need to be idle then."

"Yes, you would. You would be under orders like Alford, and would have
to rest when off duty. But, as you say, you could be of great service,
instead of wasting your energy in coddling two old people. You might
save many a poor fellow's life."

"Oh," she exclaimed, clasping her hands, "the bare thought of saving
one poor woman from such suffering as mine is almost overwhelming. But
how can I leave papa?"

"I'll take care of the major and insure his consent. If men are so
possessed to make wounds, it's time women did more to cure them. It's
all settled: you are to go. I'll see the major about it now, if he
_has_ just begun his newspaper;" and the old lady took her knitting
and departed with her wonted prompt energy.

At first Graham was almost speechless from surprise, mingled doubt and
pleasure; but the more he thought of it, the more he was convinced
that the plan was an inspiration.

"Alford, you will take me?" she said, appealingly.

"Yes," he replied, smilingly, "if you will promise to obey my orders
in part, as well as those of your superiors."

"I'll promise anything if you will only take me. Am I not under your
care?"

"Oh, Grace, Grace, I can do so little for you!"

"No one living can do more. In providing this chance of relieving a
little pain, of preventing a little suffering, you help me, you serve
me, you comfort me, as no one else could. And, Alford, if you are
wounded, come to the hospital where I am; I will never leave you till
you are well. Take me to some exposed place in the field, where there
is danger, where men are brought in desperately wounded, where you
would be apt to be."

"I don't know where I shall be, but I would covet any wound that would
bring you to my side as nurse."

She thought a few moments, and then said, resolutely: "I will keep as
near to you as I can. I ask no pay for my services. On the contrary, I
will employ my useless wealth in providing for exposed hospitals. When
I attempt to take care of the sick or wounded, I will act scrupulously
under the orders of the surgeon in charge; but I do not see why, if I
pay my own way, I cannot come and go as I think I can be the most
useful."

"Perhaps you could, to a certain extent, if you had a permit," said
Graham, thoughtfully; "but I think you would accomplish more by
remaining in one hospital and acquiring skill by regular work. It
would be a source of indescribable anxiety to me to think of your
going about alone. If I know just where you are, I can find you and
write to you."

"I will do just what you wish," she said, gently.

"I wish for only what is best for you."

"I know that. It would be strange if I did not."

Mrs. Mayburn was not long in convincing the major that her plan might
be the means of incalculable benefit to Grace as well as to others.
He, as well as herself and Graham, had seen with deep anxiety that
Grace was giving way to a fever of unrest; and he acquiesced in the
view that it might better run its course in wholesome and useful
activity, amid scenes of suffering that might tend to reconcile her to
her own sorrow.

Graham, however, took the precaution of calling on Dr. Markham, who,
to his relief, heartily approved of the measure. On one point Graham
was firm. He would not permit her to go to a hospital in the field,
liable to vicissitudes from sudden movements of the contending armies.
He found one for her, however, in which she would have ample scope for
all her efforts; and before he left he interested those in charge so
deeply in the white-haired nurse that he felt she would always be
under watchful, friendly eyes.

"Grace," he said, as he was taking leave, "I have tried to be a true
friend to you."

"Oh, Alford!" she exclaimed, and she seized his hand and held it in
both of hers.

His face grew stern rather than tender as he added: "You will not be a
true friend to me--you will wrong me deeply--if you are reckless of
your health and strength. Remember that, like myself, you have entered
the service, and that you are pledged to do your duty, and not to work
with feverish zeal until your strength fails. You are just as much
under obligation to take essential rest as to care for the most sorely
wounded in your ward. I shall take the advice I give. Believing that I
am somewhat essential to your welfare and the happiness of those whom
we have left at home, I shall incur no risks beyond those which
properly fall to my lot. I ask you to be equally conscientious and
considerate of those whose lives are bound up in you."

"I'll try," she said, with that same pathetic look and utterance which
had so moved him on the fearful night of his return from the army.
"But, Alford, do not speak to me so gravely, I had almost said
sternly, just as we are saying good-by."

He raised her hand to his lips, and smiled into her pleading face as
he replied, "I only meant to impress you with the truth that you have
a patient who is not in your ward--one who will often be sleeping
under the open sky, I know not where. Care a little for him, as well
as for the unknown men in your charge. This you can do only by taking
care of yourself. You, of all others, should know that there are
wounds besides those which will bring men to this hospital."

Tears rushed into her eyes as she faltered, "You could not have made a
stronger appeal."

"You will write to me often?"

"Yes, and you cannot write too often. Oh, Alford, I cannot wish you
had never seen me; but it would have been far, far better for you if
you had not."

"No, no," he said, in low, strong emphasis. "Grace Hilland, I would
rather be your friend than have the love of any woman that ever
lived."

"You do yourself great wrong (pardon me for saying it, but your
happiness is so dear to me), you do yourself great wrong. A girl like
Pearl Anderson could make you truly happy; and you could make her
happy."

"Sweet little Pearl will be happy some day; and I may be one of the
causes, but not in the way you suggest. It is hard to say good-by and
leave you here alone, and every moment I stay only makes it harder."

He raised her hand once more to his lips, then almost rushed away.

Days lapsed into weeks, and weeks into months. The tireless nurse
alleviated suffering of every kind; and her silvery hair was like a
halo around a saintly head to many a poor fellow. She had the deep
solace of knowing that not a few wives and mothers would have mourned
had it not been for her faithfulness.

But her own wound would not heal. She sometimes felt that she was
slowly bleeding to death. The deep, dark tide of suffering, in spite
of all she could do, grew deeper and darker; and she was growing weary
and discouraged.

Graham saw her at rare intervals; and although she brightened greatly
at his presence, and made heroic efforts to satisfy him that she was
doing well, he grew anxious and depressed. But there was nothing
tangible, nothing definite. She was only a little paler, a little
thinner; and when he spoke of it she smilingly told him that he was
growing gaunt himself with his hard campaigning.

"But you, Grace," he complained, "are beginning to look like a wraith
that may vanish some moonlight night."

Her letters were frequent, sometimes even cheerful, but brief. He
wrote at great length, filling his pages with descriptions of nature,
with scenes that were often humorous but not trivial, with genuine
life, but none of its froth. Life for both had become too deep a
tragedy for any nonsense. He passed through many dangers, but these,
as far as possible, he kept in the background; and fate, pitying his
one deep wound, spared him any others.

At last there came the terrible battle of the Wilderness, and the
wards were filled with desperately wounded men. The poor nurse
gathered up her failing powers for one more effort; and Confederate
and Union men looked after her wonderingly and reverently, even in
their mortal weakness. To many she seemed like a ministering spirit
rather than a woman of flesh and blood; and lips of dying men blessed
her again and again. But they brought no blessing. She only shuddered
and grew more faint of heart as the scenes of agony and death
increased. Each wound was a type of Hilland's wound, and in every
expiring man she saw her husband die. Her poor little hands trembled
now as she sought to stem the black, black tide that deepened and
broadened and foamed around her.

Late one night, after a new influx of the wounded, she was greatly
startled while passing down her ward by hearing a voice exclaim,
"Grace--Grace Brentford!"

It was her mother's name.

The call was repeated; and she tremblingly approached a cot on which
was lying a gray-haired man.

"Great God!" he exclaimed, "am I dreaming? am I delirious? How is it
that I see before me the woman I loved forty-odd years ago? You cannot
be Grace Brentford, for she died long years since."

"No, but I am her daughter."

"Her daughter!" said the man, struggling to rise upon his elbow--"her
daughter! She should not look older than you."

"Alas, sir, my age is not the work of time, but of grief. I grew old
in a day. But if you knew and loved my mother, you have sacred claims
upon me. I am a nurse in this ward, and will devote myself to you."

The man sank back exhausted. "This is strange, strange indeed," be
said. "It is God's own providence. Yes, my child, I loved your mother,
and I love her still. Harry St. John won her fairly; but be could not
have loved her better than I. I am now a lonely old man, dying, I
believe, in my enemy's hands, but I thank God that I've seen Grace
Brentford's child, and that she can soothe my last hours."

"Do not feel so discouraged about yourself," said Grace, her tears
falling fast. "Think rather that yon have been brought here that I
might nurse you back to life. Believe me, I will do so with tender,
loving care."

"How strange it all is!" the man said again. "You have her very voice,
her manner. But it was by your eyes that I recognized you. Your eyes
are young and beautiful like hers, and full of tears, as hers were
when she sent me away with an ache to my heart that has never ceased.
It will soon be cured now. Your father will remember a wild young
planter down in Georgia by the name of Phil Harkness."

"Indeed, sir, I've heard both of my parents speak of you, and it was
ever with respect and esteem."

"Give my greeting to your father, and say I never bore him any ill-
will. In the saddest life there is always some compensation. I have
had wealth and honors; I am a colonel in our army, and have been able
to serve the cause I loved; but, chief of all, the child of Grace
Brentford is by my side at the end. Is your name Grace also?"

"Yes. Oh, why is the world so full of hopeless trouble?"

"Not hopeless trouble, my child. I am not hopeless. For long years I
have had peace, if not happiness--a deep inward calm which the
confusion and roar of the bloodiest battles could not disturb. I can
close my eyes now in my final sleep as quietly as a child. In a few
hours, my dear, I may see your mother; and I shall tell her that I
left her child assuaging her own sorrow by ministering to others."

"Oh, oh!" sobbed Grace, "pray cease, or I shall not be fit for my
duties; your words pierce my very soul. Let me nurse you back to
health. Let me take you to my home until you are exchanged, for I must
return. I must, must. My strength is going fast; and you bring before
me my dear old father whom I have left too long."

"My poor child! God comfort and sustain you. Do not let me keep you
longer from your duties, and from those who need you more than I. Come
and say a word to me when you can. That's all I ask. My wound was
dressed before your watch began, and I am doing as well as I could
expect. When you feel like it, you can tell me more about yourself."

Their conversation had been in a low tone as she sat beside him, the
patients near either sleeping or too preoccupied by their own
sufferings to give much heed.

Weary and oppressed by bitter despondency, she went from cot to cot,
attending to the wants of those in her charge. To her the old
colonel's sad history seemed a mockery of his faith, and but another
proof of a godless or God-forgotten world. She envied his belief, with
its hope and peace; but he had only increased her unbelief. But all
through the long night she watched over him, coming often to his side
with delicacies and wine, and with gentle words that were far more
grateful.

Once, as she was smoothing back his gray locks from his damp forehead,
he smiled, and murmured, "God bless you, my child. This is a foretaste
of heaven."

In the gray dawn she came to him and said, "My watch is over, and I
must leave you for a little while; but as soon as I have rested I will
come again."

"Grace," he faltered, hesitatingly, "would you mind kissing an old,
old man? I never had a child of my own to kiss me."

She stooped down and kissed him again and again, and he felt her hot
tears upon his face.

"You have a tender heart, my dear," he said, gently. "Good-by, Grace--
Grace Brentford's child. Dear Grace, when we meet again perhaps all
tears will be wiped from your eyes forever."

She stole away exhausted and almost despairing. On reaching her little
room she sank on her couch, moaning; "Oh, Warren, Warren, would that I
were sleeping your dreamless sleep beside you!"

Long before it was time for her to go on duty again she returned to
the ward to visit her aged friend. His cot was empty. In reply to her
eager question she was told that he had died suddenly from internal
hemorrhage soon after she had left him.

She looked dazed for a moment, as if she had received a blow, then
fell fainting on the cot from which her mother's friend had been
taken. The limit of her endurance was passed.

Before the day closed, the surgeon in charge of the hospital told her
gently and firmly that she must take an indefinite leave of absence.
She departed at once in the care of an attendant; but stories of the
white-haired nurse lingered so long in the ward and hospital that at
last they began to grow vague and marvellous, like the legends of a
saint.

CHAPTER XXXIV

RITA'S BROTHER

All through the campaign of '64 the crimson tide of war deepened and
broadened. Even Graham's cool and veteran spirit was appalled at the
awful slaughter on either side. The Army of the Potomac--the grandest
army ever organized, and always made more sublime and heroic by
defeat--was led by a man as remorseless as fate. He was fate to
thousands of loyal men, whom he placed at will as coolly as if they
had been the pieces on a chessboard. He was fate to the Confederacy,
upon whose throat he placed his iron grasp, never relaxed until life
was extinct. In May, 1864, he quietly crossed the Rapidan for the
death-grapple. He took the most direct route for Richmond, ignoring
all obstacles and the fate of his predecessors. To think that General
Grant wished to fight the battle of the Wilderness is pure idiocy. One
would almost as soon choose the Dismal Swamp for a battleground. It
was undoubtedly his hope to pass beyond that gloomy tangle, over which
the shadow of death had brooded ever since fatal Chancellorsville. But
Lee, his brilliant and vigilant opponent, rarely lost an advantage;
and Graham's experienced eye, as with the cavalry he was in the
extreme advance, clearly saw that their position would give their foes
enormous advantages. Lee's movements would be completely masked by the
almost impervious growth, He and his lieutenants could approach within
striking distance, whenever they chose, without being seen, and had
little to fear from the Union artillery, which the past had given them
much cause to dread. It was a region also to disgust the very soul of
a cavalryman; for the low, scrubby growth lined the narrow roads
almost as effectually as the most scientifically prepared
_abatis_.

Graham's surmise was correct. Lee would not wait till his antagonist
had reached open and favorable ground, but he made an attack at once,
where, owing to peculiarities of position, one of his thin regiments
had often the strength of a brigade.

On the morning of the 5th of May began one of the most awful and
bloody battles in the annals of warfare. Indeed it was the beginning
of one long and almost continuous struggle which ended only at
Appomattox.

With a hundred thousand more, Graham was swept into the bloody vortex,
and through summer heat, autumn rains, and winter cold, he marched and
fought with little rest. He was eventually given the colonelcy of his
regiment, and at times commanded a brigade. He passed through
unnumbered dangers unscathed; and his invulnerability became a proverb
among his associates. Indeed he was a mystery to them, for his face
grew sadder and sterner every day, and his reticence about himself and
all his affairs was often remarked upon. His men and officers had
unbounded respect for him, that was not wholly unmixed with fear; for
while he was considerate, and asked for no exposure to danger in which
he did not share, his steady discipline was never relaxed, and he kept
himself almost wholly aloof, except as their military relations
required contact. He could not, therefore, be popular among the hard-
swearing, rollicking, and convivial cavalrymen. In a long period of
inaction he might have become very unpopular, but the admirable manner
in which he led them in action, and his sagacious care of them and
their horses on the march and in camp, led them to trust him
implicitly. Chief of all, he had acquired that which with the stern
veterans of that day went further than anything else--a reputation for
dauntless courage. What they objected to were his "glum looks and
unsocial ways," as they termed them.

They little knew that his cold, stern face hid suffering that was
growing almost desperate in its intensity. They little knew that he
was chained to his military duty as to a rock, while a vulture of
anxiety was eating out his very heart. What was a pale, thin, white-
haired woman to them? But what to him? How true it is that often the
heaviest burdens of life are those at which the world would laugh, and
of which the overweighted heart cannot and will not speak!

For a long time after his plunge into the dreary depths of the
Wilderness he had received no letters. Then he had learned of Grace's
return home; and at first he was glad indeed. His aunt had written
nothing more alarming than that Grace had overtaxed her strength in
caring for the throngs of wounded men sent from the Wilderness, that
she needed rest and good tonic treatment. Then came word that she was
"better"; then they "hoped she was gaining"; then they were about to
go to "the seashore, and Grace had always improved in salt air." It
was then intimated that she had found "the summer heat very
enervating, and now that fall winds were blowing she would grow
stronger." At last, at the beginning of winter, it was admitted that
she had not improved as they had hoped; but they thought she was
holding her own very well--that the continued and terrific character
of the war oppressed her--and that every day she dreaded to hear that
he had been stricken among other thousands.

Thus, little by little, ever softened by some excuse or some hope, the
bitter truth grew plain: Grace was failing, fading, threatening to
vanish. He wrote as often as he could, and sought with all his skill
to cheer, sustain, and reconcile her to life. At first she wrote to
him not infrequently, but her letters grew further and further apart,
and at last she wrote, in the early spring of '65.

"I wish I could see you, Alford; but I know it is impossible. You are
strong, you are doing much to end this awful war, and it's your duty
to remain at your post. You must not sully your perfect image in my
mind, or add to my unhappiness by leaving the service now for my sake.
I have learned the one bitter lesson of the times. No matter how much
_personal_ agony, physical or mental, is involved, the war must
go on; and each one must keep his place in the ranks till he falls or
is disabled. I have fallen. I am disabled. My wound will not close,
and drop by drop life and strength are ebbing. I know I disappoint
you, my true, true friend; but I cannot help it. Do not reproach me.
Do not blame me too harshly. Think me weak, as I truly am. Indeed,
when I am gone your chances will be far better. It costs me a great
effort to write this. There is a weight on my hand and brain as well
as on my heart. Hereafter I will send my messages through dear, kind
Mrs. Mayburn, who has been a mother to me in all my sorrow. Do not
fear: I will wait till you can come with honor; for I must see you
once more."

For a long time after receiving this letter a despair fell on Graham.
He was so mechanical in the performance of his duties that his
associates wondered at him, and he grew more gaunt and haggard than
ever. Then in sharp reaction came a feverish eagerness to see the war
ended.

Indeed all saw that the end was near, and none, probably, more clearly
than the gallant and indomitable Lee himself. At last the Confederate
army was outflanked, the lines around Petersburg were broken through,
and the final pursuit began. It was noted that Graham fought and
charged with an almost tiger-like fierceness; and for once his men
said with reason that he had no mercy on them. He was almost counting
the hours until the time when he could sheathe his sword and say with
honor, "I resign."

One morning they struck a large force of the enemy, and he led a
headlong charge. For a time the fortunes of the battle wavered, for
the Confederates fought with the courage of desperation. Graham on his
powerful horse soon became a conspicuous object, and all gave way
before him as if he were a messenger of death, at the same time
wondering at his invulnerability.

The battle surged on and forward until the enemy were driven into a
thick piece of woods. Graham on the right of his line directed his
bugler to give the order to dismount, and a moment later his line of
battle plunged into the forest. In the desperate _melee_ that followed
in the underbrush, he was lost to sight except to a few of his men. It
was here that he found himself confronted by a Confederate officer,
from whose eyes flashed the determination either to slay or to be
slain. Graham had crossed swords with him but a moment when he
recognized that he had no ordinary antagonist; and with his instinct
of fight aroused to its highest pitch he gave himself up wholly to a
personal and mortal combat, shouting meantime to those near, "Leave
this man to me."

Looking his opponent steadily in the eye, like a true swordsman, he
remained first on the defensive; and such was his skill that his long,
straight blade was a shield as well as a weapon. Suddenly the dark
eyes and features of his opponent raised before him the image of Rita
Anderson; and he was so overcome for a second that the Confederate
touched his breast with his sabre and drew blood. That sharp prick and
the thought that Rita's brother might be before him aroused every
faculty and power of his mind and body. His sword was a shield again,
and he shouted, "Is not your name Henry Anderson?"

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