41 A Man Born Too Late

I walked with a beating heart up the slope of Seminary Ridge and toward the Army of Northern Virginia, which lay before me. I was resolved that Elinor should not remain longer where Varian could reach her. I believed, too, that I would succeed, despite the dangers. An army resting from one great battle, and spending the few hours between in preparation for another, was not likely to pay much attention to a straggler or two.

A Southern picket soon hailed me, and, advancing, I said that I was an escaped prisoner taken a few days before by the Yankees in a cavalry skirmish. My own command, I added, was somewhere with Stuart, I supposed, but I wanted to serve again, and where I was needed most. He jerked his finger over his shoulder, pointed toward the camp fires, and said nothing more.

I walked slowly on, gaining boldness at every step as success attended me, and not forgetting, even in my eager search for Elinor, to look curiously at the camp that was now all around me. It was much like ours—full of sleeping, wounded, or exhausted men, while the unceasing rumble of preparations or of arriving troops sounded in my ears. The camp fires wavered in long, irregular lines, and beside one, talking to his generals, was a large man whom I knew to be General Lee. But I did not choose to go near him, turning instead toward the rear, where the surgeons and the nurses would be.

My task so far was easier than I had expected, and yet I should have known that it would be simple work within the camp, their sentinels once passed. The difficulty would come when I wished to get out again. Thousands of soldiers were passing and repassing me, seeking their positions for the morrow, and some were straggling. I was only one man among sixty thousand doing as many others were doing, and nobody noticed me. I made my way slowly toward the rear of the army, thinking it well not to be too eager, and now and then exchanging a word with a wandering soldier like myself. An officer once hailed me roughly and asked me where my regiment was placed. “Over there,” I said, pointing in the way in which I was going. “Then see that you join it at once!” he said sharply. “All right, sir,” I replied, touching my hat respectfully and going on about my business while he continued on his.

It was easy to find where the wounded lay, and I still drifted about watching for a chance to see Elinor. I knew that she would be there helping, and presently I saw her. I could never mistake her figure, although it was outlined but dimly in the darkness. She came toward the camp fire, strong and lithe, and I moved into her path, staggering as if I were a wounded or drunken man. She was about to step aside, but raising my head I gazed into her eyes.

I saw the instant look of recognition and joy upon her face like a flash of sunlight, but she said not a word. Elinor was not like other women. Her courage, her command of herself, were beyond compare. It was the soul in her rather than her beauty that made more than one man love her so.

“Will you help me with this?” she asked at length, and then for the first time I noticed that she carried in either hand a pail of water.

“It is for the wounded,” she said; “and there are many who need it to-night.”

I took the pail and slouched behind her as if I were some camp follower, detailed to help her with this heavy work.

“Why have you come?” she asked over her shoulder, and now I saw the anxiety in her voice. “Do you know that it is death if you are caught? It is a joy to see you, oh, you know it, Henry, but not at such a terrible risk.”

“You risked your life for me,” I replied, “and why should I not risk mine for you?”

I leaned forward and saw the sudden flush of rosy colour over her face. She said nothing, but looked at me with a slight appeal in her eyes.

“I shall not stay long,” I said, “but you are to go with me. I have come for you. You are in great danger here.”

We gave the water to the surgeons and went back for more, I always walking a little in the rear, and filling my role of helper.

“Pembroke told me,” I continued. “He is a prisoner and wounded, but he will not die.”

“I am glad that he is not worse hurt,” she said joyfully. “We missed him, and I was afraid that he was lying down there with the dead who are so many.”

She pointed to the valley hidden by the darkness and the vapours.

“He told me,” I continued, “that Varian was here, that he watched you always, and that he was daring enough to attempt anything. Therefore I came for you. I am your husband, and I have the right to claim you wherever I find you, as I now do.”

She looked at me, and I saw her smile.

“You have no need to claim me,” she said. “I would go without the asking.” Then her tone became very grave as she continued: “And it is true that Varian is to be feared. I fear him most of all now, at this minute; he may be there in the dark, where we do not see him, watching us. He was one of the leaders in the charge to-day that drove you through Gettysburg, and he performed such acts of valour that General Lee himself was forced to commend him, although he distrusts him. He has spoken to me since the battle, and I feel that his eyes are always upon me—it is not merely the fear of a timid woman, Henry, it is the truth.”

I looked carefully but I did not see Varian or any one resembling him. I knew that at all times he was our most dangerous enemy, but I did not fear him. I think that I can say it without boasting. Where we had met hitherto mine was the disadvantage, but now, even here on Seminary Ridge, with the hostile lines about me, I felt that I could face him on equal terms. We were approaching the place where we obtained the water, and I repeated:

“Elinor, I have come for you. Will you go with me?”

“To the end of the world if you wish it.”

“This is the road,” I said, and I led the way into the darkness at the rear of the Southern army.

“Let me go before,” she said in a few moments. “The path will open more readily for me than for you.”

She led now, and we still carried the pails. “We wish fresh water for the wounded from the creek over there,” she said to the first sentinel, at the same time giving the countersign. He saluted with respect at the sight of a woman so evidently engaged upon a task of mercy, gave one glance at my Confederate uniform, and let us go. We passed another and then another in the same manner, and soon we were outside the lines. I put down the pail and took Elinor in my arms.

“Ah, my brave wife,” I said, “I have you at last, and nothing shall ever take you from me again.”

I felt her soft young arms around my neck, and she clung to me like a frightened child as she had clung once before. “Henry, I am so glad you came!” was all she said.

There is a peculiar sensitiveness, a kind of chill in the air, that often warns one of a hostile presence, and suddenly I felt it. I looked up and beheld Varian. He was as usual dressed in a brilliant uniform, and it bore no marks of the day’s toil and struggles. The only expression upon his face was a faint look of irony; beyond that his eyes said nothing. He stood near us, erect, tall, and strong.

“A pretty scene, a very pretty scene!” he said in even tones. “Do not think that I intend sarcasm or ridicule, for I do not; and, frankly, I should enjoy being in your place, Mr. Kingsford. I think you know that.”

“This is not the place to tell me so,” I said.

“You may be right,” he answered, without any break in his even tones, “but I do not know when I shall have another opportunity, and I could not let the present pass without profiting by it.”

Elinor stepped a little to one side and stood there, regarding us, her young face expressing aversion and defiance too when she looked at Varian.

“I have some explanations to make, and perhaps an apology or two,” he said. “You ought to feel flattered, Mr. Kingsford, as I have made few apologies in my life. Do not charge it to my vanity when I say it; rather consider it a weakness. There has been a rivalry between us, and you have triumphed so far, and yet at the beginning I should have said that all the chances were in my favour. I was born, Mr. Kingsford, to have my own way in all things; it was and is my nature. I can not help it, so I must hate any one who obstructs me. It is not the person whom I really hate, but the obstruction that he has caused. Please understand that this is the way that I feel toward you. I had the ambition of war and the ambition of love; I have lost in the latter, and it is probable that I shall lose in the former. It is a new experience, and I do not like it. I think that I was born in the wrong age; I should have belonged to the antique world, where men had vast power and desires on the same gigantic scale. When I read of those old times it fills me with regret that I did not live then, or that then is not now. Then I could have filled my proper place in the world. I should have been one of those proconsuls whom the Romans sent out to govern great provinces; men with palaces, armies, millions of revenue, and despotic power. Then I should have been happy, and I think that I would have governed temperately and well, so long as ho one opposed me. But I would have been cruel to all opposition. Do you understand me, Mr. Kingsford?”

I nodded. Despite my anxiety to take Elinor into our lines, the man held my attention. His tones were still smooth and even, but his feelings had begun to show in his face, which was flushed faintly. The slight parting of Elinor’s lips showed her deep interest.

“I am endeavouring to explain myself,” he continued, “and in a way, as I have said, you may consider it an apology, Mr. Kingsford, for some of the seeming wrongs that I have done you. There are many others like me in the modern world of ours, but perhaps they have trimmed themselves down to the level of the times better than I. Understand again that this is not vanity; it is merely an explanation of what you consider the moral defects of my nature. When I saw that you were triumphing over me in my dearest wish, that Elinor Maynard was loving you when she should have been loving me, it was the wrath of the antique despot that consumed me. I felt that you should be thrust out of the way, as the antique master got rid of a troublesome slave. If Elinor Maynard did not wish to marry me, she must marry me nevertheless, just as an Eastern princess is forced to wed the king who chooses her. But, believe me, I did not intend at first to trap you to your death. That scene in the Valley of Virginia, just as it occurred, was not suggested by me. It was Blanchard, in his zeal for me—I do not wish to wrong the faithful fellow’s memory—who carried it so far, and in my passion I may have been drawn on with him. And, believe me too, Mrs. Kingsford, had I known that it was you instead of your husband who fled before us, I would have killed one of my men, even Blanchard himself, rather than let him fire a shot at you.”

He paused, and I took Elinor’s arm in mine.

“Let us pass,” I said. “You have stated your motives, and we do not attack them now. My wife and I, through Providence, have come to no harm at your hands, and we shall attempt nothing in return.”

“I can not let you pass so peacefully,” he said, his voice suddenly hardening. “I could have had you seized, Henry Kingsford, and had you shot, at five minutes’ notice, as a spy, but I relented so far, because it occurred to me that perhaps I had not always fought you fairly for the woman who hangs on your arm, when she ought to be hanging on mine. But my nature would not permit this. Now, I propose that we fight for her with swords. It is just as I say: I belong to the ancient world and not to this. Then the arm of the strongest won the most beautiful woman, even princesses. Cleopatra belonged in turn to Cassar and Antony, and Augustus would have been the heir of Antony had not death intervened. What I propose appeals to me as our most natural recourse.”

I felt Elinor’s hand trembling on my arm, but she said nothing.

“It seems to me extremely unnatural in the year 1863, in a civilized land,” I said. “Moreover, I do not fight for what is already my own.”

“Are you afraid, Mr. Kingsford?” he said quietly; “but I do not think that you have ever been a coward. You should remember that you disarmed me once in a friendly contest in Washington. See! I am provided! Perhaps you did not notice that I have two swords; you may take your choice. The place is suitable. The light is poor, it is true; but it is no darker for you than it is for me, and here is the lady for whom we fight, looking on and lending inspiration to each of the combatants. Is not the scene worthy of that antique world which I have quoted so often to you in the last five minutes?”

I stared at him in surprise. He had moved into our path, and I could see plainly that he was in earnest. I extended my hand for one of the sabres, and Elinor stepped aside without a word. It may be that the best woman in the world has in her nature a little of the Venus who threw the apple of discord.

He had left me no choice, and I stood before him, sword in hand. I caught one glimpse of Elinor’s face, pale and lovely, but firm and confident. She stood beside a dwarf oak, fifteen feet from us. Then I looked steadily into Varian’s eyes, watching every expression, that I might see what he intended. There is something now and then, in time and place, which strips us of our slow-won civilization, and brings out in us the fierce and primitive impulses. I felt one of these impulses now—the wish to fight; and as I saw the flame in Varian’s eyes, I knew that he, too, was moved by it; the fact that Elinor stood by and looked on was not the last or least incitement to either of us.

His sword flashed straight at my heart, and I avoided it only by a swift leap to one side, but I replied with a thrust which was barely parried by his own blade. As it was, I heard with satisfaction the slight whir of the steel as it cut through the cloth of the sleeve on his right arm.

We paused a moment for breath, but I kept my eye on his, lest in some unguarded moment of mine he might cut me down. His look, so far as I could interpret it, expressed intense satisfaction. He seemed to feel that he had won a great point, and my anger against him swelled because of this contentment that showed so clearly upon his face. I remembered, too, all that he had attempted against me, and for one moment I was ready and willing to kill him if I could.

We raised our swords again and began to fence with the caution and concentrated energy of men who mean to slay. We heard nothing then but our own hard breathing, the whir of the swords, and the occasional ring of the steel as blade met blade. Yet neither won advantage, and we paused a second time for breath, letting the points of our blades drop.

“If you move your sword again, General Varian, I will blow your brains out!”

It was a quiet voice that we heard, but, beyond a doubt, the man who spoke the words meant them. I glanced aside and saw Shaftoe standing twenty feet away, with a carbine levelled at at Varian’s head.

“Is this the way you fight your duels?” asked Varian with an unchanged face, but with sarcasm in his voice.

“I pledge you my word that I did not know of his presence,” I replied.

“I believe you,” he said. “It was not in your character to do so. I give you that much credit.”

Shaftoe approached, his carbine still bearing on Varian, and I noticed now that he wore a Confederate uniform like my own.

“Mr. Kingsford,” he said sternly, his manner suddenly investing him with great dignity, “I expected more sense from you than to fight in this way at such a time, but I was wrong. I thought you would get into some such mischief, and that was why I followed you into the Southern camp. Remember, that if either of you begin again, I fire at General Varian, and I don’t miss!”

Shaftoe’s stern words recalled to me that it was the nineteenth century, and that we stood on the edge of a great battlefield, which would claim all the strength of us both. But it was Elinor who spoke:

“He gave him no choice,” said Elinor, pointing to Varian. “Only a coward could have evaded the issue, and my husband is not such a man.”

She spoke proudly.

“The lady is right in both propositions,” said Varian; “and yet I am sorry only because we have been interrupted. The test that we set ourselves appealed and still appeals to me. Since you control the situation, what is your will, Mr. Soldier?”

“Go!” said Shaftoe, pointing toward the flickering lights of the Southern camp.

Varian bowed to Elinor and to me, and without a word walked toward the lights.

“And now come with me,” said Shaftoe, letting the muzzle of his carbine drop at last. “It’s lucky that you two have me to watch over you.”

I took Elinor’s arm and helped her over the rough way, following Shaftoe in a wide circuit in the darkness. He looked back at us occasionally, and always seasoned his look with some rebuke of me. But his tone became more genial presently. “After all, you fight well, Henry,” he said. Then I knew that I was forgiven.

One of the strangest events in my life was that long walk, over rough places and in the darkness, around a great battlefield, and from the camp of one army to the camp of another; but those were also happy hours, because all the way I felt Elinor on my arm, and I believed that she would never again be taken from me. She spoke only once, and it was to repeat her words at the camp: “Henry, I am so glad that you came for me!”

We reached our own army without trouble, and there Elinor offered to serve with our nurses as she had served with those of the South. I wanted her to go at once to Washington if a way could be found, but she said: “There will be still greater need to-morrow night for all such as I. And, Henry, I am near you.”

So I had to leave her there in one of the hospitals and return to my place in the lines. I knew that her prayers for my safety followed me.

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