45 The Last of a Later Roman

It was ten months later, and Paul Warner was entertaining his friends in a magnificent marquee on Virginia soil, in the rear of the Northern army. There had been three fat years for Mr. Warner, and he shed good humour as the sun sheds rays. His clothes were rich, and a single diamond blazed from the soft folds of the tie that encircled his huge neck. He had a great capacity for making friends, and a yet greater capacity, it was said, for using them. But Mr. Warner was a host again, and in that office his intentions were good. It was May, and the Virginia sun was warm, but sherbets and wines cooled in ice were served to all who wished. In front of us was a red, sterile country, bearing only bushes and dwarfed trees, a region wonderfully like that through which I had passed on the night I saw Lee and Jackson planning Chancellorsville. A line of soldiers in faded blue were marching over a distant hill, and beyond them arose a spire of smoke.

My wife, Elinor, sat on a camp stool near the entrance of the tent. She was dressed simply in gray, the only touch of colour being a pink ribbon at her throat. I had taken her to Washington immediately after Gettysburg and given her into the care of her uncle, Paul Warner. He loved her, and was proud of her, however much repugnance both she and I might feel toward him. Now, Mr. Warner, as he followed the Army of the Potomac, with which he transacted a large and profitable business, insisted upon entertaining his friends, and he demanded the presence of Elinor that she might do him honour.

“Do you think that Grant will succeed in crushing Lee?” asked Mr. Upton, a member of Congress, of me. He was a tall, thin man, with high cheek bones, and eyes close together. He affected ministerial garments and a ministerial air, and it was his custom to denounce in Congress as extravagant any measure that entailed the expenditure of money. By doing so he acquired a great reputation for sagacity and economy, and was known as a custodian of the people’s rights. He and Paul Warner were great friends.

“I do not know,” I replied; “but I am sure that he will not be turned back so easily as our other generals who invaded Virginia.”

The chief impression that Grant formed upon my mind at Shiloh was that of will and endurance, and it was confirmed by the few glimpses I had caught of him in the East. Now he was leading us, and we were expecting the two supreme commanders of the war to meet in decisive conflict.

“You might ask the question of General Grant himself,” said Elinor, with a smile, “for see, he is coming!”

She spoke the truth. General Grant had alighted from his horse already, and, accompanied by an aide, was walking toward us. He was not imposing, but his short, square figure seemed to me to express unflinching resolution.

Paul Warner, Mr. Upton, and most of the others were effusive in their welcome. “I had invited you, general, but I scarcely hoped for your presence. You fall upon us, as you fall upon the enemy, when you are not expected,” said Mr. Warner, meaning to pay a compliment. The general smiled faintly, but did not answer. Then the introductions were made, and he began to talk to Elinor. He took an ice, but would touch no wine. I noticed that his uniform was much soiled and his beard unshaven.

I was outside the tent, and a senator, a large man from one of the richest Northern States, was standing beside me. I was off duty that day, after a period of unusually long and hard service.

“Do you notice that smoke?” asked the senator of me, pointing toward the thin bluish spire. “It is increasing.”

“I see,” I said. “It is a large camp fire, or perhaps the woods are burning.”

“It may be so,” he said. “But listen!”

I obeyed, and heard a faint but bass note, like an imprisoned wind groaning up a ravine.

“What is it?” asked the senator.

“A cannon shot,” I replied, “or rather several of them.”

“Does not that mean a battle?” he asked, with visible uneasiness.

“Maybe,” I replied indifferently. I had become hardened by three years’ campaigning. It was not now the sound of cannon shots to which I objected, but to cannon balls.

“It may be the beginning of a great battle,” he said, with increasing alarm.

“Perhaps,” I replied doubtfully.

And yet he was right. It was the first guns of the Wilderness—that awful battle amid the burning forests, rivalling Gettysburg itself in desperation and slaughter.

The distant rumble increased, and a dull red blur appeared on the horizon. General Grant came to the entrance of the tent and looked intently at the red flashes. Then he opened his watch and glanced at it. I was standing near him, and I distinctly heard him say to himself, “Meade is exactly on time.” He signed to the aide who held the horses to lead them forward, bade adieu to us with great courtesy, especially to Elinor, mounted, and rode toward the spurts of fire.

“Mr. Warner,” said Mr. Upton, “is it not advisable for us to withdraw? I must confess that I am a man of peace. I have always opposed this wicked war.”

“It’s only a skirmish,” replied Paul Warner, “and it’s far away.” Mr. Warner had grave faults, but cowardice was not among them.

I said nothing, but I saw that it was more than a skirmish. The thunder of the guns was still low but steady, and a cloud of smoke was gathering on the horizon. There were six or seven ladies in our party, but Elinor was the only one who had seen a battle, and she alone remained calm.

We left the tent and walked to a little hill near by, from the summit of which we looked toward the battlefield, although for a while we saw only the smoke and the flashes of the firing. The country before us was covered with thickets and dwarfed forests, and among them the combatants were hidden. But the struggle was extending with great rapidity, and presently we saw a battle line several miles in length. The air quivered with the roll of the heavy guns, and we heard, too, the distant rattle of the small arms. The cheeks of the ladies began to turn pale.

“Are you sure it is safe here?” asked the senator of me. I was the only soldier in the party.

“I am not at all sure of it,” I could not resist replying. The ladies were not in hearing just at that moment, and, moreover, I spoke the truth.

I moved nearer to Elinor, and watched the rising battle. “Look!” she said suddenly to me, and her hand pressed my arm with nervous force. We saw an entire battery driven in haste through the bushes not half mile away. The combat was moving much nearer. The report of heavy guns suddenly came from both left and right, and now we were infolded on three sides.

“Mr. Warner,” I said, “you must withdraw with the ladies at once!”

I saw that it was no time to wait. The battle, with one of the abrupt changes for which no one can account, was rolling down upon us. The sudden retreat of colour from Paul Warner’s face showed that he understood the danger.

We turned to flee, and our way was barred by horsemen, who emerged suddenly from the bushes two hundred yards away and came directly toward us. These cavalrymen rode in gray. The ladies cried out with fear, and we stopped, not knowing what to do.

Then a strange thing happened. A score of the horsemen raised their rifles and fired at the man who led them, a handsome officer in a bright uniform. He fell from his horse, and the others, wheeling about as suddenly as they had come, galloped away, disappearing in the thickets.

I ran toward the wounded man, attracted by the sight of his face as he fell, and the others followed me. He was lying partly upon his side, and with an instinctive effort had composed both his features and his dress before we arrived. It was Varian, dying from a half dozen gunshot wounds. His face was pale from weakness and loss of blood, but his manner was as high and indifferent as it had ever been when I knew him in his pride. In truth, I can not say that I did not see him even now in his pride. He raised himself upon his elbow and said to me:

“It is our last meeting, Mr. Kingsford, and you have triumphed completely, as I have failed completely. Will you pardon me for saying again that in the beginning such an end would have seemed improbable?”

“Can’t you take the others away?” I said hastily to Mr. Warner, and he obeyed, leaving Elinor and me with Varian. I took off my coat, doubled it up, and placed it under his head. He was too weak to sit up, yet he seemed to retain all his mental strength.

“You are kind,” he said, “but why should you not be to your defeated and dying opponent? It may be that kindness to a beaten enemy is the most exquisite of all revenges, because, having proved already how much you are his superior in strength, you now show to him how much greater and finer your spirit is than his. But I acquit you of any such intention, Mr. Kingsford. You and your wife are wondering why I am here in such a plight, shot by my own men. The tale is brief, but you may find it instructive. A distrust of me has been growing for a long time in the minds of the Confederate generals, and it has extended lately to the troops. I have been watched, and I knew it, yet I was not afraid. When this battle began I led a little troop of cavalry over the hills and through the thickets for the express purpose of capturing you, Mrs. Kingsford, and your husband too. On this last day of my life I paid you the finest compliment that I knew, neglecting a great battle to devote special attention to a non-combatant. A faithful spy had informed me of your presence here. I told my men that it was a scouting expedition; but when they saw the ladies and the tents, all their suspicions of me seemed to them justified. They thought that I had led them into the heart of the Northern army, intending to deliver them into your hands. So they shot me down and galloped away.”

He spoke clearly and distinctly. His pride and will would not suffer him to speak otherwise, even in his last moments.

I could not resist a feeling of sympathy because such a man was coming to such an end. Tears were in Elinor’s eyes.

A faint smile flickered over Varian’s face.

“Recall what I told you, Mr. Kingsford,” he said, “and you will see that it was the truth. I belong to the antique world, where men were permitted to rise above their fellows and do whatever they chose if they could find the power. I have tried to have my way in this age, and you see my end. Perhaps I should have been a brilliant figure in old Rome at her greatest and worst. But I have always been willing to pay the price for what I did or tried to do, and I do not complain now. Would you object to lifting my head a little higher, Mr. Kingsford? Remember that I shall not have the power to do you any more harm.”

I raised his head. He looked at Elinor, and his gaze became singularly soft.

“I trust you will remember, Mrs. Kingsford,” he said, his voice growing weak at last, “that I have—always loved you with my whole heart. Would you kiss me—just once? I ask you in the presence of your husband. It would—smooth my way.”

Elinor stooped, and her lips brushed his forehead. Then he died quite peacefully.

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