To the north, immense quantities of stores—clothing, provisions, material of every description were on fire, darkening the sky with rolling, inky clouds; an entire army corps16 with heavy artillery and baggage crossed the river enveloped17 in the pitchy, cinder-laden smoke from two bridges on fire. The forests, which had been felled from the Golden Farm to Fair Oaks to form an army's vast abattis, were burning in sections, sending roaring tornadoes18 of flame into rifle pits, redoubts, and abandoned fortifications. Cannon10 thundered at Ellison's Mills; shells rained hard on Gaines's Farm; a thousand simultaneous volleys of musketry mingled20 with the awful uproar21 of the cannon; uninterrupted sheets of light from the shells brightened the smoke pall22 like the continuous flare23 of electricity against a thundercloud. The Confederacy, victorious24, was advancing wrapped in flame and smoke.
At Savage's Station the long railroad bridge was now on fire; trains and locomotives burned fiercely; millions of boxes of hard bread, barrels of flour, rice, sugar, coffee, salt pork, cases of shoes, underclothing, shirts, uniforms, tin-ware, blankets, ponchos25, harness, medical stores, were in flames; magazines of ammunition26, flat cars and box cars loaded with powder, shells, and cartridges27 blazed and exploded, hurling28 jets and spouting29 fountains of fire to the very zenith.
And through the White Oak Swamp rode the Commander-in-chief of an army in full retreat, followed by his enormous staff and escort, abandoning the siege of Richmond, and leaving to their fate the wretched mass of sick and wounded in the dreadful hospitals at Liberty Hall. And the red battle flags of the Southland fluttered on every hill.
Claymore's mixed brigade, still holding together, closed the rear of Porter's powder-scorched corps d'armee.
The Zouaves of the 3rd Regiment30—what was left of them—marched as flankers; McDunn's battery, still intact, was forced to unlimber every few rods; and the pouring rain turned to a driving golden fire in the red glare of the guns, which lighted up the halted squadrons of the Lancers ranged always in support.
Every rod in retreat was a running combat. In the darkness the discharge of the Zouaves' rifles ran from the guns' muzzles31 like streams of molten metal spilling out on the grass. McDunn's guns spirted great lumps of incandescence32; the fuses of the shells in the sky showered the darkness with swarming33 sparks.
Toward ten o'clock the harried34 column halted on a hill and bivouacked without fires, food, or shelter. The Zouaves slept on their arms in the drenched herbage; the Lancers, not daring to unsaddle, lay down on the grass under their patient horses, bridle35 tied to wrist. An awful anxiety clutched officers and men. Few slept; the ceaseless and agonised shrieking36 from an emergency hospital somewhere near them in the darkness almost unnerved them.
At dawn shells began to plunge37 downward among the Dragoons. McDunn's battery roused itself to reply, but muddy staff-officers arrived at full speed with orders for Claymore to make haste; and the starving command staggered off stiffly through the mud, their ears sickened by the piteous appeals of the wounded begging not to be abandoned.
Berkley, his face a mass of bloody38 rags, gazed from his wet saddle with feverish39 eyes at the brave contract surgeons standing40 silent amid their wounded under the cedar41 trees.
Cripples hobbled along the lines, beseeching42, imploring43, catching44 at stirrups, plucking feebly, blindly at the horses' manes for support.
"Oh, my God!" sobbed45 a wounded artilleryman, lifting himself from the blood-stained grass, "is this what I enlisted46 for? Are you boys going to leave us behind to rot in rebel prisons?"
"Damn you!" shrieked47 another, "you ain't licked! What'n hell are you runnin' away for? Gimme a gun an' a hoss an' I'll go back with you to the river!"
And another pointed48 a mangled49 and shaking hand at the passing horsemen.
"Oh, hell!" he sneered50, "we don't expect anything of the cavalry, but why are them Zouaves skedaddlin'? They fit like wild cats at the river. Halt! you red-legged devils. You're goin' the wrong way!"
A Sister of Charity, her snowy, wide-winged headdress limp in the rain, came out of a shed and stood at the roadside, slender hands joined imploringly51.
"You mustn't leave your own wounded," she kept repeating. "You wouldn't do that, gentlemen, would you? They've behaved so well; they've done all that they could. Won't somebody tell General McClellan how brave they were? If he knew, he would never leave them here."
The Lancers looked down at her miserably52 as they rode; Colonel
Arran passed her, saluting53, but with heavy, flushed face averted54;
Berkley, burning with fever, leaned from his saddle, cap in hand.
"We can't help it, Sister. The same thing may happen to us in an hour. But we'll surely come back; you never must doubt that!"
Farther on they came on a broken-down ambulance, the mules55 gone, several dead men half buried in the wet straw, and two Sisters of Charity standing near by in pallid56 despair.
Colonel Arran offered them lead-horses, but they were timid and frightened; and Burgess gave his horse to the older one, and Berkley took the other up behind him, where she sat sideways clutching his belt, white coiffe aflutter, feet dangling57.
At noon the regiment halted for forage58 and rations59 procured60 from a waggon4 train which had attempted to cross their line of march. The rain ceased: a hot sun set their drenched clothing and their horses' flanks steaming. At two o'clock they resumed their route; the ragged61, rain-blackened pennons on the lance heads dried out scarlet62; a hot breeze set in, carrying with it the distant noise of battle.
All that afternoon the heavy sound of the cannonade jarred their ears. And at sunset it had not ceased.
Berkley's Sister of Charity clung to his belt in silence for a while. After a mile or two she began to free her mind in regard to the distressing63 situation of her companion and herself. She informed Berkley that the negro drivers had become frightened and had cut the traces and galloped65 off; that she and the other Sister were on their way to the new base at Azalea Court House, where thousands of badly wounded were being gathered from the battles of the last week, and where conditions were said to be deplorable, although the hospital boats had been taking the sick to Alexandria as fast as they could be loaded.
She was a gentle little thing, with ideas of her own concerning the disaster to the army which was abandoning thousands of its wounded to the charity and the prisons of an enemy already too poor to feed and clothe its own.
"Some of our Sisters stayed behind, and many of the medical staff and even the contract surgeons remained. I hope the rebels will be gentle with them. I expected to stay, but Sister Aurelienne and I were ordered to Azalea last night. I almost cried my eyes out when I left our wounded. The shells were coming into the hospital yesterday, and one of them killed two of our wounded in the straw. Oh, it was sad and terrible. I am sure the rebels didn't fire on us on purpose. Do you think so?"
"No, I don't. Were you frightened, Sister."
"Oh, yes," she said naively66, "and I wished I could run into the woods and hide."
"But you didn't?"
"Why, no, I couldn't," she said, surprised.
The fever in his wound was making him light-headed. At intervals67 he imagined that it was Ailsa seated behind him, her arms around his waist, her breath cool and fragrant68 on his neck; and still he knew she was a phantom69 born of fever, and dared not speak—became sly, pretending he did not know her lest the spell break and she vanish into thin air again.
What the little sister said was becoming to him only a pretty confusion of soft sounds; at moments he was too deaf to hear her voice at all; then he heard it and still believed it to be Ailsa who was speaking; then, for a, few seconds, reality cleared his clouded senses; he heard the steady thunder of the cannonade, the steady clattering70 splash of his squadron; felt the hot, dry wind scorching72 his stiffened73 cheek and scalp where the wound burned and throbbed74 under a clotted75 bandage.
When the regiment halted to fill canteens the little sister washed and re-bandaged his face and head.
It was a ragged slash76 running from the left ear across the cheek-bone and eyebrow77 into the hair above the temple—a deep, swollen78, angry wound.
"What were you doing when you got this?" she asked in soft consternation79, making him as comfortable as possible with the scanty80 resources of her medical satchel81. Later, when the bugles82 sounded, she came back from somewhere down the line, suffered him to lift her up behind him, settled herself, slipped both arms confidently around his waist, and said:
"So you are the soldier who took the Confederate battle flag? Why didn't you tell me? Ah—I know. The bravest never tell."
"There is nothing to tell," he replied. "They captured a guidon from us. It evens the affair."
She said, after a moment's thought; "It speaks well for a man to have his comrades praise him as yours praise you."
"You mean the trooper Burgess," he said wearily. "He's always chattering83."
"All who spoke84 to me praised you," she observed. "Your colonel said: 'He does not understand what fear is. He is absolutely fearless.'"
"My colonel has been misinformed, Sister. I am intelligent enough to be afraid—philosopher enough to realise that it doesn't help me. So nowadays I just go ahead."
"Trusting in God," she murmured.
He did not answer.
"Is it not true, soldier?"
But the fever was again transfiguring her into the shape of Ailsa Paige, and he remained shyly silent, fearing to disturb the vision—yet knowing vaguely86 that it was one.
She sighed; later, in silence, she repeated some Credos and Hail Marys, her eyes fixed87 on space, the heavy cannonade dinning88 in her ears. All around her rode the Lancers, tall pennoned weapons swinging from stirrup and loop, bridles89 loose under their clasped hands. The men seemed stupefied with fatigue90; yet every now and then they roused themselves to inquire after her comfort or to offer her a place behind them. She timidly asked Berkley if she tired him, but he begged her to stay, alarmed lest the vision of Ailsa depart with her; and she remained, feeling contented91 and secure in her drowsy92 fatigue. Colonel Arran dropped back from the head of the column once to ride beside her. He questioned her kindly93; spoke to Berkley, also, asking with grave concern about his wound. And Berkley answered in his expressionless way that he did not suffer.
But the little Sister of Charity behind his back laid one finger across her lips and looked significantly at Colonel Arran; and when the colonel again rode to the head of the weary column his face seemed even graver and more careworn94.
By late afternoon they were beyond sound of the cannonade, riding through a golden light between fields of stacked wheat. Far behind in the valley they could see the bayonets of the Zouaves glistening96; farther still the declining sun glimmered97 on the guns of the 10th battery. Along a parallel road endless lines of waggons stretched from north to south, escorted by Egerton's Dragoons.
To Berkley the sunset world had become only an infernal pit of scarlet strung with raw nerves. The terrible pain in his face and head almost made him lose consciousnesss. Later he seemed to be drifting into a lurid98 sea of darkness, where he no longer felt his saddle or the movement of his horse; he scarcely saw the lanterns clustering, scarcely heard the increasing murmur85 around him, the racket of picket99 firing, the noise of many bewildered men, the cries of staff-officers directing divisions and brigades to their camping ground, the confused tumult100 which grew nearer, nearer, mounting like the ominous101 clamour of the sea as the regiment rode through Azalea under the July stars.
He might have fallen from his saddle; or somebody perhaps lifted him, for all he knew. In the glare of torches he found himself lying on a moving stretcher. After that he felt straw under him; and vaguely wondered why it did not catch fire from his body, which surely now was but a mass of smouldering flame.
For days the fever wasted him—not entirely102, for at intervals he heard cannon, and always the interminable picket firing; and he heard bugles, too, and recognised the various summons. But it was no use trying to obey them—no use trying to find his legs. He could not get up without his legs—he laughed weakly at the thought; then, drowsy, indifferent, decided103 that they had been shot away, but could not remember when; and it bothered him a good deal.
Other things bothered him; he was convinced that his mother was in the room. At intervals he was aware of Hallam's handsome face, cut out like a paper picture from Harper's Weekly and pasted flat on the tent wall. Also there were too many fire zouaves around his bed—if it was a bed, this vague vibrating hammock he occupied. It was much more like a hollow nook inside a gigantic pendulum104 which swung eternally to and fro until it swung him into senselessness—or aroused him with fierce struggles to escape. But his mother's slender hand sometimes arrested the maddening motion, or—and this was curiously105 restful—she cleverly transferred him to a cradle, which she rocked, leaning close over him. Only she kept him wrapped up too warmly.
And after a long while there came a day when his face became cooler, and his skin grew wet with sweat; and on that day he partly unclosed his eyes and saw Colonel Arran sitting beside him.
Surprised, he attempted to sit up, but not a muscle of his body obeyed him, and he lay there stupid, inert106, hollow eyes fixed meaninglessly on his superior, who spoke cautiously.
"Berkley, do you know me?"
His lips twitched107 a voiceless affirmative.
Colonel Arran said: "You are going to get well, now. . . . Get well quickly, because—the regiment misses you. . . . What is it you desire to say? Make the effort if you wish."
Berkley's sunken eyes remained focussed on space; he was trying to consider. Then they turned painfully toward Colonel Arran again.
"Ailsa Paige?" he whispered.
The other said quietly: "She is at the base hospital near Azalea. I have seen her. She is well. . . . I did not tell her you were ill. She could not have left anyway. . . . Matters are not going well with the army, Berkley."
"Whipped?" His lips barely formed the question.
Colonel Arran's careworn features flushed.
"The army has been withdrawing from the Peninsula. It is the commander-in-chief who has been defeated—not the Army of the Potomac."
"Back?"
"Yes, certainly we shall go back. This rebellion seems to be taking more time to extinguish than the people and the national authorities supposed it would require. But no man must doubt our ultimate success. I do not doubt it. I never shall. You must not. It will all come right in the end."
"Regiment?" whispered Berkley.
"The regiment is in better shape, Berkley. Our remounts have arrived; our wounded are under shelter, and comfortable. We need rest, and we're getting it here at Azalea, although they shell us every day. We ought to be in good trim in a couple of weeks. You'll be in the saddle long before that. Your squadron has become very proud of you; all the men in the regiment have inquired about you. Private Burgess spends his time off duty under the oak trees out yonder watching your window like a dog. . . . I—ah—may say to you, Berkley, that you—ah—have become a credit to the regiment. Personally—and as your commanding officer—I wish you to understand that I am gratified by your conduct. I have said so in my official reports."
Berkley's sunken eyes had reverted109 to the man beside him. After a moment his lips moved again in soundless inquiry110.
Colonel Arran replied: "The Zouaves were very badly cut up; Major Lent was wounded by a sabre cut. He is nearly well now. Colonel Craig and his son were not hurt. The Zouaves are in cantonment about a mile to the rear. Both Colonel Craig and his son have been here to see you—" he hesitated, rose, stood a moment undecided.
"Mrs. Craig—the wife of Colonel Craig—has been here. Her plantation111, Paigecourt, is in this vicinity I believe. She has requested the medical authorities to send you to her house for your convalescence112. Do you wish to go?"
The hollow-eyed, heavily bandaged face looked up at him from the straw; and Colonel Arran looked down at it, lips aquiver.
"Berkley—if you go there, I shall not see you again until you return to the regiment. I—" suddenly his gray face began to twitch108 again—and he set his jaw113 savagely114 to control it.
"Good-bye," he said. . . "I wish—some day—you could try to think less harshly of me. I am a—very—lonely man."
Berkley closed his eyes, but whether from weakness or sullen115 resentment116 the older man could not know. He stood looking down wistfully at the boy for a moment, then turned and went heavily away with blurred117 eyes that did not recognise the woman in bonnet118 and light summer gown who was entering the hospital tent. As he stood aside to let her pass he heard his name pronounced, in a cold, decisive voice; and, passing his gloved hand across his eyes to clear them, recognised Celia Craig.
"Colonel Arran," she said coolly, "is it necessa'y fo' me to request yo' permission befo' I am allowed to move Philip Berkley to my own house?"
"No, madam. The brigade surgeon is in charge. But I think I can secure for you the necessary authority to do so if you wish."
She thanked him haughtily119, and passed on; and he turned and walked out, impassive, silent, a stoop to his massive shoulders which had already become characteristic.
And that evening Berkley lay at Paigecourt in the chintz-hung chamber120 where, as a girl, his mother had often slept, dreaming the dreams that haunt young hearts when the jasmine fragrance121 grows heavier in the stillness and the magnolia's snowy chalice122 is offered to the moon, and the thrush sings in the river thickets123, and the fire-fly's lamp drifts through the fairy woods.
Celia told him this on the third day, late in the afternoon—so late that the westering sun was already touching124 the crests125 of the oak woods, and all the thickets had turned softly purple like the bloom on a plum; the mounting scent126 of phlox from the garden was growing sweeter, and the bats fluttered and dipped and soared in the calm evening sky.
She had been talking of his mother when she was Constance Paige and wore a fillet over her dark ringlets and rode to hounds at ten with the hardest riders in all Prince Clarence County.
"And this was her own room, Phil; nothing in it has been moved, nothing changed; this is the same bird and garland chintz, matching the same wall-paper; this is the same old baid with its fo' ca'ved columns and its faded canopy127, the same gilt128 mirror where she looked and saw reflected there the loveliest face in all the valley. . . . A child's face, Phil—even a child's face when she drew aside her bridal veil to look. . . . Ah—God—" She sighed, looking down at her clasped hands, "if youth but knew—if youth but knew!"
He lay silent, the interminable rattle129 of picket firing in his ears, his face turned toward the window. Through it he could see green grass, a magnolia in bloom, and a long flawless spray of Cherokee roses pendant from the gallery.
Celia sighed, waited for him to speak, sighed again, and picked up the Baltimore newspaper to resume her reading if he desired.
Searching the columns listlessly, she scanned the headings, glanced over the letter press in silence, then turned the crumpled130 page. Presently she frowned.
"Listen to this, Philip; they say that there is yellow fever among the Yankee troops in Louisiana. It would be like them to bring that horror into the Ca'linas and Virginia——"
He turned his head suddenly, partly rose from where he lay; and she caught her breath and bent131 swiftly over him, placing one hand on his arm and gently forcing him down upon the-pillow again.
"Fo'give me, dear," she faltered132. "I forgot what I was reading——"
He said, thoughtfully: "Did you ever hear exactly how my mother died, Celia? . . . But I know you never did. . . . And I think I had better tell you."
"She died in the fever camp at Silver Bayou, when you were a little lad," whispered Celia.
"No."
"Philip! What are you saying?"
"You don't know how my mother died," he said quietly.
"Phil, we had the papers—and the Governor of Louisiana wrote us himse'f——"
"I know what he wrote and what the papers published was not true. I'll tell you how she died. When I was old enough to take care of myself I went to Silver Bayou. . . . Many people in that town had died; some still survived. I found the parish records. I found one of the camp doctors who remembered that accursed year of plague—an old man, withered133, indifferent, sleeping his days away on the rotting gallery of his tumble-down house. He knew. . . . And I found some of the militia134 still surviving; and one among them retained a confused memory of my mother—among the horrors of that poisonous year——"
He lay silent, considering; then: "I was old enough to remember, but not old enough to understand what I understood later. . . . Do you want to know how my mother died?"
Celia's lips moved in amazed assent136.
"Then I will tell you. . . . They had guards north, east, and west of us. They had gone mad with fright; the whole land was quarantined against us; musket19, flintlock, shotgun, faced us through the smoke of their burning turpentine. I was only a little lad, but the horror of it I have never forgotten, nor my mother's terror—not for herself, for me."
He lay on his side, thin hands clasped, looking not at Celia but beyond her at the dreadful scene his fancy was painting on the wall of his mother's room:
"Often, at night, we heard the shots along the dead line. Once they murdered a man behind our water garden. Our negroes moaned and sobbed all day, all night, helpless, utterly137 demoralised. Two were shot swimming; one came back dying from snake bite. I saw him dead on the porch.
"I saw men fall down in the street with the black vomit—women, also—and once I saw two little children lying dead against a garden wall in St. Catharine's Alley95. I was young, but I remember."
A terrible pallor came into his wan135 face.
"And I remember my mother," he said; "and her pleading with the men who came to the house to let her send me across the river where there was no fever. I remember her saying that it was murder to imprison138 children there in Silver Bayou; that I was perfectly139 well so far. They refused. Soldiers came and went. Their captain died; others died, we heard. Then my mother's maid, Alice, an octoroon, died on the East Gallery. And the quarters went insane that day.
"When night came an old body-servant of my grandfather scratched at mother's door. I heard him. I thought it was Death. I was half dead with terror when mother awoke and whispered to me to dress in the dark and to make no sound.
"I remember it perfectly—remember saying: 'I won't go if you don't, mother. I'd rather be with you.' And I remember her saying: 'You shall not stay here to die when you are perfectly well. Trust mother, darling; Jerry will take you to Sainte Jacqueline in a boat.'
"And after that it is vaguer—the garden, the trench140 dug under the north wall—and how mother and I, in deadly fear of moccasins, down on all fours, crept after Jerry along the ditch to the water's edge——"
His face whitened again; he lay silent for a while, crushing his wasted hands together.
"Celia, they fired on us from the levee. After that I don't know; I never knew what happened. But that doctor at Silver Bayou said that I was found a mile below in a boat with the first marks of the plague yellowing my skin. Celia, they never found my mother's body. It is not true that she died of fever at Silver Bayou. She fell under the murderous rifles of the levee guard—gave her life trying to save me from that pest-stricken prison. Jerry's body was found stranded141 in the mud twenty miles below. He had been shot through the body. . . . And now you know how my mother died."
He raised himself on one elbow, watching Celia's shocked white face for a moment or two, then wearily turned toward the window and sank back on his pillows.
In the still twilight142, far away through the steady fusillade from the outposts, he heard the dull boom-booming of cannon, and the heavy shocks of the great guns aboard the union gun-boats. But it sounded very far off; a mocking-bird sang close under his window; the last rosy143 bar faded from the fleecy cloud bank in the east. Night came abruptly144—the swift Southern darkness quickly emblazoned with stars; and the whip-poor-wills began their ghostly calling; and the spectres of the mist crept stealthily inland.
"Celia?"
Her soft voice answered from the darkness near him.
He said: "I knew this was her room before you told me. I have seen her several times."
"Good God, Phil!" she faltered, "what are you saying?"
"I don't know. . . . I saw her the night I came here."
After a long silence Celia rose and lighted a candle. Holding it a little above her pallid face she glided145 to his bedside and looked down at him. After a moment, bending, she touched his face with her palm; then her cool finger-tips brushed the quiet pulse at his wrist.
"Have I any fever?"
"No, Phil."
"I thought not. . . . I saw mother's face a few moments ago in that mirror behind you."
Celia sank down on the bed's edge, the candle trembling in her hand. Then, slowly, she turned her head and looked over her shoulder, moving cautiously, until her fascinated eyes found the glass behind her. The mirror hung there reflecting the flowered wall opposite; a corner of the bed; nothing else.
He said in an even voice;
"From the first hour that you brought me into this room, she has been here. I knew it instantly. . . . The first day she was behind those curtains—was there a long while. I knew she was there; I watched the curtains, expecting her to step out. I waited all day, not understanding that I—that it was better that I should speak. I fell asleep about dusk. She came out then and sat where you are sitting."
"It was a dream, Phil. It was fever. Try to realise what you are saying!"
"I do. The next evening I lay watching; and I saw a figure reflected in the mirror. It was not yet dusk. Celia, in the sunset light I saw her standing by the curtains. But it was star-light before she came to the bed and looked down at me.
"I said very quietly: 'Mother dear!' Then she spoke to me; and I knew she was speaking, but I could not hear her voice. . . . It was that way while she stood beside me—I could not hear her, Celia. I could not hear what she was saying. It was no spirit I saw—no phantom from the dead there by my bed, no ghost—no restless wraith147, grave-driven through the night. I believe she is living. She knows I believe it. . . . As you sat here, a moment ago, reading to me, I saw her reflected for a moment in the mirror behind you, passing into the room beyond. Her hair is perfectly white, Celia—or," he said vaguely to himself, "was it something she wore?—like the bandeaux of the Sisters of Charity——"
The lighted candle fell from Celia's nerveless fingers and rolled over and over across the floor, trailing a smoking wick. Berkley's hand steadied her trembling arm.
"Why are you frightened?" he asked calmly.
"There is nothing dead about what I saw."
"I c-can't he'p myse'f," stammered148 Celia; "you say such frightful149 things to me—you tell me that they happen in my own house—in her own room—How can I be calm? How can I believe such things of—of Constance Berkley—of yo' daid mother——"
"I don't know," he said dully.
The star-light sparkled on the silver candle-stick where it lay on the floor in a little pool of wax. Quivering all over, Celia stooped to lift, relight it, and set it on the table. And, over her shoulder, he saw a slim shape enter the doorway150.
"Mother dear?" he whispered.
And Celia turned with a cry and stood swaying there in the rays of the candle.
But it was only a Sister of Charity—a slim, childish figure under the wide white head-dress—who had halted, startled at Celia's cry. She was looking for the Division Medical Director, and the sentries151 had misinformed her—and she was very sorry, very deeply distressed152 to have frightened anybody—but the case was urgent—a Sister shot near the picket line on Monday; and authority to send her North was, what she had come to seek. Because the Sister had lost her mind completely, had gone insane, and no longer knew them, knew nobody, not even herself, nor the hospital, nor the doctors, nor even that she lay on a battle-field. And she was saying strange and dreadful things about herself and about people nobody had ever heard of. . . . Could anybody tell her where the Division Medical Director could be found?
It was not yet daybreak when Berkley awoke in his bed to find lights in the room and medical officers passing swiftly hither and thither153, the red flames from their candles blowing smokily in the breezy doorways154.
The picket firing along the river had not ceased. At the same instant he felt the concussion155 of heavy guns shaking his bed. The lawn outside the drawn156 curtains resounded157 with the hurrying clatter71 of waggons, the noise of pick and spade and crack of hammer and mallet158.
He drew himself to a sitting posture159. A regimental surgeon passing through the room glanced at him humorously, saying: "You've got a pretty snug160 berth161 here, son. How does it feel to sleep in a real bed?" And, extinguishing his candle, he went away through the door without waiting for any answer.
Berkley turned toward the window, striving to reach the drawn curtains. And at length he managed to part them, but it was all dark outside. Yet the grounds were evidently crowded with waggons and men; he recognised sounds which indicated that tents were being erected162, drains and sinks dug; the rattle of planks163 and boards were significant of preparation for the construction of "shebangs."
Farther away on the dark highway he could hear the swift gallop64 of cavalry and the thudding clank of light batteries, all passing in perfect darkness. Then, leaning closer to the sill, he gazed between the curtains far into the southwest; and saw the tall curve of Confederate shells traced in whirling fire far down the river, the awful glare of light as the enormous guns on the union warships164 replied.
Celia, her lovely hair over her shoulders, a scarf covering her night-dress, came in carrying a lighted candle; and instantly a voice from outside the window bade her extinguish the light or draw the curtain.
She looked at Berkley in a startled manner, blew out the flame, and came around between his bed and the window, drawing the curtains entirely aside.
"General Claymore's staff has filled eve'y room in the house except yours and mine," she said in her gentle, bewildered way. "There's a regiment—Curt146's Zouaves—encamped befo' the west quarters, and a battery across the drive, and all the garden is full of their horses and caissons."
"Poor little Celia," he said, reaching out to touch her hand, and drawing her to the bed's edge, where she sat down helplessly.
"The Yankee officers are all over the house," she repeated. "They're up in the cupola with night-glasses now. They are ve'y polite. Curt took off his riding boots and went to sleep on my bed—and oh he is so dirty!—my darling Curt' my own husband!—too dirty to touch! I could cry just to look at his uniform, all black and stained and the gold entirely gone from one sleeve! And Stephen!—oh, Phil, some mise'ble barber has shaved the heads of all the Zouaves, and Steve is perfectly disfigured!—the poor, dear boy"—she laughed hysterically—"he had a hot bath and I've been mending the rags that he and Curt call unifo'ms—and I found clean flannels166 fo' them both in the attic——"
"What does all this mean—all this camping outside?" he interrupted gently.
"Curt doesn't know. The camps and hospitals west of us have been shelled, and all the river roads are packed full of ambulances and stretchers going east."
"Where is my regiment?"
"The Lancers rode away yesterday with General Stoneman—all except haidqua'ters and one squadron—yours, I think—and they are acting167 escort to General Sykes at the overseers house beyond the oak grove168. Your colonel is on his staff, I believe."
He lay silent, watching the burning fuses of the shells as they soared up into the night, whirling like fiery169 planets on their axes, higher, higher, mounting through majestic170 altitudes to the pallid stars, then, curving, falling faster, faster, till their swift downward glare split the darkness into broad sheets of light.
"Phil," she whispered, "I think there is a house on fire across the river!"
Far away in the darkness rows of tiny windows in an unseen mansion171 had suddenly become brilliantly visible.
"It—it must be Mr. Ruffin's house," she said in an awed172 voice. "Oh, Phil! It is! Look! It's all on fire—it's—oh, see the flames on the roof! This is terrible—terrible—" She caught her breath.
"Phil! There's another house on fire! Do you see—do you see! It's Ailsa's house—Marye-mead! Oh, how could they set it on fire—how could they have the heart to burn that sweet old place!"
"Is that Marye-mead?" he asked.
"It must be. That's where it ought to stand—and—oh! oh! it's all on fire, Phil, all on fire!"
"Shells from the gun-boats," he muttered, watching the entire sky turn crimson173 as the flames burst into fury, lighting174 up clumps175 of trees and outhouses. And, as they looked, the windows of another house began to kindle176 ominously177; little tongues of fire fluttered over a distant cupola, leaped across to a gallery, ran up in vinelike tendrils which flowered into flame, veining178 everything in a riotous179 tangle180 of brilliancy. And through the kindling181 darkness the sinister182 boom—boom! of the guns never ceased, and the shells continued to mount, curve, and fall, streaking183 the night with golden incandescence.
Outside the gates, at the end of the cedar-lined avenue, where the highway passes, the tumult was increasing every moment amid shouts, cracking of whips, the jingle184 and clash of traces and metallic185 racket of wheels. The house, too, resounded with the heavy hurried tread of army boots trampling186 up and down stairs and crossing the floors above in every direction.
In the summer kitchen loud-voiced soldiers were cooking; there came the clatter of plates from the dining-room, the odour of hot bread and frying pork.
"All my negroes except old Peter and a quadroon maid have gone crazy," said Celia hopelessly. "I had them so comfo'tably qua'tered and provided foh!—Cary, the ove'seer, would have looked after them while the war lasts—but the sight of the blue uniforms unbalanced them, and they swa'med to the river, where the contraband187 boats were taking runaways188. . . . Such foolish creatures! They were ve'y happy here and quite safe and well treated. . . . And everyone has deserted189, old and young!—toting their bundles and baskets on their silly haids—every negro on Paigecourt plantation, every servant in this house except Peter and Sadie has gone with the contrabands . . . I'm sure I don't know what these soldiers are cooking in the kitchen. I expect they'll end by setting the place afire, and I told Curt so, but he can't he'p it, and I can't. It's ve'y hard to see the house turned out of the windows, and the lawns and gardens cut to pieces by hoofs190 and wheels, but I'm only too thankful that Curt can find shelter under this roof, and nothing matters any mo' as long as he and Stephen are alive and well."
"Haven't you heard from Ailsa yet?" asked Berkley in a low voice.
"Oh, Phil! I'm certainly worried. She was expecting to go on board some hospital boat at the landing the day befo' your regiment arrived. I haven't set eyes on her since. A gun-boat was to take one of the Commission's steamers to Fortress191 Monroe, and all that day the fleet kept on firing at our—at the Confederate batteries over the river"—she corrected herself wearily—"and I was so afraid, that Ailsa's steamer would try to get out——"
"Did it?"
"I don't know. There are so many, many boats at the landing, and there's been so much firing, and nobody seems to know what is happening or where anybody is. . . . And I don't know where Ailsa is, and I've been ve'y mise'ble because they say some volunteer nurses have been killed——"
"What!"
"I didn't want to tell you, Phil—until you were better——"
"Tell me what?" he managed to say, though a terrible fear was stiffening192 his lips and throat.
She said dully: "They get shot sometimes. You remember yo'se'f what that Sister of Charity said last night. I heard Ailsa cautioning Letty—the little nurse, Miss Lynden——"
"Yes, I know. What else?"
Celia's underlip quivered: "Nothing, only Ailsa told me that she was ordered to the field hospital fo' duty befo' she went aboard the commission boat—and she never came back—and there was a battle all that day——"
"Is that all?" he demanded, rising on one elbow. "Is there anything else you are concealing193?"
"No, Phil. I'd tell you if there was. Perhaps I'm foolish to be so nervous—but I don't know—that Sister of Charity struck by a bullet—and to think of Ailsa out there under fire—" She closed her eyes and sat shivering in the gray chill of the dawn, the tears silently stealing over her pale cheeks. Berkley stared out of the window at a confused and indistinct mass of waggons and tents and moving men, but the light was still too dim to distinguish uniforms; and presently Celia leaned forward and drew the curtains.
Then she turned and took Berkley's hands in hers.
"Phil, dear," she said softly, "I suspect how it is with you and
Ailsa. Am I indiscreet to speak befo' you give me any warrant?"
He said nothing.
"The child certainly is in love with you. A blind woman could divine that," continued Celia wistfully. "I am glad, Phil, because I believe you are as truly devoted195 to her as she is to you. And when the time comes—if God spares you both——"
"You are mistaken," he said quietly, "there is no future before us."
She coloured in consternation. "Wh—why I certainly supposed—believed——"
"Celia!"
"W-what, dear?"
"Don't you know I cannot marry?"
"Why not, Philip?"
"Could I marry Ailsa Craig unless I first told her that my father and my mother were never married?" he said steadily196.
"Oh, Philip!" she cried, tears starting to her eyes again, "do you think that would weigh with a girl who is so truly and unselfishly in love with you?"
"You don't understand," he said wearily. "I'd take that chance now. But do you think me disloyal enough to confess to any woman on earth what my mother, if she were living, would sacrifice her very life to conceal194?"
He bent his head, supporting it in his hands, speaking as though to himself:
"I believe that the brain is the vehicle, not the origin of thought. I believe a brain becomes a mind only when an immortality197 exterior199 to ourselves animates200 it. And this is what is called the soul. . . . Whatever it is, it is what I saw—or what that something, exterior to my body, recognised.
"Perhaps these human eyes of mine did not see her. Something that belongs to me saw the immortal198 visitor; something, that is the vital part of me, saw, recognised, and was recognised."
For a long while they sat there, silent; the booming guns shook the window; the clatter and uproar of the passing waggon train filled their ears.
Suddenly the house rocked under the stunning201 crash of a huge gun. Celia sprang to her feet, caught at the curtain as another terrific blast shivered the window-panes and filled the room with acrid202 dust.
Through the stinging clouds of powdered plaster Colonel Craig entered the room, hastily pulling on his slashed203 coat as he came.
"There's a fort in the rear of us—don't be frightened, Celia. I think they must be firing at——"
His voice was drowned in the thunder of another gun; Celia made her way to him, hid her face on his breast as the room shook again and the plaster fell from the ceiling, filling the room with blinding dust.
"Oh, Curt," she gasped204, "this is dreadful. Philip cannot stay here——"
"Better pull the sheets over his head," said her husband, meeting Berkley's eyes with a ghost of a smile. "It won't last long; and there are no rebel batteries that can reach Paigecourt." He kissed her. "How are you feeling, dear? I'm trying to arrange for you to go North on the first decent transport——"
"I want to stay with you, Curt," she pleaded, tightening205 her arms around his neck. "Can't I stay as long as my husband and son are here? I don't wish to go——"
"You can't stay," he said gently. "There is no immediate206 danger here at Paigecourt, but the army is turning this landing into a vast pest hole. It's deadly unhealthy. I wish you to go home just as soon as I can secure transportation——"
"And let them burn Paigecourt? Who is there to look after——"
"We'll have to take such chances, Celia. The main thing is for you to pack up and go home as soon as you possibly can. . . . I've got to go out now. I'll try to come back to-night. The General understands that it's your house, and that you are my wife; and there's a guard placed and a union flag hung out from the gallery——"
She looked up quickly; a pink flush stained her neck and forehead.
"I would not use that wicked flag to protect myse'f," she said quietly—"nor to save this house, either, Curt. It's only fo' you and Phil that I care what happens to anything now——"
"Then go North, you bad little rebel!" whispered her husband, drawing her into his arms. "Paige and Marye have been deserted long enough; and you've seen sufficient of this war—plenty to last your lifetime——"
"I saw Ailsa's house burn," she said slowly.
"Marye-mead. When?"
"This mo'ning, Curt. Phil thinks it was the shells from the gun-boats. It can't be he'ped now; it's gone. So is Edmund Ruffin's. And I wish I knew where that child, Ailsa, is. I'm that frightened and mise'ble, Curt——"
An orderly suddenly appeared at the door; her husband kissed her and hurried away. The outer door swung wide, letting in a brassy clangour of bugles and a roll of drums, which softened207 when the door closed with a snap.
It opened again abruptly, and a thin, gray-garbed figure came in, hesitated, and Celia turned, staring through her tears:
"Miss Lynden!" she exclaimed. "Is Ailsa here?"
Berkley sat up and leaned forward, looking at her intently from the mass of bandages.
"Letty!" he said, "where is Mrs. Paige?"
Celia had caught the girl's hands in hers, and was searching her thin white face with anxious eyes; and Letty shook her head and looked wonderingly at Berkley.
"Nothing has happened to her," she said. "A Sister of Mercy was wounded in the field hospital near Azalea, and they sent for Mrs. Paige to fill her place temporarily. And," looking from Celia to Berkley, "she is well and unhurt. The fighting is farther west now. Mrs. Paige heard yesterday that the 8th Lancers were encamped near Paigecourt and asked me to find Mr. Berkley—and deliver a letter——"
She smiled, drew from her satchel a letter, and, disengaging her other hand from Celia's, went over to the bed and placed it in Berkley's hands.
"She is quite well," repeated Letty reassuringly208; and, to Celia: "She sends her love to you and to your husband and son, and wishes to know how they are and where their regiment is stationed."
"You sweet little thing!" said Celia, impulsively209 taking her into her arms and kissing her pale face. "My husband and my son are safe and well, thank God, and my cousin, Phil Berkley, is convalescent, and you may tell my sister-in-law that we all were worried most to death at not hearing from her. And now I'm going to get you a cup of broth210—you poor little white-faced child! How did you ever get here?"
"Our ambulance brought me. We had sick men to send North. Ailsa couldn't leave, so she asked me to come."
She accepted a chair near the bed. Celia went away to prepare some breakfast with the aid of old Peter and Sadie, her maid. And as soon as she left the room Letty sprang to her feet and went straight to Berkley.
"I did not tell the entire truth," she said in a low, excited voice. "I heard your regiment was here; Ailsa learned it from me. I was coming anyway to see you."
"To see me, Letty?" he repeated, surprised and smiling.
"Yes," she said, losing what little colour remained in her cheeks.
"I am in—in much—anxiety—to know—what to do."
"Can I help you?"
She looked wistfully at him; the tears rushed into her eyes; she dropped on her knees at his bedside and hid her face on his hands.
[Illustration: "She dropped on her knees at his bedside and hid her face on his hands."]
"Letty—Letty!" he said in astonishment211, "what on earth has happened?"
She looked up, lips quivering, striving to meet his gaze through her tears.
"Dr. Benton is here. . . . He—he has asked me to—marry him."
Berkley lay silent, watching her intently.
"Oh, I know—I know," she sobbed. "I can't, can I? I should have to tell him—and he would never speak to me again—never write to me—never be what he has been all these months!—I know I cannot marry him. I came to tell you—to ask—but it's no use—no use. I knew what you would say——"
"Letty! Wait a moment——"
She rose, controlling herself with a desperate effort.
"Forgive me, Mr. Berkley; I didn't mean to break down; but I'm so tired—and—I wanted you—I needed to hear you tell me what was right. . . . But I knew already. Even if I were—were treacherous212 enough to marry him—I know he would find me out. . . . I can't get away from it—I can't seem to get away. Yesterday, in camp, the 20th Cavalry halted—and there was John Casson!—And I nearly dropped dead beside Dr. Benton—oh the punishment for what I did!—the awful punishment!—and Casson stared at me and said: 'My Lord, Letty! is that you?'"
She buried her burning cheeks in her hands.
"I did not lie to him. I offered him my hand; and perhaps he saw the agony in my face, for he didn't say anything about the Canterbury, but he took off his forage cap and was pleasant and kind. And he and Dr. Benton spoke to each other until the bugles sounded for the regiment to mount."
She flung her slender arm out in a tragic213 gesture toward the horizon. "The world is not wide enough to hide in," she said in a heart-breaking voice. "I thought it was—but there is no shelter—no place—no place in all the earth!"
"Letty," he said slowly, "if your Dr. Benton is the man I think he is—and I once knew him well enough to judge—he is the only man on earth fit to hear the confession214 you have made this day to me."
She looked at him, bewildered.
"I advise you to love him and marry him. Tell him about yourself if you choose; or don't tell him. There is a vast amount of nonsense talked about the moral necessity of turning one's self inside out the moment one comes to marry. Let me tell you, few men can do it; and their fiancees survive the shock. So, few men are asses165 enough to try it. As for women, few have any confessions215 to make. A few have. You are one."
"Yes," she whispered.
"But I wouldn't if I were you. If ever any man or woman took the
chance of salvation216 and made the most of it, that person is you!
And I'm going to tell you that I wouldn't hesitate to marry you if
I loved you."
"W-what!"
He laughed. "Not one second! It's a good partnership217 for any plan. Don't be afraid that you can't meet men on their own level. You're above most of us now; and you're mounting steadily. There, that's my opinion of you—that you're a good woman, and a charming one; and Benton is devilish lucky to get you. . . . Come here, Letty."
She went to him as though dazed; and he took both her hands in his.
"Don't you know," he said, "that I have seen you, day after day, intimately associated with the woman I love? Can you understand now that I am telling the truth when I say, let the past bury its ghosts; and go on living as you have lived from the moment that your chance came to live nobly. I know what you have made of yourself. I know what the chances were against you. You are a better woman to-day than many who will die untempted. And you shall not doubt it, Letty. What a soul is born into is often fine and noble; what a soul makes of itself is beyond all praise.
"Choose your own way; tell him or not; but if you love him, give yourself to him. Whether or not you tell him, he will want you—as I would—as any man would. . . . Now you must smile at me, Letty."
She turned toward him a face, pallid, enraptured218, transfigured with an inward radiance that left him silent—graver after that swift glimpse of a soul exalted219.
She said slowly: "You and Ailsa have been God's own messengers to me. . . . I shall tell Dr. Benton. . . . If he still wishes it, I will marry him. It will be for him to ask—after he knows all."
Celia entered, carrying the breakfast on a tray.
"Curt's Zouaves have stolen ev'y pig, but I found bacon and po'k in the cellar," she said, smilingly. "Oh, dear! the flo' is in such a mess of plaster! Will you sit on the aidge of the bed, Miss Lynden, and he'p my cousin eat this hot co'n pone220?"
So the napkin was spread over the sheets, and pillows tucked behind Berkley; and Celia and Letty fed him, and Letty drank her coffee and thankfully ate her bacon and corn pone, telling them both, between bites, how it had been with her and with Ailsa since the great retreat set in, swamping all hospitals with the sick and wounded of an unbeaten but disheartened army, now doomed221 to decimation by disease.
"It was dreadful," she said. "We could hear the firing for miles and miles, and nobody knew what was happening. But all the northern papers said it was one great victory after another, and we believed them. All the regimental bands at the Landing played; and everybody was so excited. We all expected to hear that our army was in Richmond."
Celia reddened to the ears, and her lips tightened222, but she said nothing; and Letty went on, unconscious of the fiery emotions awaking in Celia's breast:
"Everybody was so cheerful and happy in the hospital—all those poor sick soldiers," she said, "and everybody was beginning to plan to go home, thinking the war had nearly ended. I thought so, too, and I was so glad. And then, somehow, people began to get uneasy; and the first stragglers appeared. . . . Oh, it did seem incredible at first; we wouldn't believe that the siege of Richmond had been abandoned."
She smiled drearily223. "I've found out that it is very easy to believe what you want to believe in this world. . . . Will you have some more broth, Mr. Berkley?"
Before he could answer the door opened and a red zouave came in, carrying his rifle and knapsack.
"Mother," he said in an awed voice, "Jimmy Lent is dead!"
"What!"
He looked stupidly around the room, resting his eyes on Letty and
Berkley, then dropped heavily onto a chair.
"Jim's dead," he repeated vacantly. "He only arrived here yesterday—transferred from his militia to McDunn's battery. And now he's dead. Some one had better write to Camilla. I'm afraid to. . . . A shell hit him last night—oh—he's all torn to pieces—and Major Lent doesn't know it, either. . . . Father let me come; we're ordered across the river; good-bye, mother—" He rose and put his arms around her.
"You'll write to Camilla, won't you?" he said. "Tell her I love her. I didn't know it until just a few minutes ago. But I do, mother. I'd like to marry her. Tell her not to cry too much. Jimmy was playing cards, they say, and a big shell fell inside the redoubt. Philip—I think you knew Harry224 Sayre? Transferred from the 7th to the Zouaves as lieutenant225 in the 5th company?"
"Yes. Was he killed?"
"Oh, Lord, yes; everybody in the shebang except Arthur Wye was all torn to pieces. Tommy Atherton, too; you knew him, of course—5th Zouaves. He happened in—just visiting Arthur Wye. They were all playing cards in a half finished bomb-proof. . . . Mother, you will write to Camilla, won't you, dear? Good-bye—good-bye, Phil—and Miss Lynden!" He caught his mother in his arms for a last hug, wrenched226 himself free, and ran back across the hall, bayonet and canteen clanking.
"Oh, why are they sending Curt's regiment across the river?" wailed227 Celia, following to the window. "Look at them, Phil! Can you see? The road is full of Zouaves—there's a whole regiment of them in blue, too. The batteries are all harnessed up; do you think there's going to be another battle? I don't know why they want to fight any mo'!" she exclaimed in sudden wrath228 and anguish229. "I don't understand why they are not willing to leave the South alone. My husband will be killed, and my only son—like Jimmy Lent—if they don't ever stop this wicked fighting——"
The roar of a heavy gun buried the room in plaster dust. Letty calmly lifted the tray from the bed and set it on a table. Then very sweetly and with absolute composure she took leave of Celia and of Berkley. They saw her climb into an ambulance which was drawn up on the grass.
Then Berkley opened the letter that Letty had brought him:
"This is just a hurried line to ask you a few questions. Do you know a soldier named Arthur Wye? He is serving now as artilleryman in the 10th N. Y. Flying Battery, Captain McDunn. Are you acquainted with a lieutenant in the 5th Zouaves, named Cortlandt? I believe he is known to his intimates as Billy or 'Pop' Cortlandt. Are they trustworthy and reliable men? Where did you meet Miss Lynden and how long have you known her? Please answer immediately.
"AILSA PAIGE."
Wondering, vaguely uneasy, he read and re-read this note, so unlike Ailsa, so brief, so disturbing in its direct coupling of the people in whose company he had first met Letty Lynden. . . . Yet, on reflection, he dismissed apprehension230, Ailsa was too fine a character to permit any change in her manner to humiliate231 Letty even if, by hazard, knowledge of the unhappy past had come to her concerning the pretty, pallid nurse of Sainte Ursula.
As for Arthur Wye and Billy Cortlandt, they were incapable232 of anything contemptible233 or malicious234.
He asked Celia for a pencil and paper, and, propped235 on his pillows, he wrote:
"My darling, I don't exactly understand your message, but I guess it's all right. To answer it:
"Billy Cortlandt and Arthur Wye are old New York friends of mine. Their words are better than other people's bonds. Letty Lynden is a sweet, charming girl. I regret that I have not known her years longer than I have. I am sending this in haste to catch Letty's ambulance just departing, though still blocked by artillery passing the main road. Can you come? I love you.
"PHILIP BERKLEY."
Celia sent her coloured man running after the ambulance. He caught it just as it started on. Berkley, from his window, saw the servant deliver his note to Letty.
He had not answered the two questions concerning Letty. He could not. So he had evaded236 them.
Preoccupied237, still conscious of the lingering sense of uneasiness, he turned on his pillows and looked out of the window.
An enormous cloud of white smoke rose curling from the river, another, another; and boom! boom! boom! came the solid thunder of cannon. The gunboats at the Landing were opening fire; cavalry were leading their horses aboard transports; and far down the road the sun glistened238 on a long column of scarlet, where the 3rd Zouaves were marching to their boats.
The sharpshooters had already begun to trouble them. Their officers ordered them to lie down while awaiting their turn to embark239. After a while many of the men sat up on the ground to stretch and look about them, Stephen among the others. And a moment later a conoidal bullet struck him square in the chest and knocked him flat in the dirt among his comrades.
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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infantry
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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doggedly
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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corps
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enveloped
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tornadoes
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musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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uproar
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pall
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flare
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victorious
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ponchos
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ammunition
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| n.军火，弹药 | |
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cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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29
spouting
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| n.水落管系统v.（指液体）喷出( spout的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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30
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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31
muzzles
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| 枪口( muzzle的名词复数 )； （防止动物咬人的）口套； （四足动物的）鼻口部； （狗）等凸出的鼻子和口 | |
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32
incandescence
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| n.白热，炽热；白炽 | |
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33
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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34
harried
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| v.使苦恼( harry的过去式和过去分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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35
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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36
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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37
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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38
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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39
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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40
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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41
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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42
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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43
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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44
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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45
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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46
enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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47
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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49
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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50
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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52
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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53
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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54
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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55
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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56
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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57
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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58
forage
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| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
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59
rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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60
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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61
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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62
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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63
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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64
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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65
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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66
naively
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| adv. 天真地 | |
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67
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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68
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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69
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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70
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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71
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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72
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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73
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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74
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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75
clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
slash
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| vi.大幅度削减；vt.猛砍，尖锐抨击，大幅减少；n.猛砍，斜线，长切口，衣衩 | |
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77
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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78
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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79
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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80
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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81
satchel
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| n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
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82
bugles
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| 妙脆角，一种类似薯片但做成尖角或喇叭状的零食； 号角( bugle的名词复数 )； 喇叭； 匍匐筋骨草； （装饰女服用的）柱状玻璃（或塑料）小珠 | |
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83
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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84
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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85
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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86
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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87
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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88
dinning
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| vt.喧闹（din的现在分词形式） | |
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89
bridles
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| 约束( bridle的名词复数 )； 限动器； 马笼头； 系带 | |
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90
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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91
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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92
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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93
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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94
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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95
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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96
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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97
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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99
picket
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| n.纠察队；警戒哨；v.设置纠察线；布置警卫 | |
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100
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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101
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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102
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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103
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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104
pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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105
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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106
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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107
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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108
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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109
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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110
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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111
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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112
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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113
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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114
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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115
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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116
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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117
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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118
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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119
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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120
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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121
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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122
chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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123
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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124
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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125
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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126
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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127
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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128
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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129
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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130
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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131
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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132
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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133
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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134
militia
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| n.民兵，民兵组织 | |
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135
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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136
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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137
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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138
imprison
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| vt.监禁，关押，限制，束缚 | |
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139
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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140
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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141
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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142
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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143
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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144
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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145
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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146
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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147
wraith
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| n.幽灵；骨瘦如柴的人 | |
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148
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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150
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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151
sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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152
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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153
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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154
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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155
concussion
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| n.脑震荡；震动 | |
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156
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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157
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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158
mallet
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| n.槌棒 | |
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159
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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160
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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161
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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162
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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163
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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164
warships
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| 军舰，战舰( warship的名词复数 )； 舰只 | |
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165
asses
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| n. 驴，愚蠢的人，臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
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166
flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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167
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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168
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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169
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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170
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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171
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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172
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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174
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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175
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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176
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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177
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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178
veining
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| n.脉络分布；矿脉 | |
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179
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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180
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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181
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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182
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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183
streaking
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| n.裸奔（指在公共场所裸体飞跑）v.快速移动( streak的现在分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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184
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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185
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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186
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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187
contraband
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| n.违禁品，走私品 | |
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188
runaways
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| （轻而易举的）胜利( runaway的名词复数 ) | |
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189
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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190
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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191
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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192
stiffening
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| n. (使衣服等)变硬的材料, 硬化 动词stiffen的现在分词形式 | |
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193
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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194
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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195
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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196
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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197
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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198
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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199
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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200
animates
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| v.使有生气( animate的第三人称单数 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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201
stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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202
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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203
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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204
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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205
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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206
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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207
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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208
reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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209
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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210
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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211
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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212
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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213
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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214
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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215
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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216
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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217
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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218
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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219
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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220
pone
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| n.玉米饼 | |
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221
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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222
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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223
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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224
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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225
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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226
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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227
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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228
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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229
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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230
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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231
humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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232
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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233
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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234
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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235
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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236
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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237
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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238
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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239
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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