The Littlest Rebel Part 25

And then, through the yellow dust clouds and the powder smoke and all the horrid reek of war, a child came running with outstretched arms and piteous voice--a frightened child, weeping for the father who had thrown himself headlong into peril to save another's life and who, perhaps, had lost his own.

CHAPTER IX

The headquarters of the Army of the Potomac on the morning of August 4, 1864, were at City Point near where the Appomattox meets the James. Here the grim, silent man in whose hands lay the destinies of the United States sent out the telegrams which kept the Federal forces gnawing at the cage in which Lee had shut himself and meanwhile held to his strategic position south of Richmond. To his left and west lay Petersburg still unconquered, but Petersburg could wait, for Early's gray clad troopers were scourging the Shenandoah and the menace must be removed. To this end Grant had sent a telegram to Washington three days before expressing in unmistakable terms what he wished General Sheridan and his cavalry to accomplish. They were to go over into the Shenandoah and, putting themselves _south_ of the enemy, follow him to the death.

To which telegram the tall, lank, furrow-faced man in the White House whose kindly heart was bursting with the strain replied in characteristic fashion and told him that his purpose was exactly right.

And then, with a gleam of humor, warned him against influences in Washington which would prevent its carrying out unless he forced it.

This message had come but a few minutes before and it had been received with silent satisfaction for Grant knew now that Abraham Lincoln and he were in perfect accord as to the means for swiftly bringing on the end.

But the plans must be well laid and to that end he must leave City Point within a few hours and go north. And so he was standing at a window of his headquarters this morning with his eyes resting unseeingly on the camp, while his cool, quiet mind steadily forged out his schemes.

Unlike the headquarters of "play" armies where all is noise and confusion and bloodied orderlies throw themselves off of plunging horses and gasp out their reports, the room in which General Grant did his work was strangely quiet.

It was a large, square room with high ceiling and wall paper which had defied all the arts of Europe to render interesting in design. Furniture was neither plentiful nor comfortable--a slippery, black horse-hair sofa, a few horse-hair chairs and, at one side of the room, a table and a desk, littered with papers, maps and files. At the table Grant's adjutant, Forbes, sat writing. Facing him was the door opening out into the hallway of the house where two sentries stood on guard. In the silence which pervaded the room and in the quiet application to the work in hand there was a perfect reflection of the mind of him who stood impa.s.sive at the window with his back turned, a faint blue cloud of cigar smoke rising above his head.

A quick step sounded in the corridor--the step of one who bears a message. An orderly appeared in the doorway, spoke to the two sentries and was pa.s.sed in with a salute to Forbes.

"For General Grant," he said, holding out a folded note of white paper.

"Personal from Lieutenant Harris, sir."

At the sound of his name the General turned slowly and accepted the note which the orderly presented. He took it without haste and yet without any perceptible loss of time or motion and, as always, without unnecessary words. Scanning it, he shifted his cigar to one corner of his mouth where its smoke would not rise into his eyes, thought for an instant, then nodded shortly.

"I'll see him. At once."

Dismissed, the orderly saluted and pa.s.sed quickly out. The General, with his chin in his collar and his cigar held between his fingers at nearly the same level, moved back to the window and stood there silently as before. He knew what Lieutenant Harris would wish to speak to him about.

A few weeks before a Lieutenant-Colonel of cavalry had been court-martialed on the charge of allowing the escape of a spy. The court had found him guilty and its findings had been submitted to the higher authorities and endorsed by them. A copy of these reports now lay on his desk. All this his Adjutant, Forbes, knew as well as the General himself, but if Forbes had thought it worth while to speculate on the extent of his commander's interest he might have guessed for years without ever drawing one logical conclusion from all the hints that that impa.s.sive face and figure gave him.

Again a ringing step in the corridor and this time Lieutenant Harris came into the room, his hand going up in salute. But his General was still looking out of the window, his eyes on a dead level. There was a silence and then--without turning around--

"Well, Lieutenant, what is it?"

"A short conference, General, if you'll grant it. The case of Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison." It was hard work to talk to one who kept his back turned and Harris was embarra.s.sed.

The smoke from the General's cigar still curled lazily upwards.

"Reprieve?" came the monosyllabic question.

Harris caught himself together and put all his feelings.

"No, General. A _pardon_!"

At once Grant wheeled and stood gazing at him keenly.

"_Pardon?_" he said, and he advanced with deliberation to the desk where he stood with his eyes steady on Harris' face. "Lieutenant! Do you want me to think you are out of your mind?"

Before Harris could reply Grant stopped him with a gesture and picked up a batch of papers which lay on the desk.

"The man has been given every chance. He has been court-martialed--and found guilty."

He dropped the papers in the case back on the desk. "And you--his counsel--having failed to prove him otherwise now come to _me_--for pardon."

He snapped his fingers. "Lieutenant, you are wasting time." And he turned away, pausing for a moment to turn over a sheaf here and there on his desk and meditate their contents. The incident of Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison has been disposed of and, in another moment would be forgotten.

It was now or never for Harris and he answered quickly.

"I hope not, sir. Neither yours nor mine." And then, as the General looked up with some surprise at this retort. "You have read the findings of the court?"

"Yes," was the grim reply. "And approve the sentence. To-morrow he will be shot."

"Yes, sir," acknowledged Harris. "Unless _you_ intervene."

At this curiously insistent plea for clemency the short, stocky bearded man who, to so few, had the bearing of a great general, faced Lieutenant Harris and gave him a look which made the young officer's bravery falter for a long moment.

"_I?_" said the General, with a searching note in his voice which seemed to probe coldly and with deadly accuracy among the strenuous emotions in the young man's mind. "Harris--you are an officer of promise. Don't cut that promise short." With a flick of his ashes to one side he turned away. The cigar went back into the corner of his sardonic mouth.

Harris strode forward an impulsive step and threw out his hands.

"It is worth the risk. When a man is condemned to die--"

The General wheeled with more impatience than the Adjutant, Forbes, had seen him exhibit through many vexatious, worrying months. His voice took on a rasping note. He tapped the papers on the desk with grim significance.

"Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison has failed in his military duty. He released a Rebel spy--proved himself a traitor to his cause."

"A traitor, General?" protested the young officer. "Do you call a man a traitor who fought as Morrison did a week ago? Who stood his ground till his whole command was shot to pieces! And then stood alone--defending his colors in the face of h.e.l.l let loose!"

The appeal was impa.s.sioned, its sincerity and humanity undoubted. Yet it seemingly only served to make the grim rules of war more unyielding than ever.

Choosing his words with more than ordinary care, and speaking them in firm, even tones, the General made his reply.

"No act of bravery can atone for a soldier's lapse from duty." He sat down at his desk and began to write.

Under ordinary circ.u.mstances Lieutenant Harris might have accepted defeat for there seemed no use in trying to break down that iron will or touch the heart of this relentless soldier. But this was something more than an ordinary case and Harris was more than simply Morrison's counsel--he was his friend. The two had fought together through three hard campaigns; they had shared food and water and shelter, had slept together for warmth on sodden fields, had exchanged such confidences as two officers from the same town in the North but of unequal rank may exchange under the pressure of war-time emotions. If there was one man living who knew Morrison's heart and appreciated his motives to the uttermost it was his lieutenant and the young officer was prepared to lose his commission, aye, even face prison for insubordination if continued opposition to the Commander-in-Chief would result in a re-hearing. And so he caught himself together for the second time and returned to the charge.

"I do not offer his courage as a plea for pardon," he said, and turned to his general with half a smile, "but still I find in Shakespeare--and in Blackstone--the suggestion of tempering justice with mercy."

Grant tossed aside his pencil, repeating the last word slowly, bitterly:

"_Mercy!_"

He rose from his seat and stood beside his table, speaking with a low but almost fierce intensity:

"They call me a war machine! I am! And you--and all the rest--are parts of it! A lever! A screw! A valve! A wheel! A machine half human--yes! A thing of muscle and bone and blood--but without a heart! A merciless _machine_, whose wheels must turn and turn till we grind out this rebellion to the dust of peace!"

He paused impressively, and in the hard, cold words which followed, all hope for Morrison seemed to fade and die.

"If a wheel once fails to do its work--discard it!--for another and a better one! _We want no wheels that slip their cogs!_"