The Girl at the Halfway House | Page 6

appeared that he must be an intruder even thus against his will. He saw
approaching him, slowly but almost in direct line, two figures, an older
lady and a girl. They came on, as did the others, always with that slow,
searching attitude, the walk broken with pauses and stoopings. The
quest was but too obvious. And even as Franklin gazed, uncertain and
unable to escape, it seemed apparent that the two had found that which
they had sought. The girl, slightly in advance, ran forward a few paces,
paused, and then ran back. "Oh, there! there!" she cried. And then the
older woman took the girl's head upon her bosom. With bared head and
his own hand at his eyes, Franklin hurried away, hoping himself unseen,
but bearing indelibly pictured on his brain the scene of which he had
been witness. He wanted to cry out, to halt the advancing columns
which would soon be here, to tell them that they must not come upon
this field, made sacred by such woe.
The column of occupation had begun its movement. Far as the eye
could see, the way was filled with the Northern troops now swinging
forward in the march. Their course would be along this road, across
these earthworks, and over the fields between the wood and the town.
The rattle and rumble of the advance began. Upon the morning air there
rose the gallant and forgetful music which bade the soldier think not of
what had been or would be, but only of the present. The bugles and the
cymbals sounded high and strong in the notes of triumph. The game
was over. The army was coming to take possession of that which it had
won.
It had won--what? Could the answer be told by this chorus of woe
which arose upon the field of Louisburg? Could the value of this
winning be summed by the estimate of these heaps of sodden, shapeless
forms? Here were the fields, and here lay the harvest, the old and the

young, the wheat and the flower alike cut down. Was this, then, what
the conqueror had won?
Near the intrenchment where the bitter close had been, and where there
was need alike for note of triumph, and forgetfulness, the band major
marshalled his music, four deep and forty strong, and swung out into
the anthem of the flag. The march was now generally and steadily
begun. The head of the column broke from the last cover of the wood
and came into full sight at the edge of the open country. Thus there
came into view the whole panorama of the field, dotted with the slain
and with those who sought the slain. The music of triumph was
encountered by the concerted voice of grief and woe. There appeared
for the feet of this army not a mere road, a mere battlefield, but a
ground sacred, hedged high about, not rudely to be violated.
But the band major was a poet, a great man. There came to him no
order telling him what he should do, but the thing was in his soul that
should be done. There came to him, wafted from the field of sorrow, a
note which was command, a voice which sounded to him above the
voices of his own brasses, above the tapping of the kettledrums. A
gesture of command, and the music ceased absolutely. A moment, and
it had resumed.
The forty black horses which made up this regimental band were the
pride of the division. Four deep, forty strong, with arching necks, with
fore feet reaching far and drooping softly, each horse of the famous
cavalry band passed on out upon the field of Louisburg with such
carriage as showed it sensible of its mission. The reins lay loose upon
their necks, but they kept step to the music which they felt. Forty
horses paced slowly forward, keeping step. Forty trumpeters, each man
with his right hand aloft, holding his instrument, his left hand at his
side, bearing the cap which he had removed, rode on across the field of
Louisburg. The music was no longer the hymn of triumph.
Softly and sadly, sweetly and soothingly, the trumpets sang a melody
of other days, an air long loved in the old-time South. And Annie
Laurie, weeping, heard and listened, and wept the more, and blessed
God for her tears!

BOOK II
THE DAY OF THE BUFFALO
CHAPTER IV
BATTERSLEIGH OF THE RILE IRISH
Colonel Henry Battersleigh sat in his tent engaged in the composition
of a document which occasioned him concern. That Colonel
Battersleigh should be using his tent as office and residence--for that
such was the fact even the most casual glance must have
determined--was for him a circumstance offering no special or
extraordinary