by Ambrose Bierce
The fighting had been hard and continuous;
that was attested by all the senses. The very taste of battle was in the air. All
was now over; it remained only to succor the wounded and bury the dead--to "tidy
up a bit," as the humorist of a burial squad put it. A good deal of "tidying up"
was required. As far as one could see through the forests, among the splintered
trees, lay wrecks of men and horses. Among them moved the stretcher-bearers,
gathering and carrying away the few who showed signs of life. Most of the
wounded had died of neglect while the right to minister to their wants was in
dispute. It is an army regulation that the wounded must wait; the best way to
care for them is to win the battle. It must be confessed that victory is a
distinct advantage to a man requiring attention, but many do not live to avail
themselves of it.
The dead were collected in groups of a dozen or a score and laid side by side in
rows while the trenches were dug to receive them. Some, found at too great a
distance from these rallying points, were buried where they lay. There was
little attempt at identification, though in most cases, the burial parties being
detailed to glean the same ground which they had assisted to reap, the names of
the victorious dead were known and listed. The enemy's fallen had to be content
with counting. But of that they got enough: many of them were counted several
times, and the total, as given afterward in the official report of the
victorious commander, denoted rather a hope than a result.
At some little distance from the spot where one of the burial parties had
established its "bivouac of the dead," a man in the uniform of a Federal officer
stood leaning against a tree. From his feet upward to his neck his attitude was
that of weariness reposing; but he turned his head uneasily from side to side;
his mind was apparently not at rest. He was perhaps uncertain in which direction
to go; he was not likely to remain long where he was, for already the level rays
of the setting sun straggled redly through the open spaces of the wood and the
weary soldiers were quitting their task for the day. He would hardly make a
night of it alone there among the dead. Nine men in ten whom you meet after a
battle inquire the way to some fraction of the army--as if any one could know.
Doubtless this officer was lost. After resting himself a moment he would
presumably follow one of the retiring burial squads.
When all were gone he walked straight away into the forest toward the red west,
its light staining his face like blood. The air of confidence with which he now
strode along showed that he was on familiar ground; he had recovered his
bearings. The dead on his right and on his left were unregarded as he passed. An
occasional low moan from some sorely-stricken wretch whom the relief-parties had
not reached, and who would have to pass a comfortless night beneath the stars
with his thirst to keep him company, was equally unheeded. What, indeed, could
the officer have done, being no surgeon and having no water?
At the head of a shallow ravine, a mere depression of the ground, lay a small
group of bodies. He saw, and swerving suddenly from his course walked rapidly
toward them. Scanning each one sharply as he passed, he stopped at last above
one which lay at a slight remove from the others, near a clump of small trees.
He looked at it narrowly. It seemed to stir. He stooped and laid his hand upon
its face. It screamed.
The officer was Captain Downing Madwell, of a Massachusetts regiment of
infantry, a daring and intelligent soldier, an honorable man.
In the regiment were two brothers named Halcrow--Caffal and Creede Halcrow.
Caffal Halcrow was a sergeant in Captain Madwell's company, and these two men,
the sergeant and the captain, were devoted friends. In so far as disparity of
rank, difference in duties and considerations of military discipline would
permit they were commonly together. They had, indeed, grown up together from
childhood. A habit of the heart is not easily broken off. Caffal Halcrow had
nothing military in his taste nor disposition, but the thought of separation
from his friend was disagreeable; he enlisted in the company in which Madwell was
second-lieutenant. Each had taken two steps upward in rank, but between the
highest noncommissioned and the lowest commissioned officer the gulf is deep and
wide and the old relation was maintained with difficulty and a difference.
Creede Halcrow, the brother of Caffal, was the major of the regiment--a cynical,
saturnine man, between whom and Captain Madwell there was a natural antipathy
which circumstances had nourished and strengthened to an active animosity. But
for the restraining influence of their mutual relation to Caffal these two
patriots would doubtless have endeavored to deprive their country of each
other's services.
At the opening of the battle that morning the regiment was performing outpost
duty a mile away from the main army. It was attacked and nearly surrounded in
the forest, but stubbornly held its ground. During a lull in the fighting, Major
Halcrow came to Captain Madwell. The two exchanged formal salutes, and the major
said: "Captain, the colonel directs that you push your company to the head of
this ravine and hold your place there until recalled. I need hardly apprise you
of the dangerous character of the movement, but if you wish, you can, I suppose,
turn over the command to your first-lieutenant. I was not, however, directed to
authorize the substitution; it is merely a suggestion of my own, unofficially
made."
To this deadly insult Captain Madwell coolly replied:
"Sir, I invite you to accompany the movement. A mounted officer would be a
conspicuous mark, and I have long held the opinion that it would be better if
you were dead."
The art of repartee was cultivated in military circles as early as 1862.
A half-hour later Captain Madwell's company was driven from its position at the
head of the ravine, with a loss of one-third its number. Among the fallen was
Sergeant Halcrow. The regiment was soon afterward forced back to the main line,
and at the close of the battle was miles away. The captain was now standing at
the side of his subordinate and friend.
Sergeant Halcrow was mortally hurt. His clothing was deranged; it seemed to have
been violently torn apart, exposing the abdomen. Some of the buttons of his
jacket had been pulled off and lay on the ground beside him and fragments of his
other garments were strewn about. His leather belt was parted and had apparently
been dragged from beneath him as he lay. There had been no great effusion of
blood. The only visible wound was a wide, ragged opening in the abdomen. It was
defiled with earth and dead leaves. Protruding from it was a loop of small
intestine. In all his experience Captain Madwell had not seen a wound like this.
He could neither conjecture how it was made nor explain the attendant
circumstances--the strangely torn clothing, the parted belt, the besmirching of
the white skin. He knelt and made a closer examination. When he rose to his
feet, he turned his eyes in different directions as if looking for an enemy.
Fifty yards away, on the crest of a low, thinly wooded hill, he saw several dark
objects moving about among the fallen men--a herd of swine. One stood with its
back to him, its shoulders sharply elevated. Its forefeet were upon a human
body, its head was depressed and invisible. The bristly ridge of its chine
showed black against the red west. Captain Madwell drew away his eyes and fixed
them again upon the thing which had been his friend.
The man who had suffered these monstrous mutilations was alive. At intervals he
moved his limbs; he moaned at every breath. He stared blankly into the face of
his friend and if touched screamed. In his giant agony he had torn up the ground
on which he lay; his clenched hands were full of leaves and twigs and earth.
Articulate speech was beyond his power; it was impossible to know if he were
sensible to anything but pain. The expression of his face was an appeal; his
eyes were full of prayer. For what?
There was no misreading that look; the captain had too frequently seen it in
eyes of those whose lips had still the power to formulate it by an entreaty for
death. Consciously or unconsciously, this writhing fragment of humanity, this
type and example of acute sensation, this handiwork of man and beast, this
humble, unheroic Prometheus, was imploring everything, all, the whole non-ego,
for the boon of oblivion. To the earth and the sky alike, to the trees, to the
man, to what ever took form in sense or consciousness, this incarnate suffering
addressed that silent plea.
For what, indeed? For that which we accord to even the meanest creature without
sense to demand it, denying it only to the wretched of our own race: for the
blessed release, the rite of uttermost compassion, the coup de grāce.
Captain Madwell spoke the name of his friend. He repeated it over and over
without effect until emotion choked his utterance. His tears plashed upon the
livid face beneath his own and blinded himself. He saw nothing but a blurred and
moving object, but the moans were more distinct than ever, interrupted at
briefer intervals by sharper shrieks. He turned away, struck his hand upon his
forehead, and strode from the spot. The swine, catching sight of him, threw up
their crimson muzzles, regarding him suspiciously a second, and then with a
gruff, concerted grunt, raced away out of sight. A horse, its foreleg splintered
by a cannon-shot, lifted its head sidewise from the ground and neighed
piteously. Madwell stepped forward, drew his revolver and shot the poor beast
between his eyes, narrowly observing its death-struggle, which, contrary to his
expectation, was violent and long; but at last it lay still. The tense muscles
of its lips, which had uncovered the teeth in a horrible grin, relaxed; the
sharp, cleancut profile took on a look of profound peace and rest.
Along the distant, thinly wooded crest to westward the fringe of sunset fire had
now nearly burned itself out. The light upon the trunks of the trees had faded
to a tender gray; shadows were in their tops, like great dark birds aperch.
Night was coming and there were miles of haunted forest between Captain Madwell
and camp. Yet he stood there at the side of the dead animal, apparently lost to
all sense of his surroundings. His eyes were bent upon the earth at his feet;
his left hand hung loosely at his side, his right still held the pistol.
Presently he lifted his face, turned it toward his dying friend and walked
rapidly back to his side. He knelt upon one knee, cocked the weapon, placed the
muzzle against the man's forehead, and turning away his eyes pulled the trigger.
There was no report. He had used his last cartridge for the horse.
The sufferer moaned and his lips moved convulsively. The froth that ran from
them had a tinge of blood.
Captain Madwell rose to his feet and drew his sword from the scabbard. He passed
the fingers of his left hand along the edge from hilt to point. He held it out
straight before him, as if to test his nerves. There was no visible tremor of
the blade; the ray of bleak skylight that it reflected was steady and true. He
stooped and with his left hand tore away the dying man's shirt, rose and placed
the point of the sword just over the heart. This time he did not withdraw his
eyes. Grasping the hilt with both hands, he thrust downward with all his
strength and weight. The blade sank into the man's body--through his body into
the earth; Captain Madwell came near falling forward upon his work. The dying
man drew up his knees and at the same time threw his right arm across his breast
and grasped the steel so tightly that the knuckles of the hand visibly whitened.
By a violent but vain effort to withdraw the blade the wound was enlarged; a
rill of blood escaped, running sinuously down into the deranged clothing. At
that moment three men stepped silently forward from behind the clump of young
trees which had concealed their approach. Two were hospital attendants and
carried a stretcher.
The third was Major Creede Halcrow.
1889, 1892