The Coup De Grâce21
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 non-commissioned 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 chine22 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,23 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 whatever 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 grâce.
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 the 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,
clean-cut 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.