“It is right that you should come,” he said a moment later, “but you will see terrible things.”
“I am ready.”
She seemed all the more admirable and wonderful to Colonel Winchester, because she did not weep or faint. The deathly pallor on her face remained, but she held herself firmly erect beside the gigantic colored woman.
“Come with me, Pennington,” said Colonel Winchester, “and you, too, Sergeant Whitley.”
The two men and the boy led the way upon the field, and the two women came close behind. They soon entered upon the area of conflict. The colonel had said that it would be terrible, but Mrs. Mason scarcely dreamed of the reality. It was one vast scene of frightful destruction, of torn and trampled earth and of dead men lying in all directions. The black of her faithful servant’s face turned to an ashen gray, and she trembled more than her mistress.
Colonel Winchester had a very clear idea of the line along which his regiment had advanced and retreated, and he followed it. But the lantern did not enable them to see far. As happened so often after the great battles of the Civil War, the signs began to portend rain. The long drouth would be broken, but whether by natural change or so much firing Colonel Winchester did not know. Despite the lateness of the season dim lightning was seen on the horizon. The great heat was broken by a cool wind that began to blow from the northwest.
The five advanced in silence, the two men and the boy still leading and the two women following close behind. Colonel Winchester’s heart began to sink yet farther. He had not felt much hope at first, and now he felt scarcely any at all. A few moments later, however, the sergeant suddenly held up his hand.
“What is it?” asked the colonel.
“I think I hear somebody calling.”
“Like as not. Plenty of wounded men may be calling in delirium.”
“But, colonel, I’ve been on battlefields before, and this sounds like the voice of some one calling for help.”
“Which way do you think it is?”
“To the left and not far off. It’s a weak voice.”
“We’ll turn and follow it. Don’t say anything to the others yet.”
They curved and walked on, the colonel swinging his lantern from side to side, and now all of them heard the voice distinctly.
“What is that?” exclaimed Mrs. Mason, speaking for the first time since they had come upon the field of conflict.
“Some one shouting for help,” replied Colonel Winchester. “One could not neglect him at such a time.”
“No, that is so.”
“It’s the voice of Lieutenant Warner, colonel,” whispered the sergeant.
Colonel Winchester nodded. “Say nothing as yet,” he whispered.
They walked a dozen steps farther and the colonel, swinging high the lantern, disclosed Warner sitting on the trunk of a tree that had been cut through by cannon balls. Warner, as well as they could see, was not wounded, but he seemed to be suffering from an overpowering weakness. The colonel, the sergeant and the boy alike dreaded to see what lay beyond the log, but the two women did not know Warner or that his presence portended anything.
The Vermonter saw them coming, and raised his hand in a proper salute to his superior officer. Then as they came nearer, and he saw the white woman who came with them, he lifted his head, tried to straighten his uniform a little with his left hand, and said as he bowed:
“I think this must be Mrs. Mason, Dick’s mother.”
“It is,” said Colonel Winchester, and then they waited a moment or two in an awful silence.
“I don’t rise because there is something heavy lying in my lap which keeps me from it,” said Warner very quietly, but with deep feeling. “After the Second Manassas, where I was badly wounded and left on the ground for dead, a boy named Dick Mason hunted over the field, found me and brought me in. I felt grateful about it and told him that if he happened to get hit in the same way I’d find him and bring him in as he had brought me.