The Project Gutenberg EBook of An Echo Of Antietam, by Edward Bellamy

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: An Echo Of Antietam
       1898

Author: Edward Bellamy

Release Date: September 21, 2007 [EBook #22702]
Last Updated: March 8, 2018

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN ECHO OF ANTIETAM ***




Produced by David Widger
 



AN ECHO OF ANTIETAM  




By Edward Bellamy 

 1898  










Contents  

I

II

III

IV

V














I


The air was tremulous with farewells. The regiment, recruited within sight  of the steeples of Waterville, and for three months in camp just outside  the city, was to march the next morning. A series of great battles had  weakened the Federal armies, and the authorities at Washington had ordered  all available men to the front.  
The camp was to be broken up at an early hour, after which the regiment  would march through the city to the depot to take the cars. The streets  along the route of the march were already being decorated with flags and  garlands. The city that afternoon was full of soldiers enjoying their last  leave of absence. The liquor shops were crowded with parties of them  drinking with their friends, while others in threes and fours, with locked  arms, paraded the streets singing patriotic songs, sometimes in rather  maudlin voices, for to-day in every saloon a soldier might enter, citizens  vied for the privilege of treating him to the best in the house. No man in  a blue coat was suffered to pay for anything.  
For the most part, however, the men were sober enough over their  leave-taking. One saw everywhere soldiers and civilians, strolling in  pairs, absorbed in earnest talk. They are brothers, maybe, who have come  away from the house to be alone with each other, while they talk of family  affairs and exchange last charges and promises as to what is to be done if  anything happens. Or perhaps they are business partners, and the one who  has put the country's business before his own is giving his last counsels  as to how the store or the shop shall be managed in his absence. Many of  the blue-clad men have women with them, and these are the couples that the  people oftenest turn to look at. The girl who has a soldier lover is the  envy of her companions to-day as she walks by his side. Her proud eyes  challenge all who come, saying, “See, this is my hero. I am the one he  loves.”  
You could easily tell when it was a wife and not a sweetheart whom the  soldier had with him. There was no challenge in the eyes of the wife.  Young romance shed none of its glamour on the sacrifice she was making for  her native land. It was only because they could not bear to sit any longer  looking at each other in the house that she and her husband had come out  to walk.  
In the residence parts of the town family groups were gathered on shady  piazzas, a blue-coated figure the centre of each. They were trying to talk  cheerfully, making an effort even to laugh a little.  
Now and then one of the women stole unobserved from the circle, but her  bravely smiling face as she presently returned gave no inkling of the  flood of tears that had eased her heart in some place apart. The young  soldier himself was looking a little pale and nervous with all his  affected good spirits, and it was safe to guess that he was even then  thinking how often this scene would come before him afterwards, by the  camp-fire and on the eve of battle.  
In the village of Upton, some four or five miles out of Waterville, on a  broad piazza at the side of a house on the main street, a group of four  persons were seated around a tea-table.  
The centre of interest of this group, as of so many others that day, was a  soldier. He looked not over twenty-five, with dark blue eyes, dark hair  cut close to his head, and a mustache trimmed crisply in military fashion.  His uniform set off to advantage an athletic figure of youthful  slender-ness, and his bronzed complexion told of long days of practice on  the drill-ground in the school of the company and the battalion. He wore  the shoulder-straps of a second lieutenant.  
On one side of the soldier sat the Rev. Mr. Morton, his cousin, and on the  other Miss Bertha Morton, a kindly faced, middle-aged lady, who was her  brother's housekeeper and the hostess of this occasion.  
The fourth member of the party was a girl of nineteen or twenty. She was a  very pretty girl, and although to-day her pallid cheeks and red and  swollen eyelids would to other eyes have detracted somewhat from her  charms, it was certain that they did not make her seem less adorable to  the young officer, for he was her lover, and was to march with the  regiment in the morning.  
Lieutenant Philip King was a lawyer, and by perseverance and native  ability had worked up a fair practice for so young a man in and around  Upton. When he volunteered, he had to make up his mind to leave this  carefully gathered clientage to scatter, or to be filched from him by less  patriotic rivals; but it may be well believed that this seemed to him a  little thing compared with leaving Grace Roberts, with the chance of never  returning to make her his wife. If, indeed, it had been for him to say, he  would have placed his happiness beyond hazard by marrying her before the  regiment marched; nor would she have been averse, but her mother, an  invalid widow, took a sensible rather than a sentimental view of the case.  If he were killed, she said, a wife would do him no good; and if he came  home again, Grace would be waiting for him, and that ought to satisfy a  reasonable man. It had to satisfy an unreasonable one. The Robertses had  always lived just beyond the garden from the parsonage, and Grace, who  from a little girl had been a great pet of the childless minister and his  sister, was almost as much at home there as in her mother's house. When  Philip fell in love with her, the Mortons were delighted. They could have  wished nothing better for either. From the first Miss Morton had done all  she could to make matters smooth for the lovers, and the present little  farewell banquet was but the last of many meetings she had prepared for  them at the parsonage.  
Philip had come out from camp on a three-hours' leave that afternoon, and  would have to report again at half-past seven. It was nearly that hour  now, though still light, the season being midsummer. There had been an  effort on the part of all to keep up a cheerful tone; but as the time of  the inevitable separation drew near, the conversation had been more and  more left to the minister and his sister, who, with observations sometimes  a little forced, continued to fend off silence and the demoralization it  would be likely to bring to their young friends. Grace had been the first  to drop out of the talking, and Philip's answers, when he was addressed,  grew more and more at random, as the meetings of his eyes with his  sweetheart's became more frequent and lasted longer.  
“He will be the handsomest officer in the regiment, that's one comfort.  Won't he, Grace?” said Miss Morton cheerily.  
The girl nodded and smiled faintly. Her eyes were brimming, and the  twitching of her lips from time to time betrayed how great was the effort  with which she kept her self-command.  
“Yes,” said Mr. Morton; “but though he looks very well now, it is nothing  to the imposing appearance he will present when he comes back with a  colonel's shoulder-straps. You should be thinking of that, Grace.”  
“I expect we shall hear from him every day,” said Miss Morton. “He will  have no excuse for not writing with all those envelopes stamped and  addressed, with blank paper in them, which Grace has given him. You should  always have three or four in your coat pocket, Phil.”  
The young man nodded.  
“I suppose for the most part we shall learn of you through Grace; but you  mustn't forget us entirely, my boy,” said Mr. Morton. “We shall want to  hear from you directly now and then.”  
“Yes; I 'll be sure to write,” Philip replied.  
“I suppose it will be time enough to see the regiment pass if we are in  our places by nine o'clock,” suggested Miss Morton, after a silence.  
“I think so,” said her brother. “It is a great affair to break camp, and I  don't believe the march will begin till after that time.”  
“James has got us one of the windows of Ray & Seymour's offices, you  know, Philip,” resumed Miss Morton; “which one did you say, James?”  
“The north one.”  
“Yes, the north one,” she resumed. “They say every window on Main Street  along the route of the regiment is rented. Grace will be with us, you  know. You must n't forget to look up at us as you go by—as if the  young man were likely to!”  
He was evidently not now listening to her at all. His eyes were fastened  upon the girl's opposite him, and they seemed to have quite forgotten the  others. Miss Morton and her brother exchanged compassionate glances. Tears  were in the lady's eyes. A clock in the sitting-room began to strike:  
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.”  
Philip started.  
“What time is that?” he asked, a little huskily. No one replied at once.  Then Mr. Morton said:  
“I am afraid it struck seven, my boy.”  
“I must leave in ten minutes then,” said the young man, rising from the  table. The rest followed his example.  
“I wonder if the buggy will be in time?” said he.  
“It is at the gate,” replied Miss Morton. “I heard it drive up some time  ago.”  
Unmindful of the others now, Philip put his arm about Grace's waist and  drew her away to the end of the piazza and thence out into the garden.  
“Poor young things,” murmured Miss Morton, the tears running down her  cheeks as she looked after them. “It is pitiful, James, to see how they  suffer.”  
“Yes,” said the minister; “and there are a great many just such scenes  to-day. Ah, well, as St. Paul says, we see as yet but in part.”  
Passing in and out among the shrubbery, and presently disappearing from  the sympathetic eyes upon the piazza, the lovers came to a little  summer-house, and there they entered. Taking her wrists in his hands, he  held her away from him, and his eyes went slowly over her from head to  foot, as if he would impress upon his mind an image that absence should  not have power to dim.  
“You are so beautiful,” he said, “that in this moment, when I ought to  have all my courage, you make me feel that I am a madman to leave you for  the sake of any cause on earth. The future to most men is but a chance of  happiness, and when they risk it they only risk a chance. In staking their  lives, they only stake a lottery ticket, which would probably draw a  blank. But my ticket has drawn a capital prize. I risk not the chance, but  the certainty, of happiness. I believe I am a fool, and if I am killed,  that will be the first thing they will say to me on the other side.”  
“Don't talk of that, Phil. Oh, don't talk of being killed!”  
“No, no; of course not!” he exclaimed. “Don't fret about that; I shall not  be killed. I've no notion of being killed. But what a fool I am to waste  these last moments staring at you when I might be kissing you, my love, my  love!” And clasping her in his arms, he covered her face with kisses.  
She began to sob convulsively.  
“Don't, darling; don't! Don't make it so hard for me,” he whispered  hoarsely.  
“Oh, do let me cry,” she wailed. “It was so hard for me to hold back all  the time we were at table. I must cry, or my heart will break. Oh, my own  dear Phil, what if I should never see you again! Oh! Oh!”  
“Nonsense, darling,” he said, crowding down the lump that seemed like iron  in his throat, and making a desperate effort to keep his voice steady.  “You will see me again, never doubt it. Don't I tell you I am coming back?  The South cannot hold out much longer. Everybody says so. I shall be home  in a year, and then you will be my wife, to be God's Grace to me all the  rest of my life. Our happiness will be on interest till then; ten per  cent, a month at least, compound interest, piling up every day. Just think  of that, dear; don't let yourself think of anything else.”  
“Oh, Phil, how I love you!” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck  in a passion of tenderness. “Nobody is like you. Nobody ever was. Surely  God will not part us. Surely He will not. He is too good.”  
“No, dear, He will not. Some day I shall come back. It will not be long.  Perhaps I shall find you waiting for me in this same little summer-house.  Let us think of that. It was here, you know, we found out each other's  secret that day.”  
“I had found out yours long before,” she said, faintly smiling.  
“Time 's up, Phil.” It was Mr. Morton's voice calling to them from the  piazza.  
“I must go, darling. Good-by.”  
“Oh, no, not yet; not quite yet,” she wailed, clinging to him. “Why, we  have been here but a few moments. It can't be ten minutes yet.”  
Under the influence of that close, passionate embrace, those clinging  kisses and mingling tears, there began to come over Philip a feeling of  weakness, of fainting courage, a disposition to cry out, “Nothing can be  so terrible as this. I will not bear it; I will not go.” By a tyrannical  effort of will, against which his whole nature cried out, he unwound her  arms from his neck and said in a choked voice:—  
“Darling, this is harder than any battle I shall have to fight, but this  is what I enlisted for. I must go.”  
He had reached the door of the summer-house, not daring for honor's sake  to look back, when a heartbroken cry smote his ear.  
“You have n't kissed me good-by!”  
He had kissed her a hundred times, but these kisses she apparently  distinguished from the good-by kiss. He came back, and taking her again in  his embrace, kissed her lips, her throat, her bosom, and then once more  their lips met, and in that kiss of parting which plucks the heart up by  the roots.  
How strong must be the barrier between one soul and another that they do  not utterly merge in moments like that, turning the agony of parting to  the bliss of blended being!  
Pursued by the sound of her desolate sobbing, he fled away.  
The stable-boy held the dancing horse at the gate, and Mr. Morton and his  sister stood waiting there.  
“Good-by, Phil, till we see you again,” said Miss Morton, kissing him  tenderly. “We 'll take good care of her for you.”  
“Will you please go to her now?” he said huskily. “She is in the  summer-house. For God's sake try to comfort her.”  
“Yes, poor boy, I will,” she answered. He shook hands with Mr. Morton and  jumped into the buggy.  
“I 'll get a furlough and be back in a few months, maybe. Be sure to tell  her that,” he said.  
The stable-boy stood aside; the mettlesome horse gave a plunge and started  off at a three-minute gait. The boy drew out his watch and observed: “He  hain't got but fifteen minutes to git to camp in, but he 'll do it. The  mare 's a stepper, and Phil King knows how to handle the ribbons.”  
The buggy vanished in a cloud of dust around the next turn in the road.  The stable-boy strode whistling down the street, the minister went to his  study, and Miss Morton disappeared in the shrubbery in the direction of  the summer-house.  






II


Early next morning the country roads leading into Waterville were covered  with carts and wagons and carriages loaded with people coming into town to  see the regiment off. The streets were hung with flags and spanned with  decorated arches bearing patriotic inscriptions. Bed, white, and blue  streamers hung in festoons from building to building and floated from  cornices. The stores and places of business were all closed, the sidewalks  were packed with people in their Sunday clothes, and the windows and  balconies were lined with gazers long before it was time for the regiment  to appear. Everybody—men, women, and children —wore the  national colors in cockades or rosettes, while many young girls were  dressed throughout in red, white, and blue. The city seemed tricked out  for some rare gala-day, but the grave faces of the expectant throng, and  the subdued and earnest manner which extended even to the older children,  stamped this as no ordinary holiday.  
After hours of patient waiting, at last the word passes from mouth to  mouth, “They are coming!” Vehicles are quickly driven out of the way, and  in a general hush all eyes are turned towards the head of the street.  Presently there is a burst of martial music, and the regiment comes  wheeling round the corner into view and fills the wide street from curb to  curb with its broad front. As the blue river sweeps along, the rows of  polished bayonets, rising and falling with the swinging tread of the men,  are like interminable ranks of foam-crested waves rolling in upon the  shore. The imposing mass, with its rhythmic movement, gives the impression  of a single organism. One forgets to look for the individuals in it,  forgets that there are individuals. Even those who have brothers, sons,  lovers there, for a moment almost forget them in the impression of a  mighty whole. The mind is slow to realize that this great dragon, so  terrible in its beauty, emitting light as it moves from a thousand  burnished scales, with flaming crest proudly waving in the van, is but an  aggregation of men singly so feeble.  
The hearts of the lookers-on as they gaze are swelling fast. An afflatus  of heroism given forth by this host of self-devoted men communicates  itself to the most stolid spectators. The booming of the drum fills the  brain, and the blood in the veins leaps to its rhythm. The unearthly  gayety of the fife, like the sweet, shrill song of a bird soaring above  the battle, infects the nerves till the idea of death brings a scornful  smile to the lips. Eyes glaze with rapturous tears as they rest upon the  flag. There is a thrill of voluptuous sweetness in the thought of dying  for it. Life seems of value only as it gives the poorest something to  sacrifice. It is dying that makes the glory of the world, and all other  employments seem but idle while the regiment passes.  
The time for farewells is gone by. The lucky men at the ends of the ranks  have indeed an opportunity without breaking step to exchange an occasional  hand-shake with a friend on the sidewalk, or to snatch a kiss from wife or  sweetheart, but those in the middle of the line can only look their  farewells. Now and then a mother intrusts her baby to a file-leader to be  passed along from hand to hand till it reaches the father, to be sent back  with a kiss, or, maybe, perched aloft on his shoulder, to ride to the  depot, crowing at the music and clutching at the gleaming bayonets. At  every such touch of nature the people cheer wildly. From every window and  balcony the ladies shower garlands upon the troops.  
Where is Grace? for this is the Upton company which is passing now. Yonder  she stands on a balcony, between Mr. Morton and his sister. She is very  pale and the tears are streaming down her cheeks, but her face is radiant.  She is smiling through her tears, as if there was no such thing on earth  as fear or sorrow. She has looked forward to this ordeal with harrowing  expectations, only to find herself at the trying moment seized upon and  lifted above all sense of personal affliction by the passion of  self-devotion with which the air is electric. Her face as she looks down  upon her lover is that of a priestess in the ecstasy of sacrifice. He is  saluting with his sword. Now he has passed. With a great sob she turns  away. She does not care for the rest of the pageant. Her patriotism has  suddenly gone. The ecstasy of sacrifice is over. She is no longer a  priestess, but a brokenhearted girl, who only asks to be led away to some  place where she can weep till her lover returns.  






III  


There was to be a great battle the next day. The two armies had been long  manoeuvring for position, and now they stood like wrestlers who have  selected their holds and, with body braced against body, knee against  knee, wait for the signal to begin the struggle. There had been during the  afternoon some brisk fighting, but a common desire to postpone the  decisive contest till the morrow had prevented the main forces from  becoming involved. Philip's regiment had thus far only been engaged in a  few trifling skirmishes, barely enough to stir the blood. This was to be  its first battle, and the position to which it had been allotted promised  a bloody baptism in the morning. The men were in excellent heart, but as  night settled down, there was little or no merriment to be heard about the  camp-fires. Most were gathered in groups, discussing in low tones the  chances of the morrow. Some, knowing that every fibre of muscle would be  needed for the work before them, had wisely gone to sleep, while here and  there a man, heedless of the talk going on about him, was lying on his  back staring up at the darkening sky, thinking.  
As the twilight deepened, Philip strolled to the top of a little knoll  just out of the camp and sat down, with a vague notion of casting up  accounts a little in view of the final settlement which very possibly  might come for him next day. But the inspiration of the scene around him  soon diverted his mind from personal engrossments. Some distance down the  lines he could see the occasional flash of a gun, where a battery was  lazily shelling a piece of woods which it was desirable to keep the enemy  from occupying during the night. A burning barn in that direction made a  flare on the sky. Over behind the wooded hills where the Confederates lay,  rockets were going up, indicating the exchange of signals and the  perfecting of plans which might mean defeat and ruin to him and his the  next day. Behind him, within the Federal lines, clouds of dust, dimly  outlined against the glimmering landscape, betrayed the location of the  roads along which artillery, cavalry, infantry were hurrying eagerly  forward to take their assigned places for the morrow's work.  
Who said that men fear death? Who concocted that fable for old wives? He  should have stood that night with Philip in the midst of a host of one  hundred and twenty-five thousand men in the full flush and vigor of life,  calmly and deliberately making ready at dawn to receive death in its most  horrid forms at one another's hands. It is in vain that Religion invests  the tomb with terror, and Philosophy, shuddering, averts her face; the  nations turn from these gloomy teachers to storm its portals in exultant  hosts, battering them wide enough for thousands to charge through abreast.  The heroic instinct of humanity with its high contempt of death is wiser  and truer, never let us doubt, than superstitious terrors or philosophic  doubts. It testifies to a conviction, deeper than reason, that man is  greater than his seeming self; to an underlying consciousness that his  mortal life is but an accident of his real existence, the fashion of a  day, to be lightly worn and gayly doffed at duty's call.  
What a pity it truly is that the tonic air of battlefields—the air  that Philip breathed that night before Antietam—cannot be gathered  up and preserved as a precious elixir to reinvigorate the atmosphere in  times of peace, when men grow faint of heart and cowardly, and quake at  thought of death.  
The soldiers huddled in their blankets on the ground slept far more  soundly that night before the battle than their men-folk and women-folk in  their warm beds at home. For them it was a night of watching, a vigil of  prayers and tears. The telegraph in those days made of the nation an  intensely sensitive organism, with nerves a thousand miles long. Ere its  echoes had died away, every shot fired at the front had sent a tremor to  the anxious hearts at home. The newspapers and bulletin boards in all the  towns and cities of the North had announced that a great battle would  surely take place the next day, and, as the night closed in, a mighty  cloud of prayer rose from innumerable firesides, the self-same prayer from  each, that he who had gone from that home might survive the battle,  whoever else must fall.  
The wife, lest her own appeal might fail, taught her cooing baby to lisp  the father's name, thinking that surely the Great Father's heart would not  be able to resist a baby's prayer. The widowed mother prayed that if it  were consistent with God's will he would spare her son. She laid her  heart, pierced through with many sorrows, before Him. She had borne so  much, life had been so hard, her boy was all she had to show for so much  endured,—might not this cup pass? Pale, impassioned maids, kneeling  by their virgin beds, wore out the night with an importunity that would  not be put off. Sure in their great love and their little knowledge that  no case could be like theirs, they beseeched God with bitter weeping for  their lovers' lives, because, forsooth, they could not bear it if hurt  came to them. The answers to many thousands of these agonizing appeals of  maid and wife and mother were already in the enemy's cartridge-boxes.  






IV


The day came. The dispatches in the morning papers stated that the armies  would probably be engaged from an early hour.  
Who that does not remember those battle-summers can realize from any  telling how the fathers and mothers, the wives and sisters and sweethearts  at home, lived through the days when it was known that a great battle was  going on at the front in which their loved ones were engaged? It was very  quiet in the house on those days of battle. All spoke in hushed voices and  stepped lightly. The children, too small to understand the meaning of the  shadow on the home, felt it and took their noisy sports elsewhere. There  was little conversation, except as to when definite news might be  expected. The household work dragged sadly, for though the women sought  refuge from thought in occupation, they were constantly dropping whatever  they had in hand to rush away to their chambers to face the presentiment,  perhaps suddenly borne in upon them with the force of a conviction, that  they might be called on to bear the worst. The table was set for the  regular meals, but there was little pretense of eating. The eyes of all  had a far-off expression, and they seemed barely to see one another. There  was an intent, listening look upon their faces, as if they were hearkening  to the roar of the battle a thousand miles away.  
Many pictures of battles have been painted, but no true one yet, for the  pictures contain only men. The women are unaccountably left out. We ought  to see not alone the opposing lines of battle writhing and twisting in a  death, embrace, the batteries smoking and flaming, the hurricanes of  cavalry, but innumerable women also, spectral forms of mothers, wives,  sweethearts, clinging about the necks of the advancing soldiers, vainly  trying to shield them with their bosoms, extending supplicating hands to  the foe, raising eyes of anguish to Heaven. The soldiers, grim-faced, with  battle-lighted eyes, do not see the ghostly forms that throng them, but  shoot and cut and stab across and through them as if they were not there,—yes,  through them, for few are the balls and bayonets that reach their marks  without traversing some of these devoted breasts. Spectral, alas, is their  guardianship, but real are their wounds and deadly as any the combatants  receive.  
Soon after breakfast on the day of the battle Grace came across to the  parsonage, her swollen eyes and pallid face telling of a sleepless night.  She could not bear her mother's company that day, for she knew that she  had never greatly liked Philip. Miss Morton was very tender and  sympathetic. Grace was a little comforted by Mr. Morton's saying that  commonly great battles did not open much before noon. It was a respite to  be able to think that probably up to that moment at least no harm had come  to Philip. In the early afternoon the minister drove into Waterville to  get the earliest bulletins at the “Banner” office, leaving the two women  alone.  
The latter part of the afternoon a neighbor who had been in Waterville  drove by the house, and Miss Morton called to him to know if there were  any news yet. He drew a piece of paper from his pocket, on which he had  scribbled the latest bulletin before the “Banner” office, and read as  follows: “The battle opened with a vigorous attack by our right. The enemy  was forced back, stubbornly contesting every inch of ground. General  ———'s division is now bearing the brunt of the fight and  is suffering heavily. The result is yet uncertain.”  
The division mentioned was the one in which Philip's regiment was  included. “Is suffering heavily,”—those were the words. There was  something fearful in the way the present tense brought home to Grace a  sense of the battle as then actually in progress. It meant that while she  sat there on the shady piazza with the drowsy hum of the bees in her ears,  looking out on the quiet lawn where the house cat, stretched on the grass,  kept a sleepy eye on the birds as they flitted in the branches of the  apple-trees, Philip might be facing a storm of lead and iron, or, maybe,  blent in some desperate hand-to-hand struggle, was defending his life—her  life—against murderous cut and thrust.  
To begin to pray for his safety was not to dare to cease, for to cease  would be to withdraw a sort of protection—all, alas I she could give  —and abandon him to his enemies. If she had been watching over him  from above the battle, an actual witness of the carnage going on that  afternoon on the far-off field, she could scarcely have endured a more  harrowing suspense from moment to moment. Overcome with the agony, she  threw herself on the sofa in the sitting-room and lay quivering, with her  face buried in the pillow, while Miss Morton sat beside her, stroking her  hair and saying such feeble, soothing words as she might.  
It is always hard, and for ardent temperaments almost impossible, to hold  the mind balanced in a state of suspense, yielding overmuch neither to  hope nor to fear, under circumstances like these. As a relief to the  torture which such a state of tension ends in causing, the mind at length,  if it cannot abandon itself to hope, embraces even despair. About five  o'clock Miss Morton was startled by an exceeding bitter cry. Grace was  sitting upon the sofa. “Oh, Miss Morton!” she cried, bursting into tears  which before she had not been able to shed, “he is dead!”  
“Grace! Grace! what do you mean?”  
“He is dead, I know he is dead!” wailed the girl; and then she explained  that while from moment to moment she had sent up prayers for him, every  breath a cry to God, she suddenly had been unable to pray more, and this  she felt was a sign that petition for his life was now vain. Miss Morton  strove to convince her that this was but an effect of overwrought nerves,  but with slight success.  
In the early evening Mr. Morton returned with the latest news the  telegraph had brought. The full scope of the result was not yet known. The  advantage had probably remained with the National forces, although the  struggle had been one of those close and stubborn ones, with scanty  laurels for the victors, to be expected when men of one race meet in  battle. The losses on both sides had been enormous, and the report was  confirmed that Philip's division had been badly cut up.  
The parsonage was but one of thousands of homes in the land where no lamps  were lighted that evening, the members of the household sitting together  in the dark,—silent, or talking in low tones of the far-away  star-lighted battlefield, the anguish of the wounded, the still heaps of  the dead.  
Nevertheless, when at last Grace went home she was less entirely  despairing than in the afternoon. Mr. Morton, in his calm, convincing way,  had shown her the groundlessness of her impression that Philip was  certainly dead, and had enabled her again to entertain hope. It no longer  rose, indeed, to the height of a belief that he had escaped wholly  scathless. In face of the terrible tidings, that would have been too  presumptuous. But perhaps he had been only wounded. Yesterday the thought  would have been insupportable, but now she was eager to make this  compromise with Providence. She was distinctly affected by the curious  superstition that if we voluntarily concede something to fate, while yet  the facts are not known, we gain a sort of equitable assurance against a  worse thing. It was settled, she told herself, that she was not to be  overcome or even surprised to hear that Philip was wounded,—slightly  wounded. She was no better than other women, that he should be wholly  spared.  
The paper next morning gave many names of officers who had fallen, but  Philip's was not among them. The list was confessedly incomplete;  nevertheless, the absence of his name was reassuring. Grace went across  the garden after breakfast to talk with Miss Morton about the news and the  auspicious lack of news. Her friend's cheerful tone infused her with fresh  courage. To one who has despaired, a very little hope goes to the head Eke  wine to the brain of a faster, and, though still very tremulous, Grace  could even smile a little now and was almost cheerful. Secretly already  she was beginning to play false with fate, and, in flat repudiation of her  last night's compact, to indulge the hope that her soldier had not been  even wounded. But this was only at the bottom of her heart. She did not  own to herself that she really did it. She felt a little safer not to  break the bargain yet.  
About eleven o'clock in the forenoon Mr. Morton came in. His start and  look of dismay on seeing Grace indicated that he had expected to find his  sister alone. He hastily attempted to conceal an open telegram which he  held in his hand, but it was too late. Grace had already seen it, and  whatever the tidings it might contain, there was no longer any question of  holding them back or extenuating them. Miss Morton, after one look at her  brother's face, silently came to the girl's side and put her arms around  her waist. “Christ, our Saviour,” she murmured, “for thy name's sake, help  her now.” Then the minister said:—  
“Try to be brave, try to bear it worthily of him; for, my poor little  girl, your sacrifice has been accepted. He fell in a charge at the head of  his men.”  






V


Philip's body was brought home for burial, and the funeral was a great  event in the village. Business of all kinds was suspended, and all the  people united in making of the day a solemn patriotic festival. Mr. Morton  preached the funeral sermon.  
“Oh, talk about the country,” sobbed Grace, when he asked her if there was  anything in particular she would like him to speak of.  
“For pity's sake don't let me feel sorry now that I gave him up for the  Union. Don't leave me now to think it would have been better if I had not  let him go.”  
So he preached of the country, as ministers sometimes did preach in those  days, making it very plain that in a righteous cause men did well to die  for their native land and their women did well to give them up. Expounding  the lofty wisdom of self-sacrifice, he showed how truly it was said that  “whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his  life... shall find it,” and how none make such rich profit out of their  lives as the heroes who seem to throw them away.  
They had come, he told the assembled people, to mourn no misadventure, no  misfortune; this dead soldier was not pitiable. He was no victim of a  tear-compelling fate. No broken shaft typified his career. He was rather  one who had done well for himself, a wise young merchant of his blood, who  having seen a way to barter his life at incredible advantage, at no less a  rate indeed than a man's for a nation's, had not let slip so great an  opportunity.  
So he went on, still likening the life of a man to the wares of a  shopkeeper, worth to him only what they can be sold for and a loss if  overkept, till those who listened began to grow ill at ease in presence of  that flag-draped coffin, and were vaguely troubled because they still  lived.  
Then he spoke of those who had been bereaved. This soldier, he said, like  his comrades, had staked for his country not only his own life but the  earthly happiness of others also, having been fully empowered by them to  do so. Some had staked with their own lives the happiness of parents, some  that of wives and children, others maybe the hopes of maidens pledged to  them. In offering up their lives to their country they had laid with them  upon the altar these other lives which were bound up with theirs, and the  same fire of sacrifice had consumed them both. A few days before, in the  storm of battle, those who had gone forth had fulfilled their share of the  joint sacrifice. In a thousand homes, with tears and the anguish of  breaking hearts, those who had sent them forth were that day fulfilling  theirs. Let them now in their extremity seek support in the same spirit of  patriotic devotion which had upheld their heroes in the hour of death. As  they had been lifted above fear by the thought that it was for their  country they were dying, not less should those who mourned them find  inspiration in remembering it was for the nation's sake that their tears  were shed, and for the country that their hearts were broken. It had been  appointed that half in blood of men and half in women's tears the ransom  of the people should be paid, so that their sorrow was not in vain, but  for the healing of the nation.  
It behooved these, therefore, to prove worthy of their high calling of  martyrdom, and while they must needs weep, not to weep as other women  wept, with hearts bowed down, but rather with uplifted faces, adopting and  ratifying, though it might be with breaking hearts, this exchange they had  made of earthly happiness for the life of their native land. So should  they honor those they mourned, and be joined with them not only in  sacrifice but in the spirit of sacrifice.  
So it was in response to the appeal of this stricken girl before him that  the minister talked of the country, and to such purpose was it that the  piteous thing she had dreaded, the feeling, now when it was forever too  late, that it would have been better if she had kept her lover back, found  no place in her heart. There was, indeed, had she known it, no danger at  all that she would be left to endure that, so long as she dreaded it, for  the only prayer that never is unanswered is the prayer to be lifted above  self. So to pray and so to wish is but to cease to resist the divine  gravitations ever pulling at the soul. As the minister discoursed of the  mystic gain of self-sacrifice, the mystery of which he spoke was fulfilled  in her heart. She appeared to stand in some place overarching life t and  death, and there was made partaker of an exultation whereof if religion  and philosophy might but catch and hold the secret, their ancient quest  were over.  
Grazing through streaming eyes upon the coffin of her lover, she was able  freely to consent to the sacrifice of her own life which he had made in  giving up his own.  
 








End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of An Echo Of Antietam, by Edward Bellamy

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN ECHO OF ANTIETAM ***

***** This file should be named 22702-h.htm or 22702-h.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
        http://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/7/0/22702/

Produced by David Widger

Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.

Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.



*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
http://gutenberg.org/license).


Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works

1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B.  “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark.  It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.  See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation”
 or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.

1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.

1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other
form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
     address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to
     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
     License.  You must require such a user to return or
     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
     Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
     of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.

1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.


Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.


Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541.  Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
http://pglaf.org/fundraising.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at http://pglaf.org

For additional contact information:
     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
     Chief Executive and Director
     gbnewby@pglaf.org


Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit http://pglaf.org

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate


Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.

Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.


Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.


Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

     http://www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.