Kitabı oku: «Macaria», sayfa 15
CHAPTER XXVIII
A CONFESSION
The summer day was near its death when Colonel Aubrey rode up the stately avenue, whose cool green arches were slowly filling with shadows. Fastening his spirited horse to the iron post, he ascended the marble steps, and John received his card, and ushered him into the front parlour. The next moment Irene stood at the door; he turned his head, and they were face to face once more.
Never had her extraordinary beauty so stirred his heart; a faint flush tinged his cheek, but he bowed frigidly, and haughtily his words broke the silence.
"You sent for me, Miss Huntingdon, and I obeyed your command. Nothing less would have brought me to your presence."
She crossed the room and stood before him, holding out both hands, while her scarlet lips fluttered perceptibly. Instead of receiving the hands he drew back a step, and crossed his arms proudly over his chest. She raised her fascinating eyes to his, folded her palms together, and, pressing them to her heart, said, slowly and distinctly —
"I heard that you were ordered to Virginia, to the post of danger; and knowing to what risks you will be exposed, I wished to see you at least once more in this world. Perhaps the step I am taking may be condemned by some as a deviation from the delicacy of my sex – I trust I am not wanting in proper appreciation of what is due to my own self-respect – but the feelings which I have crushed back so long now demand utterance. Russell, I have determined to break the seal of many years' silence – to roll away the stone from the sepulchre – to tell you all. I feel that you and I must understand each other before we part for all time, and, therefore, I sent for you."
She paused, drooping her head, unable to meet his searching, steady black eyes riveted upon hers; and, drawing his tall athletic figure to its utmost height, he asked defiantly —
"You sent for me through compassionate compunctions, then – intending, at the close, to be magnanimous, and, in lieu of disdain, tell me that you pity me?"
"Pity you? No, Russell; I do not pity you."
"It is well. I neither deserve nor desire it."
"What motive do you suppose prompted me to send for you on the eve of your departure?"
"I am utterly at a loss to conjecture. I once thought you too generous to wish to inflict pain unnecessarily on any one; but God knows this interview is inexpressibly painful to me."
A numbing suspicion crossed her mind, blanching lip and cheek to the hue of death, and hardening her into the old statue-like expression. Had he, indeed, ceased to love her? Had Salome finally won her place in his heart? He saw, without comprehending, the instantaneous change which swept over her features, and regarded her with mingled impatience and perplexity.
"If such be the truth, Colonel Aubrey, the interview is ended."
He bowed, and turned partially away, but paused irresolute, chained by that electrical pale face, which no man, woman, or child ever looked at without emotion.
"Before we part, probably for ever, I should like to know why you sent for me."
"Do you remember that, one year ago to-night, we sat on the steps of the factory, and you told me of the feeling you had cherished for me from your boyhood?"
"It was a meeting too fraught with pain and mortification to be soon forgotten."
"I believe you thought me cold, heartless, and unfeeling then?"
"There was no room to doubt it. Your haughty coldness carried its own interpretation."
"Because I knew that such was the harsh opinion you had entertained for twelve months, I sought this opportunity to relieve myself of an unjust imputation. If peace had been preserved, and you had always remained quietly here, I should never have undeceived you – for the same imperative reasons, the same stern necessity, which kept me silent on the night to which I allude, would have sealed my lips through life. But all things are changed; you are going into the very jaws of death, with what result no human foresight can predict; and now, after long suffering, I feel that I have earned and may claim the right to speak to you of that which I have always expected to bury with me in my grave."
Again her crowned head bowed itself.
Past bitterness and wounded pride were instantly forgotten; hope kindled in his dark, stern face, a beauty that rarely dwelt there, and, throwing down his hat, he stepped forward and took her folded hands in his strong grasp.
"Irene, do you intend me to understand – are you willing that I shall believe that, after all, I have an interest in your heart – that I am more to you than you ever before deigned to let me know? If it, indeed, be so, oh! give me the unmistakable assurance."
Her lips moved; he stooped his haughty head to catch the low fluttering words.
"You said that night: 'I could forgive your father all! all if I knew that he had not so successfully hardened, closed your heart against me.' Forgive him, Russell. You never can know all that you have been to me from my childhood. Only God, who sees my heart, knows what suffering our long alienation has cost me."
An instant he wavered, his strong frame quivered, and then he caught her exultingly in his arms, resting her head upon his bosom, leaning his swarthy hot cheek on hers, cold and transparent as alabaster.
"At last I realize the one dream of my life! I hold you to my heart, acknowledged all my own! Who shall dare dispute the right your lips have given me? Hatred is powerless now; none shall come between me and my own. O Irene! my beautiful darling! not all my ambitious hopes, not all the future holds, not time, nor eternity, could purchase the proud, inexpressible joy of this assurance."
"Instead of cherishing your affection for me, you struggled against it with all the energy of your character. I have seen, for some time, that you were striving to crush it out – to forget me entirely."
"I do not deny it; and certainly you ought not to blame me. You kept me at a distance with your chilling, yet graceful, fascinating hauteur. I had nothing to hope – everything to suffer. I diligently set to work to expel you utterly from my thoughts; and I tell you candidly, I endeavoured to love another, who was brilliant, and witty, and universally admired. But her fitful, stormy, exacting temperament was too much like my own to suit me. I tried faithfully to become attached to her, intending to make her my wife, but I failed signally. My heart clung stubbornly to its old worship; my restless, fiery spirit could find no repose, no happiness, save in the purity, the profound marvellous calm of your nature. You became the synonym of peace, rest; and, because you gave me no friendly word or glance, locking your passionless face against me, I grew savage toward you. Did you believe that I would marry Salome?"
"No! I had faith that, despite your angry efforts, your heart would be true to me."
"Why did you inflict so much pain on us both, when a word would have explained all? When the assurance you have given me to-day would have sweetened the past years of trial?"
"Because I knew it would not have that effect. A belief of my indifference steeled you against me – nerved you to endurance. But a knowledge of the truth would have increased your acrimony of feeling toward him whom you regarded as the chief obstacle, and this, at all hazards, I was resolved to avoid. Because I realized so fully the necessity of estrangement, I should never have acquainted you with my own feelings had I not known that a long, and perhaps final, separation now stretches before us. In the painful course which duty imposed on me, I have striven to promote your ultimate happiness, rather than my own."
"Irene, how can you persuade yourself that it is your duty to obey an unjust and tyrannical decree, which sacrifices the happiness of two to the unreasonable vindictiveness of one?"
"Russell, do not urge me; it is useless. Spare me the pain of repeated refusals, and be satisfied with what I have given you. Believe that my heart is, and ever will be, yours entirely, though my hand you can never claim. I know what I owe my father, and I will pay to the last iota; and I know as well what I owe myself, and, therefore, I shall live true to my first and only love, and die Irene Huntingdon. More than this you have no right to ask – I no right to grant. Be patient, Russell; be generous."
"Do you intend to send me from you? To meet me henceforth as a stranger?"
"Circumstances, which I cannot control, make it necessary."
"At least you will let me hear from you sometimes? You will give me the privilege of writing to you?"
"Impossible, Russell; do not ask that of me."
"Oh, Irene! you are cruel! Why withhold that melancholy comfort from me?"
"Simply for the reason that it would unavoidably prove a source of pain to both. I judge you by myself. I want neither your usefulness in life nor mine impaired by continual weak repining. If your life is spared I shall anxiously watch your career, rejoicing in all your honours, and your noble use of the talents which God gave you for the benefit of your race and the advancement of truth."
"I am not as noble as you think me; my ambition is not as unselfish as you suppose. Under your influence other aims and motives might possess me."
"You mistake your nature. Your intellect and temperament stamp you one of the few who receive little impression from extraneous influences; and it is because of this stern, obstinate individuality of character that I hope an extended sphere of usefulness for you, if you survive this war. Our country will demand your services, and I shall be proud and happy in the knowledge that you are faithfully and conscientiously discharging the duties of a statesman."
He shook his head sadly, placing his palm under her chin, and tenderly raising the face, in order to scan it fully.
"Irene, give me a likeness of yourself as you stand now; or, if you prefer it, have a smaller one photographed to-morrow from that portrait on the wall, and send it to me by express. I shall be detained in Richmond several days, and it will reach me safely. Do not, I beg of you, refuse me this. It is the only consolation I can have, and God knows it is little enough! Oh, Irene, think of my loneliness, and grant this last request!"
His large brilliant eyes were full of tears, the first she had ever seen dim their light, and, moved by the grief which so transformed his lineaments she answered hastily —
"Of course, if you desire it so earnestly, though it were much better that you had nothing to remind you of me."
"Will you have it taken to-morrow?"
"Yes."
She covered her face with her hands for some seconds, as if striving to overcome some impulse; then, turning quickly to him, she wound her arms about his neck, and drew his face down to hers.
"Oh, Russell! Russell! I want your promise that you will so live and govern yourself that, if your soul is summoned from the battlefield, you can confront Eternity without a single apprehension. If you must yield up your life for freedom, I want the assurance that you have gone to your final home at peace with God; that you wait there for me; and that, when my work is done, and I, too, lay my weary head to rest, we shall meet soul to soul, and spend a blessed eternity together, where strife and separation are unknown."
His black locks lay upon her forehead as he struggled for composure, and, after a moment, he answered solemnly —
"I will try, my darling."
She put into his hand the Bible, which she had carefully marked and which bore on the blank leaf, in her handwriting, "Colonel Russell Aubrey, with the life-long prayers of his best friend."
The shadow fled from her countenance, which grew radiant as some fleecy vapour suddenly smitten with a blaze of sunlight, and clearer and sweeter than chiming bells her voice rang through the room.
"Thank God for that promise! I shall lean my heart upon it till the last pulsations are stilled in my coffin. And now I will keep you no longer from your regiment. I know that you have many duties there to claim your time. Turn your face toward the window; I want to look at it, to be able to keep its expression always before me."
She put up her waxen hand, brushed the hair from his pale, dome-like brow, and gazed earnestly at the noble features, which even the most fastidious could find no cause to carp at.
"Of old, when Eurystheus threatened Athens, Macaria, in order to save the city and the land from invasion and subjugation, willingly devoted herself a sacrifice upon the altar of the gods. Ah, Russell! that were an easy task, in comparison with the offering I am called upon to make. I cannot, like Macaria, by self-immolation, redeem my country – from that great privilege I am debarred – but I yield up more than she ever possessed. I give my all on earth – my father and yourself – to our beloved and suffering country. My God! accept the sacrifice, and crown the South a sovereign, independent nation!"
She smothered a moan, and her head sank on his shoulder; but lifting it instantly, with her fathomless affection beaming in her face, she added —
"To the mercy and guidance of Almighty God I commit you, dear Russell, trusting all things in His hands. May He shield you from suffering, strengthen you in the hour of trial, and reunite us eternally in His kingdom, is, and ever shall be, my constant prayer. Good-bye, Russell. Do your duty nobly; win deathless glory on the battlefield in defence of our sacred cause; and remember that your laurels will be very precious to my lonely heart."
He watched the wonderful loveliness of face and form, till his pride was utterly melted, and, sinking on his knees, he threw one arm around her waist exclaiming —
"O Irene, you have conquered! With God's grace I will so spend the residue of my life as to merit your love, and the hope of reunion beyond the grave."
She laid her hand lightly on his bowed head as he knelt beside her, and, in a voice that knew no faltering, breathed out a fervent prayer, full of pathos and sublime faith – invoking blessings upon him – life-long guardianship, and final salvation through Christ. The petition ended, she rose, smiling through the mist that gathered over her eyes, and he said —
"I now ask something which I feel that you will not refuse me. Electra will probably soon come home, and she may be left alone in the world. Will you sometimes go to her for my sake, and give her your friendship?"
"I will, Russell, for her sake, as well as for yours. She shall be the only sister I have ever known."
She drew his hand to her lips, but he caught it away, and pressed a last kiss upon them.
"Good-bye, my own darling! my life angel!"
She heard his step across the hall; a moment after, the tramp of his horse, as he galloped down the avenue, and she knew that the one happy hour of her life had passed – that the rent sepulchre of silence must be re-sealed.
Pressing her hand over her desolate heart, she murmured sadly —
"Thy will, not mine, O Father! Give me strength to do my work; enable me to be faithful even to the bitter end."
CHAPTER XXIX
A DYING MESSAGE
In July, 1861, when the North, blinded by avarice and hate, rang with the cry of "On to Richmond," our Confederate Army of the Potomac was divided between Manassa and Winchester, watching at both points the glittering coils of the Union boa-constrictor, which writhed in its efforts to crush the last sanctuary of freedom. The stringency evinced along the Federal lines prevented the transmission of dispatches by the Secessionists of Maryland, and for a time Generals Beauregard and Johnston were kept in ignorance of the movements of the enemy. Patterson hung dark and lowering around Winchester, threatening daily descent; while the main column of the grand army under McDowell proceeded from Washington, confident in the expectation of overwhelming the small army stationed at Manassa. The friends of liberty who were compelled to remain in the desecrated old capital appreciated the urgent necessity of acquainting General Beauregard with the designs of McDowell, and the arch-apostate, Scott; but all channels of egress seemed sealed; all roads leading across the Potomac were vigilantly guarded, to keep the great secret safely; and painful apprehensions were indulged for the fate of the Confederate army. But the Promethean spark of patriotic devotion burned in the hearts of Secession women; and, resolved to dare all things in a cause so holy, a young lady of Washington, strong in heroic faith, offered to encounter any perils, and pledged her life to give General Beauregard the necessary information. Carefully concealing a letter in the twist of her luxuriant hair, which would escape detection even should she be searched, she disguised herself effectually, and, under the mask of a market-woman, drove a cart through Washington, across the Potomac, and deceived the guard by selling vegetables and milk as she proceeded. Once beyond Federal lines, and in friendly neighbourhood, it was but a few minutes' work to "off ye lendings," and secure a horse and riding-habit. With a courage and rapidity which must ever command the admiration of a brave people she rode at hard gallop that burning July afternoon to Fairfax Court-house, and telegraphed to General Beauregard, then at Manassa's Junction, the intelligence she had risked so much to convey. Availing himself promptly of the facts, he flashed them along electric wires to Richmond, and to General Johnston; and thus, through womanly devotion, a timely junction of the two armies was effected, ere McDowell's banners flouted the skies of Bull Run.
The artillery duel of the 18th of July ended disastrously for the advance guard of the Federals – a temporary check was given.
A pure Sabbath morning kindled on the distant hill-tops, wearing heavenly credentials of rest and sanctity on its pearly forehead – credentials which the passions of mankind could not pause to recognize; and with the golden glow of summer sunshine came the tramp of infantry, the clatter of cavalry, the sullen growl of artillery. Major Huntingdon had been temporarily assigned to a regiment of infantry after leaving Richmond, and was posted on the right of General Beauregard's lines, commanding one of the lower fords. Two miles higher up the stream, in a different brigade, Colonel Aubrey's regiment guarded another of the numerous crossings. As the day advanced, and the continual roar of cannon toward Stone-Bridge and Sudley's ford indicated that the demonstrations on McLean's, Blackford's and Mitchell's fords were mere feints to hold our right and centre, the truth flashed on General Beauregard that the main column was hurled against Evans' little band on the extreme left. Hour after hour passed, and the thunder deepened on the Warrenton road; then the General learned, with unutterable chagrin, that his order for an advance on Centreville had miscarried, that a brilliant plan had been frustrated, and that new combinations and dispositions must now be resorted to. The regiment to which Major Huntingdon was attached was ordered to the support of the left wing, and reached the distant position in an almost incredibly short time, while two regiments of the brigade to which Colonel Aubrey belonged were sent forward to the same point as a reserve.
Like incarnations of victory, Beauregard and Johnston swept to the front where the conflict was most deadly; everywhere, at sight of them, our thin ranks dashed forward, and were mowed down by the fire of Rickett's and Griffin's batteries, which crowned the position they were so eager to regain. At half-past two o'clock the awful contest was at its height; the rattle of musketry, the ceaseless whistle of rifle balls, the deafening boom of artillery, the hurtling hail of shot, the explosion of shell, dense volumes of smoke shrouding the combatants, and clouds of dust boiling up on all sides, lent unutterable horror to a scene which, to cold, dispassionate observers, might have seemed sublime. As the vastly superior numbers of the Federals forced our stubborn bands to give back slowly, an order came from General Beauregard for the right of his line, except the reserves, to advance, and recover the long and desperately disputed plateau. With a shout, the shattered lines sprang upon the foe and forced them temporarily back. Major Huntingdon's horse was shot under him; he disengaged himself and marched on foot, waving his sword and uttering words of encouragement. He had proceeded but a few yards when a grape-shot entered his side, tearing its way through his body, and he fell where the dead lay thickest. For a time the enemy retired, but heavy reinforcements pressed in, and they returned, reoccupying the old ground. Not a moment was to be lost; General Beauregard ordered forward his reserves for a second effort, and with magnificent effect, led the charge in person. Then Russell Aubrey first came actively upon the field. At the word of command he dashed forward with his splendid regiment, and, high above all, towered his powerful form, with the long black plume of his hat drifting upon the wind as he led his admiring men.
As he pressed on, with thin nostril dilated, and eyes that burned like those of a tiger seizing his prey, he saw, just in his path, leaning on his elbow, covered with blood, and smeared with dust, the crushed, withering form of his bitterest enemy. His horse's hoofs were almost upon him; he reined him back an instant, and glared down at his old foe. It was only for an instant, and as Major Huntingdon looked on the stalwart figure and at the advancing regiment, life-long hatred and jealousy were forgotten – patriotism throttled all the past in her grasp – he feebly threw up his hand, cheered faintly, and, with his eyes on Russell's, smiled grimly, saying, with evident difficulty —
"Beat them back, Aubrey! Give them the bayonet."
The shock was awful – beggaring language. On, on they swept, while ceaseless cheers mingled with the cannonade; the ground was recovered, to be captured no more. The Federals were driven back across the turnpike, and now dark masses of reinforcements debouched on the plain, and marched toward our left. Was it Grouchy or Blucher? Some moments of painful suspense ensued, while General Beauregard strained his eyes to decipher the advancing banner. Red and white and blue, certainly; but was it the ensign of Despotism or of Liberty? Nearer and nearer came the rushing column, and lo! upon the breeze streamed, triumphant as the Labarum of Constantine, the Stars and Bars. Kirby Smith and Elzey – God be praised! The day was won, and Victory nestled proudly among the folds of our new-born banner. One more charge along our whole line, and the hireling hordes of oppression fled panic-stricken. Russell had received a painful wound from a minnie ball, which entered his shoulder and ranged down toward the elbow, but he maintained his position, and led his regiment a mile in the pursuit. When it became evident that the retreat was a complete rout, he resigned the command to Lieutenant-Colonel Blackwell, and rode back to the battlefield.
Picking his way to avoid trampling the dead, Russell saw Major Huntingdon at a little distance, trying to drag himself toward a neighbouring tree. The memory of his injuries crowded upon the memory of all that he had endured and lost through that man's prejudice – the sorrow that might have been averted from his blind mother – and his vindictive spirit rebelled at the thought of rendering him aid. But as he paused and struggled against his better nature, Irene's holy face, as he saw it last, lifted in prayer for him, rose, angel-like, above all that mass of death and horrors. The sufferer was Irene's father; she was hundreds of miles away. Russell set his lips firmly, and, riding up to the prostrate figure, dismounted. Exhausted by his efforts, Major Huntingdon had fallen back in the dust, and an expression of intolerable agony distorted his features as Russell stooped over him, and asked in a voice meant to be gentle —
"Can I do anything for you? Could you sit up, if I placed you on my horse?"
The wounded man scowled as he recognized the voice and face, and turned his head partially away, muttering —
"What brought you here?"
"There has never been any love between us, Major Huntingdon; but we are fighting in the same cause for the first time in our lives. You are badly wounded, and, as a fellow-soldier, I should be glad to relieve your sufferings, if possible. Once more, for humanity's sake, I ask, can you ride my horse to the rear, if I assist you to mount?"
"No. But, for God's sake, give me some water!"
Russell knelt, raised the head, and unbuckling his canteen, put it to his lips, using his own wounded arm with some difficulty. Half of the contents was eagerly swallowed, and the remainder Russell poured slowly on the gaping, ghastly wound in his side. The proud man eyed him, steadily till the last cool drop was exhausted, and said sullenly —
"You owe me no kindness, Aubrey. I hate you, and you know it. But you have heaped coals of fire on my head. You are more generous than I thought you. Thank you, Aubrey; lay me under that tree yonder, and let me die."
"I will try to find a surgeon. Who belongs to your regiment?"
"Somebody whom I never saw till last week. I won't have him hacking about me. Leave me in peace."
"Do you know anything of your servant? I saw him as I came on the field."
"Poor William! he followed me so closely that he was shot through the head. He is lying three hundred yards to the left, yonder. Poor fellow! he was faithful to the last."
A tear dimmed the master's eagle eye as he muttered, rather than spoke, these words.
"Then I will find Dr. Arnold at once, and send him to you."
It was no easy matter, on that crowded, confused Aceldama, and the afternoon was well-nigh spent before Russell, faint and weary, descried Dr. Arnold busily using his instruments in a group of wounded. He rode up, and, having procured a drink of water and refilled his canteen, approached the surgeon.
"Doctor, where is your horse? I want you."
"Ho, Cyrus! bring him up. What is the matter, Aubrey? You are hurt."
"Nothing serious, I think. But Major Huntingdon is desperately wounded – mortally, I am afraid. See what you can do for him."
"You must be mistaken! I have asked repeatedly for Leonard, and they told me he was in hot pursuit, and unhurt. I hope to Heaven you are mistaken."
"Impossible; I tell you I lifted him out of a pool of his own blood. Come; I will show you the way."
At a hard gallop they crossed the intervening woods, and, without difficulty, Russell found the spot where the mangled form lay still. He had swooned, with his face turned up to the sky, and the ghastliness of death had settled on his strongly marked, handsome features.
"God pity Irene!" said the doctor, as he bent down and examined the horrid wound, striving to press the red lips together.
The pain caused from handling him roused the brave spirit to consciousness, and opening his eyes he looked around wonderingly.
"Well, Hiram! it is all over with me, old fellow."
"I hope not, Leonard; can't you turn a little, and let me feel for the ball?"
"It is of no use; I am torn all to pieces. Take me out of this dirt, on the fresh grass somewhere."
"I must first extract the ball. Aubrey, can you help me raise him a little?"
Administering some chloroform, he soon succeeded in taking out the ball, and, with Russell's assistance, passed a bandage round the body.
"There is no chance for me, Hiram; I know that. I have few minutes to live. Some water."
Russell put a cup to his white lips, and calling in the assistance of Cyrus, who had followed his master, they carried him several yards farther, and made him comfortable, while orders were despatched for an ambulance.
A horrible convulsion seized him at this moment, and so intense was the agony that a groan burst through his set teeth, and he struggled to rise. Russell knelt down and rested the haughty head against his shoulder, wiping off the cold drops that beaded the pallid brow. After a little while, lifting his eyes to the face bending over him, Major Huntingdon gazed into the melancholy black eyes, and said, almost in a whisper —
"I little thought I should ever owe you thanks. Aubrey, forgive me all my hate; you can afford to do so now. I am not a brute; I know magnanimity when I see it. Perhaps I was wrong to visit Amy's sins on you; but I could not forgive her. Aubrey, it was natural that I should hate Amy's son."
Again the spasm shook his lacerated frame, and twenty minutes after his fierce, relentless spirit was released from torture; the proud, ambitious, dauntless man was with his God.
Dr. Arnold closed the eyes with trembling fingers, and covered his face with his hands to hide the tears that he could not repress.
For some moments silence reigned; then Dr. Arnold said suddenly —
"Come in, and let me see your arm. Your sleeve is full of blood."
An examination discovered a painful flesh-wound – the minnie ball having glanced from the shoulder and passed out through the upper part of the arm. In removing the coat to dress the wound, the doctor exclaimed —
"Here is a bullet-hole in the breast, which must have just missed your heart! Was it a spent ball?"
A peculiar smile disclosed Russell's faultless teeth an instant, but he merely took the coat, laid it over his uninjured arm, and answered —
"Don't trouble yourself about spent balls – finish your job. I must look after my wounded."
As soon as the bandages were adjusted he walked away and took from the inside pocket of the coat a heavy square morocco case containing Irene's ambrotype. When the coat was buttoned as on that day, it rested over his heart; and during the second desperate charge of General Beauregard's lines, Russell felt a sudden thump, and, above all the roar of that scene of carnage, heard the shivering of the glass which covered the likeness. The morocco was torn and indented, but the ball was turned aside harmless, and now, as he touched the spring, the fragments of glass fell at his feet. It was evident that his towering form had rendered him a conspicuous target; some accurate marksman had aimed at his heart, and the ambrotype-case had preserved his life. With a countenance pale from physical suffering, but beaming with triumphant joy for the Nation's first great victory, he went out among the dead and dying, striving to relieve the wounded, and to find the members of his own command.
