The Storm Centre. Mary Noailles Murfree

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      The battery of six pieces which Baynell commanded enjoyed a certain renown as a crack corps, and spectators were gathering to witness the gun-drill—a number of soldiers from the adjoining cavalry and infantry camps, a few of the railroad hands from the repair work on a neighboring track, and a contingent of freedmen, jubilantly idle. Standing a little apart from these was a group, chiefly mounted, consisting of several officers of the different arms of the service, military experts, critically observant, among whom was Colonel Vertnor Ashley, who commanded a volunteer regiment of horse, and a younger man, Lieutenant Seymour of the infantry.

      It was a fine fresh morning, with white clouds scudding across a densely blue sky chased by the wind, the grass springing into richer verdure, the buds bourgeoning, with almost the effect of leaflets already, in the great oak and tulip trees of the grove. Daffodils were blooming here and there, scattered throughout the sward—even beneath the carriages of the guns a score perhaps, untrampled still, reared aloft the golden "candlesticks" with an illuminating effect. The warm sun was flashing with an embellishing glitter on the rows of the white tents of the army on the hills around the little city as far as the eye could reach. The deep, broad river, here and there dazzling with lustrous stretches of ripples, was full of craft—coal-barges, skiffs, gunboats, the ordinary steam-packets, flatboats, and rafts; the peculiar dull roar of a railway train heavily laden, transporting troops, came to the ear as the engine, shrieking like a monster, rushed upon the bridge with its great consignment of crowded humanity in the long line of box cars, an additional locomotive assisting the speed of the transit.

      "Come here, Ashley, and see if you can make anything of Baynell," said the infantry lieutenant, whose regiment lay in camp a little to the west, as the colonel reined in his horse under the tree where Seymour was hanging on to Baynell's stirrup-leather. "He hasn't a syllable to say. I want to know what is the name of that pretty girl at Judge Roscoe's."

      Ashley came riding up with his inimitable pompous swagger, half the result of jocose bravado, half of genuine and justifiable vanity. It went very well with the suggestions of his high cavalry boots, his clanking sword, and his jingling spurs. His somewhat broad ruddy face had the merit of a sidelong glance of great archness, delivered from a pair of vivacious hazel eyes, and he twirled his handsome, long, dark mustache with the air of a conqueror at the very mention of a pretty girl.

      "I can tell you more about Judge Roscoe's family than Fluellen Baynell ever will," Ashley declared gayly. "So ask me what you want to know, Mark, and don't intrude on Nellie's finical delicacy."

      Throughout the campaign Colonel Ashley's squadrons had coöperated with Baynell's artillery. The officers had come to know and respect each other well in the stress of danger and mutual dependence. It may be doubted whether any other man alive could with impunity have called Fluellen Baynell "Nellie."

      Baynell was in full uniform, splendidly mounted, awaiting the hour appointed, and now and again casting his eye on the camp "street" at some distance, the stable precincts all a turmoil of hurrying drivers and artillerymen harnessing horses and adjusting accoutrements, while a continuous hum of voices, jangling of metal, and tramping of steeds came on the air. He withdrew his attention with an effort.

      "Why, what do you want me to tell?" he demanded sarcastically;—"what they had for supper?"

      "No—no—but just be neighborly. For sheer curiosity I want to know his daughter's name," persisted the lieutenant of infantry.

      "Judge Roscoe has no daughter," replied Baynell.

      "His granddaughter, then."

      "His granddaughters are children—I have forgotten their names."

      "Well, who is that young lady there?—a beauty of beauties. I caught a glimpse of her at the window the day we pitched our camp in the peach orchard over there."

      "She is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen," solemnly declared Ashley, who had artistic proclivities. "I never saw a face like that—such chiselling, so perfect—unless it were some fine antique cameo. It has the contour, the lines, the dignity, of a Diana! And her hair is really exquisite! Who is she, Fluellen?"

      Baynell was conscious of the constraint very perceptible in his voice as he replied, "She is Judge Roscoe's niece, Mrs. Gwynn."

      Ashley stared. "Mrs.! Why, she doesn't look twenty years old!" Then, with sudden illumination, "Why—that must be the 'widder 'oman!'" with an unctuous imitation of old Ephraim's elocution. "I am surprised. Mrs. Gwynn! 'De widder 'oman!'" He broke off to laugh at a sudden recollection.

      "I wish you could have heard old Janus's account of his effort to clean the knives to suit her. She seems to be in command of the commissariat up there. The old darkey came into camp, searching for the methods of polishing metals that the soldiers use for their accoutrements. 'Brilliancy without labor,' was Uncle Ephraim's desideratum. I gave him some rotten-stone. His sketch of how the judgment day would overtake him still polishing knives for the 'widder 'oman' was worth hearing."

      Baynell would not have so considered it—thus far apart were the friends in prejudice and temperament. Yet there was no derogation in the simple gossip. To the campaigners the Roscoe household was but the temporary incident of the mental landscape, and the confidential bit of criticism and comment served only to make conversation and pass the time.

      All of Vertnor Ashley's traits were on a broad scale, genial and open. He had the best opinion imaginable of himself, and somehow the world shared it—so ingratiating was his joviality. His very defects were obviated and went for naught. Although, being only of middle height, his tendency to portliness threatened the grace of his proportions, he was esteemed a fine figure and a handsome man. He made a brave show in the saddle, and was a magnificent presentment of a horseman. He was a poor drill; his discipline was lax, for he dearly loved popularity and fostered this incense to his vanity. He was adored in his regiment, and he never put foot in stirrup to ride in or out of camp that even this casual appearance was not cheered to the echo. "That must be Vert Ashley, or a rabbit!" was a usual speculation upon the sound of sudden shouting, for the opportunity to chase a rabbit was a precious break in the monotony of the life of the rank and file.

      Baynell's coming and going, on the contrary, was greeted with no demonstration. He was a rigid disciplinarian. He exacted every capacity for work that the men possessed, and his battery was one of the most efficient of the horse artillery in the service. But when it came to the test of battle, the cannoneers could not shout loud and long enough. They were sure of fine execution and yet of careful avoidance of the reckless sacrifice of their lives and the capture of their guns, often returning, indeed, from action, covered with glory, having lost not one man, not so much as a sponge-staff. So fine an officer could well dispense with the arts that fostered popularity and ministered to vanity. Thus the slightest peccadillo made the offender and the wooden horse acquaint.

      None of Baynell's qualities were of the jovial order. He was a martinet, a technical expert in the science of gunnery, a stern and martial leader of men. His mind was an orderly assimilation of valuable information, his consciousness a repelling exclusive assortment of sensitive fibres. He had a high and exacting moral sense, and his pride of many various kinds passed all bounds. He listened with aghast dismay to the story of Mrs. Gwynn's unhappy married life that Ashley rehearsed—the ordinary gossip of the day, to be heard everywhere—and then a discussion took place as to whether or not the horse that killed her husband were the vicious charger now ridden by the colonel of a certain regiment.

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