“Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison has failed in his military duty.  He released a Rebel spy—­proved himself a traitor to his cause.”

“A traitor, General?” protested the young officer.  “Do you call a man a traitor who fought as Morrison did a week ago?  Who stood his ground till his whole command was shot to pieces!  And then stood alone—­defending his colors in the face of hell let loose!”

The appeal was impassioned, its sincerity and humanity undoubted.  Yet it seemingly only served to make the grim rules of war more unyielding than ever.

Choosing his words with more than ordinary care, and speaking them in firm, even tones, the General made his reply.

“No act of bravery can atone for a soldier’s lapse from duty.”  He sat down at his desk and began to write.

Under ordinary circumstances Lieutenant Harris might have accepted defeat for there seemed no use in trying to break down that iron will or touch the heart of this relentless soldier.  But this was something more than an ordinary case and Harris was more than simply Morrison’s counsel—­he was his friend.  The two had fought together through three hard campaigns; they had shared food and water and shelter, had slept together for warmth on sodden fields, had exchanged such confidences as two officers from the same town in the North but of unequal rank may exchange under the pressure of war-time emotions.  If there was one man living who knew Morrison’s heart and appreciated his motives to the uttermost it was his lieutenant and the young officer was prepared to lose his commission, aye, even face prison for insubordination if continued opposition to the Commander-in-Chief would result in a re-hearing.  And so he caught himself together for the second time and returned to the charge.

“I do not offer his courage as a plea for pardon,” he said, and turned to his general with half a smile, “but still I find in Shakespeare—­and in Blackstone—­the suggestion of tempering justice with mercy.”

Grant tossed aside his pencil, repeating the last word slowly, bitterly: 

“Mercy!”

He rose from his seat and stood beside his table, speaking with a low but almost fierce intensity: 

“They call me a war machine!  I am!  And you—­and all the rest—­are parts of it!  A lever!  A screw!  A valve!  A wheel!  A machine half human—­yes!  A thing of muscle and bone and blood—­but without a heart!  A merciless machine, whose wheels must turn and turn till we grind out this rebellion to the dust of peace!”

He paused impressively, and in the hard, cold words which followed, all hope for Morrison seemed to fade and die.

“If a wheel once fails to do its work—­discard it!—­for another and a better one! We want no wheels that slip their cogs!”

The General ceased and turned to his littered table; but Harris was not yet beaten.

“No, General,” he answered bravely, “but there happens to be a flaw ... in your machine’s control.”  The General looked up, frowning sharply; but Harris still went on:  “In a military court we have condemned a man to die—­and the facts have not been proved!”