“_Sorrow an’ Trouble._”
The two who had lately been companions in misery met each other, at the
supper table, for the first time since the evening of their perilous
experience. “This is but our third meeting,” said Mr. Baldwin, “and how
various the circumstances.”
“There is a mighty big difference between a ball-room, Aunt Hagar’s
cabin, and our present surroundings,” Lettice returned. “We cannot
complain of monotony. How are you, Mr. Baldwin? Mammy tells me your
fever ran high, and no wonder; I have felt like a rag, myself.”
“Thanks to good nursing I am much better, and shall be able to proceed
to Washington to-morrow, I trust.”
“You are not well enough,” Mrs. Betty protested. “We cannot let you go
when you are but half mended.”
“Ah, but there is no word but duty to those who have promised to serve
their country,” replied the young man.
“Yes, but one owes a duty to one’s self as well as to one’s country,”
Betty returned.
“Every man is needed. With so little success on the frontier, reverses
at sea, and this vandal, Cockburn, ready to destroy and pillage along
these shores, it is every man’s duty to be at his post, if he is able
to get there.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Betty sighed. “That is what William says. With his
father and uncle on the frontier, his brother gone to join Barney, and
with the plantations running to waste down here, they all have no word
but duty.”
“And that is right,” Lettice spoke up. “It is to protect their women
and their homes that they go.”
Mr. Baldwin nodded with a pleased smile. “After all that you have
suffered, to hear you say that, Miss Lettice, proves that you are very
loyal.”
“I am the more so that I have suffered. The worse we are treated the
more eager we are for the war to go on.”
“That is beginning to be the prevailing spirit. But I wish I could know
you safe in Baltimore. I think it is very unsafe for ladies to be left
unprotected when the enemy is so near.”
“And such an enemy!” cried Betty. “Then don’t you think you ought to
stay and protect us, Mr. Baldwin?”
He laughed. “You make me choose my words, and put me in the position of
seeming very ungallant. I must go. I cannot do otherwise.”
“Yes, I agree with you,” Lettice gave her opinion, “and if I were a man
I would go too.” And Betty arising from the table, they adjourned to
another room, Lettice being carefully assisted by the young man.
“Each moment I remain is dangerous,” he whispered, “for each moment
it becomes less my desire to leave.” Lettice blushed, and while Betty
went to her baby, they two sat in a corner of the wide hall and had a
long talk. They had not many friends in common, but they loved their
country, and they had struggled with a common foe; then no wonder they
were not long strangers.
“I have never asked you where your home is,” said Lettice, to her
companion. “You do not talk like a Southerner, and yet you are Tyler’s
cousin. I do not seem to distinguish your native place by your speech.”
“I am from Massachusetts,” he told her, “but I am something of a
cosmopolitan, as every one who follows the sea must be.”
“From Massachusetts? I thought every one in that state was dead set
against the war.”
“Oh, no, not every one. To be sure, New Englanders, as a rule, are
against it; but if you should investigate, you would find many gallant
soldiers and sailors hailing from our part of the country.”
“Have you always lived there?”
“Always. My father lived there all his life, and my grandfather before
him, and I am very proud of my native city. Tyler Baldwin and I are
second cousins; his grandfather and mine were brothers, and as I was
for some time in Annapolis, near my father’s kin, I came to know them
quite well.”
“I am very glad to find one New Englander so fierce a fighter in
this war. It doesn’t seem right that when she did so much in the
Revolution--not that it was more than we did--but when she did so much
then, that she should be so dreadfully indifferent now, when it is just
as much a war for freedom. I am afraid that, like our old cat there,
New England has grown fat and lazy in prosperity. I think I’ll name
that cat New England, for she has no special name; Puss seems to be
sufficient for her own uses.”
Mr. Baldwin laughed, and they chatted on contentedly till the big
clock in the hall warned them of the lateness of the hour, and, beyond
that, Mammy had been hovering around for some time, with uneasy glances
at her patient.
“I feel as if I had known you for years,” Lettice said, as she bade the
young man good night.
“If length of time be counted by the amount of pleasure it brings, I
have known you for years,” he returned gallantly.
The next morning he took his leave, and the two women, left alone with
the servants, looked forward with dread to what the days might bring
them. But before long their hearts were cheered by news from the North;
that news which, in the never-to-be-forgotten words, “We have met the
enemy and they are ours,” announced Perry’s victory to a grateful
people. Report after report of victories at sea had come, but none
that matched in importance that which was won by Perry on Lake Erie.
All over the country bells were set ringing, cities were illuminated,
toasts were drunk to the young hero, and odes were addressed to
him; and those who before had felt very dubious, now began to place
unlimited faith in the success of the American side.
Even Aunt Martha and Rhoda rejoiced openly, for the former still
obstinately refused to leave the plantation, and the latter felt it
her “dooty” to remain likewise. She was a very sweet and gentle Rhoda
these days, and Lettice grew more and more fond of her.
Lettice, it may be said, was not long in recovering her usual health
and spirits. One of the first visits she made was to Aunt Hagar. She
bore her a gift from Mr. Baldwin, and the old woman was greatly puffed
up by the possession of a five dollar gold piece. She made mysterious
incantations, and consulted teacups and cards, and used other means of
reading Lettice’s fortune. The fair man and the dark man, and the fair
woman that came between, and the surprise that was partly agreeable and
partly disagreeable, were all there, but the most impressive of all was
a prophecy which seemed greatly to disturb the old woman herself.
“Sorrow an’ trouble,” she said, “to you an’ yo’ house. Law, honey, law,
honey, I is sholy distu’bed to see dat. From across water comes black
death, an’ here is weepin’ an’ wailin’ an’ gnashin’ of teef. Dey is
meetin’ an’ partin’, an’ ’live is daid, an’ daid is ’live. Dat is de
mos’ cur’os fortune I has fo’ many a day. I wisht I ain’ seen it, I
sholy is. I dat hu’t in mah min’ I can’t sleep dis night. What dis? I
lak to know who dat. Go long home, honey. I so ’stracted I dunno what
I sayin’.” And after Lettice left, until late in the night, the old
woman pored over her pack of cards, shaking her head and muttering,
“Sorrow an’ trouble.”
The next day came a messenger in the person of a small, kinkey-headed
darkey. “Mammy Hagar say will Miss Letty come see her. She turr’ble
sorry to trouble her, an’ she ain’ meanin’ no disrespec’, but she got
sumpin’ to tell her, an’ please, miss, come by yo’sef.”
Lettice donned her cloak and hat and set off, wondering what was meant
by this. It was early afternoon, and the scene was fair and peaceful.
One could scarce realize that war ravaged the land. She sauntered along
through the woods, stopping every now and then to pick a leaf which had
reddened early, or to watch a partridge hurry to cover. At Aunt Hagar’s
door she knocked. The latch was lifted, and the wrinkled face of the
old woman appeared. She whispered mysteriously, “Come in, honey,” and
shutting the door carefully, she beckoned her visitor to one corner
of the room which was screened off by an old quilt. Here, on a rude
pallet, lay a man.
Lettice started back. “Who is it?” she cried.
“Dat what I say.”
“Where did he come from?”
“He layin’ out in de holler o’ de ole house what got burnted, an’ I
gits him here, an’ he cl’ar outen his haid an’ stupefy. He one o’ dem
Britishers, yuh reckon?”
Lettice observed him more closely; then she gave an exclamation of
surprise. “Why Aunt Hagar, it is Pat--poor Patrick Flynn!”
“Is dat so? I says, ‘whar I see him befo?’ Dat jes’ who.”
“But how did he get here?”
“I jes’ drug him along. I right spry yit, an’ I git him a little way
an’ den drap him an’ git mah bref twel I gits him to de boat. I say ef
he a fren’, I boun’ to cyo’ him up, an’ ef he a Britisher--what yuh
reckon I do, Miss Letty?”
“I don’t know. Don’t let us talk of that. It would be hard to decide.
As it is, I am very glad it is poor Patrick. He should be taken at once
to Aunt Martha’s--but no, he probably escaped from some British ship,
and was shot while trying to get away. We shall have to keep him in
hiding till he gets well.”
“Das what I say, an’ dat why I ast yuh come look at him. I say Miss
Letty so sma’t she know ef he a Britisher, fo’ all dem clo’es he
w’ars.”
“I hope he will get well,” said Lettice. “What a joy it will be to his
mother if he does. It is just as well that she should not know that he
is here, for if he should not recover, she would have the double grief
of losing him. Take good care of him, Aunt Hagar, and I will send over
some things for him from the house. I will tell Sister Betty. Perhaps
she will insist on having him removed to our house, although I really
think he is much safer here;” a wise decision, as was proved true
before the week was out.
It was late one rainy evening that Rhoda and Lettice were sitting in
the open doorway, listening to the patter of the rain on the leaves. “I
feel very dreary, and full of forebodings,” said Lettice. “I suppose
it is because the autumn is so near. I always hate to see the summer
go, and I believe that somehow Aunt Hagar has scared me into thinking
something dreadful is going to happen.”
“Something dreadful is happening all the time,” Rhoda answered. “I
certainly think that an ignorant old woman’s vagaries have nothing to
do with it. I am not so superstitious.”
“Then you are not a descendant of a Salem witch,” returned Lettice,
laughing.
“Yes, I am, and that perhaps is why I abhor superstition,” Rhoda spoke
in all seriousness. “One of my ancestors was accused of witchcraft, but
fortunately the delusion ended before she was executed by the fanatics
who hounded the poor innocent creatures to their death. Hark! What is
that?”
There was a sound of running feet; of shots fired; of sudden cries. The
two girls clung close together, and Betty hurried to the door, while
the house servants gathered around, quaking with fear.
Presently from out of the gloom a dark figure staggered toward them
and, stumbling, fell at their feet; then another rushed past them into
the house. He blew out the candle Betty held and disappeared. Outside
was a clatter and a clamor. A swearing, threatening band of redcoats
surrounded the house.
For a moment the three women stood transfixed with horror: then Lettice
sprang indoors and blew a shrill whistle which brought from the
quarters those negroes who had not gone into hiding at the approach
of the soldiers. Their appearance added to the rage of the enemy. The
leader struck a light, and taking the candle from Betty’s nerveless
hand he relighted it. “Aha, some pretty girls!” cried out one of the
men behind him. “We’ll find the vile deserter, and then we’ll have
some sport with the ladies, eh, boys? Here’s my choice.” And he seized
Rhoda, who shrank back with a faint moan. This but added to the man’s
delight and drew her nearer. But at this moment the prostrate man on
the porch, who by painful effort had dragged himself to the sill of the
door, feebly raised the pistol he held, fired, and Rhoda was free to
rush out of the open door into the darkness.
Those inside were sobered down. “Here, men, search the house,” said the
leader, sternly. “Fire on any one who dares to stand in the way.”
“What shall we do! What shall we do!” Lettice moaned in despair. But
Betty had rushed upstairs to her baby, and Rhoda was not in sight. The
figure by the door had crawled out into the gloom again. How many of
the enemy might be outside Lettice could not determine, and she stood
trembling, daring neither to leave the house nor to follow the men who
had gone to the upper rooms.
Finally she ventured out upon the porch. Near the door Rhoda crouched,
and in her lap rested the head of the wounded man whose shot had felled
her assailant. She was murmuring incoherent words. Lettice drew near.
“Rhoda, Rhoda,” she whispered, “who is it?”
“Oh, Lettice! Oh, Lettice, he is dying!” she cried in a shaken voice.
“It is Jamie! Jamie!”
Lettice dropped on her knees by the side of the dear lad who lay very
still. Lettice lifted his hand and held it between her own, her tears
falling fast. She did not heed the tread of the men who returned from
their fruitless search. “The miserable wretch has escaped us somehow,”
as in a dream she heard one say. “This is the second we have lost this
week.” He leaned over and touched Lettice’s cheek. “Get up here, girl.
I want to look at you,” he said.
Lettice, with streaming eyes arose and with clasped hands approached
the leader of the band. “Sir, yonder dying man is my dearly loved
brother,” she said. “Will you not leave us alone with our great sorrow?
We would be but triste companions for your men. Take what you will, but
leave us these last few moments sacred from intrusion.”
The man stood looking at her a moment; then turned on his heel. “The
presence of a lovely female in distress was always too much for me,”
he muttered. “We will pursue our search further, and perhaps will pay
you a visit later. We will respect your desire to be alone. We, too,
have lost a friend.” He nodded toward the hall where his comrade lay.
“He has gone beyond our resentment,” said Lettice, gently. “We will
bury him in our own graveyard, unless you wish to bear him away with
you.”
“No, he will rest as well in one spot as in another,” returned the man.
“We will continue our duty and leave him to your kind offices.”
He then gathered his men about him and strode away.
Betty had followed the searching party downstairs, and now appeared
with the candle. She held it so its rays fell on Jamie’s white face.
“Jamie!” she cried. “Our Jamie! Oh, what terrible thing is this?”
He opened his eyes and smiled to see Rhoda bending over him. “I saved
you, dear, didn’t I?” he whispered.
“Yes, you saved me,” she controlled her voice sufficiently to answer.
He let his gaze rest a moment upon her, and then he looked at Lettice.
“Kiss me, little sister,” he said. She leaned over and kissed his
pale lips. One of his hands stirred as if seeking something, and
Rhoda slipped her fingers in his. He gave them a slightly perceptible
pressure. His eyes, large and imploring, searched her face. She
understood what he would ask, and she, too, leaned over and kissed him
solemnly, and into the searching eyes crept a satisfied look.
“Can we not get him into the house?” said Betty, in distress. “Is there
nothing we can do?” For answer there was a quiver of the lad’s eyelids,
one sigh, and then his young heart had ceased to beat.
Down the road the British soldiers were disappearing. The three women
sat sobbing convulsively. They had no thought for past or present
danger, nor for anything but the presence of this great sorrow.
After a while one of the colored men stole up. “Dey all gone, Miss
Betty,” he said. As he spoke from the house appeared before them
another figure, and some one dropped upon his knees and covered his
face with his hands. “Jamie, Jamie, little brother!” he groaned. “Would
to God I had been the one!”
The startled women lifted their heads. “Brother Tom!” cried Lettice.
“Oh, Brother Tom!” Then Aunt Hagar’s words returned to her, and she
repeated: “‘The dead shall be alive, and the alive shall be dead.’ Oh,
Brother Tom, it is Jamie, our Jamie!”
“Who lost his life in saving mine,” said the young man. “Let us bear
him indoors.” And tenderly lifting their burden, they laid him in the
great hall.
Lettice felt that it was good to have this lost brother to soothe and
comfort her, albeit his return brought no joy, for the shadow was too
great. She was confused and heart-broken, so that no explanations were
offered that night. Lettice had but asked, “Are you safe here, Brother
Tom?” and he had replied: “Safer than elsewhere. They have searched
here once and have not found me; they will not come again at once,
and we shall be gone before another day. I cannot leave you here to
be exposed to these dangers, little sister, and we must get off to
Baltimore as soon as ever we can.”
Even the next day they asked no questions, for in the evening, at
sunset, they laid Jamie to rest in the old graveyard, and in one corner
they buried, too, the British soldier who had met his death through
Jamie’s last effort for Rhoda. Friend and foe, the service was read
over them, and they were left asleep, with all differences forever
stilled.
Rhoda, in her self-control and reticence, gave little evidence of what
she felt, and it was only when Lettice saw the anguish in her eyes that
she realized that Rhoda’s best love was buried with Jamie; and when she
returned to the house she remembered the packet which Jamie had given
her. She followed Rhoda to her room to give it to her. The girl was
lying, face down, upon the floor, in tearless grief. She did not hear
Lettice’s light tap at the door, nor did she heed her entrance. “Jamie,
oh, my darling!” she moaned. And Lettice, with eyes overflowing, put
her arms around her. “Dear Rhoda,” she said, “he left something for
you.” And into her hand she gave the little packet.
Rhoda’s cold fingers closed over it, and in a minute she sat up.
“Stay with me, Lettice,” she begged. “We will open this together.”
She reverently undid the little box. On top lay a paper on which was
written: “For Rhoda, from one who loved her with all his heart. God
bless you and keep you and make you happy, my darling. From Jamie.”
There was a case underneath. Rhoda lifted it out and touched the
spring, to disclose a lock of curly auburn hair and a miniature of
Jamie. As his bonny face smiled up at her, Rhoda gave a great cry and
shed the first tears her eyes had known since that moment when his
spirit passed.
“It is so like, so like,” she murmured. “How I shall treasure it,
Lettice. My bonny Jamie, how shall I live through the long years? And
you will never know how much I loved you.”
“He knows now,” said Lettice, softly. And she went out, leaving Rhoda
more comforted by this than by anything that could have come to her.