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THE TRIALS
OF
THE SOLDIER'S WIFE:
A TALE OF THE
SECOND AMERICAN REVOLUTION.
BY ALEX. ST. CLAIR ABRAMS.
ATLANTA, GEORGIA:
1864.
Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1864,
BY THE AUTHOR,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Confederate States
for the Northern District of Georgia.
DEDICATION
TO
COLONEL JOHN H. JOSSEY.
Of Macon, Georgia.
MY DEAR SIR--
Accept from me the dedication of this little work as a token of
appreciation for the kind friendship you have ever displayed towards
me. Wishing you all the happiness and prosperity that can fall to
mortal man, believe me.
Your Friend,
THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
The plot of this little work was first thought of by the writer in the
month of December, 1862, on hearing the story of a soldier from New
Orleans, who arrived from Camp Douglas just in time to see his wife
die at Jackson, Mississippi. Although the Press of that city made no
notice of it, the case presented itself as a fit subject for a
literary work. If the picture drawn in the following pages appears
exaggerated to our readers, they will at least recognize the moral it
contains as truthful.
Trusting that the public will overlook its many defects, the Author
yet hopes there will be found in this little book, matter of
sufficient interest to while away the idle hour of the reader.
ATLANTA, April 20th, 1864.
THE TRIALS
OF
THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.
CHAPTER FIRST.
THE "CRESCENT CITY"--THE HUSBAND'S DEPARTURE.
Kind reader, have you ever been to New Orleans? If not, we will
attempt to describe the metropolis of the Confederate States of
America.
New Orleans is situated on the Mississippi river, and is built in the
shape of a crescent, from which it derives the appellation of
"Crescent City." The inhabitants--that is, the educated class--are
universally considered as the most refined and aristocratic members of
society on the continent. When we say aristocratic, we do not mean a
pretension of superiority above others, but that elegance and
etiquette which distinguish the _parvenu_ of society, and the vulgar,
but wealthy class of citizens with which this country is infested. The
ladies of New Orleans are noted for their beauty and refinement, and
are certainly, as a general thing, the most accomplished class of
females in the South, except the fair reader into whose hands this
work may fall.
It was in the month of May, 1861, that our story commences. Secession
had been resorted to as the last chance left the South for a
preservation of her rights. Fort Sumter, had fallen, and from all
parts of the land troops were pouring to meet the threatened invasion
of their homes. As history will record, New Orleans was not idle in
those days of excitement. Thousands of her sons came forward at the
first call, and offered their services for the good of the common
cause, and for weeks the city was one scene of excitement from the
departure of the different companies to Virginia.
Among the thousands who replied to the first call of their country,
was Alfred Wentworth, the confidential clerk of one of the largest
commission houses in the city. He was of respectable family, and held
a high position in society, both on account of his respectability and
the elevated talent he had displayed during his career in the world.
He had been married for about five years, and two little children--one
a light-eyed girl of four summers, and the other an infant of two
years--were the small family with which heaven had blessed him.
After joining a company of infantry, and signing the muster roll,
Alfred returned home to his wife and informed her of what he had done,
expecting that she would regret it. But the patriotic heart of his
wife would not reproach him for having performed his duty; so heaving
a sigh as she looked at the child in her arms, and the little girl on
her fathers knee, a tear trickled down her flushed cheek as she bade
him God-speed. The time that elapsed between his enlistment and
departure for the seat of war, was spent by Alfred Wentworth in
providing a home for his family, so that in the event of his being
killed in battle, they should not want. Purchasing a small residence
on Prytania street, he removed his family into it and concluded his
business in time for his departure.
The morning of the twenty-second of May broke brightly over the
far-famed "Crescent City." Crowds of citizens were seen congregating
on Canal street to witness the departure of two more regiments of
Orleanians. The two regiments were drawn up in line between Camp and
Carondelet streets, and their fine uniforms, glistening muskets and
soldierly appearance created a feeling of pride among the people. They
were composed principally of Creoles and Americans, proper. The
handsome, though dark complexions of the Creoles could be seen lit up
with enthusiasm, in conversation with the dark-eyed Creole beauties of
the city, while the light-haired and fair-faced sons of the Crescent
City were seen mingling among the crowd of anxious relatives who
thronged to bid them farewell.
Apart from the mass of volunteers--who had previously stacked their
arms--Alfred Wentworth and his wife were bidding that agonizing
farewell, which only those who have parted from loved one can feel.
His little bright-eyed daughter was clasped in his arms, and every
minute he would stoop over his infant and kiss its tiny cheeks. Marks
of tears were on the eyelids of his wife, but she strove to hide them,
and smiled at every remark made by her daughter. They were alone from
the eyes of a curious crowd. Each person present had too much of his
own acquaintances to bid farewell, to notice the speechless farewell
which the soldier gave his wife. With one arm clasped around her, and
the other holding his daughter, Alfred Wentworth gazed long and
earnestly at the features of his wife and children, as if to impress
the features of those loved ones still firmer in his mind.
"Attention, battalion!" rang along the line in stentorian tones, and
the voices of the company officers calling "fall in, boys, fall in!"
were heard in the streets. Clasping his wife to his heart, and
imprinting a fond, fond kiss of love upon her cheeks, and embracing
his children, the soldier took his place in the ranks, and after the
necessary commands, the volunteers moved forward. A crowd of their
relatives followed them to the depot of the New Orleans, Jackson and
Great Northern Railroad, and remained until the cars were out of
sight. After the troops had entered, and the train was slowly moving
off, one of the soldiers jumped from the platform, and, embracing a
lady who stood near, exclaimed:
"Farewell, dearest Eva! God bless you and the children--we shall meet
again." As soon as he spoke, Alfred Wentworth sprang into the cars
again and was soon swiftly borne from the city.
Mrs. Wentworth remained standing where her husband had left her, until
the vast crowd had dispersed, and nothing could be seen of the train
but a thin wreath of smoke emerging from the tree-tops in the
distance. Calling the colored nurse, who had followed with the
children, she bade her return home, and accompanied her back to her
now lonely residence.
CHAPTER SECOND.
THE WIFE AND CHILDREN--A VISITOR
The weeks passed slowly to Mrs. Wentworth from the departure of her
husband; but her consciousness that he was performing his duty to his
country, and the letters he wrote from Virginia, cheered her spirits,
and, in a measure, made her forget his absence.
She was alone one evening with her children, who had become the sole
treasures of her heart, and on whom she lavished every attention
possible, when the ringing of the bell notified her of the presence of
a visitor. Calling the servant, she bade her admit the person at the
door. The negro left the room to do her mistress' bidding, and shortly
after, a handsome gentleman of about thirty-five years of age entered.
"Good morning, Mrs. Wentworth," he said, on entering the room. "I
trust yourself and children are in good health."
Mrs. Wentworth rose from her chair, and, slightly inclining her head,
replied: "To what circumstance am I indebted for the honor of this
visit, Mr. Awtry?"
"Nothing very particular, madam," he replied; "but hearing of your
husband's departure, I thought I should lake the liberty of paying a
visit to an old acquaintance, and of offering my services, if you
should ever need them."
"I thank you for your kindness; and should I _ever_ need your
services, you may depend upon my availing myself of your offer;
although," she added, "I do not think it likely I shall stand in need
of any assistance."
"I rejoice to hear it, my dear madam," he replied; "but I trust," he
continued, on noticing the look of surprise which covered her
features, "that you will not think my offer in the least insulting;
for I can assure you, it was only prompted by the most friendly
motives, and the recollections of past days."
Mrs. Wentworth made no reply, and he continued: "I hope that, after an
absence of five years, the memory of the past has been banished from
you. With me things have changed materially. The follies of my youth
have, I trust, been expiated, and I am a different man now to what I
was when I last saw you."
"Mr. Awtry," replied Mrs. Wentworth, "I feel rather surprised that,
after your presence in New Orleans for so many months, you should not
have thought proper to renew our acquaintance until after the
departure of my husband."
"Pardon me," he quickly answered. "I was introduced to your husband by
a mutual friend; and as he never thought proper to extend an
invitation to me, I did not think myself authorized to call here.
Learning of his departure this morning, and knowing that his
circumstances were not of so favorable a character as he could wish, I
thought you might pardon my presumption in calling on you when you
learned the motive which actuated this visit--believe me, I am
sincere; and now," he continued, "will you accept my proffered hand of
friendship, and believe that my desire is only to aid the relatives of
one of the gallant men who have gone to struggle for their rights?"
Mrs. Wentworth paused a moment before she accepted the extended hand,
while her brow appeared clouded. At length, holding out her hand to
him, she said:
"I accept your offered friendship, Mr. Awtry, in the same spirit, as I
hope, it is given; but, at the same time, trust you shall never be
troubled with any importunities from me."
"Thank you--thank you," he replied eagerly; "I shall not prove
otherwise than worthy of your friendship. These are your children?" he
continued, changing the conversation.
"Yes," she replied, with a look of pride upon her little daughter and
the sleeping infant on the sofa; "these are my little family."
Mr. Awtry took the little girl upon his knees and commenced caressing
it, and, after remaining for a few moments in unimportant
conversation, took his departure with the promise to call at some
future time.
As soon as he left Mrs. Wentworth sat down, and resting her hands on
the table, spoke to herself on the visit she had received. "What could
have induced him to pay me this visit?" she said, musingly; "it is
strange--very strange that he should choose this particular time to
renew our acquaintance! He spoke honestly, however, and may be sincere
in his offers of assistance, should I ever need anything. He is
wealthy, and can certainly aid me." She sat there musing, until the
little girl, coming up to her, twined her tiny arms round her mother's
neck, and asked if it was not time to light the gas.
"Yes, darling," said Mrs. Wentworth, kissing her fondly; "call Betsy
and let her get a light."
After the negro had lit the gas, Mrs. Wentworth said to her, "Should
that gentleman, who was here to-day, call at any time again, let me
know before you admit him."
"Yes, mistis," replied the negro with a curtsey.
CHAPTER THIRD.
MR. HORACE AWTRY.
Mr. Horace Awtry was a native of the State of New York, and was, at
the time of writing, about thirty-live years of age. He was a tall and
well-formed man, with light hair clustering in curls on a broad and
noble looking forehead; his features were well chiselled, and his
upper lip was ornamented with a mustache of the same color as his
hair. Notwithstanding his handsome features and extravagant display of
dress, there was an expression in his dark blue eyes, which, though
likely to captivate the young and innocent portion of the fair sex,
was not deemed elegant by those who are accustomed to read the
features of man. He was very wealthy, but was a perfect type of the
_roue_, although a good education and remarkable control of himself
rendered it difficult for his acquaintances to charge him with
dissipation, or any conduct unworthy of ft gentleman. As this
gentleman will occupy a somewhat conspicuous position in our tale, we
deem it necessary to go into these particulars.
Some seven years previous to her marriage, and while yet a child, Mrs.
Wentworth, with her father, the only surviving relative she had, spent
the summer at Saratoga Springs in the State of New York, and there met
Mr. Awtry, who was then a handsome and dashing young man. Struck by
her beauty, and various accomplishments, he lost no time in making her
acquaintance, and before her departure from the Springs, offered her
his hand. To his utter astonishment, the proposal was rejected, with
the statement that she was already engaged to a gentleman of New
Orleans. This refusal would have satisfied any other person, but
Horace Awtry was not a man to yield so easily; he, therefore, followed
her to New Orleans on her return, and endeavored, by every means in
his power, to supplant Alfred Wentworth in the affections of Eva
Seymour--Mrs. Wentworth's maiden name--and in the confidence of her
father. Failing in this, and having the mortification of seeing them
married, he set to work and succeeded in ruining Mr. Seymour in
business, which accounts for the moderate circumstances in which we
find Mrs. Wentworth and her husband at the commencement of this book.
Worn out by his failure in business and loss of fortune, Mr. Seymour
died shortly after his daughter's marriage, without knowing who caused
his misfortunes, and Horace Awtry returned to the North. After being
absent for several years, he came back to New Orleans some months
before the departure of Mrs. Wentworth's husband, but never called
upon her until after he had left, when she was surprised at the visit
narrated in the foregoing chapter.
This gentleman was seated in the portico of the St. Charles Hotel a
few mornings after his visit to Mrs. Wentworth, and by his movements
of impatience was evidently awaiting the arrival of some one. At last
a young man ran down the steps leading from the apartments, and he
rose hurriedly to meet him.
"You are the very man I have been waiting to see," said Horace Awtry;
"you must excuse my apparent neglect in not calling on you before."
"Certainly, my dear fellow," replied the gentleman. "I am certain your
reasons are good for not attending to your arrangement punctually--by
the way," he continued, "who the deuce was that lady I saw you
escorting to church last Sunday?"
"An acquaintance of mine that I had not seen for years, until a few
days ago chance threw me in her path and I paid her a visit."
"Ha, ha, ha," laughed his companion. "I understand; but who is she,
and her name? She is very pretty," he continued, gravely.
"Hush, Charlie!" replied Horace; "come to my room in the St. Louis
Hotel, and I will tell you all about it."
"Wait a moment, my friend, and let me get some breakfast," he replied.
"Pooh!" said Horace, "we can have breakfast at Galpin's after I have
conversed with you at my room; or," he continued, "I will order a
breakfast and champagne to be brought up to my room."
"As you like," said the other, taking a couple of cigars from his
pocket and offering one to his companion.
After lighting their cigars, the two men left the hotel, and
purchasing the New York _Herald_ and _News_ from the news-dealer
below, proceeded to the St. Louis Hotel, where Horace ordered a
breakfast and champagne for himself and guest.
Throwing himself on one of the richly-covered couches that ornamented
the apartment, Charles Bell--for that was the name of the
gentleman--requested his friend to inform him who the lady was that he
escorted to church.
"Well, my dear friend," said Horace, "as you appear so desirous to
know I will tell you. I met that lady some seven years ago at Saratoga
Springs. If she is now beautiful she was ten times so then, and I
endeavored to gain her affections. She was, however, engaged to
another young man of this city, and on my offering her my hand in
marriage, declined it on that ground. I followed her here with the
intention of supplanting her lover in her affections, but it was of no
avail; they were married, and the only satisfaction I could find was
to ruin her father, which I did, and he died shortly after without a
dollar to his name."
"So she is married?" interrupted his companion.
"Yes, and has two children," replied Horace.
"Where is her husband?"
"He left for Virginia some time ago, where I sincerely trust he will
get a bullet through his heart," was the very charitable rejoinder.
"What! do you desire to marry his widow?" asked his friend.
"No, indeed," he replied; "but you see they are not in very good
circumstances, and if he were once dead she would be compelled to work
for a living, as they have no relatives in this State, and only a few
in Baltimore. To gain my object, I should pretend that I desired to
befriend her--send the two children to some nurse, and then have her
all to myself. This," continued the villain, "is the object with which
I have called upon her"--
"And paid a visit to church for the first time in your life," said
Bell, laughing; "but," he resumed, "it is not necessary for you to
wish the husband dead--why not proceed to work at once?"
"Well, so I would, but she is so very particular, that on the
slightest suspicion she would take the alarm and communicate to her
husband the fact of my having renewed my acquaintance with her, which
would, perhaps, bring him home on furlough."
"Nonsense," replied his friend, "the secessionists need every man to
assist them in driving back McDowell, and there is no chance of any
furloughs being granted; besides which, we are on the eve of a great
battle, and for any of the men to ask for a furlough would lay him
open to the charge of cowardice."
"That may be all true," said Horace, "but I shall not venture on
anything more as yet. As far as I have gone, she believes me actuated
by no other motives than the remembrance of my former affection for
her, and, with that belief, places implicit trust in me."
The conversation was here interrupted by the appearance of two
waiters, one carrying a waiter filled with different descriptions of
food, and the other a small basket containing six bottles of
champagne. After setting them on a table, Horace inquired what the
charges were.
"Twelve dollars, sah," was the reply.
Horace took out his pocket book, and throwing the man a twenty dollar
gold piece, told him to pay for the breakfast and champagne, and
purchase cigars with the remainder.
The negroes having left, Horace Awtry and his friend proceeded to
discuss their breakfast and champagne. After eating for a few minutes
in silence, Horace suddenly said:
"Charlie, what do you think of this war?"
"My opinion is, that the South has got in a pretty bad dilemma,"
replied that gentleman.
"That is identically my impression, but for heaven's sake do not let
any one hear you say so. The people are half crazed with excitement,
and the slightest word in favor of the North may lay you at the mercy
of an infuriated mob."
"What do you intend doing, now the ports are blockaded, and no one can
leave the country?" asked his friend.
"Why, remain here and pretend all the friendship possible for the
South. Maybe I will get a contract or two, which will further the
design of covering my opinions on this contest."
"Such was my idea, but I am afraid that the secesh government will
issue their cotton bonds until all the gold is driven from the States,
and then we will have nothing but their worthless paper money,"
replied Bell.
"I have thought of that, and made up my mind to convert all the
property I have here into gold at once, which will give me between
sixty and seventy thousand dollars, and as fast as I make any of the
bonds from contracts, I will sell them for whatever gold they will
bring."
"That's a capital idea, my dear follow," said Bell, rising from his
chair and slapping Awtry on the shoulder; "I think I shall follow your
plan."
The cigars having been brought in, after a few minutes of unimportant
conversation, Charles Bell left his friend, with the arrangement to
meet at the Varieties theatre in the evening, and Horace Awtry,
divesting himself of his clothing, retired to sleep until the evening
should come.
CHAPTER FOURTH.
A POLITIC STROKE--THE TELEGRAPHIC DISPATCH.
June and half of July had sped swiftly away. The great battle, which
everybody daily expected, had been fought, and the Yankee army
ignominiously defeated. As every one of our readers are well
acquainted with this battle, I shall not go into any details; enough;
as history will tell, to know that it resulted in a glorious victory
to the Confederate army, and covered the gallant Southerners with
honor.
On the arrival of dispatches giving an account of this victory, to use
a vulgar phrase, New Orleans "ran wild." The excitement and exultation
of the people were beyond description, and during the same night that
the news was received, one scene of gayety was observed in the city.
There was one heart, however, that did not share the joy and merriment
so universal among the people. In the privacy of her dwelling, with
her two children near by, Mrs. Wentworth spent a night of prayer and
anxiety, and next morning rose from her bed with the same feeling of
anxiety to know whether her husband had escaped unhurt. At about ten
o'clock in the morning, a knock was heard at the door, and soon after
Mr. Awtry entered.
"How are you this morning, Mrs. Wentworth?" he said, taking her little
daughter in his arms and kissing her; "so we have gained a great
victory in Virginia."
"Yes," she replied; "but I do feel so anxious to know if my husband is
safe."
"Do not think for a moment otherwise," he answered; "why a soldier's
wife should not show half as much solicitude as you do."
"I am, indeed, very desirous of knowing his fate and I am sure the
fact of being a soldier's wife does not prevent my feeling a desire to
ascertain if he is unhurt, or if he is"--she paused at the thought
which seemed so horrid in her imagination, and lowering her face in
her hands, burst into tears.
"Mother, what are you crying for?" asked her little daughter, who was
sitting on Mr. Awtry's knees.
"My dear madam," said Mr. Awtry, "why do you give way to tears? If you
desire," he continued, "I will telegraph to Virginia and learn if your
husband is safe."
"Thank you--thank you!" she answered eagerly; "I shall feel deeply
obligated if you will."
"I shall go down to the telegraph office at once," he said, rising
from his seat and placing the child down; "and now, my little
darling," he continued, speaking to the child, "you must tell your ma
not to cry so much." With these words he shook Mrs. Wentworth's hand
and left the house.
The day passed wearily for Mrs. Wentworth; every hour she would open
one of the windows leading to the street and look out, as if expecting
to see Mr. Awtry with a telegraphic dispatch in his hand, and each
disappointment she met with on these visits would only add to her
intense anxiety. The shades of evening had overshadowed the earth, and
Mrs. Wentworth sat at the window of her dwelling waiting the arrival
of the news, which would either remove her fears or plunge her in
sorrow. Long hours passed, and she had almost despaired of Mr. Awtry's
coming that evening, when he walked up the street, and in a few
minutes was in the house.
"What news?" gasped Mrs. Wentworth, starting from her seat and meeting
him at the door of the apartment.
"Read it, my dear madam. I shall leave that pleasure to you," he
replied, handing her a telegraphic dispatch he held in his hand.
Taking the dispatch, Mrs. Wentworth, with trembling fingers, unfolded
it and read these words: "Mrs. Eva Wentworth, New Orleans, Louisiana:
Yours received. I am safe. Alfred Wentworth." As soon as she had read
the dispatch, her pent up anxiety for his safety was allayed, and
throwing herself on her knees before a couch, regardless of the
presence of Mr. Awtry, who stood looking on, Mrs. Wentworth poured
forth a prayer of thanks at the safety of her husband, while tears of
joy trickled down her cheeks.
"Allow me to congratulate you, Mrs. Wentworth, on the safety of your
husband," said Horace Awtry, after she had become sufficiently
composed. "I assure you," he continued, "I feel happy at the knowledge
of being the medium through which this welcome intelligence has
reached you."
"You have, indeed, proved a friend," she said, extending her hand,
which he shook warmly, "and one that I feel I can trust."
"Do not speak of it," he answered; "it is only a natural act of
kindness towards one whom I desire to befriend."
"And one I will never cease to forget. Oh! if you had but known how I
felt during these past hours of agonizing suspense, you would not have
thought lightly of your kind attention; and I am sure when I write
Alfred of it, he will not have words sufficient to express his
gratitude."
"In my haste to impart the good news to you," said Mr. Awtry, rising,
"I almost forgot an engagement I made this evening. It is now getting
late, and I must leave. Good evening."
"Good evening," she replied. "I trust you will call to see me soon
again."
"With _your_ permission I will," he answered, laying particular
emphasis on the word "your."
"Certainly," she said. "I shall be most happy to see you at anytime."
"I will call soon, then," he replied. "Good night," and he stepped
from the threshold of the house.
"Good night," she said, closing the door.
Horace Awtry stood for a moment near the house; then walking on he
muttered: "A politic stroke, that telegraphic dispatch."
CHAPTER FIFTH.
JACKSON, MISSISSIPPI--A HAPPY HOME.
We will now change the scene of our story, and, using the license of
all writers, transport the reader to Jackson, the Capital of the great
State of Mississippi, and there introduce him or her to other
characters who will bear a prominent part in this book.
In the parlor of an elegant resident on Main street, a beautiful girl
was sitting with an open book in her hand. She was not, however,
reading, as her bright blue eyes rested not on the pages, but were
gazing at the half-opened door, as if expecting the arrival of some
one. While she is thus musing, we will endeavour to give a description
of the fair maiden. Fancy a slight and elegant figure, richly dressed
in a robe of _moire antique_, from under the folds of which the
daintiest little feet imaginable could be seen. Her features, though
not regularly carved, made her, at the name time, very beautiful,
while her bright blue eyes and rich golden hair, braided smooth to her
forehead, and ornamented with a jewelled tiara, then much worn, lent
additional charm to her appearance. Her hands were small, and as
Byron, we think, has it, was an undoubted mark of gentle birth.
She remained in this reverie for some time, but was at last aroused by
the entrance, unannounced, of a handsome young man dressed in the
uniform of a lieutenant, when she started up, and meeting him, said in
a half-vexed, half-playful tone:
"Oh, Harry! why did you not come earlier? I have been waiting for your
arrival over an hour!"
"Excuse me, dearest," he answered. "I was just on the point of
starting from my office when I received a mass of orders from
regimental headquarters, which detained me until a few minutes ago.
You must, therefore," he continued, "excuse me for this once, and I
shall not offend again," and as he spoke he parted the hair from her
forehead and pressed a kiss upon her lips.
"I forgive you for this time," she answered, playfully tapping him on
the shoulder with her fan; "but the next offence I will not be so
likely to excuse."
"I will take good care not to offend again, then," he laughingly said.
The conversation continued for some time in this light way, which
lovers will sometimes indulge in, when, assuming a serious
countenance, she spoke to him:
"When does your regiment leave for Virginia?"
"I hardly know," he replied, "if it will go to Virginia at all. The
Colonel informs me that it is likely the regiment will be sent to
Tennessee; so if it is sent there, I will be nearer than you thought."
"What a horrid thing war is!" she said, without appearing to notice
his last remarks.
"You are not inclined to show the white feather now, are you?" he
said, laughing.
Her bright blue eyes sparkled for a moment, as if repudiating the
question; then lowering them she answered: "No, indeed. I would not
have a single one that I love remain at home while the Abolitionists
are invading our homes."
"Spoken like a brave girl and a true Southern woman," he replied, "and
I shall remember your words when I go into battle. It will nerve and
inspire me to fight with redoubled courage, when I recollect that I am
battling for you." As he spoke he gazed at her with mingled pride and
affection, and for some minutes they remained gazing at each other
with that affection which springs from
"Two souls with but a single thought--
Two hearts that beat as one."
Oh, Love! ye goddess of all that is blissful and elevating in man! How
thy devotees bow down to thy shrine and offer all that they possess to
purchase but a smile from thee! And when you have cast your favors on
some happy mortal, and the pure feeling of affection becomes centered
on woman, the fairest flower from Eden, how should not mankind cherish
the gift you have bestowed upon him, and look upon it as the first and
priceless object on earth, and but second to one above in heaven!
The lovers remained in this silence, which spoke more than words could
have done, until the entrance of a tall and venerable looking
gentleman of about fifty years of age. As soon as he entered, they
rose up together, the young lady addressing him as "father," and the
young man as "doctor."
"How are you, Harry, my boy? give me a kiss, Em'," he said, in one
breath, as he shook the young man warmly by the hand and pressed a
parental kiss on the brow of his daughter. "Pretty warm weather,
this," he continued, speaking to the young man; "it is almost
stifling."
"Suppose we step out on the balcony, pa," said the young lady; "it is
much cooler there."
"Ha, ha, ha," he laughed; "you had not found that out until I entered.
However," he went on, "do you both go out there. I am certain you will
do better without than with me."
His daughter blushed, but made no reply, and the young man removing
two chairs to the balcony, they both left the old gentleman, who,
turning up the gas, proceeded to read his evening _Mississippian_.
Dr. James Humphries was one of the oldest and most respectable
citizens of Jackson, and was looked upon with great esteem by all who
knew him. He had been a medical practitioner in that city from the
time it was nothing more than a little village, until railroad
connections had raised it to be a place of some consequence, and the
capital of the State. He had married when a young man, but of all his
children, none remained but his daughter Emma, in gaining whom he lost
a much-loved wife, she having died in child-birth.
At the time we write, Emma Humphries was betrothed to Henry
Shackleford, a young lawyer of fine ability, but who was, like many of
his countrymen, a soldier in the service of his country, and been
elected first lieutenant of the "Mississippi Rifles."
We will now leave them for the present, and in the next chapter
introduce the reader to two other characters.
CHAPTER SIXTH
The Spectator and Extortioner.
Mr. Jacob Swartz was sitting in the back room of his store on Main
street counting a heap of gold and silver coins which lay on a table
before him. He was a small, thin-bodied man, with little gray eyes,
light hair and aquiline nose. He was of that nationality generally
known in this country as "Dutch;" but having been there for over
twenty years, he had become naturalized, and was now a citizen of the
chivalrous States of Mississippi, a fact of which he prided himself
considerably.
Mr. Swartz was busily engaged counting his money, when a little boy,
who seemed, from a similarity of features, to be his son appeared at
the door, and mentioned that Mr. Elder desired to see him.
"Vot can he vant?" said Mr. Swartz. Then as if recollecting, he
continued: "I suppose it is apout that little shtore he vants to rent
me. Tell him to come in."
The boy withdrew, and a few seconds after a tall and scrupulously
dressed gentleman, with his coat buttoned up to the throat, and
wearing a broad rimmed hat, entered the room. This was Mr. James
Elder, a citizen of Jackson, but not a native of the State. He came
from Kentucky several years before, and was a man with "Southern
principles." To do him justice, we will say that he was really true
friend to the South, which fact may have been not only from principle,
but from his being a large slaveholder. He was also the possessor of a
considerable amount of landed property and real estate, among which
were several buildings in Jackson.. He was also looked upon by the
_world_, as very charitable man, being always busy collecting money
from the people in aid of some benevolent object, and occasionally his
name would appear in the newspapers, accompanied by a flattering
compliment to his generosity, as the donor of a liberal amount of
money to some charitable institution or society. There were people,
however, who said that the poor families, who hired a series of
tenement buildings he possessed in the lower part of the city, were
very often hard pressed for their rent, and more than once turned out
for non-payment. These reports were considered as slanders, for being
a member, and one of the pillars of the Methodist Church, no one, for
a moment, believed that he would be guilty of so unfeeling an action.
On entering the room, Mr. James Elder made a stiff bow to Mr. Swartz,
and declining the hand offered to him, as if it were contamination to
touch the person of one of God's likeness, dusted a chair and sat down
opposite his host.
"Vell, Mr. Elder, have you decided whether I can get the shtore or
not? Tis place of mine is in very pad orter, and I tinks yours vill
shust suit me," began Mr. Swartz, after a silence of about three
minutes.
"Yes, Mr. Swartz, I think you can have the place, if you and I can
come to terms about the price of the rent, which must be payable
always in advance," replied Mr. Elder.
"I tont care," answered Mr. Swartz. "I would as soon pay you in
advance as not. But vot price to you charge?"
"I charge fifty dollars per month," was the short answer.
"Vell, dat vill do; and I suppose you vill give me the shtore for von
year certain?"
"I am not decided about that," replied Mr. Elder, "as I do not like to
bind myself for any given time; for," he continued, "there is no
telling what may be the worth of a store in six months."
"I vould not take it unless I could get a lease by the year," replied
Mr. Swartz; "for the fact is, I have made a large contract with the
government, and vill have to extend by pisness."
Mr. Elder remained thoughtful for a few moments; then he replied: "As
you wont take it unless I give a lease for twelve months, I will do so
on one condition: that on your failure to pay the rent monthly in
advance, you forfeit the lease, and I am at liberty to demand your
removal without any notice."
"Shust as you like," he replied, "for I know te monish vill always pe
ready in advance."
"Well, I shall have the lease drawn out to-day and bring it to you to
sign," said Mr. Elder, rising and putting on his gloves. "Good
morning; be here at three o'clock, as I shall call round at that
hour," and with those words he left the room, and the Dutchman resumed
the counting of his money.
CHAPTER SEVENTH.
THE HUSBAND A PRISONER--EXILE OF THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.
Months rolled on, during which time Mrs. Wentworth was cheered by many
kind and affectionate letters from her husband, who had not been sick
a day since his departure from home. One of the letters received from
him stated that he had been detailed from his regiment to act as clerk
in Brigadier General Floyd's adjutant general's office, his superior
intelligence fitting him admirably for such an office; and the next
letter from him was dated at Fort Donelson, whence General Floyd had
been ordered with his brigade.
Fort Donelson fell. We need not record here the heroic defense and
stubborn fighting of the Confederate forces, and their unfortunate
capture afterwards. These are matters of history, and should be
recorded by the historian, and not the novelist. Sufficient to say,
that in the last day's fight Alfred Wentworth, having received a
severe wound in the arm, was marching to the rear, when an officer,
dressed in the garb of a lieutenant, who was lying on the field,
called faintly to him, and on his going up, he observed that the
lieutenant's left leg was fearfully mangled by a fragment of shell,
and was bleeding so profusely, that, unless medical aid was quickly
procured, he would die. Forgetting his own wound, which was very
painful, he lifted the officer on his shoulder and bore him to the
hospital, where his leg was immediately attended to, and his life
saved. The severity of his own wound, and the length of time which
elapsed before any attention was paid to it, brought on a severe
fever, and on the escape of General Floyd, he was delirious and unable
to accompany him. He was, therefore, sent to Chicago, and placed in
the same hospital with the lieutenant whose life he had saved.
On their recovery, which was about the same time, Lieutenant
Shackleford--for it was he--and Alfred Wentworth were both sent to
"Camp Douglas," the military prison near Chicago.
On the receipt of the news in New Orleans, that Fort Donelson and
nearly its entire garrison had surrendered, Mrs. Wentworth underwent
another long suspense of excitement and anxiety, which was, however,
partially allayed by the intelligence that General Floyd and staff had
escaped. But as the weeks rolled on, and she received no letter from
her husband, the old fear that he may have been killed came over her
again, until relieved by seeing his name as being among the wounded at
the Chicago hospital in one of the city papers.
In mentioning these hours of grief and suspense on the part of Mrs.
Wentworth, it must not be understood that we are representing a
weak-minded and cowardly woman. On the contrary, Mrs. Wentworth would
have rather heard that her husband was killed than one word spoken
derogatory to his courage, and would never have consented to his
remaining at home, while so many of his countrymen were hurrying to
protect their country from invasion. Her suspense and grief at the
intelligence of a battle in which her husband was engaged, were only
the natural feeling of an affectionate wife. At that moment she was no
longer the patriot daughter of the South; she was the wife and mother,
and none should blame her for her anxiety to know the fate of one so
much loved as her husband, and the father of her children.
Soon after her husband was taken prisoner, Mrs. Wentworth observed
that Horace Awtry became more assiduous in his attentions to her.
Every day he would call with presents for her children, and several
times small packages of bank-bills were found in the parlor, which,
when presented to him, he would always disclaim being the owner of;
and although Mrs. Wentworth truly believed that they had been left
there by him, the kind and respectful tone he used to her, and the
intense interest he appeared to take in the welfare of her children,
were such that she never imagined, for a moment, he was using this
means to cloak a vile and unmanly purpose. Once, and only once, was
she made aware that the scandal tongues of her neighbors were being
used detrimental to her honor; and then the information was given by
her slave Elsy, who overheard a conversation between two of her
neighbors not at all complimentary to her, and which the faithful
negress lost no time in repeating to her mistress, with the very
indignant remark that, "ef dem people nex' doh fancy dey can do
anyting to take away your name, dey's much mistaken, as I will tell
you ebery ting dey say 'bout you, an' you will know what to do." Mrs.
Wentworth made no reply to the negro, but on the next visit of Mr.
Awtry's, she candidly told him what had been said of her in
consequence of his visits. He appeared very much surprised, but told
her that such scandalous remarks, emanating as they did out of pure
malice, should not be noticed, as all who were acquainted with her
knew very well that her character and fair name were above suspicion.
With that the subject was dropped, and he continued paying her his
visits.
New Orleans fell into the hands of the enemy, and the whole
Confederacy was convulsed, as if shaken by an earthquake. None
anticipated such a thing, and its fall brought misery to thousands.
The enemy had scarcely taken possession, than Horace Awtry and his
bosom friend, Charles Bell, went to the provost marshal's office and
took the oath of allegiance, after proving, entirely to the
satisfaction of the Yankees, that they were Northern, and had always
been Union men. Mr. Awtry immediately received a commission in the
Federal army, and by his willingness to point out prominent
"secession" men and women, soon ingratiated himself in the favor of
"Beast Butler."
No sooner had he gained the favor of Butler, than his attentions to
Mrs. Wentworth changed to that of unmanly presumption, and at last he
had the baseness to make proposals at once dishonorable to her as a
lady of virtue and position in society, and disgraceful to him as a
man. These propositions were accompanied by a threat to have her
turned out of the house and exiled from New Orleans. With a spirit
worthy of a Southern woman, she indignantly spurned his base offers
and ordered him never to place his feet across the threshold of her
house, at the same time defying to do his worse. He left her,
declaring that she should be turned out of the city, and a few days
after, in proof of his threat, an order was presented to her, signed
by General Butler, commanding her to leave the city.
Her faithful slave, Elsy, shed bitter tears on hearing that her kind
mistress would have to leave New Orleans, and declared that she would
not remain in the city, but would follow her.
"But they will not let you go with me, Elsy," said Mrs. Wentworth.
"You are free now, they say, to do as you like--you are no longer
belonging to me."
"I ain't a gwine to stay here, missis," replied the negro, "for any
money in dis world, and if dey wont let me go out wid you, I will come
arter you by myself."
"Well, Elsy," said Mrs. Wentworth, "I do not force you to leave New
Orleans, but should you get out, come to me at Jackson. You are a good
girl, and I shall not forget your fidelity."
"I'll be dere, shure," said the negro, quite pleased at the permission
to follow her mistress if she could.
Mrs. Wentworth immediately set to work packing up a few necessaries,
and with the small amount of money she had left awaited the next
morning, when she would start for Pass Manchac.
On the following morning she proceeded to the boat, amid the cries and
lamentations of the faithful Elsy, and with throbbing heart and many
sighs gazed on her loved city until it had receded from her view.
On arriving at the "Pass" she was about to step from the boat, when a
hand was laid upon her shoulder, and looking round she observed Mr.
Awtry, dressed in the full uniform of a Yankee captain, standing by
her.
"Are you determined to leave home," he said, "and all its pleasures;
and starve in the rebel lines? Why not accept my offer and lead a life
of ease and affluence. Your husband shall never know of our
connection, and thus you will be spared many a weary day and night
working for bread to feed your children."
She looked at him for a moment with all that withering scorn and
indignation which outraged virtue and innocence can assume, and then
said: "Leave me! Go to the land from whence you came and make such
offers to the women there, but remember now you are speaking to a
Southern woman."
"But think a moment, and--" he began.
"Leave me this instant," she said excitedly, "or I shall call others
with more the heart of men than you to my assistance. Accept your
offer?" she continued with all the scorn she could use. "Accept such
an offer from a _Yankee_! Go, I would despise and hate were you not
too despicable for either feeling of enmity."
Several persons approaching at that moment, he moved away hurriedly
after hissing in her ear: "Take your choice. In either one way or the
other I am revenged on you for the way you rejected my addresses in
past years."
She landed on the shore, and a few minutes after the boat moved back
on its way to New Orleans, when taking her small trunk in her hands
the soldier's wife, with her two children, started on their long and
lively march. For where? She knew not. There she was, an utter
stranger with two tender children, far from her home, and with only
two hundred dollars in money. Where could she go to for support. Her
husband was in a foreign prison, and she a wanderer in a strange
State. Her heart sank within her, and the soldier's wife wept. Aye,
wept! Not tears of regret at what she had sacrificed, but tears of
loneliness. Who would not weep if they were parted from those they
love, and were cast in a strange land without a friend, and with
scarcely any means?
We leave the soldier's wife for a brief while, and transport the
reader to her husband. Her trials have commenced--God help her!
CHAPTER EIGHTH.
THE PRISONERS--THE HUSBAND AND THE LOVER.
We stated that on the recovery of Alfred Wentworth and Lieutenant
Shackleford from their wounds, both were sent to Camp Douglas
together, and as Alfred had no regiment of his own captured, the
lieutenant promptly requested him to become one of his mess. The
generous courage exhibited by Alfred Wentworth, and the fact that but
for his chivalric attention, he should have died on the bloody field
of Fort Donelson, had created a feeling of gratitude in Lieutenant
Shackleford for his preserver, which, on closer acquaintance, had
ripened into a warm friendship, and he soon made Alfred acquainted
with the fact of his betrothal to Emma Humphries, and Alfred in turn
would speak of his wife and children in such tones of affection as
only those who love can use. They would sit down for hours and
converse on the loved ones at home, thus wiling away the sad and
lonely hours of a prison life, until the news was received in Chicago
of the fall of New Orleans. Although he bitterly regretted his native
city having fallen into the hands of the enemy, the opportunity which
it presented of once more being able to correspond with his wife, made
him feel happier, and as soon as mail communication was received with
the city, he requested and obtained permission to write her.
Alfred Wentworth had not the slightest idea that Horace Awtry would
ever dare to offend his wife, much less to offer infamous proposals,
and on their being refused have her driven from the home he had placed
her in. It is true that his wife had written to him that Mr. Awtry had
renewed his acquaintance with her, but her statements of his kind
attention to her and the children, and her mentioning the eager manner
in which he had relieved her anxiety after the battle of the 21st of
July, 1861, instead of raising any suspicion on his part of the
honesty and purity of his motives, only made him return thanks in his
heart for the previous kindness shown to his wife.