prisoners were seated. Their appearance was greeted with cheers, as
Harry was a universal favorite among both officers and men, on account
of his lively and genial temper, combined with a fine voice for
music--an accomplishment that with soldiers endears, and makes a
favorite of any person possessing it. He was soon called upon for a
song, and in accordance with the request commenced a song, and soon
the rich and clear voice of the young man rang out on the air of the
soft twilight. He sang of home, and as each word fell with
distinctness on the ears of the soldiers, who grouped around him, each
heart throbbed with emotion, and each mind wandered back to the
distant land, where, in the mansion, or in the little cottage, loved
ones there dwelt, pining for those who were now prisoners in a foreign
country.
The hour of nine having arrived, the soldiers dispersed to their
respective quarters, and soon after the command "lights out" was
uttered in stentorian notes. Long and anxiously the two friends
remained lying on their bunks in the tent, awaiting the hour of
twelve. Each moment seemed an hour to Alfred Wentworth, whose mind was
wrought up to a pitch of excitement, almost unendurable. Several times
he rose from his bed and paced the tent. At last the long wished for
hour arrived. Harry who had been smoking all the night, looked at his
watch by the faint light the fire of his segar emitted, and perceived
that it was only five minutes for twelve. Crossing over to the bunk on
which Alfred was lying, he whispered: "It is time." Silently they put
on the citizens clothes borrowed in the evening, and left the tent.
The night had changed from the pleasant, starry evening to a black and
dismal gloom. Heavy clouds covered the skies, giving every indication
of rain. The night was just such a one for an escape, and although the
darkness was so intense, that it was impossible for the eye to
penetrate a distance of five paces, both felt that their chance of
escape was accelerated.
"Give me your hand," whispered Harry, as soon as they had left the
tent.
"Do you know the direct way to the gate," asked Alfred,
"Yes," he replied, "cease speaking now and follow me. The least
whisper may be heard, and then our attempt will be foiled."
Grasping the hand of his friend, Alfred followed him, and they moved
with noiseless tread toward the gate. As soon as he descried the faint
light of the sentinel's lamp near him, Harry stopped, and stooping
down gave a faint whistle. For some time no answer was returned. The
two friends remained in almost breathless suspense awaiting the
signal. At last it was returned, and moving forward, they reached the
gate.
"Here," whispered Harry to the sentinel, as he handed him the watch
and money.
The man raised the little lantern near him, and looked at the bribe to
see that it was all right. "Pass on," he said.
As Harry and his friend passed the gate, the former perceived several
forms flit across the darkness, and a suspicion of treachery instantly
flashed through his mind.
"We are betrayed," he whispered to Alfred.
"No matter, let us push boldly forward," was the reply.
They had not moved ten paces before the command "Halt" given.
"Push on!" exclaimed Alfred, darting forward.
The two friends moved on at a rapid run, when a volley of musketry was
fired at them. Harry escaped unhurt and continued running at the top
of his speed, and not until he had gone a considerable distance, did
he discover that his friend was not with him. It was, however, too
late for him to turn back, and entering Chicago, he made his way
through the city, and continued his journey.
At the fire of the Federals, Alfred received four wounds; and sunk
without a word to the ground. The enemy shortly after coming up found
him insensible, and conveyed his inanimate body to the hospital. He
was dangerously wounded, and the physicians declared there was but
little hope of his recovery.
Two weeks after this unfortunate occurrence, a cartel for the exchange
of prisoners was agreed upon between the Federal and Confederate
authorities, and the prisoners at Camp Douglas were transported to
Vicksburg. The doctors declared that Alfred was not in a state to be
removed, and was left at the hospital. His condition at that time was
very precarious. One of the balls that had entered his body could not
be found, and the wound was kept open with the view to discovering
where it had lodged. His agony of mind at the failure of his attempt
to escape had retarded his recovery in a great degree, and when the
information came that the prisoners were about to be exchanged, and he
was declared unable to be removed, it added further to his detriment.
A fever seized him, and for many days he remained on his bed, hovering
between life and death.
CHAPTER TWELFTH.
THE STARVING CHILDREN.
Long weeks rolled on, and the small sum possessed by Mrs. Wentworth,
had been entirely exhausted. She had, however, by sewing, contrived to
supply herself and children with food. It was the same old tale of
sleepless nights of toil. Often the grey streak which heralds the
morning, would find her still pouring over her work, while her two
children were sleeping on the bed in one corner of the room. At times
she would cease her work, and think for long hours on the loved
husband, now a prisoner in the hands of the Federals. In those hours,
tears would course her cheeks, as the stern reality of her position
presented itself; to know that he was absent, while she was leading a
life of penury and toil. Still she struggled on. When at times despair
rose up before her like a demon, and she felt herself about to succumb
to it, the memory of her absent husband, and the sight of her loved
children, would nerve the soldier's wife to bear with fortitude the
misery to which she had been reduced.
And thus she toiled on, until the last source of support had vanished.
The Quartermaster from whom she received work, having completed all
the clothing he required, had no further use for her services, and she
then saw nothing but a blank and dreary prospect, looming up before
her. She had no means of purchasing food for her children. Piece by
piece her furniture was sold to supply their wants, until nothing was
left in the room but a solitary bedstead. Starvation in its worst form
stared her in the face, until at last she sold what clothing she had
brought out from New Orleans. This relieved her necessities but a
short time, and then her last resource was gone.
If her present was dark, the future seemed but one black cloud of
despair. Hope, that _ignis fatuus_, which deceives so many on earth,
left the soldier's wife, and she was indeed wretched. The blooming
woman had become a haggard and care-worn mother. She had no thought
for herself. It was for her children alone she felt solicitous, and
when the day arrived that saw her without the means of purchasing
bread, her long filling cup of misery overflowed, and she wept.
Yes, she wept. Wept as if her whole life had been changed in a moment,
from one of joy and happiness, to that of sadness and misery.
Her children in that dark hour clustered around her. _They_ could not
cry. A fast of over twenty-four hours had dried all tears within them.
They only wondered for awhile, until the sharp pangs of hunger
reminded them of another and greater woe. They too had been changed.
The bloom of youth had departed from their little cheeks, while in the
eyes of the oldest an unnatural light burned. She was fast sinking to
the grave, but the mother knew it not. Knew not that her darling child
had contracted a disease, which would shortly take her to Heaven, for
the little Eva spoke no word of complaint. Young, as she was, she saw
her mother's agony of soul, and though the little lips were parched
and dry, she told not her ailing.
The tears continued to flow from Mrs. Wentworth, and still the
children gazed on in wonderment. They knew not what they meant.
"Mother," at last said her little infant, "why do you cry?"
She took her on her knees. "Nothing, my darling," she replied.
"Then stop crying," he said, pressing his little hand on Mrs.
Wentworth's cheek. "It makes me feel bad."
"I will stop crying, darling," she replied, drying her tears and
smiling.
Smiles are not always the reply of the heart. We have seen men smile
whoso whole life was a scene of misfortune, and yet this emblem of
happiness has lit their features. It is outward show--a fruit, whose
surface presents a tempting appearance to the eye, but which is
blasted and withered within. Smiles are often like the fruit called
the _Guava_. It is a beautiful looking fruit which grows in the West
Indies, and to the taste is very luscious, but when examined through a
microscope, it presents the appearance of a moving mass of worms. Its
beauty is deceptive, nothing but a wretched view presents itself,
"Like dead sea fruit, that tempts the eye,
And falls to ashes on the lips."
The child saw her mother smile, and the little heart forgot its
hunger, and for a moment beat with joy. The gleam of sunshine that
spread itself over him, did not last, for soon after the face of the
mother assumed the same sad and cheerless expression, it had worn for
many weeks. The child saw it, and again felt his hunger.
"Mother," she said, "give me a piece of bread."
"I will get some for you to-morrow," she replied. "There is no bread
in the house this evening."
"I am _so_ hungry," remarked the child. "Why is there no bread?"
"Mother has got no money to buy any," she replied.
The other child had remained quiet all the while. She still nestled to
her mother's side and looked long and earnestly into her face. She was
not thinking, for one of her years knew nothing of thought, but
divined that all was not right with her mother.
"Eva, my child," the mother said, speaking to her for the first time,
"go to the grocer's, and ask him if he will let me have a loaf of
bread on credit."
"I am so glad you have sent for bread," exclaimed the infant on her
knees, as he clapped his hand joyfully together.
Eva left the room, and in a few minutes returned empty handed.
"Has he refused to let you have it?" asked Mrs. Wentworth.
"Yes, mother," replied the child sadly. "He says he will not give
credit to anybody."
"I thought as much," Mrs. Wentworth remarked.
"Then I won't get any bread?" asked the child on her knees.
"No, my darling," Mrs. Wentworth answered, "you must wait until
to-morrow."
"I hav'nt eaten so long, mother," he said. "Why aint you got any
bread?"
"Because mother is poor and without any money," she replied.
"But I feel so hungry," again the child remarked.
"I know it, my sweet boy," replied his mother, "but wait a little
longer and I will give you something to eat."
Her heart was wrung with agony at the complaint of the child and his
call for bread; but she knew not how to evade his questions or to
procure food. The thought of asking charity had never once entered her
mind, for those with whom she had daily intercourse, were too much
engaged in self-interest to make her hope that any appeal for help
would touch their sordid hearts; and yet food must be had, but how she
knew not. Her promise to give her child food, on the next day, was
made only to silence his call for bread. There was no prospect of
receiving any money, and she could not see her children starve. But
one recourse was left. She must sell the bed--the last piece of
furniture remaining in the room--no matter that in so doing her
wretchedness increased instead of diminished.
The child was not satisfied with her promise. The pangs he endured
were too much for one of his age, and again he uttered his call for
bread.
"There is no bread, Willy," said Eva, speaking for the first time.
"Don't ask for any bread. It makes mamma sad."
The child opened his large blue eyes enquiringly upon his sister.
"My sweet, darling child," exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth, clasping the
little Ella to her heart, and then bursting into tears at this proof
of her child's fortitude, she continued: "Are you not hungry, too?"
"Yes, mother," she replied, "but"--Here the little girl ceased to
speak as if desirous of sparing her mother pain.
"But what?" asked Mrs. Wentworth.
"Mother," exclaimed the child, throwing her arms round her mother's
neck, and evading the question, "father will come back to us, and then
we will not want bread."
The word "father," brought to Mrs. Wentworth's mind her absent
husband. She thought of the agony he would endure if he knew that his
wife and children were suffering for food. A swelling of her bosom
told of the emotion raging within her, and again the tears started to
her eyes.
"Come, my sweet boy," she said, dashing away the tears, as they came
like dewdrops from her eyelids, and speaking to the infant on her
knee, "it is time to go to bed."
"Aint I to get some bread before I go to bed?" he asked.
"There is none, darling," she answered hastily. "Wait until to-morrow
and you will get some."
"But I am so hungry," again repeated the child, and again a pang of
wretchedness shot through the mother's breast.
"Never mind," she observed, kissing him fondly, "if you love me, let
me put you to bed like a good child."
"I love you!" he said, looking up into her eyes with all that deep
love that instinct gives to children.
She undressed and put him to bed, where the little Ella followed him
soon after. Mrs. Wentworth sat by the bedside until they had fallen
asleep.
"I love you, mother, but I am so hungry," were the last words the
infant murmured as he closed his eyes in sleep, and in that slumber
forgot his agonizing pangs for awhile.
As soon as they were asleep, Mrs. Wentworth removed from the bedside
and seated herself at the window, which she opened. There she sat,
looking at the clouds as they floated by, dark as her own prospects
were. The morning dawned and saw her still there. It was a beautiful
morning, but the warble of the bird in a tree near by, as he poured
forth his morning song, awoke no echo in the heart of the soldier's
wife. All was cheerless within her. The brightness of the morning only
acted like a gleam of light at the mouth of a cavern. It made the
darkness of her thoughts more dismal.
CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.
THE APPEAL FOR CREDIT
The first call of the little boy, when he awoke in the morning, was
for bread. He was doubly hungry now. Thirty-six hours had passed since
he had eaten the last mouthful of food that remained in the room. Mrs.
Wentworth on that night of vigils, had determined to make an appeal
for help to the man she had purchased the furniture from, on her
arrival at Jackson, and in the event of his refusing to assist her, to
sell the bed on which her children were wont to sleep. This
determination had not been arrived at without a struggle in the heart
of the soldier's wife. For the first time in her life she was about to
sue for help from a stranger, and the blood rushed to her cheeks, as
she thought of the humiliation that poverty entails upon mortal. It is
true, she was not about to ask for charity, as her object was only to
procure credit for a small quantity of provisions to feed her children
with. The debt would be paid, she knew well enough, but still it was
asking a favor, and the idea of being obligated to a stranger, was
galling to her proud and sensitive nature.
"Mother," exclaimed the child, as he rose from his bed, "it is morning
now; aint I going to get some bread?"
"Yes," she replied, "I will go out to the shop directly and get you
some."
About an hour afterwards she left the room, and bidding Ella to take
care Of her brother, while she was absent, bending her steps towards
the store of Mr. Swartz. This gentleman had become, in a few short
weeks, possessed of three or four times the wealth he owned when we
first introduced him to our readers. The spirit of speculation had
seized him among the vast number of the southern people, who were
drawn into its vortex, and created untold suffering among the poorer
classes of the people. The difference with Mr. Swartz and the great
majority of southern speculators, was the depth to which he descended
for the purpose of making money. No article of trade, however petty,
that he thought himself able to make a few dollars by, was passed
aside unnoticed, while he would sell from the paltry amount of a pound
of flour to the largest quantity of merchandize required. Like all
persons who are suddenly elevated, from comparative dependence, to
wealth, he had become purse proud and ostentatious, as he was humble
and cringing before the war. In this display of the mushroom, could be
easily discovered the vulgar and uneducated favorite of frikle
fortune. Even these displays could have been overlooked and pardoned,
had he shown any charity to the suffering poor. But his heart was as
hard as the flinty rocks against which wash the billows of the
Atlantic. The cry of hunger never reached the inside of his breast. It
was guarded with a covering of iron, impenetrable to the voice of
misery.
And it was to this man that Mrs. Wentworth, in her hour of bitter need
applied. She entered his store and enquired of the clerk for Mr.
Swartz.
"You, will find him in that room," he replied, pointing to a chamber
in the rear of the store.
Mrs. Wentworth entered the room, and found Mr. Swartz seated before a
desk. The office, for it was his private office, was most elegantly
furnished, and exhibited marks of the proprietor's wealth.
Mr. Swartz elevated his brows with surprise, as he looked at the
care-worn expression and needy attire of the woman before him.
"Vot can I do for you my coot voman," he enquired, without even
extending the courtesy of offering her a seat.
Mrs. Wentworth remained for a moment without replying. She was
embarrassed at the uncourteous reception Mr. Swartz gave her. She did
not recollect her altered outward appearance, but thought only of the
fact that she was a lady. Her intention to appeal to him for credit,
wavered for awhile, but the gaunt skeleton, WANT, rose up and
held her two children before her, and she determined to subdue pride,
and ask the obligation.
"I do not know if you recollect me," she replied at last, and then
added, "I am the lady who purchased a lot of furniture from you a few
weeks ago."
"I do not remember," Mr. Swartz observed, with a look of surprise.
"But vot can I to for you dis morning?"
"I am a soldier's wife," Mrs. Wentworth commenced hesitatingly. "My
husband is now a prisoner in the North, and I am here, a refugee from
New Orleans, with two small children. Until a short time ago I had
succeeded in supporting my little family by working on soldiers'
clothing, but the Quartermaster's department having ceased to
manufacture clothing, I have been for several days without work." Here
she paused. It pained her to continue.
Mr. Swartz looked at her with surprise, and the idea came into his
mind that she was an applicant for charity.
"Vell, vot has dat got to do vid your pisness," he observed in a cold
tone of voice, determined that she should see no hope in his face.
"This much," she replied. "For over twenty-four hours my two little
children and myself have been without food, and I have not a dollar to
purchase it."
"I can't do anything for you," Mr. Swartz said with a frown.
"Dere is scarce a day but some peoples or anoder vants charity and
I--"
"I do not come to ask for charity," she interrupted hastily. "I have
only come to ask you a favor."
"Vat is it?" he enquired.
"As I told you before, my children and myself are nearly starving,"
she replied. "I have not the means of buying food at present, but
think it more than likely I will procure work in a few days. I have
called to ask if you would give me credit for a few articles of food
until then, by which I will be able to sustain my family."
"I thought it vas something like charity you vanted," he observed,
"but I cannot do vat you vish. It is te same ting every tay mit te
sogers' families. Dey comes here and asks for charity and credit,
shust as if a man vas made of monish.--Gootness gracious! I don't
pelieve dat te peoples who comes here every tay is as pad off as tey
vish to appear."
"You are mistaken, sir," Mrs. Wentworth replied, "if you think I have
come here without being actually in want of the food, I ask you to let
me have on credit. Necessity, and dire necessity alone, has prompted
me to seek an obligation of you, and if you require it I am willing to
pay double the amount you charge, so that my poor children are saved
from starvation."
"I reckon you vill," Mr. Swartz said, "but ven you vill pay ish te
question."
"I could not name any precise day to you," answered Mrs. Wentworth. "I
can only promise that the debt will be paid. If I cannot even pay it
myself, as soon as my husband is exchanged he will pay whatever you
charge."
"Dat ish a very doubtful vay of doing pisness," he remarked. "I cannot
do as you ask."
"Consider, sir," she replied. "The amount I ask you to credit me for
is but small, and even if you should not get paid (which I am certain
you will) the loss cannot be felt by a man of your wealth."
"Dat makes no differenish. I can't give you credit. It ish against my
rules, and if I proke tem for you I vill have to do so for every
body."
Mrs. Wentworth's heart sank within her at the determined manner in
which he expressed his refusal. Without replying she moved towards the
door, and was about to leave the room when she thought of the
bedstead, on the sale of which she now depended. He may loan money on
it she thought, and she returned to the side of his desk. He looked up
at her impatiently.
"Vell," he remarked, frowning as he uttered the single word.
"As you won't give me credit," said Mrs. Wentworth, "I thought you may
be willing to loan me some money if I gave a security for its
payment."
"Vat kind of security?" he enquired.
"I have, at my room, a bedstead I purchased from you some time ago,"
she replied. "Will you lend a small sum of money on it?"
"No" he answered. "I am not a pawnbroker."
"But you might accommodate a destitute mother," remarked Mrs.
Wentworth. "You have refused to give me credit, and now I ask you to
loan me a small sum of money, for the payment of which I offer
security."
"I cannot do it," he answered. "Ven I says a ting I means it."
"Will you buy the bedstead then?" asked Mrs. Wentworth in despair.
"Vat can I do mit it?" he enquired.
"Why you can sell again," replied Mrs. Wentworth. "It will always find
a purchaser, particularly now that the price of everything has
increased so largely."
"Veil, I vill puy te pedstead," he said, and then enquired: "How much
monish do you vant for it?"
"What will you give me?" she asked.
"I vill give you forty tollars for it," he replied.
"It must be worth more than that," she remarked. "The price of
everything is so increased that it appears to me as if the bedstead
should command a higher price than that offered by you."
"Shust as you like, my goot voman," Mr. Swartz remarked, shrugging his
shoulders. "If you vant at mine price, all veil and goot; if not, you
can leave it alone. I only puy te piece of furniture to accommodate
you, and you should pe tankful."
"I suppose I will be obliged to take your price," replied Mrs.
Wentworth, "although I believe I could get more for it, did I know any
one in town who purchased such things."
He made no reply, but calling his clerk ordered him to bring forty
dollars from the safe. The clerk having brought the money retired, and
left them alone again.
"Vere is te pedstead?" asked Swartz.
"It is at home," Mrs. Wentworth replied.
"Den you must pring it round here before I can pay for it," he
observed.
"I am in want of the money now to buy bread," she answered. "If you
will pay me and let your clerk follow with a dray, I would return home
immediately and have the bedstead taken down and sent to you."
Mr. Swartz called the clerk again, and ordered him to bring a dray to
the front of the store. The clerk did as he was requested, and soon
after returned with the intelligence that the dray was ready.
"Do you follow dis voman to her house, and she vill give you a
pedstead. Bring it down here," and then he added, speaking to the
clerk who had not yet left the room: "Vat does te trayman sharge."
"One dollar and a half," was the reply.
Taking up the forty dollars which had been previously brought to him,
Mr. Swartz counted out thirty-eight and a half dollars, and handed
them to Mrs. Wentworth.
"De von tollar and a half out ish to pay for te trayage," he remarked
as she received the money.
She made no reply, but left the room followed by the clerk, when, with
the drayman, they soon arrived at her room. The bedstead was soon
taken down and removed to Mr. Swartz's store.