friend," Harry observed, "although I agree with Miss Emma, that our
people do not pay as much attention to refugees as they should; but
the unfortunate exile will always find a sympathizing heart among our
people. You may rest assured that, wherever your wife may be, she has
a home which, if not as comfortable as the one she was driven from, is
at least home enough to keep herself and her children from want."
Harry Shackleford judged others by the promptings of his own heart,
and as he uttered these words of comfort to his friend, he little
dreamed that Mrs. Wentworth was then the inmate of a prison, awaiting
her trial for robbery, and that the crime had her committed through
the very necessity he had so confidently asserted could never exist in
the country.
"Will you take a walk to the hotel," enquired Alfred, after a few
minutes of silence, "I desire to settle my bill with the clerk."
"Certainly," he replied, rising from his chair, "I desire to conduct
you to my home."
"Good evening to you Miss Humphries," said Alfred, as he walked to the
door with his friend.
She extended her hand to him as she replied, "Good evening, sir--allow
me to repeat my wishes for your success in finding your wife and
children."
Bowing to her in reply, he left the room, accompanied by Harry.
"Do you know, Harry," he observed, as they walked towards the Bowman
House, "I have a strange presentiment that all is not well with my
family."
"Pshaw," replied his friend, "you are as superstitious as any old
woman of eighty. Why in the name of wonder will you continue to look
upon the dark side of the picture? It is more likely that your family
are now comfortably, if not happily situated. Depend upon it, my dear
friend, the world is not so cold and uncharitable as to refuse a
shelter, or a meal to the unfortunate."
Alfred made no reply, and they walked on in silence until the hotel
was reached. On entering the sitting room of the Bowman House, the two
gentlemen were attracted by the loud talking of a group of men
standing in the centre of the room.
"There stands an Englishman who lately run the blockade on a visit to
the Confederacy," observed Harry as they approached the group; "let me
introduce him to you."
Walking up to where the Englishman was, Harry touched him lightly on
the shoulder.
"How are you Lieutenant Shackleford," he said, as he turned and
recognized Harry.
"Very well, Mr. Ellington," answered Harry, and then added, "allow me
to introduce my friend Mr. Wentworth to you--Mr. Wentworth, Mr.
Ellington."
As the name of Wentworth escaped Harry's lips the Englishman started
and changed color, but quickly resuming his composure, he extended his
hand to Alfred.
"I am happy to make your acquaintance, sir," he observed, and then
continued, "your features resemble those of a gentleman I have not
seen for years--so much, indeed, that I could not repress a start as
my eyes fell upon your countenance."
"I was rather surprised at seeing you start," observed Harry, "for I
knew that you were not acquainted with my friend Mr. Wentworth. He was
a prisoner at Camp Douglas--the prison you have read so much
about--when you arrived in this country, and has only returned to the
Confederacy within the last few days."
"A mere resemblance to one whose intercourse with me was not fraught
with many pleasant recollections," remarked Mr. Ellington. "Indeed
your friend is so much like him, both in form and features, that I
really imagined that he was my old enemy standing before me!"
"A singular resemblance," said Alfred, "and one which I am rejoiced to
know only exists in form and features. And now," he continued, "allow
me to ask you a question."
Mr. Ellington bowed an assent.
"Were you ever in this country before?" asked Alfred.
"Yes," replied Mr. Ellington, "I visited America a few years ago, but
why do you ask?"
"Because your features are familiar to me," he answered, and then
enquired, "Were you ever in New Orleans."
"No, sir--no," replied Mr. Ellington, coloring as he spoke, "I was
always afraid of the climate."
"The reason of my asking you," observed Alfred, "is because you
resemble a gentleman with whom I was only very slightly acquainted,
but who, like the party you mistook me for, has done me an injury
which neither time nor explanation can repair, but," he added, "now I
recollect you cannot be the party to whom I refer, for he was a
Northern man, while you are an Englishman."
Before the Englishman could reply, a gentleman at the further end of
the room called him by name, and, bowing to the two friends, he
apologized for leaving them so abruptly, and walked off to where the
call came from.
As soon as he left them Alfred went up to the clerk's office and paid
his bill. The two friends then left the hotel and proceeded to Harry's
residence.
"Do you know, Harry," observed Alfred, as they walked along, "I have
an idea that Mr. Ellington is no Englishman, but that he is Awtry, the
scoundrel who caused my wife and children to be driven from New
Orleans?"
"Why do you imagine such a thing?" asked Harry.
"Only because his features are very much like those of Awtry; and the
start he gave when you pronounced my name half confirms my suspicion."
"I feel certain you are mistaken," Harry remarked. "He arrived at
Charleston in a blockade runner a short time ago, and brought letters
of introduction to many prominent men in the South from some of the
first characters in England."
"That may be," Alfred answered, "still I shall keep my eye on him, and
cultivate his acquaintance. If I am mistaken it will make no
difference, for he shall never know my suspicions; but if I am right
in my surmise he shall answer me for his treatment of my wife and
children."
"That you can do," said Harry, "but be cautious how you charge him
with being a Yankee spy, and have certain proof of his identity before
you intimate your suspicions to him." As he spoke they reached their
destination and the two friends entered the house.
Horace Awtry, for the Englishman was none other than he, under an
assumed name, had ventured to enter the Confederate lines as a spy for
Sherman, who was then getting up his expedition against Vicksburg. He
would have left Jackson immediately after the meeting with Alfred, but
upon enquiry he learned that Mrs. Wentworth's place of residence was
unknown, and his services being needed near Vicksburg decided him to
remain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIFTH
THE TWO SLAVES--THE GLIMMER OF LIGHT.
From the time of Mrs. Wentworth's arrest and imprisonment, the old
negro had paid every attention to the little boy left under her care.
Knowing that she would be likely to receive punishment for having a
white child living with her, she had made several efforts to see her
master, but each time she called, both the Doctor and Emma were
absent. She was thus compelled to wait until some opportunity offered
to turn the little boy over to her master, who she knew would promptly
give him a home while he remained unclaimed by his lawful guardians.
In her visits to Dr. Humphries' house the old negro had met Elsy, and
being pleased with the appearance of the girl, had contracted quite a
friendship for her, and on every opportunity would hold a conversation
with her. Having called several times without seeing her master or
Emma, Elsy enquired if she had anything of consequence to impart to
the Doctor, as, if she had, she would inform him on his return home.
"Yes, gal," replied the old woman, "I got a leetle boy at my cabin dat
was lef dar by him mammy, and I want de boss to take him away and put
him in a better place den my room."
"What chile is it, Auntie?" enquired Elsy.
"I do' know what de name is," answered the old woman, "but a lady cum
to my cabin one night wid a berry sick gal chile and de leetle boy,
and next day de gal die, and in de ebening some police come and take
away de lady because 'she 'teal money,' and dey lef de dead chile and
de libing one wid me."
"Goodness sakes, Auntie," interrupted Elsy, "what did you do wid de
dead chile?"
"Why, gal, I bury her next mornin," replied the old woman, "and de
leetle boy bin stayin wid me eber since; but I don't want to keep him,
for dis nigger hab no right to hab white chile a keepin to herself."
"You better see de Doctor, den," Elsy observed. "When he come in I
will tell him dat you want to see him patickler."
"Dat's a good gal," answered the old negro, "you tell him dat I want
to see him, but don't tell him what I want him for--I rader tell him
dat mysef."
"Berry well, Auntie," she replied, "de Doctor will come in about
dinner time, and as soon as he is done eatin I will talk to him about
it. But do you tink he will bring de chile home, yah, and take care ob
him?"
"Ob course he will," said the old woman, "he neber see any body want
but he get him plenty and take care ob him."
"What kind a chile is de one you had at your cabin?" asked Elsy.
"Jes de lubliest baby you eber seed in your life," answered the old
negro. "He is one ob de best children I eber had taking care ob."
"Don't he cry none for his mudder," enquired Elsy.
"Ob course he cry plenty de first day," she replied, "but aterwards he
behabe well, for I promise him dat he mammy will come back soon. He am
a rale good chile, and I would lub to keep him wid me all time, but I
'fraid de police will get ater me for habin him."
"Dat's so," remarked Elsy, "but you can take care ob him a'ter you
tell de boss--you can come here and stay."
"No, gal," she answered, "I can't leab me old cabin; I been libbing
dar dese twelve years, and I got so used to it dat I can't sleep out
ob it."
"Den I will take care ob de chile for you," said Elsy, "and you can
come ebery now and den and see him."
"Dat's so," she, replied. "But tell me, gal," she continued, "whar you
come from?"
"I come from New Orleans, Auntie," replied Elsy.
"What bring you to Jackson?" continued the old woman.
Elsy repeated the tale she had told Dr. Humphries and Alfred, and
after she had concluded, the old woman clasped her hands as she
exclaimed, "Sake alibe! what become ob your mistis and de childen?"
"I don't know, Auntie, but my New Orleans mass'r is here now, and I's
been looking for dem."
"Why de lady and childen dat come to my cabin was from New Orleans
too," observed the old negro.
"You say you don't know de name?" remarked Elsy.
"No, I forget," she answered; "but what name did your mistis hab?"
"Dey was name Wentworth," she replied.
"Wantworth--Wentworth," repeated the old woman. "No, dat don't sound
like de name ob de lady, but may be I forget. What was de leetle gal
name?" she added.
"Ella," replied Elsy.
"Dat's it," exclaimed the old negro, "dat's de berry name!"
"Den it was my mistis and her childen," answered Elsy, "and you say de
police take her to prison for stealin."
"Yes, gal," she answered, "dey take her away from de dead body ob her
chile and take her to prison for stealin."
"It ain't true," said Elsy, "my mistis is a born lady, and she
wouldn't steal for anyting. I don't beliebe a word ob it."
"I don't beliebe neider," replied the old woman, "but for all dat, dey
did carry her to prison because dey say she steal money."
"My poh mistis," remarked Elsy, bursting into tears, "I knowed dat
some bad ting would happen to her--and I was in town so long and neber
eben sawed her."
"Poh lady," observed the old negro, "she look bery bad and sorrowful
like, aldough she didn't cry when de chile die; but she tan up by de
bedside and look 'pon de dead face widout sayin' a word--it made me
feel bad to see her."
"I must tell my master," said Elsy, "so dat he can go and take her out
ob prison. It am a shame dat a lady like dat should be locked up in a
prison, and Mr. Wentworth will soon take her out."
"You better not say anyting to your master about it, yet," observed
the old woman. "See de Doctor and tell him; he will know what to do,
and den he can tell de gemman all about it a'terwards."
"But you certain it am my mistis?" said Elsy.
"I ain't quite sure ob dat," she answered, "for de name sound
different to de one I heard, and dats de reason I don't want you to
say noting 'bout it till de Doctor enquire into de matter and find
out. I must go now, gal," she added, "don't forget to tell de Doctor
all 'bout it when he come home."
"I won't," replied Elsy.
The old woman then left the house and returned to her cabin, where she
found the little boy amusing himself on the floor with some marbles.
Dr. Humphries, accompanied by Harry, returned home at the usual hour.
After dinner Elsy requested him to speak to her for a few minutes--a
request which he promptly complied with.
"Well, my good, girl, what do you wish with me?" he enquired.
"Oh! sir," she replied, "I hab found out whar my mistis is."
"You have," answered Dr. Humphries, rather astonished at the
intelligence, "where is she?" he added.
"In prison, sah," she replied.
"In prison!" exclaimed the Doctor, "for what?"
"I don'no, sah," she replied, "but I hear it is for stealing."
"Who gave you the information?" asked Dr. Humphries.
"It was your ole slave what libs in de cabin, up town," answered Elsy.
"And how did she learn anything about Mrs. Wentworth?" enquired Dr.
Humphries.
"My Mistis went dere wid her chil'en, sah, and her little daughter
died in de ole woman's cabin."
"Good God!" exclaimed the Doctor, "and how was it that I have heard
nothing about it until now?"
"It only was a few days ago," replied Elsy, "and Auntie come here
ebery day, but you and Miss Emma was not at home ebery time, and she
only tole me about it dis mornin."
"Are you certain that the woman who has been carried to jail is your
Mistress?" asked Dr. Humphries.
"No sah," she answered, "Auntie say dat de name am different, but dat
de name ob de leetle gal am de same."
"And the little boy you say has been under the care of the old woman
ever since," remarked Dr. Humphries.
"Yes sah," Elsy replied, "but she want you to take him away from her,
so dat he may be under a white pusson, and das de reason why she been
here wantin' to see you bout it."
"Very well," said. Dr. Humphries, "I will attend to it this evening;
in the meantime do you remain here and go with me to the cabin and see
if the child is your Mistress'."
Elsy curtsied as she enquired, "Shall I tell my Master 'bout dis,
sah?"
"No, no," replied the Doctor, "he must know nothing about it until I
have arranged everything for his wife and removed her from prison. Be
certain," he continued, walking to the door, "that you do not breathe
a word about this until I have seen your Mistress and learned the
reason of her imprisonment."
On returning to the parlor, where Harry and Emma were seated, Dr.
Humphries called him aside and related what he had heard from Elsy.
The young man listened attentively, and was very much shocked to hear
of Mrs. Wentworth's being imprisoned for theft. He knew that Alfred
was the soul of honor, and he could not conceive that the wife of his
friend would be guilty of such an offense.
"It is impossible to believe such a thing," he said, after Dr.
Humphries had concluded, "I cannot believe that the wife of such a man
as Alfred Wentworth would commit an offense of such a nature; it must
be some one else, and not Mrs. Wentworth."
"That we can find out this evening," observed the Doctor. "Let us
first call at the cabin of my old slave and find out whether the child
in her keeping is one of Mrs. Wentworth's children."
"How will we be able to discover," asked Harry. "It appears by your
account that the boy is a mere infant, and he could hardly be expected
to give an account of himself or his parents."
"I have removed any difficulty of that nature," replied Dr. Humphries,
"Elsy will accompany us to the cabin, and she will easily recognize
the child if he is the son of your friend."
"You are right," Harry remarked; and then continued, "I trust he may
not be, for Alfred would almost go crazy at the knowledge that his
wife was the inmate of a prison on the charge of robbery."
"I hope so myself, for the sake of your friend," said Doctor
Humphries, "Mr. Wentworth appears to be quite a gentleman, and I
should greatly regret his finding his wife in such an unfortunate
position as the woman in prison is represented to be."
"I know the spirit of the man," remarked Harry, "he is sensitive to
dishonor, no matter in what form or shape it may come, and the
knowledge that his wife was charged with robbery would be a fearful
blow to his pride, stern and unyielding as it is."
"If it is his wife, and she has committed a theft, I pity her, indeed;
for I am sure if she is the lady her husband represents, nothing but
the most dire necessity could have induced her to descend to crime."
"Ah, sir," replied Harry, "Heaven only knows if it is not through
want. Alfred Wentworth feared that his wife was living in penury, for
he knew that she was without adequate means. If she has unfortunately
been allowed to suffer, and her children to want with her, what
gratification is it for him to know that he was proving his loyalty to
the South in a foreign prison while his wife and children were wanting
bread to eat in our very midst?"
"It will indeed be a sad commentary on our patriotism," remarked Dr.
Humphries. "God only knows how willing I should have been to serve the
poor woman and her children had they applied to me for assistance."
"And I fervently wish that every heart in the State beat with the same
feeling of benevolence that yours does," replied Harry. "However, this
is no time to lament or regret what is inexorable; we must see the
child, and afterwards the mother, for, no matter whether they are the
family of Alfred Wentworth or not, the fact of their being the wife
and child of a soldier entitles them to our assistance, and it is a
debt we should always willingly pay to those who are defending our
country."
"You are right, Harry, you are right," observed the Doctor, "and it is
a debt that we will pay, if no one else does it. Do you return to
Emma, now," he continued, "while I order the buggy to take us to the
cabin."
Leaving Harry, Dr. Humphries went to the stable and ordered the groom
to put the horse in the buggy. He was very much moved at the idea of a
friendless woman being necessitated to steal for the purpose of
feeding her children, and in his heart he sincerely wished she would
not prove to be the wife of Alfred Wentworth. Harry's story of his
friend's chivalrous conduct to him at Fort Donelson, as well as the
high toned character evinced by Alfred during the few days
acquaintance he had with him, had combined to procure a favorable
opinion of the soldier by Dr. Humphries; at the same time, he could
not conceive how any one could be so friendless in a land famed for
the generous hospitalities of its people, as the South is; but he knew
not, or rather he had never observed, that there were times when the
eye of benevolence and the hand of charity were strangers to the
unfortunate.
There are no people on the face of the earth so justly famed for their
charitable actions as that of the Confederate States.--Before the
unfortunate war for separation commenced, every stranger who visited
their shores was received with a cordial welcome. The exile who had
been driven from his home on account of the tyranny of the rulers of
his native land, always found a shelter and protection from the warm
hearts and liberal hands of the people of this sunny land; and though
often times those who have received the aid and comfort of the South,
shared its hospitalities, received protection from their enemies, and
been esteemed as brothers, have turned like vipers and stung their
generous host, still it passed it heedlessly and was ever ready to do
as much in the future as it had done in the past. As genial as their
native clime, as generous as mortals could ever be, those who sought
the assistance of the people of the South would find them ready to
accord to the deserving, all that they desired. It was indeed a
glorious land; blooming with the loveliest blossoms of charity,
flowing with the tears of pity for the unfortunate, and resplendent
with all the attributes of mortal's noblest impulses. Gazing on the
past, we find in the days of which we write no similitude with the
days of the war. A greater curse than had fallen on them when war was
waged on their soil, had fallen on the people of the South; all those
chivalrous ideas which had given to her people a confidence of
superiority over the North had vanished from the minds of those who
had not entered the Army. It was in the "tented field" that could be
found those qualities which make man the true nobility of the world.
It is true that among those who remained aloof from active
participation in the bloody contest were many men whose hearts beat
with as magnanimous a pulsation as could be found in those of the
patriots and braves of the battle-field; but they were only flowers in
a garden of nature, filled with poisonous weeds that had twined
themselves over the land and lifted up their heads above the purer
plants, which, inhaling the tainted odor emitted by them, sickened and
died, or if by chance they remained and bloomed in the midst of
contamination, and eventually rose above until they soared over their
poisonous companions, their members were too few to make an Eden of a
desert, and they were compelled to see the blossoms of humanity perish
before them unrewarded and uncared for, surfeited in the nauseous and
loathsome exhalations of a cold and heartless world, without the hand
of succor being extended or the pitying tear of earth's inhabitants
being shed upon their untimely graves.
While they, the curse of the world, how was it with them? But one
thought, one desire, filled their hearts; one object, one intention,
was their aim. What of the speculator and extortioner of the South,
Christian as well as Jew, Turk as well as Infidel! From the hour that
the spirit of avarice swept through the hearts of the people, the
South became a vast garden of corruption, in which the pure and
uncorrupted were as pearls among rocks. From the hour that their
fearful work after gain commenced, charity fled weeping from the midst
of the people, and the demons of avarice strode triumphant over the
land, heedless of the cries of the poverty stricken, regardless of the
moanings of hungry children, blind to the sufferings it had occasioned
and indifferent to the woe and desolation it had brought on the poor.
But all this was seen by God, and the voice of Eternity uttered a
curse which will yet have effect. Even now as we write, the voice of
approaching peace can be heard in the distance, for the waters on
which our bark of State has been tossing for three years begins to
grow calmer, while the haven of independence looms up before us, and
as each mariner directs his gaze on the shore of liberty the mist
which obscured it becomes dispelled, until the blessed resumption of
happiness and prosperity once more presents itself, like a gleam of
sunshine on a dark and cheerless road of life.
The eye of God is at last turned upon a suffering people. The past
years of bloody warfare were not His work; He had no agency in
stirring up the baser passions of mankind and imbuing the hands of men
in each others blood, nor did He knowingly permit the poor to die of
want and privation. He saw not all these, for the Eye which "seeth all
things" was turned from the scene of our desolation, and fiends
triumphed where Eternity was not, Hell reigned supreme where Heaven
ruled not--Earth was but a plaything in the hands of Destiny.
Philanthropy may deny it--Christianity will declare it heresy--man
will challenge its truth, but it is no less true than is the universe
a fact beyond doubt, and beyond the comprehension of mortals to
discover its secrets.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXTH.
THE RECOGNITION.
As soon as the groom had prepared the buggy, he announced to Dr.
Humphries that it was in readiness. Calling Harry, who was again
seated by the side of his betrothed, indulging in secret conversation,
the Doctor went into the street where the buggy was.
"I will drive myself this morning, John," he remarked to the groom,
"Mr. Harry will go with me."
"Berry well, sah," replied the groom, moving off.
Stepping into the buggy, followed by Harry, the Doctor took the reins
in his hands and was about to drive off.
"Wait a moment," observed Harry, "has Elsy gone to the cabin?"
"No, I forgot all about her," answered the Doctor, "and I am glad you
reminded me."