A little mother with a laughing boy two years old and baby in her arms
was awaiting at a crowded hotel in Washington the coming of her father
from the Western plains. Her men were going in opposite directions in
these tragic days that were trying the souls of men. Colonel Phillip
St. George Cooke was a Virginian. Lieutenant J. E. B. Stuart was a
Virginian. The soul of the little mother was worn out with the question
that had no answer. Why should her lover-husband and her fine old daddy
fight each other?
She stood appalled before such a conflict. She had written to her father
a letter so gentle, so full of tender appeal, he could not resist its
call. She had asked that he come to see her babies and her husband and,
face to face, say the things that were in his heart.
Her own sympathies were with her husband. He had breathed his soul into
hers. She thought as he thought and felt as he felt. But her dear old
daddy must have deep reasons for refusing to follow Virginia, if she
should go with the South in Secession. She must hear these reasons.
Stuart must hear them. If he could convince them, they would go with
him.
In her girl's soul she didn't care which way they went, as long as they
did not fight each other. She had watched the shadow of this war deepen
with growing anguish. If her father should meet her husband in battle
and one should kill the other! How could she live? The thought was too
horrible to frame in, words, but it haunted her dreams. She couldn't
shake it off.
That her rollicking soldier man would come out alive she felt sure
somehow. No other thought was possible. To think that he might be killed
in the pride and glory of his youth was nonsense. Her mind refused now
to dwell on the idea. She dismissed it with a laugh. He was so vital.
He lived to his finger tips. His voice rang with the joy of living.
The spirit of eternal youth danced in his blue eyes. He was just
twenty-eight years old. He was the father of a darling boy who bore his
name and a baby that nestled in her arms to whom they had given hers.
Life in its morning of glory was his--wife, babies, love, youth, health,
strength, clean living and high thinking. No, it was the thought of harm
to her father that was eating her heart out. He has passed the noon-tide
of life. His slender, graceful form lacked the sturdy power of youth.
His chances were not so good.
The thing that sickened her was the certainty that both these men,
father and husband, would organize the cavalry service and fight on
horseback. They had spent their honeymoon on the plains. She had ridden
over them with her joyous lover.
He would be a cavalry commander. She knew that he would be a general.
Her father was a master of cavalry tactics and was at work on the Manuel
for the United States Army.
The two men were born under the same skies. Their tastes were similar.
Their clean habits of life were alike. Their ideals were equally high
and noble. How could two such men fight each other to the death over an
issue of politics when some wife or sister or mother must look on a dead
face when the smoke has cleared?
Her soul rose in rebellion against it all. She summoned every power of
her mind to the struggle with her father.
She brought them together at last in the room with her babies, asleep in
their cradles. She sat down between the two and held a hand in each of
hers.
"Now, daddy dear, you must tell me why you're going to fight Virginia if
she secedes from the Union."
The gentle face smiled sadly.
"How can I make you understand, dear baby? It's foolish to argue such
things. We follow our hearts--that's all."
"But you must tell me," she pleaded.
"There's nothing to tell, child. We must each decide these big things of
life for himself. I'll never draw my sword against the Union. My fathers
created it. I've fought for it. I've lived for it. And I've got to die
for it, if must be, that's all--"
He paused, withdrew his hand from hers, rose and put it on Stuart's
shoulder.
"You've chosen a fine boy for your husband, my daughter. I love him. I'm
proud of him. I shall always be proud that your children bear his name.
He must fight this battle of his allegiance in his own soul and answer
to God, not to me. I would not dare to try to influence him."
Stuart rose and grasped the Colonel's hand. His eyes were moist.
"Thank you, Colonel. I shall always remember this hour with you and
my Flora. And I shall always love and respect you, in life or death,
success or failure."
The older man held Stuart's hand in a strong grip.
"It grieves me to feel that you may fight the Union, my son. I have seen
the end in a vision already. The Union is indissoluble. The stars in
their courses have said it."
"It may be, sir," Stuart slowly answered. "Who knows? We must do each
what we believe to be right, as God gives us to see the right."
The little mother was softly crying. Her hopes had faded. There was the
note of finality in each word her men had uttered. She was crushed.
For an hour she talked in tender commonplaces. She tried to be cheerful
for her father's sake. She saw that he was suffering cruelly at the
thought of saying a goodbye that might be the last.
She broke down in a flood of bitter tears. The father took her into his
arms and soothed her with tender words. But something deep and strange
had stirred in the mother heart within her.
She drew away from his arms and cried in anguish.
"It's wrong. It's wrong. It's all wrong--this feud of blood! And God
will yet save the world from it. I must believe that or I'd go mad!"
The two men looked at each other in wonder for a moment and then at the
mother's convulsed face. Into the older man's features slowly crept a
look of awe, as if he had heard that voice before somewhere in the still
hours of his soul.
Stuart bent and kissed her tenderly.
"There, dear, you're overwrought. Don't worry. Your work God has given
you in these cradles."
"Yes, that's why I feel this way," she whispered on his breast.