GOOD-MORROW AND FAREWELL.
A week afterward, Mollie Ainslie stood beside the bed of her only
brother and watched the sharp, short struggle which he made with
their hereditary enemy, consumption. Weakened by wounds and exposure,
he was but ill-prepared to resist the advances of the insidious
foe, and when she reached his side she saw that the hope, even of
delay, was gone. So she took her place, and with ready hand, brave
heart, and steady purpose, brightened his pathway to the tomb.
Oscar and Mollie Ainslie were the oniy children of a New England
clergyman whose life had lasted long enough, and whose means had
been sufficient, with the closest economy, to educate them both
according to the rigorous standards of the region in which they were
born. Until the son entered college they had studied together,
and the sister was almost as well prepared for the university course
as the brother when they were separated. Then she stepped out of
the race, and determined, though scarcely more than a child, to
become herself a bread-winner, in order that her father's meager
salary might be able to meet the drain of her brother's college
expenses. She did this not only without murmuring, but with
actual pleasure. Her ambition, which was boundless, centered upon
her brother. She identified herself with him, and cheerfully gave
up every advantage, in order that his opportunities might be more
complete. To Oscar these sacrifices on his sister's part were
very galling. He felt the wisdom of the course pursued toward him
by his family, and was compelled to accede in silence to prevent
the disappointment which his refusal would bring. Yet it was the
keenest trial for him to think of accepting his sister's earnings,
and only the conviction that to do so was the quickest and surest
way to relieve her of the burden of self-support, induced him to
submit to such an arrangement.
Hardly had he entered upon his college course when the war of
Rebellion came on, and Oscar Ainslie saw in the patriotic excitement
and the promise of stirring events a way out of a situation whose
fetters were too heavy for him to bear by reason of their very
tenderness. He was among the first, therefore, to enlist, happy
thereby to forestall his sister's determination to engage in teaching,
for his sake. His father was grieved at the son's abandonment of
his projected career, but his heart was too patriotic to object.
So he gave the bright-eyed young soldier his blessing as he bade
him good-by, standing there before him, strong and trim, in his
close-fitting cavalry uniform. He knew that Oscar's heart beat high
with hope, and he would not check it, though he felt sure that they
looked into each other's eyes for the last time. When his own were
glazing over with the ghastly grave-light, more than two years
afterward, they were gladdened by the announcement which came
throbbing along the wires and made bright the whole printed page
from which he read: "Private Oscar Ainslie, promoted to a Captaincy
for gallant conduct on the field of Gettysburg." Upon this he rallied
his fading energies, and waited for a week upon the very brink of
the chill river, that he might hear, before he crossed over, from
the young soldier himself, how this honor was won. When he had
learned this he fell asleep, and not long after, the faithful wife
who had shared his toils and sacrifices heard the ceaseless cry
of his lonely spirit, and was gathered again to his arms upon the
shore where beauty fadeth not forever.
The little homestead upon the rocky hillside overlooking the village
was all that was left to the brother and sister; but it was more
than the latter could enjoy alone, so she fled away and entered
upon the vocation in which we found her engaged. Meantime her
brother had risen in. rank, and at the close of the war had been
transferred to the regular army as a reward of distinguished merit.
Then his hereditary foe had laid siege to his weakened frame, and
a brother officer had telegraphed to the sister in the Bankshire
hills the first warning of the coming end.
It was a month after her arrival at Boyleston, when her brother,
overcoming the infatuation which usually attends that disease, saw
that the end was near and made provision respecting it.
"Sis," he said, calling her by the pet name of their childhood,
"what day of the month is it?"
"The thirteenth, Oscar--your birthday," she replied briskly. "Don't
you see that I have been out and gathered leaves and flowers to
decorate your room, in honor of the event?"
Her lap was full of autumn leaves-maple and gum, flaming and
variegated, brown oak of various shapes and shades, golden hickory,
the open burrs of the chintuapin, pine cones, and the dun scraggly
balls of the black-gum, some glowing bunches of the flame-bush,
with their wealth of bursting red beries, and a full-laden branch
of the black-haw.
The bright October sun shone through the open window upon her as
she arranged them with deft fingers, contrasting the various hues
with loving skill, and weaving ornaments for different points in
the bare room of the little country hotel where her brother lay.
He watched her awhile in silence, and then said sadly,
"Yes, my last birthday."
Her lips trembled, and her head drooped lower over her lap, but
she would not let him see her agitation. So she simply said,
"Do not say that, Oscar."
"No," he replied, "I ought not to say so. I should have said, my
last earthly birthday. Sit closer, Sis, where I can see you better.
I want to talk to you."
"Do you know," he continued, as she came and sat upon his bedside,
spreading her many-hued treasures over the white coverlet, "that
I meant to have been at home to-day?"
"And are you not?" she asked cheerfully. "Am I not with you?"
"True, Sis, and you are my home now; but, after all, I did want to
see the old New England hills once more. One yearns for familiar
scenes after years of war. I meant to have gone back and brought
you here, away from the cold winters that sting, and bite, and
kill. I hoped that, after rest, I might recover strength, and that
you might, here escape the shadow which has fastened upon me."
"Have you seen my horse, Midnight?" he asked, after a fit of
coughing, followed by a dreamy silence.
"Yes."
"How do you like him?"
"He is a magnificent creature."
"Would he let you approach him?"
"I had no trouble in doing so."
None?" He's very vicious, too. Everybody has had trouble with him.
Do you think you could ride him?"
"I have ridden him every day for two weeks."
"Ah! that is how you have kept so fresh." Then, after a pause, "Do
you know how I got him?"
"I heard that he was captured."
"Yes, in the very last fight before the surrender at Appomattox.
I was with Sheridan, you know. We were pursuing the retreating
columns--had been pressing them hotly ever since the break at
Petersburg--on the rear and on both flanks, fighting, worrying,
and watching all the time. On the last day, when the retreat had
become a rout, as it seemed, a stand was made by a body of cavalry
just on the crest of a smoothly-sloping hill. Not anticipating
serious resistance, we did not wait for the artillery to come up
and dislodge them, but deploying a brigade we rode on, jesting and
gay, expecting to see them disperse when we came within range and
join the rabble beyond. We were mistaken. Just when we got within
easy charging distance, down they came, pell-mell, as dashing a
body of dirty veterans as I ever saw. The attack was so unexpected
that for a time we were swept off our feet and fairly carried
backward with surprise. Then we rallied, and there was a sharp,
short struggle. The enemy retreated, and we pressed after them. The
man that rode this horse seemed to have selected me as his mark.
He rode straight at me from the first. He was a fine, manly-looking
fellow, and our swords were about the last that were crossed in the
struggle. We had a sharp tussle for a while. I think he must have
been struck by a chance shot. At least he was unseated just about
the time my own horse was shot under me. Looking around amid the
confusion I saw this horse without a rider. I was in mortal terror
of being trampled by the shifting squadrons and did not delay, but
sprang into the saddle and gave him the spur. When the Confederate
bugles sounded the retreat I had a terrible struggle to keep him
from obeying orders and carrying me away into their lines. After
that, however, I had no trouble with him. But he is not kind to
strangers, as a rule. I meant to have taken him home to you," he
added, sadly. "You will have him now, and will prize him for my
sake, will you not, Sis?"
"You know, Oscar, that everything you have ever loved or used will
be held sacred," she answered tearfully.
"Yes, I know," he rejoined. "Sis, I wish you would make me a
promise."
"You know I will."
"Well, then, do not go back to our old home this winter, nor the
next, nor--but I will not impose terms upon you. Stay as long as
you can content yourself in this region. I am afraid for you. I
know you are stronger and have less of the consumptive taint about
you than I, but I am afraid. You would have worked for me when I
was in college, and I have worked only for you, since that time.
All that I have saved--and I have saved all I could, for I knew
that my time was not long--is yours. I have some money on deposit,
some bonds, and a few articles of personal property--among the
latter, Midnight. All these are yours. It will leave you comfortable
for a time at least. Now, dear, promise that I shall be buried and
remain in the cemetery the Government is making for the soldiers
who fell in those last battles. Somehow, I think it will keep
you here, in order that you may be near me, and save you from the
disease which is devouring my life."
A week afterward his companions followed, with rever ed arms,
the funereally-caparisoned Midnight to the grounds of the National
Cemetery, and fired a salute over a new-made grave.
Nimbus, taking with him his helpless friend, had appealed, soon
after his purchase, to the officer of the Bureau for aid in erecting
a school-house at Red Wing. By him he had been referred to one
of those charitable associations, through whose benign agency the
great-hearted North poured its free bounty into the South immediately
upon the cessation of strife.
Perhaps there has been no grander thing in our history than the eager
generosity with which the Christian men and women of the North gave
and wrought, to bring the boon of knowledge to the recently-enslaved.
As the North gave, willingly and freely, men and millions to save
the nation from disruption, so, when peace came, it gave other brave
men and braver women, and other unstinted millions to strengthen
the hands which generations of slavery had left feeble and inept.
Not only the colored, but the white also, were the recipients of
this bounty. The Queen City of the Confederacy, the proud capital
of the commonwealth of Virginia, saw the strange spectacle of her
own white children gathered, for the first time, into free public
schools which were supported by Northern charity, and taught
by noble women with whom her high-bred Christian dames and dainty
maidens would not deign to associate. The civilization of the
North in the very hour of victory threw aside the cartridge-box,
and appealed at once to the contribution-box to heal the ravages of
war. At the door of every church throughout the North, the appeal
was posted for aid to open the eyes of the blind whose limbs had
just been unshackled; and the worshipper, as he gave thanks for
his rescued land, brought also an offering to aid in curing the
ignorance which slavery had produced.
It was the noblest spectacle that Christian civilization has ever
witnessed--thousands of schools organized in the country of a
vanquished foe, almost before the smoke of battle had cleared away,
free to the poorest of her citizens, supported by the charity, and
taught by kindly-hearted daughters of a quick-forgiving enemy. The
instinct of our liberty-loving people taught them that light must
go with liberty, knowledge with power, to give either permanence or
value. Thousands of white-souled angels of peace, the tenderly-reared
and highly-cultured daughters of many a Northern home, came into
the smitten land to do good to its poorest and weakest. Even to
this day, two score of schools and colleges remain, the glorious
mementoes of this enlightened bounty and Christian magnanimity.
And how did the white brothers and sisters of these messengers of
a matchless benevolence receive them? Ah, God! how sad that history
should be compelled to make up so dark a record--abuse, contumely,
violence! Christian tongues befouled with calumny! Christian lips
blistered with falsehood! Christian hearts overflowing with hate!
Christian, pens reeking with ridicule because other Christians
sought to do their needy fellows good! No wonder that faith grew
weak and unbelief ran riot through all the land when men looked
upon the spectacle! The present may excuse, for charity is kind;
but the future is inexorable and writes its judgments with a pen
hard-nibbed! But let us not anticipate. In thousands of Northern
homes still live to testify these devoted sisters and daughters,
now grown matronly. They are scattered through every state, almost
in every hamlet of the North, while other thousands have gone,
with the sad truth carved deep upon their souls, to testify in that
court where "the action lies in its true nature."
Nimbus found men even more ready to assist than he and his fellows
were to be aided. He himself gave the land and the timbers; the
benevolent association to whom he had appealed furnished the other
materials required; the colored men gave the major part of the labor,
and, in less than a year from the time the purchase was made, the
house was ready for the school, and the old hostelry prepared for
the teachers that had been promised.
So it was that, when Nimbus came to the officer in charge at
Boyleston and begged that a teacher might be sent to Red Wing, and
met the reply that because of the great demand they had none to
send, Mollie Ainslie, hearing of the request, with her load of sorrow
yet heavy on her lonely heart, said, "Here am I; take me." She
thought it a holy work. It was, to her simple heart, a love-offering
to the memory of him who had given his life to secure the freedom
of the race she was asked to aid in lifting up. The gentle child
felt called of God to do missionary work for a weak and struggling
people. She thought she felt the divine commandment which rested
on the Nazarene. She did not stop to consider of the "impropriety"
of her course. She did not even know that there was any impropriety
in it. She thought her heart had heard the trumpet-call of duty,
and, like Joan of Arc, though it took her among camps and dangers,
she would not flinch. So Nimbus returned happy; an officer was sent
to examine the location and report. Mollie, mounted upon Midnight,
accompanied him. Of course, this fact and her unbounded delight
at the quaint beauty of Red Wing was no part of the reason why
Lieutenant Hamilton made a most glowing report on the location;
but it was owing to that report that the officer at the head of the
"Bureau" in that district, the department-commander, and finally
the head of the Bureau, General Howard himself, indorsed the scheme
most warmly and aided it most liberally. So that soon afterward
the building was furnished as a school-house, Mollie Ainslie, with
Lucy Ellison, an old schoolmate, as her assistant, was installed
at the old hostlery, and bore sway in the school of three hundred
dusky pupils which assembled daily at Red Wing. Midnight was given
royal quarters in the old log-stable, which had been re-covered
and almost rebuilt for his especial delectation, the great square
stall, with its bed of dry oak leaves, in which he stood knee-deep,
being sufficient to satisfy even Miss Mollie's fastidious demands
for the comfort of her petted steed After a time Eliab Hill, to
whose suggestion the whole plan was due, became also an assistant
instructor.
Mollie Ainslie did not at all realize the nature of the task she
had undertaken, or the burden of infamy and shame which a Christian
people would heap upon her because of this kindly-meant work done
in their midst!