MR. COLBURNE SEES HIS WAY CLEAR TO BE A SOLDIER.
Stragglers arrived, and then the regiments. People were not angry with
the beaten soldiers, but treated them with tenderness, gave them
plentiful cold collations, and lavished indignation on their ragged
shoddy uniforms. Then the little State, at first pulseless with despair,
took a long breath of relief when it found that Beauregard had not
occupied Washington, and set bravely about preparing for far bloodier
battles than that of Bull Run.
Lieutenant-Colonel Carter did not return with his regiment; and Colburne
read with a mixture of emotions that he had been wounded and taken
prisoner while gallantly leading a charge. He marked the passage, and
left the paper with his compliments for the Ravenels, after debating at
the door of the hotel whether he should call on them, and deciding in
the negative. Not being able as yet to appreciate that blessing in
disguise, Bull Run, his loyal heart was very sad and sore over it, and
he felt a thrill of something like horror whenever he thought of the
joyful shriek with which Lillie had welcomed the shocking tidings. He
was angry with her, or at least he tried to be. He called up his
patriotism, that strongest of New England isms, and resolved that with a
secessionist, a woman who wished ill to her country, he would not fall
in love. But to be sure of this he must keep away from her; for thus
much of love, or of perilous inclination at least, he already had to
acknowledge; and moreover, while he was somewhat ashamed of the feeling,
he still could not heartily desire to eradicate it. Troubled thus
concerning the affairs of the country and of his own heart, he kept
aloof from the Ravenels for three or four days. Then he said to himself
that he had no cause for avoiding the Doctor, and that to do so was
disgraceful treatment of a man who had proved his loyalty by taking up
the cross of exile.
This story will probably have no readers so destitute of sympathy with
the young and loving, as that they can not guess the result of
Colburne's internal struggles. After two or three chance conversations
with Ravenel he jumped, or to speak more accurately, he gently slid to
the conclusion that it was absurd and unmanly to make a distinction in
favor of the father and against the daughter. Quarrel with a woman; how
ridiculous! how unchivalrous! He colored to the tips of his repentant
ears as he thought of it and of what Miss Ravenel must think of it. He
hastened to call on her before the breach which he had made between her
and himself should become untraversable; for although the embargo on
their intercourse had lasted only about a week, it already seemed to him
a lapse of time measureable by months; and this very naturally, inasmuch
as during that short interval he had lived a life of anguish as a man
and a patriot. Accordingly the old intimacy was resumed, and the two
young people seldom passed forty-eight hours apart. But of the
rebellion they said little, and of Bull Run nothing. These were such
sore subjects to him that he did not wish to speak of them except to the
ear of sympathy; and she, divining his sensitiveness, would not give him
pain notwithstanding that he was an abolitionist and a Yankee. If the
Doctor, ignorant of what passed in these young hearts, turned the
conversation on the war, Lillie became silent, and Colburne,
appreciating her forbearance, tried to say very little. Thus without a
compact, without an explanation, they accorded in a strain of mutual
charity which predicted the ultimate conversion of one or the other.
Moreover, Colburne asked himself, what right had he to talk if he did
not fight? If he wanted to answer this woman's outcry of delight over
the rout of Bull Run, the place to do it was not a safe parlor, but a
field of victorious battle. Why did he not act in accordance with these
truly chivalrous sentiments? Why not fall into one of the new regiments
which his gallant little State was organizing to continue the struggle?
Why not march on with the soul of old John Brown, joining in the sublime
though quaint chorus of, "We're coming, Father Abraham, three hundred
thousand more?"
He did talk very earnestly of it with various persons, and, among
others, with Doctor Ravenel. The latter approved the young man's warlike
inclinations promptly and earnestly.
"It is the noblest duty that you may ever have a chance to perform
during your life," said he. "To do something personally towards
upholding this Union and striking down slavery is an honor beyond any
thing that ever was accorded to Greek or Roman. I wish that I were young
enough for the work, or fitted for it by nature or education. I would be
willing to have my tombstone set up next year, if it could only bear the
inscription, 'He died in giving freedom to slaves.'"
"Oh! do stop," implored Lillie, who entered in time to hear the
concluding sentence. "What do you talk about your tombstone for? You
will get perfectly addled about abolition, like all the rest. Now, papa,
you ought to be more consistent. You didn't use to be so violent against
slavery. You have changed since five years ago."
"I know it," says the Doctor. "But that doesn't prove that I am wrong
now. I wasn't infallible five years ago. Why, my dear, the progress of
our race from barbarism to civilization is through the medium of
constant change. If the race is benefited by it, why not the individual?
I am a sworn foe to consistency and conservation. To stick obstinately
to our old opinions, because they are old, is as foolish as it would be
in a soldier-crab to hold on to his shell after he had outgrown it
instead of picking up a new one fitted to his increased size. Suppose
the snakes persisted in going about in their last year's skins? No, no;
there are no such fools in the lower animal kingdom; that stupidity is
confined to man."
"The world does move," observed Colburne. "We consider ourselves pretty
strict and old-fashioned here in New Boston. But if our Puritan
ancestors could get hold of us, they would be likely to have us whipped
as heretics and Sabbath-breakers. Very likely we would be equally severe
upon our own great-great-grandchildren, if we should get a chance at
them."
"Weak spirits are frightened by this change, this growth, this forward
impetus," said the Doctor. "I must tell you a story. I was travelling in
Georgia three years ago. On the seat next in front of me sat a cracker,
who was evidently making his first railroad experience, and in other
respects learning to go on his hind legs. Presently the train crossed a
bridge. It was narrow, uncovered and without sides, so that a passenger
would not be likely to see it unless he sat near the window. Now the
cracker sat next the alley of the car, and away from the window. I
observed him give a glare at the river and turn away his head suddenly,
after which he rolled about in a queer way, and finally went on the
floor in a heap. We picked him up; spirits were easily produced, (they
always are down there); and presently the cracker was brought to his
senses. His first words were, 'Has she lit'-- He was under the
impression that the train had taken the river at a running jump. Now
that is very much like the judgment of timid and ill-informed people on
the progress of the nation or race at such a time as this. They don't
know about the bridge; they think we are flying through the air; and so
they go off in general fainting-fits."
Colburne laughed, as many another man has done before him, at this good
old story.
"On our train," said he, "on the train of human progress, we are parts
of the engine and not mere passengers. I ought to be revolving
somewhere. I ought to be at work. I want to do something--I am most
anxious to do something--but I don't know precisely what. I suppose that
the inability exists in me, and not in my circumstances. I am like the
gentleman who tired himself out with jumping, but never could jump high
enough to see over his own standing-collar."
"I know how you feel. I have been in that state myself, often and in
various ways. For instance it has occurred to me, especially in my
younger days, to feel a strong desire to write, without having anything
to say. There was a burning in my brain; there was a sentiment or
sensation which led me to seek pens, ink and paper; there was an
impatient, uncertain, aimless effort to commence; there was a pause, a
revery, and all was over. It was a storm of sheet-lightning. There were
glorious gleams, and far off openings of the heavens; but no sound,
droppings, no sensible revelation from the upper world.--However, your
longings are for action, and I am convinced that you will find your
opportunity. There will be work enough in this matter for all."
"I don't know," said Colburne. "The sixth and seventh regiments are
full. I hear that there isn't a lieutenantcy left."
"You will have to raise your own company."
"Ah! But for what regiment? We shan't raise another, I am afraid. Yes, I
am actually afraid that the war will be over in six months."
Miss Ravenel looked up hastily as if she should like to say "Forty
years," but checked herself by a surprising effort of magnanimity and
good nature.
"That's queer patriotism," laughed the Doctor. "But let me assure you,
Mr. Colburne, that your fears are groundless. There will be more
regiments needed."
Miss Ravenel gave a slight approving nod, but still said nothing,
remembering Bull Run and how provokingly she had shouted over it.
"This southern oligarchy," continued the Doctor, "will be a tough nut to
crack. It has the consolidated vigor of a tyranny."
"I wonder where Lieutenant-Colonel Carter is?" queried Colburne. "It is
six weeks since he was taken prisoner. It seems like six years."
Miss Ravenel raised her head with an air of interest, glanced hastily at
her father, and gave herself anew to her embroidery. The Doctor made a
grimace which was as much as to say that he thought small beer or sour
beer of Lieutenant-Colonel Carter.
"He is a very fine officer," said Colburne. "He was highly spoken of for
his conduct at Bull Run."
"I would rather have you for a Colonel," replied the Doctor.
Colburne laughed contemptuously at the idea of his fitness for a
colonelcy.
"I would rather have any respectable man of tolerable intellect,"
insisted the Doctor. "I tell you that I know that type perfectly. I know
what he is as well as if I had been acquainted with him for twenty
years. He is what we southerners, in our barbarous local vanity, are
accustomed to call a southern gentleman. He is on the model of the
sugar-planters of St. Dominic Parish. He needs somebody to care for him.
Let me tell you a story. When I was on a mineralogical expedition in
North Carolina some years ago, I happened to be out late at night
looking for lodgings. I was approaching one of those cross-road
groggeries which they call a tavern down there, when I met a most
curious couple. It was a man and a goose. The man was drunk, and the
goose was sober. The man was staggering, and the goose was waddling
perfectly straight. Every few steps it halted, looked back and quacked,
as if to say, Come along. The moon was shining, and I could see the
whole thing plainly. I was obliged to put up for the night in the
groggery, and there I got an explanation of the comedy. It seems that
this goose was a pet, and had taken an unaccountable affection to its
owner, who was a wretched drunkard of a cracker. The man came nearly
every night to the groggery, got drunk as regularly as he came, and
generally went to sleep on one of the benches. About midnight the goose
would appear and cackle for him. The bar-keeper would shake up the
drunkard and say, 'Here! your goose has come for you.' As soon as the
brute could get his legs he would start homeward, guided by his more
intelligent companion. If the man fell down and couldn't get up, the
goose would remain by him and squawk vociferously for assistance.--Now,
sir, there was hardly a sugar-planter, hardly a southern gentleman, in
St. Dominic Parish, who didn't need some such guardian. Often and often,
as I have seen them swilling wine and brandy at each other's tables, I
have charitably wished that I could say to this one and that one, Sir,
your goose has come for you."
"But you never have seen the Lieutenant-Colonel so badly off," answered
Colburne, after a short meditation.
"Why no--not precisely," admitted the Doctor. "But I know his type," he
presently added with an obstinacy which Miss Ravenel secretly thought
very unjust. She thought it best to direct her spirit of censure in
another direction.
"Papa," said she, "what a countryfied habit you have of telling
stories!"
"Don't criticise, my dear," answers papa. "I am a high toned southern
gentleman, and always knock people on the head who criticise me."
The question still returns upon us, why Mr. Colburne did not join the
army. It is time, therefore, to state the hitherto unimportant fact that
he was the only son of a widow, and that his life was a necessity to
her, not only as a consolation to her loneliness, but as a support to
her declining fortunes. Doctor Colburne had left his wife and child an
estate of about twenty-five thousand dollars, which at the time of his
death was a respectable fortune in New Boston. But the influx of gold
from California, and the consequent rise of prices, seriously diminished
the value of the family income just about the time that Edward, by
growing into manhood and entering college, necessitated an increase of
expenses. Therefore Mrs. Colburne was led to put one half of the joint
fortune into certain newly-organized manufacturing companies, which
promised to increase her annual six per cent to twenty-four--nor was she
therein exceedingly to blame, being led away by the example and advice
of some of the sharpest New Boston capitalists, many of whom had their
experienced pinions badly lamed in these joint-stock adventurings.
"What you want, Mr. Colburne," said a director, "is an investment which
is both safe and permanent. Now this is just the thing."
I can not say much for the safety of the investment, but it certainly
was a permanent one. During the first year the promised twenty-four per
cent was paid, and the widow could have sold out for one hundred and
twenty. Then came a free-trade, Democratic improvement on the tariff;
the manufacturing interest of the country was paralyzed, and the
Braggville stock fell to ninety. Mrs. Colburne might still have sold
out at a profit, counting in her first year's dividend; but as it was
not in her inexperience to see that this was wisdom, she held on for
a--decline. By the opening of the war her certificates of manufacturing
stock were waste paper, and her annual income was reduced to eight
hundred dollars. Indeed, for a year or two previous to the commencement
of this story, she had been forced to make inroads upon her capital.
Of this crisis in the family affairs Edward was fully aware, and like a
true-born, industrious Yankee, did his best to meet it. From every
lowermost branch and twig of his profession he plucked some fruit by
dint of constant watchfulness, so that during the past year he had been
very nearly able to cover his own conscientiously economical
expenditures. He was gaining a foothold in the law, although he as yet
had no cases to plead. If he held on a year or two longer at this rate
he might confidently expect to restore the family income and stave off
the threatened sale of the homestead.
But this was not all which prevented him from going forth to battle. The
cry of his mother's heart was, "My son, how can I let thee go?" She was
an abolitionist, as was almost every body of her set in New Boston; she
was an enthusiastic patriot, as was almost every one in the north during
that sublime summer of popular enthusiasm; but this war--oh, this
strange, ferocious war! was horrible. Her sensitively affectionate
nature, blinded by veils of womanly tenderness, folded in habits of
life-long peace, could not see the hard, inevitable necessity of the
contest. Earnestly as she sympathised with its loyal and humane objects,
she was not logical enough or not firm enough to sympathise with the
iron thing itself. Lapped in sweet influences of peace all her loving
life, why must she be called to death amid the clamor of murderous
contests? For her health was failing; a painful and fatal disease had
fastened its clutches on her; another year's course she did not hope to
run. And if the hateful struggle must go on, if it must torment her
last few days with its agitations and horrors, so much the more did she
need her only child. Other women's sons--yes, if there was no help for
it--but not hers--might put on the panoply of strife, and disappear from
anxiously following eyes into the smoke and flame of battle. Edward told
her every day the warlike news of the journals, the grand and stern
putting on of the harness, the gigantic plans for crushing the nation's
foes. She could take no interest in such tidings but that of aversion.
He read to her in a voice which thrilled like swellings of martial
music, Tennyson's Charge of the Six Hundred. She listened to the
clarion-toned words with distaste and almost with horror.
Well, the summer wore away, that summer of sombre preparation and
preluding skirmishes, whose scattering musketry and thin cannonade
faintly prophecied the orchestral thunders of Gettysburg and the
Wilderness, and whose few dead preceded like skirmishers the massive
columns which for years should firmly follow them into the dark valley.
Its forereaching shadows fell upon many homes far away from the
battlefield, and chilled to death many sensitive natures. Old persons
and invalids sank into the grave that season under the oppression of its
straining suspense and preliminary horror; and among these victims, whom
no man has counted and whom few have thought of collectively, was the
mother of Colburne.
One September afternoon she sent for Edward. The Doctor had gone; his
labors were over. The clergyman had gone; neither was he longer needed.
There was no one in the room but the nurse, the dying mother and the
only child. The change had been expected for days, and Edward had
thought that he was prepared for it; had indeed marvelled and been
shocked at himself because he could look forward to it with such seeming
composure; for, reason with his heart and his conscience as he might, he
could not feel a fitting dread and anguish. In the common phrase of
humanity, when numbed by unusual sorrow, he could not realize it. But
now, as, leaning over the footboard and looking steadfastly upon his
mother's face, he saw that the final hour had come, a sickness of heart
fell upon him, and a trembling as if his soul were being torn asunder.
Yet neither wept; the Puritans and the children of the Puritans do not
weep easily; they are taught, not to utter, but to hide their emotions.
The nurse perceived no signs of unusual feeling, except that the face of
the strong man became suddenly as pale as that of the dying woman, and
that to him this was an hour of anguish, while to her it was one of
unspeakable joy. The mother knew her son too well not to see, even with
those failing eyes, into the depths of his sorrow.
"Don't be grieved for me, Edward," she said. "I am sustained by the
faith of the promises. I am about to return from the place whence I
came. I am re-entering with peace and with confidence into a blessed
eternity."
He came to the side of the bed, sat down on it and took her hand without
speaking.
"You will follow me some day," she went on. "You will follow me to the
place where I shall be, at the right hand of the Lord. I have prayed for
it often;--I was praying for it a moment ago; and, my child, my prayer
will be granted. Oh, I have been so fearful for you; but I am fearful no
longer."
He made no answer except to press her hand while she paused to draw a
few short and wearisome breaths.
"I can bear to part with you now," she resumed. "I could not bear it
till the Lord granted me this full assurance that we shall meet again. I
leave you in his hands. I make no conditions with him. I have been
sweetly brought to give you altogether up to one who loves you better
than I know how to love you. He gave me my love, and he has kept more
than he gave. Perhaps I have been selfish, Edward, to hold on to you as
I have. You have felt it your duty to go into the army, and perhaps I
have been selfish to prevent you. Now you are free; to-morrow I shall
not be here. If you still see that to be your duty, go; and the Lord go
with you, darling, and give you strength and courage. I do not ask him
to spare you, but only to guide you here below, and restore you to me
above.----And he will do it, Edward, for his own sake. I am full of
confidence; the promises are sure. For you and for myself, I rejoice
with a joy unspeakable and full of glory."
While thus speaking, or rather whispering, she had put one arm around
his neck. As he kissed her wasted cheek and let fall his first tears on
it, she drew her hand across his face with a caressing tenderness, and
smiling, fell back softly on her pillow, closing her eyes as calmly as
if to sleep. A few broken words, a murmuring of unutterable, unearthly,
infinite happiness, echoes as it were of greetings far away with
welcoming angels, were her last utterances. To the young man, who still
held her hand and now and then kissed her cheek, she seemed to slumber,
although her breathing gradually sank so low that he could not perceive
it. But after a long time the nurse came to the bedside, bent over it,
looked, listened, and said, "She is gone!"
He was free; she was not there.
He went to his room with a horrible feeling that for him there was no
more love; that there was nothing to do and nothing to expect; that his
life was a blank. He could fix his mind on nothing past or future; not
even upon the unparalleled sorrow of the present. Taking up the Bible
which she had given him, he read a page before he noticed that he had
not understood and did not remember a single passage. In that vacancy,
that almost idiocy, which beclouds afflicted souls, he could not recall
a distinct impression of the scene through which he had just passed, and
seemed to have forgotten forever his mother's dying words, her
confidence that they should meet again, her heavenly joy. With the same
perverseness, and in spite of repeated efforts to close his ears to the
sound, some inner, wayward self repeated to him over and over again
these verses of the unhappy Poe--
"Thank Heaven! the crisis,
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last,
And the fever called Living
Is conquered at last."
The sad words sounded wofully true to him. For the time, for some days,
it seemed to him as if life were but a wearisome illness, for which the
grave was but a cure. His mind, fevered by night watching, anxiety, and
an unaccustomed grappling with sorrow, was not in a healthy state. He
thought that he was willing to die; he only desired to fall usefully,
honorably, and in consonance with the spirit of his generation; he would
set his face henceforward towards the awful beacons of the battle-field.
His resolution was taken with the seriousness of one, who, though
cheerful and even jovial by nature, had been permeated to some extent by
the solemn passion of Puritanism. He painted to himself in strong colors
the risk of death and the nature of it; then deliberately chose the part
of facing this tremendous mystery in support of the right. All this
while, be it remembered, his mind was somewhat exalted by the fever of
bodily weariness and of spiritual sorrow.