THE PRISONERS.
Many of the captives were coming home, and all along the Northern lines
loving hearts were waiting, and friendly hands outstretched to welcome
them back to “God’s land,” as the poor, suffering creatures termed the
soil over which waved the stars and stripes, for which they had fought
so bravely. Wistfully thousands of eyes ran over the long columns of
names of those returned, each eye seeking for its own, and growing dim
with tears as it failed to find it, or lighting up with untold joy when,
it was found.
“Lieut. Robert Reynolds,” and “Thomas Tubbs,” Helen read among the list
of those just arrived at Annapolis, but “Captain Mark Ray” was not
there, and, with a sickening feeling of disappointment, she passed the
paper to her mother-in-law, and hastened away, to weep and pray that
what she so greatly feared might not come upon her.
It was after Katy’s betrothal, and Helen was in New York, hoping to hear
news from Mark, and perhaps to see him ere long, for as nearly as she
could trace him from reports of others, he was last at Andersonville.
But there was no mention made of him, no sign by which she could tell
whether he still lived, or had long since been relieved from suffering.
Early next day she heard that Mattie Tubbs had received a telegram from
Tom, who would soon be at home, while later in the day Bell Cameron came
round to say that _Bob_ was living, but that he had lost his right arm,
and was otherwise badly crippled. It never occurred to Helen to ask if
this would make a difference. She only kissed Bell fondly, rejoicing at
her good fortune, and then sent her back to the home where there were
hot discussions regarding the propriety of receiving into the family a
maimed and crippled member.
“It was preposterous to suppose Bob would expect it,” Juno said, while
the mother admitted that it was a most unfortunate affair, as indeed the
whole war had proved. For her part she sometimes wished the North had
let the South go quietly, as they wanted to, and so saved thousands of
lives, and prevented the country from being flooded with cripples and
negroes, and calls for more men and money. On the whole, she doubted the
propriety of prolonging the war; and she certainly doubted the propriety
of giving her daughter to a cripple. There was Arthur Grey, who had
lately been so attentive; he was a wealthier man than Lieutenant Bob,
and if Bell had any discretion she would take him in preference to a
disfigured soldier.
Such was the purport’ of Mrs. Cameron’s remarks, to which her husband
listened, his eyes blazing with passion, which, the moment she finished,
burst forth in a storm of oaths and invectives against what, with his
pet adjective, he called her “Copperhead principles,” denouncing her as
a traitor, reproaching her for the cruelty which would separate her
daughter from Robert Reynolds, because he had lost an arm in the service
of his country; and then turning fiercely to Bell with the words,
“But it isn’t for you to say whether he shall or shall not have Bell.
She is of age. Let her speak for herself.”
And she did speak, the noble, heroic girl, who had listened, with bitter
scorn, to what her mother and sister said, and who now, with quivering
nostrils, and voice hoarse with emotion, answered slowly and
impressively,
“I would marry Lieutenant Reynolds if he had only his _ears_ left to
hear me tell him how much I love and honor him! Arthur Grey! Don’t talk
to me of him! the craven coward, who swore he was fifty to avoid the
draft.”
After this, no more was said to Bell, who, the moment she heard Bob was
at home, went to his father’s house and asked to see him.
He was sleeping when she entered his room; and pushing back the heavy
curtain, so that the light would fall more directly upon him, Mrs.
Reynolds went out and left her there alone.
With a beating heart she stood looking at his hollow eyes, his sunken
cheek, his short, dry hair, and thick gray skin, but did not think of
his arm, until she glanced at the wall, where hung a large sized
photograph, taken in full uniform, the last time he was at home, and in
which his well-developed figure showed to good advantage. Could it be
that the wreck before her had ever been as full of life and vigor as the
picture would indicate, and was that arm which held the sword severed
from the body, and left a token of the murderous war?
“Poor Bob! how much he must have suffered,” she whispered, and kneeling
down beside him she hid her face in her hands, weeping bitter tears for
her armless hero.
The motion awakened Robert, who gazed for a moment in surprise at the
kneeling, sobbing maiden; then when sure it was she, he raised himself
in bed, and ere Bell could look up, _two arms_, one quite as strong as
the other, were wound around her neck, and her head was pillowed upon
the breast, which heaved with strong emotions as the soldier said,
“My darling Bell, you don’t know how much good this meeting does me!”
He kissed her many times, and Bell did not prevent it, but gave him kiss
after kiss, then, still doubting the evidence of her eyes, she unclasped
his clinging arms, and holding both his poor hands in hers, gave vent to
a second gush of tears as she said,
“I am so glad—oh, so glad!”
Then, as it occurred to her that he might perhaps misjudge her, and put
a wrong construction upon her joy, she added,
“I did not care for myself, Robert. Don’t think I cared for myself, or
was ever sorry a bit on my own account.”
Bob looked a little bewildered as he replied, “Never were sorry and
never cared!—I can scarcely credit that, for surely your tears and
present emotions belie your words.”
Bell knew he had not understood her, and said,
“Your _arm_, Robert, your arm. We heard that it was cut off, and that
you were otherwise mutilated.”
“Oh, that’s it, then!” and something like his old mischievous smile
glimmered about Bob’s mouth as he added, “They spared my _arms_, but,
Bell,” and he tried to look very solemn, “suppose I tell you that they
hacked off both my legs, and if you marry me, you must walk all your
life by the side of _wooden pins_ and _crutches_!”
Bell knew by the curl of his lip that he was teasing her, and she
answered laughingly,
“Wooden pins and crutches will be all the fashion when the war is
over—badges of honor of which any woman might be proud.”
“Well, Bell,” he replied, “I am afraid there is no such honor in store
for my wife, for if I ever get back my strength and the flesh upon my
bones, she must take me with legs and arms included. Not even a scratch
or wound of any kind with which to awaken sympathy.”
He appeared very bright and cheerful; but when after a moment Bell asked
for Mark Ray, there came a shadow over his face, and with quivering lips
he told a tale which blanched Bell’s cheeks, and made her shiver with
pain and dread as she thought of Helen—for Mark _was dead_—shot down as
he attempted to escape from the train which took them from one prison to
another. He was always devising means of escape, succeeding several
times, but was immediately captured and brought back, or sent to some
closer quarter, Robert said; but his courage never deserted him, or his
spirits either. He was the life of them all, and by his presence kept
many a poor fellow from dying of homesickness and despair. But he was
dead; there could be no mistake, for Robert saw him when he jumped,
heard the ball which went whizzing after him, saw him as he fell on the
open field, saw a man from a rude dwelling near by go hurriedly towards
him, firing his own revolver, as if to make the death deed doubly sure.
Then as the train slacked its speed, with a view, perhaps, to take the
body on board, he heard the man who had reached Mark, and was bending
over him, call out, “Go on, I’ll tend to him, the bullet went right
through here;” and he turned the dead man’s face towards the train, so
all could see the blood pouring from the temple which the finger of the
ruffian touched.
“Oh, Helen! poor Helen! how can I tell her, when she loved him so much!”
Bell sobbed.
“You will do it better than any one else,” Bob said. “You will be very
tender with her; and, Bell, tell her, as some consolation, that he did
not break with the treatment, as most of us wretches did; he kept up
wonderfully—said he was perfectly well—and, indeed, he looked so. Tom
Tubbs, who was his shadow, clinging to him with wonderful fidelity, will
corroborate what I have said. He was with us; he saw him, and only
animal force prevented him from leaping from the car and going to him
where he fell. I shall never forget his shriek of agony at the sight of
that blood-stained face, turned an instant towards us.”
“Don’t, don’t!” Bell cried again; “I can’t endure it!” and as Mrs.
Reynolds came in she left her lover and started for Mrs. Banker’s,
meeting on the steps Tom Tubbs himself, who had come on an errand
similar to her own.
“Sit here in the hall a moment,” she said to him, as the servant
admitted them both. “I must see Mrs. Ray first.”
Helen was reading to her mother-in-law; but she laid down her book and
came to welcome Bell, detecting at once the agitation in her manner, and
asking if she had bad news from Robert.
“No, Robert is at home; I have just come from there, and he told me—oh!
Helen, can you bear it?—_Mark is dead_—shot twice as he jumped from the
train taking him to another prison. Robert saw it and knew that he was
dead.”
Bell could get no further, for Helen, who had never fainted in her life,
did so now, lying senseless so long that the physician began to think it
would be a mercy if she never came back to life, for her reason, he
fancied, had fled. But Helen did come back to life, with reason
unimpaired, and insisted upon hearing every detail of the dreadful
story, both from Bell and Tom. The latter confirmed all Lieutenant
Reynolds had said, besides adding many items of his own. Mark was dead,
there could be no doubt of it; but with the tenacity of a strong,
hopeful nature, the mother clung to the illusion that possibly the ball
stunned, instead of killing—that he would yet come back; and many a time
as the days went by, that mother started at the step upon the walk, or
ring of the bell, which she fancied might be his, hearing him sometimes
calling in the night storm for her to let him in, and hurrying down to
the door only to be disappointed and go back to her lonely room to weep
the dark night through.
With Helen there were no such illusions. After talking calmly and
rationally with both Robert and Tom, she knew her husband was dead, and
never watched and waited for him as his mother did. She had heard from
Mark’s companions in suffering all they had to tell, of his captivity
and his love for her which manifested itself in so many different ways.
Passionately she had wept over the tress of faded hair which Tom Tubbs
brought to her, saying, “he cut it from his head just before we left the
prison, and told me if he never got home and I did, to give the lock to
you, and say that all was well between him and God—that your prayers had
saved him. He wanted you to know that, because, he said, it would
comfort you most of all.”
And it did comfort her when she looked up at the clear wintry heavens
and thought that her lost one was there. It was her first real trial,
and it crushed her with its magnitude, so that she could not submit at
once, and many a cry of desolate agony broke the silence of her room,
where the whole night through she sat musing of the past, and raining
kisses upon the little lock of hair which from the Southern prison had
come to her, sole relic of the husband so dearly loved and truly
mourned. How faded it was from the rich brown she remembered so well,
and Helen gazing at it could realize in part the suffering and want
which had worn so many precious lives away. It was strange she never
dreamed of him. She often prayed that she might, so as to drive from her
mind, if possible, the picture of the prostrate form upon the low, damp
field, and the blood-stained face turned in its mortal agony towards the
southern sky and the pitiless foe above it. So she always saw him,
shuddering as she wondered if the foe had buried him decently or left
his bones to bleach upon the open plain.
Poor Helen, she was widowed indeed, and it needed not the badge of
mourning to tell how terribly she was bereaved. But the badge was there,
too, for in spite of the hope which said, “he is not dead,” Mrs. Banker
yielded to Helen’s importunities, and clothed herself and
daughter-in-law in the habiliments of woe, still waiting, still
watching, still listening for the step she should recognize so quickly,
still looking down the street; but looking, alas! in vain. The winter
passed away. Captive after captive came home, heart after heart was
cheered by the returning loved one, but for the inmates of No. — the
heavy cloud grew blacker, for the empty chair by the hearth remained
unoccupied, and the aching hearts uncheered. _Mark Ray did not come
back._