Miss Sylvy,” asked Joe, rather solemnly, “would you be so kin’ as ter
tell me whar you hail from?”
“Do you mean where I was born?” Joe nodded. “Well, I’m very sorry, but I
can’t tell you,” and the colour surged perceptibly under her dark skin.
“H’m,” said Joe, pressing his lower lip over the upper one, as he had a
habit of doing when he considered any matter required careful thought.
Then after a pause, “Well, your las’ name, Miss Sylvy, will you tell me
dat? I don’ rightly remember eber to have heard it.”
“Sylvester, Joe, but it’s a name I chose for myself. I do not know what
name I was born to.”
“Why, however, Miss Sylvy, did dat happen?” and Joe showed such deep and
tender interest that Sylvia, who cared to talk on the subject with very
few, gladly entered into a full explanation. She told him, as she had
{065}told Courage that summer night so many years before on Larry’s
lighter, how she had found herself landed in the orphan asylum, with
no name as far as any one knew, excepting just Sylvia, and how she had
named herself Sylvester after one of the ladies who came to the asylum
to teach. And then she continued, giving a brief outline of her life
since that time, all of which proved most absorbing to Joe, because with
the telling of Sylvia’s story he learnt so much of interest about Miss
Courage as well.
“But, Honey,” he asked at the end of the story, with a sigh as of one
who has listened with an intentness bordering upon fatigue, “who put you
in dat ’sylum?”
“Some one just left me at the asylum at night, with a card pinned on
to my dress with ‘Sylvia’ written on it, and saying that I had neither
father nor mother, and then ran away in the darkness, but I don’t
believe any one related to me would have treated me like that. I would
rather you would not say anything about all this, Joe. It is only
because you are one of my own people and seem so kind and interested
that I have told you.”
“Thank you bery much for de confidence, Miss Sylvy, for my ole heart
went right out to you from de day you done come walkin’ up de {066}path
at Little Homespun, but I’ll keep it safe, Miss Sylvy, never you fear.”
Joe and Sylvia had been busy washing dishes and clearing up after the
luncheon, and it was when their work was finished and they were waiting
under the chestnut tree for the others to come back, that they had had
their little talk. It reached its natural conclusion just as Colonel
Anderson came strolling up from the river, blowing a shrill whistle
between two fingers, the signal previously agreed upon to call the
children together.
“Now, do you know,” he said, when the little company had bestowed itself
in much the same fashion as in the morning, “I have an idea that you
will have to let Joe and me do all the talking now. We have only a short
afternoon before us, and there is a great deal to tell.”
No one looked as though that would be the least hardship, and Joe
explained that he himself would rather listen than talk, “less’n de.
Colonel disremembered somethin’ very important.”
“Likely as not I shall, Joe, but it seems the point at which to commence
this afternoon is with General Lee. At the time that he married Miss
Mollie Custis he was a lieutenant in the United States Army, but he had
gradu{067}ated at the head of his class at West Point only two
years before. After he was married, as you know, he made his home at
Arlington, but he had to be away from it much of the time because of his
duties in the army. He was a fine fellow, I can tell you, and held one
responsible position after another. He was right in the thick of our war
with Mexico, and won rapid promotion for his courage and daring. After
a brilliant charge at Chapultepec, when he was severely wounded, he was
made a brevet-colonel by General Scott. It seemed after that as though
he was everywhere where a brave, fearless man was needed. He was in
command in Texas when the Indians were attacking the settlers there; and
was in many a bloody engagement. Later on, he was the commanding officer
when the house was charged at Harper’s Ferry, where John Brown had taken
refuge. I wish there was time, children, to stop and tell you about John
Brown. You know the old song about ‘John Brown’s body lies a mouldering
in the grave, but his soul goes marching on.’ Get Joe here to sing it
for you some day, if you don’t. Well, you see by all this that General
Lee had done a great deal for his country; but there came a day when he
felt it his duty to turn against it, that is, to take up arms against
the {068}United States. You all know how the great civil war finally
came about; how the Northern States thought the Southern States should
not hold slaves, and how the Southern States thought they had the right
to decide whether they should or not without any interference from the
North, and so banded themselves together and said they would secede from
the United States and form a confederacy of their own. This Virginia,
whose air we are breathing this minute, was one of those states, and
was General Lee’s native state as well; and when the time came to
choose between his state and his country, he decided to side with the
Confederacy. Then, of course, there was nothing for him to do but to
resign from the United States Army. He sent his letter of resignation to
General Scott on the twenty-second of April, 1861, and then at once
left Arlington with his wife and children, for it was quite too near
to Washington for him to stay now that he had taken a stand against the
Government, and the very next day he was made commander-in-chief of the
army in Virginia. A few days before this, that is, on the fifteenth
of April, President Lincoln had called for seventy-five thousand
volunteers, and three days after the Lees had left, the great army of
the North came pouring into Washington and all the {069}country round
about. Camp-fires crackled among the oaks at Arlington, and the house
itself was taken possession of by the officers, When the troops first
arrived at Arlington they tramped through the deserted rooms, remaining
just as the Lees had left them, and concluding that ‘all’s fair in love
and war,’ they simply helped themselves to the forsaken treasures.
“Oh, but dose were drefful days!” said Joe, as though he must give
vent to the thoughts Colonel Anderson’s words had stirred: “I neber can
forgive dose Union soldiers, neber. Seems as dough dey might done have
respect for a gentleman’s place, but not a bit of it. Seemed as dough
dey could not be spiteful ‘nuff ’gainst de General. Des fancy seein’
things dat had belonged to Washington himself carried out of de house,
and sol’ in de streets up dere in de city of Washington, and some of de
negroes--shame on ’em!--ran away with things an’ sol’ ’em for more
money dan dey themselves would have sol’ for ’fo’ de wah. Oh, it was
pitiful to see the flower beds and lawns tramped over, as dough dey had
been so much rubbish, and it wa’n’t long befo’ de smooth green terraces
were just ragged mud-banks. You’d have thought I’d have gone away,
wouldn’t you? But I couldn’t bring my{070}self to leave de ole place,
until I ’listed an’ went down to Alabama wid a coloured regiment.
Dere, Colonel, I done interrupt you, didn’t I? But really, I was des
thinkin’ aloud more dan talkin’, for I des can’t keep my thoughts to
myself, when I grows ’stracted over de troublousness of dose times.”
“I don’t blame you, Joe, I don’t blame you,” said Colonel Anderson;
“but, as for me, I was feeling pretty hot against General Lee those
days. I didn’t see how he could make up his mind to regularly take up
arms against his country, and I have an idea that I felt for awhile that
he was treated no worse than he deserved; but that’s all bygones now,
as well as the dear old Arlington home, that will never be a home again.
You see, almost at the commencement of the war, children, Washington,
with all the country immediately about, became the hospital centre, and
soon a surgeon’s staff was quartered in the house yonder, in addition
to the officers already there; and at the same time long canvas shelters
were constructed in those woods, to which the poor sick and wounded
soldiers were brought from camp and battlefield--and sadly enough many
of them died here. At first all who died were taken to the Soldiers’
Home Cemetery on the other side of Washington to be {071}buried, but the
day came, as you know, when this very place was turned into a cemetery,
and this was how it came about. One afternoon as President Lincoln was
starting for his usual drive, which seemed to be the only way by which
he could gain any relief from the burdens of that anxious time, he met
General Meigs (who was Quarter-master General then of the United States
Army) walking in the White House grounds. Noticing how tired and worn
out the General looked, the President invited him to drive with him, and
General Meigs accepted. It was the President’s purpose to drive out to
Arlington, and when they reached there, the President started off for a
quiet stroll; but General Meigs, whose thoughts were very busy just then
as to what should be done with the poor soldiers, dying in such numbers
in and about Washington, was soon deep in conference with the surgeons
in charge. You see there would soon have been no more room in other
cemeteries, and it was for the Quarter-master General to decide what was
to be done in the matter. Now they say that General Meigs indulged in
very bitter feelings toward his old friend General Lee, and that when he
rejoined the President he said, ‘Lee shall never return to Arlington, no
matter what the issue of the war may be,’ {072}feeling evidently that he
should be fully punished in any case for the stand he had taken. Just at
that moment a sad little procession came that way. The bodies of several
poor fellows, who had died in the hospital tents, were being carried
on canvas stretchers to a spot from whence they could be taken to the
Soldiers’ Home Cemetery.
“‘How many men are awaiting burial?’ asked General Meigs of the Sergeant
in charge of the squad.
“‘Altogether a dozen, sir,’ the Sergeant answered.
“‘Bury them there,’ ordered the General, pointing to a low terrace
bordering the garden.”
“But did General Meigs have any right to turn General Lee’s place into a
cemetery?” asked Courage, a little warmly, feeling that an interruption
was excusable under the circumstances. To be fair always, if possible,
to everybody, was a working principle with Courage, and this proceeding
of General Meigs’s did not seem to her quite fair.
“Yes, I think he had a perfect right, Miss Courage. In time of war the
Government certainly has a right to take possession, if necessary, of
property belonging to any one in open rebellion against it; and besides,
five {073}months before Arlington was converted into a cemetery, the
place had been put up at public sale and bought by the Government. It
was not, I believe, until 1873, however, that the Lees received any
money for the estate, and that I admit does not seem fair at all. And
there is another right of which I am certain, and that is that the
brave fellows whose bodies rest in these graves had a right to the most
beautiful spot anywhere in these United States of ours for their last
resting-place. No, I think it was fitting that Arlington should become
one of our national cemeteries, and I believe even Joe yonder, thinks so
too.”
“Yes I do, Colonel Anderson,” Joe answered, solemnly. “Much as I love
General Lee, I can’t forget what de war cos’ de country in de loss of
human life, and General Lee done took a great ’sponsibility ’pon
him, when he help de war on by takin’ command of de Southern troops.
Yes, I’m glad dat de fine ole place has been pressed into de service of
de country, in des de way it has been.”
Colonel Anderson’s question put to Joe and Joe’s reply seemed to loosen
the tongues of the little company. Almost every one from Brevet up had
some question or other to ask of the Colonel, and he was quite willing
that they should, for they had all listened so atten{074}tively that
the story had been told more quickly than either Joe or the Colonel had
thought possible.
“And now, children,” said Brevet, with the air of a little grandfather,
“do you wonder that I love to come and spend the day with Joe? Why,
there isn’t a minute when I’m here, that he isn’t telling me something
‘bout before the war, or since the war, and when we go back to the cabin
and Joe makes the hoe-cake and broils a chicken for luncheon, and I
get the china down from the cupboard and set the table, with both of us
talking most interesting all the time, and the smell of the cooking just
filling all the cabin,--well, there isn’t ever such a happy time, is
there, Joe?” Brevet had made his way to Joe’s side as he spoke, and
reaching up, put one chubby little arm around his neck.
“No, bless yo’ little white heart, dere never is quite such a happy
time!” and Joe drew the little fellow into his lap and held him close,
as though he would love to keep him there forever.
“Is being in the cabin and having Joe cook the hoe-cake and the chicken
nicer than having luncheon out here in the grass like this?” asked Allan
Bennett, a whole world of envy in his tone.
{075}"A heap nicer,” was Brevet’s not uncertain reply.
“Do you really t’ink so, Honey?” asked Joe, smiling from ear to ear.
“Well, den, all you little Bennetts is invited on de spot, to take Fo’th
of July dinner wid me in my cabin, an’ if Miss Courage will honour me
wid her presence, an’ de Colonel will come out from Washington, an’ Miss
Sylvy will lend me a hand wid de preparations, strikes me we might hab a
good time sure nuff.”
Everybody accepted Joe’s invitation with alacrity, and there could
not have been a happier ending to a perfect day than to have just such
another perfect day planned for at its close. It simply took all the
bitterness out of the parting that followed soon after.
“Miss Lindy,” whispered Joe importantly, as he helped Grandma Ellis
into the carriage, “I ’spects you and Mars Harry for de Fo’th of July
dinner, but as dere won’t be no room for Mammy I didn’t make no public
mention of your two names. Seemed as dough it might make her feel a bit
uncomfortable if she was de only one not mentioned; but you understan’,
Miss Lindy, de cabin am small an’ Mammy large, an’” (putting his hand
to his mouth and speaking in a still lower whisper) “seems like Mammy
gettin’ {076}too old to be of much use to anybody. You un’erstan’, Miss
Lindy?”
“Oh, yes, I understand perfectly,” Grandma Ellis answered, very much
amused, “and I’ll make it all right with Mammy.” But from Grandma
Ellis’s point of view Mammy did not seem to be growing old one whit more
rapidly than old Joe himself.
{077}