I.

Was it the fault of poor Barbara Dinwiddie, that, when Sumter fell, and

the gallant Anderson saw with anguish the old flag pulled down, she was

the most desperate little Rebel in all Dixie? By no means! At school, at

home, at church, she had been taught that Slavery was the divinest of

all divine institutions; that all those outside barbarians, known as

Yankees, who questioned its justice, its policy, its eternal fitness,

were worse than infidels; that those favored individuals whose felicity

it had been to be born and bred under the patriarchal benignity were the

master race of this continent; and that one Southern man could, with

perfect ease to himself, and without any risk whatever of any unpleasant

consequences, whip and put _hors de combat_ any five of the "homeless

and traditionless race" that could be brought against him.

Had not Mr. Jefferson Davis so styled them? and had he not said that he

would rather herd with hyenas than with Yankees? Had not Mr. Yancey

declared that all the Yankees were cowards? Had not Mr. Walker,

Secretary of State of the new Confederacy, predicted that the "stars and

bars" would wave over Faneuil Hall in a twelvemonth? Had not the

Richmond papers assured the high-born sons of the South, who of course

included the whole white population, that it was an utter impossibility

for the chivalry to exist under the same government with the mean,

intolerable mudsills of the North? The wonder was, that the aforesaid

chivalry could live under the same sun, breathe the same atmosphere,

with such miscreants.

Was it, then, surprising that poor little Barbara, receiving in her

narrow sphere no other political influences than these, should find

herself at the age of seventeen the most eager of feminine sympathizers

with Secession? She burned to emulate Mrs. Greenhow, Belle Boyd, and

other enterprising Amazons who early in the war distinguished themselves

as spies or carriers for the Rebels. She almost blamed herself as

recreant, because she read with a shudder the account of that Southern

damsel who bade her lover bring back, as the most precious gift he could

lay at her feet, a Yankee scalp. She tried to persuade herself that

those little mementos, carved from Yankee bones, which were so

fashionable at one time among the _elite_ of the "Secesh" aristocracy,

would not shock her own sensitive heart.

Barbara's mother had done much to encourage these sentiments in her

daughter. A match between Barbara and Colonel Pegram of South Carolina

was one of that mother's pet projects. Mrs. Dinwiddie was of "one of the

first families of Virginia"; in which she was not singular. She had been

brought up to regard the Old Dominion as the lawful dictatress of the

legislation of the American continent; as sovereign, not only over her

own borders, but over the Congress and especially the Treasury of the

United States. The tobacco-lands of her father having given out through

that sagacious system of culture which Slavery applies, and

negro-raising for the supply of the slave-market farther south being in

a temporary condition of paralysis, the lady had so far descended from

her pedestal of ancestral pride as to encourage the addresses of Mr.

Daniel Dinwiddie, a Baltimore merchant, and himself "of excellent

family," though he had tarnished his hereditary honors by condescending

to engage in trade. Two children were the fruits of the alliance which

ensued,--our Barbara, and Mr. Culpepper Dinwiddie, who became eventually

a major in the Rebel army.

What a _dies irae_ it was for poor Mrs. Dinwiddie, that day that "Beast

Butler" rode at a slow walk through the streets of Baltimore, smoking

his cigar, and swaying to and fro carelessly on his horse! The poor

lady was ready to cuff Mr. Dinwiddie's ears, because that worthy citizen

sat down to his mutton and claret that day at dinner as coolly as if

nothing had happened. Barbara wept, and sang "My Maryland" and the

"Bonnie Blue Flag" till she made herself hoarse. She then glanced at a

photograph of Colonel Pegram, and thought how well he looked the

conquering hero.

Sunday came. It was a blessed satisfaction that at the Church of St.

Fortunatus all the communicants were friends of the Rebellion. The

Reverend Bogus de Bogus was himself an extremist in his advocacy of

Slavery and the Slave Confederacy. But what was the consternation of the

whole assembly, at hearing him, on that eventful Sabbath, pray for the

President and other authorities of the United States! Had he been

tampered with by the Beast? What was the world coming to? How

intolerable that the solar system should move on as regularly and

indifferently as if nothing had happened!

The fomenters of Rebellion in the Monument City continued hopeful,

notwithstanding the defection of the Reverend Bogus de Bogus. Mrs.

Dinwiddie almost worried Dinwiddie's life out, teasing him for money

with which to buy quinine and percussion-caps to smuggle into Rebeldom.

Barbara worked till her taper little forefinger looked like a

nutmeg-grater, making shirts and drawers for the "gallant Palmetto

Tenth," in which certain sprigs of aristocracy from Baltimore had

enlisted. The regiment was commanded by that splendid fellow, Charlie

Pegram.

What was Barbara's despair, on learning that all the products of her

labors had been intercepted by the "Beast," and were safely stored at

"these headquarters"! Mrs. Dinwiddie went into hysterics at the news,

but was suddenly restored, on hearing Dinwiddie enter, and inquire in

the most cold-blooded manner, "Why isn't dinner ready?" Falling upon

that monster in human shape, she crushed him so far into silence by her

indignation, that he was glad to make a meal of a few crackers and a

glass of ale, and then retire for his afternoon cigar to the repose of

his counting-room.

The war (the civil, not the domestic, we mean) went on. Battle succeeded

battle, and skirmish skirmish, with alternating successes, when at last

came the Emancipation Proclamation, not in the earthquake, nor in the

whirlwind, but in the still small voice. "Well, what of it? 'Tis a mere

paper bomb!" said Belshazzar at Richmond, looking out on Libby and Belle

Isle. Mrs. Dinwiddie read the "Richmond Enquirer," and thought, for the

thousandth time, how intolerable life would be, if ever again Yankees

were to be suffered to live within a thousand miles of a genuine

descendant of the Cavaliers. "Spaniels must be whipped into

subservience," said Mr. Jefferson Davis, alluding to the abhorred race

north of Mason and Dixon's line.

"Yes, they must be whipped!" echoed Mrs. Dinwiddie; and soon afterwards

came news of the capture of New Orleans, of Vicksburg, of Port Hudson,

and at last of Atlanta. "These horrid Yankees!" she shrieked. "Why don't

we do something, Dinwiddie? If one Southerner can whip five Yankees,

why, in the name of common sense, don't we do something? Speak, you

stupid, provoking man!"

"Yes, yes, what was it you asked?" meekly interrogated Dinwiddie, who

was calculating how much he had made in the recent rise of United States

five-twenties.

"What was it? Oh, go to your tobacco-casks, your coupons, and your

cotton, you soulless, huckstering old man! You can look on and see

Abolitionism getting rampant in this once proud city, and not lift a

voice or a finger to save us from ruin! You can see Maryland drifting

into the horrible abyss of Yankeeism and Anti-slavery, and keep on doing

business and minding the paltry affairs of your counting-room, as if all

that gives grace and dignity to this wretched State were not on the

verge of destruction! If you'd had the spirit of a hare, you'd have

been a brigadier-general in the Confederate army by this time."

Dinwiddie was not a man of words. He had a wholesome horror of

strong-minded women; and to that class he discovered, too late for his

peace, that his wife belonged. So he simply replied, slightly

stuttering, as was his wont, except when excited,--

"If I had joined the army, Madam, I should have--have--ve"----

"I should have what?"

"I should have been deprived of your--ahem--agreeable society; and then

you might have been a wid--wid--widow."

"I should have been proud. Sir, to have been your widow under such

circumstances."

"Thank you, Mrs. Dinwiddie; but being a mod--mod--modest man myself, I'd

rather not make my wife proud."

"There's no danger of your ever doing that, Sir," quoth Madam; "but I

thank Heaven we're not wholly disgraced. We have one representative of

our family in the Confederate army. My son Culpepper may live to make

amends for his sire's degeneracy."

Dinwiddie was beginning to get roused.

"My degeneracy, Madam? Confound it, Madam, where would you and yours

have been, if I hadn't saved you all from pau--pau--pauperism, Madam?"

It was rare that Dinwiddie made so long a speech, and the lady was

astounded.

"Sir," said she, "do you know it is a Culpepper of whom you speak?"

"Devilish well I know it," said the excited Daniel; "and what you all

had but your pride I never could find out; and what were you proud of?

Of a dozen or two old family nig--nig--niggers, that were only a bill of

expense to that pompous old cove, your father."

Mrs. Dinwiddie began to grow livid with exasperation. Her husband had

touched her on a tender point.

"Go on, Sir," said she; "I see your drift. I have suspected for some

time that you were going to play the renegade; to desert your order; to

prove false to the South; to cooperate with miscreant Yankees in

overturning our sacred institutions."

"Confound your sacred institutions, Madam! Slavery is played out."

"Played out, you monstrous blasphemer? An institution for which

Scripture vouches; an institution which the Reverend Dr. Palmer says

comes right down to us from heaven! Played out? Monster! I thank the

Lord my two children have not been corrupted by these detestable Yankee

notions that are upsetting all our old landmarks in this once noble city

of Baltimore."

"Noble? Ah, yes,--noble, I suppose, when it allowed its ruffians to

shoot down a band of Northern soldiers who were marching to the support

of Government!"

"You yourself said at the time, Mr. Dinwiddie, that it served them

right."

Dinwiddie winced, for this was a blow square on his forehead between his

two eyes. He paused, and then, without knowing it, translated the words

of a Latin moralist, and replied,--

"Times change, and we change with them."

"You will find, Sir, that a Culpepper doesn't change," said Madam; and,

with a gesture of queenly scorn, she swept with expansive crinoline out

of the room.

"So the ice is broken at last," muttered Dinwiddie. "I wouldn't have

believed I could have faced her so well. After all, I'm not sure that

the military is not my true sphere."

His soliloquy was interrupted by the ring of muskets on the sidewalk in

front, of his house, and he jumped with a nervous horror. Looking from

the window, he saw a file of soldiers, and an officer in the United

States uniform, with one arm in a sling, and the hand of the other

holding a drawn sword. He was a pale, but handsome youth, and looked up

as if to read the name on the door. Then, followed by a sergeant, he

ascended the steps and rang the bell.

"What the Deuse is all this for. I wonder?" exclaimed Dinwiddie; and in

his curiosity he opened the outside door, anticipating the negro

footman, Nero, who exchanged a glance of intelligence with the military

man.

"I am Captain Penrose, Sir," said the officer; "this is Sergeant

MacFuse; you, I believe, bear the name on the door-plate before us."

Dinwiddie bowed an affirmative.

"I have orders, Sir," resumed the officer, "to search your house; and I

will thank you to give me the opportunity with as little delay as

possible, and without communicating with any member of your family."

"But, Captain, does anybody doubt my loyalty?"

"No one, Sir, that I am aware of," replied the Captain, with a suavity

that reassured and captivated Dinwiddie. "We haven't the slightest

doubt, Sir, of your thoroughly loyal and honorable conduct and

intentions; but, Sir, there is, nevertheless, a Rebel mail in your house

at this moment. I'll thank you to conduct us quietly to the little

bathing-room communicating with your wife's apartment on the second

story."

Dinwiddie saw through it all. He said not a word, but led the way up

stairs.

"We shall have to pass through Madam's room to get at the place," he

remarked; "for the door is locked on the inside."

"Yes, but the key is out, and I have a duplicate," replied the officer.

"We will enter by the door that opens on this passage-way. I will just

give a gentle knock, to learn whether any one is in the bathing-room."

He knocked, and there was no reply.

"I think we may venture in," he said.

He unlocked the door, and they entered,--Captain Penrose, Sergeant

MacFuse, Dinwiddie, and Nero. The Captain pointed to a chest of drawers

let into the wall, and said,--

"Now, Sir, if you will open that lowest drawer, I think you will find

what I am in search of."

Dinwiddie opened the drawer, and a strong smell of tobacco, in which

some furs were packed, made him sneeze; but the Captain proved to be

correct in his surmise. Nero displayed his ivory in a broad grin, and

Dinwiddie lifted a small, but well-stuffed leather mail-bag.

At that moment the door leading into Mrs. Dinwiddie's apartment opened,

and that lady, followed by Barbara, made her appearance. Nero's grin was

at once transformed into a look of intense solemnity, and the whites of

his eyes were lifted in sympathetic amazement.

Madam's first effort was to snatch the mail-bag from her husband; but he

handed it to Sergeant MacFuse, who, receiving it, shouldered his musket

with military formality.

"But this is an outrage, Sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinwiddie, finding words

at length for her rage.

"Madam," said Captain Penrose, "a carriage ought to be by this time at

the door. Have the goodness, you and your daughter, to make the

necessary preparations and accompany me and Sergeant MacFuse to the

office of the Provost Marshal."

"I shall do no such thing!" said Madam, with set teeth, trembling with

exasperation.

"You will relieve me, I am sure, Madam," said the Captain, "of anything

so painful as the exercise of force."

"Force!" cried Madam; "yes, that would be all in the line of you mean

and dastardly Yankees, to use force to unprotected women!"

"Oh, mother!" said Barbara, shocked, in spite of her Secession

sympathies, at the maternal rudeness, and somewhat touched withal by the

pale face and the slung arm of the handsome young officer; "I am sure

the gentleman has"--

"Gentleman! Ha, ha, ha! You call him a gentleman, do you?" gasped Mrs.

Dinwiddie, as, quite beside herself with passion, she sank into a chair.

"Yes, mother," said Barbara, her heart moved by a thrill as natural as

that which stirs the leaves of the embryo bud in May; "yes, mother, I

call him a gentleman; and I hope you will do nothing to prevent his

calling you a lady."

Captain Penrose looked with a sudden interest on the maiden. Strange

that he hadn't noticed it before, but truly she was very, very pretty!

Light, not too light, hair; blue eyes; a charming figure; a face radiant

with sentiment and with intelligence; verily, in all Baltimore, so

justly famed for beautiful women, he had not seen her peer! Barbara

dropped her eyes. Decidedly the young officer's admiration was too

emphatically expressed in his glance.

Mrs. Dinwiddie began to grow hysterical.

"Madam," said Captain Penrose, "I fear your strength will not be equal

to the task it is my painful duty to put you to; and I will venture to

break through my instructions so far as to say, that, if you will give

me your promise--you and your daughter--to remain at home till you

receive permission through me to quit the house, I will waive all

further action at present."

"There, mother," quoth Barbara, "what could be more reasonable,--more

gentlemanly? Say you consent to his terms."

Mrs. Dinwiddie motioned a negative with her handkerchief, and stamped

her feet, as if no power on earth should extort from her the slightest

concession.

"There, Sir, she consents, she consents, you see," said Barbara.

"Um--um--um!" shrieked Mrs. Dinwiddie, shaking her head, and stamping

her feet with renewed vigor.

"I see," said Captain Penrose; "and I need not ask if you, Miss

Dinwiddie, also consent."

"I do, Sir; and I thank you for your consideration," said Barbara.

"I don't--don't--don't!" stormed the elderly lady, quivering in every

limb, like a blown ribbon.

It was strange that Captain Penrose did not hear the exclamation, loud

and emphatic as it was; but he simply bowed and quitted the room,

followed by Dinwiddie, Nero, and Sergeant MacFuse.

No sooner had the military men quitted the house than the dinner-bell

rang. Madam refused to make her appearance. Barbara came down and

presided. Boys in the street were crying the news of Sherman's capture

of Savannah.

"Good for Sherman!" said Dinwiddie. "I'm devilish glad of it."

Little Barbara looked up with consternation. She loved her father, but

never before had she heard from his lips a decided expression of

sympathy with the loyal cause. True, for the last six months he had said

little on either side; but, from the absence of any controversy between

him and her mother, Barbara imagined that their political sentiments

were harmonious.

She made no reply to her father's remark, but kept up in that little

brain of hers an amount of thinking that took away all her appetite for

the dessert. Mrs. Dinwiddie entered before the table was cleared. Then

there was a ring of the door-bell. It was the postman. Nero brought in a

letter. Dinwiddie looked at the address.

"'T is a letter for Anjy," said he. "The handwriting looks like

Culpepper's."

Anjy, or Angelina, was an old black cook, one of the few surviving

representatives of the vanished glories of the old Culpepper estate. She

had taken a lively interest in the course of Maryland towards freedom;

and when at length that noble Commonwealth stripped off the last fetter

from her limbs, and trampled it under her feet, Anjy was loudest among

the colored people with her Hallelujahs. She was no longer a slave,

thank the Lord! There was a future of justice, of self-respect, of

freedom now dawning upon her abused race.

As Anjy could not read, Barbara had been duly authorized to open all her

letters. She did so on this occasion, read, turned pale, and

exclaimed,--

"Horrible! Oh, the villain!"

"What's the matter?" asked her father.

The letter was from his son, Culpepper, to the old family servant, and

was in these words:--

"DEAR ANJY,--I have very unpleasant news to tell you. Your

son Tony has been shot by his master, Colonel Pegram, for

refusing to fight against the Yankees, and trying to run

away. Tony was much to blame. He had been a good boy till

some confounded Abolitionists put it into his head that the

Yankee scum were fighting the battles of the black man;

when, as you well know, Anjy, the true friends of the black

man are those who mean to keep him in that state of slavery

for which the Lord plainly intended him. But Tony got this

foolish notion of the Abolitionists into his head, and one

day frankly told the Colonel that he wouldn't fire a gun at

the Yankees to save his own life; whereupon the Colonel very

properly had him whipped, and pretty badly, too. The next

day Tony was caught trying to make his escape into the

Yankee lines. He was brought before the Colonel, who told

him, that, for your sake, Anjy, he would forgive him, if he

would swear on the Bible not to do so again. Tony refused to

swear this, began to rave about his rights, and finally

declared that he was free, first under God's law, next under

the laws of the United States, and finally under the laws of

Maryland. There were other negroes, slaves of officers, near

by, listening to all this wicked stuff, and Pegram felt the

importance of making an example; so he drew his revolver and

shot Tony through the heart. How could he help it, Anjy? You

mustn't blame the Colonel. We all felt he couldn't have done

otherwise, I saw Tony the minute after he was shot. He died

easy. I emptied his pockets. There was nothing in them but a

photograph of you, Anjy, a printed proclamation by the

wretched Yankee tyrant, Abe Lincoln, and a handkerchief

printed as an American flag. I'm very sorry at this affair;

but you must seek comfort in religion, and pray that your

poor deluded boy may be forgiven for his unfaithfulness and

bad conduct. Affectionately,

"CULPEPPER."

This letter was read aloud,--not by Barbara, nor by her father, but by

Mrs. Dinwiddie, who exclaimed, as she finished it,--

"Here's the result of your Yankee teachings, Mr. Dinwiddie! There wasn't

a better boy than Tony in all Maryland, till the Abolitionists got hold

of him. Pegram served him just right,--just as I would have done."

Dinwiddie rose, pale, trembling, and all his features convulsed. Barbara

covered her face with her hands and groaned. Never before had she seen

such an expression on her father's face. Turning to his wife, he said in

a husky voice, which with a great effort he seemed to make audible,--

"Pegram was a murderer; and you, Madam, if you commend his act, have in

you the stuff out of which murderers are made. Now hear me,--you and

Miss Barbara here. Here I repudiate Slavery, and every man, woman, or

child who helps by word or deed to uphold such deviltry as that you have

just read of. Long enough, Madam, I've allowed my conscience to be

juggled, fooled, and blinded by your imperious will and absurd family

pride. 'T is ended. This day I subscribe ten thousand dollars to the

relief of the Georgia freedmen, made free by Sherman. Utter one syllable

against it, and, so help me God, I'll make it twenty thousand. Further:

if either you or your daughter shall dare, after this warning, to lift a

needle in behalf of this Rebellion,--if I hear of either one of you

lending yourself to the smuggling of Rebel mails, or giving aid of any

kind to Rebel emissaries,--that moment I give you up to the regular

authorities and disown you forever. You know that I am a man of few

threats; but you also know that what I say I mean."

Dinwiddie waited a full minute for some reply to this unparalleled

outburst, and then left the room with an air of dignity which neither

Barbara nor her mother had ever witnessed before.

The mother first broke silence. She began with an hysterical laugh, and

then said,--

"If he thinks to involve me in his cowardly treason to the South, he'll

find himself mistaken. Don't look so pale and frightened, you foolish

girl! Go and put on your things for the Bee."

The Bee was a society of fashionable ladies, of pronounced disloyalty,

who met once a week to make up garments for Rebel officers.

"I shall go to the Bee no more, mother," said Barbara; "besides, I have

given my promise to keep the house till I have permission to quit it."

"And do you venture to set your father's orders above mine, you

presuming girl? Are you, too, going to desert the Southern cause?"

Barbara's reply was interrupted by the entrance of old Anjy. The scene

which had just transpired had been faithfully transferred to the memory

of the listening and observant Nero, who had communicated it all to the

party chiefly interested.

Mrs. Dinwiddie quailed a little as she met Anjy's glance; but Barbara

rose and threw her arms about the faithful old creature's neck, and,

bursting into tears, exclaimed,--

"Oh, Anjy! 't was the act of a devil! I hate him for it!"

"Mind what you say, Barbara!" said Mrs. Dinwiddie.

Barbara withdrew her arms, and, folding them, looked her mother straight

in the face and said,--

"My father did not speak too harshly of it. 'T was a foul and cowardly

murder."

"Oh!" cried Mrs. Dinwiddie, again threatening a relapse into hysterics.

"My dear, dear Anjy," said Barbara, her tears flowing afresh, "come up

to my room, and I will read you your letter."

With a face tearless and inflexible, Anjy allowed herself to be led out

of the dining-hall, and up stairs into Barbara's apartment. The two

stayed there a couple of hours, heedless of every summons for them to

come forth.