No words can describe magnificent record soldiers of Dearborn
County, especially Starbuck, made past week. I bless fate which
identified my poor services with such superb heroism. After second
sleepless night, Col. Starbuck now reposing peacefully; doctor says
crisis past; he surely recover, though process be slow. You will
learn with pride he been brevetted Brigadier, fact which it was my
privilege to announce to him last evening. He feebly thanked me,
murmuring, "Tell them at home."
"JULIA PARMALEE."
In the silence which ensued the postmaster held the paper up and
scanned it narrowly by the waning light. "There is something else," he
said—"Oh, yes, I see; 'Franked despatch Sanitary Commission.' That's
all."
Another figure was seen suddenly clambering upon the chair, with an arm
around the postmaster for support. It was the teller of the bank. He
waved his free arm excitedly, as he faced the crowd, and cried:
"Our women are as brave as our men! Three cheers for Miss Julia
Parmalee! Hip-hip!"
The loyal teller's first "Hurrah!" fell upon the air quite by itself.
Perhaps a dozen voices helped him half-heartedly with the second. The
third died off again miserably, and he stepped down off the chair amid
a general consciousness of failure.
"Who the hell is Starbuck?" was to be heard in whispered interrogatory
passed along through the throng. Hardly anybody could answer. Boyce
we knew, and McIntyre, and many others, but Starbuck was a mystery.
Then it was explained that it must be the son of old Alanson Starbuck,
of Juno Mills, who had gone away to Philadelphia seven or eight years
before. He had not enlisted with any Dearborn County regiment, but held
a staff appointment of some kind, presumably in a Pennsylvania command.
We were quite unable to work up any emotion over him.
In fact, the more we thought it over, the more we were disposed to
resent this planting of Starbuck upon us, in the very van of Dearborn
County's heroes. His father was a rich old curmudgeon, whom no one
liked. The son was nothing to us whatever.
As at last, in the deepening twilight, the people reluctantly began
moving toward home, such conversation as they had the heart for
seemed to be exclusively centred upon Miss Parmalee, and this queer
despatch of hers. Slow-paced, strolling groups wended their way along
the main street, and then up this side thoroughfare and that, passing
in every block some dark and close-shuttered house of mourning, and
instinctively sinking still lower their muffled tones as they passed,
and carrying in their breasts, heaven only knows what torturing loads
of anguish and stricken despair—but finding a certain relief in
dwelling, instead, upon this lighter topic.
One of these groups—an elderly lady in black attire and two younger
women of sober mien—walked apart from the others and exchanged no
words at all until, turning a corner, their way led them past the
Parmalee house. The looming bulk of the old mansion and the fragrant
spaciousness of the garden about it seemed to attract the attention of
Mrs. Ransom and her daughters. They halted as by a common impulse, and
fastened a hostile gaze upon the shadowy outlines of the house and its
surrounding foliage.
"If Dwight dies of his wound," the mother said, in a voice all chilled
to calmness, "his murderess will live in there."
"I always hated her!" said one of the daughters, with a shudder.
"But he isn't going to die, mamma," put in the other. "You mustn't
think of such a thing! You know how healthy he always has been, and
this is only his shoulder. For my part, we may think ourselves very
fortunate. Remember how many have been killed or mortally wounded. It
seems as if half the people we know are in mourning. We get off very
lightly with Dwight only wounded. Did you happen to hear the details
about Mr. Pulford?—you know, the photographer—someone was saying that
he was mortally wounded."
"She sent him to his death, then, too," said the elder Miss Ransom,
raising her clenched hand against the black shadow of the house.
"I don't care about that man," broke in the mother, icily. "Nobody
knows anything of him, or where he came from. People ran after him
because he was good-looking, but he never seemed to me to know enough
to come in when it rained. If she made a fool of him, it was his own
lookout. But Dwight—my Dwight——!"
The mother's mannered voice broke into a gasp, and she bent her head
helplessly. The daughters went to her side, and the group passed on
into the darkness.