The next day Harrod Summers and I drove over to the cavalry camp to see
Amory. It was a crisp, cheery morning, just enough wintry rime in earth
and air and sky to make rapid motion a keen delight. As we neared the
spot, the mellow notes of the trumpet came floating on the breeze, and
as we rounded a bend in the road, we came in sight of the troop itself
trotting across a broad open field. Mars was taking advantage of the
glorious weather to brush up on company drill, and we had arrived just
in time to see it.
It was a very pretty, stirring sight to my eyes; for the dash and spirit
of the manoeuvres were new to a man whose martial associations had
been confined to the curbstones of Broadway, barring that blistering
march from Annapolis to the railway, and the month of _feted_ soldiering
at the capital and Camp Cameron in '61. Harrod gazed at it all with
professional calm; occasionally giving some brief and altogether too
technical explanation of evolutions that were beyond my comprehension.
But the one thing which struck me most forcibly was that, though
frequently trotting or galloping close to where we sat in the buggy,
Mr. Frank Amory never took the faintest notice of us. His whole
attention was given to his troop and the drill; and with flashing sabre
and animated voice, he darted here and there on his big chestnut sorrel,
shouting, exhorting, and on occasion excitedly swearing at some
thick-headed trooper; but for all the notice he took of us we might as
well have been back at home.
"Rather a cool reception," said I, "considering the youngster was so
anxious we should come over."
"Why, that's all right," said Harrod. "It is a breach of military
propriety to hold any kind of communication with lookers-on when a
fellow's at drill or on parade."
And yet to my civilian notions this struck me as being uncivil. Less
than a month afterwards I saw the same young fellow sit like a statue on
his horse, and never give the faintest sign of recognition when the girl
I knew he--well, that's anticipating--when a party of ladies were driven
in carriages past his troop, so close to his horse's nose as to
seriously discomfit that quadruped, and one of the young ladies was Miss
Carrington. To my undisciplined faculties that sort of thing was
incomprehensible. I looked on at the drill for a while, wondering how in
the world those fellows could manage to keep their seats in the saddle
without grabbing the pommel, when Harrod remarked that he believed he
would go on into the village to attend to some business, and leave me at
Amory's tent until he returned. Of course I could only assent; and in
another moment I was landed in front of the tent which had become so
fixed a picture "in my mind's eye" since the afternoon Mr. Stiggins rode
in to inquire where the lieutenant and his people had gone. A darky boy
officiously brushed off the seat of a camp-chair, saying that "Mos' like
drill'd be over in ten minutes." So I sat me down under the canvas to
wait.
Amory's tent was not luxurious. It was one of the simple variety known
as the "wall" tent, so called probably because for three feet from the
ground the sides are vertical and give more room than the "A" tents of
the rank and file. A camp-cot occupied one side; a canvas-covered trunk
stood at the head. Then on the other side of the tent was a rude
field-desk, perched on four legs; the pigeon-holes crammed with
portentous-looking blanks and papers, and the lid lowered to a
horizontal. On this lay a square of blotting-paper, covered with
ink-dabs and some stray papers, an ungainly inkstand, and one or two
scattered pens and holders. A looking-glass about the size of one's face
was swung on the front pole. A rude washstand was placed near the foot
of the bed. A swinging pole, hung under the ridge-pole of the tent,
constituted the wardrobe or clothes-closet of the occupant, and from
this several garments were pendent. There was no tent floor; the bare
ground was the carpet; and but for one little table the abode would have
been rude in the extreme as the habitation of a civilized being. The
table in question stood at the entrance of the tent, under the "fly" or
awning spread in front. A couple of pipes with brier-root stems lay
thereon, and a jar of tobacco. But in an easel-frame of soft velvet, a
frame rich and handsome, conspicuously so in contrast with all the
surroundings, was a photograph--cabinet-size--of a woman's face. It was
not there on the occasion of my first visit, nor was the table. But
there sat the picture, the first thing one would notice in entering the
tent; and, having nothing else to do, I proceeded to examine it.
A sweet, placid, sorrow-worn face; eyes whose wrinkled lids spoke of
age, but yet looked calmly, steadfastly into mine. Scanty hair, yet
rippling over the brows and temples as though indicating that in years
gone by the tresses had been full and luxuriant. Scanty hair, tinged
with many a streak of gray, and carried back of the ears in a fashion
suggestive of the days that long preceded the war,--the days when Jenny
Lind entranced us all at Castle Garden (though I claim to have been but
a boy then); when Mario and Grisi were teaching us Knickerbockers the
beauties of Italian opera; when Count D'Orsay was the marvel of
metropolitan society; when daguerreotypes were first introduced along
Broadway. All these I thought of as I looked into this placid face, so
refined in its every line; marking, too, that at the throat was clasped
a portrait in plain gold frame, the inevitable indication that the
wearer was of Southern birth, for none but our Southern women wear thus
outwardly the portraits of those they love and have lost. The picture
fascinated me; it was so sweet, so simple, so homelike; and, as I stood
with it in my hands, I could plainly see the strong likeness between the
features and those of my plucky young hero, whom I was half ready to be
indignant with for ignoring me ten minutes before. His mother I knew it
to be at a glance.
Just then came an orderly bearing a packet of letters. To my intense
gratification--I don't know why--he saluted with his unoccupied hand as
he said, "Letters for the lieutenant, sir." Was it possible that he
thought I might be some staff-officer? He could not--that is, he would
not, had he ever seen me straddle a horse--suppose me to be a
cavalryman. Perhaps he had heard I was with the lieutenant the night he
nabbed Hank Smith; perhaps he--why, perhaps they--the troop--had heard I
had charged through the woods to his support. Well, I took with
dignified calm the bundle of letters he handed me, and endeavored to
look the suppositious character and place them carelessly on the table,
when the superscription of the very first one attracted my attention.
The writing was strangely familiar. There were four letters,--two
"official," long and heavy; two personal, and evidently of feminine
authorship. It was my business to lay them on the table. I did nothing
of the kind. Holding the package in both hands, I sat stupidly staring
at the topmost letter,--a tiny, dainty affair,--and striving to come
back from dream-land. Where had I seen that superscription before? There
stood the address, "Lieut. Frank Amory, --th U.S. Cavalry, Sandbrook
Station, Memphis and Charleston R. R., Alabama," every letter as
perfectly traced as though by the hand of an engraver; every i dotted,
every t crossed, every capital having its due proportion, every letter
wellnigh perfect. The superscription itself was a chirographic marvel.
The writing was simply beautiful, and I had seen it before. It was
familiar to me, or at least _had_ been well known. Pondering over it, I
gazed, of course, at the postmark: a mere blur. Something or some place
in New York was all I could make out before it suddenly occurred to me
that the whole thing was none of my business anyhow. I set the packet
down on the table and strove to shut it from my mind; but there that
letter lay on top, staring me in the face; I could not keep my eyes
from it. I turned, picked it up and placed it on the desk inside the
tent; dropped a handkerchief that was lying there over it; and returned
to my place under the fly. I wanted to keep it out of my sight.
Presently, the bustle and laughter among the tents of the soldiers near
me gave warning that the troop had come in from drill. The next moment,
as I was again holding and looking at the picture in the velvet frame,
Mars came springily forward, his sabre and spurs clinking with every
stride. He pulled off his gauntlet, and held out his hand with a cheery
and cordial "So glad to see you, Mr. Brandon," and then, as I was about
to apologize for taking liberties with his belongings, he said,--and how
can I throw into the words the tremulous tenderness of his voice?--
"That's mother. My birthday present. It only came a few days ago, and I
like to have it out here with me."
And the boy took it from my hands, and stood for a moment, all glowing
as he came from his rapid drill, and with the beads of perspiration on
his face, and looked fondly at it.
"It's the only decent picture I ever had of her, and, somehow, it almost
seems as though she were here now. That Ku-Klux business upset her
completely, and the blessed little mother wants me to pull out and
resign; but I can't do that."
"I have been admiring it for some time, Mr. Amory. The face attracted me
at once, and it was easy to see the family resemblance. May I ask where
your mother is living now?"
"In Boston now, but I think she longs to come South again. The North
never seemed home to her. Father was in the old army. Perhaps Vinton has
told you. He was killed at Fredericksburg, at the head of his brigade;
and my uncle, mother's younger brother, died of wounds received in the
same fight." Amory's voice faltered a little and his color brightened.
"Of course they were on opposite sides," he added, in a lower tone.
I bowed silently. Nothing seemed the appropriate thing to say just then.
Presently Amory went on:
"You see I'm about all she has left in the world,--her only son. And
when husband and brother were both taken from her at one fell swoop, it
made it hard to let me take up father's profession; but it was always
his wish, and the only thing I'm fit for, I reckon."
"Do Yankees habitually say 'I reckon'?" I asked, by way of lightening up
the rather solemn tone of the conversation.
Mars laughed. "Why," said he, "I'm more than half Southern; born in
North Carolina, and spending much of my boyhood there at mother's old
home. They used to call me 'reb' the whole time I was a cadet. It is a
wonder I wasn't an out-and-out 'reb' too. All mother's people were, and
they never have been reconciled to her for sticking to father and his
side of the question. Poor little mother," he added, while the tears
gathered in his eyes, "she _is_ alone in the world if ever woman was,
and I sometimes wonder if I ought not to yield to her wishes and go and
be a clerk of some kind."
All the glow, all the life that possessed him as he came in fresh from
the exercise of his drill seemed to have left Mars by this time. He was
profoundly sad and depressed. That was plainly to be seen. Hoping to
find something as a distraction to his gloomy reflections, I called his
attention to the mail that had arrived during his absence. He moved
negligently towards the desk, raised the handkerchief with weary
indifference, and glanced at the packet underneath. Instantly his whole
manner changed; the color sprang to his face; his eyes flamed, and a
nervous thrill seemed to shoot through his frame. Paying no attention to
the others, he had seized the dainty missive that so excited my
curiosity, and with a hand that plainly shook tore it open, turned his
back to me with the briefest "Excuse me one minute," and was speedily so
absorbed in the letter that he never noticed me as I rose and strolled
out to the front of the tent and the bright wintry sunshine beyond. The
boy needed to be alone.
Fully fifteen minutes passed by before he rejoined me, coming out with a
quick, nervous step, and a face that had grown white and almost old in
that time. What _could_ be wrong with him?
"Mr. Brandon, I beg your pardon for being so inhospitable. My letters
were important, and--and rather a surprise, one of them. It is just
about noon. May I offer you a toddy? It's the best I can do."
Mr. Brandon, to the scandal of his principles, decided that on this
occasion he would accept the proffered refreshment. It seemed to be a
relief to Mars. He bustled about, getting sugar and glasses and some
fresh spring water; then speedily tendering me a goblet, produced a
black bottle from his trunk.
"Shall I pour for you?" said he. "Say when." And in a moment the juice
of the rye and other less harmful ingredients were mingled with the
sweetened water.
"You will excuse me," said he. "I never touch it, except--well, that
drink I took the night on the train after our tussle with Smith is the
only one I've taken since I joined the troop. I promised mother, Mr.
Brandon."
The reader has already discovered that Mr. Brandon could readily make a
sentimental idiot of himself on slight provocation. Hearing these words
of Mr. Amory's and the renewed allusion to the mother who filled so big
a place in the boy's heart, Mr. Brandon deposited his glass on the table
and held out his hand; took that of the surprised young soldier; gave it
a cordial grip; made an abortive attempt to say something neat and
appropriate; and broke abruptly off at the first word. Then Harrod came
back.
"Brandon," said he, "there's the mischief to pay in New Orleans. I've
just received the papers, and it looks as though there would be riot and
bloodshed with a vengeance."
"What's up now?" I asked, with vivid interest.
"It seems to be a breaking out of the old row. Two legislatures, you
know, and a double-headed executive. More troops are ordered there."
I eagerly took the paper and read the headlines. The same old story,
only worse and more of it. The State-house beleaguered; the metropolitan
police armed with Winchesters and manning a battery; the citizens
holding indignation meetings and organizing for defence against usurping
State government; two riots on Canal Street, and a member of one
legislature shot down by the sergeant-at-arms of the other; a great mob
organizing to attack the governor and the State-house, etc., etc. It all
looked familiar enough. I had seen the same thing but a short time
before. It was simply a new eruption of the old volcano, but a grave
one, unless I utterly misjudged the indications.
"Amory," said Harrod, "mount your horse and come over to dinner with us.
Mr. Brandon and I must go back, for there are matters in the mail which
require my attention at once."
But Amory said he could not leave. In Vinton's absence he felt that he
ought to stick to camp. We drove back as we came.
Both the young ladies were on the gallery when we drove up. Harrod shook
his head in response to the look of inquiry in Pauline's eyes.
"Not back yet, and no news of him,--unless--unless--there should be
something in this letter," said he, with provoking gravity and
deliberation, as he felt in every pocket of his garments in apparently
vain search, while the quizzical look in his face proclaimed that he was
purposely reserving the right pocket for the last.
Miss Summers stood with exemplary patience and outstretched hand. At
last the eagerly-expected letter was produced, and Harrod and I went in
to talk over the startling tidings from New Orleans. The next moment we
heard Pauline's rapid step in the hall and ascending the stairs; heard
her go hurriedly to her room and close the door, Harrod looked puzzled
and a little worried.
"I hope there is no bad news from Vinton," he said. "That rush to her
room is unlike her." Then the swish of Kitty's skirts was heard. Harrod
stepped out and spoke some words to her in a low tone. Her reply was
anxious and startled in its hurried intonation, but the words were
indistinct.
"She says Pauline did not read her letter through at all, but sprang up
with tears in her eyes and merely said she must run up-stairs a few
minutes. What do you suppose is wrong?"
Of course I had no explanation to offer. Pauline did not return for an
hour. When she again appeared she was very pale and quiet. Harrod
meantime had taken a horse and ridden off to Sandbrook, where he wanted
to reach the telegraph-office. It was late in the evening when he
returned. I had been reading in the library for some time while the
ladies were at the piano. He strode into the hall and stood at the
parlor-door.
"Pauline, did the major tell you in his letter?" he asked.
"Tell me what?" she inquired, with quickly rising color.
"That their orders had come?" She hesitated and made no reply. Quickly
he stepped forward and threw his arm around her, tenderly kissing her
forehead.
"You'll make a soldier's wife, Pauline. You can keep a secret."
And now, looking quickly at Miss Kitty, I saw that she had risen and
was eagerly gazing at them, a strange, wistful light in her sweet young
face.
"What is it all, colonel?" I inquired.
"The cavalry left for New Orleans at dark. Amory got telegraphic orders
soon after we left, and Vinton came in from the West by the evening
train and took command at the station. Neither of them had time to come
out here to say good-by," he added, with an involuntary glance at Kitty,
while still holding Pauline's hand in his own.
"You saw Major Vinton?" Pauline calmly asked.
"Yes, dear. I have a note for you. He was only there thirty minutes.
Amory had the troop, horses and all, on the cars before the Memphis
train got in."
She took her note and with him walked into the library. Irresolutely I
stepped out on the gallery a moment. Then returning for a cigar or
something consolatory, I nearly collided with Miss Kitty at the
parlor-door. She recoiled a pace; then with her bonny head bowed in her
hands, with great sobs shaking her slender form, my unheroic little
heroine rushed past me and up the stairs to her own room. I felt like a
spy.