The next few days passed somewhat gloomily. Eager interest centred in
the daily paper from New Orleans. The _Times_ in those days was "run"
entirely in the interest of a strong faction not inaptly termed
"carpet-baggers." Few of the Republican party of the white element had
been natives and property-owners in the State before the war. All of the
colored race, most of them at least, had been residents perhaps, but
held as property rather than as property-owners. The _Picayune_, always
the representative of the old _regime_ in the South, was naturally the
journal which found its way into our distant household. Its pictures of
affairs in the Crescent City were startling beyond question, and its
columns were filled with grave portent of riot, insurrection, and
bloodshed.
Judge Summers was visibly worried by its reports. Harrod looked gloomy
and ill at ease; Pauline very grave; Kitty picturesquely doleful. All,
however, seemed to relax no effort to make me feel at home and
"entertained," but the evident cloud overshadowed me. I began to want to
get away.
If all New Orleans were swept by the flames, my personal losses would be
slight; but the small library I owned would be an excuse. My confidence
that neither side would set fire to anything was only equalled by that
which I felt that both would join forces to put it out if they did. For
two years we had been having just the same exhilarating experiences, and
it never came to burning anything but a little powder. Sometimes one
side, sometimes another would raise a huge mob, and with much pomp and
parade, with much blatant speech-making and wide publication of their
intentions, would march noisily through the streets towards some public
building, at that moment held by the opposite party, avowedly for the
purpose of taking it by force of arms. The first year there had been
some desultory shooting, but no casualties to speak of. The second there
had been less damage, though far more display; for by this time there
were three parties in the field. Then, however, Uncle Sam assumed the
_role_ of peace-maker; sent a general thither with his staff (giving him
a major-general's title and a major's force), with vague orders as to
what he was to do, as I chanced to know, beyond keeping the peace and
upholding the law and the constituted authorities. As three parties
claimed to be the "constituted authorities," it seemed embarrassing at
times to tell which to uphold. Washington officials declined to decide
for him, so the veteran soldier hit on the happy expedient of upholding
the party that was attacked. This put him squarely in the right so far
as keeping the peace was concerned; for whichever crowd sallied forth to
whip the other, invariably found a small battalion of bayonets, or on
one occasion a solitary aide-de-camp representing the United States.
They would not "fire on the flag"; so retired to thunder at one another
through the press. But it put him squarely in the wrong where settling
the question for good and all was concerned. So long as the factions
felt sure they would not be allowed to fight, the more they talked about
doing it; and the real sufferers were the patient, plodding infantry
officers and men, who were kept trudging up and down, night and day,
from town to barracks. They were tired, hungry, jaded-looking fellows
that winter. I had called three of them into my room one chill morning
after they had been standing all night on the curbstones of the
State-house waiting for an attack they knew would never come; warmed
them up with coffee or cocktails as they might prefer; then one of them
opened his heart.
"This whole thing is the most infernal farce," said he. "Ten to one the
true way to stop it is to send us miles away and let them get at one
another. The Lord knows I'd afford them every encouragement. They don't
want to fight. If old General Fitz Blazes would only send me with my
company _behind_ instead of between these howling idiots they'd
evaporate quick enough."
Well I recalled every bit of this! It was when the "radical" party was
split up into local factions, each demanding the State-house--and the
Treasury; but--things were different now. The old residents, the
business men, the representative citizens of the city had stood that
sort of thing just as long as human endurance and their ebbing purses
could stand it. They now had organized and risen against the perturbed
State authorities; and when that class of men began shooting somebody
was going to be hurt. As yet nothing aggressive had been done; but the
Republican government was tottering on its Louisiana throne, and
appealed for aid. This it was that was sending troops from all
directions to the Crescent City. I decided to go and protect my lares
and penates, trivial though they might be.
To my relief, yet surprise, the moment I mentioned this to Colonel
Summers his face lighted up with an expression of delight.
"Mr. Brandon, we'll go together, and as soon as you like."
Noticing my evident surprise, he added, "To tell the truth I ought to
go, and at once. Will you come into father's library and let me
explain?"
Assenting, as a matter of course, I followed him. Pauline was seated by
her father's side as we entered, writing, as she often did, from his
dictation.
"Father," broke in the colonel, abruptly, "we can spare you all that
work. Mr. Brandon tells me he has decided to go at once to New Orleans.
I will go with him, and take the papers."
The judge rose somewhat slowly--anxiety had told on him very much in the
last day or two--and greeted me with his old-fashioned courtesy.
"It is a source of great regret to me--to us all--that you should leave
us; yet you have doubtless anxieties, as indeed I have,--great
ones,--and I wish it were in my power to go myself; but that cannot be,
for a fortnight at least; and by that time, as things are looking now,
it may be too late,--it may be too late. My son will tell you----" he
broke off suddenly.
Miss Summers had risen; her sweet, thoroughbred face had grown a little
paler of late, and she stood anxiously regarding her father, but saying
not a word. For some moments we sat in general conversation; then,
noticing how tired the judge was looking, I rose, saying it was time to
make preparations.
Two hours later, the old carriage rattled up to the steps. The colonel
stood aside, holding some final consultation with his father. Miss
Summers, with a blush that was vastly becoming to her, handed me a
letter for the major. "As yet, you know, Major Vinton has not been able
to send me his New Orleans address. They are barely there by this time;
but you were so incautious as to offer to take anything to him, so I
burden you with this."
Kitty Carrington was looking on with wistful eyes.
"And you, little lady? what note or message will you intrust to me?"
She had smoothed back her bright hair. She was looking again as she had
the night she begged to play nurse over our unconscious Mars. She looked
older, graver, but so gentle, so patient in the trouble that had come
into her young life. Whatever that trouble might have been _I_ could not
say. There was something very pathetic about the slender little figure
as she stood there.
For all answer to my question, she shook her head, smiling rather sadly,
yet striving to throw archness into her accompanying gesture. The faint
shrug of her pretty shoulders, the forward movement of her hands, with
open and extended palms,--something so Southern in it all. I could not
help noting it. Possibly I stared, as previous confessions indicate that
I had that adventurous night in the cars.
My rudeness caused her to turn sharply away with heightened color.
Then came general good-byes, good speeds, good lucks, promises to
write,--those promises, like so many others, made only to be broken. We
clambered into the carriage. Already the driver was gathering his whip
and reins; had "chucked" to his sleepy team. Harrod was sitting on the
side nearest the group on the steps; I craning my neck forward for a
last look at them. Kitty was eagerly bending forward; her lips parted,
her eyes dilated, her fingers working nervously. Already the wheels had
begun to crunch through the gravel, when with sudden movement she darted
like a bird down the steps.
"_Harrod!_" she cried.
"Hold on, driver," was the response, as he bent to the doorway to meet
her.
Standing on tiptoe, her tiny white hands clutching his arm, a vivid
color shooting over her face, her eyes one moment nervously,
apprehensively, reproachfully glancing at me, plainly saying, "Please
don't listen," then, raised to his bronzed, tender face, as he bent ear
towards her lips in response to the evident appeal. She rapidly
whispered half a dozen words. "_Do_ you understand? _Sure_ you
understand?" she questioned eagerly, as now she leaned back, looking up
into his eyes.
He bent still farther, kissed her forehead. "Sure," he nodded. "Sure."
Then back she sprang. Crack went the whip, and we rolled away towards
the gate.
Looking back, my eyes took in for the last time the old home; and the
picture lingers with me, will live with me to the end of my lonely life.
The red-gold light of the setting sun streamed in all its glory on the
southern front of the quaint plantation house. The tangled shrubbery,
the sombre line of the dense forest beyond the fields, the vines and
tendrils that clung about the gallery railing and the wooden pillars,
the low-hanging eaves, the moss-covered line of porch-roof,--all were
tinged, gilded, gleaming here and there with the warmth and glow of the
gladness-giving rays. The windows above blazed with their reflected
glory. Even old Blondo's curly hide and Jake Biggs's woolly pate gained
a lustre they never knew before. All around the evidences of approaching
decay and present dilapidation, so general throughout the bright sunny
South years after the war, all around the homeliest objects, the
wheelbarrow and garden tools, there clung a tinge of gladness in
answering homage to the declining king of day; but, central figures of
all, the trio we left upon the steps, _they_ fairly stood in a halo of
mellow gold. The gray-haired gentleman waving his thin hand in parting
salutation; the noble, womanly girl at his side, half supporting, half
leaning upon him; and on the lower stair, kissing her hand, waving her
dainty kerchief, her eyes dancing, her cheeks aflame, her white teeth
flashing through the parted lips, her fragile form all radiance, all
sweet, glowing, girlish beauty, stood Kitty Carrington; she who but a
moment before had seemed so patiently sad.
"Did you ever see anything prettier?" I gasped, as at last the winding
roadway hid them from our sight.
"Kitty, Brandon?--she's a darling!" was the warm-hearted answer.
That was precisely my opinion.
All the way into Sandbrook I was tortured with curiosity to know the
purport of the mysterious parting whisper. It would not do to let
Colonel Summers suspect that of me; neither would it answer to propound
any question. We had much to talk of that is of no interest and has no
bearing on our story, but it kept us employed until we reached the
station.
Our train was due at 7.45, going west, the same hour at which the troops
had left. Their single passenger-car and the four freight-cars on which
their horses were carried had been coupled to the regular train. They
had gone, we learned, to Grand Junction; thence down the Mississippi
Central. The station-master was an old army friend of the colonel's. He
received us with all courtesy, and immediately asked us into his own
little office.
"Reckon you'd best just make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen; that
train's nigh onto two hours late, near as I can make it."
"Two hours late! Why, that will ruin our connection!" exclaimed Harrod.
"They're going to try and make the Central wait over," was the answer,
"but I'd bet high on our being later'n we think for. Once a fellow gets
off his schedule on this road, he's more apt to be losing all the time
than gaining."
The colonel and I looked at each other a moment in some dismay. Quandary
though it was, there was nothing for it but to wait, and wait we did,
two--three hours. The darkness grew intense back towards the Tennessee;
the loungers in the waiting-room or platform in groups of two or three,
rose, yawned, stretched themselves, "'Lowed t'warn't no use waitin';
could see the derned train any other night just as well," and took
themselves and their tobacco-juice off. The lights across the way,
beyond the tracks, died out one by one, until only those two were left
which represented the rival saloons, still keeping open for the
presumable benefit of some prowler hoping to get trusted for a drink.
Finally only the station-master and ourselves were left, all drowsy, but
the former still seated, with his one remaining hand close to his
telegraph instrument. Still no news of the train. I began to doze.
It could not have been more than ten or fifteen minutes before the
clicking of the instrument aroused me. Having long since ceased to care
whether the train now came or not, since we had heard by nine that the
Central would not wait, I only sleepily gazed at the operator. The
colonel had gone asleep, and the sound did not awake him. But another
moment the expression on the face of the man sitting so intently over
his table aroused me to eagerness. At first professionally indifferent,
it grew suddenly clouded; then a look of keen distress came upon it as
he quickly glanced around at his old comrade.
I involuntarily sprang up and approached the table. He had written half
the message, then dropped pencil and hammered away at the key.
"For him," said he, with a backward jerk of the head to indicate the
colonel.
It seemed an endless time before he could get the thing straightened out
and the message written.
"Please wake him," said he.
I gently shook Harrod's shoulder. He started up with soldierly
promptitude.
"Train coming?" he asked, as he began gathering his traps.
"Not yet, colonel. It's news from the boys, the cavalry."
"Got to New Orleans all right?"
"Got there; but--read for yourself."
With a face that paled even in the dim light of the station, and lips
that trembled under his moustache, the colonel read, handed it to me
without a word, and turned away.
This was the message:
"NEW ORLEANS, Tuesday.
"COLONEL H. SUMMERS, Sandbrook Station, M. and C. R. R., Alabama.
"Arrived yesterday. Vinton dangerously ill; delirious. Post
surgeons in charge. If possible, come.
"FRANK AMORY."
Then we three looked at one another with faces sad and blanched. Harrod
was the first to speak.
"May I take your horse, Billy?"
"Yes, and the house and barn if it'll help."
"Then I'm off for home at once, for Pauline."
The delay of that train was a blessing in disguise.