“We must consider the horses, my dear,” she responded. “Mr. Hicks, will you
see that the horses are well fed and watered. Let them take their time.”
“Oh, I forgot the horses,” returned Betty apologetically, and patiently sat
down with her arm leaning in the window. There was a smile on her lips, and
she stared with bright eyes at the oak trees and the children playing among
the acorns.
XIV
THE HUSH BEFORE THE STORM
The autumn crept into winter; the winter went by, short and fitful, and the
spring unfolded slowly. With the milder weather the mud dried in the roads,
and the Major and the Governor went daily into Leicesterburg. The younger
man had carried his oratory and his influence into the larger cities of the
state, and he had come home, at the end of a month of speech-making, in a
fervour of almost boyish enthusiasm.
“I pledge my word for it, Julia,” he had declared to his wife, “it will
take more than a Republican President to sever Virginia from the Union--in
fact, I'm inclined to think that it will take a thunderbolt from heaven, or
the Major for a despot!”
When, as the spring went on, men came from the political turmoil to ask for
his advice, he repeated the words with a conviction that was in itself a
ring of emphasis.
“We are in the Union, gentlemen, for better or for worse”--and of all the
guests who drank his Madeira under the pleasant shade of his maples, only
the Major found voice to raise a protest.
“We'll learn, sir, we'll live and learn,” interposed the old gentleman.
“Let us hope we shall live easily,” said the doctor, lifting his glass.
“And learn wisdom,” added the rector, with a chuckle.
Through the spring and summer they rode leisurely back and forth, bringing
bundles of newspapers when they came, and taking away with them a memory of
the broad white portico and the mellow wine.
The Major took a spasmodic part in the discussions of peace or war, sitting
sometimes in a moody silence, and flaring up, like an exhausted candle, at
the news of an abolition outbreak. In his heart he regarded the state of
peace as a mean and beggarly condition and the sure resort of bloodless
cowards; but even a prospect of the inspiring dash of war could not elicit
so much as the semblance of his old ardour. His smile flashed but seldom
over his harsh features--it needed indeed the presence of Mrs. Ambler or of
Betty to bring it forth--and his erect figure had given way in the chest,
as if a strong wind bent him forward when he walked.
“He has grown to be an old man,” his neighbours said pityingly; and it is
true that the weight of his years had fallen upon him in a night--as if he
had gone to bed in a hale old age, with the sap of youth in his veins, to
awaken with bleared eyes and a trembling hand. Since the day of his wife's
return from the tavern, when he had peered from his hiding-place in his
library window, he had not mentioned his grandson by name; and yet the
thought of him seemed forever lying beneath his captious exclamations. He
pricked nervously at the subject, made roundabout allusions to the base
ingratitude from which he suffered; and the desertion of Big Abel had
damned for him the whole faithful race from which the offender sprang.
“They are all alike,” he sweepingly declared. “There is not a trustworthy
one among them. They'll eat my bread and steal my chickens, and then run
off with the first scapegrace that gives them a chance.”
“I think Big Abel did just right,” said Betty, fearlessly.
The old gentleman squared himself to fix her with his weak red eyes.
“Oh, you're just the same,” he returned pettishly, “just the same.”
“But I don't steal your chickens, sir,” protested the girl, laughing.
The Major grunted and looked down at her in angry silence; then his face
relaxed and a frosty smile played about his lips.
“You are young, my child,” he replied, in a kind of austere sadness, “and
youth is always an enemy to the old--to the old,” he repeated quietly, and
looked at his wrinkled hand.
But in the excitement of the next autumn, he showed for a time a revival of
his flagging spirit. When the elections came he followed them with an
absorption that had in it all the violence of a mental malady. The four
possible Presidents that stood before the people were drawn for him in bold
lines of black and white--the outward and visible distinction between, on
the one side, the three “adventurers” whom he heartily opposed, and, on the
other, the “Kentucky gentleman,” for whom he as heartily voted. There was
no wavering in his convictions--no uncertainty; he was troubled by no
delicate shades of indecision. What he believed, and that alone, was
God-given right; what he did not believe, with all things pertaining to it,
was equally God-forsaken error.
Toward the Governor, when the people's choice was known, he displayed a
resentment that was almost touching in its simplicity.
“There's a man who would tear the last rag of honour from the Old
Dominion,” he remarked, in speaking of his absent neighbour.
“Ah, Major,” sighed the rector, for it was upon one of his weekly visits,
“what course would you have us gird our loins to pursue?”
“Course?” promptly retorted the Major. “Why, the course of courage, sir.”
The rector shook his great head. “My dear friend, I fear you recognize the
virtue only when she carries the battle-axe,” he observed.
For a moment the Major glared at him; then, restrained by his inherited
reverence for the pulpit, he yielded the point with the soothing
acknowledgment that he was always “willing to make due allowance for
ministers of the gospel.”
“My dear sir,” gasped Mr. Blake, as his jaw dropped. His face showed
plainly that so professional an allowance was exactly what he did not take
to be his due; but he let sleeping dangers lie, and it was not until a
fortnight later, when he rode out with a copy of the _Charleston Mercury_
and the news of the secession of South Carolina, that he found the daring
to begin a direct approach.
It was a cold, bright evening in December, and the Major unfolded the paper
and read it by the firelight, which glimmered redly on the frosted window
panes. When he had finished, he looked over the fluttering sheet into the
pale face of the rector, and waited breathlessly for the first decisive
words.
“May she depart in peace,” said the minister, in a low voice.
The old gentleman drew a long breath, and, in the cheerful glow, the other,
looking at him, saw his weak red eyes fill with tears. Then he took out his
handkerchief, shook it from its folds, and loudly blew his nose.
“It was the Union our fathers made, Mr. Blake,” he said.
“And the Union you fought for, Major,” returned the rector.
“In two wars, sir,” he glanced down at his arm as if he half expected to
see a wound, “and I shall never fight for another,” he added with a sigh.
“My fighting days are over.”
They were both silent, and the logs merrily crackled on the great brass
andirons, while the flames went singing up the chimney. A glass of Burgundy
was at the rector's hand, and he lifted it from the silver tray and sipped
it as he waited. At last the old man spoke, bending forward from his
station upon the hearth-rug.
“You haven't seen Peyton Ambler, I reckon?”
“I passed him coming out of town and he was trembling like a leaf,” replied
the rector. “He looks badly, by the way. I must remember to tell the doctor
he needs building up.”
“He didn't speak about this, eh?”
“About South Carolina? Oh, yes, he spoke, sir. It happened that Jack Powell
came up with him when I did--the boy was cheering with all his might, and I
heard him ask the Governor if he questioned the right of the state to
secede?”
“And Peyton said, sir?” The Major leaned eagerly toward him.
“He said,” pursued the rector, laughing softly. “'God forbid, my boy, that
I should question the right of any man or any country to pursue folly.'”
“Folly!” cried the Major, sharply, firing at the first sign of opposition.
“It was a brave deed, sir, a brave deed--and I--yes, I envy the honour for
Virginia. And as for Peyton Ambler, it is my belief that it is he who has
sapped the courage of the state. Why, my honest opinion is that there are
not fifty men in Virginia with the spirit to secede--and they are women.”
The rector laughed and tapped his wine-glass.
“You mustn't let that reach Mrs. Lightfoot's ears, Major,” he cautioned,
“for I happen to know that she prides herself upon being what the papers
call a 'skulker.'” He stopped and rose heavily to his feet, for, at this
point, the door was opened by Cupid and the old lady rustled stiffly into
the room.
“I came down to tell you, Mr. Lightfoot, that you really must not allow
yourself to become excited,” she explained, when the rector had comfortably
settled her upon the hearth-rug.
“Pish! tush! my dear, there's not a cooler man in Virginia,” replied the
Major, frowning; but for the rest of the evening he brooded in troubled
silence in his easy chair.
In February, a week after a convention of the people was called at
Richmond, the old gentleman surrendered to a sharp siege of the gout, and
through the long winter days he sat, red and querulous, before the library
fire, with his bandaged foot upon the ottoman that wore Aunt Emmeline's
wedding dress. From Leicesterburg a stanch Union man had gone to the
convention; and the Major still resented the selection of his neighbours as
bitterly as if it were an affront to aspirations of his own.
“Dick Powell! Pooh! he's another Peyton Ambler,” he remarked testily, “and
on my word there're too many of his kind--too many of his kind. What we
lack, sir, is men of spirit.”
When his friends came now he shot his angry questions, like bullets, from
the fireside. “Haven't they done anything yet, eh? How much longer do you
reckon that roomful of old women will gabble in Richmond? Why, we might as
well put a flock of sheep to decide upon a measure!”
But the “roomful of old women” would not be hurried, and the Major grew
almost hoarse with scolding. For more than two months, while North and
South barked at each other across her borders, Virginia patiently and
fruitlessly worked for peace; and for more than two months the Major
writhed a prisoner upon the hearth.
With the coming of the spring his health mended, and on an April morning,
when Betty and the Governor drove over for a quiet chat, they found him
limping painfully up and down the drive with the help of a great
gold-knobbed walking-stick.
He greeted them cordially, and limped after them into the library where
Mrs. Lightfoot sat knitting. While he slowly settled his foot, in its loose
“carpet” slipper, upon the ottoman, he began a rambling story of the War of
1812, recalling with relish a time when rations grew scant in camp, and
“Will Bolling and myself set out to scour the country.” His thoughts had
made a quick spring backward, and in the midst of events that fired the
Governor's blood, he could still fondly dwell upon the battles of his
youth.
The younger man, facing him upon the hearth, listened with his patient
courtesy, and put in a sympathetic word at intervals. No personal anxiety
could cloud his comely face, nor any grievance of his own sharpen the edge
of his peculiar suavity. It was only when he rose to go that he voiced, for
a single instant, his recognition of the general danger, and replied to the
Major's inquiry about his health with the remark, “Ah, grave times make
grave faces, sir.”
Then he bowed over Mrs. Lightfoot's hand, and with his arm about Betty went
out to the carriage.
“The Major's an old man, daughter,” he observed, as they rolled rapidly
back to Uplands.
“You mean he has broken--” said Betty, and stopped short.
“Since Dan went away.” As the Governor completed her sentence, he turned
and looked thoughtfully into her face. “It's hard to judge the young, my
dear, but--” he broke off as Betty had done, and added after a pause, “I
wonder where he is now?”
Betty raised her eyes and met his look. “I do not know,” she answered, “but
I do know that he will come back;” and the Governor, being wise in his
generation, said nothing more.
That afternoon he went down into the country to inspect a decayed
plantation which had come into his hands, and returning two days later, he
rode into Leicesterburg and up to the steps of the little post-office,
where, as usual, the neighbouring farmers lounged while they waited for an
expected despatch, or discussed the midday mail with each newcomer. It was
April weather, and the afternoon sunshine, having scattered the loose
clouds in the west, slanted brightly down upon the dusty street, the little
whitewashed building, and the locust tree in full bloom before the porch.
When he had dismounted, the Governor tied his horse to the long white pole,
raised for that purpose along the sidewalk, and went slowly up the steps,
shaking a dozen outstretched hands before he reached the door.
“What news, gentlemen?” he asked with his pleasant smile. “For two days I
have been beyond the papers.”
“Then there's news enough, Governor,” responded several voices, uniting in
a common excitement. “There's news enough since Tuesday, and yet we're
waiting here for more. The President has called for troops from Virginia to
invade the South.”
“To invade the South,” repeated the Governor, paling, and a man behind him
took up the words and said them over with a fine sarcasm, “To invade the
South!”
The Governor turned away and walked to the end of the little porch, where
he stood leaning upon the railing. With his eyes on the blossoming locust
tree, he waited, in helpless patience, for the words to enter into his
thoughts and to readjust his conceptions of the last few months. There
slowly came to him, as he recognized the portentous gravity in the air
about him, something of the significance of that ringing call; and as he
stood there he saw before him the vision of an army led by strangers
against the people of its blood--of an army wasting the soil it loved,
warring for an alien right against the convictions it clung to and the
faith it cherished.
His brow darkened, and he turned with set lips to the group upon the steps.
He was about to speak, but before the words were uttered, there was a cheer
from the open doorway, and a man, waving a despatch in his hand, came
running into the crowd.
“Last night there was a secret session,” he cried gayly, “and Virginia has
seceded! hurrah! hurrah! Virginia has seceded!” The gay voice passed, and
the speaker, still waving the paper in his hand, ran down into the street.
The men upon the porch looked at one another, and were silent. In the
bright sunshine their faces showed pale and troubled, and when the sound of
cheers came floating from the courthouse green, they started as if at the
first report of cannon. Then, raising his hand, the Governor bared his head
and spoke:--
“God bless Virginia, gentlemen,” he said.
* * * * *
The next week Champe came home from college, flushed with enthusiasm, eager
to test his steel.
“It's great news, uncle,” were his first joyful words, as he shook the
Major's hand.
“That it is, my boy, that it is,” chuckled the Major, in a high
good-humour.
“I'm going, you know,” went on the young man lightly. “They're getting up a
company in Leicesterburg, and I'm to be Captain. I got a letter about it a
week ago, and I've been studying like thunder ever since.”
“Well, well, it will be a pleasant little change for you,” responded the
old man. “There's nothing like a few weeks of war to give one an appetite.”
Mrs. Lightfoot looked up from her knitting with a serious face.
“Don't you think it may last months, Mr. Lightfoot?” she inquired
dubiously. “I was wondering if I hadn't better supply Champe with extra
underclothing.”
“Tut-tut, ma'am,” protested the Major, warmly. “Can't you leave such things
as war to my judgment? Haven't I been in two? Months! Nonsense! Why, in two
weeks we'll sweep every Yankee in the country as far north as Greenland.
Two weeks will be ample time, ma'am.”
“Well, I give them six months,” generously remarked Champe, in defiance of
the Major's gathering frown.
“And what do you know about it, sir?” demanded the old gentleman. “Were you
in the War of 1812? Were you even in the Mexican War, sir?”
“Well, hardly,” replied Champe, smiling, “but all the same I give them six
months to get whipped.”
“I'm sure I hope it will be over before winter,” observed Mrs. Lightfoot,
glancing round. “Things will be a little upset, I fear.”
The Major twitched with anger. “There you go again--both of you!” he
exclaimed. “I might suppose after all these years you would place some
reliance on my judgment; but, no, you will keep up your croaking until our
troops are dictating terms at Washington. Six months! Tush!”
“Professor Bates thinks it will take a year,” returned Champe, his interest
overleaping his discretion.
“And when did he fight, sir?” inquired the Major.
“Well, any way, it's safer to prepare for six months,” was Champe's
rejoinder. “I shouldn't like to run short of things, you know.”
“You'll do nothing of the kind, sir,” thundered the Major. “It's going to
be a two weeks' war, and you shall take an outfit for two weeks, or stay at
home! By God, sir, if you contradict me again I'll not let you go to fight
the Yankees.”
Champe stared for an instant into the inflamed face of the old gentleman,
and then his cheery smile broke out.
“That settles it, uncle,” he said soothingly. “It's to be a war of two
weeks, and I'll come home a Major-general before the holidays.”
BOOK THIRD
THE SCHOOL OF WAR
I
HOW MERRY GENTLEMEN WENT TO WAR
The July sun fell straight and hot upon the camp, and Dan, as he sat on a
woodpile and ate a green apple, wistfully cast his eyes about for a deeper
shade. But the young tree from which he had just shaken its last fruit
stood alone between the scattered tents and the blur of willows down the
gentle slope, and beneath its speckled shadow the mess had gathered
sleepily, after the mid-day meal.
In the group of privates, stretched under the gauzy shade on the trampled
grass, the first thing to strike an observer would have been, perhaps,
their surprising youth. They were all young--the eldest hardly more than
three and twenty--and the faces bore a curious resemblance in type, as if
they were, one and all, variations from a common stock. There was about
them, too, a peculiar expression of enthusiasm, showing even in the faces
of those who slept; a single wave of emotion which, rising to its height in
an entire people revealed itself in the features of the individual soldier.
As yet the flower of the South had not withered on its stalk, and the men
first gathered to defend the borders were men who embraced a cause as
fervently as they would embrace a woman; men in whom the love of an
abstract principle became, not a religion, but a romantic passion.
Beyond them, past the scattered tents and the piles of clean straw, the
bruised grass of the field swept down to a little stream and the fallen
stones that had once marked off the turnpike. Farther away, there was a
dark stretch of pines relieved against the faint blue tracery of the
distant mountains.
Dan, sitting in the thin shelter on the woodpile, threw a single glance at
the strip of pines, and brought back his gaze to Big Abel who was splitting
an oak log hard by. The work had been assigned to the master, who had, in
turn, tossed it to the servant, with the remark that he “came out to kill
men, not to cut wood.”
“I say, Big Abel, this sun's blazing hot,” he now offered cheerfully.
Big Abel paused for a moment and wiped his brow with his blue cotton
sleeve.
“Dis yer ain' no oak, caze it's w'it-leather,” he rejoined in an injured
tone, as he lifted the axe and sent it with all his might into the
shivering log, which threw out a shower of fine chips. The powerful stroke
brought into play the negro's splendid muscles, and Dan, watching him,
carelessly observed to a young fellow lying half asleep upon the ground,
“Big Abel could whip us all, Bland, if he had a mind to.”
Bland grunted and opened his eyes; then he yawned, stretched his arms, and
sat up against the logs. He was bright and boyish-looking, with a frank
tanned face, which made his curling flaxen hair seem almost white.
“I worked like a darky hauling yesterday,” he said reproachfully, “but when
your turn comes, you climb a woodpile and pass the job along. When we go
into battle I suppose Dandy and you will sit down to boil coffee, and hand
your muskets to the servants.”
“Oh, are we ever going into battle?” growled Jack Powell from the other
side. “Here I've been at this blamed drilling until I'm stiff in every
joint, and I haven't seen so much as the tail end of a fight. You may rant
as long as you please about martial glory, but if there's any man who
thinks it's fun merely to get dirty and eat raw food, well, he's welcome to
my share of it, that's all. I haven't had so much as one of the necessities
of life since I settled down in this old field; even my hair has taken to
standing on end. I say, Beau, do you happen to have any pomade about you?
Oh, you needn't jeer, Bland, there's no danger of your getting bald, with
that sheepskin over your scalp; and, besides, I'm willing enough to
sacrifice my life for my country. I object only to giving it my hair
instead.”
“I believe you'll find a little in my knapsack,” gravely replied Dan, to be
assailed on the spot by a chorus of comic demands.
“I say, Beau, have you any rouge on hand? I'm growing pale. Please drop a
little cologne on this handkerchief, my boy. May I borrow your powder puff?
I've been sitting in the sun. Don't you want that gallon of stale
buttermilk to take your tan off, Miss Nancy?”
“Oh, shut up!” cried Dan, sharply; “if you choose to turn pigs simply
because you've come out to do a little fighting, I've nothing to say
against it; but I prefer to remain a gentleman, that's all.”
“He prefers to remain a gentleman, that's all,” chanted the chorus round
the apple tree.
“And I'll knock your confounded heads off, if you keep this up,” pursued
Dan furiously.
“And he'll knock our confounded heads off, if we keep this up,” shouted the
chorus in a jubilant refrain.
“Well, I'll tell you one thing,” remarked Jack Powell, feeling his
responsibility in the matter of the pomade. “All I've got to say is, if
this is what you call war, it's a pretty stale business. The next time I
want to be frisky, I'll volunteer to pass the lemonade at a Sunday-school
picnic.”
“And has anybody called it war, Dandy?” inquired Bland, witheringly.
“Well, somebody might, you know,” replied Jack, opening his fine white
shirt at the neck, “did I hear you call it war, Kemper?” he asked politely,
as he punched a stout sleeper beside him.
Kemper started up and aimed a blow at vacancy. “Oh, you heard the devil!”
he retorted.
“I beg your pardon; it was mistaken identity,” returned Jack suavely.
“Look here, my lad, don't fool with Kemper when he's hot,” cautioned Bland,
“He's red enough to fire those bales of straw. I say, Kemper, may I light
my pipe at your face?”
“Shut up, now, or he'll be puffing round here like a steam engine,” said a
small dark man named Baker, “let smouldering fires lie on a day like this.
Give me a light, Dandy.”
Jack Powell held out his cigar, and then, leaning back against the tree,
blew a cloud of smoke about his head.
“I'll be blessed if I don't think seven hours' drill is too much of a bad
thing,” he plaintively remarked; “and I may as well add, by the bye, that
the next time I go to war, I intend to go in the character of a
Major-general.”
“Make it Commander-in-chief. Don't be too modest, my boy.”
“Well, you may laugh if you like,” pursued Jack, “but between you and me,
it was all the fault of those girls at home--they have an idea that
patriotism never trims its sleeves, you know. On my word, I might have been
Captain of the Leicesterburg Guards after Champe Lightfoot joined the
cavalry; but such averted looks were turned from me by the ladies, that I
had to jump into the ranks merely to reinstate myself in their regard. They
made even Governor Ambler volunteer as a private, I believe, but he was
lucky and got made a Colonel instead.”
Bland laughed softly.
“That reminds me of our Colonel,” he observed. “I overheard him talking to
himself the other day, and he said: 'All I ask is not to be in command of a
volunteer regiment in hell.'”