Through the following year, the political sky grew ever darker with
impending clouds, crinkled with lightning, and vocal with growlings of
approaching thunder. The North continued to make servile concessions,
which history will blush to record; but they proved unavailing.
The arrogance of slaveholders grew by what it fed on. Though a
conscientious wish to avoid civil war mingled largely with the
selfishness of trade, and the heartless gambling of politicians, all
was alike interpreted by them as signs of Northern cowardice. At
last, the Sumter gun was heard booming through the gathering storm.
Instantly, the air was full of starry banners, and Northern pavements
resounded with the tramp of horse and the rolling of artillery wagons.
A thrill of patriotic enthusiasm kindled the souls of men. No more
sending back of slaves. All our cities became at once cities of
refuge; for men had risen above the letter of the Constitution into
the spirit of the Declaration of Independence.
Gerald and his Lily-mother arrived in New York to find the social
atmosphere all aglow. Under its exciting influence, he wrote to Mr.
King:--
"Yesterday, I informed you of our arrival; and now I write to tell
you that they are forming a regiment here to march to the defence of
Washington, and I have joined it. Lily-mother was unwilling at
first. But a fine set of fellows are joining,--all first-class young
gentlemen. I told Lily-mother she would be ashamed to have me loiter
behind the sons of her acquaintance, and that Mr. Seward said it was
only an affair of sixty days. So she has consented. I enclose a letter
to Rose-mother, to ask her blessing on my enterprise, which I am quite
sure I shall have, together with your own."
Thus, with the unreflecting exhilaration of youth, Gerald went forth
to the war, as light of heart as if he had been joining a boat-race or
a hunting excursion; so little did he comprehend that ferocious system
of despotism which was fastening its fangs on free institutions with
the death-grapple of a bloodhound.
For the next two months, his letters, though hurried, were frequent,
and always cheerful; mostly filled with trifling gossipings about
camp-life, and affectionate remembrances to those he had left behind.
At last, Mr. King received one of graver import, which ran thus:--
"I have met with a strange adventure. A number of us were on picket
duty, with orders to keep a sharp lookout. We went pacing back and
forth on our allotted ground, now passing under the shadow of trees,
now coming out into the moonlight. I walked very erect, feeling myself
every inch a soldier. Sometimes I cast scrutinizing glances into
groups of shrubbery, and sometimes I gazed absently on the sparkling
Potomac, while memory was retracing the events of my life, and
recalling the dear ones connected with them. Just as I reached a large
tree which formed the boundary of my prescribed course, the next
sentinel, whose walk began where mine ended, approached the same tree,
and before he turned again we met face to face for an instant. I
started, and I confess to a momentary feeling of superstition; for I
thought I had seen myself; and that, you know, is said to be a warning
of approaching death. He could not have seen me very plainly, for I
was in shadow, while he for an instant was clearly revealed by the
moonlight. Anxious to be sure whether I had seen a vision or a
reality, when I again approached the tree I waited for him; and a
second time I saw such a likeness of myself as I never saw excepting
in the mirror. He turned quickly, and marched away with military
promptitude and precision. I watched him for a moment, as his erect
figure alternately dipped into shadow and emerged into light. I need
not tell you what I was thinking of while I looked; for you can easily
conjecture. The third time we met, I said, 'What is your name?' He
replied, 'George Falkner,' and marched away. I write on a drumhead, in
a hurry. As soon as I can obtain a talk with this duplicate of myself,
I will write to you again. But I shall not mention my adventure to
Lily-mother. It would only make her unhappy."
Another letter, which arrived a week after, contained merely the
following paragraph on the subject that interested them most:--
"We soldiers cannot command our own movements or our time. I have been
able to see G.F. but once, and then our interview was brief. He seemed
very reserved about himself. He says he came from New York; but his
speech is Southern. He talks about 'toting' things, and says he
'disremembers,' I shall try to gain his confidence, and perhaps I
shall be able to draw him out."
A fortnight later he wrote:--
"I have learned from G.F. that the first thing he remembers of himself
is living with an old negress, about ten miles from New Orleans, with
eight other children, of various shades, but none so white as himself.
He judges he was about nine years old when he was carried to New
Orleans, and let out by a rich man named Bruteman to a hotel-keeper,
to black boots, do errands, &c. One of the children that the old
negress brought up with him was a mulatto named Henriet. The boys
called her Hen, he said. He used to 'tote' her about when she was a
baby, and afterward they used to roll in the mud, and make mud-pies
together. When Hen was twelve years old, she was let out to work in
the same hotel where he was. Soon afterward, Mr. Bruteman put him out
to learn the carpenter's trade, and he soon became expert at it. But
though he earned five or six dollars a week, and finally nine or ten,
he never received any portion of it; except that now and then Mr.
Bruteman, when he counted his wages, gave him a fip. I never thought
of _this_ side of the question when I used to hear grandfather talk
about the rights of slaveholders; but I feel now, if this had been my
own case, I should have thought it confounded hard. He and Hen were
very young when they first begun to talk about being married; but he
couldn't bear the thoughts of bringing up a family to be slaves, and
they watched for an opportunity to run away. After several plans which
proved abortive, they went boldly on board 'The King Cotton,' he as a
white gentleman, and she disguised as his boy servant. You know how
that attempt resulted. He says they were kept two days, with hands and
feet tied, on an island that was nothing but rock. They suffered with
cold, though one of the sailors, who seemed kind-hearted, covered them
with blankets and overcoats. He probably did not like the business of
guarding slaves; for one night he whispered to G.F., 'Can't you swim?'
But George was very little used to the water, and Hen couldn't swim at
all. Besides, he said, the sailors had loaded guns, and some of them
would have fired upon them, if they had heard them plunge; and even
if by a miracle they had gained the shore, he thought they would be
seized and sent back again, just as they were in Boston.
"You may judge how I felt, while I listened to this. I wanted to ask
his forgiveness, and give him all my money, and my watch, and my ring,
and everything. After they were carried back, Hen was sold to the
hotel-keeper for six hundred dollars, and he was sold to a man in
Natchez for fifteen hundred. After a while, he escaped in a woman's
dress, contrived to open a communication with Hen, and succeeded in
carrying her off to New York. There he changed his woman's dress, and
his slave name of Bob Bruteman, and called himself George Falkner.
When I asked him why he chose that name, he rolled up his sleeve and
showed me G.F. marked on his arm. He said he didn't know who put them
there, but he supposed they were the initials of his name. He is
evidently impressed by our great resemblance. If he asks me directly
whether I can conjecture anything about his origin, I hardly know how
it will be best to answer. Do write how much or how little I ought to
say. Feeling unsafe in the city of New York, and being destitute of
money, he applied to the Abolitionists for advice. They sent him to
New Rochelle, where he let himself to a Quaker, called Friend Joseph
Houseman, of whom he hired a small hut. There, Hen, whom he now calls
Henriet, takes in washing and ironing, and there a babe has been born
to them. When the war broke out he enlisted; partly because he thought
it would help him to pay off some old scores with slaveholders, and
partly because a set of rowdies in the village of New Rochelle said he
was a white man, and threatened to mob him for living with a nigger
wife. While they were in New York city, he and Henriet were regularly
married by a colored minister. He said he did it because he hated
slavery and couldn't bear to live as slaves did. I heard him read a
few lines from a newspaper, and he read them pretty well. He says a
little boy, son of the carpenter of whom he learned his trade, gave
him some instruction, and he bought a spelling-book for himself.
He showed me some beef-bones, on which he practises writing with a
pencil. When he told me how hard he had tried to get what little
learning he had, it made me ashamed to think how many cakes and toys I
received as a reward for studying my spelling-book. He is teaching an
old negro, who waits upon the soldiers. It is funny to see how hard
the poor old fellow tries, and to hear what strange work he makes of
it. It must be 'that stolen waters are sweet,' or slaves would never
take so much more pains than I was ever willing to take to learn to
spell out the Bible. Sometimes I help G.F. with his old pupil; and I
should like to have Mrs. Blumenthal make a sketch of us, as I sit on
the grass in the shade of some tree, helping the old negro hammer his
syllables together. My New York companions laugh at me sometimes; but
I have gained great favor with G.F. by this proceeding. He is such
an ingenious fellow, that he is always in demand to make or mend
something. When I see how skilful he is with tools, I envy him. I
begin to realize what you once told me, and which did not please me
much at the time, that being a fine gentleman is the poorest calling a
man can devote himself to.
"I have written this long letter under difficulties, and at various
times. I have omitted many particulars, which I will try to remember
in my next. Enclosed is a note for Rose-mother. I hold you all in most
affectionate remembrance."
Soon after the reception of this letter, news came of the defeat at
Bull Run, followed by tidings that Gerald was among the slain. Mr.
King immediately waited upon Mrs. Fitzgerald to offer any services
that he could render, and it was agreed that he should forthwith
proceed to Washington with her cousin, Mr. Green. They returned with a
long wooden box, on which was inscribed Gerald's name and regiment. It
was encased in black walnut without being opened, for those who loved
him dreaded to see him, marred as he was by battle. It was carried to
Stone Chapel, where a multitude collected to pay the last honors to
the youthful soldier. A sheathed sword was laid across the coffin, on
which Mrs. Fitzgerald placed a laurel wreath. Just above it, Mrs. King
deposited a wreath of white roses, in the centre of which Eulalia
timidly laid a white lily. A long procession followed it to Mount
Auburn, with a band playing Beethoven's Funeral March. Episcopal
services were performed at the grave, which friends and relatives
filled with flowers; and there, by the side of Mr. Bell, the beautiful
young man was hidden away from human sight. Mr. King's carriage had
followed next to Mrs. Fitzgerald's; a circumstance which the public
explained by a report that the deceased was to have married his
daughter. Mrs. Fitzgerald felt flattered to have it so understood,
and she never contradicted it. After her great disappointment in her
husband, and the loss of her other children, all the affection she
was capable of feeling had centred in Gerald. But hers was not a deep
nature, and the world held great sway over it. She suffered acutely
when she first heard of her loss; but she found no small degree of
soothing compensation in the praises bestowed on her young hero, in
the pomp of his funeral, and the general understanding that he was
betrothed to the daughter of the quatro-millionnaire.
The depth of Mrs. King's sorrow was known only to Him who made the
heart. She endeavored to conceal it as far as possible, for she felt
it to be wrong to cast a shadow over the home of her husband and
daughter. Gerald's likeness was placed in her chamber, where she saw
it with the first morning light; but what were her reveries while she
gazed upon it was told to no one. Custom, as well as sincere sympathy,
made it necessary for her to make a visit of condolence to Mrs.
Fitzgerald. But she merely took her hand, pressed it gently, and said,
"May God comfort you." "May God comfort you, also," replied Mrs.
Fitzgerald, returning the pressure; and from that time henceforth the
name of Gerald was never mentioned between them.
After the funeral it was noticed that Alfred Blumenthal appeared
abstracted, as if continually occupied with grave thoughts. One day,
as he stood leaning against the window, gazing on the stars and
stripes that floated across the street, he turned suddenly and
exclaimed: "It is wrong to be staying here. I ought to be fighting for
that flag. I _must_ supply poor Gerald's place."
Mrs. Delano, who had been watching him anxiously, rose up and clasped
him round the neck, with stronger emotion than he had ever seen her
manifest. "_Must_ you go, my son?" she said.
He laid his hand very gently on her head as he replied: "Dearest
Mamita, you always taught me to obey the voice of duty; and surely it
is a duty to help in rescuing Liberty from the bloody jaws of this
dragon Slavery."
She lingered an instant on his breast then, raising her tearful face,
she silently pressed his hand, while she looked into those kind and
honest eyes, that so strongly reminded her of eyes closed long
ago. "You are right, my son," murmured she; "and may God give you
strength."
Turning from her to hide the swelling of his own heart, Alfred saw
his mother sobbing on his father's bosom. "Dearest mamma," said he,
"Heaven knows it is hard for me. Do not make it harder."
"It takes the manhood out of him to see you weep, darling," said Mr.
Blumenthal. "Be a brave little woman, and cheerfully give your dearest
and best for the country."
She wiped her eyes, and, fervently kissing Alfred's hand, replied, "I
will. May God bless you, my dear, my only son!"
His father clasped the other hand, and said, with forced calmness:
"You are right, Alfred. God bless you! And now, dear Flora, let us
consecrate our young hero's resolution by singing the Battle Song of
Korner."
She seated herself at the piano, and Mrs. Delano joined in with her
weak but very sweet voice, while they sang, "Father! I call on thee."
But when they came to the last verse, the voices choked, and the
piano became silent. Rosen Blumen and Lila came in and found them all
weeping; and when their brother pressed them in his arms and whispered
to them the cause of all this sorrow, they cried as if their hearts
were breaking. Then their mother summoned all her resolution, and
became a comforter. While their father talked to them of the nobility
and beauty of self-sacrifice, she kissed them and soothed them with
hopeful words. Then, turning to Mrs. Delano, she tenderly caressed her
faded hair, while she said: "Dearest Mamita, I trust God will restore
to us our precious boy. I will paint his picture as St. George slaying
the dragon, and you shall hang it in your chamber, in memory of what
he said to you."
Alfred, unable to control his emotions, hid himself in the privacy
of his own chamber. He struck his hand wildly against his forehead,
exclaiming, "O my country, great is the sacrifice I make for thee!"
Then, kneeling by the bed where he had had so many peaceful slumbers,
and dreamed so many pleasant dreams, he prayed fervently that God
would give him strength according to his need.
And so he went forth from his happy home, self-consecrated to the
cause of freedom. The women now had but one absorbing interest and
occupation. All were eager for news from the army, and all were busy
working for the soldiers.