in this lonesome fort does not agree with you. A ride on horseback and
a pleasant visit with dear friends will brighten you up and bring back
some of the roses to your cheeks. My duty keeps me here, but Sherwood
will go with you; the Colonel will provide a suitable escort, and
there is nothing to fear. You will return in better spirits and be
happy again, will you not, my drooping lily? What! tears again? Dry
them, dearest, and let us hope that you will soon receive that
long-expected letter from your mother, for she must feel that by this
time, if any punishment was necessary, yours has been sufficient. Now
smile again, dear one, as you were wont to do in happier days, or I
shall tell you that my heart reproaches me for having taken you from
your luxurious home and brought upon you so much unhappiness." "Say
anything but that, my beloved, and I will try to conquer my sadness.
You know I would not exchange these simple quarters of a poor
Lieutenant for all the splendors of my father's house. For your sake,
and with you beside me to cheer and comfort me, I could bear all
hardship and privation; but, oh! to hear from my parents that I am
forgiven, that they still remember me with my sisters, as one of their
dear children. I will be patient, dear, and trust more fully in Him
who has said: 'When thy father and thy mother forsake thee, then the
Lord will take thee up.' He will surely hear my daily prayer and
restore peace to my heart, and we will dwell on the sweet promises we
read together in the Book we have learned to love so well, and will
trust Him who is our best, our unfailing friend. And now, since you,
my dear, kind husband, wish it, I will prepare for this little
excursion. I cannot bear to leave you here, but I shall be back soon,
and who knows but to-morrow's mail may bring some news from home which
will cheer and comfort us both. Yet I cannot account for a feeling
that takes possession of me now and then, that something is about to
happen; that all will not be well while we are absent the one from the
other. What can it be? I cannot shake it off. The fort may be
attacked, and should anything befall you, my best beloved, what would
become of me? Much better remain and perish with you than return to a
desolate home."
"Now, my darling, do not give way to such dismal forebodings. You
always cheered me during those days of doubt and suspense in Newport,
bidding me look forward to brighter days. You would not now sadden the
hours of your absence from me by causing anxious thoughts in my heart.
Oh! my precious wife; you have borne much for my sake, you have been
to me in very truth a ministering angel. Do not now despond, but still
strengthen me by your brave, hopeful smiles. You know how I shall miss
you every moment of your absence, but the hope that this ride will do
you good makes me willing and anxious to have you go. And see, the
Orderly has just brought your horse, and Sherwood is crossing the
parade to tell you he is ready. Let me put your shawl around you and
tie your hat, that you may be all in waiting for him." The young wife
turned upon him her large, beautiful eyes, beaming with love, and,
twining her arms about his neck, kissed the "good-bye" she could not
speak. Then, looking earnestly to heaven, she silently called down the
protection of heaven on him whom she loved only next to God, in whom
she trusted. Her husband tenderly embraced her, led her into the
parlor, and, handing her to the young officer who was to take charge
of her, said: "Be careful of her, Sherwood, and let me see you both by
noon to-morrow. My compliments to the ladies of Fort Holmes, and urge
Mrs. Montgomery's special friend to return with her and partake of the
hospitalities of Fort Adams." Sherwood bowed in acquiescence, and,
assisting the lady into her saddle, acknowledged gracefully the honor
conferred upon him and mounted his horse, which was impatient to
begone. Then the last "good-byes" were spoken, loving looks exchanged,
and in a few moments the young Lieutenant and his precious charge had
passed through the gate and were out of sight. The young husband gazed
after them a long while, with anxious, troubled look. "Dear girl," he
said, at last, "she, too, feels forebodings of coming ill, and I dare
not tell her, but for days I have felt much depressed. This is wrong,
however. I must struggle against it and try to be cheerful when she
returns. Why should I feel thus? We were never more secure than at
present, and soon this vile war will be over, and surely by the time
we return to our homes the parents of my precious wife will have
become reconciled to us, and we shall be very happy." Turning from the
door and entering the room where he had parted with his wife, he threw
himself on the lounge, overcome by various emotions, and, in fact, far
from well in body, though this had been carefully concealed from his
anxious wife.
While he is thus resting and trying to put away unpleasant thoughts,
and our fair heroine is pursuing her way to Fort Holmes, we will tell
the reader of some of the peculiar circumstances of Lieutenant
Montgomery and his gentle bride, at the time our story begins. Lizzie
Taylor was a fair girl of little more than seventeen summers when she
first met Lieutenant Montgomery at a party given by some of the
_elite_ of Cincinnati. They were mutually attracted to each other, and
being thrown frequently into each other's society, this feeling
gradually ripened into love. Honorable and high-minded in all things,
young Montgomery did not conceal his fondness for Lizzie, and it was
generally known that he was her lover. But her father, a man of great
wealth and ambition, did not approve of what he chose to call her
childish fancy, and, being desirous that his daughters should form
brilliant marriages, frowned scornfully on the suit of one who had
_only_ his irreproachable character and his commission in the army of
the United States to offer as his credentials. Opposition in this
case, however, had its usual effect, and Lizzie, in all things else
obedient and complying, felt that here, even her father should not
interfere, when his objections were simply want of wealth and
influence on the part of him to whom she had given her young heart.
The young people, were not hasty, however, but waited patiently and
uncomplainingly a year, the father promising them that he would think
of it and give them an answer at that time. The proud man flattered
himself, that during that probationary year he could divert his
daughter from her foolishness, as he termed it, and excite her
ambition to form a wealthy alliance.
To this end, he travelled with her, introduced her into gay and
fashionable circles, and lavished upon her indulgences in every shape.
But he realized little of the depths of a woman's love, and was much
astonished when, at the end of the year, she sought an interview with
him, in which she told him, her feelings were unchanged, and she
desired his consent and blessing on her union with Lieutenant
Montgomery, adding that she hoped that time had softened his feelings
towards one with whom he could find no fault save that he loved his
daughter, and who was prepared to be to him a dutiful, loving son.
Her father turned upon her in anger, and stamping violently, swore by
all that was sacred that never would he give his consent to her union
with one so much beneath her in wealth and position. "Then, father,"
said his gentle daughter, mildly but with much dignity; "we will marry
without it, for as sure as God has witnessed our vows, so surely shall
nought but death part him and me; 'his people shall be my people, and
his God, my God.' Forgive me this first act of disobedience to your
commands, and believe me that I still love you as tenderly as I have
always loved my father; but there are feelings which not even a
parent's authority can control, and with the blessing of God and the
love of him most dear to me of all on earth, I can brave even more
than a father's displeasure." So saying, she left the room, while her
father, astonished beyond measure, remained motionless, completely
taken by surprise at this determined opposition to his will in one who
had hitherto been all gentleness and submission. Days passed, and she
continued as ever, gentle and loving to her father. No reference by
either was made to their late conversation, and he began to think she
had thought better of it and had concluded to yield to his wishes,
even congratulated himself that the _childish affair_ had been nipped
in the bud by his timely and judicious authority, when on one bright
summer day, like a thunder-clap from an unclouded sky, came a very
polite note from Lieutenant Montgomery apprising him of the fact that
Lizzie and he had just been married in the presence of a few friends
by an Episcopal clergyman, and that they craved his forgiveness and
blessing. From that moment her father's heart, already hard, was set
as a flint against her. No entreaties could prevail on him to see her,
and her mother, nearly crazy with grief, anger and wounded pride, took
counsel of friends, who most unwisely encouraged her bitterness and
convinced her that no concessions should be made to a disobedient
child under any circumstances, making the poor, distressed, mistaken
mother feel that it was a Christian duty to let her feel that her act
had made her an outcast from her parents' love and home. Therefore,
although she saw the poor girl occasionally, she always heaped on her
devoted head the most withering reproaches, telling her she had
disgraced her father's name, and must expect to reap the fruits of her
disobedience. And when the sad little bride sent to her, begging for
some of her clothes, of which she was sadly in need, for she had
carried nothing with her when she left her old home, she tore from
its frame a beautiful portrait of dear Lizzie, and, rolling it up in
some of the very plainest of her clothing, sent it, with the message
that they had no further need of it, and that the articles sent were
good enough for one in her position.
During that summer Lieutenant Montgomery was stationed at Newport,
Ky., on the recruiting service, where my husband, my mother and I
occasionally visited them, and we were astonished to notice with what
perfect kindness, even affection, they always spoke of her parents and
friends; but when we found her once reading God's Word and staying
herself on His precious promises, we no longer wondered that there was
in her heart no feeling of bitterness, for she, too, had learned the
lessons He taught, who, "when He was reviled, reviled not again, but
committed himself to Him who judgeth righteously." A very few of her
friends still visited her, but nearly all felt it would not be politic
to be found in sympathy with one on whom the wealthy and influential
Griffin Taylor frowned with displeasure. She always believed her
father would relent, and sometimes, when she saw him approaching her
on the street, her heart would give a great bound with the hope that
now he would surely speak to her; but as soon as the proud man saw
her, he invariably crossed the street to avoid the meeting, and then
she felt sore and wounded, indeed. So the summer passed away, and in
the fall came orders for the Lieutenant to join his regiment, then
engaged in the terrible war with the Seminoles in Florida. All
wondered if Lizzie's love for her husband would stand this severe
test, and many were astonished when they heard it was her intention to
accompany him to the land of the Everglades, where so many had lost
their lives, and where the prevailing fever or the deadly tomahawk
might leave her alone among strangers. A few days before they left we
visited them in the old Newport barracks, and I said to her: "Lizzie;
remember you are a soldier's wife, and must not give way to fear."
Never can I forget the look of tenderness with which her husband
regarded her as he replied for her: "Dear Lizzie has no fear; she is
more of a soldier than I am. Had it not been for her brave bearing and
her sweet words of encouragement, I know not but I might have turned
coward at the thought of exposing the dear girl to the dangers and
privations of such a campaign; but the knowledge that I possess such a
treasure will nerve my arm and give me courage to fight manfully to
preserve her from danger, and to end this dreadful war with the
relentless savages." After repeated but vain efforts to see her
father, she bade farewell to her friends, and those to whom she had
clung during her days of trial and suspense accompanied her to the
steamer which was to carry her from her home. The day was a cheerless
one; the sun veiled his face behind dark, ominous clouds, and the wind
sighed mournfully, as if moaning out a requiem. We felt oppressed with
foreboding; we knew she was going into the midst of real danger; her
father had refused to see her; her mother had parted with her in
anger; nearly all her old friends had frowned upon her, and now nature
seemed to give signs of displeasure, though we who loved her felt that
the heavens were weeping in full sympathy with the dear girl. The
young husband and wife strove to be cheerful, she smiled sweetly
through her tears, as she spoke of returning in the spring, expressing
the hope that by that time her parents would have forgiven them and
would welcome them into the beloved family circle.
We stand on the wharf as the boat pushes off, waving our last
"good-byes" and breathing prayers for their safety and welfare, while
she leans on the arm of him for whom she has forsaken all but God; the
great wheels revolve, the boat moves on her way, and that girlish
form, on whom our eyes are fixed, grows fainter and fainter, till it
fades out of sight. We heard from them immediately on their arrival at
Fort Adams, and the Lieutenant wrote that Lizzie was well and would be
perfectly happy but for the thought of her parents' displeasure. Her
young sister, Carrie, a sweet girl of thirteen, had shed many tears
for her, and had used all her eloquence to bring about a
reconciliation, apparently in vain, but finally she had so far
prevailed with her mother as to extort a promise from her that she
would write to her, which fact she straightway communicated to Lizzie,
who was, at the opening of our story, looking anxiously for this
promised letter, which might contain words of love, perhaps
forgiveness. But she had looked so long and had been so often
disappointed, that suspense, that worst of all trials to a wounded
spirit, had affected her health and made her pale and sad. It was on
this account her husband had prevailed on her to accept an invitation
from an old friend of hers and make a little excursion to Fort Holmes.
The real object of the trip was the bearing of important messages to
Fort Holmes, and a full escort had been detailed as a matter of
prudence, although the Indians had been very quiet for some time and
no danger was apprehended. Lieutenant Sherwood, as commander of the
expedition, deemed it an honor to take especial charge of the young
wife, who by her gentle loveliness had endeared herself to all. But
after they were out of sight Montgomery became very restless, and,
remaining only a short time on the sofa where we left him, when we
commenced this long digression, he arose and paced the floor in deep
and anxious thought, and at length, as if to throw off the terrible
weight that oppressed him, went to the door where he had parted from
his darling, and oh! horror! there stands her horse, panting and
riderless, quivering in every limb with fright. Without an instant's
delay he sprang on to the animal and rode, he scarcely knew where, not
knowing nor daring to surmise what terrible thing had befallen his
precious wife. What words can depict the scene that broke upon his
bewildered gaze when the horse instinctively stopped about three miles
from the fort? There on the ground lay several soldiers, murdered,
scalped and stripped of their clothing. A little farther on lay poor
Sherwood, butchered by the brutal savages, and near him the lifeless
body of her whom he had died to protect. Close by her side lay a
soldier mortally wounded, who had just strength enough left to say: "I
fought--for her--till the last,--Lieutenant,--and have saved her--from
the horrid scalping-knife." Poor, distracted Montgomery threw himself
on the ground beside her, calling despairingly upon her, imploring her
to speak one more word to him, but all in vain; and when the troops
from the fort, who had taken the alarm, arrived at the dreadful spot,
he lay like one dead, with his arm around the lifeless form of his
precious Lizzie. And thus they carried them home in the conveyance
sent for the purpose--the poor husband to awake to a bitter sense of
his terrible bereavement, and she who had so lately been a lovely
bride, to be dressed for her burial. Imagine, if you can, the feelings
of her parents when the heartrending news reached them. Her father's
pride was crushed, her mother's heart was broken, and those who knew
her well say, although she lived many years, that she never smiled
again. Her father wrote immediately to Lieutenant Montgomery,
imploring him to come to him and be to him as an own son, feeling this
to be the only reparation he could make to him and his poor, murdered
child. This offer was, of course, rejected, for how could the
heartbroken husband consent to live in the home from which his dear
wife had been turned in anger away.
Her parents felt that they deserved this, but wrote again begging the
body of their daughter, that it might repose among her own kindred and
not among a savage people. To this he consented, although he could not
be prevailed on to come himself to Cincinnati, and accordingly, early
in the spring, the remains of the once lovely and idolized Lizzie
Taylor were brought to her father's house.
Her false-hearted summer friends could now weep for her as the
daughter of the rich Griffin Taylor, while they would scarcely have
regretted her as simply the wife of a poor soldier. Alas! for the
hollow friendship of the world! Had one-half the sympathy been
bestowed upon the poor child when she was turned from her father's
door, an outcast, as was lavished on her poor, unconscious body when
lying in that father's house a corpse, how much she would have been
cheered and comforted under her sore trial. Everything possible was
done to make it a splendid funeral--a rosewood coffin and velvet pall,
crape streamers and funereal plumes, an elegant hearse, and an almost
unending line of carriages--pitiable, senseless pride, that would cast
away as worthless the priceless jewel, and bestow tender care and
pompous honor on the perishable casket that once held it!
Nearly fifty years have passed into history since that mild spring
day, when the long procession passed through the streets of
Cincinnati, telling in its mournful march of wounded pride, blighted
hopes, broken hearts, and agony unspeakable. And yet so indelibly is
it fixed in my memory that it seems but yesterday, and I find it hard
to realize that the young, gallant officer for whom our hearts were
sore that day, is now an old man, with white hair, still in the
service of the country he has faithfully served through all these
years, holding high rank, and honored, respected and beloved by all
who know him. The father, mother, sister, and very many of the nearest
relatives and friends of the dear girl have passed away. Soon all who
personally knew of this story will be gone. A simple but appropriate
monument to the memory of the gallant Sherwood and the brave, true
soldier, who gave up his life to protect the precious body from
mutilation, was erected where they fell, and may still be standing
there, but that is all that remains to tell of this heartrending
incident of the bloody war with the Seminoles in the Everglades of
Florida.
_CHAPTER XVI._
From our pleasant home and work in Cincinnati we were called away by
the illness and death of Lieutenant C. C. Daveiss, a brother-in-law
and army associate of my husband, to whom he left the care of his
family and the settlement of his business. He had resigned his
commission in the army a few years before, and had settled on a large
plantation which he owned near La Grange, Missouri, and Daveiss
Prairie, as it was called, was our home for two years, during which
time we had some new experiences, and a fine opportunity to study a
class of people entirely different from any former associations. They
were mostly from what might be called the backwoods of Kentucky; were
ignorant, and had some very crude notions of the world at large.
Nearly all of them owned a few slaves, raised a great many hogs,
cultivated large fields of corn, and were content with a diet of corn
bread and bacon, varied, during their long summers, with vegetables,
melons and honey, all of which were very abundant. They had some cows
and sheep, and some fine horses, which enjoyed unlimited pasturage on
the succulent grasses of the prairies. They made their own clothing
from the wool, spun and woven at home, and were in a measure
independent of the world. They were religiously inclined, and had
preaching every Sabbath, at some accessible point, the Baptist,
Methodist, Presbyterian, and Campbellite preachers alternating, the
first named denomination being the most numerous. Among them was a
stalwart, _powerful_ preacher, who was also the owner of a fine farm
and a pretty strong force of negroes. He was held in high esteem for
his great natural gifts, and we can never forget the meed of praise
accorded him by his gentle, adoring wife, when, in speaking of this
mighty man, she said, with exultation: "Mr. L. is so gifted that he
never has to study his sermons. They come naturally to him. He hardly
ever looks at a book from Sunday till Saturday, not even the Bible!"
and we believed her.
The houses were built mostly of logs, and the architecture was of the
most primitive style. The living room was furnished with one or more
beds, a table, and strong home-made hickory chairs with painfully
straight backs; and it was customary in occupying one of them to lean
it back against the wall or bed, at a convenient angle, putting the
feet on the rounds; and this fashion made it the proper thing to
salute a visitor thus: "How-d'y? Walk right in; take a cheer, and lean
back." One of our neighbors, in giving her ideas of a newcomer, said:
"She's smart enough 's fur as I know, but I don't reckon she knows
much about manners, for when I _sot_ down on a cheer she never asked
me to lean back."
Soon after we were settled at Daveiss Prairie, a neighbor, hearing we
had taught school elsewhere, called to see me, and opened up the
subject of education with, "I'd kind o' like to have our Reu_ben_ larn
figgers; he takes to larnin the prettiest you ever see. But, law
sakes, he ain't nothin to our Pop. Why, Pop can read ritin"! I learned
subsequently that "our Pop", a pretty girl of eighteen or twenty, was
the wonder of the country on account of this rare accomplishment, and
seeing her frequently on horseback, with her "_ridin-skeert_" tucked
about her, as if for a journey, I inquired one day if she had any
special calling, and learned that she rode from farm to farm, as her
services were needed, to read the letters received by the different
families; "and", my informant added, "she makes a heap of money, too;
I tell you Pop's smart."
Another ambitious mother called to learn if I would teach her "Sam
_the tables_, so'st he can measure up potatoes and garden truck
handy," adding, "it ain't no use for girls to bother much with
figgers, but I see Miss Daveiss draw in a piece" (into the loom)
"without countin' every thread, so you may just let Kitty larn enough
to do that-a way." Spending an afternoon with this mother, a good,
sensible woman and very kind neighbor, I found her preparing the
wedding trousseau of one of her girls, who was to be married the next
week. She was a good girl, a general favorite, and all were much
interested in the coming event. In the course of my visit one of the
daughters called out, "Lucy, where's the fine needle? you had it
last;" and the reply came, promptly, "I reckon it's in that crack over
yon, whar I stuck it when I done clar'd off the bed last night;" and
there it was, sure enough, and by the aid of that little solitary
implement some delicate ruffling was hemmed, and the bride looked very
pretty and bright a few days later, when she stood beside her chosen
husband in her humble home and promised to be to him a good, true
wife; and when, after a bountiful wedding feast, the happy pair
mounted their horses, and, amidst the good wishes and congratulations
of friends, rode away to the new log house in the wilderness, where
they were to make a home. I could not but admire these simple souls,
who knew nothing of the strife and turmoil and excitement of the outer
world, and required so little to make them happy.