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BROTHER AGAINST BROTHER
OR,
THE TOMPKINS MYSTERY.
_A Story of the Great American Rebellion._
BY JOHN R. MUSICK,
_Author of "The Banker of Bedford," "Orland Hyde,"
"Calamity Row," Etc._
(COPYRIGHT, 1887, BY J. S. OGILVIE & CO.)
FIRESIDE SERIES, No. 28. JULY, 1887.
Issued Monthly, Subscription, $3 per year.
Entered at New York Post-Office as second-class matter.
J. S. OGILVIE & COMPANY,
57 Rose Street, New York; 79 Wabash Ave., Chicago.
LIST OF POPULAR NOVELS
CONTAINED IN THE FIRESIDE SERIES,
The Cover of which is Printed in Colors, and is very attractive. Each
one contains from 200 to 480 pages.
No. 1. The Mohawks, by Miss M. E. Braddon.
" 2. Lady Valworth's Diamonds, by the Duchess.
" 3. A House Party, by Ouida.
" 4. At Bay, by Mrs. Alexander.
" 5. Adventures of an Old Maid, by Belle C. Greene.
" 6. Vice Versa, by F. Anstey.
" 7. In Prison and Out, by Hesba Stretton.
" 8. A Broken Heart, by author of Dora Thorne.
" 9. A False Vow, by author of Dora Thorne.
" 10. Nancy Hartshorn at Chautauqua, by Nancy Hartshorn.
" 11. Beaton's Bargain, by Mrs. Alexander.
" 12. Mrs. Hopkins on her Travels, by Mrs. Hopkins herself.
" 13. A Guilty River, by Wilkie Collins.
" 14. By Woman's Wit, by Mrs. Alexander.
" 15. "She," by H. Rider Haggard.
" 16. The Witch's Head, by H. Rider Haggard.
" 17. King Solomon's Mines, by H. Rider Haggard.
" 18. Jess, by H. Rider Haggard.
" 19. The Merry Men, by R. L. Stevenson.
" 20. Miss Jones' Quilting, by Josiah Allen's Wife.
" 21. Secrets of Success, by J. W. Donovan.
" 22. Drops of Blood, by Lily Curry.
" 23. Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
" 24. Dawn, by H. Rider Haggard.
" 25. Me. A companion to "She."
" 26. East Lynne, by Mrs. Henry Wood.
" 27. Allan Quartermain, by H. Rider Haggard.
" 28. Brother against Brother. A Story of the Rebellion,
by John R. Musick.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I. In the Stage-Coach and at the Inn, 5
II. A New Arrival, 17
III. Dinner Talk, 28
IV. More of the Mystery, 36
V. The Mud Man, 46
VI. A Transition Period, 52
VII. The Election and the Result, 62
VIII. Mr. Diggs in a New Field, 69
IX. The Chasm Opens, 81
X. The Beginning of Soldier Life, 89
XI. Mr. Tompkins' Peril, 102
XII. Foraging, 108
XIII. Uncle Dan Means Business, 114
XIV. Mrs. Juniper Entertains, 120
XV. Mr. Diggs Again in Trouble, 127
XVI. Yellow Steve, 143
XVII. A Soldier's Turkey Hunt, 151
XVIII. Mr. Tompkins Receives Strange News, 158
XIX. Irene's Dilemma--The Brothers Meet, 162
XX. War in the Neighborhood, 174
XXI. Crazy Joe's Mistake, 182
XXII. Diggs Gets out of His Scrape Again, 193
XXIII. The Abduction, 201
XXIV. He is My Husband. Oh, Spare His Life, 209
XXV. At Home Again, 219
XXVI. Another Phase of Soldier Life, 223
XXVII. A Prisoner, 227
XXVIII. Olivia, 231
XXIX. The Alarm--The Manuscript, 236
XXX. Yellow Steve's Mysterious Story, 242
XXXI. The Reconciliation, 247
BROTHER AGAINST BROTHER.
CHAPTER I.
IN THE STAGE-COACH AND AT THE INN.
Thick, misty clouds overcast the sky; peals of thunder in the distance
came rolling nearer and nearer, until they burst into one prolonged roar
just above a lumbering old stage-coach slowly making its way over the
muddy roads of a Virginia post route, the driver incessantly cracking
his long whip over the backs of his jaded horses, and urging them, with
shouts and exclamations, to accelerate their speed.
This scene occurs in what is now West Virginia. It is west of the
mountain range, but where, on every hand, are frowning precipices, deep
gorges and swift-flowing torrents. On the right, the jutting headlands
are crowned with huge old bowlders, just peeping out from the thicket of
evergreens and creeping vines which surround them. Although not called
mountainous, it is a country whose picturesque heights and umbrageous
valleys would excite a degree of enthusiasm in the bosom of a lover of
the beautiful. Down in those lonely valleys, almost hidden in their
leafy groves, was the home of many an old Virginia aristocrat. The
great, gnarled oak standing upon the verge of some miniature precipice,
and glooming sullenly through the misty rain, seems but part of some
pictured scene. Far in the distance, faintly penciled against the misty
sky, rise headlands to what seems an enormous height, about them a dark
mass of clouds, like some giant's garment caught upon the peaks and
blown about at the will of the wind. It envelops and conceals the
highest peaks, leaving the imagination to add to the belief in their
stupendous height.
It has been raining all day, and the driver of the stage-coach is
anxious to reach his destination.
"Gee-up! If we don't git to Lander's Hill before dark, I be hanged if we
don't stick there for the night," he exclaimed.
The stage-coach moves slowly along, and the shades of evening are
closing in. Six or seven passengers are seated within, and are about as
uncomfortable as stage-coach travelers could well be. There is but a
single lady among them, and the chivalric spirit of the Southron has
assigned to her the most comfortable place in the coach. We are
interested in but one of these travelers, a man about forty-five or
fifty years of age, something over medium size, whose appearance stamped
him as a well-to-do Virginia planter. His face was smooth-shaven, and
his hair, once dark, was silvered with the flight of years. His was a
handsome face, and a pleasant one to look upon; there was something
pleasing and attractive about its expression, and the mild gray eyes
burned with no ambitious designs or fiery passions; his dress was plain
gray homespun, commonly worn as the traveling dress of a Southerner at
the time of which we write. His hat was of the finest silk,
broad-brimmed and low-crowned, such as Southern planters invariably
wore. Though unostentatious in manner, he was evidently a man accustomed
to the manifold comforts of Southern life. He was, moreover, a man
accustomed to looking at both sides of a question, and arriving at
conclusions without bias or prejudice. His frame was a fine type of
manhood, and his muscular arms showed him possessed of more than an
ordinary degree of strength.
This man alone of all the passengers maintained a silent and thoughtful
mood as the coach passed on its way. A constant conversation was kept up
by the other passengers on the weather, the roads, the journey, its
termination, and last, but not least, the politics of the day. However,
while the gentleman whom we have more particularly described, and now
introduce to our readers as George W. Tompkins, of Virginia, sat moody
and silent, and seemingly utterly oblivious of the discomforts within
or the gloomy prospect without, his fellow passengers were continually
talking, and continually jostling against him, without rousing Mr.
Tompkins from his reverie.
His mind was clouded by a horror that made him careless of present
surroundings. He looked worn and weary, more so than any of the other
passengers, and occasionally, when the coach rolled over smooth ground,
he would lean back in his seat and close his eyes. No sooner done,
however, than a thousand fantastic shapes would glide before his mental
vision, that seemed to take delight in annoying him. Whenever he became
unconscious to his real surroundings, shrieks seemed to sound in his
ear, and he seemed to hear the cry:
"Search, search, search! Your task's not over, your task's not over!"
"And where shall I search?" he mentally asked.
"Ah, where?" the voice wailed.
Then the planter would rouse himself, and glance at the passengers and
out of the window in the endeavor to keep his mind free from the
annoyances. For a few moments he would succeed, but days and nights of
exertion, horror and excitement were telling upon him; once more he
would succumb and once more the fantastic shadows thronged about him,
and the voice, mingling strangely with the grating roar of the coach's
wheels, smote on his ear:
"Search, search, search! Your task's not over! Your task's not over!"
"Where shall I search?"
"Ah, where?"
"You don't seem to be well, friend," remarked a fellow-traveler,
observing the startled and restless manner of Mr. Tompkins.
"Yes, I am well; that is--no, I am not; I am somewhat wearied," Mr.
Tompkins answered.
"So are we all," rejoined the passenger. "This journey has been enough
to wear out men of iron, and the prospects for the night are far from
cheering."
"I had expected to reach home to-night," said the planter, "but I shall
fail by a good dozen miles."
"You live in this State?"
"Yes, sir," answered Mr. Tompkins, settling himself in his corner.
The gentleman, evidently a Southern man, seeing that Mr. Tompkins was
indisposed to carry on any further conversation, relapsed into silence.
With another effort Mr. Tompkins conquered the stupor which, with all
its fantastic concomitants, was once more overcoming him, and sat bolt
upright in his seat.
"This has been a fearful week," he soliloquized, "but I have done all I
could."
The gentleman by his side, catching the last part of the remark, and
supposing it had reference to the present journey, remarked:
"Yes, it is not the fault of the passengers, but of the managers of this
line. They should be prepared for such emergencies, and have a supply of
fresh horses."
Observing that his exclamation, though misinterpreted, had arrested
attention, Mr. Tompkins, to guard against its recurrence, lest he should
divulge the subject of his disturbed thoughts, aroused himself and
resisted, with determination, the stupor that was overcoming him. It was
while thus combating the fatigue that weighed him down that the
stage-coach came to a very sudden stop.
The driver, pressing his face to the aperture at the top of the coach,
cried out:
"Here we are at Lander's Hill, and I be hanged if the hosses are able to
drag ye all up. They are completely fagged out, so I guess ye men
folks'll hev to hoof it to the top, an' occasionally give us a push, or
we'll stick here until mornin'."
"How far is it to where we can stop over night?" asked the passenger who
had endeavored to draw Mr. Tompkins into conversation.
"After we git on top of the hill it's only 'bout three miles to Jerry
Lycan's inn, where we'll stop for the night, an' it's down hill 'most
all the way," replied the driver.
With much grumbling and many imprecations on the heads of the managers
of the stage line, the passengers clambered out of the coach. A long,
muddy hill, in places quite steep, lay before them. It was nearly half a
mile to the top, and portions of the road were scarcely passable even
in good weather.
"These are public roads in Virginia!" exclaimed one gentleman, as he
alighted in the mud.
"We can't have railroads to every place," essayed a fellow-traveler,
evidently a Virginian; "but you will find our soil good."
"Yes, good for sticking purposes," said the first speaker, trying to
shake some of the mud from his boots; "I never saw soil with greater
adhesive qualities."
"Now look 'ee," said the driver, "we'll hev some purty smart jogs, where
the hosses 'll not be able to pull up, and you'll hev to put your
shoulders agin the coach an' give us a push."
"May I be blessed!" ejaculated the Southerner. "They are not even
content to make us walk, but want us to draw the coach."
"Better to do that an' hev a coach at the top to ride in than to walk
three miles," said the driver.
After allowing his horses a brief rest, the driver cracked his whip and
the lumbering coach moved on, the passengers slowly plodding along
behind. None seemed pleased with the prospect of a walk up the long,
muddy hill, but the grumbling Southerner manifested a more decided
repugnance than either of the others.
"This is worse than wading through Carolina swamps waist deep," he
exclaimed, as he trudged along, dragging his weary feet and
mud-freighted boots after him.
The coach had not proceeded more than a dozen rods when it came to one
of the "jogs" in the hill alluded to by the driver. "Now help here, or
we'll stick sure. Git up!" cried the driver, and the poor, tired horses
nerved themselves for the extra effort required of them. The ascent here
was both steep and slippery, and it required the united strength of
horses and passengers to pass the coach over the place.
Here the passengers discovered the prodigious strength which lay in the
broad shoulders of Mr. Tompkins. Not a murmur had escaped his lips when
required to walk up the hill, and he was the first to place his shoulder
to the wheel to push the coach over the difficult passage. To still
further increase the discomforts of their position they were thoroughly
drenched by a passing shower which overtook them before they reach the
summit of the hill. Here they again climbed into the coach, and resuming
their seats, were whirled along through the gathering darkness toward
the inn.
Old Jerry Lycan stood on the long porch of his old-fashioned Virginia
tavern, and peered down the road through the gloom. It had been dark but
a few moments. The old man's ears caught the sound of wheels coming down
the road, and he knew the stage was not far off.
"The roads are just awful," said the landlord, "and no wonder it is
belated."
The night was intensely dark; not a star was to be seen in the sky; an
occasional flash of lightning momentarily lit up surrounding objects,
only to render the blackness more complete. Far down the road the old
man's eyes caught a glimpse of the coach-lights bobbing up and down as
the ponderous vehicle oscillated over the rough roads. Approaching
slowly, like a wearied thing of life, the cumbrous stage at last
appeared, made visible only by its own lamps, which the driver had
lighted. The splashing of six horses along the miry roads and the dull
rolling of the huge wheels made the vehicle heard long before it was
seen.
"Rube haint no outside passengers to-night," said the landlord, seeing
that the top seats of the coach were vacant. "'Spose nobody'd want to
ride out in the rain."
"Here ye are at Lycan's inn," called out the driver to the inmates of
the coach as he reined in his weary horses in front of the roadside
tavern.
Uncle Jerry as he was called, with his old, perforated tin lantern, came
to open the stage door and show his guests into the house. Rube, the
driver, tossing the reins to the stable-boy, climbed down from his lofty
perch, and went into the bar-room to get "something hot" to warm his
benumbed body.
The landlord brought the wet and weary men into the room, where a great
fire was blazing, and promised that supper should be ready by the time
they were dry. The Southerner declared that he was much too dry within,
though he was dripping wet without. Uncle Jerry smiling invited him
into the bar-room. The Southerner needed no second invitation, and soon
returned, saying that Virginia inns were not so bad after all.
The lady had been shown to a private apartment, while the gentlemen were
attempting to dry their clothing by the fire in the public room. The
Southerner, who had been in much better humor since his visit to the
bar, seemed now to look very philosophically upon his soaking and other
inconveniences of travel.
Our planter, Mr. Tompkins, sat in front of the pile of blazing logs,
gazing at the bright, panoramic pictures constantly forming there.
Sleeping or waking, darkness of the stage-coach and in those glowing
embers, he saw but one picture, and its horrors were constantly haunting
his mind.
The other guests talked and laughed while their soaked clothes were
drying, but Mr. Tompkins was silent, whether sitting or standing. Almost
before their clothes were dry supper was announced, and they all
repaired to the long, low dining room and seated themselves at the
table. The supper, plain and substantial, was just suited to the needs
of the hungry guests.
The evening meal over, they returned to the sitting room. The Southerner
had lit a cigar, and kept up a constant flow of conversation.
"Virginia is too near the Free-soilers," he said, evidently directing
his remarks to Mr. Tompkins; "don't they come over here and steal your
niggers?"
"They never have," Mr. Tompkins answered.
"I take it for granted you own slaves?"
"Yes, sir; I have a number on my plantation, and never have had one
stolen yet."
"Don't the 'Barnburners,' 'Wooly Heads' and Abolitionists from Ohio and
Pennsylvania come over here and steal them away?"
"They have never taken any from me."
"Well, that's a wonder. I know a number of good men on the border who
find it impossible to keep niggers at all."
"Perhaps they are not good masters," said Mr. Tompkins.
"They were the best of masters, and they lost their niggers, though
they guarded them with watchful overseers and bloodhounds."
"But do you think that a good master needs to guard his slaves with
armed overseers and dogs?" said Mr. Tompkins.
"Of course," the Carolinian answered; "how else would you keep the black
rascals in subjection? Are we not horrified almost every week by reports
of some of their outrages? Swamps and canebrakes have become the haunts
of runaway blacks, who, having murdered their master, seek to wreck
vengeance on innocent children or women."
Mr. Tompkins started at these assertions, as though he felt a pang at
his heart.
"My friend, what you say is true, too true," he said; "but is the master
always blameless? The negro possesses feelings, and even a beast may be
goaded to madness. Is it not an unrighteous system which is crushing and
cursing our beloved country?"
"What system?"
"Slavery."
"Why, sir, you are a singular slave-holder," cried the Southerner. "Are
you going to turn a Martin Van Buren and join the Free-soilers?"
"There is a great deal in that question, sir, outside of politics. I
believe in slavery, else I would not own a slave; but, if our slaves are
to be treated as animals, it were better if the institution were
abolished."
"How would you treat them?"
"Discharge the overseers, to begin with."
"I am sure, you would fail."
"The plan has succeeded well on my plantation," said Mr. Tompkins, "and
I do not own a single negro who would not die for me."
Here were met two men, both believing in the institution of human
slavery, but carrying out its principles, how differently! The one with
cool Northern blood and kindly feelings, advocating a humane mode of
ruling the helpless being in his power. The other, representing the
extreme type of refined cruelty and oppression. The mind of the one grew
more and more in harmony with the idea of abolition, while the other
came to hate, with all the fierceness of his Southern heart, the idea of
universal freedom; became willing, even, to strike at that flag which
had failed to protect his interests and his opinions.
The date at which we write was directly after the election and
inauguration of Taylor as President of the United States. The opposition
to human slavery had steadily been gaining ground, regardless of taunts
and sneers, and the ranks of the Abolitionists were hourly on the
increase. Slavery was peculiarly a selfish institution. It is folly to
say that only men born and reared in the South could be numbered among
the upholders of this "peculiar institution," for many Northern men went
South and purchased plantations and slaves, and in 1861 many of these
enlisted on the Confederate side, and fought under the Confederate flag,
not from principle, but from self-interest.
Mr. Tompkins, who was Northern born, believed in slavery simply because
he owned slaves, and not from any well defined principle. Even now the
same conflict that later convulsed the Nation was raging in his
heart--the conflict between self-interest and the right. Press and
pulpit, the lecturer's rostrum and the novelist's pen, had almost
wrought out the doom of slavery, when the politician took up the stormy
dispute.
The discussion in the Virginia inn was warm but friendly, the Carolinian
declaring that God and Nature had ordained the negro for slavery; that
his diet should be the ash-cake, his stimulant the whip, his reward for
obedience a blanket and a hut, his punishment for rebellion chains and
death. Doubtless his passion over-reached his judgment in the heat of
argument, and his brain, perhaps, was not so cool since his visit to the
bar-room.
"My dear sir," Mr. Tompkins finally said, hoping to end the discussion,
which was drawing to them the attention of all, "the policy you suggest
will, I fear, plunge our whole country into trouble. Few men are born
rulers, and history has never shown one successful who ruled by harsh
measures only. Admitting that a negro is not a rational being, kindness
with a beast can accomplish more than harshness. It is cruel masters who
make runaway slaves. The parting of parent and child, husband and wife,
torn ruthlessly asunder, never to see each other again, will make even a
negro furious. I fear, sir, that slavery is a bad institution, but it is
firmly established among us, and I see no way at present to get rid of
it."
The other guests at Jerry Lycan's inn had gathered in groups of two and
three, and were listening silently to the differing views of these two
upholders of slavery, for there were factions in those days among the
slavery men. The landlord had entered the room, and, being a politician
himself, drank in the discussion with deepest interest.
Just as the argument was at its height the outer door of the inn opened
and a boy, wild-eyed, but handsome, entered. A glance at the strangely
wild eyes and disheveled hair convinced all present that he was insane.
He was about twelve years of age, with a slender figure and a
well-shaped head, but some great shock had unseated his reason. His
mania was of a mild, harmless type. Walking directly up to Mr. Tompkins,
he said:
"Have you seen my father? You look very much like my father, but I know
he has not yet come into Egypt."
The voice was so plaintive and sad that it touched at once the hearts of
all, and happily put an end to the conversation.
"Who is your father?" asked Mr. Tompkins.
"Jacob is my father. I am his favorite son. My brothers sold me a slave
into Egypt, and told my father I had been slain by wild beasts. Have you
seen my father?"
"He is crazy. Humor him, say something to him," whispered the landlord.
"Your father is not yet ready to come into Egypt," said Mr. Tompkins.
"And my brother Benjamin--did you see him?" the lad asked.
"Yes."
"Is the famine sore in the land where my father dwells?"
"Yes."
"And does he suffer--is he old? Oh, yes, I remember; my father must be
dead." He seated himself on a low stool by the fireside, and, bowing his
head in his hands, seemed lost in thought.
"He does that twenty times a day," said the landlord.
"Who is he?" asked one of the travelers, "and where does he come from?"
"He has been here only a few days, and I know nothing about him. His
first question was, 'Have you seen my father Jacob?'"
"Have you tried to find out about him?" asked Mr. Tompkins.
"Yes, but to no purpose," answered Uncle Jerry. "He came one morning and
said he was fleeing from Potiphar's wrath. After inquiring for his
father, he remained silent for some time. I tried to find where he came
from, but no one knows and he can not tell. I should judge by the
clothes he wore that he was from the South, and, from the worn condition
of his shoes, that he came a great way. He is of some respectable
family, for he has been well educated, and I fancy it's too much book
learning that has turned the boy's head. He talks of Plato and Socrates
and Aristotle, and all the ancient philosophers, and his familiarity
with historical events shows him to have been a student; but he always
imagines that he is Joseph."
"Where does he live?" asked Mr. Tompkins.
"Oh, he stays here at the inn, and shows no disposition to leave. He
makes himself useful by helping the stable-boy and carries in fuel,
imagining himself a servant of the high priest."
"Has he lucid intervals?" asked Mr. Tompkins.
"No, not what could be called lucid intervals. Once he said to a girl in
the kitchen that it was books that made his head dizzy, and said
something of a home a great ways off, from which he had fled to escape
great violence. They hoped then to clear up the mystery, but the next
moment his mind wandered again and he was Joseph sold into Egypt,
bewailing his father Jacob and his brother Benjamin."
"What is his name?" asked Mr. Tompkins.
"We can't get any other name than Joseph, and the boys here call him
Crazy Joe."
"His malady may be curable; have you consulted a physician about it?"
inquired the Californian, who was very much interested in the strange
case.
"Yes, sir; a doctor from the State Lunatic Asylum was here day before
yesterday, but he pronounced him incurable."
"Could not the doctor tell how long he had been in this condition?"
asked Mr. Tompkins.
"Not with certainty, but thought it only a few weeks or months. He said
he had probably escaped from his guard and ran away."
At this moment the subject of conversation rose from the low stool and
looked about with a vacant stare.
"Do you want to go home to your parents?" Mr. Tompkins asked.
"When the famine is sore in the land they will come for me."
"Why did you run away?"
"My brothers sold me to the merchants with their camels. They made my
father believe I was killed, and brought me here and sold me; but I know
it is written that my brother Benjamin will come and bring my father to
me."
"Is it not written that Jacob did go down into Egypt with his whole
family, and that he wept on Joseph's neck, and said he was willing to
die?" said Mr. Tompkins, to lead him out of this strange hallucination.
"Yes, yes--oh, yes!" the boy cried, eagerly.
"Did not Moses deliver the children of Israel from bondage long after
Jacob's death?"
"I remember now that he did," said Joe.
"Then how can you be Joseph, when he died three or four thousand years
ago?"
The boy reflected a moment, and then said:
"Who can I be, if I am not Joseph?"
"Some one who imagines himself Joseph," said Mr. Tompkins. "Now, try to
think who you really are and where you came from."
"I am not Socrates, for he drank the hemlock and died, nor am I Julius
Caesar, for he was killed by Brutus," the poor lunatic replied.
"Try to think what was your father's name," persisted Mr. Tompkins,
hoping to discover something.
"My father's name was Jacob, and I was sold a slave into Egypt by my
brothers; but there must be something wrong; my father must be dead."
Again he seated himself on the low stool and buried his face in his
hands.
"It's no use," said the landlord; "that's as near as you'll ever come to
knowing who he is from him. I have advertised him in the Pittsburg
daily, but no one has come yet to claim him."
"A very strange hallucination," said the Carolinian. "Is he always
mild?"
"Yes; he is never cross or sullen, and seems delighted with children. He
answers them in many ways."
It was growing late, and the weary travelers were ready to go to bed.
The landlord assisted by Crazy Joe and another boy, took lighted candles
to the various rooms for the guests.
By the combined aid of a good supper, a warm discussion on slavery, and
his interest in the insane boy, Mr. Tompkins had succeeded in fighting
away the legion of gloomy thoughts that harassed his mind, and a few
minutes after retiring was sleeping peacefully.