MR. TOMPKINS RECEIVES STRANGE NEWS.
The war cloud grew darker day by day. The time had actually come when
families were divided, and brother was arrayed against brother. But
little business was done in the border and middle States. Men seemed to
have suddenly gone mad. The once industrious farmer had deserted his
farm, and the plow lay rusting in the weedy furrow. A majority of the
able-bodied men were either in the Northern or Southern army. The
wildest and most exaggerated rumors were flying over the land.
Skirmishes were reported as tremendous battles, hundreds were magnified
into thousands, and tens to hundreds. Men, who had always been peaceable
and law abiding, seemed suddenly inspired with a mania for the murder,
plunder and destruction of all who did not adhere to their opinions.
Friends became enemies, neighbors looked upon each other with cold
suspicion or expressed open hostility. All baser attributes of man's
nature, kept in check by the strong arm of law in time of peace, were
roused and brought to the surface.
The plantation of Mr. Tompkins had not been visited by hostile forces
since the visit of Oleah's company. But that event was sufficient to
give him full knowledge of the seriously dangerous condition of the
country. Mr. Tompkins was greatly changed. A careworn expression had
settled on his face--a face haggard and livid--years older than when we
first looked upon it, and hair whitening fast. The bloom had faded from
Mrs. Tompkins' delicate dark face, and the happy smile from her lips.
The harmony of the household had been disturbed, never again to be
restored. The peace which had lasted for years was broken, so were the
ties of love, which had defined the ravages of time, and the thousand
petty vexations of domestic life were sadly strained. Mr. Tompkins'
political preference was cramped and choked by his family division.
True, no open rupture had taken place between him and his wife, yet the
very fact that both were silent upon the exciting topic of the day
brought about that coolness which is sure to result when there is a
forbidden topic between husband and wife. Mr. Tompkins spent the days in
anxiety, and the nights brought no peace. He went to the village almost
daily for the mail, and found the newspapers full of accounts of bloody
battles, while from lip to lip passed horrible rumors.
When the defeat at Bull Run was rumored he waited to gather authentic
news, with painfully complicated feelings--anxiety for the cause he
could not openly avow, and for his sons, in either army, one always to
be in the victorious army, and one in the ranks of the defeated. And
this thought chased away the look of joy that for an instant lit up the
face of Mrs. Tompkins when she learned the news.
Days passed, and weeks, but no news came of either son. All Mr. Tompkins
knew was that armies were marching and counter-marching daily, and
filling the country with alarm.
Communication north and south was cut off, and it was almost impossible
for any letter to cross the line.
It was evening, three or four weeks after the battle of Bull Run. Mr.
Tompkins had, as usual, been to Snagtown, and returned; the Summer sun
was sinking, battling in golden glory, a thick, dark bank of clouds
gathering in the northwest. Mr. Tompkins sat in a rustic seat on the
lawn, beneath the spreading branches of a maple, which had of late
become his favorite resort. As he sat, his eyes wandered off to the
northwest, rather in listlessness than interest.
The sun went to rest behind the hill, and lightning flashed from the
dark recesses of the clouds, and twilight, soft and gray, began to
gather about the landscape.
A man entered the front yard and walked leisurely down the white
gravelled walk toward the portion of the lawn where Mr. Tompkins was
sitting. He was a man apparently near Mr. Tompkins' own age, but his
form erect, and lithe, still seemed to retain his vitality and youthful
vigor. His woolly, sun burned hair was streaked with gray; his yellow
face was wrinkled, but his eyes were fired with energy. The rapid change
of expression on his face was perhaps the most remarkable thing about
this man--at one moment gentle, almost appealing, the next inspired with
the fury of a demon. The mulatto carried himself with a boldness and a
freedom not common with those of his color. Walking up to the planter
and touching the brim of his weather-beaten hat, he said:
"Good evening, sir. Mr. Tompkins, I believe?"
"That's my name. What is your business with me?" returned the planter,
sharply.
"I want to see you," replied the mulatto, coolly, taking, unbidden, a
seat on the bench beneath the tree.
"To see me? Well, what for?"
"To talk with you," was the reply.
"What is it?" demanded the planter. "Have you a bad master, and do you
want me to buy you?"
"No, sir, I am not for sale," replied the mulatto, his face glowing with
a baleful light. "I am no slave, I am free, and free by my own
exertions."
"Well, what is it you have to say to me?"
"Something, I think, you will be glad to hear."
The planter began to lose patience. "If you have any thing to say to me,
say it at once."
"Well, to begin with, you have two sons, one in the Confederate and one
in the Union army."
"What of them?"
"They are well."
"Thank you, thank you for the news," cried the planter, rising and
grasping the old man's hand. "When did you see them last?"
"You are willing to talk to me now," said the mulatto, with a smile.
"Where did you see my boys last?" repeated Mr. Tompkins, eagerly,
unheeding the interruption.
"Only a few days ago."
"Where?"
"In their camps. They both are moving back this way."
"How came you to see them both? Is one of them a prisoner?"
"No."
"You can not have been in both armies?"
"I have been."
"How did that happen?"
"How I go is a secret known only to myself, but I go wherever desire or
duty call me, and armies, guards, and prisons, locked and bolted doors,
are no impediment to me. I saw your sons, and they are well."
It had grown almost dark, yet the planter could see the eyes of his
strange visitor gleam weirdly.
"Who are you?" he asked, the little superstition he had in his nature
aroused.
"They call me Yellow Steve."
"Where do you live?"
"On the earth, in the air, almost on the air."
"By that you mean you live in no particular place?" said the planter.
"Yes. There was a time when I was human, when I had human desires and
human feeling, but all that is changed. My soul has been tortured until
what little reason I ever possessed has fled. There are times, sir, when
I am not a human being."
"You are crazy," said the planter, with an incredulous smile.
"Have you ever read of Wagner, the Wehr-wolf?"
"Yes, in my boyhood I have read of that remarkable personage," replied
the planter.
"You remember that periodically, he became a wolf, a demon. Well, sir,
I have passed through a similar experience. There are times when my
human feelings, my human reason leave me." The mulatto's yellow face
seemed to grow livid in the twilight.
The wind moaned wildly, and the clouds gathered in thick, rolling masses
in the northwest.
"Have you any further business with me?" asked the planter uneasily.
"I am to tell you that I hold a key that will unlock one of the darkest
secrets that has clouded your life, a secret that has ever been a puzzle
and a torment to you. This dark war cloud will not roll off our land
without sweeping many from the face of the earth, and I feel that I
shall be among the number. I can not leave this earth without yielding
up to you the key of this mystery."
"Where is the key, and what is the mystery?" asked Mr. Tompkins.
"I will arrange so that you shall receive the key after my death. The
secret relates to the parentage of your foster child."
A loud clap of thunder shook, and, for one moment, a blaze of lightning
enwrapped the earth. When Mr. Tompkins lifted his dazzled eyes, he was
alone. The strange man had disappeared as suddenly as if he had melted
into air.