The days fell dark for the Confederacy. It seemed that the whole world
had sprung up in arms against the South. Stronghold after stronghold
was taken, and Richmond itself was threatened. No hope was left to
illumine the soldier's heart; he had followed a bright phantom, year
after year, expecting it to lead him out of the wilderness, but he was
becoming deeper and more darkly involved in the thicket, and now the
phantom was fading. In his haversack, he carried roasted acorns and
pieces of sugar-cane, and his enemies, in blood his brothers, shook
their heads and marveled at his courage, for he was just as ready to
fight as he had been on the morning after Bull Run. To face death at
morning, to shed his blood at noon, to lie down supperless upon the wet
ground at night, was a duty that he was not there to question, but to
discharge.
One night my master and I occupied a room in a deserted farm-house near
Richmond. About us lay a broken army and the scattered fragments of a
civilization.
"A few more days will settle it, I think, Dan," he said. Sitting on a
box, with one leg drawn up and with his hands clasped over his knee, he
was gazing at the lightwood sputtering in the fire-place, and upon his
thoughtful countenance a black shadow and a yellow light alternately
arose and fell. "Only a few more days and most of us may be shot or
permitted to go home. Who would have believed that we could have gone
through such a time since Jane stood on the stile-block waving the silk
flag she had made for me. And I can't carry even a scrap of it back to
her. Do you know one thing that I'm going to do if I'm permitted to
go home?" he asked, his face brightening. "I am going to acknowledge
to father that I was wrong, not in fighting so hard after I got in,
but in permitting a glamour to blind me in the first place. The most
gigantic mistake of the age. I was like you, Dan. I followed my heart
rather than my judgment. But you are free. I am your master no longer.
Don't turn away. I don't reproach you; I congratulate you. If any man
deserves freedom, you do. Better spread the blankets and let's try to
get a little sleep. We need no alarm clock to wake us up. Brother
Ulysses with his cannon will see to that."
And with his cannon he did see to it. We were aroused before the break
of day, and by the time the sun came up we were in the thick of a
fight. There came a charge--a wild rush, sword, pistol, bayonet--and
when it had swept past, I was on the ground beside the man whose
fortunes I had followed. He was desperately wounded. The farm-house was
turned into a hospital and I took him to the room which we had occupied
the night before. The weak remnant of our army was crushed. We were
prisoners.
The hour was late. Precaution no longer was necessary and camp-fires
were burning everywhere. A surgeon told me that Master could not live
until morning. And this was to be his end, in an old house, a prisoner,
the hungry dogs howling on the hill.
"Dan," he called. I was bending over him, my face close to his. "Are
you here, Dan?"
"Yes, Mars. Bob."
"It's all over, Dan. And I don't see how it could have been otherwise.
I seem to have been born for this hour. Dan, I want to be buried where
I fell. And tell them not to disturb me, but to let me sleep there.
Bury her letters with me. Tell the old man that I love him."
Early in the morning, with the tears falling upon him, I folded his
arms on his breast; and I heard a glad shout and the cry that the war
was done. From an officer in command, once a neighbor, I obtained
permission to bury my poor Master under an apple-tree shading the
spot where he had fallen; and assisted by an old negro, I laid him to
rest. My heart was so heavy that I cared not what might become of me.
Judgment day had come and I was branded a sinner.
I built a fire near the grave and watched beside it a whole night,
wretched, struggling with myself, feeling that I could not leave him
lying there alone. In the morning I was ordered to mount a mule and
drive a wagon into Richmond. As I drove along I scribbled a note to Old
Master, not knowing how long I might be held, and gave it to a neighbor
to give to him. Now I was in the service of the North, driving a team
of mules into the city that I had striven to defend. But I liked it
not. I was heart-sore to hear the babble of our creek and to look upon
the colts in the pasture. And after two days of enforced labor I was
permitted to turn my face homeward. I was now even worse off than the
regular rebel soldier. I was looked upon with suspicion. I had no
means of transportation and therefore was compelled to walk. I slept in
the woods or on the road-side. Once when I went up to a house to buy
food, an old man set his dog after me. My money gave out (I had started
with but a few dollars, the amount earned by driving the government
wagon) and now I was reduced almost to starvation. The country was
destitute. Everyone looked to the army for food, and supplies were
delayed. At last, after days of tramping and nights of sleepless
hunger, I crossed the Kentucky line. Two more days and I should be at
home.
But how cold and distant had begun to sound the word home. How time
must have transformed the old place. And all the negroes were free. I
scarcely could realize it. I wondered what they would do with their
freedom, if they knew how to act. They could not support themselves
by standing about and proclaiming themselves free. They must work and
after all their liberty was to be tinged with slavery. Thus I mused
as I moved with sore tread along the hard turn-pike, slowly entering
the domain of my boyhood, growing heavier and sadder with the sight of
each familiar object. I came to the old mill, gray and green, with roof
fallen in, with cap-stones pulled down by the wanton hands that reach
out to destroy when a war-storm has swept over the land. The creek sang
to me, not as of yore, a sweet and poetic tune, but a sorrowful and
hollow-sounding dirge.
Onward I strode, limping now, for my shoes were worn through and my
feet were bleeding. The day was closing. The shadow of the trumpet
vine, clustered high on the top rail of the fence, fell dark athwart
the white and ghastly pike. Another rise of ground and Potter's house
was thrown into view, red in the setting sun. I had to halt to calm the
tumultuous beating of my heart. I wondered if the news had reached her.
Surely word must have been sent from Old Master's house. But it was my
duty to stop and repeat his last words, to tell her that I had buried
her letters with him. I dreaded the look she would give me, the tone of
her voice. Now I could see that she had been passionately fond of him.
I thought of the sentence I had passed upon her nature, the complaint
that I could not hold her clear in my mental gaze, and I repented of
this dark injustice. Onward again I limped, my eyes low upon the white
pebbles; and I did not look up until abreast of the gate. Then I found
myself among a number of carriages and buggies. A score of horses were
tied to the fence. An old man stood by the road-side and I addressed a
question to him.
"What means all this?"
He nodded his head toward the house and thus he answered me: "Miss Jane
Potter has just married a Yankee general."
I tried to run, when it seemed that I had grabbed myself up from
falling, and I stumbled away down the pike. In a corner of the fence
I dropped upon my knees and cried aloud. Merciful God, was the whole
world false! Long I knelt there in agony, reviewing my pitiable life,
with my master's image and his blood vivid before me. Merry laughter
startled me to my feet. A carriage, followed by other vehicles and
horses, passed briskly along; and fiercely I shook my fist at the
carriage in front, and bitterly I wished for a gun, a cannon, that I
might be avenged upon a black and traitorous heart.
Homeward now I turned, chilled to the core, prepared for anything.
Over a fence I climbed and took a shorter way across the pastureland.
Darkness had fallen and I heard old Stephen calling the sheep, to be
housed for the night, safe from the ravages of prowling dogs. I came
upon the little creek, weaker than far below at the old mill, but
chanting the same hollow dirge. I stood upon the rock where Mr. Clem
had found me with his shrewd temptation; and a little further on I came
to the deep hole wherein Bob and I had sworn to drown ourselves. Here I
stopped and bathed my face and hands, lingering, dreading to meet Old
Master's grief-chilled eye. Fire-light came from some of the cabins,
feeling its way and trembling through the darkness; but for the most
part the negro quarter appeared deserted.
The door of the "big house" stood open and the hall lamp was burning.
With dragging feet I climbed the steps and raised the brass knocker,
the familiar old dragon's head, but did not let it fall; so much was I
in dread of its startling alarm. I stepped back to go round to the rear
veranda, when Old Miss came out of the library. She saw me and her cry
pierced my heart. Oh, how wretched she looked and how feeble! And how
weak was that cry, a mere whisper; but it rang in my ears night and day
for many a month. I believe she would have fallen, I thought she was
falling and I put out my hands and caught her, eased her upon the hall
settee and fanned her with my hat.
"Go," she said, motioning me away, "go to your Old Master. He is dying
in his room up stairs. Wait, let me send him word. He was afraid you
wouldn't get here. May, May!" she called, "go and tell him Dan has
come."
Miss May, pale and tear-stricken, had stepped out of the parlor. She
grasped my hand and then hastened up the stairs.
"Elliot brought the news," said Old Miss, leaning back against the
wall. "And May went over--over to tell 'her.' Infamous creature, she
was making preparations for her wedding. Oh, this world, this world!
Oh, my son, if I could only call him back!" She looked at me with her
head turned to listen for Miss May's footsteps. "I have been the most
miserable woman in the world, and a thousand times I have prayed for
death." Her eyes grew brighter. She straightened up with pride. "But he
died like a hero. Tell me about him."
I told her how he had fallen; and when I mentioned the letters that
were put into the grave with him, she cleared her throat with the old
dry rasp.
"How long has Master been sick?" I asked, wishing to change the subject.
"A long time, but the doctors did not give him up until the day before
yesterday. They might have known at first that there was no hope for
him. Why should there be any hope for him or for anyone? Why can't we
all get out of this miserable world and be done with it?"
"Have many of the negroes gone away?" I asked.
"No, not many. We have hired most of them to work the land. I don't see
much difference in them. They are as near no account as they can be."
"It will take them some time to adjust themselves to their freedom," I
remarked.
"Freedom!" she repeated with a sneer. "They can never adjust themselves
to it. They think it means a privilege to take whatever they can lay
hands on."
Titine was in my mind, but I was afraid to ask about her. She had
treated me with scorn when I was well dressed, and now I must be far
below her contempt.
"Do you want me to remain and take charge of things about the place?"
"No," she said, with sharp emphasis, "you must go away and let me die
in peace, or as near in peace as possible, for I shall never know a
moment's ease. Looking back, it seems that I was born wretched; and yet
I know that I was happy until treachery--but I will say nothing. Oh,
this miserable world!" She swayed herself to and fro, her lips tightly
drawn, her eyes hard-set. "But an end of it all will come sooner or
later, and then we can say that it all amounted to nothing--that it was
all a nightmare. Here comes your Miss May."
"Walk as softly as you can," Miss May said to me, and then looking
down, she added: "Poor fellow, you couldn't make a noise with those
tattered feet."
I followed her up the stairs, through the hall where so often I had
found the old man walking in the dead silence of the night--followed
her into the room opposite our "office." At a glance I saw my young
master's canopied bed; and upon it lay the old man, propped high with
pillows.
"Come here, Dan," he commanded. His voice was weak, but I was surprised
at its clearness. "May, leave us alone, please."
I knelt beside the bed. I took one of his hands and he gave me the
other, looking at me with an ashen smile. "Dan, I was determined not to
die until I had seen you and I have compelled them to leave me alone
most of the time. I was afraid of company--afraid that it might lead my
mind off and let death sneak up and master me. I was so determined to
live, that nothing but my own mind could have killed me."
How changed he was, even aside from the ravages of disease. His hair
was perfectly white and his teeth were gone. His eyes were sunken, but
they were still sharp.
"I did not believe he would ever come home, Dan. Something kept on
telling me that he would not, morning, noon and night. When we knew
that the war could certainly last but a few days more, I took hope; but
that something was louder than ever, dinging my boy's death in my ears.
So I was not greatly surprised when Elliot came with the news. He gave
me your note and told me how he died--like a Gradley and a man. In your
note you said--I have it under my pillow--that he told you to say that
he loved me. God bless him."
"Master, he told me more than the note contained. He said that if he
lived to get home, he would acknowledge to you that he was wrong."
He broke down at this and I wiped the tears out of his eyes.
"He didn't owe me any apology; he had as much right to his opinion as
I had to mine. Some of the noblest minds and kindest hearts in the
country went wrong. Don't tell me anything he said that bordered on an
apology. He should not have apologized. In my heart I forgave him a
thousand times; and, night after night, I sat in his room, reading his
books. When I was taken down I had them bring his bed in here that I
might die on it. Yes, we were all wrong," he said, pressing my hands.
"Dan, lean over." My face was almost touching his, and I trembled
violently. "You know the hoof-marks on the stairs--you know that I
killed Solomon Putnam. But you never knew why."
"No, sir; no one ever told me."
"No one knew. Dan, your mother was a beautiful woman. Titine reminds me
of her. Did anyone ever tell you that your mother was handsome?"
"Yes, sir, an old negro man, a long time ago."
"Dan, that scoundrel offered to buy your mother. I scorned his money
and he poisoned her. And I sent him word that I would kill him on
sight; and he rode up the stairs, drunk, to kill me in my bed. I raised
myself up and shot him--Dan, lean over further. My life has been
miserable and I am--I am the author of all your misery. There, don't
pull away from me. Put your head on this old breast for a moment. My
poor boy--I have been a disgrace unto myself and the cause of your
humiliation. But I have loved you and have shown it whenever I could
without bringing a cruelty down upon your head. My poor wife--God
forgive me--always strongly suspected, but she did not know. She hated
you and who could blame her? That scoundrel Bates kept her mind on
fire with insinuations--He was afraid to tell her outright. A thousand
times I have been tempted to tell her and beg her forgiveness, but the
quality of forgiveness was always a stranger to her heart. She has had
enough to harden her against the world and I am going to beg her for
mercy as I would beg at the Judgment seat. Dan, I have no money to
leave you. The farm is mortgaged. All I can leave is the love and the
blessing of a wretched old man, a sinner. Is that someone at the door?"
I opened the door. Old Miss and Miss May came in. They drew near to the
bedside and stood there, seeing that the hour of parting was not far
off.
"I was afraid of some sudden shock," said the old woman, and she looked
hard at me. "Shall we go out again?" she asked, smoothing back Old
Master's white hair.
"No," he said, his voice feebler than when he had spoken last. He
motioned to her and she sat down beside him. Miss May was at the foot
of the bed with her face buried in the covers. A few moments passed
and he strove to talk, but the power of speech was gone. Several of
the neighbors had come to see him, and they were admitted to the
death-room, though the old man had passed beyond the border line of
consciousness. His breathing grew heavier and, toward dawn, he fell
asleep. I stood and gazed upon him with a new reverence, a strange and
half frightened affection. The revelation did not come to me as a great
surprise; it was as plain to me as to the reader who has followed me
through these memoirs; but I had not permitted myself to muse upon it;
there was always something so startling in the thought.
I turned to go and Old Miss followed me down the stairs, and in the
hall she bade me wait a moment. I stood near the door, in the gray
light, she halting near me; and her eyes were dry.
"What did he tell you?" she asked.
"Madam, for mercy sake don't ask me to repeat it."
"Madam!" she said bitterly. "You are drinking your freedom fast. But
have you lost your sense of obedience, and at such a time as this?"
"I would rather not tell you."
"But I command you."
"Then you shall know. He told me that he was my father."
It seemed a long time before she spoke again. She stood looking at
me. "You have been the humiliation and the bitterness of my life,"
she said. "The first sight of you gave me a shudder, and never since
then have I known a moment of peace. I brooded in a doubt worse than a
certainty--I could not find out the truth. And but for my children I
would have drowned myself. Yes, you have been the humiliation and the
bitterness of my life. Now go."
"Yes, I will go--But did you ever stop to reflect that while I might
have been a humiliation and a bitterness, it was not my fault?"
"I thought of nothing but my own shame and my own bitterness. Go, and I
hope never to see you again."
"Just one moment. There is something that I ought to tell you. I told
Old Master before I went into the army. Young master did not kill Dr.
Bates. I killed him to save my own life, and Master, knowing that they
would hang me, took the blood upon himself."
"Then you shall be tried for murder!" the old woman said. "I will go
and have you arrested," She turned her back upon me. "Sam," she called.
"Sam, where are you?"
"Wait a moment before you send for an officer," said I. She faced me
again, frowning. "You must know," said I, speaking as kindly as I
could, "that you have no law to take hold of me now. The strong arm of
the North has freed me, though I opposed it, and now it declares me the
equal of any man before the law. It says that if I am innocent I shall
be protected, and I am innocent. You could not have me arrested in the
first place, and, even if you could, it would not be in good taste at
this time. You have told me of the bitterness of your life, but I have
not told you of the misery of mine. You--but I will charge my misery to
nature. Good-bye, and in all truth I hope that God may bless you."
I stepped out upon the portico; and--and there in the growing light
stood Titine. My breath came with a gasp as I beheld her. She looked at
me, looked at my tattered feet and covered her face with her hands.
"Titine, I must now say good-bye forever."
She looked up. There was heaven in her eyes. "No," she said. "No, you
are not to say good-bye. I am going with you."
"What!" I cried, almost choking with emotion.
"I am going with you. I would rather go to perdition with you than to
be separated from you again." She caught my hand and held it and I
stood there trembling. "You told me of your love and now I am going
to tell you of mine," she said. "My soul has wept over you, and in the
night my heart has cried aloud. I am going with you."
I put my arms about her, thanking God that I was alive, but almost
unable to believe my senses. And then my condition smote me. "But I am
a pauper, Titine. I am a penniless tramp and the dogs bark at me."
"You are not a pauper," she said. "Wait a moment."
She ran up the stairs and soon returned with a pocket-book.
"Take it," she said, handing it to me. "I have saved it for you. And
now, let us go away from this desolate place--away off somewhere into
the world of freedom and love."
And with my arm about her, we stepped forth into the light of a new
day, our faces turned toward the rising sun.
* * * * *
I sit here to-night in my Ohio home, and I look at a portrait on the
wall, enlarged from a powder-blackened photograph that I brought with
me, when foot-sore and heart-heavy, I walked from Richmond to my
desolate birth-place in Kentucky. And here beside the portrait is the
picture of a monument and an apple-tree. I hear my daughter at the
piano, and I hear Titine singing a mellow song of the long ago. It has
been a night of company at my house, and some of the younger guests
have lingered into this late hour, for the occasion is one of exceeding
cheer. Early in the evening a committee called to inform me of what I
knew full well, my re-election to Congress.
THE END.