What enthusiasm on that gusty Monday morning, the Sixth of May, 1861!
Twelfth Street to the north of the Market House is full three hundred
feet across, and the militia of the Sovereign State of Missouri is
gathering there. Thence by order of her Governor they are to march to
Camp Jackson for a week of drill and instruction.
Half a mile nearer the river, on the house of the Minute Men, the
strange flag leaps wildly in the wind this day.
On Twelfth Street the sun is shining, drums are beating, and bands
are playing, and bright aides dashing hither and thither on spirited
chargers. One by one the companies are marching up, and taking place in
line; the city companies in natty gray fatigue, the country companies
often in their Sunday clothes. But they walk with heads erect and chests
out, and the ladies wave their gay parasols and cheer them. Here are
the aristocratic St. Louis Grays, Company A; there come the Washington
Guards and Washington Blues, and Laclede Guards and Missouri Guards and
Davis Guards. Yes, this is Secession Day, this Monday. And the colors
are the Stars and Stripes and the Arms of Missouri crossed.
What are they waiting for? Why don't they move? Hark! A clatter and a
cloud of dust by the market place, an ecstasy of cheers running in waves
the length of the crowd. Make way for the dragoons! Here they come
at last, four and four, the horses prancing and dancing and pointing
quivering ears at the tossing sea of hats and parasols and ribbons.
Maude Catherwood squeezes Virginia's arm. There, riding in front, erect
and firm in the saddle, is Captain Clarence Colfax. Virginia is red and
white, and red again,--true colors of the Confederacy. How proud she was
of him now! How ashamed that she even doubted him! Oh, that was his true
calling, a soldier's life. In that moment she saw him at the head of
armies, from the South, driving the Yankee hordes northward and still
northward until the roar of the lakes warns them of annihilation. She
saw his chivalry sparing them. Yes, this is Secession Monday.
Down to a trot they slow, Clarence's black thorough-bred arching his
long neck, proud as his master of the squadron which follows, four and
four. The square young man of bone and sinew in the first four, whose
horse is built like a Crusader's, is George Catherwood. And Eugenie
gives a cry and points to the rear where Maurice is riding.
Whose will be the Arsenal now? Can the Yankee regiments with their
slouchy Dutchmen hope to capture it! If there are any Yankees in Twelfth
Street that day, they are silent. Yes, there are some. And there are
some, even in the ranks of this Militia--who will fight for the Union.
These are sad indeed.
There is another wait, the companies standing at ease. Some of the
dragoons dismount, but not the handsome young captain, who rides
straight to the bright group which has caught his eye, Colonel Carvel
wrings his gauntleted hand.
“Clarence, we are proud of you, sir,” he says.
And Virginia, repeats his words, her eyes sparkling, her fingers
caressing the silken curve of Jefferson's neck.
“Clarence, you will drive Captain Lyon and his Hessians into the river.”
“Hush, Jinny,” he answered, “we are merely going into camp to learn to
drill, that we may be ready to defend the state when the time comes.”
Virginia laughed. “I had forgotten,” she said.
“You will have your cousin court-martialed, my dear,” said the Colonel.
Just then the call is sounded. But he must needs press Virginia's hand
first, and allow admiring Maude and Eugenie to press his. Then he goes
off at a slow canter to join his dragoons, waving his glove at them, and
turning to give the sharp order, “Attention”! to his squadron.
Virginia is deliriously happy. Once more she has swept from her heart
every vestige of doubt. Now is Clarence the man she can admire. Chosen
unanimously captain of the Squadron but a few days since, Clarence had
taken command like a veteran. George Catherwood and Maurice had told the
story.
And now at last the city is to shake off the dust of the North. “On to
Camp Jackson!” was the cry. The bands are started, the general and
staff begin to move, and the column swings into the Olive Street road,
followed by a concourse of citizens awheel and afoot, the horse cars
crowded. Virginia and Maude and the Colonel in the Carvel carriage, and
behind Ned, on the box, is their luncheon in a hamper Standing up, the
girls can just see the nodding plumes of the dragoons far to the front.
Olive Street, now paved with hot granite and disfigured by trolley
wires, was a country road then. Green trees took the place of crowded
rows of houses and stores, and little “bob-tail” yellow cars were drawn
by plodding mules to an inclosure in a timbered valley, surrounded by
a board fence, known as Lindell Grove. It was then a resort, a picnic
ground, what is now covered by close residences which have long shown
the wear of time.
Into Lindell Grove flocked the crowd, the rich and the poor, the
proprietor and the salesmen, to watch the soldiers pitch their tents
under the spreading trees. The gallant dragoons were off to the west,
across a little stream which trickled through the grounds. By the side
of it Virginia and Maude, enchanted, beheld Captain Colfax shouting
his orders while his troopers dragged the canvas from the wagons, and
staggered under it to the line. Alas! that the girls were there! The
Captain lost his temper, his troopers, perspiring over Gordian knots in
the ropes, uttered strange soldier oaths, while the mad wind which blew
that day played a hundred pranks.
To the discomfiture of the young ladies, Colonel Carvel pulled his
goatee and guffawed. Virginia was for moving away.
“How mean, Pa,” she said indignantly. “How car, you expect them to do it
right the first day, and in this wind?”
“Oh! Jinny, look at Maurice!” exclaimed Maude, giggling. “He is pulled
over on his head.”
The Colonel roared. And the gentlemen and ladies who were standing by
laughed, too. Virginia did not laugh. It was all too serious for her.
“You will see that they can fight,” she said. “They can beat the Yankees
and Dutch.”
This speech made the Colonel glance around him: Then he smiled,--in
response to other smiles.
“My dear,” he said, “you must remember that this is a peaceable camp of
instruction of the state militia. There fly the Stars and Stripes from
the general's tent. Do you see that they are above the state flag?
Jinny; you forget yourself.”
Jinny stamped her foot
“Oh, I hate dissimulation,” she cried, “Why can't we, say outright that
we are going to run that detestable Captain Lyon and his Yankees and
Hessians out of the Arsenal.”
“Why not, Colonel Carvel?” cried Maude. She had forgotten that one of
her brothers was with the Yankees and Hessians.
“Why aren't women made generals and governors?” said the Colonel.
“If we were,” answered Virginia, “something might be accomplished.”
“Isn't Clarence enough of a fire-eater to suit you?” asked her father.
But the tents were pitched, and at that moment the young Captain was
seen to hand over his horse to an orderly, and to come toward them. He
was followed by George Catherwood.
“Come, Jinny,” cried her cousin, “let us go over to the main camp.”
“And walk on Davis Avenue,” said Virginia, flushing with pride. “Isn't
there a Davis Avenue?”
“Yes, and a Lee Avenue, and a Beauregard Avenue,” said George, taking
his sister's arm.
“We shall walk in them all,” said Virginia.
What a scene of animation it was. The rustling trees and the young grass
of early May, and the two hundred and forty tents in lines of military
precision. Up and down the grassy streets flowed the promenade, proud
fathers and mothers, and sweethearts and sisters and wives in gala
dress. Wear your bright gowns now, you devoted women. The day is coming
when you will make them over and over again, or tear them to lint, to
stanch the blood of these young men who wear their new gray so well.
Every afternoon Virginia drove with her father and her aunt to Camp
Jackson. All the fashion and beauty of the city were there. The bands
played, the black coachmen flecked the backs of their shining horses,
and walking in the avenues or seated under the trees were natty young
gentlemen in white trousers and brass-buttoned jackets. All was not
soldier fare at the regimental messes. Cakes and jellies and even ices
and more substantial dainties were laid beneath those tents. Dress
parade was one long sigh of delight: Better not to have been born than
to have been a young man in St. Louis, early in Camp Jackson week, and
not be a militiaman.
One young man whom we know, however, had little of pomp and vanity
about him,--none other than the young manager (some whispered “silent
partner”) of Carvel & Company. If Mr. Eliphalet had had political
ambition, or political leanings, during the half-year which had just
passed, he had not shown them. Mr. Cluyme (no mean business man himself)
had pronounced Eliphalet a conservative young gentleman who attended
to his own affairs and let the mad country take care of itself. This
is precisely the wise course Mr. Hopper chose. Seeing a regiment of
Missouri Volunteers slouching down Fifth street in citizens' clothes he
had been remarked to smile cynically. But he kept his opinions so close
that he was supposed not to have any.
On Thursday of Camp Jackson week, an event occurred in Mr. Carvel's
store which excited a buzz of comment. Mr. Hopper announced to Mr.
Barbo, the book-keeper, that he should not be there after four o'clock.
To be sure, times were more than dull. The Colonel that morning had read
over some two dozen letters from Texas and the Southwest, telling of the
impossibility of meeting certain obligations in the present state of the
country. The Colonel had gone home to dinner with his brow furrowed.
On the other hand, Mr. Hopper's equanimity was spoken of at the widow's
table.
At four o'clock, Mr. Hopper took an Olive Street car, tucking himself
into the far corner where he would not be disturbed by any ladies who
might enter. In the course of an hour or so, he alighted at the western
gate of the camp on the Olive Street road. Refreshing himself with a
little tobacco, he let himself be carried leisurely by the crowd between
the rows of tents. A philosophy of his own (which many men before and
since have adopted) permitted him to stare with a superior good nature
at the open love-making around him. He imagined his own figure,--which
was already growing a little stout,--in a light gray jacket and duck
trousers, and laughed. Eliphalet was not burdened with illusions of that
kind. These heroes might have their hero-worship. Life held something
dearer for him.
As he was sauntering toward a deserted seat at the foot of a tree, it so
chanced that he was overtaken by Mr. Cluyme and his daughter Belle. Only
that morning, this gentleman, in glancing through the real estate column
of his newspaper, had fallen upon a deed of sale which made him wink. He
reminded his wife that Mr. Hopper had not been to supper of late. So now
Mr. Cluyme held out his hand with more than common cordiality. When Mr.
Hopper took it, the fingers did not close any too tightly over his own.
But it may be well to remark that Mr. Hopper himself did not do any
squeezing. He took off his hat grudgingly to Miss Belle. He had never
liked the custom.
“I hope you will take pot luck with us soon again, Mr. Hopper,” said
the elder gentleman. “We only have plain and simple things, but they are
wholesome, sir. Dainties are poor things to work on. I told that to his
Royal Highness when he was here last fall. He was speaking to me on the
merits of roast beef--”
“It's a fine day,” said Mr. Hopper.
“So it is,” Mr. Cluyme assented. Letting his gaze wander over the camp,
he added casually, “I see that they have got a few mortars and howitzers
since yesterday. I suppose that is the stuff we heard so much about,
which came on the 'Swon' marked 'marble.' They say Jeff Davis sent the
stuff to 'em from the Government arsenal the Secesh captured at Baton
Rouge. They're pretty near ready to move on our arsenal now.”
Mr. Hopper listened with composure. He was not greatly interested in
this matter which had stirred the city to the quick. Neither had Mr.
Cluyme spoken as one who was deeply moved. Just then, as if to spare the
pains of a reply, a “Jenny Lind” passed them. Miss Belle recognized the
carriage immediately as belonging to an elderly lady who was well known
in St. Louis. Every day she drove out, dressed in black bombazine, and
heavily veiled. But she was blind. As the mother-in-law of the stalwart
Union leader of the city, Miss Belle's comment about her appearance in
Camp Jackson was not out of place.
“Well!” she exclaimed, “I'd like to know what she's doing here!”
Mr. Hopper's answer revealed a keenness which, in the course of a few
days, engendered in Mr. Cluyme as lusty a respect as he was capable of.
“I don't know,” said Eliphalet; “but I cal'late she's got stouter.”
“What do you mean by that?” Miss Belle demanded.
“That Union principles must be healthy,” said he, and laughed.
Miss Cluyme was prevented from following up this enigma. The appearance
of two people on Davis Avenue drove the veiled lady from her mind.
Eliphalet, too, had seen them. One was the tall young Captain of
Dragoons, in cavalry boots, and the other a young lady with dark brown
hair, in a lawn dress.
“Just look at them!” cried Miss Belle. “They think they are alone in the
garden of Eden. Virginia didn't use to care for him. But since he's
a captain, and has got a uniform, she's come round pretty quick. I'm
thankful I never had any silly notions about uniforms.”
She glanced at Eliphalet, to find that his eyes were fixed on the
approaching couple.
“Clarence is handsome, but worthless,” she continued in her sprightly
way. “I believe Jinny will be fool enough to marry him. Do you think
she's so very pretty, Mr. Hopper?”
Mr. Hopper lied.
“Neither do I,” Miss Belle assented. And upon that, greatly to
the astonishment of Eliphalet, she left him and ran towards them.
“Virginia!” she cried; “Jinny, I have something so interesting to tell
you!”
Virginia turned impatiently. The look she bestowed upon Miss Cluyme was
not one of welcome, but Belle was not sensitive. Putting her arm through
Virginia's, she sauntered off with the pair toward the parade grounds,
Clarence maintaining now a distance of three feet, and not caring to
hide his annoyance.
Eliphalet's eyes smouldered, following the three until they were lost
in the crowd. That expression of Virginia's had reminded him of a
time, years gone, when she had come into the store on her return from
Kentucky, and had ordered him to tell her father of her arrival. He had
smarted then. And Eliphalet was not the sort to get over smarts.
“A beautiful young lady,” remarked Mr. Cluyme. “And a deserving one, Mr.
Hopper. Now, she is my notion of quality. She has wealth, and manners,
and looks. And her father is a good man. Too bad he holds such views
on secession. I have always thought, sir, that you were singularly
fortunate in your connection with him.”
There was a point of light now in each of Mr. Hopper's green eyes. But
Mr. Cluyme continued:
“What a pity, I say, that he should run the risk of crippling himself by
his opinions. Times are getting hard.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Hopper.
“And southwestern notes are not worth the paper they are written on--”
But Mr. Cluyme has misjudged his man. If he had come to Eliphalet for
information of Colonel Carvel's affairs, or of any one else's affairs,
he was not likely to get it. It is not meet to repeat here the long
business conversation which followed. Suffice it to say that Mr. Cluyme,
who was in dry goods himself, was as ignorant when he left Eliphalet
as when he met him. But he had a greater respect than ever for the
shrewdness of the business manager of Carvel & Company.
.........................
That same Thursday, when the first families of the city were whispering
jubilantly in each other's ears of the safe arrival of the artillery and
stands of arms at Camp Jackson, something of significance was happening
within the green inclosure of the walls of the United States arsenal,
far to the southward.
The days had become alike in sadness to Stephen. Richter gone, and the
Judge often away in mysterious conference, he was left for hours at
a spell the sole tenant of the office. Fortunately there was work of
Richter's and of Mr. Whipple's left undone that kept him busy. This
Thursday morning, however, he found the Judge getting into that best
black coat which he wore on occasions. His manner had recently lost much
of its gruffness.
“Stephen,” said he, “they are serving out cartridges and uniforms to the
regiments at the arsenal. Would you like to go down with me?”
“Does that mean Camp Jackson?” asked Stephen, when they had reached the
street.
“Captain Lyon is not the man to sit still and let the Governor take the
first trick, sir,” said the Judge.
As they got on the Fifth Street car, Stephen's attention was at once
attracted to a gentleman who sat in a corner, with his children about
him. He was lean, and he had a face of great keenness and animation. He
had no sooner spied Judge Whipple than he beckoned to him with a kind of
military abruptness.
“That is Major William T. Sherman,” said the Judge to Stephen. “He
used to be in the army, and fought in the Mexican War. He came here two
months ago to be the President of this Fifth Street car line.”
They crossed over to him, the Judge introducing Stephen to Major
Sherman, who looked at him very hard, and then decided to bestow on him
a vigorous nod.
“Well, Whipple,” he said, “this nation is going to the devil; eh?”
Stephen could not resist a smile. For it was a bold man who expressed
radical opinions (provided they were not Southern opinions) in a St.
Louis street car early in '61.
The Judge shook his head. “We may pull out,” he said.
“Pull out!” exclaimed Mr. Sherman. “Who's man enough in Washington
to shake his fist in a rebel's face? Our leniency--our timidity--has
paralyzed us, sir.”
By this time those in the car began to manifest considerable interest in
the conversation. Major Sherman paid them no attention, and the Judge,
once launched in an argument, forgot his surroundings.
“I have faith in Mr. Lincoln. He is calling out volunteers.”
“Seventy-five thousand for three months!” said the Major, vehemently,
“a bucketful on a conflagration I tell you, Whipple, we'll need all the
water we've got in the North.”
The Judge expressed his belief in this, and also that Mr. Lincoln would
draw all the water before he got through.
“Upon my soul,” said Mr. Sherman, “I'm disgusted. Now's the time to stop
'em. The longer we let 'em rear and kick, the harder to break 'em. You
don't catch me going back to the army for three months. If they want me,
they've got to guarantee me three years. That's more like it.” Turning
to Stephen, he added: “Don't you sign any three months' contract, young
man.”
Stephen grew red. By this time the car was full, and silent. No one had
offered to quarrel with the Major. Nor did it seem likely that any one
would.
“I'm afraid I can't go, sir.”
“Why not?” demanded Mr. Sherman.
“Because, sir,” said the Judge, bluntly, “his mother's a widow, and they
have no money. He was a lieutenant in one of Blair's companies before
the call came.”
The Major looked at Stephen, and his expression changed.
“Find it pretty hard?” he asked.
Stephen's expression must have satisfied him, but he nodded again, more
vigorously than before.
“Just you WAIT, Mr. Brice,” he said. “It won't hurt you any.”
Stephen was grateful. But he hoped to fall out of the talk. Much to his
discomfiture, the Major gave him another of those queer looks. His whole
manner, and even his appearance, reminded Stephen strangely of Captain
Elijah Brent.
“Aren't you the young man who made the Union speech in Mercantile
Library Hall?”
“Yes, sir,” said the Judge. “He is.”
At that the Major put out his hand impulsively, and gripped Stephen's.
“Well, sir,” he said, “I have yet to read a more sensible speech, except
some of Abraham Lincoln's. Brinsmade gave it to me to read. Whipple,
that speech reminded me of Lincoln. It was his style. Where did you get
it, Mr. Brice?” he demanded.
“I heard Mr. Lincoln's debate with Judge Douglas at 'Freeport,” said
Stephen; beginning to be amused.
The Major laughed.
“I admire your frankness, sir,” he said. “I meant to say that its logic
rather than its substance reminded one of Lincoln.”
“I tried to learn what I could from him, Major Sherman.”
At length the car stopped, and they passed into the Arsenal grounds.
Drawn up in lines on the green grass were four regiments, all at last
in the blue of their country's service. Old soldiers with baskets of
cartridges were stepping from file to file, giving handfuls to the
recruits. Many of these thrust them in their pockets, for there were not
enough belts to go around. The men were standing at ease, and as Stephen
saw them laughing and joking lightheartedly his depression returned.
It was driven away again by Major Sherman's vivacious comments. For
suddenly Captain Lyon, the man of the hour, came into view.
“Look at him!” cried the Major, “he's a man after my own heart. Just
look at him running about with his hair flying in the wind, and the
papers bulging from his pockets. Not dignified, eh, Whipple? But
this isn't the time to be dignified. If there were some like Lyon in
Washington, our troops would be halfway to New Orleans by this time.
Don't talk to me of Washington! Just look at him!”
The gallant Captain was a sight, indeed, and vividly described by Major
Sherman's picturesque words as he raced from regiment to regiment,
and from company to company, with his sandy hair awry, pointing,
gesticulating, commanding. In him Stephen recognized the force that had
swept aside stubborn army veterans of wavering faith, that snapped the
tape with which they had tied him.
Would he be duped by the Governor's ruse of establishing a State Camp at
this time? Stephen, as he gazed at him, was sure that he would not. This
man could see to the bottom, through every specious argument. Little
matters of law and precedence did not trouble him. Nor did he believe
elderly men in authority when they told gravely that the state troops
were there for peace.
After the ranks were broken, Major Sherman and the Judge went to talk to
Captain Lyon and the Union Leader, who was now a Colonel of one of
the Volunteer regiments. Stephen sought Richter, who told him that the
regiments were to assemble the morning of the morrow, prepared to march.
“To Camp Jackson?” asked Stephen.
Richter shrugged his shoulders.
“We are not consulted, my friend,” he said. “Will you come into my
quarters and have a bottle of beer with Tiefel?”
Stephen went. It was not their fault that his sense at their comradeship
was gone. To him it was as if the ties that had bound him to them were
asunder, and he was become an outcast.