JOINING THE ARMY.
Ten days after the burial, there came three letters to Spring Bank, one
to Hugh, from Murdoch, as he now chose to be called, saying that though
he had sought and was still searching for the missing Adah, he could
only trace her, and that but vaguely, to the Greenbush depot, where he
lost sight of her entirely, no one after that having seen a person
bearing the least resemblance to her. After a consultation with the
doctor, he had advertised for her, and he enclosed a copy of the
advertisement, as it appeared in the different papers of Boston, Albany,
and New York.
“If A—— H—— will let her whereabouts be known to her friends, she will
hear of something to her advantage.”
This was the purport of Murdoch’s letter, if we except a kind enquiry
after _’Lina_, of whose death he had not heard.
The second, for Alice, was from Anna Richards, who having heard of
’Lina’s decease, spoke kindly of the unfortunate girl, and then wrote.
“I have great hopes of my erring brother, now that I know how his whole
heart goes out towards his beautiful boy, our darling Willie. I wish
poor, dear Lily could have seen him when, on his arrival at Terrace
Hill, he knelt by the crib of his sleeping child, waking him at once,
and hugging him to his bosom, while his tears dropped like rain. I am
sure she would have chosen to be his wife, for her own sake as well as
Willie’s.
“You knew how proud my mother and sisters are, and it would surprise you
to see them pet, and spoil, and fondle Willie, who rules the entire
household; mother even allowing him to bring wheel-barrow, drum, and
trumpet into the parlor, declaring that she likes the noise, as it stirs
up her blood. Willie has made a vast change in our once quiet home, and
I fear I shall meet with much opposition when I take him away, as I
expect to do next month, for Lily gave him to me, and brother John has
said that I may have him until the mother is found, while Charlie is
perfectly willing; and thus, you see, my cup of joy is full.
“Brother is away now, searching for Adah, and I am wicked enough not to
miss him, so busy am I in the few preparations needed by the wife of a
poor missionary.”
Then, in a postscript, Anna added: “I forgot to tell you that Charlie
and I are to be married some time in July, that the Presbyterian Society
of Snowdon have given him a call to be their pastor, that he has
accepted, and what is best of all, has actually rented your old home for
us to live in. Oh, I am so happy; I do not feel like an old maid of
thirty-three, and Charlie flatters me by saying I have certainly gone
back in looks to twenty. Perhaps I have, but it all comes of happiness
and a heart full of thankfulness to our good Father who has so greatly
blessed me.”
With a smile, Alice finished the childlike letter, so much like Anna.
Then feeling that Mrs. Worthington would be glad to hear from Willie,
she went in quest of her, finding her at the end of the long piazza,
listening while Hugh read the sympathetic letter received from Irving
Stanley.
From the doctor, whom he accidentally met on Broadway, Irving had heard
of ’Lina’s death, and he wrote at once to Mrs. Worthington, expressing
his sympathy for her own and Hugh’s bereavement; thus showing that the
Dr. had only told him a part of the sad story, withholding all that
concerned Adah, who was evidently a stranger to Irving Stanley. His
sister, Mrs. Ellsworth, was well, he wrote, though very busy with her
preparations for going to Europe, whither he intended accompanying her,
adding “it was not so much pleasure which was taking her there, as the
hope that by some of the Paris physicians her little deformed Jennie
might be benefitted. She had secured a gem of a governess for her
daughter, a young lady whom he had not yet seen, but over whose beauty
and accomplishments his staid sister Carrie had really waxed eloquent.”
The letter closed by asking if Hugh were still at home or had he joined
the army.
“Oh-h,” and Alice’s cheek grew pale at the very idea of Hugh’s putting
himself in so much danger, for Hugh was very dear to her now. His noble,
unselfish devotion to ’Lina had finished the work begun on that
memorable night when she had said to him, “I may learn to love you,” and
more than once as she watched with him by ’Lina’s bedside, she had been
tempted to wind her arm around his neck and whisper in his ear,
“Hugh, I love you now, I will be your wife.”
But propriety had held her back and made her far more reserved towards
him than she had ever been before. Terribly jealous where she was
concerned, Hugh was quick to notice the change, and the gloomy shadow on
his face was not caused wholly by ’Lina’s sad death, as many had
supposed. Hugh was very unhappy. Instead of learning to love him, as he
had sometimes hoped she might, Alice had come to dislike him, shunning
his society, and always making some pretense to get away if by chance
they were left alone, or if compelled to talk with him, chatting rapidly
on the most indifferent topics. She never would love him, Hugh thought,
and feeling that the sooner he left home the better, he had decided to
start at once in quest of Adah. This decision he had not yet
communicated to his mother, but as the closing of Irving Stanley’s
letter seemed to open the way, he rather abruptly announced his
intention of going immediately to New York. He did not however add that
failing to find his sister, he might possibly join the Federal Army.
Ever since he had had time to think clearly upon the subject then
agitating the public mind, Hugh had felt an intense desire to enroll
himself with the patriotic men who would not sit idly down while their
country was laying her dishonored head low in the dust. A Unionist to
the heart’s core, he had already won some notoriety by his bitter
denunciations against those men who, with Harney at their head, were
advocating secession from the union. But his first duty was to Adah, and
so he only talked of her and the probabilities of his finding her. He
should start to-morrow, if possible, he said. He had made his
arrangements to do so, and there was no longer an excuse for tarrying.
They would get on well enough without him; they would not miss him much,
and he stole a glance at Alice, who, fearful lest she might betray
herself, framed some excuse for leaving her seat upon the piazza, and
stole up to her room where she could be alone, to think how desolate
Spring Bank would be when Hugh was really gone.
Once she thought to tell him all, thinking that a perfect understanding
would make her so much happier while he was away, but maidenly modesty
kept her back, and so the words which would have brought so much comfort
to Hugh were to the last unspoken. Gentler, kinder, tenderer than a
sister’s could have been, was her demeanor towards him during the whole
of the next day, the last he spent at home. Once, emboldened by
something she said, Hugh felt half tempted to sue again for the love so
coveted, but depreciation of himself kept him silent, and when at last
they parted, his manner towards her was so constrained and cold that
even Mrs. Worthington observed it, wondering what had come between them.
She wanted Alice to think well of Hugh, and by way of obliterating any
unpleasant impression he might have left in her mind, she spent the
morning after his departure in talking of him, telling how kind he had
always been to her, and how kind he was to every body. Many acts were
enumerated by the fond mother as proofs of his unselfishness, and among
others she spoke of his heroic conduct years ago, when with his uncle he
was on Lake Erie and the boat took fire. Had she never told Alice?
“No, never,” Alice answered faintly, a new light breaking in upon her
and showing her why it was that Hugh’s face had so often puzzled her.
_He_ was the boy to whose care she had entrusted her life, and _she_ was
the _Golden Haired_, remembered by him so long and so lovingly. There
was one great throb of joy,—of perfect delight, and then an intense
desire to tell Hugh of her discovery——.
But Hugh was gone, and her only alternative now was to write. He was
intending to stop two days in Cincinnati, and he had said to his mother,
“If any thing happens you can write to me there,” and something had
happened, something which made her heart throb wildly, as alone in her
room she knelt and thanked her God, asking that he would care for the
Hugh so dear to her, and bring him safely back.
Two days later and Hugh, who had but an hour longer to remain in
Cincinnati, sauntered to the post-office, with very little expectations
that he should find any thing awaiting him. How then was he surprised
when a clerk handed him Alice’s letter, the sixth she had written ere at
all satisfied with its wording. Hurrying back to his room at the hotel,
he broke the seal, and read as follows.
“DEAR HUGH:—I have at last discovered _who_ you are, and why I have so
often been puzzled with your face. You are the boy whom I met on the
St. Helena, and who rescued me from drowning. Why have you never told
me this?
“Dear Hugh, I wish I had known it earlier. It seems so cold, thanking
you on paper, but I have no other opportunity, and must do it here.
“We were both unconscious when taken from the water, but you were
holding fast to my arm, and so really was the means of my being saved,
though a fisherman carried me to the shore. You must have been removed
at once, for when we inquired for you we could only learn that you
were gone. Heaven bless you, Hugh. My mother prayed often for the
preserver of her child, and need I tell you that I, too, shall never
forget to pray for you? The Lord keep you in all your ways, and lead
you safely to your sister,
ALICE.”
Many times Hugh read this note, then pressing it to his lips thrust it
into his bosom, but failed to see what Alice had hoped he might see,
that the love he once asked for was his at last.
“If she loved me, she would have told me so,” he thought, “for she
promised me as much, but she does not, so that ends the drama. Oh,
Golden Hair, why _did_ I ever meet her, or why was I suffered to love
her so devotedly, if I must lose her at the last!”
There were great drops of sweat about Hugh’s lips, and on his forehead,
as, burying his face in his hands, he laid both upon the table, and
battled manfully with his love for Alice Johnson.
“God help me in my sorrow,” was the prayer which fell from the quivering
lips, but did not break the silence of that little room, where none,
save God, witnessed the conflict, the last Hugh ever fought for Alice
Johnson.
He _could_ give her up at length; could think, without a shudder, of
living all his life without her, and when, late that afternoon, he took
the evening train for Cleveland, not one in the crowded car would have
guessed how sore was the heart of the young man who plunged so
energetically into the spirited war argument in progress between a
Northern and Southern politician. It was a splendid escape-valve for his
pent up feelings, and Hugh carried everything before him, taking by
turns both sides of the question, and effectually silencing the two
combatants, who said to each other in parting, “We shall hear from that
Kentuckian again, though whether in Rebeldom or Yankee land we cannot
tell.”
Arrived at New York he wrote a reply to Alice’s note, saying that what
he had done for her was no more than he ought to have done for any one
who had come to him for help, and that she need not expend her gratitude
on him, though he was glad of any thing to keep him in her remembrance.
After this he wrote regularly, kind, friendly letters, and Alice was
beginning to feel that they in some degree atoned for his absence, when
there came one which wrung a wailing cry from Mrs. Worthington, and
brought Alice at once to her side.
“What is it?” she asked in much alarm, and Mrs. Worthington replied,
“Oh, Hugh, my boy! he’s enlisted, joined the army! I shall never see him
again!”
Could Hugh have seen Alice then, he would not for a moment have doubted
the nature of her feelings towards himself. She did not cry out, nor
faint, but her face turned white as the dress she wore, while her hands
pressed so tightly together, that her nails left the impress in her
flesh.
“God keep him from danger and death,” she murmured; then, winding her
arm around the stricken mother, she wiped her tears away; and to her
moaning cry that she was left alone, replied, “Let me be your child till
he returns, or, if he never does——”
She could get no further, and sinking down beside Hugh’s mother, she
laid her head on her lap, and wept bitterly. Alas, that scenes like this
should be so common in our once happy land, but so it is. Mothers start
with terror, and grow faint over the boy just enlisted for the war; then
follow him with prayers and yearning love to the distant battle field;
then wait and watch for tidings from him; and then too often read with
streaming eyes and hearts swelling with agony, the fatal message which
says _their boy is dead_.
It was a sad day at Spring Bank when first the news of Hugh’s enlistment
came, for Hugh seemed as really dead as if they heard the hissing shell
or whizzing ball which was to bear his young life away. It was nearly
two months since he left home, and he could find no trace of Adah,
though searching faithfully for her, in conjunction with Murdoch and Dr.
Richards, both of whom had joined him in New York.
“If Murdoch cannot find her,” he wrote, “I am convinced no one can, and
I leave the matter now to him, feeling that another duty calls me, the
duty of fighting for my country.”
It was just after the disastrous battle of Bull Run, when people were
wild with excitement, and Hugh was thus borne with the tide, until he
found himself enrolled as a private in a regiment of cavalry, gathering
in one of the Northern States. There had been an instant’s hesitation, a
clinging of the heart to the dear old home at Spring Bank, where his
mother and Alice were; and then, with an eagerness which made his whole
frame tremble, he had seized the pen, and written down his name, amid
deafening cheers for the brave Kentuckian. This done, there was no
turning back; nor did he desire it. It seemed as if he were made for
war, so eagerly he longed to join the fray. Only one thing was wanting,
and that was _Rocket_. He had tried the “Yankee horses,” as he called
them, but found them far inferior to his pet. Rocket, he must have, and
in his letter to his mother, he made arrangements for her to send him
northward by a Versailles merchant, who he knew, was coming to New York.
Hugh and Rocket, they would make a splendid match, and so Alice thought,
as, on the day when Rocket was led away, she stood with her arms around
his graceful neck, whispering to him the words of love she would fain
have sent his master. She had recovered from the first shock of Hugh’s
enlistment. She could think of him now calmly as a soldier; could pray
that God would keep him, and even feel a throb of pride that one who had
lived so many years in Kentucky, then poising almost equally in the
scale, should come out so bravely for the right, though by that act he
called down curses on his head from those at home who favored Rebellion,
and who, if they fought at all, would cast in their lot with the
seceding States. She had written to Hugh telling him how proud she was
of him, and how her sympathy and prayers would follow him everywhere.
“And if,” she had added, in concluding, “you are sick, or wounded, I
will come to you as a sister might do. I will find you wherever you
are.”
She had sent this letter to him three weeks before, and now she stood
caressing the beautiful Rocket, who sometimes proudly arched his long
neck, and then looked wistfully at the sad group gathered round him, as
if he knew it was no ordinary parting. Col. Tiffton, who had heard what
was going on, had ridden over to expostulate with Mrs. Worthington
against sending Rocket North. “Better keep him at home,” he said, “and
tell Hugh to come back, and let those who had raised the muss settle
their own difficulty.”
The old colonel, who was a native of Virginia, did not know exactly
where he stood. “He was very patriotic,” he said, “but hanged if he knew
which side to take—both were wrong. He didn’t go Nell’s doctrine, for
Nell was a _rabid Secesh_; neither did he swallow Abe Lincoln, and he’d
advise Alice to keep a little more quiet, for there was no knowing what
the hot heads would do; they might pounce on Spring Bank any night.”
“Let them,” and Alice’s blue eyes flashed brightly while her girlish
figure seemed to expand and grow higher as she continued; “they will
find no cowards here. I never touched a revolver in my life. I am quite
as much afraid of one that is not loaded as of one that is, but I’ll
conquer the weakness. I’ll begin to-day. I’ll learn to handle fire-arms.
I’ll practice shooting at a mark, and if Hugh is killed I’ll——”
She could not tell what she would do, for the woman conquered all other
feelings, and laying her face on Rocket’s silken mane, she sobbed aloud.
“There’s pluck, by George!” muttered the old colonel. “I most wish Nell
was that way of thinking.”
It was time now for Rocket to go, and ‘mid the deafening howls of the
negroes and the tears of Mrs. Worthington and Alice he was led away, the
latter watching him until he was lost to sight beyond the distant hill,
then falling on her knees she prayed, as many a one has done, that God
would be with our brave soldiers, giving them the victory, and keeping
_one_ of them, at least, from falling.
Sadly, gloomily the autumn days came on, and the land was rife with war
and rumors of war. In the vicinity of Spring Bank were many patriots,
but there were hot Secessionists there also, and bitter contentions
ensued. Old friends were estranged, families were divided, neighbors
watched each other jealously, while all seemed waiting anxiously for the
result.
Blacker, and darker, and thicker the war clouds gathered on our horizon,
but our story has little to do with that first year of carnage, when
human blood was poured as freely as water, from the Cumberland to the
Potomac. Over all that we pass, and open the scene again in the summer
of ‘62, when people were gradually waking to the fact that Richmond was
_not_ so easily taken, or the South so easily conquered.