HUGH AND SAM.
It is more than a year now since last we looked in upon the inmates of
Spring Bank, and during that time Kentucky had been the scene of
violence, murder, and bloodshed. The roar of artillery had been heard
upon its hills. Soldiers wearing the Federal uniform had marched up and
down its beaten paths, encamping for a brief season in its capital, and
then departing to other points where their services were needed more.
Morgan, with his fierce band of guerillas, had carried terror, dismay,
and sometimes death, to many a peaceful home; while _Harney_, too,
disdaining open, honorable warfare, had joined himself, it was said, to
a horde of savage marauders, gathered, some from Texas, some from
Mississippi, and a few from Tennessee; but none, to her credit be it
said, none from Kentucky, save their chief, the _Rebel Harney_, who,
despised and dreaded almost equally by Unionists and Confederates, kept
the country between Louisville and Lexington in a constant state of
excitement.
As the storm grew blacker, it had seemed necessary for Colonel Tiffton
openly to avow his sentiments, and not “sneak between two fires, for
fear of being burned,” as Harney wolfishly told him one day, taunting
him with being a “villainous Yankee,” and hinting darkly of the
punishment preparing for all such.
The colonel was not cowardly, but, as was natural, he _did_ lean to the
Confederacy. “Peaceful separation, if possible,” was his creed; and
fully believing the South destined to triumph, he took that side at
last, greatly to the delight of his high-spirited Nell, who had been a
Rebel from the first. With a look of reproach which the Colonel never
forgot, Alice Johnson listened to his reasons for joining himself with
the Secessionists, but when at the close of his arguments he kindly
advised her to be a little more careful in expressing her opinions,
saying there was no knowing what Harney, who was known to be bitterly
prejudiced against Spring Bank, might be tempted to do, her blue eyes
flashed proudly as she replied, “I should be unworthy of the state which
gave me birth, were I afraid to say what I think. No, I am not afraid;
and should Harney, with his whole band of marauders, attack our house,
he will find at least one who is not a coward. I would not deny my
country to save my life. Still, I do not think it right to expose myself
unnecessarily to danger, and as Mrs. Worthington is very timid, and very
anxious to go North, where there is safety, I too have concluded that it
is best to leave Spring Bank for a time. Aunt Eunice, who is afraid of
nothing, will remain in charge of the house, while you, we hope, will
have a care for the negroes until we return, or Hugh, if that time ever
comes,” and Alice’s voice trembled as she thought how long it was since
they had heard from Hugh, three months having elapsed since a word had
come to them from him.
Col. Tiffton was glad Alice was going North, for in those excited times
he knew not what harm might befall her, alone and unprotected as she was
at Spring Bank. He would willingly take charge of the negroes, he said,
and he kindly offered to do whatever he could to expedite her departure.
Alice would not confess to him that the great object of her going North
was the hope she had of being nearer Hugh, for it was arranged between
herself and Mrs. Worthington that, after stopping for a few days in
Snowdon they should go on to Washington where some tidings might be
received of the soldier, and where they might perhaps hear from Adah,
who had not yet been found. This was Alice’s plan, and after receiving
the Colonel’s approbation, she communicated it to the negroes, telling
it first to Sam, who begged earnestly to go with her.
“Don’t leave me, Miss Ellis. Take me ’long, please take me to Massah
Hugh. I’se quite peart now, and kin look after Miss Ellis a heap.”
Alice could not promise till she had talked with Mrs. Worthington, who
offered no objection, and it was arranged that with Densie, Sam, and
Lulu, they should start at once for Snowdon. Accordingly, one week after
Alice’s conversation with Col. Tiffton she bade adieu to Spring Bank and
was on her way to the North, where there was safety and quiet.
* * * * *
Anna Millbrook’s eyes were dim with tears, and her heart was sore with
pain, when told that Alice Johnson was waiting for her in the parlor
below. Only the day before had she heard of her brother’s disgrace,
feeling as she heard it, how much rather she would that he had died ere
there were so many stains upon his name. But _Alice_ would comfort her,
and she hastened to meet her. Sitting down beside her, she talked with
her long of all that had transpired since last they met; talked of Adah,
and then of Willie, who at Alice’s request, was taken by her to the
hotel, where Mrs. Worthington was stopping. He had grown to be a most
beautiful and engaging child, and Mrs. Worthington justly felt a thrill
of pride as she clasped him to her bosom, weeping over him passionately.
She could scarcely bear to lose him from her sight, and when later in
the day Anna came down for him, she begged hard for him to stay. But
Willie preferred returning with Mrs. Millbrook, who promised that he
should come every day so long as Mrs. Worthington remained at the hotel.
As soon as Mrs. Richards learned that Mrs. Worthington and Alice were in
town, she insisted upon their coming to Terrace Hill. There were the
pleasant chambers fitted up for ’Lina, they had never been occupied, and
Mrs. Worthington could have them as well as not; or better yet—could
take Anna’s old chamber, with the little room adjoining, where Adah used
to sleep. Mrs. Worthington preferred the latter, and removed with Alice
to Terrace Hill, while at Anna’s request Densie went to Riverside
Cottage, where she used to live, and where she was much happier than she
would have been with strangers.
Not long however could Mrs. Worthington remain contentedly at Snowdon,
and after a time Alice started with her and Lulu for Washington, taking
with them Sam, who seemed a perfect child in his delight at the prospect
of seeing “Massah Hugh.” From a soldier returning home on furlough they
heard that he was with his Regiment but to see him was not so easy a
matter. Indeed, he seemed farther off at Washington than he had done at
Spring Bank, and Alice sometimes questioned the propriety of having left
Kentucky at all. They were not very comfortable at Washington, and as
Mrs. Worthington pined for the pure country air, Alice managed at last
to procure board at the house of a friend whose acquaintance she had
made at the time of her visits to Virginia. It was some distance from
Washington, and so near to Bull Run that when at last the second battle
was fought in that vicinity, the roar of the artillery was distinctly
heard, and they who listened to the noise of that bloody conflict knew
just when the battle ceased, and thought with tearful anguish of the
poor, maimed, suffering wretches left to bleed and die alone. They knew
_Hugh_ must have been in the battle, and Mrs. Worthington’s anxiety
amounted almost to insanity, while Alice, with blanched cheek and
compressed lip, could only pray silently that he might be spared. Only
Sam thought of acting.
“Now is my time,” he said to Alice, as they stood talking together of
Hugh, and wondering if he were safe. “Something tell me Massah Hugh is
hurted somewhar, and I’se gwine to find him. I knows all de way, an’
every tree round dat place. I can hide from de ’Federacy. Dem Rebels let
ole white-har’d nigger look for young massah, and I’se gwine. P’raps I
not find him, but I does somebody some good. I helps somebody’s Massah
Hugh.”
It seemed a crazy project, letting that old man start off on so strange
an errand, but Sam was determined.
“He had a ’sentiment,” as he said, “that Hugh was wounded, and he must
go to him.”
In his presentiment Alice had no faith; but she did not oppose him, and
at parting she said to him hesitatingly,
“Sam,—did you,—do you,—has it ever occurred to you that your master
cared particularly for me;—that is,—cared,—you know how,” and Alice
blushed scarlet while Sam replied eagerly, “Yes, Miss, Sam got mizzable
memory, but he knows dat ar, and it passes him what Massah Hugh done
jine de army for, when he might stay home and haved Miss Ellis just as
Sam pray he might so long. Massah Hugh and Miss Ellis make good span. I
tell Massah. Shall I?”
“Not unless you find him wounded and believe him dying, then, you may
tell him,—tell him—that I said—I loved him; and had he ever come back, I
would have been his wife.”
“I tells him,” was Sam’s reply, as he departed on his errand of mercy,
which proved not to be a fruitless one, for he _did_ find his master,
and falling on his knees beside him, uttered the joyful words we have
before repeated.
To the faint, half-dying Hugh that familiar voice from home and that
dusky form bending over him so pityingly, seemed more like a dream than
a reality. He could not comprehend how Sam came there, or what he was
saying to him. Something he heard of ole Miss and Snow-down, and
Washington; but nothing was real until he caught the name of _Alice_,
and thought Sam said she was there.
“Where, Sam—where?” he asked, trying to raise himself upon his elbow.
“Is Alice here, did you say?”
“No, massah; not ’zactly here—but on de road. If massah could ride, Sam
hold him on, like massah oncet held on ole Sam, and we’ll get to her
directly. They’s kind o’ Secesh folks whar she is, but mighty good to
her. She knowed ’em ’fore, ’case way down here is whar Sam was sold dat
time Miss Ellis comed and show him de road to _Can’an_. Miss Ellis tell
me somethin’ nice for Massah Hugh, ef he’s dyin’—suffin make him so
glad. Is you dyin’, massah?”
“I hardly think I am as bad as that. Can’t you tell unless I am near to
death?” Hugh said; and Sam replied,
“No, massah; dem’s my orders. ‘Ef he’s dyin’, Sam tell him I’—dat’s what
she say. Maybe you _is_ dyin’, massah. Feel and see!”
“It’s possible,” and something like his old mischievous smile played
round Hugh’s white lips as he asked how a chap felt when he was dying.
“I’se got mizzable mem’ry, and I don’t justly ’member,” was Sam’s
answer; “but I reckons he feel berry queer and choky—berry.”
“That’s exactly my case, so you may venture to tell,” Hugh said; and
getting his face close to that of the young man, Sam whispered “She say,
‘Tell massah Hugh—I—I’—you’s _sure_ you’s dyin’?”
“I’m sure I feel as you said I must,” Hugh replied, and Sam went on.
“‘Tell him I loves him; and ef he lives I’ll be his wife.’ Dem’s her
very words, nigh as I can ’member—but what is massah goin’ to do” he
continued, in some surprise, as Hugh attempted to rise.
“Do, I’m going to Alice,” was Hugh’s reply, as with a moan he sank back
again, too weak to rise alone.
“Then you be’nt dyin’, after all,” was Sam’s rueful comment, as he
suggested, “Ef massah only clamber onto Rocket.”
This was easier proposed than done, but after several trials Hugh
succeeded; and, with Sam steadying him while he half lay on Rocket’s
neck, he proceeded slowly and safely through the woods, meeting at last
with some Unionists, who gave him what aid they could, and did not leave
him until they saw him safely deposited in an ambulance, which, in spite
of his entreaties, took him direct to Georgetown. It was a bitter
disappointment to Hugh, so bitter, indeed, that he scarcely felt the
pain when his broken arm was set; and when, at last, he was left alone
in his narrow hospital bed, he turned his face to the wall, and cried,
just as many a poor, homesick soldier had done before him, and will do
again.
* * * * *
Twenty-four hours had passed, and in Hugh’s room it was growing dark
again. All the day he had watched anxiously the door through which
visitors would enter, asking repeatedly if no one had called for him;
but just as the sun was going down he fell away to sleep, dreaming at
last that _Golden Hair_ was there—that her soft, white hands were on his
brow, her sweet lips pressed to his, while her dear voice murmured
softly, “Darling Hugh!”
There was a cry of pain from a distant corner, and Hugh awoke to know it
was no dream—the soft hands on his brow, the kiss upon his lips—for
_Golden Hair was_ there; and by the tears she dropped upon his face, and
the caresses she gave him, he knew that Sam had told him truly. For
several minutes there was silence between them, while the eyes looked
into each other with a deeper meaning than words could have expressed;
then smoothing back his damp brown hair, and letting her fingers still
rest upon his forehead, Alice whispered to him, “I loved you, Hugh, when
you left home, and I hoped that first note would have told you so. I
wish it had, for then we need not have been separated so long.”
Winding his well arm round her neck, and drawing her nearer to him, Hugh
answered,
“It was best just as it is. Had I been sure of your love, I should have
found it harder to leave home. My country needed me. I am glad I have
done what I could to defend it. Glad that I joined the army, for Alice,
darling, Golden Hair, in my lonely tent reading that little Bible you
gave me so long ago, the Saviour found me, and now, whether I live or
not, it is well, for if I die, I am sure you will be mine in Heaven; and
if I live——”
Alice finished the sentence for him,
“If you live, God willing, I shall be your wife. Dear Hugh, I bless the
Good Father, first for bringing you to Himself, and then restoring you
to me.”