THE LAST HOURS OF A CIVILIZATION
Margaret's decision saddened Oliver's last days at home, and he
returned to New York with none of his former buoyancy. Here other
troubles began to multiply. Before the autumn was gone, Morton, Slade &
Co., unable longer to make headway against the financial difficulties
that beset them, went to the wall, involving many of their
fellow-merchants. Oliver lost his situation, in consequence, and was
forced to support himself during the long dreary winter by making
lithographic drawings for Bianchi, at prices that barely paid his
board. His loneliness in the garret room became more intense, Fred
being much away and the occupants of the other rooms being either
strangers to him or so uncongenial that he would not make their
acquaintance.
To his own troubles were added other anxieties. The political outlook
had become even more gloomy than the financial. The roar of Sumter's
guns had reverberated throughout the land, and men of all minds were
holding their breath and listening, with ears to the ground, for the
sound of the next shot. Even Margaret's letters were full of
foreboding. "Father is more bitter against the South than ever," she
wrote. "He says if he had ten sons each should shoulder a musket. We
must wait, Ollie dear. I can only talk to mother about you. Father
won't listen, and I never mention your name before him. Not because it
is you, Ollie, but because you represent a class whom he hates. Dear
John would listen, but he is still in Boston. Even his fellow-classmen
want to fight, he says. I fear all this will hurt my work, and keep me
from painting."
These letters of Margaret's, sad as they were, were his greatest and
sometimes his only comfort. She knew his ups and downs and they must
have no secrets from each other. From his mother, however, he kept all
records of his privations during these troublous months. Neither his
father nor his dear mother must deprive themselves for his benefit.
During these dreary days he often longed for Kennedy Square and for
those whom he loved, but it was not until one warm spring day, when the
grass was struggling into life, and the twigs on the scraggy trees in
Union Square were growing pink and green with impatient buds and leaves
that he had his wish. Then a startling telegram summoned him. It read
as follows:
"Father ill. Come at once.
"Mother"
Instinctively Oliver felt in his pockets for his purse. There was just
money enough to take him to Kennedy Square and back.
His mother met him at the door.
"It was only a fainting turn, my son," were her first words. "I am
sorry I sent for you. Your father is himself again, so Dr. Wallace
says. He has been working too hard lately--sometimes far into the
night. I could have stopped you from coming; but, somehow, I wanted
you--" and she held him close in her arms, and laid her cheek against
his. "I get so lonely, my boy, and feel so helpless sometimes."
The weak and strong were changing places. She felt the man in him now.
Nathan was in the library. He and Malachi had been taking turns at
Richard's bedside. Malachi had not closed his eyes all night. Nathan
came out into the hall when he heard Oliver's voice, and put his hand
on his shoulder.
"We had a great scare, Ollie," he said, "but he's all right again,
thank God! He's asleep now--better not wake him." Then he put on his
coat and went home.
Malachi shook his head. "Sumpin's de matter wid him, an' dis ain't de
las' ob it. Drapped jes' like a shote when he's hit, Marse Oliver," he
said, in a low whisper, as if afraid of disturbing his master on the
floor above. "I was a-layin' out his clo'es an' he called quick like,
'Malachi! Malachi!' an' when I got dar, he was lyin' on de flo' wid his
head on de mat. I ain't nebber seen Marse Richard do like dat befo'--"
The old servant trembled as he spoke. He evidently did not share
Nathan's hopeful views. Neither did Dr. Wallace, although he did not
say so to anyone.
Their fears, however, were not realized. Richard not only revived, but
by the end of the week he was in the drawing-room again, Malachi, in
accordance with the time-honored custom, wheeling out his chair,
puffing up the cushions, and, with a wave of the hand and a sweeping
bow, saying:
"Yo' ch'ar's all ready, Marse Richard. Hope you'se feelin' fine dis
evenin', sah!"
The following day he was in his "li'l' room," Oliver helping him. It
was the lifting of the heavy plate of the motor that had hurt Richard,
so Nathan told him; not the same motor which Oliver remembered;
another, much larger and built on different lines. The inventor now
used twenty-four cells instead of ten, and the magnets had been wrapped
with finer wire.
These days in the shop were delightful to Oliver. His father no longer
treated him as an inexperienced youth, but as his equal. "I hope you
will agree with me, my son," he would say; or, "What do you think of
the idea of using a 'cam' here instead of a lever?" or, "I wish you
would find the last issue of the Review, and tell me what you think of
that article of Latrobe's. He puts the case very clearly, it seems to
me," etc. And Oliver would bend his head in attention and try to follow
his father's lead, wishing all the time that he could really be of use
to the man he revered beyond all others, and so lighten some of the
burdens that were weighing him down.
And none the less joyful were the hours spent with his mother. All the
old-time affection, the devotion of a lover-son, were lavished upon
her. And she was so supremely happy in it all. Now that Richard had
recovered, there was no other cloud on her horizon, not even that of
the dreaded mortgage which owing to some payments made Richard by a
company using one of his patents had been extended and its interest
paid for two years in advance in deference to her urgent request. All
anxiety as to the Northern girl had happily passed out of her mind. If
Oliver intended marrying Miss Grant he would have told her, she knew.
Then again, he was so much stronger and wiser now--so much more
thoughtful than he had been--so much more able to keep his head in
matters of this kind.
As his position was different with his father in the "li'l' room" and
with his mother in the stillness of her chamber--for often they talked
there together until far into the night--so were his relations altered
with his old friends and neighbors in the drawing-room. While the young
men and girls filled the house as had always been their custom, the
older men, as well, now paid their respects to Richard Horn's son.
"One of our own kind," Judge Bowman said to Richard. "Does you credit,
Horn--a son to be proud of."
Even Amos Cobb came to look him over, a courtesy which pleased Richard
who greatly admired the Vermonter, and who had not hesitated to express
his good opinion of him on more than one occasion before his own and
Cobb's friends.
"A man of force, gentlemen," Richard had said, "of great kindness of
heart and with a wide range of vision. One who has the clearest ideas
of what makes for the good of his country; a man too, not ashamed of
his opinions and with ample courage to defend them. He deserves our
unqualified respect, not our criticism."
When Cobb heard of Richard's outspoken defence of him he at once called
on the inventor at his workshop--a thing he had not done for mouths,
and asked to see the motor, and that same night astonished the circles
about the club tables, by remarking, in a tone of voice loud enough for
everybody to hear: "We have all been wrong about Horn. He has got hold
of something that will one day knock steam higher than Gilderoy's
kite." A friendship was thus established between the two which had
become closer every day--the friendship of a clearer understanding; one
which was unbroken during the rest of their lives.
It was quite natural, therefore, that Amos Cobb should be among
Oliver's earliest callers. He must have been pleased with his
inspection, for he took occasion at the club to say to Colonel Clayton,
in his quick, crisp way:
"Dropped in at Horn's last night. His boy's over from New York. Looks
like a different man since he quit fooling round here a couple of years
ago. Clean cut a young fellow as I've seen for many a day. Got a look
out of his eyes like his mother's. Level-headed woman, his mother--no
better anywhere. If all the young bloods South had Oliver Horn's ideas
we might pull through this crisis."
To which my Lord Chesterfield of Kennedy Square merely replied only
with a nod of the head and a drawing together of the eyebrows. He found
it difficult to tolerate the Vermonter in these days with his continued
tirades against "The epidemic of insanity sweeping over the South," as
Cobb would invariably put it.
The scribe now reaches a night in Oliver's career fraught with such
momentous consequences that he would be glad to leave its story untold:
An unforgettable night indeed, both for those who were assembled there,
and for him who is the chronicler. He would fain lay down his pen to
recall again the charm and the sweetness and the old-time flavor of
that drawing-room: the soft lights of the candles; the perfume of the
lilacs coming in through the half-open windows; the merry laugh of the
joyous girl running through the Square to be ushered by Malachi a
moment later into the presence of her hostess, there to make her
courtesied obeisance before she joined a group of young people around
one of the red damask-covered sofas. And then Richard, dear Richard,
with his white hair and his gracious speech, and Miss Clendenning with
her manners of foreign courts, and the sweet-voiced hostess of the
mansion moving about among her guests; her guests who were her
neighbors and her friends; whose children were like her own, and whose
joys and sorrows were hers--guests, neighbors, friends many of whom
after this fatal night were to be as enemies never to assemble again
with the old-time harmony and love.
Malachi had brewed the punch; the little squat glasses were set out
beside the Canton china bowl, for it was the night of the weekly
musical and an unusually brilliant company had assembled in honor of
Oliver's arrival and of Richard's recovery.
The inventor was to play his own interpretations of Handel's Largo, a
favorite selection of Ole Bull, and one which the inventor and the
great virtuoso had played together some years before.
Miss Clendenning had taken her place at the piano, Nathan standing
beside her to turn the leaves of the accompaniment.
Richard had picked up his violin, tucked it under his chin, poised the
bow, and that peculiar hush which always precedes the sounding of the
first notes on evenings of this kind had already fallen upon the room,
when there came a loud rap at the front door that startled everyone and
the next instant Colonel Clayton burst in, his cheeks flaming, his hat
still on his head.
"Ten thousand Yankees will be here in the morning, Horn!" he gasped,
out of breath with his run across the Square, holding one hand to his
side as he spoke, and waving an open telegram in the other. "Stop! This
is no time for fiddling. They're not going round by water; they're
coming here by train. Read that," and he held out the bit of paper.
The Colonel's sudden entrance and the startling character of the news,
had brought every man to his feet.
Richard laid down his violin, read the telegram quietly, and handed it
back.
"Well, suppose they do come, Clayton?"
His voice was so sustained, and his manner so temperate, that a certain
calming reassurance was felt.
"Suppose they DO come! They'll burn the town, I tell you," shouted the
infuriated man, suddenly remembering his hat and handing it to Malachi.
"That's what they're coming for. We want no troops in our streets, and
the Government ought to know it. It's an outrage to send armed men here
at this time!"
"You're all wrong, Clayton," answered Richard, without raising his
voice. "You have always been wrong about this matter. There are two
sides to this question. Virginia troops occupied Harper's Ferry
yesterday. If the authorities consider that more troops are needed to
protect Washington, that's their affair, not yours nor mine."
"We'll MAKE it our affair. What right has this damnable Government to
march their troops through a free and sovereign State without its
permission! Whom do they think this town belongs to, I want to know,
that this Northern scum should foul it. Not a man shall set foot here
if I can help it. I would rather--"
Richard turned to stay the torrent of invectives in which such words as
"renegades," "traitors," "mud-sills," were heard, but the Colonel,
completely unmanned by the rage he was in, and seemingly unconscious of
the presence of the ladies, waved him aside with his hand, and faced
the row of frightened, expectant faces.
"Gentlemen, when you are through with this tom-foolery, I shall be glad
if you will come to the club; any of you who have got guns had better
look them up; they'll be wanted before this is over. We'll meet these
dirty skinflints with cold lead and plenty of it."
Oliver's face flushed at the Colonel's words, and he was about to
speak, when his mother laid her hand on his arm. Visions of the kindly
face of Professor Cummings, and the strong well-knit figure of Fred
Stone, John Grant, Hank, Jonathan Gordon, and the others whom he loved
came before his eyes.
Richard raised his hand in protest:
"You are mad, Clayton; you don't know what you are doing. Stop these
troops and our streets will run blood. I beg and beseech you to keep
cool. Because South Carolina has lost her head, that is no reason why
we should. This is not our fight! If my State called me to defend her
against foreign invasion, old as I am I would be ready, and so should
you. But the Government is part of ourselves, and should not be looked
upon as an enemy. You are wrong, I tell you, Clayton."
"Wrong or right, they'll have to walk over my dead body if they attempt
to cross the streets of this town. That's my right as a citizen, and
that I shall maintain. Gentlemen, I have called a meeting at the club
at ten o'clock to-night. All of you able to carry a gun will do me the
kindness to be present. I'd rather die right here in my tracks than let
a lot of low-lived mud-sills who never entered a gentleman's house in
their lives come down here at the beck and call of this rail-splitter
they've put in the White House and walk over us rough-shod! And you,
Horn, a Virginian, defend it! By God, sir, it's enough to make a man's
blood boil!"
The inventor's eyes flashed. They blazed now as brightly as those of
Clayton. Not even a life-long friend had the right to use such language
in his presence, or in that of his guests. Richard's figure grew tense
with indignation. Confronting the now reckless man, he raised his hand
and was about to order him out of the house when Oliver stepped quickly
in front of his father.
"You are unjust, Colonel Clayton." The words came slowly between the
boy's partly closed teeth. "You know nothing of these people. I have
lived among them long enough not only to know but to love them. There
are as many gentlemen North as South. If you would go among them as I
have done, you would be man enough to admit it."
The Colonel turned upon him with a snarl:
"And so you have become a dirty renegade, have you, and gone back on
your blood and your State? That's what comes of sending boys like you
away from home!"
The guests stood amazed. The spectacle of the most courteous man of his
time acting like a blackguard was more astounding than the news he had
brought. Even Malachi, at the open door, trembled with fear.
As the words fell from his lips Mrs. Horn's firm, clear voice, crying
"Shame! Shame!" rang through the room. She had risen from her seat and
was walking rapidly to where the Colonel was standing.
"Shame, I say, John Clayton! How dare you speak so? What has our young
son ever done to you, that you should insult him in his father's house!
What madness has come over you?"
The horrified guests looked from one to the other. Every eye was fixed
on the Colonel, shaking with rage.
For a brief instant he faced his hostess, started to speak, checked
himself as if some better judgment prevailed, and with upraised hands
flung himself from the room, shouting, as he went:
"Ten o'clock, gentlemen! Chesapeake Club! Every man with a gun!"
Richard, astounded at Clayton's action and now thoroughly convinced of
the danger of the situation and determined to do what he could to
thwart the efforts of such men as the Colonel and his following, laid
his violin in its case, turned to his frightened guests and with a few
calming words and a promise to send each one of them word if any
immediate danger existed, called Oliver and Nathan to him, and taking
his cloak and hat from Malachi's outstretched trembling hands started
for the club. Once outside it was easy to see that a feeling of intense
and ominous excitement was in the air. Even on the sidewalk and on the
street corners, men stood silent, huddled together, their eyes on the
ground, the situation being too grave for spoken words.
On arriving they found its halls already filled with angry and excited
men discussing the threatened invasion, many of whom met the young man
with scowling looks, the Colonel having evidently informed them of
Oliver's protest.
A few of the members had brought their sporting guns. These had been
handed to the gouty old porter, who, half-frightened out of his wits,
had stacked them in a row against the wall of the outer hall. Billy
Talbot arrived a few moments later carrying a heavy fowling-piece
loaded for swan. He had been dining out when summoned and had hurriedly
left the table, excusing himself on the ground that he had been "called
to arms." He had taken time, however, to stop at his own house, slip
out of his English dress-suit and into a brown ducking outfit.
"We'll shoot 'em on the run, damn 'em--like rabbits, sir," he said to
Cobb as he entered, the Vermonter being the only man likely to
communicate with the invaders and so make known the warlike intentions
of at least one citizen, and the utter hopelessness of any prolonged
resistance. Waggles, who had followed close on his master's heels, was
too excited to sit down, but stood on three legs, his eye turned toward
Talbot, as if wanting to pick up any game which Billy's trusty
fowling-piece might bring down.
A quiet, repressed smile passed, over Oliver's face as he watched
Waggles and his master; but he spoke no word to the Nimrod. He could
not help thinking how Hank Pollard would handle the fashion-plate if he
ever closed his great bony hands upon him.
Judge Bowman now joined the group, bowing to Richard rather coldly and
planting himself squarely in front of Oliver.
"There's only one side to this question, young man, for you," he said.
"Don't be fooled by those fellow up in New York. I know them--known
them for years. Look up there"--and he pointed to the portrait of
Oliver's ancestor above the mantel. "What do you think he would do if
he were alive to-day! Stick to your own, my boy--stick to your own!"
General Mactavish now hurried in, drawing off his white gloves as he
entered the room, followed by Tom Gunning, Carter Thorn, and Mowbray,
an up-country man. The four had been dining together and had also left
the table on receipt of the Colonel's message. They evidently
appreciated the gravity of the situation, for they stood just outside
the excited group that filled the centre of the large room, listening
eagerly to Richard's clear tones pleading for moderation--"in a crisis
which," he urged, "required the greatest public restraint and
self-control," and which would surely "plunge the State into the most
horrible of wars" if those about him listened to the counsels of such
men as Clayton and Judge Bowman.
During the whole discussion Amos Cobb stood silent, leaning against the
mantel-piece, his cold gray eyes fixed on the excited throng, his thin
lips curling now and then. When the Defence Committee, in spite of
Richard's protest, had at last been formed, and its members formally
instructed to meet the enemy outside the city and protest, first by
voice and then, if necessary, by arms, against the unwarrantable
invasion of the soil of their State, the Vermonter buttoned up his coat
slowly, one button after another, fastened each one with a determined
gesture, drew on his gloves, set his lips tight, singled out Oliver and
Richard, shook their hands with the greatest warmth, and walked
straight out of the club-house. Some time during the night he drove in
a hack to Mr. Stiger's house; roused the old cashier from his sleep;
took him and the big walled-town-key down to the bank; unlocked the
vault and dragged from it two wooden boxes filled with gold coin, his
own property, and which the month before he had deposited there for
safe-keeping. These, with Stiger's assistance, he carried to the hack.
Within the hour, the two boxes with their contents were locked up in
bureau-drawer in his own house awaiting their immediate shipment to New
York.
The next morning Malachi's wizened face was thrust inside Oliver's
bedroom door. He was shaking with terror, his eyes almost starting from
his head.
"Marse Ollie, Marse Ollie, git up quick as you kin! De Yankees is come;
de town is black wid 'em!"
Oliver sprang from his bed and stood half-dazed looking into Malachi's
eyes.
"How do you know? Who told you?"
"I done seen 'em. Been up since daylight. Dey got guns wid 'em. Fo'
Gawd dis is tur-ble!" The old man's voice trembled--he could hardly
articulate.
Oliver hurried into his clothes; stepped noiselessly downstairs so as
not to wake his father and mother, and, closing the front door softly
behind him, stood for a moment on the top step. Should he forget the
insults of the night before and go straight to Colonel Clayton, and try
to dissuade him from his purpose, or should he find the regiment and
warn them of their danger?
A vague sense of personal responsibility for whatever the day might
bring forth took possession of him--as though the turning-point in his
life had come, without his altogether realizing it. These men from the
North were coming to his own town, where he had been born and brought
up, and where they should be hospitably received. If Clayton had his
way they would be met with clenched hands and perhaps with blows. That
these invaders were armed, and that each man carried forty rounds of
ammunition and was perfectly able to take care of himself, did not
impress him. He only remembered that they were of the same blood as the
men who had befriended him, and that they were in great personal danger.
The angry shouts of a crowd of men and boys approaching the Square from
a side street, now attracted his attention. They rushed past Oliver
without noticing him, and, hurrying on through the gate, crossed the
park, in the direction of the railroad station and the docks. One of
the mob, lacking a club, stopped long enough to wrench a paling from
the rickety fence enclosing the Square, trampling the pretty crocuses
and the yellow tulips under foot. Each new arrival, seeing the gap,
followed the first man's example, throwing the branches and tendrils to
the ground as they worked, until the whole panel was wrecked and the
vines were torn from their roots. As they swept by the Clayton house,
half a dozen men, led by the Colonel, ran down the steps, and joined
the throng.
Oliver, seeing now that all his efforts for peace would be hopeless,
ran through the Square close behind the shouting mob, dashed down a
side street parallel to that through which the cars carrying the troops
were to pass on their way to Washington, turned into an alley, and
found himself on the waterfront, opposite one of the dock slips.
These slips were crowded with vessels, their bowsprits, like huge
bayonets, thrust out over the car-tracks, as if to protect the cellars
of the opposite warehouses, used by the ship-chandlers for the storage
of coarse merchandise, and always left open during the day. The narrow
strip of dock-front, between the car-tracks and the water-line--an
unpaved strip of foot-trodden earth and rotting planks, on which lay
enormous ship-anchors, anchor-chains in coils, piles of squared timber,
and other maritime properties, stored here for years--was now a
seething mass of people completely hiding the things on which they
stood.
Oliver mounted a pile of barrels in front of one of these ship-chandler
cellars, and, holding to an awning-post, looked off over the heads of
the surging crowd and in the direction of the railroad station at the
end of the long street. From his position on the top barrel he could
see the white steam of the locomotives rising above the buildings and
the line of cars. He could see, too, a yard engine backing and puffing,
as if making up a train.
Suddenly, without apparent cause, there rose above the murmurs of the
street an ominous sound, like that of a fierce wind soughing through a
forest of pines. All eyes were directed down the long street upon a
line of cars that had been shunted on the street-track; about these
moved a group of men in blue uniforms, the sun flashing on their
bayonets and the brass shields of their belts.
Oliver, stirred by the sound, climbed to the top of the awning-post for
a better view and clung to the cross-piece. Every man who could gain an
inch of vantage, roused to an extra effort by the distinct roar, took
equal advantage of his fellows. Sailors sprang farther into the rigging
or crawled out to the end of the bowsprits; the windows of the
warehouses were thrown up, the clerks and employees standing on the
sills, balancing themselves by the shutters; even the skylights were
burst open, men and boys crawling out edging their way along the
ridge-poles of the roofs or holding to the chimneys. Every inch of
standing-room was black with spectators.
The distant roar died away in fitful gusts as suddenly as it had
arisen, and a silence even more terrifying fell upon the throng as a
body of police poured out of a side street and marched in a compact
body toward the cars.
Then came long strings of horses, eight or ten in tandem. These were
backed down and hooked to the cars.
The flash of bayonets was now cut off as the troops crowded into the
cars; the body of police wheeled and took their places ahead of the
horses; the tandems straightened out and the leaders lunged forward
under the lash. The advance through the town had begun.
All this time the mob about Oliver stood with hands clenched, jaws
tight shut, great lumps in their throats. Their eyes were the eyes of
hungry beasts watching an approaching prey.
As the distant rumbling of the cars, drawn by teams of straining
horses, sounded the nearer, a bare-headed man, with white hair and
mustache and black garments that distinguished him from the mob about
him, and whom Oliver instantly recognized as Colonel Clayton, mounted a
mass of squared timber lining the track, ran the length of the pile,
climbed to the topmost stick, and shouted, in a voice which
reverberated throughout the street:
"Block the tracks!"
A torrent of oaths broke loose as the words left his lips, and a rush
was made for the pile of timber. Men struggled and fought like demons
for the end of the great sticks, carrying them by main strength,
crossing them over the rails, heaping them one on the other like a pile
of huge jack-straws, a dozen men to a length, the mobs on the
house-tops and in the windows cheering like mad. The ends of the heavy
chains resting on the strip of dirt were now caught up and hauled along
the cobbles to be intertwined with the squared timber; anchors weighing
tons were pried up and dragged across the tracks by lines of men urged
on by gray-haired old merchants in Quaker-cut dress coats, many of them
bare-headed, who had yielded to the sudden unaccountable delirium that
had seized upon everyone. Colonel Clayton, Carter Thom, and Mowbray
could be seen working side by side with stevedores from the docks and
the rabble from the shipyards. John Camblin, a millionnaire and nearly
eighty years of age, head of the largest East India house on the
wharves, his hat and wig gone, his coat split from the collar to the
tails, was tugging at an anchor ten men could not have moved. Staid
citizens, men who had not used an oath for years, stood on the
sidewalks swearing like street-toughs; others looked out from their
office-windows, the tears streaming down their cheeks. A woman with a
coarse shawl about her shoulders, her hair hanging loose, a broom in
one hand, was haranguing the mob from the top of a tobacco hogshead,
her curses filling the air.
Oliver held to his seat on the cross-piece of the awning, his teeth
set, his eye fixed on the rapidly advancing cars, his mind wavering
between two opinions--loyalty to his home, now invaded by troops whose
bayonets might be turned upon his own people, and loyalty to the
friends he loved--and to the woman who loved him!
The shouting now became a continuous roar. The front line of policemen,
as they neared the obstructions, swung their clubs right and left,
beating back the crowd. Then the rumbling cars, drawn by the horses,
came to a halt. The barricades must be reckoned with.
Again there came the flashing of steel and the intermingling of blue
and white uniforms. The troops were leaving the cars and were forming
in line to pass the barricades; the officers marching in front, the
compact mass following elbow to elbow, their eyes straight before them,
their muskets flat against their shoulders.
The approaching column now deployed sharply, wheeled to the right of
the obstruction, and became once more a solid mass, leaving the
barricades behind them, the Chief of Police at the head of the line
forcing the mob back to the curbstone, laying about him with his club,
thumping heads and cracking wrists as he cleared the way.
The colonel of the regiment, his fatigue cap pulled over his eyes,
sword in hand, shoulders erect, cape thrown back, was now abreast of
the awning to which Oliver clung. Now and then he would glance
furtively at the house-tops, as if expecting a missile.
The mob looked on sullenly, awed into submission by the gleaming
bayonets. But for the shouts of the police, beating back the crowd, and
the muttered curses, one would have thought a parade was in progress.
The first company had now passed--pale, haggard-looking men, their lips
twitching, showing little flecks of dried saliva caked in the corners
of their mouths, their hands tight about the butts of their muskets.
Oliver looked on with beating heart. The dull, monotonous tramp of
their feet strangely affected him.
As the second line of bayonets came abreast of the awning-post, a
blacksmith in a red shirt and leather apron, his arms bared to the
elbow, sprang from the packed sidewalk into the open space between the
troops and the gutter, lifted a paving stone high above his head and
hurled it, with all his might, straight against the soldier nearest
him. The man reeled, clutched at the comrade next him, and sank to the
ground. Then, quick as an echo, a puff of white smoke burst out down
the line of troops, and a sharp, ringing report split the air. The
first shot of defence had been fired.
The whole column swayed as if breasting a gale.
Another and an answering shot now rang through the street. This came
from a window filled with men gesticulating wildly. Instantly the
troop wheeled, raised their muskets, and a line of fire and smoke
belched forth.
A terrible fear, that paled men's faces, followed by a moment of
ominous silence, seized upon the mob, and then a wild roar burst out
from thousands of human throats. The rectangular body of soldiers and
the ragged-edged mob merged into a common mass. Men wrenched the guns
from the soldiers and beat them down with the butt ends of the muskets.
Frenzied policemen hurled themselves into the midst of the disorganized
militia, knocking up the ends of their muskets, begging the men to hold
their fire. The air was thick with missiles; bricks from the
house-tops; sticks of wood and coal from the fireplaces of the offices;
iron bolts, castings, anything the crazed mob could find with which to
kill their fellow-men. The roar was deafening, drowning the orders of
the officers.
Oliver clung to his post, not knowing whether to drop into the seething
mass or to run the risk of being shot where he was. Suddenly his eye
singled out a soldier who stood at bay below him, swinging his musket,
widening the circle about him with every blow. The soldier's movements
were hampered by his heavy overcoat and army blanket slung across his
shoulder. His face and neck were covered with blood and dirt,
disfiguring him beyond recognition.
At the same instant Oliver became conscious that a man in blue overalls
was creeping up on the soldier's rear to brain him with a cart-rung
that he held in his hand.
A mist swam before the boy's eyes, and a great lump rose in his throat.
The cowardice of the attack incensed him; some of the hot blood of the
old ancestor that had crossed the flood at Trenton flamed up in his
face. With the quickness of a cat he dropped to the sidewalk, darted
forward, struck the coward full in the face with his clenched fist,
tumbling him to the ground, wrenched the rung from his hands, and,
jumping in front of the now almost overpowered soldier, swung the heavy
stick about him like a flail, clearing the space before him.
The assaulting crowd wavered, fell back, and then, maddened at Oliver's
defence of the invader, with a wild yell of triumph, swept the two
young men off their feet, throwing them bodily down the steps of a
ship-chandler's shop, the soldier knocked senseless by a blow from a
brick which had struck him full in the chest.
Oliver lay still for a moment, raised his head cautiously and, putting
forth all his strength, twisted his arms around the stricken man and
rolled with him into the cellar. Then, springing to his feet, he
slammed the door behind them and slipped in the bolt, before the mob
could guess his meaning.
Listening at the crack of the door for a moment and finding they were
not pursued, he stood over the limp body, lifted it in his arms, laid
it on a pile of sails, and ran to the rear of the cellar for a bucket
standing under a grimy window, scarcely visible in the gloom, now that
the door was shut.
Under the touch of the cold water, the soldier slowly opened his eyes,
straining them toward Oliver, as if in pain.
The two men looked, intently at each other; the soldier passing his
hand across his forehead as if trying to clear his brain. Then lifting
himself up on his elbow he gasped:
"Horn! Horn! My God!"
Oliver's heart stopped beating.
"Who are you?"
"John Grant."
Oliver saw only Margaret's face!
As though he were working for the woman he loved--doing what she would
have done--he knelt beside the wounded man, wiped the blood and grime
from his cheeks with his own handkerchief, loosening his coat, rubbing
his hands, murmuring "Old fellow," "Dear John ": there was no time for
other interchange of speech.
When at last Grant was on his feet the two men barricaded the doors
more strongly, rolling heavy barrels against them, the sounds from the
street seeming to indicate that an attack might be made upon them. But
the mob had swept on and forgotten them, as mobs often do, while the
fugitives waited, hardly daring to speak except in detached whispers,
lest some one of the inmates of the warehouse overhead might hear them.
Toward noon a low tap was heard at the window, which was level with an
alley in the rear, and a man's hand was thrust through a broken pane.
Oliver pressed Grant's arm, laid his finger on his lips, caught up a
heavy hammer lying on an oil-barrel, crept noiselessly along the wall
toward the sound, and stopped to listen. Then he heard his name called
in a hoarse whisper.
"Marse Ollie! Marse Ollie! Is you in here?"
"Who is it?" Oliver called back, crouching beneath the window, his
fingers tight around the handle of the hammer.
"It's me, Marse Ollie."
"You! Malachi!"
"Yassir, I'se been a-followin' ye all de mawnin'; I see 'em tryin' to
kill ye an' I tried to git to ye. I kin git through--yer needn't help
me," and he squeezed himself under the raised sash. "Malachi like de
snake--crawl through anywheres. An' ye ain't hurted?" he asked when he
was inside. "De bressed Lord, ain't dat good! I been a-waitin' outside;
I was feared dey'd see me if I tried de door."
"Where are the soldiers?"
"Gone. Ain't nobody outside at all. Mos' to de railroad by dis time,
dey tells me. An' dere ain't nary soul 'bout dis place--all run away.
Come 'long wid me, son--I ain't gwine ter leabe ye a minute. Marse
Richard'll be waitin'. Come 'long home, son. I been a-followin' ye all
de mawnin'." The tears were in his eyes now. "An' ye ain't hurted," and
he felt him all over with trembling hands.
John raised himself above the oil-barrels. He had heard the strange
talk and was anxiously watching the approaching figures.
"It's all right, Grant--it's our Malachi," Oliver called out in his
natural voice, now that there was no danger of being overheard.
The old man stopped and lifted both hands above his head.
"Gor'-a-mighty! an' he ain't dead?" His eyes had now become accustomed
to the gloom.
"No; and just think, Mally, he is my own friend. Grant, this is our
Malachi whom I told you about."
Grant stepped over the barrel and held out his hand to the old negro.
There are no class distinctions where life and death are concerned.
"Glad to see you. Pretty close shave, but I guess I'm all right. They'd
have done for me but for your master."
A council of war was now held. The uniform would be fatal if Grant were
seen in it on the street. Malachi must crawl into the alley again, go
over to Oliver's house, and return at dusk with one of Oliver's suits
of clothes; the uniform and the blood-stained shirt could then be
hidden in the cellar, and at dark, should the street still be deserted,
the three would put on a bold front and walk out of the front door of
the main warehouse over their heads. Once safe in the Horn house, they
could perfect plans for Grant's rejoining his regiment.
Their immediate safety provided for, and Malachi gone, Oliver could
wait no longer to ask about Margaret. He had been turning over in his
mind how he had best broach the subject, when her brother solved the
difficulty by saying:
"Father was the first man in Brookfleld to indorse the President's call
for troops. He'd have come himself, old as he is, if I had not joined
the regiment. He didn't like you, Horn; I always told him he was wrong.
He'll never forgive himself now when he hears what you have done for
me," and he laid his hand affectionately on Oliver's shoulder as he
spoke. "I liked you as soon as I saw you, and so did mother, and so
does Madge, but father was always wrong about you. We told him so,
again and again, and Madge said that father would see some day that you
got your politeness from the Cavaliers and we got our plain speaking
from the Puritans. The old gentleman was pretty mad about her saying
so, I tell you, but she stuck to it. Madge is a dear girl, Horn. A
fellow always knows just where to find Madge; no nonsense about her.
She's grown handsome, too--handsomer than ever. There's a new look in
her face, somehow, lately. I tell her she's met somebody in New York
she likes, but she won't acknowledge it."
Oliver drank in every word, drawing out the brother with skilful
questions and little exclamatory remarks that filled Grant with
enthusiasm and induced him to talk on. They were young men again
now--brothers once more, as they had been that first afternoon in the
library at Brookfield. In the joy of hearing from her he entirely
forgot his surroundings, and the dangers that still beset them both; a
joy intensified because it was the first and only time he had heard
someone who knew her talk to him of the woman he loved. This went on
until night fell and Malachi again crawled in through the same low
window and helped John into Oliver's clothes.
When all was ready the main door of the warehouse above was opened
carefully and the three men walked out--Malachi ahead, John and Oliver
following. The moonlit street was deserted; only the barricades of
timber and the litter of stones and bricks marked the events of the
morning. Dodging into a side alley and keeping on its shadow side they
made their way toward Oliver's home.
When the three reached the Square, the white light of the moon lay full
on the bleached columns of the Clayton house. Outside on the porch,
resting against the wall, stood a row of long-barrelled guns glinting
in the moon's rays. Through the open doorway could be seen the glow of
the hall lantern, the hall itself crowded with men. The Horn house was
dark, except for a light in Mrs. Horn's bedroom. The old servant's
visit had calmed their fears, and they had only to wait now until
Oliver's return.
Malachi stationed Oliver and John Grant in the shadow of the big
sycamore that overhung the house, mounted the marble steps and knocked
twice. Aunt Hannah opened the door. She seemed to be expecting someone,
for the knock was instantly followed by the turning of the knob.
Malachi spoke a few words in an undertone to Hannah, and stepped back
to where the two young men were standing.
"You go in, Marse Oliver. Leabe de gemman here wid me under de tree.
Everybody's got dere eye wide open now--can't fool Malachi--I knows de
signs."
Oliver walked leisurely to the door, closed it softly behind him, and
ran upstairs into his mother's arms.
Malachi whispered to Grant, and the two disappeared in the shadows. At
the same moment a bolt shot back in a gate in the rear of the yard--a
gate rarely unbolted. Old Hannah stood behind it shading a candle with
her hand. Malachi led the way across the yard, through the green door
of Richard's shop, mounted the work-bench, felt carefully along the
edge of a trap-door in the ceiling, unhooked a latch, pushed it up with
his two hands, the dust sifting down in showers on his head, and
disclosed a large, empty loft, once used by the slaves as a
sleeping-room, and which had not been opened for years.
Assisted by the negro's arms, Grant climbed to the floor above, where a
dim skylight gave him light and air. A cup of hot coffee was then
handed up and the door of the trap carefully fastened, Malachi rumpling
the shavings on the work-bench to conceal the dust, No trace of the
hiding-place of the fugitive was visible.
When Malachi again reached the front hall, it was in response to
someone who was hammering at the door as if to break it down. The old
man peered cautiously out through the small panes of glass. The
sidewalk was crowded with men led by Colonel Clayton, most of them
carrying guns. They had marched over from Clayton's house. Among them
was a posse of detectives from the Police Department.
In answer to their summons Richard had thrown up the window of his
bedroom and was talking to Clayton, whose voice Malachi recognized
above the murmurs and threats of the small mob.
"Come down, Horn. Oliver has proved traitor, just as I knew he would.
He's been hiding one of these damned Yankees all day. We want that man,
I tell you, dead or alive, and we are going to have him."
When the door was flung wide Clayton confronted, not Richard, but
Oliver.
"Where's that Yankee?" cried Clayton. He had not expected to see
Oliver. "We are in no mood for nonsense--where have you hidden him?"
Malachi stepped forward before Oliver could answer.
"Marse Oliver ain't hid him. If you want him go hunt him!"
"You speak like that to me, you black scoundrel," burst out the
Colonel, and he raised his arm as if to strike him.
"Yes--me! Ain't nobody gwine ter tech Marse Oliver while I lib. I's as
free as you is, Marse Clayton. Ain't no man can lay a han' on me!"
The Colonel wheeled angrily and gave an order to one of the detectives
in a low voice. Oliver stood irresolute. He knew nothing of Grant's
whereabouts.
The detective moved from the Colonel's side and pushed his way closer
to where Oliver stood.
"There's no use your denying it, young feller; we've heard the whole
story from one of our men who saw you jump in front of him. You bring
him out or we'll go through the place from cellar to garret."
Oliver gazed straight at the speaker and still held his peace. He was
wondering where Grant had hidden himself and what John's chances were
if the crowd searched the house. Malachi's outburst had left him in the
dark.
Mrs. Horn and Richard, who had followed Oliver and were standing half
way down the stairs; looked on in astonishment. Would Clayton dare to
break all the rules of good manners, and search the house, she
whispered to Richard.
Another of the detectives now stepped forward--a dark, ugly-looking
man, with the face of a bulldog.
"Look here! I'll settle this. You and two men crossed the Square ten
minutes ago. This nigger one of 'em; where's the other?"
Malachi turned and smiled significantly at Oliver--a smile he knew. It
was the smile which the old man's face always wore whenever some
tortuous lie of the darky's own concoction had helped his young master
out of one of his scrapes.
"I am not here to answer your questions," Oliver replied quietly, a
feeling of relief in his heart.
The officer turned quickly and said with an oath to one of the
detectives, "Send one man to the alley in the rear, and place another
at this door. I'll search the yard and the house. Let no one of the
family leave this hall. If that nigger moves put the irons on him."
The men outside made a circle about the house, some of them moving up
the alley to watch the rear. Clayton leaned against the jamb of the
door. He addressed no word to Richard or Mrs. Horn, nor did he look
their way. Oliver stood with folded arms under the eight-sided
hall-lantern which an officer had lighted. Now and then he spoke in
restrained tones to his mother, who had taken her seat on the stairs,
Richard standing beside her. It was not the fate of the soldier that
interested her--it was the horror of the search. Richard had not spoken
except to direct Malachi to obey the officer's orders. The horror of
the search did not affect the inventor--that only violated the sanctity
of the home: it was the brute force behind it which appalled him--that
might annihilate the Republic.
"It is the beginning of the end," he said to himself.
The tread of heavy feet was again heard coming through the hall.
Malachi turned quickly and a subdued smile lighted his wrinkled face.
The two detectives were alone!
"He is not there, Colonel Clayton," said the man with the bull-dog
face, slipping his pistol into his hip pocket. "We went through the
yard and the out-houses like a fine tooth-comb and made a clean sweep
of the cellar. He may have gotten over the wall, but I don't think it.
There's a lot of broken bottles on top. I'll try the bedrooms now."
As the words fell from his lips Mrs. Horn rose from her seat on the
stairs, straight as a soldier on guard. The light from the lantern
illumined her gray hair and threw into strong relief her upraised
hand--the first of millions raised in protest against the invasion of
the homes of the South. The detective saw the movement and a grim smile
came into his face.
"Unless they'll bring him out," he added, slowly. "This young feller
knows where he is. Make him tell."
Colonel Clayton turned to Oliver. "Is he upstairs, Oliver?"
"No."
"You give me your word of honor. Oliver, that he is not upstairs?"
"I do."
"Of course he'd say that. Here, I'll know pretty d-- quick," muttered
the detective moving toward the stairway.
The Colonel stepped forward and barred his way with his arm.
"Stay where you are! You don't know these people. If Oliver says he is
not upstairs I believe him. These Horns don't know how to lie. Your
information is wrong. The man never entered the house. You must look
for the Yankee somewhere else." Waiting until the detectives had left
the hall, he raised his hat, and with some show of feeling said:
"I am sorry, Sallie, that we had to upset you so. When you and Richard
see this matter in its true light you'll think as I do. If these
scoundrels are to be permitted to come here and burn our homes we want
to know which side our friends are on."
"You are the judge of your own conduct, John Clayton," she answered,
calmly. "This night's work will follow you all your life. Malachi, show
Colonel Clayton to the door and close it behind him."
Three nights later Malachi admitted a man he had never seen before. He
was short and thick-set and had a grim, firmly set jaw. Under the lapel
of his coat was a gold shield. He asked for Mr. Horn, who had lately
been living in New York. He would not come inside the drawing-room, but
sat in the hall on the hair-cloth sofa, his knees apart, his cap in his
hand.
"I'm the Chief of Police," he said to Oliver, without rising from his
seat, "and I come because Mr. Cobb sent me. That's between ourselves,
remember. You'll have to get out of here at once. They've got a yarn
started that you're a government detective sent down here to spot rebel
sympathizers and they'll make it warm for you. I've looked into it and
I know it ain't so, but this town's in no shape to listen to anything.
Besides, a while ago one of my men found your friend's uniform in the
cellar where you hid it behind the barrels and the handkerchief all
blood, with your name on it; and they've got you dead to rights.
That'll all be out in the morning papers and make it worse for you. You
needn't worry about HIM. He's all right. Mr. Cobb found him at daylight
this morning just where your nigger left him and drove him over to the
junction. He's with his regiment by this time. Get your things together
quick as you can. I'll wait for you and see you safe aboard the owl
train."
Within the hour Oliver had turned his back on his home and all that he
loved.