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THE VICTIM
A Romance of the Real Jefferson Davis
by
THOMAS DIXON
Illustrated by J. N. Marchand
BOOKS BY THOMAS DIXON
The Victim
The Southerner
The Sins of the Father
The Leopard's Spots
The Clansman
The Traitor
The One Woman
Comrades
The Root of Evil
The Life Worth Living
[Illustration: "The man in front gave a short laugh and advanced
on the girl" [Page 300]]
THE VICTIM
"_A majestic soul has passed_"--Charles A. Dana
[Illustration: Colophon]
New York and London
D. Appleton and Company
1914
Copyright, 1914, by
Thomas Dixon
All rights reserved, including that of translation into all
foreign languages, including the Scandinavian
Printed in the United States of America
TO
THE BRAVE WHO DIED
FOR WHAT THEY BELIEVED
TO BE RIGHT
_Fold up the banners! Smelt the guns!
Love rules. Her gentle purpose runs.
A mighty mother turns in tears
The pages of her battle years
Lamenting all her fallen sons!_
THOMPSON
TO THE READER
_In the historical romance which I have woven of the dramatic events of
the life of Jefferson Davis I have drawn his real character unobscured
by passion or prejudice. Forced by his people to lead their cause, his
genius created an engine of war so terrible in its power that through it
five million Southerners, without money, without a market, without
credit, withstood for four years the shock of twenty million men of
their own blood and of equal daring, backed by boundless resources._
_The achievement is without a parallel in history, and adds new glory to
the records of our race._
_The scenes have all been drawn from authentic records in my possession.
I have not at any point taken a liberty with an essential detail of
history._
Thomas Dixon.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
I The Curtain Rises
II The Parting
III A Midnight Session
IV A Friendly Warning
V Boy and Girl
VI God's Will
VII The Best Man Wins
VIII The Storm Center
IX The Old Régime
X The Gauge of Battle
XI Jennie's Vision
XII A Little Cloud
XIII The Closing of the Ranks
XIV Richmond in Gala Dress
XV The House on Church Hill
XVI The Flower-Decked Tent
XVII The Fatal Victory
XVIII The Aftermath
XIX Socola's Problem
XX The Anaconda
XXI Gathering Clouds
XXII Jennie's Recruit
XXIII The Fatal Blunder
XXIV The Sleeping Lioness
XXV The Bombardment
XXVI The Irreparable Loss
XXVII The Light that Failed
XXVIII The Snare of the Fowler
XXIX The Panic in Richmond
XXX The Deliverance
XXXI Love and War
XXXII The Path of Glory
XXXIII The Accusation
XXXIV The Turn of the Tide
XXXV Suspicion
XXXVI The Fatal Deed
XXXVII The Raiders
XXXVIII The Discovery
XXXIX The Conspirators
XL In Sight of Victory
XLI The Fall of Richmond
XLII The Capture
XLIII The Victor
XLIV Prison Bars
XLV The Master Mind
XLVI The Torture
XLVII Vindication
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"The man in front gave a short laugh and advanced on the girl"
"'You have given me new eyes--'"
"'We have won, sir!' was the short curt answer"
"Dick saluted and sprang into the saddle--'I understand, sir'"
"Jennie thrust her trembling little figure between the two men and
confronted Dick"
"'Do your duty--put them on him!'"
LEADING CHARACTERS OF THE STORY
_The Prologue_
1814-1853
Lt. Jefferson Davis, Of the U. S. Army.
Joseph E. Davis, His Big Brother.
Colonel Zachary Taylor, "Old Rough and Ready."
Sarah Knox Taylor, His Daughter.
James Pemberton, A Faithful Slave.
_The Story_
1860-1867
Hon. Roger Barton, An Original Secessionist.
Jennie, His Daughter.
Dick Welford, A Confederate Soldier.
Joseph Holt, A Renegade Southerner.
Henrico Socola, A Soldier of Fortune.
The President, Of the Confederacy.
Mrs. Davis, His Wife.
Burton Harrison, His Secretary.
Joseph E. Johnston, A Master of Retreat.
P. G. T. Beauregard, The First Hero.
Stonewall Jackson, Of the "Foot Cavalry."
Robert E. Lee, The Southern Commander.
U. S. Grant, The Bull Dog Fighter.
Nelson A. Miles, A Jailer.
John C. Underwood, A Reconstruction Judge.
THE VICTIM
The Prologue
THE VICTIM
PROLOGUE
I
KIDNAPPED
The hot sun of the South was sinking in red glow through the giant
tree-tops of a Mississippi forest beyond the village of Woodville.
A slender girl stood in the pathway watching a boy of seven trudge
manfully away beside his stalwart brother.
Her lips trembled and eyes filled with tears.
"Wait--wait!" she cried.
With a sudden bound she snatched him to her heart.
"Don't, Polly--you hurt!" the little fellow faltered, looking at her
with a feeling of sudden fear. "Why did you squeeze me so hard?"
"You shouldn't have done that, honey," the big brother frowned.
"I know," the sister pleaded, "but I couldn't help it."
"What are you crying about?" the boy questioned.
Again the girl's arm stole around his neck.
"What's the matter with her, Big Brother?" he asked with a brave attempt
at scorn.
The man slowly loosened the sister's arms.
"I'm just going home with you, ain't I?" the child went on, with a
quiver in his voice.
The older brother led him to a fallen log, sat down, and held his hands.
"No, Boy," he said quietly. "I'd as well tell you the truth now. I'm
going to send you to Kentucky to a wonderful school, taught by learned
men from the Old World--wise monks who know everything. You want to go
to a real school, don't you?"
"But my Mamma don't know--"
"That's just it, Boy. We can't tell her. She wouldn't let you go."
"Why?"
"Well, she's a good Baptist, and it's a long, long way to the St. Thomas
monastery."
"How far?"
"A thousand miles, through these big woods--"
The blue eyes dimmed.
"I want to see my Mamma before I go--" his voice broke.
The man shook his head.
"No, Boy; it won't do. You're her baby--"
The dark head sank with a cry.
"I want to see her!"
"Come, come, Jeff Davis, you're going to be a soldier. Remember you're
the son of a soldier who fought under General Washington and won our
freedom. You're named after Thomas Jefferson, the great President. Your
three brothers have just come home from New Orleans. Under Old Hickory
we drove the British back into their ships and sent 'em flying home to
England. The son of a soldier--the brother of soldiers--can't cry--"
"I will if I want to!"
"All right!" the man laughed--"I'll hold my hat and you can cry it
full--"
He removed his hat and held it smilingly under the boy's firm little
chin. The childish lips tightened and the cheeks flushed with anger.
His bare toes began to dig holes in the soft rich earth. The appeal to
his soldier blood had struck into the pride of his heart and the insult
of a hat full of tears had hurt.
At last, he found his tongue:
"Does Pa know I'm goin'?"
"Yes. He thinks you're a very small boy to go so far, but knows it's for
the best."
"That's why he kissed me when I left?"
"Yes."
"I thought it was funny," he murmured with a half sob; "he never kissed
me before--"
"He's quiet and reserved, Boy, but he's wise and good and loves you.
He's had a hard time out here in the wilderness fighting his way with a
wife and ten children. He never had a chance to get an education and the
children didn't either. Some of us are too old now. There's time for
you. We're going to stand aside and let you pass. You're our baby
brother, and we love you."
The child's hand slowly stole into the rough one of the man.
"And I love you, Big Brother--" the little voice faltered, "and all the
others, too, and that's-why-I'm-not-goin'!"
"I'm so glad!" The girl clapped her hands and laughed.
"Polly!--"
"Well, I am, and I don't care what you say. He's too little to go so far
and you know he is--"
The man grasped her hand and whispered:
"Hush!"
The brother slipped his arm around the Boy and drew him on his knee. He
waited a moment until the hard lines at the corners of the firm mouth
had relaxed under the pressure of his caress, pushed the tangled hair
back from his forehead and looked into the fine blue-gray eyes. His
voice was tender and his speech slow.
"You must make up your mind to go, Boy. I don't want to force you. I
like to see your eyes flash when you say you _won't_ go. You've got the
stuff in you that real men are made of. That's why it's worth while to
send you. I've seen that since you could toddle about the house and
stamp your feet when things didn't suit you. Now, listen to me. I've
made a vow to God that you shall have as good a chance as any man to
make your way to the top. We're going to be the greatest nation in the
world. I saw it in the red flash of guns that day at New Orleans as I
lay there in the trench and watched the long lines of Red Coats go down
before us. Just a lot of raw recruits with old flintlocks! The men who
charged us, the picked veterans of England's grand army. But we cut 'em
to pieces, Boy! I fired a cannon loaded with grape shot that mowed a
lane straight through 'em. It must have killed two hundred men. They
burned our Capitol at Washington and the Federalist traitors at Hartford
were firin' on us in the rear, but Old Hickory showed the world that we
could lick England with one hand tied behind our back. And we did it. We
drove 'em like sheep--drove 'em into the sea.
"There's but one name on every lip in this country now, Boy, and that's
Old Hickory. He'd be President next time--but for one thing,--just one
thing--he didn't have a chance to learn when he was a boy. He's not
educated."
The brother paused, and a dreamy look came into his eyes. "We may make
him President anyhow. But if he'd been educated--there wouldn't be any
if or and about it. Washington and Jefferson and Madison belong to the
rich and powerful class. Jackson is a yeoman like your father. But he'd
be President. Boy, if he'd been educated! Nothing could stop him. Don't
you see this is your country? This is a poor man's world. All you have
to do is to train your mind. You've got to do this--you
understand--you've got to do it--"
The man paused suddenly and looked into the Boy's wondering eyes. He had
forgotten the child's rebellion. The young pioneer of the wilderness was
talking to himself. Again he had seen a vision.
He seized the Boy's arms:
"Don't you see, Boy, don't you?"
The child's mouth hardened again:
"No, I don't. I'm just a little boy. I love my Mamma. She's good and
sweet to me and I'm not going to leave her--"
Again Polly laughed.
A smile slowly played about the brother's lips and eyes. He must show
his trump card.
"But you don't know what I've got for you--"
"What?"
"Something you've always wanted to have for your own--"
"A pony?"
The man slowly rose:
"Come out to the big road--"
The Boy seized his sister's hand:
"Polly, let's see!"
The girl's eyes grew dim:
"Oh, Jeff, I know you're goin'!"
"No--we'll just see what it is--come on!"
In five minutes they emerged from the deep woods into the clearing
around a cabin. Beside the roadway stood a horse and pony, both bridled
and saddled.
The swift feet of the Boy flew across the opening, the sister wide-eyed
and trembling, close on his heels. He threw his arms around the pony's
neck and stroked his head with gentle touch. The pony pressed his mouth
against the Boy's cheek in friendly response.
"Did you see him kiss me, Polly?" he cried tremblingly.
"Yes, I saw him," was the solemn response.
"Isn't he a beauty? Look, Polly--he's got a white spot on every foot and
one in his forehead and black as a coal all over--and Oh--what a
saddle--a red belt and red martingales!"
He touched the saddle lovingly and circled the pony's neck with his
arms.
The brother smiled again:
"Well, what do you think of that?"
The Boy was trembling now from head to foot, his heart in his throat as
he slowly asked:
"You mean that--you'll--give--him--to me--for--all my own?"
"If you'll be a good boy, go to school and work hard--yes."
"All right, Big Brother," was the quick answer, "I'll go. Help me on him
quick, and let me try him!"
The Boy lifted his bare foot into the strong hand, sprang into the
saddle, bounded down the road, wheeled, flew back and leaped to the
ground.
"He's a dandy!"
Polly dropped her head and started home, making a brave fight to keep
back the tears. Half way across the clearing she gave up in a long
pitiful wail.
The Boy, busy with his pony, had not missed her. In a moment he was by
her side, his arms about her neck.
"Don't cry, Polly honey, I'll be back before long," he pleaded.
The only answer was a sob:
"Good-by, Jeff--"
Her hands slowly slipped through his.
"Good-by, Polly--"
He watched her go with quivering lips, and as the little figure slowly
faded into the shadows of the woods he called in broken accents:
"Kiss Mamma for me--and tell her I wanted to go back and say
good-by--but Joe wouldn't let me!"
"Yes, honey!"
"And you--watch out for that old drunk man we saw once in the woods,
Polly!"
"Yes!"
"Don't let him get you--"
"No--I won't--good--good-by!"
"Good-by--"
The last good-by stuck in the Boy's throat, but he lifted his blue eyes,
saw his pony and smiled through the tears.
II
THE WILDERNESS
A journey of a thousand miles through the unbroken wilderness--the home
of the Choctaw and Chickasaw Indian Nations and all on his own beautiful
pony! It was no time for tears.
The Boy's soul leaped for joy.
The party was a delightful one. Major Hinds, a veteran of General
Jackson's campaign, the commander of the famous Mississippi Dragoons at
the battle of New Orleans, was the leader, accompanied by his wife, her
sister and niece, and best of all a boy his own age, the Major's little
son Howell.
Howell also was riding a pony. He was a nice enough pony, of course, as
ponies went, but couldn't compare with his own. He made up his mind to
race the first chance they got, and show those pretty white heels to
his rival. He was just dying to tell him how fast they could beat the
ground--but he'd wait and surprise the party.
A negro maid accompanied the ladies and a stalwart black man rode a
pack-mule laden with tents, blankets and a cooking outfit. They stopped
at houses when one could be reached at nightfall. If not, they camped in
the woods beneath the towering trees. There was no need of the tents
unless it rained. So dense was the foliage that only here and there a
bright star peeped through, or a moonbeam shot its silvery thread to the
ground. The Indians were all friendly. It was the boast of the Choctaws
that no man of their breed had ever shed the blood of a white man.
For days they followed the course of the majestic river rolling its
yellow flood to the sea and watched the lazy flat and keel boats drift
slowly down to New Orleans bearing the wealth of the new Western World.
The men who had manned these rude craft were slowly tramping on foot
back to their homes in the North. Their boats could not stem the tide
for the return trip. Every day they passed these weary walkers. The Boy
was sorry they couldn't ride. His pony's step was so firm and quick and
strong.
He raced with Howell the first day and beat him so far there was no fun
in it. He never challenged his rival again. He was the guest of Major
Hinds on this trip. It would be rude. But he slipped out in the dark
that night, and hugged his pony:
"You're the finest horse that ever was!" he whispered.
"Of course I am!" the pony laughed.
"I love you--"
"And I love you," was the quick response as the warm nose touched his
cheek.
In the second week, they reached the first stand, "Folsoms'," on the
border of the Choctaw Nation. These stands were log cabins occupied by
squaw men--whites who had married Indian women. They must pass three
more of these stands the Major said--the "Leflores," known as the first
and second French camps, and the one at the crossing of the Tennessee
River, which had the unusual distinction of being kept by a half-breed
Chickasaw Indian.
Here, weary, footsore travelers stopped to rest and refresh
themselves--and many dropped and died miles from those they loved. The
little graveyard with its rude, wooden-marked mounds the Boy saw with a
dull ache in his heart.
And then the first bitter pang of homesickness came. He wondered if his
sweet mother were well. He wondered what she said when they told her he
had gone. He knew she had cried. What if she were dead and he could
never see her again? He sat down on a log, buried his face in his hands
and tried to cry the ache out of his heart. He felt that he must turn
back or die. But it wouldn't do. He had promised his Big Brother. He
rose, brushed the tears away, fed and watered his pony and tenderly
rubbed down every inch of his beautiful black skin. He forgot the ache
in his new-found love and the strength which had come into his boy's
soul from the sense of kinship with Nature which this beautiful dumb
four-footed friend had brought him. No man could be friendless or
forsaken who possessed the love of a horse. His horse knew and loved
him. He said it in a hundred ways. His wide, deep, lustrous eyes,
shining with intelligence, had told him! So had the touch of his big
warm mouth in many a friendly pony kiss. His pony could laugh, too. He
had seen the smiles flicker about his mouth and eyes as he pretended to
bite his bare legs. How could any human being be cruel or mean to a
horse! His pony had given him new courage and conscious power. He was
the master of Nature now when they flew along the trail through the deep
woods. His horse had given him wings.
He looked up into the star-sown sky, and promised God to be kind and
gentle to all the dumb world for the love of the beautiful friend He had
given.
III
THE HERMITAGE
At the last stand on the banks of the winding Tennessee, the Major sat
up late in eager discussion about Old Hickory with an enthusiastic
Tennesseean. The ladies had retired, and the Boy listened with quiet
eagerness to the talk.
"Waal, we're goin' ter make Andrew Jackson President anyhow, Major!" the
Tennesseean drawled.
"I'm afraid they'll beat us," the Major answered, with a shake of his
head.
"How'll they beat us when we git ready ter make the fight?"
"Old Hickory says himself, he ain't fit--"
"I reckon we know more about that than he does," persisted the man from
Tennessee.
"The aristocrats don't think so--"
"What t'ell they got agin him? Ain't he the biggest man in this country
to-day? Didn't he lick Spain and England both at Pensacola and didn't he
finish the Red Coats at New Orleans--"
"They say his education's poor--"
"He knowed enough to make this country cock o' the walk--what more do
they want--damn 'em!"
"They say he swears--"
The Tennesseean roared:
"Waal, if all the cussin' men vote fur him--he'll sho be elected!"
"The real trouble--" the Major said thoughtfully, "is what the
scandal-mongers keep saying about his wife--"
"He's killed one son-of-a-gun about that already, an' they better let
him alone--"
"That's just it, my friend: he killed that skunk in a duel and it's not
the only one he has fought either. Old Hickory's got the temper of the
devil."
"Waal, thar ain't nothin' in them lies about his wife--"
The Major lifted his hand and moved closer:
"There's just enough truth at the bottom of it all to give the liars the
chance they need to talk forever--"
"I never knowed thar wuz ary grain er truth in hit, at all--"
"There is, though," the Major interrupted, "and that's where we're going
to have a big fight on our hands when it comes to the rub. This Lewis
Robards, her first husband, was a quarrelsome cuss. Every man that
looked at his wife, he swore was after her, and if she lifted her eyes,
he was sure she was guilty. There was no divorce law in Virginia and
Robards petitioned the Legislature to pass an Act of Divorce in his
favor. The dog swore in this petition that his wife had deserted him and
was living with Andrew Jackson. He _was_ boarding with her mother, the
widow Donelson. The Legislature passed the Act, but it only authorized
the Courts of the Territory of Kentucky to try the case, and grant the
divorce if the facts were proven.
"Robards never went to Court with it for over two years, and Jackson,
under the impression that the Legislature had given the divorce, married
Rachel Robards at Natchez in August, 1791.
"Two years later, the skunk slips into Court and gets his divorce!
"As quick as Old Hickory heard this, he married her over again. There
was a mighty hullabaloo kicked up about it by the politicians. They
tried to run Jackson out of the country--the little pups who were afraid
of him. He challenged the leader of this pack of hounds, and shot him
dead--"
"Served him right, too," broke in the Tennesseean, removing his pipe,
with a nod of his shaggy head.
"But it don't help him on the way to Washington!" The Major grunted,
suddenly rising and dismissing the subject for the night.
The Boy's curiosity was kindled to see the great man whose name had
filled the world.
The distance to Nashville was quickly covered. The Major pressed
straight through the town without pause and drew rein at the General's
gate.
The welcome they received from their distinguished host was so simple,
so genuine, so real, the Boy's heart went out in loyal admiration.
The house was a big rambling structure of logs, in front of which stood
a stately grove of magnificent forest trees. Behind it stretched the
grain and cotton fields.
Nothing could surpass the unaffected and perfect courtesy with which the
General welcomed his guests. The tall, stately figure, moving with the
unconscious grace of perfect manhood, needed no rules of a dancing
master for his guidance. He had sprung from the common people, but he
was a born leader and ruler of men.
The Boy listened with keen ears to hear him rip out one of those
terrible oaths of which so much had been said. His speech was gentle and
kind, and he asked a blessing at every meal exactly as his own quiet,
dignified father at home. In all the three weeks they remained his
guests not an oath or an ugly word fell from his lips. The Boy wondered
how people could tell such lies.
The General liked boys, too. It was easy to see that. He gave hours of
his time to the games and sports of his adopted son, Andrew Jackson,
Jr., and his two little guests. He got up contests of all sorts. They
raced their ponies. They ran and jumped. They played marbles. They
followed the hounds. And always with them as friend and counselor, the
General, gentle, kind, considerate. The only thing he prohibited was
wrestling.
"No, boys," he said with a frown. "That's not a good sport for high
spirited youth. To feel the hand of a rival on your body may lead to a
fight."
The deep set eyes flashed with the memory of his own hot blooded boyhood
and young manhood.
The General's wife won the Boy's whole heart from the moment he saw her.
"How could they tell such lies!" he kept repeating with boyish
indignation. Pure and sweet as the face of his own mother was hers.
Loving, unselfish, tender and thoughtful, she moved through her house
with the gentle step of a ministering angel. The knightly deference with
which the General attended her slightest wish, stirred the Boy's
imagination. He could see him standing erect, pistol in hand, in the
gray dawn of the morning on which he faced the enemy who had slandered
her. He could see the big firm hand grip the pistol's handle in a clasp
of steel as he waited the signal of Death. He wondered what sort of
wound Dickenson's bullet had made in the General's breast. Anyhow, it
had not been fatal. His enemy lived but a few hours.
He set his lips firmly, and repeated the Tennesseean's verdict:
"Served him right, too."
The Boy left the Hermitage under the spell of Old Hickory's personality
for life. He had seen a great man.
IV
THE MONASTERY BELLS
The journey from Nashville to Springfield, Kentucky, was quick and
uneventful. Long before the spire of St. Thomas' church loomed on the
horizon, they passed through the wide, fertile fields of the Dominican
monks. The grim figure of a black friar was directing the harvest of a
sea of golden-yellow wheat. His workmen were sleek negro slaves. Herds
of fat cattle grazed on the hills. A flock of a thousand sheep were
nipping the fresh sweet grass in the valley. They passed a big flour
mill, whose lazy wheel swung in rhythmic unison with the laughing waters
of the creek that watered the rich valley. The monks were vowed to
poverty and self-denial. But their Order was rich in slaves and land, in
mills and herds and flocks and generous harvests.
As the sun sank in a smother of purple and red behind the hills, they
saw the church and monastery. The bells were chanting their call to
evening prayer.
The Boy held his breath in silent ecstasy. He had never heard anything
like it before. It was wonderful--those sweet notes echoing over hill
and valley in the solemn hush of the gathering twilight.
They waited for the priests to emerge from the chapel before making
their presence known. Through the open windows the deep solemn throb of
the organ pealed. The soul of the Boy rose enchanted on new wings whose
power he had never dreamed. Hidden depths were sounded of whose
existence he could not know. There was no organ in the little bare log
church the Baptists had built near his father's farm in Mississippi. His
father and mother were Baptists and of course he was going to be a
Baptist some day. But why didn't they have stained glass windows like
those through which he saw the light now streaming--wonderful flashing
lights, whose colors seemed to pour from the soul of the organ. And why
didn't they have a great organ?
He was going to like these Roman Catholics. He wondered what his mother
would say to that?
It all seemed so familiar, too. Where had he heard those bells? Where
had he heard the peal of that organ and seen the flash of those gorgeous
lights? In the sky at sunset perhaps, and in the rumble of the storm.
Maybe in dreams--and now they had come true.
In a few months, he found himself the only Protestant boy in school and
the smallest of all the scholars. The monks were kind. They seemed
somehow to love him better than the others. Father Wallace reminded him
of his big brother. He was so gentle.
The Boy made up his mind to join the Catholic Church and went straight
to Father Wilson, the venerable head of the college.
The old man smiled pleasantly:
"And why do you wish this, my son?"
"Oh, it's so much more beautiful than the Baptist Church. Besides it's
so much easier--"
"Indeed?"
"Yes, sir. The Baptists have such a hard time getting religion. They
seek and mourn so long--"
"Really?"
"Indeed they do--yes, sir--I've seen stubborn sinners mourn all summer
in three protracted meetings and then not come through!"
"And you don't like that sort of penance?"
"No, sir. I've always dreaded it. And the worst thing is the new
converts have to stand right up in church before all the crowd and tell
their experience out loud. I'd hate that--"
"And you like our ways better?"
"A great deal better. The Catholics manage things so nicely. All you
have to do is to go to church, learn the catechism and the good priests
do all the rest--"
"Oh--I see!"
"Yes, sir."
Father Wilson laid his wrinkled hand tenderly on the Boy's head:
"You are very, very young, my son, and you are growing rapidly. What you
really need is good Catholic food. Sit down and have a piece of bread
and cheese with me."
The Boy sat down and ate the offered bread and cheese in silence.
"I can't join, Father Wilson?" he asked at last.
The priest smiled again:
"No, my son."
"You don't like me, Father?" the boy asked wistfully.
"We like you very much, sir. But we are responsible for the trust your
father and mother have put in us. In God's own time when you are older
and know the full meaning of your act, I should be glad--but not this
way."
The Boy was so small, in fact, that a fine old priest in pity for his
tender years had a little bed put in his own room for him to watch the
light and shadows in eager young eyes when homesickness threatened. And
then he talked of the wonders and glory of Rome on her seven hills by
the Tiber, of the Coliseum, the death of Christian martyrs in the
arena--of the splendors of St. Peter's, beside whose glory all other
churches pale into insignificance. He lifted the curtain of history and
gave the child's mind flashes of the Old World whose pageants stretch
down the ages into the mists of eternity.
Of books, the Boy learned little--but the monks kindled a light in his
soul the years could not dim.
To the other students the old man was not so gentle. They were tougher
and he set their tasks accordingly. They rebelled at last and decided on
revenge. The plot was hatched and all in readiness for its execution.
The only problem was how to put the light out in his room.
The Boy held the key to the citadel. He was on the inside. He could blow
the candle out and the thing was done. He refused at first, but the
rebels crowded around him and appealed to his sense of loyalty.
"They can force you to sleep in his room," pleaded the ringleader, "but,
by Gimminy, that don't make you a monk, does it?"
"No, of course not--"
"You're one of _us_--stand by us. You didn't ask to sleep in his old
room, did you?"
"No."
"Well, you're there--the right man in the right place, in the nick of
time. _Will_ you stand by us?"
"What do you want me to do?"
"Just blow out the candle--that's all--we'll do the rest. Will you do
it?"
The Boy hesitated, smiled and said:
"Yes--when everything's quiet."
The old man had gone to bed and began to snore. The Boy rose noiselessly
and blew the candle out.
Instantly from the darkness without, poured a volley of cabbage heads,
squashes, potatoes and biscuits. Not a word was spoken, but the charge
of the light brigade was swift and terrible.
The Boy pulled the cover over his head and waited for the storm to pass.
When the light was lit and search made, not a culprit could be found.
They were all in bed sound asleep. The only one awake was the Boy in the
little bed on which lay scattered potatoes, biscuits and cabbage.
The priest drew him from under the cover. His face was stern--the firm
mouth rigid with anger.
"Did you know they were going to do that, sir?" he asked.
The Boy trembled but held his tongue.
"Answer me, sir!"
"I didn't know just what they were going to do--"
"You knew they were up to something?"
"Yes!"
"And you didn't tell me?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I couldn't be a traitor, sir."
"To those young rascals--no--but you could betray me--"
"I'm not a monk, Father--"
"Tell me what you know at once, sir, before I thrash you."
"I don't know much," the Boy slowly answered, "and I can't tell you
that."
There was a final ring in the tones with which he ended the sentence.
The culprit must be punished. It was out of the question that he should
whip him--this quiet, gentle, bright little fellow he had grown to love.
He was turned over to another--an old monk of fine face and voice full
of persuasive music.
He took the Boy by the hand and led him up the last flight of stairs to
the top of the house and into a tiny bare room. The only piece of
furniture was an ominous looking cot in the middle of the floor. The Boy
had not read the history of the Spanish Inquisition, but it required no
great learning in history or philosophy to guess the use of that
machine.
There was no terror in the blue eyes. Their light grew hard with
resolution. The monk to whom he had been delivered for punishment was
the one of all the monastery who had the kindliest, gentlest face. The
Boy had always thought him one of his best friends.
Yet, without a word, he laid the culprit face downward on the strange
leather couch and drew the straps around his slim body. He had dreamed
of mercy, but all hope vanished now. He held his breath and set his lips
to receive the blow--the first he had ever felt.
The monk took the switch in his hand and hesitated. He loved the bright,
handsome lad. The task was harder than he thought.
He knelt beside the cot and put his hand on the dark little head:
"I hate to strike you, my son--"
"Don't then, Father," was the eager answer.
"I've always had a very tender spot in my heart for you. Tell me what
you know and it'll be all right."
"I can't--"
"No matter how little, and I'll let you off."
"Will you?"
"I promise."
"I know one thing," the Boy said with a smile.
"Yes?"
"I know who blew out the light."
"Good!"
"If I tell you that much, you'll let me off?"
"Yes, my son."
The little head wagged doubtfully:
"Honest, now, Father?"
"I give you my solemn word."
"I blew it out!"
The fine old face twitched with suppressed laughter as he loosed the
straps, sat down on the cot and drew the youngster in his lap.
"You're a bright chap, my son. You'll go far in this world some day. A
great diplomat perhaps, but the road you've started on to-night can only
lead you at last into a blind alley. You know now that I love you, don't
you?"
"Yes, Father."
"Come now, my Boy, there's too much strength and character in those fine
eyes and that splendid square chin and jaw for you to let roistering
fools lead you by the nose. You wouldn't have gotten into that devilment
if they hadn't persuaded you--now would you?"
"No."
"All right. Use the brain and heart God has given you. Don't let fools
use it for their own ends. Do your own thinking. Be your own man. Stand
on your own bottom."
And then, in low tones, the fine old face glowing with enthusiasm, the
monk talked to his little friend of Truth and Right, of Character and
Principle, of Love and God, until the tears began to slowly steal down
the rosy cheeks.
A new resolution fixed itself in the Boy's soul. He _would_ live his own
life. No other human being should do it for him.
V
HOME
The mother's heart rebelled at last. She would not be put off longer.
Her baby had been gone two years. She refused point blank to listen to
any further argument.
Charles Green, the young Mississippian, studying law in Kentucky, and
acting as the Boy's guardian, was notified to bring him at the end of
the spring term.
On a glorious day in June they left Bardstown for Louisville, to take
the new steamboat line for home. These wonderful boats were the marvels
of their day. Their names conveyed but a hint of the awe they inspired.
The fleet of three vessels bore the titles, _Volcano_, _Vesuvius_ and
_Ætna_. And the sparks that flew heavenward from their black chimneys
were far more impressive to the people who crowded the shores than the
smoke and lava of old Vesuvius to the lazy loungers of Naples.
The Boy saw his pony safely housed on board the _Ætna_, and amid the
clang of bells and the scream of whistles, the floating wonder swung out
from her wharf into the yellow tide of the Ohio.
Scores of people crowded her decks for the pleasure of a ride ten miles
down the river to return in their carriages.
The Captain of the _Ætna_, Robinson DeHart, held the Boy in a spell by
his lofty manners. He had been a sailor on board an ocean-going brig. To
him the landing of his vessel was an event, no matter how often the stop
was made, whether to put off a single passenger, or take on a regiment.
In fact, he never landed the _Ætna_, even to take on a cord of wood,
without the use of his enormous speaking trumpet and his big brass
spy-glass.
A beautiful, slow, uneventful voyage on the Father of Waters landed the
Boy in safety at the Woodville stopping-place. He leaped down the
gang-plank with a shout and clasped his Big Brother's hand.
"My, my, but you've grown, Boy!"
"Haven't I?"
"Won't little mother be surprised and glad?"
"Let's fool her," the Boy cried. "Let me go up by myself and she won't
know me!"
"All right--we'll try."
The brother stopped at the village and the young stranger walked alone
to his father's house. How beautiful it all seemed--the big log house
with the cabins clustering around it! A horse neighed at the barn and a
colt answered from the field.
He walked boldly up to the porch and just inside the door sat his lovely
mother. She had been one of the most beautiful girls in all South
Carolina in her day, his father had often said. She was beautiful still.
She had known what happiness was. She was the mother of ten strong
children--five boys and five girls--and her heart was young with their
joys and hopes. A smile was playing about her fine mouth. She was
dreaming perhaps of his coming.
The Boy cleared his throat with a deep manly note and spoke in studied
careless tones:
"Seen any stray horses around here, ma'am?"
The mother's eyes flashed as she sprang through the doorway and snatched
him to her heart with a cry of joy:
"No--but I see a stray Boy! Oh, my darling, my baby, my heart!"
And then words failed. She loosed her hold and held him at arm's length,
tried to say something, but only clasped him again and cried for joy.
"Please, Ma, let me have him!" Polly pleaded.
And then he clasped his sister in a long, voiceless hug--loosed her and
caught her again:
"I missed you, Polly, dear!" he sighed.
When all the others had been greeted, he turned to his mother:
"Where's Pa?"
"Down in the field with the colts."
"I'll go find him!"
With a bound he was off. He wondered what his silent, undemonstrative
father would do. He had always felt that he was a man of deep emotion
for all his self-control.
He saw him in the field, walked along the edge of the woods, and
suddenly came before him without warning. The father's lips trembled. He
stooped without a word, clasped the Boy in his arms and kissed him again
and again.
The youngster couldn't help wondering why a strong man should kiss so
big a boy. The mother--yes--but his father, a man--no.
It was sweet, this home-coming to those who loved deepest. Somehow the
monastery, its bells, its organ, its jeweled windows, and its kindly
black-robed priests seemed far away and unreal now--only a dream that
had passed.
VI
REBELLION
The mother's breakdown was not allowed to stop the Boy's education. Both
father and older brother were determined on this. They would use the
schools at home now.
He was sent to the County Academy in the fall. The Boy didn't like it.
After the easy life with the kindly old monks at St. Thomas, this
academy was not only cheap and coarse and uninteresting, but the teacher
had no sense. He gave lessons so long and hard it was impossible to
memorize them.
The Boy complained to the teacher. A lesson of the same length was
promptly given again. The rebel showed the teacher he was wrong by
failing to know it.
"I'll thrash you, sir!" was the stern answer.
The Boy would not take that from such a fool. He rose in his wrath, went
home and poured out the indignant story of his wrongs.
The father was a man of few words, but the long silence which followed
gave a feeling of vague uneasiness. He was never dictatorial to his
children, but meant what he said. His voice was quiet and persuasive
when he finally spoke.
"Of course, my son, you will have to choose for yourself whether you
will work with your hands only, or with your head and hands. You can't
be an idler, I need more cotton pickers. You don't like school, try the
cotton, I'll give you work."
The Boy flushed and looked at his father keenly. It was no joke. He
meant exactly what he had said, and a boy with any sand in his gizzard
couldn't back down.
"All right, sir," was the firm answer. "I'll begin in the morning."
He went forth to his task with grim determination. The sun of early
September had just risen and it was already hot as he bent to work.
Cotton picking looked easy from a distance. When you got at it, things
somehow were different. A task of everlasting monotony, this bending
from boll to boll along the endless rows! He never realized before how
long the cotton rows were. There was a little stop at the end before
turning and selecting the next, but these rows seemed to stretch away
into eternity.
Three hours at it, and he was mortally tired. His back ached in a dull
hopeless pain. He lifted his head and gazed longingly toward the school
he had scorned.
"What a fool!" he sighed. "But I'll stick to it. I can do what any
nigger can."
He looked curiously at the slaves who worked without apparent effort.
Not one of them seemed the least bit tired. He could get used to it,
too. After all, this breath of the open world was better than being
cooped up in a stuffy old schoolhouse with a fool to set impossible
tasks.
"Pooh! I'll show my father!" he exclaimed.
The negroes broke into a plantation song. Jim Pemberton, the leader,
sang each stanza in a clear fine tenor that rang over the field and
echoed through the deep woods. The others joined in the chorus and after
the last verse repeated in low sweet notes that died away so softly it
was impossible to tell the moment the song had ceased.
The music was beautiful, but it was impossible for him to join in their
singing. He couldn't lower himself to an equality with black slaves.
This cotton picking seemed part of their scheme of life. Their strong
black bodies swayed in a sort of rhythmic movement even when they were
not singing. Somehow his body didn't fit into the scheme. His back ached
and ached. No matter. He had chosen, and he would show them he had a
man's spirit inside a boy's breast.
At noon the ache had worn away and he felt a sense of joy in conquering
the pain.
He ate his dinner in silence and wondered what Polly was thinking about
at school. Girl-like, she had cried and begged him to go back.
With a cheerful wave of his hand to his mother, he returned to the field
before the negroes, strapped the bag on his shoulder and bent again to
his task. The afternoon was long. It seemed at three o'clock there could
be no end to it and still those long, long rows of white fleece
stretched on and on into eternity--all alike in dull, tiresome monotony.
He whistled to keep up his courage.
The negroes whispered to one another and smiled as they looked his way.
He paid no attention.
By four o'clock, the weariness had become a habit and at sundown he felt
stronger than at dawn. He swung the bag over his back and started to the
weighing place.
"Pooh--it's easy!" he said with scorn.
The negroes crowded around his pile of cotton.
"Dat Boy is sho one cotton-picker!" cried Jim Pemberton, regarding him
with grinning admiration.
"Of course, I can pick cotton if I want to--"
"But ye raly don't wanter?" Jim grinned.
"Sure I do. I'm sick of school."
Jim laughed aloud and, coming close, whispered insinuatingly:
"I'se sho sick er pickin' cotton, an' when yer quits de job--"
"I'm not going to quit--"
"Yassah, yassah?--I understan' dat--but de pint is, _when_ yer _do_
quit, don't fergit Jim, Marse Jeff. I likes you. You got de spunk. I
wants ter be yo' man."
The appeal touched the Boy's pride. He answered with quiet dignity:
"All right, James--"
Jim lifted his head and walled his eyes:
"Des listen at him call me Jeemes! I knows a real marster when I sees
him!"
That night, the father asked no questions and made no comment on the
fact that he had picked a hundred and ten pounds of cotton--as much as
any man in the field. His deciding to work with his hands had apparently
been accepted as final.
This thing of deciding life for himself was a serious business. It would
be very silly to jump into a career with slaves, coarse and degrading,
just because a fool happened to be teaching at the County Academy. He
must think this thing over. Tired as he was, he lay awake until eleven
o'clock, thinking, thinking for himself.
It was lonesome work, too, this thinking for himself.
If his father had only done the thinking for him, it would have been so
much easier to accept his decision and then rebel if he didn't like it.
He returned to the field next morning with renewed determination.
Through the long, hot, interminable day he bent and fought the battle in
silence. His back ached worse than the first day. Every muscle in his
finely strung little body was bruised and sore and on fire.
He began to ask if his father were right. Wasn't a man a double fool who
had brains and refused to use them?
An idiot could pick cotton when the bag was fastened on his back. All he
needed was one hand. All he had to do was to bend, hour after hour, day
after day, until it became the habit of life and the ache stopped.
He could see this now, for himself. He smiled at the quiet wisdom of his
father. He certainly knew how to manage boys. He must acknowledge that.
He was quiet and considerate about it, too. He didn't dictate. He only
suggested things for consideration and choice. It was easy to meet the
views of that kind of a father. He treated a boy with the dignity of a
man.
When the cotton was weighed, the Boy faced his father:
"I've thought it all over, sir, and I'd like to go back to school."
"All right, my son, you can return in the morning."
He made no comment. He indulged in no smile at the Boy's expense. He
received his decision with the serious dignity of a judge of the
Supreme Court of Life.
The rebellion ended for all time. Teachers and schools took on a new
meaning. A lesson was no longer a hard task set by a heartless fool who
had been accidentally placed in a position of power. School meant the
training of his mind for a higher and more useful life.
Progress now was steady. The next year a new teacher came, a real
teacher, the Rev. John Shaw from Boston, Massachusetts--a man of even
temper, just, gentle, a profound scholar with a mind whose contagious
enthusiasm drew the spirits of the young as a magnet.
The Boy learned more under his guidance within a year than in all his
life before, and next full was ready to enter Transylvania University at
Lexington, Kentucky.
The polite, handsome boy from Mississippi who had served an
apprenticeship with his father's negroes in a cotton field, gave the
professors no trouble. Good-natured, prudent, joyous, kind, manly, he
attended to his lessons and his own business. He neither gambled nor
drank, nor mingled with the rowdy set. He had come there for something
else.
He had just passed his examinations for the Senior class in July, 1824,
when the first great sorrow came. The wise father whom he had grown to
love and reverence died in his sixty-eighth year.
His thoughtful Big Brother came in person to tell him and break the blow
with new ambitions and new hopes. He had secured an appointment from
President Monroe as a cadet to West Point from the State of Mississippi.
And then began the four years of stern discipline that makes a soldier
and fits him to command men.
But once in those busy years did the gay spirit within rise in
rebellion, to learn wisdom in the bitterness of experience.
With Emile Laserre, his jolly Creole friend from Louisiana, he slipped
down to Bennie Haven's on a frolic--taking French leave, of course. The
alarm was given of the approach of an instructor, and the two culprits
bolted for the barracks at breakneck speed through pitch darkness.
Scrambling madly through the woods, there was a sudden cry, a crash and
silence. He had fallen sixty feet over a precipice to the banks of the
Hudson. Young Laserre crawled carefully to the edge of the rock, peered
over and called through the darkness:
"Are you dead, Jeff?"
He was suffering too much to laugh, though he determined to give an
Irishman's reply to that question, if it killed him. He managed to
wheeze back the answer:
"Not dead--but spachless!"
Many were the temptations of rebellion from the friends he loved in the
years that followed, but never again did he yield. Somehow the thing
didn't work in his case.
There was one professor who put his decision of obedience to the supreme
test. For some reason this particular instructor took a violent dislike
to the tall, dignified young Southerner. Perhaps because he was more
anxious to have the love of his cadet friends than the approval of his
teachers. Perhaps from some hidden spring of character within the
teacher which antagonized the firm will and strong personality of the
student who dared to do his own thinking. From whatever cause, it was
plain to all that the professor sought opportunities to insult and
browbeat the cadet he could not provoke into open rebellion.
The professor was lecturing the class on presence of mind as the
supreme requisite of a successful soldier. He paused, and looked
directly at his young enemy:
"Of course, there are some who will always be confused and wanting in an
emergency--not from cowardice, but from the mediocre nature of their
minds."
The insult was direct and intended. He hoped to provoke an outburst
which would bring punishment, if not disgrace.
The cadet's lips merely tightened and the steel from the depths of his
blue eyes flashed into his enemy's for a moment. He would bide his time.
Three days later, in a building crowded with students, the professor was
teaching the class the process of making fire-balls.
The room was a storehouse of explosives and the ball suddenly burst into
flames.
Cadet Davis saw it first and calmly turned to his tormentor:
"The fire-ball has ignited, sir,--what shall I do?"
The professor dashed for the door:
"Run! Run for your lives!"
The cadet snatched the fire-ball from the floor, dashed it through the
window and calmly walked out.
He had saved many lives and the building from destruction. His revenge
was complete and sweet. But deeper and sweeter than his triumph over an
enemy was the consciousness that he was master of himself. He had
learned life's profoundest lesson.
VII
LIFE
On his graduation, the Second Lieutenant of Infantry, from the State of
Mississippi, barely twenty years old, reported for duty to the
Jefferson Barracks at St. Louis.
He was ordered to the frontier to extend the boundaries of the growing
Republic--now accompanied by his faithful body servant, James Pemberton.
The Fort, situated on the Wisconsin River, was the northern limit of the
Illinois tribe of Indians, and the starting point of all raids against
the Iroquois who still held the rich lands around the village of
Chicago.
The Boy Lieutenant was the first lumberman to put axe into the virgin
forests of Wisconsin. He was sent into the wilderness with a detachment
for cutting timber to enlarge the Fort.
Under the direction of two voyageurs he embarked in a little open boat
and began the perilous journey.
The first day out his courage and presence of mind were put to quick
test.
The Indians suddenly appeared on the shore and demanded a trade for
tobacco. The little party rowed to the bank and began to parley. A
guide's keen eyes saw through their smooth palaver the hostile purpose
of a bloody surprise and warned the commander. The order to push into
the river and pull for their lives was instantly given.
With savage yells the Indians sprang into their canoes and gave chase.
It was ten to one and they were sure of their prey. The chance of escape
from such strong, swift rowers in light bark canoes was slight. The low
fierce cries of victory and the joyous shout of coming torture rang over
the waters.
The Indians gained rapidly.
The young Lieutenant's eye measured the distance between them and saw
the race was hopeless. With quick command he ordered a huge blanket
stretched in the bow for a sail. The wind was blowing a furious gale
and might swamp their tiny craft. It was drowning or death by torture.
The commander's choice was instantaneous.
The frail boat plunged suddenly forward, swayed and surged from side to
side through the angry, swirling waters, settled at last, and drew
steadily away from the maddened savages.
With a curious smile, the boyish commander stood in the stern and
watched the black swarm of yelling devils fade in the distance.
He was thinking of his old professor at West Point. His insult had been
the one thing in life to which he owed most. He could see that clearly
now. His heart went out in a wave of gratitude to his enemy. Our enemies
are always our best friends when we have eyes to see.
The winter following he was ordered down to Winnebago.
The village of Chicago was the nearest center of civilization. The only
way of reaching it was by wagon, and the journey consumed three months.
There was much gambling in the long still nights, and some drinking. In
lieu of the excitement of the gaming table, he took his fun in breaking
and riding wild horses, and hairbreadth escapes were the order of his
daily exercise. It was gambling, perhaps, but it developed the muscles
of mind and body.
His success with horses was remarkable. No animal that man has broken to
his use is keener to recognize a master and flout a coward than the
horse. No coward has ever been able to do anything with a spirited
horse.
He was wrestling one day with a particularly vicious specimen, to the
terror and anguish of Jim Pemberton.
"For de Lawd's sake, Marse Jeff, let dat debbil go!"
"No, James, not yet--"
"He ain't no count, no how--"
"All the more reason why I should be his master, not he be mine."
The horse was possessed of seven devils. He jumped and plunged and
bucked, wheeled and reared and walked on his hind legs in mad effort to
throw his cool rider. The moment he reared, the Lieutenant dropped his
feet from the stirrups and leaned close to the brute's trembling, angry
head. At last in one supreme effort the beast threw himself straight
into the air and fell backwards, with the savage purpose of crushing his
tormentor beneath his body.
With a quiet laugh, the young officer slipped from the saddle and
allowed him to thump himself a crashing blow. As the horse sprang to his
feet to run, the Lieutenant leaped lightly into the saddle and the fight
was over.
"Well, for de Lawd, did ye ebber see de beat er dat!" Jim Pemberton
cried with laughing admiration.
Scarcely a week passed without its dangerous excursions against the
Pawnees, Comanches and other hostile tribes of Indians. The friendly
tribes, too, were everlastingly changing to hostiles in a night. Death
rode in the saddle with every man who left a fortified post in these
early days of our national life.
The Lieutenant was ordered on a peculiarly long and daring raid into
hostile territory, and twice barely escaped a massacre. Their errand
accomplished, and leisurely returning to the Fort, they suddenly met a
large party of Indians.
The Lieutenant shot a swift glance at their leader and saluted him with
friendly uplifted hand:
"Can you tell us the way to the Fort, Chief?"
The tall brave placed himself squarely in the path and pointed in the
wrong direction.
Instantly the Lieutenant spurred his horse squarely on the savage,
grasped him by the hair, dragged him a hundred yards and flung him into
the bushes. The assault was so sudden, so unexpected, so daring, the
whole band was completely cowed, and the soldiers rode by without
attack.
Nor was the Indian the only enemy to test the youngster's mettle. The
pioneer soldiers of the rank and file in these turbulent days had minds
of their own which they sometimes dared to use.
The Lieutenant had no beard. His smooth, handsome face, clear blue eyes,
fresh color and gay laughter, gave the impression of a boy of nineteen,
when by the calendar he could boast of twenty-one.
A big strapping, bearded soldier, employed in building the Fort, had
proven himself the terror of his fellow workmen. He was a man of
enormous strength and gave full rein to an ugly, quarrelsome
disposition.
His eyes rested with decided disapproval on the graceful young master of
horses.
"I'll whip that baby-faced Lieutenant," he coolly announced to his
satellites, "if ever he opens his jaw to me--watch me if I don't. What
does he know about work?"
The men reported the threat to the Lieutenant. The next day without a
moment's hesitation, in quiet tones, he gave his first order to the
giant:
"Put that piece of dressed scantling beside the window--"
The man deliberately lifted a rough board and placed it.
"The rough board won't do," said the even voice. "It must he a dressed
scantling."
The soldier threw him an insolent laugh, and stooped to take up a board
exactly like the one he had laid down.
The baby-faced Lieutenant suddenly seized a club, knocked him down, and
beat him until he yelled for quarter.
The soldiers had watched the clash at first with grins and winks and
nudges, betting on their giant. His strength was invincible. When the
unexpected happened, and they saw the slender, plucky youngster standing
over the form of the fallen brave, they raised a lusty shout for him.
When the giant scrambled to his feet, the victor said with a smile:
"This has been a fight, man to man, and I'm satisfied. I'll not report
it officially."
The big one grinned sheepishly and respectfully offered his hand:
"You're all right, Lieutenant. I made a mistake. I beg your pardon.
You're the kind of a commander I've always liked."
Again the soldiers gave a shout. No man under him ever again presumed on
his beardless face. He had only to make his orders known to have them
instantly obeyed.
Jim Pemberton had watched the little drama of officer and man with an
ugly light gleaming in his eyes. The young master had not seen him. That
night in his quarters Jim quietly said:
"I'd a killed him ef he'd a laid his big claws on you, Marse Jeff."
"Would you, James?"
"Dat I would, sah."
Nothing more was said. But a new bond was sealed between master and man.
While at Fort Crawford, the Lieutenant had been ordered up the Yellow
River to build a saw mill. He had handled the neighboring Indians with
such friendly skill and won their good will so completely, he was
adopted by their chief as a brother of the tribe. An old Indian woman
bent with age traveled a hundred miles to the Fort to warn the "Little
Chief" of a coming attack of hostile bands. Her warning was unheeded by
the new commander and a massacre followed.
The success of this attack raised the war spirit of the entire frontier
and gave the soldiers a winter of exceptional danger and hardship. The
country in every direction swarmed with red warriors on the warpath. The
weather was intensely cold, and his Southern blood suffered agonies
unknown to his companions. Often wet to the skin and compelled to remain
in the saddle, the exposure at last brought on pneumonia. For months he
lay in his bed, directing, as best he could, the work of his men.
James Pemberton lifted his weak, emaciated form in his arms as if he
were a child. The black man carried his money, his sword and pistols. At
any moment, day or night, he could have stepped from the door into the
wilderness and been free. He was free. He loved the man he served. With
tireless patience and tenderness, he nursed him back from the shadows of
death into life again.
On recovering from this illness, the Lieutenant faced a new commander at
the head of his regiment--a man destined to set in motion the greatest
event of his life.
Colonel Zachary Taylor had been promoted to the command of the First
Infantry on the death of Colonel Morgan. Already he had earned the title
that would become the slogan of his followers in the campaign which made
him President. "Old Rough and Ready" at this time was in the prime of
his vigorous manhood.
Colonel Taylor sent the Lieutenant on an ugly, important mission.
Four hundred pioneers had taken possession of the lead mines at Dubuque
against the protest of the Indians whose rights had been ignored. The
Lieutenant and fifty men were commissioned to eject the miners. To a
man, they were heavily armed. They believed they were being cheated of
their rights of discovery by the red tape of governmental interference.
They had sworn to resist any effort to drive them out of these mines.
Most of them were men of the higher types of Western adventurer. The
Lieutenant liked these hardy sons of his own race, and determined not to
use force against them if it could he avoided.
He crossed the river to announce his official instructions, and was met
by a squad of daring, resolute fellows, armed and ready for a fight.
Their leader, a tall, red-headed, serious-looking man, opened the
conference with scant ceremony. Looking the youthful officer squarely in
the eye, he slowly drawled:
"Young man, we have defied the gov'ment once befo' when they sent their
boys up here to steal our mines. Now, ef yer know when yer well off,
you'll let honest white men alone and quit sidin' with Injuns--"
There was no mistaking his accent. He meant war.
The Lieutenant's answer came in quick, even, tones:
"The United States Government has ordered your removal, gentlemen. My
business as a soldier is to obey. I shall be sorry to use force. But
I'll do it, if it's necessary. I suggest a private interview with your
leader--" he nodded to the red-headed man.
"Sure!"
"Talk it over!"
"All right."
The men from all sides gave their approval. The leader hesitated a
moment, and measured the tall, straight young officer. He didn't like
this wrestle at close quarters with those penetrating eyes and the
trained mind behind them. But with a toss of his red locks he muttered:
"All right, fire away--you can talk your head off, for all the good
it'll do ye."
They walked off together a few yards and sat down.
With the friendliest smile the Lieutenant extended his hand:
"Before we begin our chat, let's shake hands?"
"Certain--shore--"
The brawny hand clasped his.
"I want you to know," the young officer continued earnestly, "my real
feelings toward you and your men. I've been out here four years with you
fellows, pushing the flag into the wilderness, and the more I see of you
the better I like you. I know real men when I see them. You're strong,
generous, brave, and you do things. You're building a great republic on
this frontier of the world. I've known your hospitality. You've had
little education in the schools, but you're trained for this big work in
the only school that counts out here--the School of Danger and Struggle
and Experience--"
The brawny hand was lifted in a helpless sort of protest:
"Look a here, Boy, you're goin' ter bamboozle me, I kin jist feel it in
my bones--"
"On the other hand," the Lieutenant continued eagerly, "I assure you I
am going to treat you and your friends with the profoundest respect.
It's due you. Let's reason this thing out. You've taken up these mines
under the old right of first discovery--"
"Yes, and they're ours, too,"--the lean jaws came together with a snap.
"So I say. But it will take a little time and a little patience to
establish your claims. The Indian, you know, holds the first rights to
this land--"
"T'ell with Injuns!"
"Even so, isn't it better to first settle their claims and avoid war?"
"Mebbe so."
"And you know we can't settle with the Indians while you hold by force
the mines they claim as the owners of the soil--"
The leader scratched his head and rose with sudden resolution:
"Come on, and tell this to the boys."
The leader escorted the Lieutenant to the crowd, and commanded them to
hear him. His speech was interrupted at first by angry exclamations, but
at its close there was respectful silence. The fight was won without a
blow.
The new Colonel was much pleased at the successful ending of the
dangerous job. He had received the orders to eject these miners with a
wry face. That the work had been done without bloodshed had lifted a
load from his mind.
The Lieutenant was honored on the night of his return by an invitation
to dine with Colonel Taylor's family. They had been settled in the
crowded quarters of the Fort during his absence--the wife, three
daughters and a little son.
The Lieutenant's curiosity was but mildly roused at the thought of
meeting the girls. In the lofty ways of youth, he had put marriage out
of his mind. A soldier should not marry. He had given his whole soul to
his country, its flag and its service. He would be agreeable to the
ladies, of course, in deference to his commander and the honor he was
receiving at his hands.
The dinner was a success. The mother was charming and gracious in her
welcome. Something in her ways recalled his own mother.
She extended her hand with a genial smile, and took his breath with her
first remark:
"I've quite fallen in love with you, sir, because of a story I heard of
your West Point career--"
"Not in pity for my fall over the cliff, I hope," he answered gravely.
The mother's voice dropped to a whisper:
"No,--your friend Albert Sydney Johnston told me that you saved a large
part of your allowance and sent it home to your mother--"
The young officer's lips trembled, and he looked away for a moment:
"But she sent it back to me, madam."
"Yes, until you wrote that she hurt you by not keeping it--"
To relieve his evident embarrassment, the mother introduced him in rapid
succession to her daughters, the eldest Anne, the second Sarah Knox, the
youngest Elizabeth. Richard, the handsome little boy, had introduced
himself. He had liked the Lieutenant from the first.
He had been so surprised by the mother's possession of one of the
sweetest secrets of his schoolboy life, and had blushed so furiously
over it, he had scarcely noticed the girls, merely bowing in his
confusion.
It was not until they were seated at the table and the dinner had fairly
begun, that he became conscious of the charm of the second daughter, who
sat directly opposite.
Her beauty was not dazzling, but in fifteen minutes she had completely
absorbed his attention. It was impossible, of course, not to look at
her. She sat squarely before him. There was no embarrassment in the
frank, honest curiosity with which she returned his gaze.
The thing that first impressed him was the frankness of a winsome
personality. He listened with keen attention to her voice. There was no
simper, no affectation, no posing. She was just herself. He found
himself analyzing her character. Refined--yes. Intelligent--beyond a
doubt. She talked with her father in a quiet, authoritative way which
left no doubt on that score. Graceful, tender, sincere, too--her tones
to her impulsive brother and her younger sister proved that. And a will
of her own she had. The firmly set, full lips were eloquent of
character. He liked that above all things in a woman. He couldn't stand
a simpering doll.
"Sing for us, Sarah!" her brother said impulsively, as they rose from
the table.
"Certainly, Dick, if you wish it."
There was no holding back for urging. No mock modesty. No foolishness in
her answer. It was straight, affectionate, responsive, open hearted,
generous--just like his own sweet little sister Polly when he had asked
of her a favor.
And then, he blushed to find himself staring at her in a sort of dreamy
reverie. He hoped her music would not spoil the impression her
personality had made. This had happened once in his life. He could never
talk to the girl again, after he had heard her sing. The memory of it
was a nightmare.
He watched her tune the guitar with a sense of silly dread. The tuning
finished, she turned to her brother and asked with a smile:
"And what shall I sing, Sir Richard?"
"The one I love best--'Fairy Bells.'"
When the first line with its sweet accompaniment floated out from the
porch on the balmy air of the June evening, the Lieutenant's fears had
vanished. Never had he heard a song whose trembling melody so found his
inmost soul. It set the Fairy Bells ringing in the deep woods of his
far-away Mississippi home. He could see the fairy ringing them--her
beautiful hair streaming in the moonlight, a smile on her lips, the joy
and beauty of eternal youth in every movement of her exquisite form.
When the last note had died softly away, he leaned close and before he
knew what he was doing, whispered:
"Glorious, Miss Sarah!"
"You like it very much?" she asked.
"It's divine."
"My favorite, too."
All night the "Fairy Bells" rang in his heart. For the first time in
life, he failed to sleep. He listened entranced until dawn.
VIII
LOVE
In the swift weeks which followed, life blossomed with new and wonderful
meaning.
In the stern years on the plains, the young officer had known but one
motive of action--duty. He was an exile from home and its comforts,
friends and the haunts of civilized man for his country's sake. He had
come to plant her flag on the farthest frontier and push it farther
against all corners.
In the struggle against the snows of winter and the pestilence of the
summer wilderness, he had fought Nature with the dogged determination of
the soldier. Snow meant winter quarters, the spring marching and
fighting. The hills were breastworks. The night brought dreams of
strategy and surprise. The grass and flowers were symbols of a nation's
wealth and the prophecy of war.
By a strange magic, the coming of a girl had transformed the world. He
had seen the strategic value of these hills and valleys often before. He
had not dreamed of their beauty. The mists that hung over the ragged
lines of the western horizon were no longer fogs that might conceal an
army. They were the folds of a huge veil which Nature was softly drawing
over the face of a beautiful bride. Why had he not seen this before?
The awful silence of the plains from which he had fled to books had
suddenly become God's great whispering gallery. He listened with joyous
awe and reverence.
The stars had been his guides by night to find the trail. He had merely
lifted his eyes to make the reckoning. He had never seen before the
crystal flash from their jeweled depths.
He looked into the eyes of the graceful young rider by his side and
longed to tell her of this miracle wrought in his soul. But he
hesitated. She was too dignified and self-possessed. It would be silly
when put into words.
But the world to-day was too beautiful to hurry through it. He just
couldn't.
"Let's stop on this hill and watch the sunset, Miss Sarah?" he
suggested.
"I'd love to," was the simple answer.
With a light laugh, she sprang from the saddle. They touched the ground
at the same moment.
He looked at her with undisguised admiration.
"You're a wonderful rider," he said.
"A soldier's daughter must be--it's part of her life."
He tied their horses to the low hanging limbs of a cluster of scrub
trees, and found a seat on the bowlders which the Indians had set for a
landmark on the lonely hilltop.
Westward the plains stretched, a silent ocean of green, luscious grass.
"What's that dark spot in the valley?" the girl eagerly asked.
"Watch it a moment--"
They sat in silence for five minutes.
"Why, it's moving!" she cried.
"Yes."
"How curious--"
"An illusion?" he suggested.
"Nonsense, I'm not dreaming."
"I've been dreaming a lot lately--"
A smile played about the corners of her fine mouth. But she ignored the
hint.
"Tell me," she cried; "you studied the sciences at West Point, what does
it mean?"
"Look closely. Any fifteen-year-old boy of the plains could explain it."
"Am I so ignorant?" she laughed.
"No," he answered soberly, "our eyes just refuse to see things at which
we are looking until the voice within reveals. The eyes of a hunter
could make no mistake about such a spot--particularly if it moved."
"It might be a passing cloud--"
"There's none in the sky."
"Tell me!" she pleaded.
"A herd of buffalo."
"That big black field! It must be ten acres--"
The man laughed at her ignorance with a sudden longing in his heart to
help and protect her.
"Ten acres! Look again. They are twenty miles away. The herd is packed
so densely, the ground is invisible. They cover a thousand acres."
"Impossible--"
"I assure you, it's true. They were once even more plentiful. But we're
pushing them back with the Indians into the sunset. And they, too, will
fade away into the twilight at last--"
He stopped suddenly. He had almost spoken a sentence that would have
committed him beyond retreat. It was just on his lips to say:
"I didn't take such tender views of Indians and buffaloes until I met
you!"
For the life of him he couldn't make the girl out. Her voice was music.
Her laughter contagious. And yet she was reserved. About her personality
hung a spell which forbade familiarity. Flirting was a pastime in the
army. But it had never appealed to him. He was not so sure about her
when she laughed.
And then her father worried him. The fiery old Southerner had the temper
of the devil when roused. He could see that this second daughter was his
favorite. He had caught a look of unreasonable anger and jealousy in his
eye only that afternoon when they rode away together.
Still he must risk it. He had really suggested this sunset scene for
that purpose. The field was his own choosing. Only a coward could run
now.
He managed at last to get his lips to work.
"Since you came, Miss Sarah--I've been seeing life at a new angle--" he
paused awkwardly.
The red blood mounted to her cheeks.
"You have given me new eyes--"
[Illustration: "'You have given me new eyes'"]
She turned her head away. There was no mistaking the tremor of his
tones. She was too honest to simper and pretend. Her heart was pounding
so loudly she wondered if he could hear.
He fumbled nervously with his glove, glanced at her from the corner of
his eye, and his voice sank to a whisper:
"I--I love you, Sarah!"
She turned slowly and looked at him through dimmed eyes:
"And I love you--"
She paused, brushed a tear from her cheek, and with sweet reproach
quietly added:
"Why didn't you tell me sooner? We've lost so many beautiful days that
might have been perfect--"
He suddenly stooped and kissed her full lips.
"We'll not lose any more--"
"The world _is_ beautiful, isn't it, dear!" she said, nestling closer.
"Since I see with your eyes--yes. It was only a place to fight in,
before. Now it's a fairy world, and these wild flowers that cover the
plains only grow to make a carpet for the feet of the girl I love--"
"A fairy world--yes--" she whispered, "it's been just that to me since I
first sang the 'Fairy Bells' for you--"
"I'll never love another song as that," he said reverently.
"Nor I," was the low response. "My heart will beat to its music
forever--it just means you, now--"
For a long time they sat without words, holding each other's hand. The
sun hung a glowing ball of fire on the rim of the far-away hills, and
the shadows of the valley deepened into twilight.
"How wonderful the silence of the plains!" the lover sighed.
"It used to oppress me."
The man nodded.
"And now, I hear the beat of angels' wings and know that God is near--"
"Because we love--" and she laughed for joy.
Again they sat in sweet, brooding silence.
A horseman rode over the hilltop in the glow of the fading sun. From its
summit, he lifted his hand and waved a salute. They looked below, and in
the doorway of a cabin, a young mother stood, a babe in her arms
answering with hand uplifted high above her child.
"What does it matter, dear," she whispered, "a cabin or a palace!"
IX
WAR
Side by side through the still white light of the full moon they rode
home, in each heart the glow of the wonder and joy of Love's first
revelation. Words were an intrusion. The eyes of the soul were seeing
now the hidden things of life.
The gleam of the lights at the Fort brought them sharply out of
dreamland into the world of fact.
"You must see my father to-night, dear," she said eagerly.
"Must I, to-night?"
"It's best."
"I'd rather face a hundred Red Men in war paint."
A merry laugh was her answer as she leaned close:
"Don't be silly, he likes you."
"But he _loves_ you."
"Of course, and for that reason my happiness will be his."
"God knows, I hope so," was the doleful response. "But if I must, I
must. I'll see him."
A quick kiss in the friendly shadows and she was gone.
He walked alone an hour after supper, screwing up his courage to the
point of bearding the Colonel in his den. He fumbled the door-bell at
last, his heart in his throat.
Old Rough and Ready was not inclined to help him in his embarrassment.
Never had he seen the lines of his strong jaw harder or more set than
when he grunted:
"Sit down, sir. Don't stand there staring. I'm not on inspection."
The perspiration started on his forehead and he moistened his dry lips.
"I beg your pardon, Colonel. I was a little flustered.
I've--a--something--on--my mind--"
"Out with it!"
"I--I--I'm in love with Miss Sarah."
"You don't say?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"Well, it's no news to me. The whole family have been enjoying the
affair for some time. I suppose you're asking--or think you're
asking--for my daughter's hand in marriage?"
"That's it--yes, sir--exactly."
"I guessed as much. I'm glad to tell you, young man, that I've always
had the kindliest feelings for you personally--"
"Thank you, sir--"
"And the warmest admiration for your talents as an officer. You're a
good soldier. You have brains. You have executive ability. You're a
leader of men. You'll go far in your profession--"
"Thank you, sir--"
"And that's why I don't like you as a son-in-law."
"W--Wha--"
"I love my daughter, and I want her to be happy in a real home with a
real husband and children by her side. A soldier's life is a dog's life.
I've pitied the poor girl who gave up her home for me. Many a bitter
tear has she shed over my absence, in torturing dread of the next letter
from the frontier--"
He paused and sprang to his feet:
"A hundred times I've sworn no daughter of mine should ever marry a
soldier! The better the soldier, the more reason she should not marry
him--"
"But, sir--"
"There's no 'but' about it!" the Colonel thundered. "You're asking me to
let you murder my girl, that's all--but it's life. I'll have to give my
consent and wish you good luck, long life, and all the happiness you can
get out of a soldier's lot."
The Colonel extended his hand and the Lieutenant grasped it with
grateful eagerness.
The days that followed were red lettered in the calendar of life.
And then it came--a crash of thunder out of the clear sky--the thing he
had somehow felt and dreaded.
A petty court-martial was called to adjust a question of army
discipline. The court was composed of Z. Taylor, Colonel Commanding,
Major Thomas F. Smith, a fiery-tempered gay officer of the old army,
Lieutenant Jefferson Davis, and the new Second Lieutenant who had just
arrived from the Jefferson Barracks at St. Louis.
The army regulations required that each officer sitting in court-martial
should be in full uniform. The new arrival from St. Louis had come
without his uniform. His trunk had miscarried and was returned to the
Jefferson Barracks.
He rose with embarrassment:
"I must beg the pardon of the Court, Colonel," he began cautiously, "for
not appearing in my uniform. As it is in St. Louis I respectfully ask to
be excused to-day from wearing it."
The old Colonel scowled. It was just like a young fool to wish to sit in
solemn judgment on a fellow officer--in his shirt sleeves. If he had
asked to be excused from serving on the Court--yes--he could accept his
excuse and let him go. But this insolence was unbearable. The Colonel
glanced over the Court before putting the question to a vote. Smith was
his enemy. Whichever way he voted as President, the Major could be
depended on to go against his decision. There was a feud between those
two hot-tempered fire-eaters which had lasted for years. He glanced at
his future son-in-law with a smile of assured victory. Tom Smith would
vote against him, but the trembling youngster who had quailed before him
that night asking for his daughter's hand was practically in the family.
He smiled at the certainty of downing Smith once more.
In a voice, whose tones left nothing to the imagination of the
presumptuous Second Lieutenant, the Colonel growled:
"Gentlemen, we are asked to allow an officer to sit in the formal
judgment of a court-martial without uniform--I put the question to a
vote and cast mine. No!"
"I vote yes!" shouted the Major.
The Colonel did not condescend to look his way. He knew what that vote
was before he heard it. He bent his piercing eyes on his future
son-in-law:
"Lieutenant Davis?"
There was just a moment's hesitation. The Lieutenant smiled at his
embarrassed young fellow officer and mildly answered:
"I think, Colonel, in view of the distance to St. Louis, we may excuse
the young man for the first offense--I vote--yes."
The old Colonel stared at him in speechless amazement. Smith grinned.
The Colonel's face grew purple with rage. He was just able to gasp his
words during the progress of the trial. It was brief, and when it ended
and the rest had gone, he faced the Lieutenant with blazing eyes:
"How dare you, sir, vote with that damned fool against me?"
"Why, I never thought to hurt you, Colonel--"
"No? And what _did_ you think?"
"I only thought of relieving the evident embarrassment of a young
officer--"
"You did, eh?--no thought of me or my feelings, of my wishes. You're a
hell of a son-in-law, you are--"
He paused for breath and choked with rage no words could express. When
at last his tongue found speech, he swore in oaths more expressive and
profound than modern man has ever dreamed. He damned the Court. He
damned Tom Smith. He damned the Second Lieutenant. He damned the
regiment. He damned the Government that created it. He damned the
Indians that called it to the plains. He damned the world and all in it,
and all things under it. But, particularly and specifically, he damned
the young ass who dared to flaunt his feelings and opinions after
smiling in his face at his house, for days and weeks and months.
Finally, facing the blushing Lieutenant, his eyes flashing indignant
scorn, he shouted:
"No man who votes with a damned fool like Tom Smith, can marry my
daughter!"
"Colonel, I protest," pleaded the heartsick lover.
"I forbid you to ever put your foot inside my quarters again!"
"Colonel--"
"Silence, sir! I forbid you to ever speak to my daughter again!"
"But, Colonel--"
"I repudiate you and all yours. I wipe you from the map. You don't
exist. I don't know you. I never knew you. Get out of my sight!"
The tall, slender form slowly straightened and a look of cold pride
shot from the depths of his blue eyes. Without a word he turned and
left.
X
ROMANCE
Black Hawk was leading his red warriors in a great uprising. A wave of
fierce excitement swept the frontier. There was stern work now for men
to do and women must wait alone.
The regiment marched to the front. The Colonel as a man was freezingly
formal with the Lieutenant. As an officer, he knew his worth and relied
on it in every emergency. The State of Illinois had raised two companies
of raw recruits to join in subduing the Indians. The Colonel sent his
most efficient subordinate to swear in the new soldiers. On the morning
of the muster, there appeared before the tall Lieutenant, a man full
three inches taller, and famous in his county as the gawkiest,
slab-sidest, homeliest, best-natured fellow in the State. He was dressed
in a suit of blue jeans.
In slow, pleasing drawl, he announced:
"I am the Captain, of this company--"
And he waved his long arm toward the crowd of his countrymen on the
right.
Lieutenant Jefferson Davis promptly administered to Abraham Lincoln his
first oath to support the Constitution and laws of the United States.
Two men destined to immortal fame had met and passed with scarcely a
glance at each other. The young army officer was too much of a gentleman
to mark the ill-fitting blue jeans of the awkward captain of militia.
Great events, after all, make men great. Only the eye of God could
foresee the coming tragedy in which these two would play their mighty
rôles.
At the end of the brief struggle on the frontier, Black Hawk's people
were scattered to the four winds and the brave old warrior, with a
handful of his men, sought Colonel Taylor's command to surrender.
Again, the Colonel sent his most accomplished officer, the Lieutenant
whom he had forbidden to enter his house,--to treat with the fallen
Chief.
The Lieutenant received with kindly words the broken-hearted warrior,
his two sons and sixty braves, and conducted them at once as prisoners
of war to the barracks at St. Louis.
The cholera was raging at Rock Island, and on the boat two of the Indian
prisoners were seized with the fatal disease. The Lieutenant, at the
risk of his life, personally ministered to their needs. The two stricken
men made known to the commander in broken words and signs that they had
sworn an oath of eternal friendship. In pleading tones the stronger
said:
"We beg the good Chief to put us ashore that hand in hand we may go to
the happy hunting grounds together."
Near the first little settlement their prayer was granted.
The young officer turned to his boat with a sigh as he saw the red
warriors slip their arms about each other and slowly sink to the ground
to die alone and unattended.
Old Black Hawk sat in silent, stolid indifference to his fate until the
curious settlers began to crowd on the boat and stare at his misery.
The Lieutenant interfered with sharp decision.
"Push those men back, Corporal!" he ordered angrily.
The crowd was roughly pushed back and the Lieutenant took Black Hawk
kindly by the arm and led him into a reserved apartment where he was
free from vulgar eyes.
The old man's lips tightened. He gazed at the officer steadily and spoke
in measured tones:
"The young war Chief treats me with much kindness. He is good and brave.
He puts himself in my place and sees all that I suffer. With him I am
much pleased."
The Lieutenant bowed and left him under the protection of the guard.
Courtesy to a fallen foe in the old days was the first obligation of an
officer and a gentleman.
In the autumn, Colonel Taylor again sent his Lieutenant on a distant
duty--this time one of peculiar danger. He was ordered to Louisville and
Lexington on recruiting service. And the cholera was known to be
epidemic but a few miles from Lexington.
The good-by scene that night at the lovers' trysting place, the little
tent reception-room of the McCreas', was long and tender and solemn.
"Oh, I feel dreadful about this trip, dear," his sweetheart kept
repeating with pitiful despair that refused to be comforted.
"You must be brave, my own," he answered with a frown. "A soldier's
business is to die. I am a soldier. I go where duty calls--"
"To battle--yes--but this black pestilence that comes in the night--I'm
afraid--I just can't help it--I'm afraid. I've always had a horror of
such things. I've a presentiment that you'll die that way--"
"Presentiments and dreams go by opposites. I'll live to a ripe old
age--"
She looked up into his face with a tender smile:
"You think so?"
"Yes, why not?"
"Well--I've something to tell you--"
She paused and the man bent low.
"What?"
"I've made a vow to God--" the voice stopped with a sob--"that if He
will only send you safely back to me this time--I'll wait no longer on
my father's whim--I am yours--"
The lover clasped her trembling form to his heart.
"Good-by, dearest," he said at last. "I wish to go with that promise
ringing in my soul."
Ten days after he reached Lexington, the cholera broke out, and hundreds
fled. He stood by his men, watched their diet, nursed the sick, and
buried the dead. He helped the carpenter make the coffins and reverently
bore the victims to their graves. No fear was in his soul. Love was
chanting the anthem of Life.
A strange new light was burning in the eyes of the woman he loved on the
day he returned in safety.
She seized his hand and spoke with decision:
"Come with me."
Her father was standing at the gate. She faced him, holding defiantly
the hand of her lover.
The old man saw and understood. His jaw was set with sullen
determination and his face hardened.
"We have waited two long years," she began softly. "We have been patient
and hopeful, but you have given no sign. My lover's character is beyond
reproach, and I am proud of him. I am sorry to cross you, Father, but
I've made up my mind, I am going to marry him now."
The Colonel turned in silence and slowly walked into the house.
Captain McCrea engaged a stateroom for her on the boat for Louisville.
The lovers planned to meet at her aunt's, the Colonel's oldest sister.
The tearful good-bys had been said to Mother and sisters and brother.
The Colonel had not spoken, but he had business on the boat before she
cast her lines from the shore.
The daughter drew him into her stateroom and slipped her arms around his
neck. Few words were spoken and they were broken.
"Please, Father--please?--I love you--please--"
"No."
"I'm no longer a child. I'm a woman. You're a real man and you know I
could have no respect for myself if I should yield my life's happiness
to a whim--"
The old Colonel stroked her shoulder:
"I understand. You're a chip off the old block. You're just as stubborn
as I am. And--I--won't--eat--my--words."
With firm hand, he drew away and hurried from the boat.
The Taylor clan of Kentucky gathered for the wedding in force. The
romance appealed to their fancy. They loved their high-spirited,
self-poised little kinswoman and they liked the tall, modest, young
officer she had chosen for her husband. The stern old Colonel was not
there, but his brother and his three sisters and all their tribe made
merry at the wedding feast.
On the deck of the lazy river steamer, the bride and groom slowly
drifted down the moonlit shimmering way to the fields of Mississippi.
The bride nestled close to her lover's side in the long sweet silences
too deep for words.
He took her hand in his at last, and said tenderly:
"I've something very important to tell you now, my dear--"
"I'm not afraid--"
"You trust me implicitly?"
"Perfectly--"
"You have given up all for me," he went on evenly, "I'll show your
father what I can do for you--"
"You love me--it's enough."
"No. I have resigned my commission in the army. I have given up my
career. We'll live only for each other now and build our nest in the far
sunny South beyond the frost line."
A little smothered cry was her answer. And then her head slowly sank
with a sob on his breast.
XI
THE FAIRY BELLS
They built their home on the banks of the great river where the tide
sweeps in graceful curve, all but completing the circle of an enchanted
isle.
From the little flower-veiled porch through festoons of lacing boughs
gleamed the waters of the huge curved mirror held by Nature's hand. The
music from the decks of the steamers floated up on the soft air until
music and perfume of flowers seemed one.
In the cool of the morning, on swift, high-bred horses, they rode side
by side along the river's towering bluff and laughed in sheer joy at
their foolish happiness. In the waning afternoon, hand in hand, they
walked the sunlit fields and paused at dusk to hear the songs of slaves.
The happiness of lovers is contagious. It sets the hearts of slaves to
singing.
In the white solemn splendor of the Southern moon they strolled through
enchanted paths of scented roses. On the rustic seat beneath a magnolia
in full second bloom they listened to the song of a mocking-bird whose
mate had built her nest in the rose trellis beside their door. They
could count the beat of his bird heart night after night as he sang the
glory of his love and the beauty of his coming brood of young.
"You are happy, dearest?" the lover sighed.
"In heaven,--I am with you."
"And it shall be forever."
"Forever!"
"The old life of blood and strife--it seems an ugly dream."
"Except for the sweet days when you were near."
"This only is life, my own, to hold your hand, and walk the way
together, to build, not to destroy, to make flowers bloom, birds and
slaves sing, to create, not kill--production is communion with God. We
live now in His peace that passeth understanding!"
A long silence followed. An owl in a distant tree top gave a shrill
plaintive cry. The bride nestled closer and he felt her shiver.
"You are chill, dearest?" he murmured.
"Just a little."
"We're forgetting the late August night winds--"
"No--no--it's nothing--I'm just a wee bit afraid of an owl, that's all."
A dark figure slowly approached and stood with uncovered head.
"What is it, James?" the master asked.
"It's too late, sir, for you and the mistis to be out in dis air--it's
chill an' fever time--"
"Thank you, James--we'll go in at once."
When the faithful footfall had died away, the lover lifted his bride in
his arms and carried her in, while she softly laughed and clung to his
strong young shoulders.
It came with swift, sure tread, the silent white figure of the
Pestilence that walks in Tropic Splendor.
The lover laughed the doctor's fears to scorn and the old man was brave
and cheerful in the presence of youth and happiness.
James Pemberton followed him to the gate and held his horse's bridle
with a tremor in his black hand.
"You don't think, doctor--" he paused, afraid to say the thing--"you
don't think my young mistis gwine ter die?"
"She's very ill, Jim--it's an even fight for life."
"Ef she do--hit'll kill my young marster--"
"Soldiers can't die that way--no--"
"Yassah--but dey ain't been married but three months, sah, an' he des
worship de very groun' her little foot walks on--she des can't die--she
too young an' putty, sah--hit des natchally can't be--"
The doctor's gray head slowly moved as if in remembrance of tragic
scenes.
"Death loves a shining mark sometimes!"
He turned to the slave in tones of warning:
"Watch your master closely--"
"My _marster_--sah!"
"He'll go down next--"
"Yassah--yassah!"
Two days later, the strong man collapsed with a crash that took even the
experienced old doctor by surprise. An iron will had bent over the
bedside of his bride and fought with grim defiance the battle with
unseen foe until the last ounce of strength had gone.
In his delirium they moved him to another room and he awoke to find
himself in a prison cell on a desert island a thousand miles from the
mate he adored.
He watched his jailers and at last his hour came. The tired guard beside
his prison pallet slept. With fevered stealth he rose and with the
strength of a giant, bent the bars of his cage and crawled and fought
his way over hill and valley, rocks and mountains, back to the bedside
of his beloved.
He paused in rapture at the door. She was sitting up in bed, the pillows
propped behind her back, singing their favorite song--"Fairy Bells." How
soft and weirdly sweet her voice--its notes so far away and
plaintive--never had she sung so divinely!
He held his breath lest a word or quiver of its melody should be lost.
And then he slipped his strong arms about her and looked into her eyes
shining with unearthly beauty.
"You have come at last, my own!" she sighed. "I knew the Bells would
call you--"
"Yes--dearest--and I'll never leave you again--they took me away a
wounded prisoner of war--but I broke the bars and came when I heard you
call--"
"Look," she whispered, pointing with the slender blue-veined finger,
"there she is, in the doorway again with her baby in her arms, waving at
sunset to her lover on the hill?--what does it matter, a cabin or a
palace!"
The shining eyes grew dim, the figure drooped, and a wild piteous cry
came from the lover's fevered lips:
"Lord God of Love and Pity--she's dying!--Help--Help--Help!"
His faithful servant, worn with watching day and night, heard the cry,
rushed to his side and caught his fainting form, as the light of the
world faded.
XII
TRUTH
They nursed him slowly back into life again, the loving heart of the
older brother guiding the arm of his faithful slave.
He refused to live at first.
"It's no use, Joe," he cried with bitter despair. "Life isn't worth the
struggle any more. I'm tired, I just want to rest--by her side--that's
all."
"I know, Boy, how you feel. But you must live. Duty calls. Great events
are stirring the world. You've a man's part to play--"
"I won't play it. I'm done with ambition. I'm done with strife. The
game's not worth the candle. I've lived the only life worth living, and
it's finished."
Little by little, each day, the brother slowly rebuilt in the stricken
soul the will to live. Before he was able to walk, he lifted the frail
form in his arms, carried him into his big library, and seated him in an
arm-chair before a fire of glowing logs.
With a sweep of his arm about the room toward the crowded shelves he
began in earnest tones:
"You're going to live with me now, Boy. We love each other with the love
of strong men. I need your help and companionship in my study. You had
the advantage of a college career--I didn't. We'll master here these
records of the world's life. We'll seek wisdom in the history and
experience of man. What do you know of the treasures buried in those big
volumes? Our young men go to school and plunge into life with a mere
smattering. Do you know the history of your own country, how it was
discovered, how its colonies grew, how its battles were fought against
overwhelming and impossible odds? How its great Constitution grew in the
hands of inspired leaders, who builded better than they knew a chart for
the guidance of man. Do you know the history of the mind of man? Do you
know the story of those ragged bleeding feet--of the great thinkers of
the ages who have found the path of truth through blood and tears and
then walked its way to the stake, to the block and the gallows? Come
with me into the big world of the past--read, study, think, and gird
yourself with power! We're just entering on the struggle that means life
or death to our Republic. I believe as I believe in God, that we have
set a beacon light on the shores of the world that will guide the human
race to its mightiest achievements--unless we fail to keep its lantern
trimmed and bright.
"The poison of indolence is in our blood--the tendency to centralized
tyranny. We are but a few years removed from its curse. As we grow in
years, the temptation to make Washington the gilded Capital of an Empire
becomes more and more apparent. Unless we control this tendency to lapse
into the past, we are lost and the story of our fallen Republic will be
but one more added to the failures of history. Unless we can preserve
the sovereignty of our States, the Union will become an Empire, not a
Republic of republics. It's a difficult thing for men to govern
themselves, though they can do it better than anyone else has ever done
it for them. We are making this wonderful experiment here in the new
world. The fate of unborn millions hangs on its success. You're done
with self and self-seeking. Ambition is a dream that is passed. Good!
Lay your life in unselfish sacrifice on the altar of your country. Only
the man who has given up ambition is fit for great leadership. He alone
dares to seek and know and speak the Truth!"
The tired spirit rose with a new view of human life, its aim and
purpose. For eight years he buried himself in the library on his
brother's estate. Through the long winter nights the two brilliant minds
fought over in friendly contests the battles of the ages until the
passion for Truth grew into the one purpose of a great soul.
When the first rumblings of the storm that was to shake a continent
broke over the Republic, he stepped forth to take his place in the world
of action--the best equipped, most thoroughly trained, most perfectly
poised man who had ever entered the arena of American politics.
His rise was brilliant and unprecedented. In his first contest he met
the foremost orator of the age, Sergeant Prentiss, and vanquished him on
his own ground. In two years he took his seat in Congress, the favorite
son of Mississippi.
He had scarcely begun his career, as a lawmaker, when war was declared
against Mexico. He resigned his high office, raised a regiment and once
more found himself a soldier under the orders of stern old Zachary
Taylor.
On his first battle field at the head of his Mississippi regiment, he
planted the flag of the Republic on the Grand Plaza of Monterey. And in
the supreme crisis of the battle of Buena Vista, with the blood
streaming from his wounds, he led his men in a charge against
overwhelming odds, turned the tide from defeat to victory and gave the
Presidency to the man who had denied to him his daughter's hand.
He hobbled back on crutches to his brother's home in Mississippi amid
the shouts and frenzied acclaim of a proud and grateful people. Within
three years from the day he entered public life, he took his seat in the
Senate Chamber of the United States beside Clay, Calhoun and Webster,
the peer of any man within its walls, and with the conscious power of
Knowledge and Truth, girded himself for the coming struggle of giants.
The Story
CHAPTER I
THE CURTAIN RISES
"For the Lord's sake, Jennie--"
Dick Welford paused at the bottom of a range of steps which wound up the
capitol hill from Pennsylvania Avenue.
The girl standing at the top stamped her foot imperiously.
"Hurry--hurry!"
"I won't--"
"Then I'll leave you!"
The boy laughed.
"You don't dare. It's barely sunup--still dark in spots--the boogers'll
get you--"
With a grin he deliberately sat down.
"Dick Welford, you're the laziest white man I ever saw in my life--We
won't get a seat, I tell you--"
"We can stand up."
"We won't even get our noses in the door--"
"You don't think these old Senators get up at daylight, do you?"
"They didn't go to bed last night--"
"I'll bet they didn't!" Dick laughed.
"I know one that didn't anyhow--"
"Who?"
"Senator Davis."
"How do you know?"
"Spent the night there. Father stayed so late, Mrs. Davis put me to bed.
Regular procession all night long! And among his visitors the Blackest
Republican of them all--"
"Old Abe run over from Illinois to say good-by?"
"No, but his right hand man Seward did--"
"Sly old snuff-dipping hypocrite--"
"Anyhow, he's the brains of his party."
"And he called on Jeff Davis last night?"
"Not the first time either. Mrs. Davis told me that when the Senator was
so ill with neuralgia and came near losing his sight, Seward came every
day, sat in the darkened room and talked for hours to his enemy--"
"That's because he's a Black Republican. Their ways are dark. They like
rooms with the shades pulled down--"
"Anyhow he likes Mr. Davis."
"Well, it's good-by to the old Union--how many Senators are going
to-day?"
"Yulee and Mallory from Florida, Clay and Fitzpatrick from Alabama and
Senator Davis--"
"All in a day?"
"Yes--"
"Jennie, they'll talk their heads off. It'll be three o'clock before the
first one finishes. We'll die. Let's go to Mt. Vernon--"
"Dick Welford, I'm ashamed of you. You've no patriotism at all--"
"And I just proposed a pilgrimage to the home of George Washington!"
"You don't care what happens in the Senate Chamber to-day--"
"No--I don't."
The boy's lazy figure slowly rose, mounted the steps, paused and looked
down into the tense eager young face.
"You really want to know," he began slowly, "why speaking tires me now?"
"Yes--why?"
"Because it's a waste of breath--we're going to fight!"
The girl flushed with excitement.
"Who told you? What have you heard? Who said so?"
A dreamy look in the boy's eyes deepened.
"Nobody's told me. I just know. It's in the air. A wild duck knows when
to go north. A bluebird knows when to move south. It's in the air.
That's the way I know--" his voice dropped. "Let's go to Mt. Vernon and
spend the day, Jennie--"
The girl looked up sharply. The low persuasive tones were unmistakable.
The faintest flush mantled her cheeks.
"No--I wouldn't miss those speeches for anything. You promised to take
me to the Senate gallery. Come on."
With a quick bound the boy scaled the next flight of steps and looked
down at her laughing:
"All right, why don't _you_ come on!"
With a frown she sprang up the stone stairs and he caught her step with
a sudden military salute. They walked in silence for a few minutes.
"What's the matter with you to-day, Dick Welford?"
"Why, Miss Jennie Barton?"
"I never saw you quite so foolish."
"Maybe it's because I never saw you quite so pretty--"
The little figure stiffened with dignity.
"That will do now, sir--"
"Yessum!"
She threw him a look of quiet scorn as they picked their way through the
piles of building material for the unfinished dome of the Capitol and
mounted the steps.
Barely half past seven o'clock and the crowds were pouring into the
Senate Chamber, its cloak rooms and galleries. Within thirty minutes
after they had found seats opposite the diplomatic gallery every inch of
space in the great hall was jammed and packed.
Southern women and their escorts outnumbered the others five to one. The
Southern wing of official Washington was out in force.
The tense electric atmosphere was oppressive.
The men and women whose eager anxious faces looked down on the circular
rows of senatorial chairs and desks were painfully conscious that they
were witnessing the final scene of a great historical era.
What the future might hold God alone could know. Their fathers had
dreamed a beautiful dream--"_E Pluribus Unum_"--one out of many. The
Union had yet to be realized as an historical fact. The discordant
elements out of which our Constitution had been strangely wrought had
fought their way at last into two irreconcilable hostile sections, the
very structure of whose civilization rested on antagonistic conceptions
of life and government.
The Northern Senators were in their seats with grave faces long before
the last straggling Southerner picked his way into the Chamber bowing
and smiling and apologizing to the ladies on whose richly embroidered
dresses he must step or give up the journey.
For weeks the pretense of polite formalities between parties had been
unconsciously dropped. Men no longer bowed and smirked and passed the
time of day with shallow words.
With heads erect, they glanced at each other and passed on. And if they
spoke, it was with taunt, insult and challenge.
Jennie's keen eyes rested on two vacant chairs on the floor of the
Senate--every seat was crowded save these two.
She pressed Dick's arm.
"See--the vacant seats of South Carolina!"
"They're not vacant," the boy drawled.
"They are--look--"
"I see a white figure in each--"
"Nonsense!"
"We're going to have war, I tell you! Death sits in those chairs to-day,
Jennie--"
"Sh--don't talk like that--"
The boy laughed.
"I'm not afraid, you know--just a sort of second sight--maybe it means
I'll be killed--"
* * * * *
South Carolina had felt no forebodings on the day her Convention had
recalled those Senators. Kiett the eloquent leader of the Convention
sprang to his feet, his face flaming with passion that was half delirium
as he shouted:
"This day is the culmination of long years of bitterness, of suffering
and of struggle. We are performing a great deed, which holds in its
magic not only the stirring present, it embraces the ages yet to come. I
am content with what has been done to-day. I shall be content with it
to-morrow. We have lowered the body of the old Union to its last resting
place. We drop the flag over its grave."
When the vote was announced, without a single dissenting voice, the
crowd rose to their feet with a shout of applause which shook the
building to its foundations. It died away at last only to rise again
with redoubled fury.
Alabama, Mississippi, Georgia and Florida had followed in rapid
succession, Louisiana's Convention was to meet on the twenty-sixth,
Texas on February first. On this the twenty-first day of January the
Senators from Florida, Mississippi and Alabama had announced their
farewell addresses to the Old Union.
The girl's eyes swept the crowded tiers of the galleries packed with
beautifully gowned Southern women. Every glove, fan, handkerchief,
bonnet or dress--every dainty stocking and filmy piece of lingerie had
been imported direct from the fashion centers of Europe. Gowns of
priceless lace and velvets had been woven to order in the looms of
Genoa, Venice and Brussels.
The South was rich.
And yet not one of her representatives held his office in Washington
because of his money. Her ruling classes were without exception an
aristocracy of brains--yet they were distinctly an aristocracy.
The election of Abraham Lincoln was more than a threat to confiscate
three thousand millions of dollars which the South had invested in
slaves. The homely rail splitter from the West was the prophecy of a new
social order which threatened the foundations of the modern world. He
himself was all unconscious of this fact. And yet this big reality was
the secret of the electric tension which strangled men into silence and
threw over the scene the sense of ominous foreboding.
The debates in Congress during the tempestuous session had been utterly
insincere and without meaning. The real leaders knew that the time for
discussion had passed. Two absolutely irreconcilable moral principles
had clashed and the Republic was squarely and hopelessly broken into two
vast sectional divisions on the issue.
Beyond the fierce and uncompromising hatred of Slavery which had grown
into a consuming passion throughout the North and had resulted in the
election of Lincoln as a purely sectional candidate--behind and
underneath this apparent moral rage lay a bigger and far more elemental
fact--the growing consciousness of the laboring man that the earth and
the fullness thereof were his.
And bigger than the fear of the confiscation of their property and the
destruction of the Constitution their fathers had created loomed before
the Southern mind the Specter of a new democracy at the touch of whose
fetid breath the soul of culture and refinement they believed must die.
In the vulgar ranks of this democracy must march sooner or later four
million negroes but yesterday from the jungles of Africa.
This greater issue was felt but dimly by the leaders on either side but
it was realized with sufficient clearness to make compromise impossible.
In vain did the aged and the feeble plead once more for compromise. Real
men no longer wished it.
The day of reckoning had come. The seeds of this tragedy were planted in
the foundation structure of the Republic.
The Union of our fathers, for all the high sounding phrases of its
Declaration of Independence was not a democracy. It was from the
beginning an aristocratic republic founded squarely on African Slavery.
And the degraded position assigned to the man who labored with his hands
was recognized in our organic law.
The Constitution itself was the work of a rich and powerful group of
leaders in each State, and its provisions were a compromise of
conflicting sectional property interests.
The world had moved from 1789 to 1861.
The North was unconsciously lifting the banner of a mighty revolution.
The South was clinging with the desperation of despair to the faith of
its fathers.
The North was the world of steam and electricity, of new ideas, of
progress. The South still believed in the divine inspiration of the men
who founded the Republic. They must believe in it, for their racial life
depended on it. Four million negroes could not be loosed among five
million Southern white people and two such races live side by side under
the principles of a pure democracy. Had this issue been put to them in
the beginning not one Southern State would have entered the Union.
The Northern workingman, with steam and electricity bringing North and
South into closer and closer touch, answered this cry of fear from the
South with the ultimatum of democracy:
"This Nation can not endure half slave and half free!"
Back of all the mouthings of demagogues and the billingsgate of
sectionalists lay this elemental fact--a democracy against a republic.
Nor could the sword of the Sections settle such an issue. The sectional
sword could only settle an issue which grew out of it--whether a group
of States holding a common interest in this conflict of principles could
combine for their own peace and safety, leave the old Union, form a new
one and settle it in their own way.
The North said no--the South said yes. This conviction bigger than party
platforms was the brooding terror which brought the sense of tragedy to
young and old, the learned and the unlearned--that made young men see
visions and maids dream of mighty deeds.
* * * * *
The Southern boy's eyes had again rested on the vacant chairs of the
Senators from South Carolina with a set look in their depths.
The crowd turned with sudden stir to the door of the Senate Chamber.
"Look," Jennie cried, "that's Mrs. Clem Clay of Alabama--how pale and
beautiful she is! The Senator's going to make the speech of his life
to-day. She's scared--Ah, that dress, that dress--isn't it a dream? Did
you ever see such a piece of velvet--and--do look at that dear little
gold hand holding the skirt up just high enough to see the exquisite
lace on her petticoat--"
"Where's the golden hand--I don't see it?" Dick broke in skeptically.
"Don't you see the chain hanging from her waist?"
"Yes, I see that."
"Follow it with your eye and you'll see the hand. The Bayard sisters
introduced them from Paris, you know."
The boy had ceased to listen to Jennie's chatter. His eye had suddenly
rested on a group of three men seated in the diplomatic gallery--one
evidently of high official position by the deference paid him. The man
on the left of the official was young, handsome, slender, and pulled the
corners of his mustache with a slow lazy touch of his graceful hand. His
eyes were fixed on Jennie with a steady gaze. The Minister from
Sardinia, of the Court of Victor Emmanuel, sat on the right, bowing and
gesticulating with an enthusiasm out of all proportion to the importance
of the conversation.
Behind this group sat a fourth man who leaned forward occasionally and
whispered to the official. His face was in shadow and the only thing
Dick could see was the thick dark brown beard which covered his regular
features and a pair of piercing black eyes.
"For heaven's sake, Jennie," the boy cried at last, "who is that villain
in the Diplomatic gallery?"
"Where?"
"In the corner there on the right."
"Oh, that's the Sardinian Minister--King Victor Emmanuel's new drummer
of trade for Genoa. He's getting ahead of the French, too."
"No--no, I don't mean that little rat. I mean the big fellow with the
heavy jaw and a face like a rattlesnake. He's trying to charm you too."
Jennie laughed.
"Silly! That's the new Secretary of War, Joseph Holt."
"A scoundrel, if God ever made one--"
"Because he looks at me?"
"No--that shows his good taste. It's the way he looks at you and moves
his crooked mouth and the way he bends his big flat head forward."
"Rubbish--he's a loyal Southerner--and if we have to fight he'll be with
us."
"Yes--he--_will_!"
"Of course, he will. He's careful now. He's in old Buck's cabinet. Wait
and see. He called on Mr. Davis last night."
"That's nothing--so did old Seward--"
"Different--Seward's a Black Republican from New York--Holt's a Southern
Democrat from Mississippi."
"And who's the young knight by his side with the dear little mustache to
which he seems so attached?"
Jennie looked in silence for a moment.
"I never saw him before. He's handsome, isn't he?"
"Looks to me like a young black snake just shed his skin waiting for
that old adder to show him how to strike."
"Dick--"
"God save the Queen! They're coming here--they're coming for you--"
The Secretary of War had nodded in recognition of Jennie, risen
suddenly, and moved toward the gallery exit with his slender companion.
"Nonsense, Dick--he only bowed because he saw me staring--"
"He's bringing that mustache to meet you--"
The boy turned with a scowl toward the door of their gallery and saw the
Secretary of War slowly making his way through the crowd to their seats.
"I told you so--"
Jennie blushed and smiled in friendly response to the Secretary's
awkward effort at Southern politeness.
"Miss Barton, may I ask a little favor of you?"
"Certainly, Mr. Holt. Allow me to introduce my friend, Mr. Welford of
Virginia."
The Secretary bowed stiffly and Dick nodded his head with indifference.
"The Italian Minister with whom I've just been talking wishes the honor
of an introduction for his Secretary. Miss Jennie, will you meet him?"
"Certainly--"
"He's looking forward to the possible new Empire of the South," Holt
whispered, "and proposes at an early day to forestall the French--"
Dick threw him a look of scorn as he returned to the door and rose with
a scowl.
"I'll go out and get fresh air."
"Don't go--"
"I can't breathe in here. Two's company and three's a crowd."
She seized his arm:
"Please sit down, Dick."
"I'll be back directly--"
In spite of her protest he bounded up the steps of the gallery, turned
sharply to the right, avoided the intruders and disappeared in the
crowd.
The Secretary of War bowed again:
"Miss Barton, permit me to introduce to you Signor Henrico Socola,
Secretary to His Excellency, the Minister of Sardinia."
The slender figure bent low with an easy grace.
"Pleased to meet you, Signor Socola," Jennie responded, lifting the
heavy lashes from her lustrous brown eyes with the slightest challenge
to his.
"The pleasure is all mine, Mad'moiselle," he gravely replied.
"You'll excuse me now if I hurry on?" the Secretary said, again bowing
and disappearing in the crowd.
"Mr. Holt tells me, Miss Barton, that you know every Senator on the
floor."
"Yes. My father has been in Congress and the Senate for twenty years."
"You'll explain the drama to me to-day when the curtain rises?"
"If I can."
"I'll be so much obliged--" he paused and the even white teeth smiled
pleasantly. "I'm pretty well up on American history but confess a little
puzzled to-day. Your Southern Senators are really going to surrender
their power here without a struggle?"
"What do you mean?" the girl asked with a slight frown.
"That your Democratic party has still a majority in both the House and
the Senate. If the Southern members simply sit still in their places,
the incoming administration of Abraham Lincoln will be absolutely
powerless. The new President can not even call a cabinet to his side
without their consent."
"The North has elected their President," Jennie answered with decision.
"The South scorns to stoop to the dishonor of cheating them out of it.
They've won the election. They can have it. The South will go and build
a government of her own--as we built this one--"
"And fight twenty-three million people of the North?"
"If forced to--yes!"
"With the certainty of an uprising of your slaves at home?"
Jennie laughed.
"Our slaves would fight for us if we'd let them--"
A curious smile twitched the lips of the Italian.
"You speak with great confidence, Miss Barton!"
"Yes. I know what I'm talking about."
The keen eyes watched her from the shadows of the straight thick brows.
"And your Senators who took a solemn oath in entering this Chamber to
support the Constitution will leave their seats in violation of that
oath?"
The Southern girl flushed, turned with quick purpose to answer, laughed
and said with winning frankness:
"You don't mind if I give you my father's answer in his own words? I
know them by heart--"
"By all means."
"An oath to support the Constitution of the United States does _not_
bind the man who takes it to support an administration elected by a mob
whose purpose is to subvert the Constitution!"
"Oh,--I see," was the quiet response.
"You speak English with perfection, Signor!" Jennie said with a smile.
"Yes, Mad'moiselle, I've spent my life in the Diplomatic service."
He bowed gravely, lifted his head and caught the smile on the lips of
the Secretary of War standing in the shadows of the doorway of the
Diplomatic gallery.
The stately figure of John C. Breckinridge, the Vice-President, suddenly
mounted the dais and his piercing eyes swept the assembly. He rapped for
order and the silence which followed was as the hush of death.
"The curtain rises on our drama, Mad'moiselle," the smooth even voice
said.
"Sh!" the girl whispered.