RICHMOND IN GALA DRESS
From the moment Virginia seceded from the Union it wan a foregone
conclusion that Richmond would be the capital of the new
Confederacy--not only because the great Virginian was the Father of the
Country and his glorious old Commonwealth the mother of States and
Presidents, but because her soil must be the arena of the first great
battle.
On May 23, the Provisional Congress at Montgomery adjourned to meet in
Richmond on July 20, and Jefferson Davis began his triumphal procession
to the new Capital.
Jennie Barton, her impulsive father, the Senator, Mrs Barton, with
temper serene and unruffled, and Signor Henrico Socola of the Sardinian
Ministry, were in the party. Dick Welford and two boys were already in
Virginia with their regiments. Tom was in New Orleans with Raphael
Semmes, fitting out the little steamer _Sumter_ for a Confederate
cruiser.
Senator Barton had been requested by the new President to act as his
aide, and the champion of secession had accepted the honor under
protest. It was not of importance commensurate with his abilities, but
it was perhaps worth while for the moment until a greater field was
opened.
The arrangement made Socola's association with Jennie of double
importance. As the train whirled through the sunlit fields of the South
he found his position by her side more and more agreeable and
interesting. She was a girl of remarkable intelligence. He had observed
that she was not afraid of silence. Her tongue was not forever going. In
fact she seemed disinclined to talk unless she had something to say.
He glanced at her from the corners of his dark eyes with a friendly
smile.
"You are serious to-day, Miss Jennie?"
"Yes. I wish I were a man!"
"You'd go to the front, of course?"
"Yes--wouldn't you?"
"For _my_ country--yes--"
He paused a moment and went on carelessly:
"Your older brother, the Judge, will fight for the Union?"
The sensitive lips trembled.
"No--thank God. He has sent my mother word that for her sake and mine
he'll not fight his father and younger brothers in battle. He's going to
do a braver thing than march to the front. He's going to face his
neighbors in New Orleans and stand squarely by his principles."
"It will take a brave man to do that, won't it?"
"The bravest of the brave."
The train was just pulling into a sleepy Southern town, the tracks
running straight down the center of its main street. A company was drawn
up to salute the new President and cheering thousands had poured in from
the surrounding country to do him honor. They cheered themselves hoarse
and were still at it when the train slowly started northward. The
company which greeted their arrival with arms presented were on board
now, chatting, shouting, singing, waving their caps and handkerchiefs to
tear-stained women.
The country through which the Presidential party passed had been
suddenly transformed into a vast military camp, the whole population war
mad.
Every woman from every window of every house in sight of the train waved
a handkerchief. The flutter of those white flags never ceased.
The city of Richmond gave their distinguished visitor a noble reception.
He was quartered temporarily at the Spotswood Hotel, but the City
Council had purchased the handsomest mansion in town at a cost of
$40,000 and offered it to him as their token of admiration of his
genius.
Mr. Davis was deeply touched by this mark of esteem from Virginia, but
sternly refused the gift for himself. He accepted it for the Confederate
Government as the official residence of the President.
Socola found the city a mere comfortable village in comparison with New
York or Boston or Philadelphia, though five times the size of
Montgomery. He strolled through its streets alone, wondering in which
one of the big old-fashioned mansions lived the remarkable Southern
woman to whom his Government had referred him for orders. He must await
the arrival of the messenger who would deliver to him in person its
description. In the meantime with tireless eye he was studying the
physical formation of every street and alley. He must know it, every
crook and turn.
Until the advent of the troops Richmond had been one of the quietest of
all the smaller cities of America. Barely forty thousand inhabitants,
one third of whom were negro slaves, it could boast none of the displays
or excitements of a metropolis. Its vices were few, its life orderly and
its society the finest type of the genuine American our country had
developed.
Rowdyism was unknown. The police department consisted of a dozen
"watchmen" whose chief duty was to round up a few straggling negroes who
might be found on the streets after nine o'clock at night and put them
in "the Cage" until morning. "The Cage" was a ramshackled wooden
building too absurd to be honored by the name of prison.
The quiet, shady streets were suddenly transformed into the throbbing,
tumultuous avenues of a crowded Capital--already numbering more than one
hundred thousand inhabitants.
Its pulse beat with a new and fevered life. Its atmosphere was tense
with the electric rumble of the coming storm--everywhere bustle, hurry
and feverish preparations for war. The Tredegar Iron Works had doubled
its force of men. Day and night the red glare of the furnaces threw its
sinister glow over the yellow, turbulent waters of the James. With every
throb now of its red heart a cannon was born destined to slay a thousand
men.
Every hill was white with the tents of soldiers, their camps stretching
away into the distant fields and forests.
Every street was thronged. Couriers on blooded horses dashed to and fro
bearing the messages of imperious masters. From every direction came the
crash of military bands. And over all the steady, low rumble of
artillery and the throbbing tramp of soldiers. In every field and wood
for miles around the city could be heard the neighing of horses, the
bugle call of the trooper, the shouts of gay recruits and the sharp
command of drilling officers.
The rattle of the ambulance and the long, red trenches of the uncoffined
dead had not come yet. They were not even dreamed in the hearts of the
eager, rollicking, fun-loving children of the South.
There were as yet no dances, no social festivities. The town was soldier
mad. Few men not in uniform were to be seen on the streets. A man in
citizen's clothes was under suspicion as to his principles.
With each train, new companies and regiments arrived. Day and night the
tramp of soldiers' feet, the throb of drum, the scream of fife, the
gleam of bayonets.
Everywhere soldiers were welcomed, fêted, lionized. The finest ladies of
Richmond vied with one another in serving their soldier guests. Society
turned out _en masse_ to every important review.
Southern society was melted into a single pulsing thought--the fight in
defense of their homes and their liberty. In the white heat of this
mighty impulse the barriers of class and sex were melted.
The most delicately reared and cultured lady of society admitted without
question the right of any man who wore a gray uniform to speak to her
without introduction and escort her anywhere on the streets. In not a
single instance was this high privilege abused by an insult, indignity
or an improper word.
Socola saw but one lady who showed the slightest displeasure.
A dainty little woman of eight, delicately trained in the ways of polite
society, was shocked at the familiarity of a soldier who had dared to
caress her.
She turned to her elderly companion and gasped with indignation:
"Auntie! Did you ever! Any man who wears a stripe on his pantaloons now
thinks he can speak to a lady!"
Socola laughed and passed on to inspect the camp of the famous Hampton
Legion of South Carolina.
His heart went out in a sudden wave of admiration for these Southern
people who could merge thus their souls and bodies into the cause of
their country.
The Hampton Legion was recruited, armed and equipped and led by Wade
Hampton. Its private soldiers were the flower of South Carolina's
society. The dress parades of this regiment of gentlemen were the
admiration of the town. The carriages that hung around their maneuvers
were as gay and numerous as the assemblage on a fashionable race course.
Each member of this famous legion went into Richmond with his trunks and
body servant. They, too, were confident of a brief struggle.
A kind fate held fast the dark curtains of the future. The camp was a
picnic ground, and Death was only a specter of the dim unknown.
Just as Socola strolled by the grounds, the camp spied the handsome
figure of young Preston Hampton in a pair of spotless yellow kid gloves.
They caught and rolled him in the dust and spoiled his gloves.
He laughed and took it good naturedly.
The hardier sons of the South held the attention of the keen, observing
eyes with stronger interest. He knew what would become of those trunks
and fine clothes. The thing he wished most to know was the quality and
the temper of the average man in the Southern ranks.
Socola met Dick Welford suddenly face to face, smiled and bowed. Dick
hesitated, returned his recognition and offered his hand.
"Mr. Welford--"
"Signor Socola."
Dick's greeting was a little awkward, but the older man put him at once
at ease with his frank, friendly manners.
"A brave show your _Champ de Mars_, sir!"
"Does look like business, doesn't it?" Dick responded with pride. "Would
you like to go through the camps and see our men?"
"Very much."
"Come, I'll show you."
Two hundred yards from the camp of the Hampton Legion they found the
Louisiana Zouaves of Wheat's command, small, tough-looking men with
gleaming black eyes.
"Frenchmen!" Dick sneered. "They'll fight though--"
"Their people in the old world have that reputation," Socola dryly
remarked.
Beyond them lay a regiment of fierce, be-whiskered countrymen from the
lower sections of Mississippi.
"Look out for those fellows," the young Southerner said serenely.
"They're from old Jeff's home. You'll hear from them. Their fathers all
fought in Mexico."
Socola nodded.
Beside the Mississippians lay a regiment of long-legged, sinewy riflemen
from Arkansas.
A hundred yards further they saw the quaint coon-skin caps of John B.
Gordon's company from Georgia.
Socola watched these lanky mountaineers with keen interest.
"The Raccoon Roughs," Dick explained. "First company of Georgia
volunteers. They had to march over two or three States before anybody
would muster them in. They're happy as June bugs now."
They passed two regiments of quiet North Carolinians. The young
Northerner observed their strong, muscular bodies and earnest faces.
"And these two large regiments, Mr. Welford?" Socola asked.
"Oh," the Virginian exclaimed with a careless touch of scorn in his
voice, "they're Tarheels--not much for looks, but I reckon they'll
_stick_."
"I've an idea they will," was the serious reply.
Dick pointed with pride to a fine-looking regiment of Virginians.
"Good-looking soldiers," Socola observed.
"Aren't they? That's my regiment. You'll hear from them in the first
battle."
"And those giants?" Socola inquired, pointing to the right at a group of
tall, rude-looking fellows.
"Texas Rangers."
"I shouldn't care to meet them in a row--"
"You know what General Taylor said of them in the Mexican War?"
"No--"
"_They're anything but gentlemen or cowards._"
"I agree with him," Socola laughed.
"What chance has a Yankee got against such men?" Dick asked with a wag
of his big blond head.
"Let me show you what they think--"
Socola drew a leaf of _Harper's Magazine_ from his pocket and spread it
before the young trooper's indignant gaze.
The cartoon showed a sickly-looking Southerner carrying his musket under
an umbrella accompanied by a negro with a tray full of mint juleps.
"That's a joke, isn't it!" Dick roared. "Will you give me this paper?"
"Certainly, Monsieur!"
Dick folded the sheet, still laughing. "I'll have some fun with this in
camp to-night. Come on--I want to show you just one more bunch of these
sickly-looking mint-julipers--"
Again the Southerner roared.
They quickened their pace and in a few minutes were passing through the
camps of the Red River men from Arkansas and Northern Louisiana.
"Aren't you sorry for these poor fellows?" Dick laughed.
"I have never seen anything like them," Socola admitted, looking on
their stalwart forms with undisguised admiration. Scarcely a man was
under six feet in height, with broad, massive shoulders and chests and
not an ounce of superfluous flesh. Their resemblance to each other was
remarkable. Nature had cast each one in the same heroic mold. The spread
of giant unbroken forests spoke in their brawny arms and legs. The look
of an eagle soaring over great rivers and fertile plains flashed in
their fearless eyes.
"What do you think of them?" Dick asked with boyish pride.
"I'd like to send their photographs to _Harper's_--"
"For God's sake, don't do that!" Dick protested. "If you do, we'll never
get a chance to see a Yankee. I want to get in sight of 'em anyhow
before they run. All I ask of the Lord is to give me one whack at those
little, hump-backed, bow-legged shoemakers from Boston!"
Socola smiled dryly.
"In five minutes after we meet--there won't be a shoe-string left fit to
use."
The dark face flashed with a strange light from the depths of the somber
eyes--only for an instant did he lose self-control. His voice was velvet
when he spoke.
"Your faith is strong, M'sieur!"
"It's not faith--we know. One Southerner can whip three Yankees any
day."
"But suppose it should turn out that he had to whip five or six or a
dozen?"
"Don't you think these fellows could do it?"
Socola hesitated. It was a shame to pull down a faith that could remove
mountains. He shrugged his slender shoulders and a pensive look stole
over his face. He seemed to be talking to himself.
"Your President tells me that his soldiers will do all that pluck and
muscle, endurance and dogged courage, dash and red-hot patriotism can
accomplish. And yet his view is not sanguine. A sad undertone I caught
in his voice. He says your war will be long and bloody--"
"Yes--I know," Dick broke in, "but nobody agrees with him. We'll show
old Jeff what we can do, if he'll just give us _one_ chance--that's all
we ask--just _one_ chance. Read that editorial in the Richmond
_Examiner_--"
He thrust a copy of the famous yellow journal of the South into Socola's
hand and pointed to a marked paragraph:
"From mountain top and valleys to the shores of the seas there is one
wild shout of fierce resolve to capture Washington City at all and every
human hazard!"
The North was marching southward with ropes and handcuffs with which to
end in triumph their holiday excursion on July 4. The South was marching
to meet them with eager pride, each man afraid the fight would be over
before he could reach the front to fire a single shot. And behind each
gay regiment of scornful men marched the white silent figure of Death.