the child who cannot speak. It is not always a proof of motherhood, but
with the circumstantial evidence and the youth of this mother, this
beyond peradventure is proof convincing. The child is still nourished
from her own body," and she opened my mantle.
I, who had never nursed my baby in the presence of even my most intimate
friends, bared my bosom before all those strange men and women and
nursed him as proof that I was his mother, while tears of gratitude to
the sweet friend and to God flowed down my cheeks and dropped onto
baby's face as he wonderingly looked up, trying to gather up the tears
with his little dimpled fingers and thankfully enjoying the proof. The
men turned aside and tears flowed down more than one rugged face. The
kind stranger with the shawl lifted his eyes heavenward as if in
thanksgiving, and then turned them earthward and breathed a bitter
curse, deep and heartfelt. Perhaps the recording angel jotted down the
curse on the credit side of the ledger with as great alacrity as he
registered there the prayer of thanks.
I trust that the philanthropic ladies, when the facts were placed before
them, were as surely convinced as all these people were that I had not
stolen my child. I hope they were pleased by this indication that some
degree of innocence existed in the world, outside of their own virtuous
hearts, but--I don't know.
"Take thy fledgling, poor mother dove, under thy trembling wings, back
to its nest and the father bird's care. I shall go a few miles further
where I stop to see my baby," said my new friend. "This little boy who
brought me back to life is older than yours. He is the child of my only
son, whose young life ebbed out on the battlefield of Gettysburg, and
whose sweet spirit has joined that of his noble father, my husband,
which in his first battle was freed. This baby blesses our lives--the
young mother's and the old mother's."
The cars were crowded with soldiers returning home, disbanded soldiers,
soldiers on furlough, and released prisoners, with pale, cadaverous,
unshaven faces and long, unkempt hair. One from Andersonville, more
ragged and emaciated than the others, was selling his pictures and
describing the horrors of his prison life and, as he told of his
sufferings and torture amid groans of sympathy, maledictions and curses
were hurled against my people. Once his long, bony arm and hand seemed
to be stretched menacingly toward me as he drew the picture of "the
martyred Lincoln, whose blood cries out for vengeance. We follow his
hearse; let us swear hatred to these people against whom he warred and,
as the cannon beats the hours with solemn progression, renew with each
note unappeasable hatred."
I crouched back in my seat, almost holding my breath as I pressed my
baby to my wildly throbbing heart. The train stopped and the sweet new
friend touched my brow with her lips, leaving the kiss and a prayer, put
the lilies into my hand and was gone. The cars moved on and there was a
great void in my heart as I thought of my God-given friend, so lately
found, so swiftly lost.
All this was half a century ago, but one of the lilies yet lies in my
prayer-book, glorifying with the halo of a precious memory the page on
which it rests.
A man, not a soldier I think, for brave soldiers are magnanimous and
generous always, stood up in a seat opposite mine and said:
"When I think of the horrors of Libby and Andersonville and look at
these poor sufferers I not only want to invoke the vengeance of a just
God but I want to take a hand in it myself. Quarter should be shown to
none; every man, woman and child of this accursed Southern race should
be bound to their own slaves for a specified length of time, that they,
too, might know the curse of serfdom. Their lands should be confiscated
and given to those whom they have so long and so cruelly wronged."
As he in detail related the story of the scanty allowance of the
prisoners, the filth and darkness of their cells, I longed to stand and
plead for my people, and tell how they, too, were without soap, food or
clothes; that we had no medicines, even, except what were smuggled
through the lines, and that our own poor soldiers were barefooted and
starving, and that all the suffering of prisoners on both sides could
have been avoided by carrying out the terms proposed by the Confederate
Government. If I had only dared to raise the veil and reveal the truth
perhaps sympathy might have tempered their bitterness, the flame of
divine kinship smouldering in their veins, hidden as in a tomb, might
have miraged over the gulf of wrongs a bridge of holier feelings.
Yet the memory of the woman whose son had been killed on the field of
Gettysburg and whose lily, now browned and withered with the years, I
cherish with such tender care, softened the words that were like blows
to my ear and heart. Thus the power of one pure heart radiating its love
upon the world as an odorous flower diffuses fragrance on the
surrounding atmosphere, uplifts the sorrowing spirit and strengthens it
to withstand the rude assaults of a vindictive world.
XXVII
A FAMILIAR FACE
I had no stateroom in the Lake Champlain steamer, and my little sick
baby and its poor tired mother were very thankful when, after the long,
dreary night, they welcomed the dawn of day which counted them many
miles nearer to their Mecca.
I have forgotten the name of the place from which we took the train for
Montreal after leaving the steamer, but I remember a fact of more
consequence concerning it--that it was the wrong place.
On reaching the Canada side the passengers were summoned to the
custom-house office to have their baggage examined, and I, with my
carpet-bag, basket and baby, followed my fellow travelers. When my turn
came I handed the officer my keys and checks, which, after a glance, he
gave back to me, saying with haste and indifference, as if it might have
been the most trivial of matters:
"Your luggage has been left on the States side. Your checks were not
exchanged."
Taking the wrong train at the wrong point put me into Montreal later
than I was expected, but I religiously followed instructions to remain
on the train which stopped over at Montreal, until I should be claimed,
like a general delivery letter.
Every passenger had left the coach, and baby and I were alone. I was
waiting and watching breathlessly for my claimant, when my hungry eyes
caught sight of three gentlemen coming straight toward me. It was with
but a languid interest that I regarded them, for I had preconceived
convictions as to the appearance of the one who should assert
proprietary rights over me, and none of these newcomers seemed at first
glance adapted to respond to those convictions. The face of one seemed
rather familiar, but I was not sure, so I drew my little baby closer to
me and looked the other way. I felt them coming, and felt them stop by
my side.
"What will you have of me?" I asked.
There were tears in the eyes of the gentleman whose face had seemed
familiar, and the next minute baby and I were in his great strong arms,
and his tender voice was reproachfully asking:
"Don't you know your husband, little one?"
I was looking for my Soldier as I had been used to seeing him--dressed
in the dear old Confederate uniform, and with his hair long and curling.
The beautiful hair had been trimmed, and while he was not subject to the
limitations of Samson in the matter of personal strength, a critical
observer might have detected variations in personal beauty. An English
civilian suit of rough brown cloth had replaced the old Confederate
gray.
The two gentlemen with him were Mr. Corse, a banker, a brother of one of
my Soldier's brigadiers, and Mr. Symington, of Baltimore, a refugee. I
noticed that these gentlemen called my Soldier "Mr. Edwards" and me
"Mrs. Edwards," which made me feel somewhat strange and unnatural. I may
have reflected that I was in a foreign country, and very far north of
our old home, and perhaps even people's names were affected by political
and climatic conditions.
I had expected my Soldier to take us to a quiet little room in some
unpretentious boarding-house, but was too tired to express my surprise
when we were driven in a handsome carriage to a palatial home, with
beautiful grounds, fountain and flowers. A big English butler with
side-whiskers opened the large carved doors, and a pretty girl in a cap
took baby from my arms.
After that I remember only being tired--so tired--so very tired. When I
had rested enough to think again, I was on a sofa dressed in a pretty,
soft, silken robe, and I heard a kind voice saying:
"The lady is better; she will be all right. Let her sleep."
Glancing up, I saw a benevolent-looking old gentleman and a pair of
spectacles. I closed my eyes and heard the gentleman with the familiar
face say such beautiful things, and his voice and touch thrilled my
heart so that I kept my eyes shut and never wanted to open them again;
and presently the pretty girl with the cap on came in with baby in her
arms, dressed in a beautiful robe.
"Ze petite enfant--very much no hungry now--he eat très pap--he
sleep--he wash--he dress--he eat très much. He no hungry; he eat some
more très much again. He smile; he now no very much hungry again some
more."
Was I in the land of fairies, and was the gentleman with the familiar
face the prince of fairies, as he was the prince of lovers? Our baby's
outstretched arms and cry for me as he recognized me dispelled any such
delusion, but I was too tired to hold out my hands to him. I soon felt
his little face, however, nestling close against my own, and felt, too,
the touch of yet another face, and heard the same voice which had made
my heart thrill with bliss whisper again more things like unto those
other things it had whispered, but I was too tired and too happy to
speak, and my blessings seemed too sacred to open my eyes upon, so I
kept them closed. When the old English physician came in the next day he
said:
"Ah, ha! Ah, ha! The lady is most well. Keep on feeding her and sleeping
her. She is half-starved, poor lady, and half-dazed, too, by
sleeplessness. Ah, ha! Ah, ha! Poor lady! That will do--feed her and
sleep her; feed her and sleep her. Ah, ha! Ah, ha! that's all."
When the old doctor was gone I remember listening for the tread of the
sentinel outside--confusing the "ah, ha! ah, ha!" with the tramp, tramp,
tramp--and as I asked, the question brought back the memory that the war
was over, the guns were stacked, the camp was broken, and my Soldier of
the sweet face was all my very own. I looked around inquiringly and up
into the familiar face for answer, and he, my Soldier, a General no
longer, explained our pleasant surroundings. His old friends, Mr. and
Mrs. James Hutton, he said, had been suddenly summoned to England, and
had prayed him, as a great favor to them, to be their guest until their
return, as otherwise the delay to make the necessary arrangements for
their going would prevent their catching the first steamer. Thus we had
a beautiful home in which to rest, to grow well and strong, to forget
all that could be forgotten of the past, and to enjoy the present.
While in Canada we received letters telling us of the troubles that had
come upon our people after the close of the war, but the saddest news
was of the suffering of Mr. Davis for whole generations of national
mistakes. Captain Bright, who had served on my Soldier's staff, wrote
that, through his kinsman, the surgeon in charge of Fortress Monroe, he
had been permitted to see Mr. Davis.
He arrived at the Fortress on the morning that the fetters had been
removed from the ankles of the feeble old man by order of the physician,
because they endangered the life of one so ill and weak, and was told by
the surgeon that the only way for him to see Mr. Davis was to accompany
the surgeon on his rounds, when he could see all the patients, the
ex-President among the rest.
The captain followed the surgeon until he came to the imprisoned chief.
The face of Mr. Davis was turned from the door and the visitor stood
for a moment silently observing the great change in the man whom he had
last seen as the President of the Confederacy. Then he stepped forward
and laid his hand on the arm of Mr. Davis.
"Mr. President!" he said reverently.
Mr. Davis looked up quickly.
"I am Robert Bright, of General Pickett's staff."
The hand of the prisoner closed warmly over the one lying upon his arm.
"He looked into my face as if a miracle had been performed," wrote
Captain Bright.
"My own! One of my own again!" said Mr. Davis, in that musical voice
that held a note of heart-break always after the fall of the
Confederacy--a cadence which deepened and saddened his melodious tones
until they were merged into the perfect symphony of the greater life.
In his loneliness he had so yearned for some one who had belonged to
him--some one who had taken part with him in that short-lived, tragic
dream-nation for which the South had given her blood and treasure--that
his heart leaped up to meet the sympathy of the tender, reverent voice.
The surgeon came up to make his morning examination. At sight of him the
light in the sad face died away and the look of helpless suffering
returned. Having finished his work the surgeon said:
"Come, Captain."
"And is this all?" asked Mr. Davis, as his visitor passed on and again
reverently touched his arm.
"I would have given my whole fortune," wrote the captain, who had just
succeeded to an inheritance of considerable value, "to have stayed there
in his place and let him go free."
"There is not one of us in all the South, not a soldier of us, who would
not gladly take his place and save him from humiliation and suffering,"
said my Soldier, looking up from the letter.
Captain Bright pleaded with his kinsman to let him make another visit
and stay long enough to speak some word of cheer to his heartbroken
chief.
"I do not think that I can," said the surgeon. "The risk to us all would
be too great."
"I do not see any risk," was the reply. "The whole place is
double-guarded. Neither that poor old feeble man nor I could possibly
get away."
As the surgeon really wished to serve his kinsman, not only in return
for past favors but to be gracious as a host, after reflection he said:
"To-morrow when I make my rounds I will try to arrange to leave you
there till I return."
The next day the captain went into the cell and the surgeon, closing
the door, turned to the sentinel and said:
"Guard that door well and see that it is not opened until I come back.
That man in there is my relation, but we must not trust him too far."
Having thus secured for the caller an uninterrupted interview with Mr.
Davis, the surgeon continued on his way.
"Mr. Davis, I have only a few moments before the doctor finishes his
round. Can I do anything for you?--anything? Tell me, quick."
"No; there is nothing, my young friend--nothing; but I thank you for the
wish."
The captain took from his pocket a cheque-book and pencil, saying:
"Write on the backs of these cheques any messages or letters you may
want to send and I will see that they reach their destination."
Mr. Davis replied:
"I cannot do that. No; you would be risking your life."
"I have risked my life before and now would risk my soul for you. But
there is no danger, Mr. President."
Mr. Davis wrote messages on three of the cheques, one to Senator Wall,
of New Jersey, one to a friend in Pennsylvania, a third to another
friend whose name I have forgotten.
"You can write to Mrs. Davis that you have seen me. Take my love to
_all_ my friends. I leave them in God's care. This means to me more than
all the doctor's medicine--this one glimpse of one who says, 'Mr.
President'--who comes to me and recognizes all that I have tried to do
for my people."
Just as the cheque-book was returned to its place the surgeon came in,
looking at him suspiciously. Seeing nothing, and knowing that there was
no pen, ink or paper in the room, he went out, followed by the visitor.
Early next day Captain Bright left for Williamsburg. When he and the
surgeon were on the wharf some soldiers came forward.
"Halt!" commanded the captain.
"What does this mean?" asked the surgeon.
"We are ordered to search this gentleman," was the explanation.
"This gentleman is my kinsman and my guest," said the surgeon.
After consultation with the officers the embarrassment was relieved by
the countermanding of the order and Captain Bright departed with the
precious messages in his pocket.
"The feeling of fear," he wrote, "came to me for the first time in all
my life; not for myself but for that beloved old man who is dear now to
us all."
Mr. Davis had not lived through those terrible four years without
making enemies. Who in such a position could? But when he was made to
suffer for the mistakes of the whole nation, every Southern heart went
out in love to him, regardless of past antagonisms. All personal
animosities, all political differences were forgotten, and the people
were united in a loving sympathy with the toil-worn, feeble, sorrowful
old man, as they never could have been by any gifts or favors which he
might have heaped upon them had he won not only the object for which he
had given his life, but the gold and jewels of a kingdom.
A generation later, when the people of the South met in Richmond to
dedicate a monument to Jefferson Davis, they did not hold first in their
hearts the memory of the statesman, the orator, the gracious gentleman,
the President of the Confederacy. Above all the pictures that came
thronging before them, as they recalled the life history of the man in
whose honor they had met, was that scene in the gloomy cell and that
bowed and feeble old man with the wounds of the irons upon him, in whose
sad eyes the light of love shone as he reached out to greet a messenger
of his own people and said brokenly: "My own! One of my own!"
XXVIII
VISITORS, SHILLING A DOZEN--OUR LEFT-HANDERS
The first week in June the French maid came to our room with a telegram
for Mr. Edwards, announcing that Mr. and Mrs. Hutton would sail for home
the following week.
We began to hunt for a place to live, beginning with the hotels and
larger boarding-houses, and ending with the smaller ones. After a week
of varied, and some very funny, experiences, we decided at last upon one
house, principally because of its attractive court overlooked by
pleasant verandas.
"With its glistening fountain and pretty shrubbery and flowers, how nice
for our baby," I said. "How cool and refreshing are the sound of the
water and the glimpse of green."
So, for baby's sake, the selection was made and our rooms engaged. Our
landlady was a very dark brunette, and prided herself upon being a
French Canadian, but----
"That man of mine," she sorrowfully said, "is a soggy Englishman, and
you would hardly believe it possible he could be the father of our two
beautiful daughters. Both of them are going to do well, but they don't
take after their pa. The oldest is engaged to be married to a Stateser
with nine businesses!"
By the "nine businesses" and "Stateser" I gathered from her explanation,
which she volunteered in answer to my puzzled look, that the fortunate
son-in-law-to-be was a Yankee living in a small town in the State of
Vermont, and owning a little country store where woolen and cotton
goods, silks and flannels, pottery, queen's-ware, hardware, groceries,
grain, and so forth, were sold, the precursor of the department store.
In her admiration of him, after each alleged "business" she affixed the,
to her, high-sounding title of "merchant."
The second daughter, she told me, was learning to sing.
"She has a sweet voice, but she don't take after her pa," she said, "and
the young preacher student in the next room to the right of the one you
have chosen is very much taken with her, and it looks like I'd get both
girls off my hands before long."
She said she could not give me the use of the parlors when the girls
wanted them.
"The Stateser comes a long ways, you know, and has to have it all to
himself when he is here."
She generously suggested that if none "of them" were using the parlor at
the time when my "company came," she would let me entertain my visitors
in it at the rate of a "shilling a dozen," which arrangement I
considered a very good one for me, as I did not expect to have more than
a shilling's worth of visitors in six months.
Our meals were to be served in our own room, except on Sundays, when we
would dine in the public dining-room and do our own "waiting," like the
others. We did not exactly understand what that meant, but one day's
experience proved it to be anything but comfortable. The dinner had all
been cooked on Saturday and was cut up and piled on the table in the
center of the room, and we served ourselves. I could not help thinking
of the time when my Soldier had been served by butlers and waiters, each
anxious to be the first to anticipate his wishes, and all feeling amply
rewarded for every effort by a pleasant word or an appreciative smile. I
wondered how any one of those obsequious attendants would feel to see us
now.
The following menu was about the average dinner (with the exception, of
course, that on week-days it was warm): Corned beef, mutton pie, potato
salad, pickled snap-beans, gooseberry tarts and milk. Our breakfast was
always cold; the first one was cold bread, preserves, a baked partridge
(which is the same as our pheasant), and delicious coffee and butter.
Our rooms had one discomfort: we were awakened every morning by the
young lady, who made love to the bird of her preacher beau while she
arranged his room.
"Dear 'ittle birdie!--birdie dot a Dod?--birdie dot a soul?--'ittle
birdie sings praises to Doddie?"
A sound as of the door opening, a rustling and a confused "Oh, dear!"
and then "Good morning" was followed by the invariable excuse for not
having finished tidying up the room and cage before he came, "because
birdie and I are such friends--ain't we, birdie?--and time slips so
quickly--don't it, birdie?"
I would know she was being forgiven, though I could hear only the sounds
of his deep, low tones between the chirping to--birdie, of course.
Neither my husband nor I meant to listen to these chirpings to--birdie,
of course, and I always put my fingers in his ears at the sound of them.
After our breakfast was over and baby had been made comfortable, I
usually sent him out for his walk with Annie McCarthy, his new nurse,
who was delighted at having him all to herself.
"Shure, and I'll not be having the interfarence of so many others whose
rasponsability I don't be a-wanting; for the bairn, God save him, was
afther being that kissed, his dinner wouldn' agray with him at all, at
all. There was the cook and John's wife and John and the coachman and
that ugly French Lizette (sorra a bit am I to be rid of her, the vain
prig) would be all afther kissing him until he'd be that sick his milk
would curdle in him, and for the loife of me I couldn't be kaping the
clothes clane on him with all their crumpling and handling; and it's
glad that I am entirely, the saints save us, having him to mesilf, the
blissed child!"
The rooms were comfortable, and we found the long veranda, where we
spent our evenings and most of our mornings, not only a very pleasant
change, but a source of amusement as well. My curiosity was greatly
excited concerning our neighbors on the left. I was uncertain how many
there were of them, though I put them down in my mind as not less than
half a dozen.
The first morning these "Left-handers," as I called them, were as silent
as the grave till about noon, when, all at once, without any premonitory
noises, they began a most animated conversation, interspersed with
laughter, mirthful and scornful. The tones of their voices would change
from anger to reproach and then to grief, so that at one time I was so
full of sympathy with the poor man who was being driven out into the
cold world that it was all I could do to refrain from going in and
pleading for him; but while I was hesitating the trouble ceased. I
supposed he was gone and all was over with him, and involuntarily
offered up a prayer--the only help I could give.