become terrible to him, and which afterwards bowed him with sorrow to
the ground. He had two sons, both of whom were then at home with him,
having come together under the family roof-tree that they might discuss
with their father the political position of their country, and
especially the position of Kentucky. South Carolina had already seceded,
and other Slave States were talking of Secession. What should Kentucky
do? So the major’s sons, young men of eight and twenty and five and
twenty, met together at their father’s house;--they met and quarrelled
deeply, as their father had well known would be the case.
The eldest of these sons was at that time the owner of the slaves and
land which his father had formerly possessed and farmed. He was a
Southern gentleman, living on the produce of slave labour, and as such
had learned to vindicate, if not love, that social system which has
produced as its result the war which is still raging at this Christmas
of 1863. To him this matter of Secession or Non-Secession was of vital
import. He was prepared to declare that the wealth of the South was
derived from its agriculture, and that its agriculture could only be
supported by its slaves. He went further than this, and declared also,
that no further league was possible between a Southern gentleman and a
Puritan from New England. His father, he said, was an old man, and might
be excused by reason of his age from any active part in the contest
that was coming. But for himself there could be but one duty,--that of
supporting the new Confederacy, to which he would belong, with all his
strength and with whatever wealth was his own.
The second son had been educated at Westpoint, the great military school
of the old United States, and was now an officer in the national army.
Not on that account need it be supposed that he would, as a matter of
course, join himself to the Northern side in the war,--to the side
which, as being in possession of the capital and the old government
establishments, might claim to possess a right to his military services.
A large proportion of the officers in the pay of the United States
leagued themselves with Secession,--and it is difficult to see why such
an act would be more disgraceful in them than in others. But with Frank
Reckenthorpe such was not the case. He declared that he would be loyal
to the government which he served, and in saying so, seemed to imply
that the want of such loyalty in any other person, soldier, or
non-soldier, would be disgraceful, as in his opinion it would have been
disgraceful in himself.
“I can understand your feeling,” said his brother, who was known as Tom
Reckenthorpe “on the assumption that you think more of being a soldier
than of being a a man; but not otherwise.”
“Even if I were no soldier, I would not be a rebel,” said Frank.
“How a man can be a rebel for sticking to his own country, I cannot
understand,” said Tom,
“Your own country!” said Frank. “Is it to be Kentucky or South Carolina?
And is it to be a republic or a monarchy? Or shall we hear of Emperor
Davis? You already belong to the greatest nation on the earth, and you
are preparing yourself to belong to the least;--that is, if you should
be successful. Luckily for yourself, you have no chance of success.”
“At any rate, I will do my best to fight for it.”
“Nonsense, Tom,” said the old man, who was sitting by.
“It is no nonsense, Sir. A man can fight without having been at
Westpoint. Whether he can do so after having his spirit drilled and
drummed out of him there, I don’t know.”
“Tom!” said the old man.
“Don’t mind him, father,” said the younger. “His appetite for fighting
will soon be over. Even yet I doubt whether we shall ever see a regiment
in arms sent from the Southern States against the Union.”
“Do you?” said Tom. “If you stick to your colours, as you say you will,
your doubts will be soon set at rest. And I’ll tell you what, if your
regiment is brought into the field, I trust that I may find myself
opposite to it. You have chosen to forget that we are brothers, and you
shall find that I can forget it also.”
“Tom!” said the father, “you should not say such words as that; at any
rate, in my presence.”
“It is true, Sir,” said he. “A man who speaks as he speaks does not
belong to Kentucky, and can be no brother of mine. If I were to meet him
face to face, I would as soon shoot him as another;--sooner, because he
is a renegade.”
“You are very wicked,--very wicked,” said the old man, rising from his
chair,--“very wicked.” And then, leaning on his stick, he left the room.
“Indeed, what he says is true,” said a sweet, soft voice from a sofa in
the far corner of the room. “Tom, you are very wicked to speak to your
brother thus. Would you take on yourself the part of Cain?”
“He is more silly than wicked, Ada,” said the soldier. “He will have no
chance of shooting me, or of seeing me shot. He may succeed in getting
himself locked up as a rebel; but I doubt whether he’ll ever go beyond
that.”
“If I ever find myself opposite to you with a pistol in my grasp,” said
the elder brother, “may my right hand----”
But his voice was stopped, and the imprecation remained unuttered. The
girl who had spoken rushed from her seat, and put her hand before his
mouth.
“Tom,” she said, “I will never speak to you again if you utter such an
oath,--never!”
And her eyes flashed fire at his and made him dumb.
Ada Forster called Mrs. Reckenthorpe her aunt, but the connexion between
them was not so near as that of aunt and niece. Ada nevertheless lived
with the Reckenthorpes, and had done so for the last two years. She was
an orphan, and on the death of her father had followed her father’s
sister-in-law from Maine down to Kentucky;--for Mrs. Reckenthorpe had
come from that farthest and most strait-laced state of the Union, in
which people bind themselves by law to drink neither beer, wine, nor
spirits, and all go to bed at nine o’clock. But Ada Forster was an
heiress, and therefore it was thought well by the elder Reckenthorpes
that she should marry one of their sons. Ada Forster was also a beauty,
with slim, tall form, very pleasant to the eye; with bright, speaking
eyes and glossy hair; with ivory teeth of the whitest,--only to be seen
now and then when a smile could be won from her; and therefore such a
match was thought desirable also by the younger Reckenthorpes. But
unfortunately it had been thought desirable by each of them, whereas the
father and mother had intended Ada for the soldier.
I have not space in this short story to tell how progress had been made
in the troubles of this love affair. So it was now, that Ada had
consented to become the wife of the elder brother,--of Tom Reckenthorpe,
with his home among the slaves,--although she, with all her New England
feelings strong about her, hated slavery and all its adjuncts. But when
has love stayed to be guided by any such consideration as that? Tom
Reckenthorpe was a handsome, high-spirited, intelligent man. So was his
brother Frank. But Tom Reckenthorpe could be soft to a woman, and in
that, I think, had he found the means of his success. Frank Reckenthorpe
was never soft.
Frank had gone angrily from home when, some three months since, Ada had
told him her determination. His brother had been then absent, and they
had not met till this their Christmas meeting. Now it had been
understood between them, by the intervention of their mother, that they
would say nothing to each other as to Ada Forster. The elder had, of
course, no cause for saying aught, and Frank was too proud to wish to
speak on such a matter before his successful rival. But Frank had not
given up the battle. When Ada had made her speech to him, he had told
her that he would not take it as conclusive.
“The whole tenor of Tom’s life,” he had said to her, “must be
distasteful to you. It is impossible that you should live as the wife of
a slave-owner.”
“In a few years there will be no slaves in Kentucky,” she had answered.
“Wait till then,” he had answered; “and I also will wait.”
And so he had left her, resolving that he would bide his time. He
thought that the right still remained to him of seeking Ada’s hand,
although she had told him that she loved his brother.
“I know that such a marriage would make each of them miserable,” he said
to himself over and over again. And now that these terrible times had
come upon them, and that he was going one way with the Union, while his
brother was going the other way with Secession, he felt more strongly
than ever that he might still be successful. The political predilections
of American women are as strong as those of American men. And Frank
Reckenthorpe knew that all Ada’s feelings were as strongly in favour of
the Union as his own. Had not she been born and bred in Maine? Was she
not ever keen for total abolition, till even the old major, with all his
gallantry for womanhood and all his love for the young girl who had come
to his house in his old age, would be driven occasionally by stress of
feeling to rebuke her? Frank Reckenthorpe was patient, hopeful, and
firm. The time must come when Ada would learn that she could not be a
fit wife for his brother. The time had, he thought, perhaps come
already; and so he spoke to her a word or two on the evening of that day
on which she had laid her hand upon his brother’s mouth.
“Ada,” he had said, “there are bad times coming to us.”
“Good times, I hope,” she had answered. “No one could expect that the
thing could be done without some struggle. When the struggle has passed
we shall say that good times have come.” The thing of which she spoke
was that little thing of which she was ever thinking--the
enfranchisement of four millions of slaves.
“I fear that there will be bad times first. Of course I am thinking of
you now.”
“Bad or good, they will not be worse to me than to others.”
“They would be very bad to you if this state were to secede, and if you
were to join your lot to my brother’s. In the first place, all your
fortune would be lost to him and to you.”
“I do not see that; but of course I will caution him that it may be so.
If it alters his views, I shall hold him free to act as he chooses.”
“But, Ada, should it not alter yours?”
“What,--because of my money?--or because Tom could not afford to marry a
girl without a fortune?”
“I did not mean that. He might decide that for himself. But your
marriage with him under such circumstances as those which he now
contemplates, would be as though you married a Spaniard or a Greek
adventurer. You would be without country, without home, without fortune,
and without standing-ground in the world. Look you, Ada, before you
answer. I frankly own that I tell you this because I want you to be my
wife, and not his.”
“Never, Frank; I shall never be your wife, whether I marry him or no.”
“All I ask of you now is to pause. This is no time for marrying or for
giving in marriage.”
“There I agree with you; but as my word is pledged to him, I shall let
him be my adviser in that.”
Late on that same night Ada saw her betrothed and bade him adieu. She
bade him adieu with many tears, for he came to tell her that he intended
to leave Frankfort very early on the following morning.
“My staying here now is out of the question,” said he. “I am resolved to
secede, whatever the state may do. My father is resolved against
Secession. It is necessary, therefore, that we should part. I have
already left my father and mother, and now I have come to say good-bye
to you.”
“And your brother, Tom?”
“I shall not see my brother again.”
“And is that well after such words as you have spoken to each other?
Perhaps it may be that you will never see him again. Do you remember
what you threatened?”
“I do remember what I threatened.”
“And did you mean it?”
“No; of course I did not mean it. You, Ada, have heard me speak many
angry words, but I do not think that you have known me do many angry
things.”
“Never one, Tom:--never. See him then before you go, and tell him so.”
“No,--he is hard as iron, and would take any such telling from me amiss.
He must go his way, and I mine.”
“But though you differ as men, Tom, you need not hate each other as
brothers.”
“It will be better that we should not meet again. The truth is, Ada,
that he always despises any one who does not think as he does. If I
offered him my hand he would take it, but while doing so he would let me
know that he thought me a fool. Then I should be angry, and threaten him
again, and things would be worse. You must not quarrel with me, Ada, if
I say that he has all the faults of a Yankee.”
“And the virtues too, Sir, while you have all the faults of a
Southern---- But, Tom, as you are going from us, I will not scold you. I
have, too, a word of business to say to you.”
“And what’s the word of business, dear?” said Tom, getting nearer to
her, as a lover should do, and taking her hand in his.
“It is this. You and those who think like you are dividing yourselves
from your country. As to whether that be right or wrong, I will say
nothing now,--nor will I say anything as to your chance of success. But
I am told that those who go with the South will not be able to hold
property in the North.”
“Did Frank tell you that?”
“Never mind who told me, Tom.”
“And is that to make a difference between you and me?”
“That is just the question that I am asking you. Only you ask me with a
reproach in your tone, and I ask you with none in mine. Till we have
mutually agreed to break our engagement you shall be my adviser. If you
think it better that it should be broken,--better for your own interest,
be man enough to say so.”
But Tom Reckenthorpe either did not think so, or else he was not man
enough to speak his thoughts. Instead of doing so, he took the girl in
his arms and kissed her, and swore that, whether with fortune or no
fortune, she should be his, and his only. But still he had to go,--to go
now, within an hour or two of the very moment at which they were
speaking. They must part, and before parting must make some mutual
promise as to their future meeting. Marriage now, as things stood at
this Christmas time, could not be thought of even by Tom Reckenthorpe.
At last he promised that if he were then alive he would be with her
again, at the old family-house at Frankfort, on the next coming
Christmas-day. So he went, and as he let himself out of the old house,
Ada, with her eyes full of tears, took herself up to her bed-room.
During the year that followed,--the year 1861,--the American war
progressed only as a school for fighting. The most memorable action was
that of Bull’s Run, in which both sides ran away, not from individual
cowardice in either set of men, but from that feeling of panic which is
engendered by ignorance and inexperience. Men saw wagons rushing hither
and thither, and thought that all was lost. After that the year was
passed in drilling and in camp-making,--in the making of soldiers, of
gunpowder, and of cannons. But of all the articles of war made in that
year, the article that seemed easiest of fabrication was a general
officer. Generals were made with the greatest rapidity, owing their
promotion much more frequently to local interest than to military
success. Such a state sent such and such regiments, and therefore must
be rewarded by having such and such generals nominated from among its
citizens. The wonder, perhaps, is that with armies so formed battles
should have been fought so well.
Before the end of 1861, both Major Reckenthorpe’s sons had become
general officers. That Frank, the soldier, should have been so promoted
was, at such a period as this, nothing strange. Though a young man he
had been a soldier, or learning the trade of a soldier, for more than
ten years, and such service as that might well be counted for much in
the sudden construction of an army intended to number seven hundred
thousand troops, and which at one time did contain all those soldiers.
Frank, too, was a clever fellow, who knew his business, and there were
many generals made in those days who understood less of their work than
he did. As much could not be said for Tom’s quick military advancement.
But this could be said for them in the South,--that unless they did make
their generals in this way, they would hardly have any generals at all,
and General Reckenthorpe, as he so quickly became,--General Tom as they
used to call him in Kentucky,--recommended himself specially to the
Confederate leaders by the warmth and eagerness with which he had come
among them. The name of the old man so well known throughout the Union,
who had ever loved the South without hating the North, would have been a
tower of strength to them. Having him they would have thought that they
might have carried the state of Kentucky into open Secession. He was now
worn-out and old, and could not be expected to take upon his shoulders
the crushing burden of a new contest. But his eldest son had come among
them eagerly, with his whole heart; and so they made him a general.
The poor old man was in part proud of this and in part grieved.
“I have a son a general in each army,” he said to a stranger who came
to his house in those days; “but what strength is there in a fagot when
it is separated? Of what use is a house that is divided against itself?
The boys would kill each other if they met.”
“It is very sad,” said the stranger.
“Sad!” said the old man. “It is as though the devil were let loose upon
the earth;--and so he is; so he is.”
The family came to understand that General Tom was with the Confederate
army which was confronting the Federal army of the Potomac and defending
Richmond; whereas it was well known that Frank was in Kentucky with the
army on the Green River, which was hoping to make its way into
Tennessee, and which did so early in the following year. It must be
understood that Kentucky, though a slave state, had never seceded, and
that therefore it was divided off from the Southern States, such as
Tennessee and that part of Virginia which had seceded, by a cordon of
pickets; so that there was no coming up from the Confederate army to
Frankfort, in Kentucky. There could, at any rate, be no easy or safe
coming up for such a one as General Tom, seeing that being a soldier he
would be regarded as a spy, and certainly treated as a prisoner if found
within the Northern lines. Nevertheless, general as he was, he kept his
engagement with Ada, and made his way into the gardens of his father’s
house on the night of Christmas-eve. And Ada was the first who knew that
he was there. Her ear first caught the sound of his footsteps, and her
hand raised for him the latch of the garden door.
“Oh, Tom, it is not you?”
“But it is though, Ada, my darling!” Then there was a little pause in
his speech. “Did I not tell you that I should see you to-day?”
“Hush. Do you know who is here? Your brother came across to us from the
Green River yesterday.”
“The mischief he did! Then I shall never find my way back again. If you
knew what I have gone through for this!”
Ada immediately stepped out through the door and on to the snow,
standing close up against him as she whispered to him, “I don’t think
Frank would betray you,” she said. “I don’t think he would.”
“I doubt him,--doubt him hugely. But I suppose I must trust him. I got
through the pickets close to Cumberland Gap, and I left my horse at
Stoneley’s half way between this and Lexington. I cannot go back
to-night now that I have come so far!”
“Wait, Tom; wait a minute, and I will go in and tell your mother. But
you must be hungry. Shall I bring you food?”
“Hungry enough, but I will not eat my father’s victuals out here in the
snow.”
“Wait a moment, dearest, till I speak to my aunt.”
Then Ada slipped back into the house and soon managed to get Mrs.
Reckenthorpe away from the room in which the major and his second son
were sitting.
“Tom is here,” she said, “in the garden. He had encountered all this
danger to pay us a visit because it is Christmas. Oh, aunt, what are we
to do? He says that Frank would certainly give him up!”
Mrs. Reckenthorpe was nearly twenty years younger than her husband, but
even with this advantage on her side Ada’s tidings were almost too much
for her. She, however, at last managed to consult the major, and he
resolved upon appealing to the generosity of his younger son. By this
time the Confederate general was warming himself in the kitchen, having
declared that his brother might do as he pleased;--he would not skulk
away from his father’s house in the night.
“Frank,” said the father, as his younger son sat silently thinking of
what had been told him, “it cannot be your duty to be false to your
father in his own house.”
“It is not always easy, Sir, for a man to see what is his duty. I wish
that either he or I had not come here.”
“But he is here; and you, his brother, would not take advantage of his
coming to his father’s house?” said the old man.
“Do you remember, Sir, how he told me last year that if ever he met me
on the field he would shoot me like a dog?”
“But, Frank, you know that he is the last man in the world to carry out
such a threat. Now he has come here with great danger.”
“And I have come with none; but I do not see that that makes any
difference.”
“He has put up with it all that he may see the girl he loves.”
“Psha!” said Frank, rising up from his chair. “When a man has work to
do, he is a fool to give way to play. The girl he loves! Does he not
know that it is impossible that she should ever marry him? Father, I
ought to insist that he should leave this house as a prisoner. I know
that that would be my duty.”
“You would have, Sir, to bear my curse.”
“I should not the less have done my duty. But, father, independently of
your threat, I will neglect that duty. I cannot bring myself to break
your heart and my mother’s. But I will not see him. Good-bye, Sir. I
will go up to the hotel, and will leave the place before daybreak
to-morrow.”
After some few further words Frank Reckenthorpe left the house without
encountering his brother. He also had not seen Ada Forster since that
former Christmas when they had all been together, and he had now left
his camp and come across from the army much more with the view of
inducing her to acknowledge the hopelessness of her engagement with his
brother, than from any domestic idea of passing his Christmas at home.
He was a man who would not have interfered with his brother’s prospects,
as regarded either love or money, if he had thought that in doing so he
would in truth have injured his brother. He was a hard man, but one not
wilfully unjust. He had satisfied himself that a marriage between Ada
and his brother must, if it were practicable, be ruinous to both of
them. If this were so, would not it be better for all parties that there
should be another arrangement made? North and South were as far divided
now as the two poles. All Ada’s hopes and feelings were with the North.
Could he allow her to be taken as a bride among perishing slaves and
ruined whites?
But when the moment for his sudden departure came he knew that it would
be better that he should go without seeing her. His brother Tom had made
his way to her through cold, and wet, and hunger, and through infinite
perils of a kind sterner even than these. Her heart now would be full
of softness towards him. So Frank Reckenthorpe left the house without
seeing anyone but his mother. Ada, as the front door closed behind him,
was still standing close by her lover over the kitchen fire, while the
slaves of the family, with whom Master Tom had always been the
favourite, were administering to his little comforts.
Of course General Tom was a hero in the house for the few days that he
remained there, and of course the step he had taken was the very one to
strengthen for him the affection of the girl whom he had come to see.
North and South were even more bitterly divided now than they had been
when the former parting had taken place. There were fewer hopes of
reconciliation; more positive certainty of war to the knife; and they
who adhered strongly to either side--and those who did not adhere
strongly to either side were very few,--held their opinions now with
more acrimony than they had then done. The peculiar bitterness of civil
war, which adds personal hatred to national enmity, had come upon the
minds of the people. And here, in Kentucky, on the borders of the
contest, members of the same household were, in many cases, at war with
each other.