RED STRINGS
One of those most deeply interested in the arrival of Dorothea was Lucy,
the colored girl whom Mrs. May had appointed to attend upon her niece.
Her mistress’s pretty clothes set the little maid in an ecstasy of
delight and she would have liked nothing better than to dress Dorothea
in all of them, one after the other, to see how they looked. She was
ready for all sorts of gossip, and while she combed and braided her
young lady’s hair she talked at a great rate of the quality folks in the
neighborhood, of “Ol’ Miss,” as she called Mrs. May, and “Young Miss,”
meaning April. A good deal of the talk Dorothea could make neither head
nor tail of, but she liked to listen to the soft Southern accents and
smiled more than once at the unfamiliar expressions, of which she
comprehended but half the meaning.
She was almost dressed when there was a knock at the door and Miss
Imogene floated into the room with her bright, bird-like air. She cocked
her head on one side as she surveyed Dorothea and then nodded as if
satisfied.
“You may run along now, Lucy,” she told the maid; “I’ll finish Miss
Dorothea.”
“Yes’m,” Lucy replied, but she went reluctantly, with many backward
glances.
“I couldn’t resist the temptation to look at you in your finery before
any one else, my dear,” Miss Imogene began. “I wanted to see how far
behind the times our patterns are—and things look so different in the
hand.”
She, herself, was dressed with care, and, though there were wanting
touches here and there to show the very latest whim of fashion, her
hoops were as wide as Dorothea’s and she looked as dainty as a picture.
She put the finishing touches to Dorothea’s toilet and then sat down
with a little gesture of invitation to the girl to occupy a chair near
her.
“We’ve a few minutes before all is ready downstairs, and I thought you’d
like to know something of the people you are to meet,” Miss Imogene
suggested.
“Indeed I should,” Dorothea agreed, making herself comfortable. “It’s
awfully awkward if you don’t know who is related to you and all about
them. And I have lived so far from my American relatives, haven’t I?”
Miss Imogene nodded understandingly, at the same moment slipping a
dainty finger inside a red velvet band she wore about her neck as if it
might be a little tight. As she did this she glanced at Dorothea rather
keenly and a few moments later made a gesture as if to brush back the
hair from her forehead.
“First of all there’s your Cousin Hal,” Miss Imogene began. “The dearest
boy I know. He’s fighting, of course.”
She named over half a dozen others of those who were living for the time
being at the Mays. Two or three ladies “refugeeing,” or on their way to
other points and breaking the journey at Washington; a number of
officers in the Confederate Army, busy all day with duties of one sort
or another, consisting mainly of gathering food or horses wherever they
could be found.
“Then there’s Val Tracy,” she went on. “You’ll like him. He’s Irish and
has a gay, blarneying tongue. Compliments flow from him like water down
hill. He’s in the Army, though I think it is more for the fun of
fighting than for any faith he has in the cause of the South.”
Miss Imogene continued with her description of the people Dorothea was
soon to meet, and then quite suddenly changed the subject.
“Dorothea dear,” she asked abruptly, again slipping her finger under the
red band around her neck, “have you heard any mention up North of the
Confederate prison at Andersonville?”
“It was talked of a little, I think,” the girl answered hesitatingly.
“At least I don’t remember whether that was the name, but there was
something in the papers about how badly the Union soldiers were treated
in the prisons here. I hope it isn’t true.”
“I am afraid there is more than a little truth in what is being said,”
Miss Imogene acknowledged. “It isn’t all our fault, you know. We haven’t
enough to eat ourselves, so of course the prisoners suffer like the rest
of us. It is very hard on them, poor souls. Many of them try to escape
by coming through Georgia. But there are few who get away.”
A little later as they descended the broad stairs, Dorothea heard so
much talking and laughter that she concluded there must be a special
cause for rejoicing, and was a little surprised to find that there was
no great news, no particular occasion for merriment, other than the
natural gayety of spirit that she was to find universal among these
Southerners among whom she had come to live.
She was introduced to the assembly one after the other, and each had a
pleasant and characteristic word to say to her. Val Tracy, true to his
reputation, at once paid her a compliment, but in such a bright laughing
spirit that his extravagance of expression was robbed of any offense.
“I have heard it is your way to say flattering things,” Dorothea
answered his little speech.
“And to mean them, Miss Drummond,” he returned with a bow. “Faith, the
man would be dumb who could fail to have a pretty speech on his tongue’s
tip when he sees so inspiring a subject.”
“Don’t mind his blarney, Cousin Dorothea,” Hal May laughed. “It’s
notorious. After a while, you won’t notice it any more. It’s only at
first that it makes an impression.”
“’Tis better to make a first impression than none at all,” Val laughed.
“You’re right, young man,” Miss Imogene said gently; “and do not fear
that even the oldest of us resent your compliments. We like them, don’t
we, April?”
“Indeed we do, Val,” April replied. “Hal is too stupid to appreciate
us.”
“It takes an Irishman to do that, April,” Val protested.
So the bantering went on through the supper and Dorothea, sitting
quietly looking from one to the other about the table, thought it was
strange indeed that this company of young people should be so gay and
care-free with all the evidences of war about them. Everything they saw
must have reminded them of the conflict. The young officers wore
tattered uniforms, stained and patched; the girls made-over finery; the
very food was so limited in variety that Aunt Decent grumbled from
morning till night. And yet there was no faltering of the confidence
these charming Southerners had in the outcome. They made light of their
make-shifts; they laughed at the privations they were forced to endure;
they faced with courage what might be in store for them, predicting
victory at the end.
Dorothea was in two minds whether to admire them for their fortitude or
to question whether they had any realization of the seriousness of the
times in which they were living. It seemed as if they gloried in
scorning the thought that they might lose. That contingency they put
away from them, as they did all other unpleasant facts. The English
girl’s first sight of these care-free people set her to wondering if
they could ever be serious. She could not help but contrast this
lightness with the different view of the matter held in the North, where
a universal anxiety was met with on every hand. With their gay laughter
all about her she had a remembrance of the sad face of Mr. Lincoln, who
seemed to grieve for all the suffering, no matter on whom it fell.
“How can they win?” Dorothea asked herself.
“I tell you it’s getting downright serious,” she heard Val Tracy saying,
as she brought her thoughts back to her surroundings. “The Yankees seem
to know just what we mean to do and to prepare for it. There have been a
dozen plans that have had to be abandoned. The South is full of spies!”
“And some of them are worse than that,” April broke out passionately.
“They are traitors!”
“Yes, that’s right,” her brother Hal put in. “We’ve just learned that
there’s a society all through the South that is growing more powerful
every day. It’s called the Red Strings.”
“The Red Strings?” cried a half dozen voices at once.
“Where did you hear of them?” demanded Val Tracy.
“No matter,” said Hal shortly; “but I’ll tell you how they came to be
organized. You all know that ever since the war began there have been a
lot of cowards in this state, up in the North and East. There are more
in Tennessee and some in the Piedmont region of North Carolina.
Blackguards who voted for the Union, all of them! Well, when war was
declared, you may be sure the first people our conscript officers went
for were these half-Yankees; but they were mighty clever and took to the
mountains. When the officers went away, back they came to their homes.
They arranged it so that they were warned in ample time of any attempt
to draft them, and pretty soon an organization grew up among them. This
developed until it occurred to some one that here was a good crowd to
help the Yankees and the Abolitionists. To-day they’re scattered all
over the South, and it’s said there are a number of them in our army
itself.”
“The traitors!” cried April. “They should all be hung!”
“Maybe,” said her brother, with a laugh, “but first you have to catch
them. They’re mighty slippery.”
“But why are they called ‘Red Strings’?” asked Miss Ivory, in her gentle
voice.
“Because in the beginning,” Hal explained, “they used to wear a piece of
red, white and blue cord somewhere about them so they would know each
other. But this was conspicuous and not easy to get, so they adopted
just a piece of red ribbon—anything so it was red. A red string dyed
with pine roots would do. And they took their name from that. They have
passwords and signs, so they say; but anyhow this society, which began
among the poor mountaineers, has come to be mighty powerful and is
making all sorts of trouble for us. They are helping prisoners to escape
from Andersonville and the other camps. They are doing all they can for
the regular spies, and any information they get is sure to be sent North
to the Yankees sooner or later. It’s a bad business.”
“Then we’ll have to watch out for suspicious people who wear red
strings,” cried Val Tracy with a chuckle. “Ah, ha! I see one already.
Miss Ivory has one about her neck.”
There was a fine laugh at this.
“You had better keep an eye on me after this,” said that gentle lady
with a serious face.
“Ah, Miss Imogene,” cried Val contritely, “’Twould give me joy—but I
should as soon believe Mr. Davis a traitor as you.”
Dorothea, suddenly conscious of some one staring at her, raised her eyes
to find April’s gaze fixed on the red velvet ribbon around her wrist,
but at the same moment she noticed with a start of surprise that her
beautiful cousin wore a thin red girdle about her waist.