Of all the memories of war, after the dear dead are buried, there is one
that serves to bring the struggle back in all the intensity of its
horrors--to stand both as a monument to those who bled and suffered and
as a lonely sentinel mourning for the peace and plenty of the past--a
blackened chimney.
Of all the houses, cabins, barns and cribs which had made up the home of
the Carys a few short months ago nothing remained to-day but ashes and
black ruin. Only one building had been left unburned and this, before
the war, had been the cabin of an overseer. It had but two rooms, and a
shallow attic, which was gained by means of an iron ladder reaching to a
closely fitting scuttle in the ceiling. The larger room was furnished
meagerly with a rough deal table, several common chairs, and a
double-doored cupboard against the wall. In the deep, wide fire-place
glowed a heap of raked-up embers, on which, suspended from an iron
crane, a kettle simmered, sadly, as if in grief for her long-lost
brother pots and pans. The plaster on the walls had broken away in
patches, especially above the door, where the sunlight streamed through
the gaping wound from a cannon shot. The door and window shutters were
of heavy oak, swinging inward and fastening with bars; yet now they were
open, and through them could be seen a dreary stretch of river bottom,
withering beneath the rays of a July sun.
Beyond a distant fringe of trees the muddy James went murmuring down its
muddy banks, where the blue cranes waited solemnly for the ebbing tide;
where the crows cawed hoarsely in their busy, reeling flight, and the
buzzards swung high above the marshes. Yet even in this waste of
listless desolation came the echoed boom of heavy guns far down the
river, where the "Rebs" and "Yanks" were pounding one another lazily.
From the woods which skirted the carriage road a man appeared--a thin,
worn man, in a uniform of stained and tattered gray--a man who peered
from right to left, as a hunted rabbit might, then darted across the
road and plunged into the briery underbrush. Noiselessly he made his way
to the now deserted cabin, creeping, crawling till he reached a point
below an open window, then slowly raised himself and looked within.
"Virgie!" he whispered cautiously. "Virgie!"
No answer came. For a moment the man leaned dizzily against the
windowsill, his eyes fast closed with a nameless dread, till he caught
his grip again and entered the open door.
"Virgie!" he called, in a louder tone, moving swiftly but unsteadily
toward the adjoining room. He flung its door open sharply, almost
angrily; yet the name on his lips was tender, trembling, as he called:
"Virgie! Virgie!"
In the loneliness of dread, he once more leaned for support against the
wall, wondering, listening to the pounding of his heart, to the murmur
of the muddy James, and the fall of a flake of plaster loosened by the
dull reverberation of a distant gun; then suddenly his eye was caught
by the kettle simmering on the fire, and he sighed in swift relief.
He wiped his brow with a ragged sleeve and went to where a water-bucket
stood behind the door, knelt beside it, drinking deeply, gratefully, yet
listening the while for unwonted sounds and watching the bend of the
carriage road. His thirst appeased, he hunted vainly through the table
drawer for balls and powder for the empty pistol at his hip; then,
instinctively alert to some rustling sound outside, he crouched toward
the adjoining room, slipped in, and softly closed the door.
From the sunlit world beyond the cabin walls rose the murmur of a
childish song and Virgie came pattering in.
She had not changed greatly in stature in the past few months, but there
was a very noticeable decrease in the girth of her little arms and body,
and her big dark eyes seemed the larger for the whiteness of her face.
On her head she wore an old calico bonnet several sizes too large and
the gingham dress which scarcely reached to her bare, brown knees would
not have done, a few months ago, for even Sally Ann. In one hand Virgie
carried a small tin bucket filled with berries; in the other she
clutched a doll lovingly against her breast.
Not the old Susan Jemima, but a new Susan Jemima on whom an equal
affection was being lavished even though she was strangely and
wonderfully made. To the intimate view of the unimaginative, Susan
Jemima was formed from the limb of a cedar tree, the forking branches
being her arms and legs, her costume consisting of a piece of rag tied
at the waist with a bit of string.
On a chair at the table Virgie set her doll, then laughed at the
hopelessness of its breakfasting with any degree of comfort, or of ease.
"Why, Lord a-mercy, child, your chin don't come up to the table."
On the chair she placed a wooden box, perching the doll on top and
taking a seat herself just opposite. She emptied the blackberries into a
mutilated plate, brought from the cupboard a handful of toasted acorns,
on which she poured boiling water, then set the concoction aside to
steep.
"Now, Miss Susan Jemima," said Virgie, addressing her vis-à-vis with the
hospitable courtesy due to so great a lady, "we are goin' to have some
breakfas'." She paused, in a shade of doubt, then smiled a faint
apology: "It isn't very _much_ of a breakfas', darlin', but we'll make
believe it's waffles an' chicken an'--an' hot rolls an' batter-bread
an'--an' everything." She rose to her little bare feet, holding her wisp
of a skirt aside, and made a sweeping bow. "Allow me, Miss Jemima, to
make you a mos' delicious cup of coffee."
And, while the little hostess prepared the meal, a man looked out from
the partly open door behind her, with big dark eyes, which were like her
own, yet blurred by a mist of pity and of love.
"Susan," said the hostess presently, "it's ready now, and we'll say
grace; so don't you talk an' annoy your mother."
The tiny brown head was bowed. The tiny brown hands, with their
berry-stained fingers, were placed on the table's edge; but Miss Susan
Jemima sat bolt upright, though listening, it seemed, to the words of
reverence falling from a mother-baby's lips:
"Lord, make us thankful for the blackberries an' the aco'n coffee
an'--an' all our blessin's; but please, sir, sen' us somethin' that
tastes jus' a little better--if you don't mind. Amen!"
And the man, who leaned against the door and watched, had also bowed his
head. A pain was in his throat--and in his heart--a pain that gripped
him, till two great tears rolled down his war-worn cheek and were lost
in his straggling beard.
"Virgie!" he whispered hoarsely. "Virgie!"
She started at the sound and looked about her, wondering; then, as the
name was called again, she slid from her chair and ran forward with a
joyous cry:
"Why, Daddy! Is it you? Is--"
She stopped, for the man had placed a finger on his lip and was pointing
to the door.
"Take a look down the road," he ordered, in a guarded voice; and, when
she had reached a point commanding the danger zone, he asked, "See
anybody?--soldiers?" She shook her head. "Hear anything?"
She stood for a moment listening, then ran to him, and sprang into his
waiting arms.
"It's all right, Daddy! It's all right now!"
He raised her, strained her to his breast, his cheek against her own.
"My little girl!" he murmured between his kisses. "My little rebel!" And
as she snuggled in his arms, her berry-stained fingers clasped tightly
about his neck, he asked her wistfully, "Did you miss me?--_awful_
much?"
"Yes," she nodded, looking into his eyes. "Yes--in the night time--when
the wind was talkin'; but, after while, when--Why, Daddy!" He had
staggered as he set her down, sinking into a chair and closing his eyes
as he leaned on the table's edge. "You are hurt!" she cried. "I--I can
see the blood!"
The wounded Southerner braced himself.
"No, dear, no," he strove to reassure her. "It isn't anything; only a
little scratch--from a Yank--that tried to get me. But he didn't,
though," the soldier added with a smile. "I'm just--tired."
The child regarded him in wondering awe, speaking in a half-breathed
whisper:
"Did he--did he _shoot_ at you?"
Her father nodded, with his hand on her tumbled hair.
"Yes, honey, I'm afraid he did; but I'm so used to it now I don't mind
it any more. Get me a drink of water, will you?" As Virgie obeyed in
silence, returning with the dripping gourd, the man went on: "I tried to
get here yesterday; but I couldn't. They chased me when I came
before--and now they're watching." He paused to sip at his draught of
water, glancing toward the carriage road. "Big fight down the river.
Listen! Can you hear the guns?"
"Yes, plain," she answered, tilting her tiny head. "An' las' night, when
I went to bed, I could hear 'em--oh! ever so loud: Boom! Boom!
Boom-boom! So I knelt up an' asked the Lord not to let any of 'em hit
you."
Two arms, in their tattered gray, slipped round the child. He kissed
her, in that strange, fierce passion of a man who has lost his mate,
and his grief-torn love is magnified in the mite who reflects her image
and her memory.
"Did you, honey?" he asked, with a trembling lip. "Well, I reckon that
saved your daddy, for not one shell touched him--no, not one!" He kissed
her again, and laughed. "And I tell you, Virgie, they were coming as
thick as bees."
Once more he sipped at the grateful, cooling draught of water, when the
child asked suddenly:
"How is Gen'ral Lee?"
Down came the gourd upon the table. The Southerner was on his feet, with
a stiffened back; and his dusty slouch hat was in his hand.
"He's well; God bless him! Well!"
The tone was deep and tender, proud, but as reverent as the baby's
prayer for her father's immunity from harm; yet the man who spoke sank
back into his seat, closing his eyes and repeating slowly, sadly:
"He's well; God bless him! But he's tired, darling--mighty tired."
"Daddy," the soldier's daughter asked, "will you tell him
somethin'--from me?"
"Yes, dear. What?"
"Tell him," said the child, with a thoughtful glance at Miss Susan
Jemima across the table, "tell him, if he ever marches along this way,
I'll come over to his tent and rub his head, like I do yours--if he'll
let me--till he goes to sleep." She clasped her fingers and looked into
her father's eyes, hopefully, appealingly. "Do you think he would,
if--if I washed my hands--real clean?"
The Southerner bit his lip and tried to smile.
"Yes, honey, I know he would! And think! He sent a message--to _you_."
"Did he?" she asked, wide-eyed, flushed with happiness. "What did he
say, Daddy? What?"
"He said," her father answered, taking her hands in his: "'She's a brave
little soldier, to stay there all alone. Dixie and I are proud of her!'"
"Oh, Daddy, did he? Did he?"
"Yes, dear, yes," the soldier nodded; "his very words. And look!" From
his boot leg he took a folded paper and spread it on his knee. "He
wrote you a pass--to Richmond. Can you read it?"
Virgie leaned against her father's shoulder, studying the paper long and
earnestly; then, presently looked up, with a note of grave but courteous
hesitation in her tone:
"Well--he--well, the Gen'ral writes a awful bad hand, Daddy."
Her father laughed in genuine delight, vowing in his heart to tell his
general and friend of this crushing criticism, if ever the fates of war
permitted them to meet again.
"Dead right!" he agreed, with hearty promptness. "But come, I'll read it
for you. Now then. Listen:
"HEADQUARTERS OF THE ARMY OF NORTHERN VA.
"_Pass Virginia Cary and escort through all Confederate lines and
give safe-conduct wherever possible._
"R.E. LEE, _General_."
There was silence for a moment, then Virgie looked up, with tears in her
eyes and voice.
"An' he did that--for little _me_? Oh, Daddy, I love him so much, it--it
makes me want to cry."
She hid her face on the coat of gray, and sobbed; while her father
stroked her hair and answered soothingly, but in a tone of mourning
reverie:
"So do we all, darling; big grown men, who have suffered, and are losing
all they love. They are ragged--and wounded--hungry--and, oh, so tired!
But, when they think of _him_, they draw up their belts another hole,
and say, '_For General Lee!_' And then they can fight and fight and
fight--till their hearts stop beating--and the god of battles writes
them a bloody pass!"
Again he had risen to his feet. He was speaking proudly, in the reckless
passion of the yet unconquered Southerner, only half-conscious of the
tot who watched him, wondering. So she came to him quickly, taking his
hand in both her own, and striving to bring him comfort from the
fountain of her little mother-heart.
"Don't you worry, Daddy-man. We'll--we'll whip 'em yet."
"No, dear--no," he sighed, as he dropped into his seat. "We won't. It's
hard enough on men; but harder still on children such as you." He
turned to her gravely, earnestly: "Virgie, I had hoped to get you
through to Richmond--to-day. But I can't. The Yankees have cut us off.
They are up the river and down the river--and all around us, I've been
nearly the whole night getting here; creeping through the woods--like an
old Molly-cotton-tail--with the blue boys everywhere, waiting to get me
if I showed my head."
"But they didn't, did they?" said Virgie, laughing at his reference to
the wise old rabbit and feeling for the pockets of his shabby coat, "Did
you--did you bring me anything?"
At her question the man cried out as if in pain, then reached for her in
a wave of yearning tenderness.
"Listen, dear; I--I had a little bundle for you--of--of things to eat."
He took her by the arms, and looked into her quaint, wise face, "And I
was so glad I had it, darling, for you are thinner than you were." He
paused to bite his lip, and continued haltingly, "There was bread in
that bundle--and meat--real meat--and sugar--and tea."
Virgie released herself and clapped her hands.
"Oh, Daddy, where is it?" she asked him happily, once more reaching for
the pocket. "'Cause I'm _so_ hungry for somethin' good."
"Don't! Don't!" he cried, as he drew his coat away, roughly, fiercely,
in the pain of unselfish suffering. "For Daddy's sake, don't!"
"Why, what is it, Daddy," she asked, in her shrillness of a child's
alarm, her eyes on the widening stain of red above his waist. "Is--is it
hurtin' you again? What is it, Daddy-man?"
"Your bundle," he answered, in the flat, dull tone of utter
hopelessness. "I lost it, Virgie. I lost it."
"Oh," she said, with a quaver of disappointment, which she vainly strove
to hide. "How did you do it?"
For a moment the man leaned limply against a chair-back, hiding his eyes
with one trembling hand; then he spoke in shamed apology:
"I--I couldn't help it, darling; because, you see, I hadn't any powder
left; and I was coming through the woods--just as I told you--when the
Yanks got sight of me." He smiled down at her bravely, striving to add a
dash of comedy to his tragic plight. "And I tell you, Virgie, your old
dad had to run like a turkey--wishing to the Lord he had wings, too."
Virgie did not smile in turn, and her father dropped back into his
former tone, his pale lips setting in a straight, hard line.
"And then--the blue boy I was telling you about--when he shot at me, I
must have stumbled, because, when I scrambled up, I--I couldn't see just
right; so I ran and ran, thinking of you, darling, and wanting to get to
you before--well, before it was breakfast time. I had your bundle in my
pocket; but when I fell--why, Virgie, don't you see?--I--I couldn't go
back and find it." He paused to choke, then spoke between his teeth, in
fury at a strength which had failed to breast a barrier of fate: "But I
_would_ have gone back, if I'd had any powder left. I _would_ have! I
would!"
A pitiful apology it was, from a man to a little child; a story told
only in its hundredth part, for why should he give its untold horrors to
a baby's ears? How could she understand that man-hunt in the early dawn?
The fugitive--with an empty pistol on his hip--wading swamps and
plunging through the tangled underbrush; alert and listening, darting
from tree to tree where the woods were thin; crouching behind some
fallen log to catch his laboring breath, then rising again to creep
along his way. He did not tell of the racking pain in his weary legs,
nor the protest of his pounding heart--the strain--the agony--the puffs
of smoke that floated above the pines, and the ping of bullets whining
through the trees. He did not tell of the ball that slid along his ribs,
leaving a fiery, aching memory behind, as the man crashed down a clay
bank, to lie for an instant in a crumpled heap, to rise and stumble
on--not toward the haven of his own Confederate lines, but forward, to
where a baby waited--through a dancing mist of red.
And so the soldier made his poor apology, turning his head away to
avoid a dreaded look in Virgie's big, reproachful eyes; then he added
one more lashwelt to his shame:
"And now your poor old daddy is no more use to you. I come to my little
girl with empty hands--with an empty gun--and an empty heart!"
He said it bitterly, in the self-accusing sorrow of his soul; and his
courage, which had borne him through a hell of suffering, now broke; but
only when a helper of the helpless failed. He laid his outflung arms
across the table. He bowed his beaten head upon them and sobbed aloud,
with sobs that shook him to his heels.
It was then that Virgie came to him again, a little daughter of the
South, who, like a hundred thousand of her sisters, brought comfort in
the blackest hours.
One tiny, weak arm was slipped about his neck. One tiny brown hand, with
its berry-stained fingers, was run through his tangled hair, softly,
tenderly, even as she longed to soothe the weary head of General Lee.
"Don't cry, Daddy-man," she murmured in his ear; "it's all right. _I_
can eat the blackberries. They--they don't taste so _awful_ good when
you have 'em _all_ the time; but _I_ don't mind." She paused to kiss
him, then tried once more to buoy his hope and hers. "We'll have jus'
heaps of things when we get to Richmon'--jus' heaps--an' then--"
She stopped abruptly, lifting her head and listening, in the manner of a
sheep dog scenting danger from afar. Her father looked up sharply and
gripped her hands.
"Virgie! You hear--_what_?"
"Horses! Oh, a lot of 'em! On the big road!"
It was true, for down the breeze came the faintly echoed thud of many
hoofs and the clinking jingle of sabers against the riders' thighs.
Virgie turned back from the open door.
"Why--why, they've turned into _our_ road!" Her breath came fast, as she
sank her voice to a faint, awed whisper, "Daddy--do you reckon
it's--_Yankees_?"
"Yes," said her father, who had risen to his feet. "Morrison's cavalry!
They won't hurt _you_; but I'll have to get to the woods again! Good-by,
honey! Good-by!"
He kissed her hurriedly and started for the door, but shrank into the
shadow at sight of a blue-clothed watcher sharply outlined on the crest
of a distant rise. Escape was cut off, and the hunted soldier turned to
Virgie in his need.
"Shut the door--quick!" She obeyed in silence. "Lock it!" She turned the
rusty key, and waited. "Now the windows! Hurry, but do it quietly."
She closed the clumsy shutters and set the heavy bars into their slots;
then the man came forward, knelt down before her and took her hands.
"Listen, Virginia," he whispered earnestly; "don't you remember how your
dear, dear mother--and I, too, darling--always told you never to tell a
lie?"
"An' I haven't, Daddy-man," she protested, wondering. "'Deed, an' 'deed,
I haven't. Why--"
"Yes, yes, I know," he interrupted hurriedly; "but now--_you must_!" As
the child stepped backward and tried to draw away, he clasped her hands
more tightly still. "But listen, dear; it's to save _me_! Don't you
understand?--and it's _right_! When those men come, they mustn't find
me. Say I _was_ here, but I've gone. If they ask which way, tell them I
went down past the spring--through the blackberry patch. Do you
understand?--and can you remember?" She nodded gravely, and the
Southerner folded her tightly in his arms. "Be a brave little rebel,
honey--_for me_!"
He released her and began to mount the ladder leading to the scuttle in
the ceiling; but halfway up he paused, as Virgie checked him with a
solemn question:
"Daddy--would Gen'ral Lee want me to tell that lie?"
"Yes, dear," he answered slowly, thoughtfully; "this once! And, if ever
you see him, ask him, and he'll tell you so himself. God help you,
darling; it's for General Lee--and _you_!"
The littlest rebel sighed, as though a weight had been lifted from her
mind, and she cocked her head at the sound of louder hoof-beats on the
carriage road.
"All right, Daddy-man. I'll tell--a _whopper_!"