CHAPTER VI
The next day Harrod Summers and I drove over to the cavalry camp to see Amory. It was a crisp, cheery morning, just enough wintry rime in earth and air and sky to make rapid motion a keen delight. As we neared the spot, the mellow notes of the trumpet came floating on the breeze, and as we rounded a bend in the road, we came in sight of the troop itself trotting across a broad open field. Mars was taking advantage of the glorious weather to brush up on company drill, and we had arrived just in time to see it.
It was a very pretty, stirring sight to my eyes; for the dash and spirit of the manœuvres were new to a man whose martial associations had been confined to the curbstones of Broadway, barring that blistering march from Annapolis to the railway, and the month of fêted soldiering at the capital and Camp Cameron in '61. Harrod gazed at it all with professional calm; occasionally giving some brief and altogether too technical explanation of evolutions that were beyond my comprehension. But the one thing which struck me most forcibly was that, though frequently trotting or galloping close to where we sat in the buggy, Mr. Frank Amory never took the faintest notice of us. His whole attention was given to his troop and the drill; and with flashing sabre and animated voice, he darted here and there on his big chestnut sorrel, shouting, exhorting, and on occasion excitedly swearing at some thick-headed trooper; but for all the notice he took of us we might as well have been back at home.
"Rather a cool reception," said I, "considering the youngster was so anxious we should come over."
"Why, that's all right," said Harrod. "It is a breach of military propriety to hold any kind of communication with lookers-on when a fellow's at drill or on parade."
And yet to my civilian notions this struck me as being uncivil. Less than a month afterwards I saw the same young fellow sit like a statue on his horse, and never give the faintest sign of recognition when the girl I knew he – well, that's anticipating – when a party of ladies were driven in carriages past his troop, so close to his horse's nose as to seriously discomfit that quadruped, and one of the young ladies was Miss Carrington. To my undisciplined faculties that sort of thing was incomprehensible. I looked on at the drill for a while, wondering how in the world those fellows could manage to keep their seats in the saddle without grabbing the pommel, when Harrod remarked that he believed he would go on into the village to attend to some business, and leave me at Amory's tent until he returned. Of course I could only assent; and in another moment I was landed in front of the tent which had become so fixed a picture "in my mind's eye" since the afternoon Mr. Stiggins rode in to inquire where the lieutenant and his people had gone. A darky boy officiously brushed off the seat of a camp-chair, saying that "Mos' like drill'd be over in ten minutes." So I sat me down under the canvas to wait.
Amory's tent was not luxurious. It was one of the simple variety known as the "wall" tent, so called probably because for three feet from the ground the sides are vertical and give more room than the "A" tents of the rank and file. A camp-cot occupied one side; a canvas-covered trunk stood at the head. Then on the other side of the tent was a rude field-desk, perched on four legs; the pigeon-holes crammed with portentous-looking blanks and papers, and the lid lowered to a horizontal. On this lay a square of blotting-paper, covered with ink-dabs and some stray papers, an ungainly inkstand, and one or two scattered pens and holders. A looking-glass about the size of one's face was swung on the front pole. A rude washstand was placed near the foot of the bed. A swinging pole, hung under the ridge-pole of the tent, constituted the wardrobe or clothes-closet of the occupant, and from this several garments were pendent. There was no tent floor; the bare ground was the carpet; and but for one little table the abode would have been rude in the extreme as the habitation of a civilized being. The table in question stood at the entrance of the tent, under the "fly" or awning spread in front. A couple of pipes with brier-root stems lay thereon, and a jar of tobacco. But in an easel-frame of soft velvet, a frame rich and handsome, conspicuously so in contrast with all the surroundings, was a photograph – cabinet-size – of a woman's face. It was not there on the occasion of my first visit, nor was the table. But there sat the picture, the first thing one would notice in entering the tent; and, having nothing else to do, I proceeded to examine it.
A sweet, placid, sorrow-worn face; eyes whose wrinkled lids spoke of age, but yet looked calmly, steadfastly into mine. Scanty hair, yet rippling over the brows and temples as though indicating that in years gone by the tresses had been full and luxuriant. Scanty hair, tinged with many a streak of gray, and carried back of the ears in a fashion suggestive of the days that long preceded the war, – the days when Jenny Lind entranced us all at Castle Garden (though I claim to have been but a boy then); when Mario and Grisi were teaching us Knickerbockers the beauties of Italian opera; when Count D'Orsay was the marvel of metropolitan society; when daguerreotypes were first introduced along Broadway. All these I thought of as I looked into this placid face, so refined in its every line; marking, too, that at the throat was clasped a portrait in plain gold frame, the inevitable indication that the wearer was of Southern birth, for none but our Southern women wear thus outwardly the portraits of those they love and have lost. The picture fascinated me; it was so sweet, so simple, so homelike; and, as I stood with it in my hands, I could plainly see the strong likeness between the features and those of my plucky young hero, whom I was half ready to be indignant with for ignoring me ten minutes before. His mother I knew it to be at a glance.
Just then came an orderly bearing a packet of letters. To my intense gratification – I don't know why – he saluted with his unoccupied hand as he said, "Letters for the lieutenant, sir." Was it possible that he thought I might be some staff-officer? He could not – that is, he would not, had he ever seen me straddle a horse – suppose me to be a cavalryman. Perhaps he had heard I was with the lieutenant the night he nabbed Hank Smith; perhaps he – why, perhaps they – the troop – had heard I had charged through the woods to his support. Well, I took with dignified calm the bundle of letters he handed me, and endeavored to look the suppositious character and place them carelessly on the table, when the superscription of the very first one attracted my attention. The writing was strangely familiar. There were four letters, – two "official," long and heavy; two personal, and evidently of feminine authorship. It was my business to lay them on the table. I did nothing of the kind. Holding the package in both hands, I sat stupidly staring at the topmost letter, – a tiny, dainty affair, – and striving to come back from dream-land. Where had I seen that superscription before? There stood the address, "Lieut. Frank Amory, – th U.S. Cavalry, Sandbrook Station, Memphis and Charleston R. R., Alabama," every letter as perfectly traced as though by the hand of an engraver; every i dotted, every t crossed, every capital having its due proportion, every letter wellnigh perfect. The superscription itself was a chirographic marvel. The writing was simply beautiful, and I had seen it before. It was familiar to me, or at least had been well known. Pondering over it, I gazed, of course, at the postmark: a mere blur. Something or some place in New York was all I could make out before it suddenly occurred to me that the whole thing was none of my business anyhow. I set the packet down on the table and strove to shut it from my mind; but there that letter lay on top, staring me in the face; I could not keep my eyes from it. I turned, picked it up and placed it on the desk inside the tent; dropped a handkerchief that was lying there over it; and returned to my place under the fly. I wanted to keep it out of my sight.
Presently, the bustle and laughter among the tents of the soldiers near me gave warning that the troop had come in from drill. The next moment, as I was again holding and looking at the picture in the velvet frame, Mars came springily forward, his sabre and spurs clinking with every stride. He pulled off his gauntlet, and held out his hand with a cheery and cordial "So glad to see you, Mr. Brandon," and then, as I was about to apologize for taking liberties with his belongings, he said, – and how can I throw into the words the tremulous tenderness of his voice? —
"That's mother. My birthday present. It only came a few days ago, and I like to have it out here with me."
And the boy took it from my hands, and stood for a moment, all glowing as he came from his rapid drill, and with the beads of perspiration on his face, and looked fondly at it.
"It's the only decent picture I ever had of her, and, somehow, it almost seems as though she were here now. That Ku-Klux business upset her completely, and the blessed little mother wants me to pull out and resign; but I can't do that."
"I have been admiring it for some time, Mr. Amory. The face attracted me at once, and it was easy to see the family resemblance. May I ask where your mother is living now?"
"In Boston now, but I think she longs to come South again. The North never seemed home to her. Father was in the old army. Perhaps Vinton has told you. He was killed at Fredericksburg, at the head of his brigade; and my uncle, mother's younger brother, died of wounds received in the same fight." Amory's voice faltered a little and his color brightened. "Of course they were on opposite sides," he added, in a lower tone.
I bowed silently. Nothing seemed the appropriate thing to say just then. Presently Amory went on:
"You see I'm about all she has left in the world, – her only son. And when husband and brother were both taken from her at one fell swoop, it made it hard to let me take up father's profession; but it was always his wish, and the only thing I'm fit for, I reckon."
"Do Yankees habitually say 'I reckon'?" I asked, by way of lightening up the rather solemn tone of the conversation.
Mars laughed. "Why," said he, "I'm more than half Southern; born in North Carolina, and spending much of my boyhood there at mother's old home. They used to call me 'reb' the whole time I was a cadet. It is a wonder I wasn't an out-and-out 'reb' too. All mother's people were, and they never have been reconciled to her for sticking to father and his side of the question. Poor little mother," he added, while the tears gathered in his eyes, "she is alone in the world if ever woman was, and I sometimes wonder if I ought not to yield to her wishes and go and be a clerk of some kind."
All the glow, all the life that possessed him as he came in fresh from the exercise of his drill seemed to have left Mars by this time. He was profoundly sad and depressed. That was plainly to be seen. Hoping to find something as a distraction to his gloomy reflections, I called his attention to the mail that had arrived during his absence. He moved negligently towards the desk, raised the handkerchief with weary indifference, and glanced at the packet underneath. Instantly his whole manner changed; the color sprang to his face; his eyes flamed, and a nervous thrill seemed to shoot through his frame. Paying no attention to the others, he had seized the dainty missive that so excited my curiosity, and with a hand that plainly shook tore it open, turned his back to me with the briefest "Excuse me one minute," and was speedily so absorbed in the letter that he never noticed me as I rose and strolled out to the front of the tent and the bright wintry sunshine beyond. The boy needed to be alone.
Fully fifteen minutes passed by before he rejoined me, coming out with a quick, nervous step, and a face that had grown white and almost old in that time. What could be wrong with him?
"Mr. Brandon, I beg your pardon for being so inhospitable. My letters were important, and – and rather a surprise, one of them. It is just about noon. May I offer you a toddy? It's the best I can do."
Mr. Brandon, to the scandal of his principles, decided that on this occasion he would accept the proffered refreshment. It seemed to be a relief to Mars. He bustled about, getting sugar and glasses and some fresh spring water; then speedily tendering me a goblet, produced a black bottle from his trunk.
"Shall I pour for you?" said he. "Say when." And in a moment the juice of the rye and other less harmful ingredients were mingled with the sweetened water.
"You will excuse me," said he. "I never touch it, except – well, that drink I took the night on the train after our tussle with Smith is the only one I've taken since I joined the troop. I promised mother, Mr. Brandon."
The reader has already discovered that Mr. Brandon could readily make a sentimental idiot of himself on slight provocation. Hearing these words of Mr. Amory's and the renewed allusion to the mother who filled so big a place in the boy's heart, Mr. Brandon deposited his glass on the table and held out his hand; took that of the surprised young soldier; gave it a cordial grip; made an abortive attempt to say something neat and appropriate; and broke abruptly off at the first word. Then Harrod came back.
"Brandon," said he, "there's the mischief to pay in New Orleans. I've just received the papers, and it looks as though there would be riot and bloodshed with a vengeance."
"What's up now?" I asked, with vivid interest.
"It seems to be a breaking out of the old row. Two legislatures, you know, and a double-headed executive. More troops are ordered there."
I eagerly took the paper and read the headlines. The same old story, only worse and more of it. The State-house beleaguered; the metropolitan police armed with Winchesters and manning a battery; the citizens holding indignation meetings and organizing for defence against usurping State government; two riots on Canal Street, and a member of one legislature shot down by the sergeant-at-arms of the other; a great mob organizing to attack the governor and the State-house, etc., etc. It all looked familiar enough. I had seen the same thing but a short time before. It was simply a new eruption of the old volcano, but a grave one, unless I utterly misjudged the indications.
"Amory," said Harrod, "mount your horse and come over to dinner with us. Mr. Brandon and I must go back, for there are matters in the mail which require my attention at once."
But Amory said he could not leave. In Vinton's absence he felt that he ought to stick to camp. We drove back as we came.
Both the young ladies were on the gallery when we drove up. Harrod shook his head in response to the look of inquiry in Pauline's eyes.
"Not back yet, and no news of him, – unless – unless – there should be something in this letter," said he, with provoking gravity and deliberation, as he felt in every pocket of his garments in apparently vain search, while the quizzical look in his face proclaimed that he was purposely reserving the right pocket for the last.
Miss Summers stood with exemplary patience and outstretched hand. At last the eagerly-expected letter was produced, and Harrod and I went in to talk over the startling tidings from New Orleans. The next moment we heard Pauline's rapid step in the hall and ascending the stairs; heard her go hurriedly to her room and close the door, Harrod looked puzzled and a little worried.
"I hope there is no bad news from Vinton," he said. "That rush to her room is unlike her." Then the swish of Kitty's skirts was heard. Harrod stepped out and spoke some words to her in a low tone. Her reply was anxious and startled in its hurried intonation, but the words were indistinct.
"She says Pauline did not read her letter through at all, but sprang up with tears in her eyes and merely said she must run up-stairs a few minutes. What do you suppose is wrong?"
Of course I had no explanation to offer. Pauline did not return for an hour. When she again appeared she was very pale and quiet. Harrod meantime had taken a horse and ridden off to Sandbrook, where he wanted to reach the telegraph-office. It was late in the evening when he returned. I had been reading in the library for some time while the ladies were at the piano. He strode into the hall and stood at the parlor-door.
"Pauline, did the major tell you in his letter?" he asked.
"Tell me what?" she inquired, with quickly rising color.
"That their orders had come?" She hesitated and made no reply. Quickly he stepped forward and threw his arm around her, tenderly kissing her forehead.
"You'll make a soldier's wife, Pauline. You can keep a secret."
And now, looking quickly at Miss Kitty, I saw that she had risen and was eagerly gazing at them, a strange, wistful light in her sweet young face.
"What is it all, colonel?" I inquired.
"The cavalry left for New Orleans at dark. Amory got telegraphic orders soon after we left, and Vinton came in from the West by the evening train and took command at the station. Neither of them had time to come out here to say good-by," he added, with an involuntary glance at Kitty, while still holding Pauline's hand in his own.
"You saw Major Vinton?" Pauline calmly asked.
"Yes, dear. I have a note for you. He was only there thirty minutes. Amory had the troop, horses and all, on the cars before the Memphis train got in."
She took her note and with him walked into the library. Irresolutely I stepped out on the gallery a moment. Then returning for a cigar or something consolatory, I nearly collided with Miss Kitty at the parlor-door. She recoiled a pace; then with her bonny head bowed in her hands, with great sobs shaking her slender form, my unheroic little heroine rushed past me and up the stairs to her own room. I felt like a spy.
CHAPTER VII
The next few days passed somewhat gloomily. Eager interest centred in the daily paper from New Orleans. The Times in those days was "run" entirely in the interest of a strong faction not inaptly termed "carpet-baggers." Few of the Republican party of the white element had been natives and property-owners in the State before the war. All of the colored race, most of them at least, had been residents perhaps, but held as property rather than as property-owners. The Picayune, always the representative of the old régime in the South, was naturally the journal which found its way into our distant household. Its pictures of affairs in the Crescent City were startling beyond question, and its columns were filled with grave portent of riot, insurrection, and bloodshed.
Judge Summers was visibly worried by its reports. Harrod looked gloomy and ill at ease; Pauline very grave; Kitty picturesquely doleful. All, however, seemed to relax no effort to make me feel at home and "entertained," but the evident cloud overshadowed me. I began to want to get away.
If all New Orleans were swept by the flames, my personal losses would be slight; but the small library I owned would be an excuse. My confidence that neither side would set fire to anything was only equalled by that which I felt that both would join forces to put it out if they did. For two years we had been having just the same exhilarating experiences, and it never came to burning anything but a little powder. Sometimes one side, sometimes another would raise a huge mob, and with much pomp and parade, with much blatant speech-making and wide publication of their intentions, would march noisily through the streets towards some public building, at that moment held by the opposite party, avowedly for the purpose of taking it by force of arms. The first year there had been some desultory shooting, but no casualties to speak of. The second there had been less damage, though far more display; for by this time there were three parties in the field. Then, however, Uncle Sam assumed the rôle of peace-maker; sent a general thither with his staff (giving him a major-general's title and a major's force), with vague orders as to what he was to do, as I chanced to know, beyond keeping the peace and upholding the law and the constituted authorities. As three parties claimed to be the "constituted authorities," it seemed embarrassing at times to tell which to uphold. Washington officials declined to decide for him, so the veteran soldier hit on the happy expedient of upholding the party that was attacked. This put him squarely in the right so far as keeping the peace was concerned; for whichever crowd sallied forth to whip the other, invariably found a small battalion of bayonets, or on one occasion a solitary aide-de-camp representing the United States. They would not "fire on the flag"; so retired to thunder at one another through the press. But it put him squarely in the wrong where settling the question for good and all was concerned. So long as the factions felt sure they would not be allowed to fight, the more they talked about doing it; and the real sufferers were the patient, plodding infantry officers and men, who were kept trudging up and down, night and day, from town to barracks. They were tired, hungry, jaded-looking fellows that winter. I had called three of them into my room one chill morning after they had been standing all night on the curbstones of the State-house waiting for an attack they knew would never come; warmed them up with coffee or cocktails as they might prefer; then one of them opened his heart.
"This whole thing is the most infernal farce," said he. "Ten to one the true way to stop it is to send us miles away and let them get at one another. The Lord knows I'd afford them every encouragement. They don't want to fight. If old General Fitz Blazes would only send me with my company behind instead of between these howling idiots they'd evaporate quick enough."
Well I recalled every bit of this! It was when the "radical" party was split up into local factions, each demanding the State-house – and the Treasury; but – things were different now. The old residents, the business men, the representative citizens of the city had stood that sort of thing just as long as human endurance and their ebbing purses could stand it. They now had organized and risen against the perturbed State authorities; and when that class of men began shooting somebody was going to be hurt. As yet nothing aggressive had been done; but the Republican government was tottering on its Louisiana throne, and appealed for aid. This it was that was sending troops from all directions to the Crescent City. I decided to go and protect my lares and penates, trivial though they might be.
To my relief, yet surprise, the moment I mentioned this to Colonel Summers his face lighted up with an expression of delight.
"Mr. Brandon, we'll go together, and as soon as you like."
Noticing my evident surprise, he added, "To tell the truth I ought to go, and at once. Will you come into father's library and let me explain?"
Assenting, as a matter of course, I followed him. Pauline was seated by her father's side as we entered, writing, as she often did, from his dictation.
"Father," broke in the colonel, abruptly, "we can spare you all that work. Mr. Brandon tells me he has decided to go at once to New Orleans. I will go with him, and take the papers."
The judge rose somewhat slowly – anxiety had told on him very much in the last day or two – and greeted me with his old-fashioned courtesy.
"It is a source of great regret to me – to us all – that you should leave us; yet you have doubtless anxieties, as indeed I have, – great ones, – and I wish it were in my power to go myself; but that cannot be, for a fortnight at least; and by that time, as things are looking now, it may be too late, – it may be too late. My son will tell you – " he broke off suddenly.
Miss Summers had risen; her sweet, thoroughbred face had grown a little paler of late, and she stood anxiously regarding her father, but saying not a word. For some moments we sat in general conversation; then, noticing how tired the judge was looking, I rose, saying it was time to make preparations.
Two hours later, the old carriage rattled up to the steps. The colonel stood aside, holding some final consultation with his father. Miss Summers, with a blush that was vastly becoming to her, handed me a letter for the major. "As yet, you know, Major Vinton has not been able to send me his New Orleans address. They are barely there by this time; but you were so incautious as to offer to take anything to him, so I burden you with this."
Kitty Carrington was looking on with wistful eyes.
"And you, little lady? what note or message will you intrust to me?"
She had smoothed back her bright hair. She was looking again as she had the night she begged to play nurse over our unconscious Mars. She looked older, graver, but so gentle, so patient in the trouble that had come into her young life. Whatever that trouble might have been I could not say. There was something very pathetic about the slender little figure as she stood there.
For all answer to my question, she shook her head, smiling rather sadly, yet striving to throw archness into her accompanying gesture. The faint shrug of her pretty shoulders, the forward movement of her hands, with open and extended palms, – something so Southern in it all. I could not help noting it. Possibly I stared, as previous confessions indicate that I had that adventurous night in the cars.
My rudeness caused her to turn sharply away with heightened color.
Then came general good-byes, good speeds, good lucks, promises to write, – those promises, like so many others, made only to be broken. We clambered into the carriage. Already the driver was gathering his whip and reins; had "chucked" to his sleepy team. Harrod was sitting on the side nearest the group on the steps; I craning my neck forward for a last look at them. Kitty was eagerly bending forward; her lips parted, her eyes dilated, her fingers working nervously. Already the wheels had begun to crunch through the gravel, when with sudden movement she darted like a bird down the steps.
"Harrod!" she cried.
"Hold on, driver," was the response, as he bent to the doorway to meet her.
Standing on tiptoe, her tiny white hands clutching his arm, a vivid color shooting over her face, her eyes one moment nervously, apprehensively, reproachfully glancing at me, plainly saying, "Please don't listen," then, raised to his bronzed, tender face, as he bent ear towards her lips in response to the evident appeal. She rapidly whispered half a dozen words. "Do you understand? Sure you understand?" she questioned eagerly, as now she leaned back, looking up into his eyes.
He bent still farther, kissed her forehead. "Sure," he nodded. "Sure."
Then back she sprang. Crack went the whip, and we rolled away towards the gate.
Looking back, my eyes took in for the last time the old home; and the picture lingers with me, will live with me to the end of my lonely life. The red-gold light of the setting sun streamed in all its glory on the southern front of the quaint plantation house. The tangled shrubbery, the sombre line of the dense forest beyond the fields, the vines and tendrils that clung about the gallery railing and the wooden pillars, the low-hanging eaves, the moss-covered line of porch-roof, – all were tinged, gilded, gleaming here and there with the warmth and glow of the gladness-giving rays. The windows above blazed with their reflected glory. Even old Blondo's curly hide and Jake Biggs's woolly pate gained a lustre they never knew before. All around the evidences of approaching decay and present dilapidation, so general throughout the bright sunny South years after the war, all around the homeliest objects, the wheelbarrow and garden tools, there clung a tinge of gladness in answering homage to the declining king of day; but, central figures of all, the trio we left upon the steps, they fairly stood in a halo of mellow gold. The gray-haired gentleman waving his thin hand in parting salutation; the noble, womanly girl at his side, half supporting, half leaning upon him; and on the lower stair, kissing her hand, waving her dainty kerchief, her eyes dancing, her cheeks aflame, her white teeth flashing through the parted lips, her fragile form all radiance, all sweet, glowing, girlish beauty, stood Kitty Carrington; she who but a moment before had seemed so patiently sad.
"Did you ever see anything prettier?" I gasped, as at last the winding roadway hid them from our sight.
"Kitty, Brandon? – she's a darling!" was the warm-hearted answer.
That was precisely my opinion.
All the way into Sandbrook I was tortured with curiosity to know the purport of the mysterious parting whisper. It would not do to let Colonel Summers suspect that of me; neither would it answer to propound any question. We had much to talk of that is of no interest and has no bearing on our story, but it kept us employed until we reached the station.
Our train was due at 7.45, going west, the same hour at which the troops had left. Their single passenger-car and the four freight-cars on which their horses were carried had been coupled to the regular train. They had gone, we learned, to Grand Junction; thence down the Mississippi Central. The station-master was an old army friend of the colonel's. He received us with all courtesy, and immediately asked us into his own little office.
"Reckon you'd best just make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen; that train's nigh onto two hours late, near as I can make it."
"Two hours late! Why, that will ruin our connection!" exclaimed Harrod.
"They're going to try and make the Central wait over," was the answer, "but I'd bet high on our being later'n we think for. Once a fellow gets off his schedule on this road, he's more apt to be losing all the time than gaining."