THE BURIAL OF THE GUNS

by Thomas Nelson Page

[Virginian Author--1853-1922. ]

1894 edition

New York

[Note on text: Italicized words or phrases are capitalized. Some obviouserrors have been corrected. ]

To My Wife

Contents:

 My Cousin Fanny The Burial of the Guns The Gray Jacket of "No. 4" Miss Dangerlie's Roses How the Captain made Christmas Little Darby

MY COUSIN FANNY

We do not keep Christmas now as we used to do in old Hanover. We havenot time for it, and it does not seem like the same thing. Christmas, however, always brings up to me my cousin Fanny; I suppose because shealways was so foolish about Christmas. 

My cousin Fanny was an old maid; indeed, to follow St. Paul's turnof phrase, she was an old maid of the old maids. No one who saw her amoment could have doubted it. Old maids have from most people a feelingrather akin to pity--a hard heritage. They very often have this feelingfrom the young. This must be the hardest part of all--to see around themfriends, each "a happy mother of children, " little ones responding toaffection with the sweet caresses of childhood, whilst any advancesthat they, their aunts or cousins, may make are met with indifferenceor condescension. My cousin Fanny was no exception. She was as proud asLucifer; yet she went through life--the part that I knew of--bearing thepity of the great majority of the people who knew her. 

She lived at an old place called "Woodside", which had been in thefamily for a great many years; indeed, ever since before the Revolution. The neighborhood dated back to the time of the colony, and Woodside wasone of the old places. My cousin Fanny's grandmother had stood in thedoor of her chamber with her large scissors in her hand, anddefied Tarleton's red-coated troopers to touch the basket of oldcommunion-plate which she had hung on her arm. 

The house was a large brick edifice, with a pyramidal roof, covered withmoss, small windows, porticos with pillars somewhat out of repair, abig, high hall, and a staircase wide enough to drive a gig up it if itcould have turned the corners. A grove of great forest oaks and poplarsdensely shaded it, and made it look rather gloomy; and the garden, withthe old graveyard covered with periwinkle at one end, was almost infront, while the side of the wood--a primeval forest, from whichthe place took its name--came up so close as to form a strong, dark background. During the war the place, like most others in thatneighborhood, suffered greatly, and only a sudden exhibition of spiriton Cousin Fanny's part saved it from a worse fate. After the war it wentdown; the fields were poor, and grew up in briers and sassafras, and thehouse was too large and out of repair to keep from decay, the ownershipof it being divided between Cousin Fanny and other members of thefamily. Cousin Fanny had no means whatever, so that it soon was in a badcondition. The rest of the family, as they grew up, went off, compelledby necessity to seek some means of livelihood, and would have takenCousin Fanny too if she would have gone; but she would not go. They didall they could for her, but she preferred to hang around the old place, and to do what she could with her "mammy", and "old Stephen", hermammy's husband, who alone remained in the quarters. She lived in a partof the house, locking up the rest, and from time to time visited amongher friends and relatives, who always received her hospitably. She hadan old piece of a mare (which I think she had bought from Stephen), withone eye, three legs, and no mane or tail to speak of, and on which shelavished, without the least perceptible result, care enough to havekept a stable in condition. In a freak of humor she named this animal"Fashion", after a noted racer of the old times, which had been raisedin the county, and had beaten the famous Boston in a great race. Shealways spoke of "Fash" with a tone of real tenderness in her voice, and looked after her, and discussed her ailments, which were alwaysnumerous, as if she had been a delicate child. Mounted on this beast, with her bags and bundles, and shawls and umbrella, and a long stick orpole, she used occasionally to make the tour of the neighborhood, andwas always really welcomed; because, notwithstanding the trouble shegave, she always stirred things up. As was said once, you could nomore have remained dull where she was than you could have dozed witha chinkapin-burr down your back. Her retort was that a chinkapin-burrmight be used to rouse people from a lethargy (she had an old maid'stongue). By the younger members of the family she was always welcomed, because she furnished so much fun. She nearly always fetched some littlething to her host--not her hostess--a fowl, or a pat of butter from herone old cow, or something of the kind, because, she said, "Abigailhad established the precedent, and she was 'a woman of goodunderstanding'--she understood that feeding and flattery were the way towin men. " She would sometimes have a chicken in a basket hung on the offpummel of her old saddle, because at times she fancied she could not eatanything but chicken soup, and she did "not wish to give trouble. " Sheused to give trouble enough; for it generally turned out that she hadheard some one was sick in the neighborhood, and she wanted the soupcarried to her. I remember how mad Joe got because she made him go withher to carry a bucket of soup to old Mrs. Ronquist. 

Cousin Fanny had the marks of an old maid. She was thin ("scrawny" weused to call her, though I remember now she was quite erect until shegrew feeble); her features were fine; her nose was very straight; herhair was brown; and her eyes, which were dark, were weak, so that shehad often to wear a green shade. She used to say herself that they were"bad eyes". They had been so ever since the time when she was a younggirl, and there had been a very bad attack of scarlet fever at her home, and she had caught it. I think she caught a bad cold with it--sitting upnursing some of the younger children, perhaps--and it had settled in hereyes. She was always very liable to cold. 

I believe she had a lover then or about that time; but her mother haddied not long before, and she had some notion of duty to the children, and so discarded him. Of course, as every one said, she'd much betterhave married him. I do not suppose he ever could have addressed her. Shenever would admit that he did, which did not look much like it. Shewas once spoken of in my presence as "a sore-eyed old maid"--I haveforgotten who said it. Yet I can now recall occasions when her eyes, being "better", appeared unusually soft, and, had she not been anold maid, would sometimes have been beautiful--as, for instance, occasionally, when she was playing at the piano in the evenings beforethe candles were lighted. I recollect particularly once when she wassinging an old French love-song. Another time was when on a certainoccasion some one was talking about marriages and the reasons which ledto or prevented them. She sat quite still and silent, looking out of thewindow, with her thin hands resting in her lap. Her head was turned awayfrom most of the people, but I was sitting where I could see her, andthe light of the evening sky was on her face. It made her look verysoft. She lifted up her eyes, and looked far off toward the horizon. Iremember it recalled to me, young as I was, the speech I had heardsome one once make when I was a little boy, and which I had thought soridiculous, that "when she was young, before she caught that cold, shewas almost beautiful. " There was an expression on her face that made methink she ought always to sit looking out of the window at the eveningsky. I believe she had brought me some apples that day when she came, and that made me feel kindly toward her. The light on her hair gave ita reddish look, quite auburn. Presently, she withdrew her eyes from thesky, and let them fall into her lap with a sort of long, sighing breath, and slowly interlaced her fingers. The next second some one jocularlyfired this question at her: "Well, Cousin Fanny, give us your views, "and her expression changed back to that which she ordinarily wore. 

"Oh, my views, like other people's, vary from my practice, " she said. "It is not views, but experiences, which are valuable in life. When Ishall have been married twice I will tell you. "

"While there's life there's hope, eh?" hazarded some one; for teasing anold maid, in any way, was held perfectly legitimate. 

"Yes, indeed, " and she left the room, smiling, and went up-stairs. 

This was one of the occasions when her eyes looked well. There wereothers that I remember, as sometimes when she was in church; sometimeswhen she was playing with little children; and now and then when, ason that evening, she was sitting still, gazing out of the window. Butusually her eyes were weak, and she wore the green shade, which gave herface a peculiar pallor, making her look old, and giving her a pained, invalid expression. 

Her dress was one of her peculiarities. Perhaps it was because she madeher clothes herself, without being able to see very well. I suppose shedid not have much to dress on. I know she used to turn her dresses, andchange them around several times. When she had any money she used tosquander it, buying dresses for Scroggs's girls or for some one else. She was always scrupulously neat, being quite old-maidish. She said thatcleanliness was next to godliness in a man, and in a woman it was on apar with it. I remember once seeing a picture of her as a young girl, asyoung as Kitty, dressed in a soft white dress, with her hair down overher ears, and some flowers in her dress--that is, it was said to be she;but I did not believe it. To be sure, the flowers looked like it. Shealways would stick flowers or leaves in her dress, which was thoughtquite ridiculous. The idea of associating flowers with an old maid!It was as hard as believing she ever was the young girl. It was not, however, her dress, old and often queer and ill-made as it used to be, that was the chief grievance against her. There was a much strongerground of complaint; she had NERVES! The word used to be strung outin pronouncing it, with a curve of the lips, as "ner-erves". I don'tremember that she herself ever mentioned them; that was the exasperatingpart of it. She would never say a word; she would just close her thinlips tight, and wear a sort of ill look, as if she were in actual pain. She used to go up-stairs, and shut the door and windows tight, and go tobed, and have mustard-plasters on her temples and the back of her neck;and when she came down, after a day or two, she would have bright redspots burnt on her temples and neck, and would look ill. Of course itwas very hard not to be exasperated at this. Then she would creep aboutas if merely stepping jarred her; would put on a heavy blue veil, andwrap her head up in a shawl, and feel along by the chairs till she gotto a seat, and drop back in it, gasping. Why, I have even seen her sitin the room, all swathed up, and with an old parasol over her head tokeep out the light, or some such nonsense, as we used to think. It wastoo ridiculous to us, and we boys used to walk heavily and stumble overchairs--"accidentally", of course--just to make her jump. Sometimes shewould even start up and cry out. We had the incontestable proof thatit was all "put on"; for if you began to talk to her, and got herinterested, she would forget all about her ailments, and would run onand talk and laugh for an hour, until she suddenly remembered, and sankback again in her shawls and pains. 

She knew a great deal. In fact, I recall now that she seemed to knowmore than any woman I have ever been thrown with, and if she had notbeen an old maid, I am bound to admit that her conversation wouldhave been the most entertaining I ever knew. She lived in a sortof atmosphere of romance and literature; the old writers and theircharacters were as real to her as we were, and she used to talk aboutthem to us whenever we would let her. Of course, when it came from anold maid, it made a difference. She was not only easily the best Frenchscholar in our region, where the ladies all knew more or less of French, but she was an excellent Latin scholar, which was much less common. I have often lain down before the fire when I was learning my Latinlesson, and read to her, line by line, Caesar or Ovid or Cicero, as thebook might be, and had her render it into English almost as fast as Iread. Indeed, I have even seen Horace read to her as she sat in the oldrocking-chair after one of her headaches, with her eyes bandaged, andher head swathed in veils and shawls, and she would turn it into notonly proper English, but English with a glow and color and rhythm thatgave the very life of the odes. This was an exercise we boys all likedand often engaged in--Frank, and Joe, and Doug, and I, and even oldBlinky--for, as she used to admit herself, she was always worrying us toread to her (I believe I read all of Scott's novels to her). Of coursethis translation helped us as well as gratified her. I do not rememberthat she was ever too unwell to help us in this way except when she wasactually in bed. She was very fond of us boys, and was always ready totake our side and to further our plans in any way whatever. We would gether to steal off with us, and translate our Latin for us by the fire. This, of course, made us rather fond of her. She was so much inclined totake our part and to help us that I remember it used to be said of heras a sort of reproach, "Cousin Fanny always sides with the boys. " Sheused to say it was because she knew how worthless women were. She wouldsay this sort of thing herself, but she was very touchy about women, andnever would allow any one else to say anything about them. She hadan old maid's temper. I remember that she took Doug up short once fortalking about "old maids". She said that for her part she did not mindit the least bit; but she would not allow him to speak so of a largeclass of her sex which contained some of the best women in the world;that many of them performed work and made sacrifices that the rest ofthe world knew nothing about. She said the true word for them was theold Saxon term "spinster"; that it proved that they performed the workof the house, and that it was a term of honor of which she was proud. She said that Christ had humbled himself to be born of a Virgin, andthat every woman had this honor to sustain. Of course such lectures asthat made us call her an old maid all the more. Still, I don't thinkthat being mischievous or teasing her made any difference with her. Frank used to worry her more than any one else, even than Joe, and I amsure she liked him best of all. That may perhaps have been because hewas the best-looking of us. She said once that he reminded her of someone she used to know a long time before, when she was young. That musthave been a long time before, indeed. He used to tease the life out ofher. 

She was extraordinarily credulous--would believe anything on earthanyone told her, because, although she had plenty of humor, she herselfnever would deviate from the absolute truth a moment, even in jest. Ido not think she would have told an untruth to save her life. Well, ofcourse we used to play on her to tease her. Frank would tell her themost unbelievable and impossible lies: such as that he thought he sawa mouse yesterday on the back of the sofa she was lying on (this wouldmake her bounce up like a ball), or that he believed he heard--he wasnot sure--that Mr. Scroggs (the man who had rented her old home) had cutdown all the old trees in the yard, and pulled down the house because hewanted the bricks to make brick ovens. This would worry her excessively(she loved every brick in the old house, and often said she would ratherlive in the kitchen there than in a palace anywhere else), and she wouldget into such a state of depression that Frank would finally have totell her that he was just "fooling her". 

She used to make him do a good deal of waiting on her in return, and hewas the one she used to get to dress old Fashion's back when it was raw, and to put drops in her eyes. He got quite expert at it. She said it wasa penalty for his worrying her so. 

She was the great musician of the connection. This is in itself no meanpraise; for it was the fashion for every musical gift among the girls tobe cultivated, and every girl played or sang more or less, some of themvery well. But Cousin Fanny was not only this. She had a way of playingthat used to make the old piano sound different from itself; and hervoice was almost the sweetest I ever heard except one or two on thestage. It was particularly sweet in the evenings, when she sat down atthe piano and played. She would not always do it; she either felt "notin the mood", or "not sympathetic", or some such thing. None of theothers were that way; the rest could play just as well in the glare ofday as in the twilight, and before one person as another; it was, we allknew, just one of Cousin Fanny's old-maid crotchets. When she sat downat the piano and played, her fussiness was all forgotten; her firstnotes used to be recognized through the house, and people used to stopwhat they were doing, and come in. Even the children would leave offplaying, and come straggling in, tiptoeing as they crossed the floor. Some of the other performers used to play a great deal louder, but wenever tiptoed when they played. Cousin Fanny would sit at the pianolooking either up or right straight ahead of her, or often with her eyesclosed (she never looked at the keys), and the sound used to rise fromunder her long, thin fingers, sometimes rushing and pouring forth like adeep roar, sometimes ringing out clear like a band of bugles, making thehair move on the head and giving strange tinglings down the back. Thenwe boys wanted to go forth in the world on fiery, black chargers, likethe olden knights, and fight giants and rescue beautiful ladies and poorwomen. Then again, with her eyes shut, the sound would almost die away, and her fingers would move softly and lingeringly as if they loved thetouch of the keys, and hated to leave them; and the sound would comefrom away far off, and everything would grow quiet and subdued, and theperfume of the roses out of doors would steal in on the air, and thesoft breezes would stir the trees, and we were all in love, and wantedto see somebody that we didn't see. And Cousin Fanny was not herself anylonger, but we imagined some one else was there. Sometimes she suddenlybegan to sing (she sang old songs, English or French); her voice mightbe weak (it all depended on her whims; SHE said, on her health), inthat case she always stopped and left the piano; or it might be "incondition". When it was, it was as velvety and mellow as a bell far off, and the old ballads and chansons used to fill the twilight. We used evento forget then that she was an old maid. Now and then she sang songsthat no one else had ever heard. They were her own; she had composedboth the words and the air. At other times she sang the songs of othersto her own airs. I remember the first time I ever heard of Tennysonwas when, one evening in the twilight, she sang his echo song from "ThePrincess". The air was her own, and in the refrain you heard perfectlythe notes of the bugle, and the echoes answering, "Dying, dying, dying. "Boy as I was, I was entranced, and she answered my enthusiasm by turningand repeating the poem. I have often thought since how musical her voicewas as she repeated

 Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. 

She had a peculiarly sentimental temperament. As I look back at it allnow, she was much given to dwelling upon old-time poems and romances, which we thought very ridiculous in any one, especially in a spinster offorty odd. She would stop and talk about the branch of a tree with theleaves all turning red or yellow or purple in the common way in which, as everyone knows, leaves always turn in the fall; or even about atangle of briers, scarlet with frost, in a corner of an old worm-fence, keeping us waiting while she fooled around a brier patch with oldBlinky, who would just as lief have been in one place as another, so itwas out of doors; and even when she reached the house she would stillcarry on about it, worrying us by telling over again just how the boughsand leaves looked massed against the old gray fence, which she could dotill you could see them precisely as they were. She was very aggravatingin this way. Sometimes she would even take a pencil or pen and a sheetof paper for old Blinky, and reproduce it. She could not draw, ofcourse, for she was not a painter; all she could do was to make anythinglook almost just like it was. 

There was one thing about her which excited much talk; I suppose it wasonly a piece of old-maidism. Of course she was religious. She was reallyvery good. She was considered very high church. I do not think, frommy recollection of her, that she really was, or, indeed, that she couldhave been; but she used to talk that way, and it was said that she was. In fact, it used to be whispered that she was in danger of becoming aCatholic. I believe she had an aunt that was one, and she had visitedseveral times in Norfolk and Baltimore, where it was said there were agood many. I remember she used to defend them, and say she knew a greatmany very devout ones. And she admitted that she sometimes went to theCatholic church, and found it devotional; the choral service, she said, satisfied something in her soul. It happened to be in the evening thatshe was talking about this. She sat down at the piano, and played someof the Gregorian chants she had heard, and it had a soothing influenceon everyone. Even Joe, the fidgetiest of all, sat quite still throughit. She said that some one had said it was the music that the angelssing in heaven around the great white throne, and there was no othersacred music like it. But she played another thing that evening whichshe said was worthy to be played with it. It had some chords in it thatI remembered long afterward. Years afterward I heard it played the sameway in the twilight by one who is a blessed saint in heaven, and may beplaying it there now. It was from Chopin. She even said that evening, under the impulse of her enthusiasm, that she did not see, except thatit might be abused, why the crucifix should not be retained by allChristian churches, as it enabled some persons not gifted with strongimaginations to have a more vivid realization of the crucified Saviour. This, of course, was going too far, and it created considerableexcitement in the family, and led to some very serious talk being givenher, in which the second commandment figured largely. It was consideredas carrying old-maidism to an extreme length. For some time afterwardshe was rather discountenanced. In reality, I think what some said wastrue: it was simply that she was emotional, as old maids are apt to be. She once said that many women have the nun's instinct largely developed, and sigh for the peace of the cloister. 

She seemed to be very fond of artists. She had the queerest tastes, andhad, or had had when she was young, one or two friends who, I believe, claimed to be something of that kind; she used to talk about them to oldBlinky. But it seemed to us from what she said that artists never didany work; just spent their time lounging around, doing nothing, anddaubing paint on their canvas with brushes like a painter, or chisellingand chopping rocks like a mason. One of these friends of hers was ayoung man from Norfolk who had made a good many things. He was killedor died in the war; so he had not been quite ruined; was worth somethinganyhow as a soldier. One of his things was a Psyche, and Cousin Fannyused to talk a good deal about it; she said it was fine, was a work ofgenius. She had even written some verses about it. She repeated them tome once, and I wrote them down. Here they are:

 To Galt's Psyche. 

 Well art thou called the soul; For as I gaze on thee, My spirit, past control, Springs up in ecstasy. 

 Thou canst not be dead stone; For o'er thy lovely face, Softer than music's tone, I see the spirit's grace. 

 The wild aeolian lyre Is but a silken string, Till summer winds inspire, And softest music bring. 

 Psyche, thou wast but stone Till his inspiring came: The sculptor's hand alone Made not that soul-touched frame. 

They have lain by me for years, and are pretty good for one who didn'twrite. I think, however, she was young when she addressed them to the"soul-touched" work of the young sculptor, who laid his genius andeverything at Virginia's feet. They were friends, I believe, when shewas a girl, before she caught that cold, and her eyes got bad. 

Among her eccentricities was her absurd cowardice. She was afraid ofcows, afraid of horses, afraid even of sheep. And bugs, and anythingthat crawled, used to give her a fit. If we drove her anywhere, and thehorses cut up the least bit, she would jump out and walk, even in themud; and I remember once seeing her cross the yard, where a youngcow that had a calf asleep in the weeds, over in a corner beyondher, started toward it at a little trot with a whimper of motherlysolicitude. Cousin Fanny took it into her head that the cow was comingat her, and just screamed, and sat down flat on the ground, carrying onas if she were a baby. Of course, we boys used to tease her, and tellher the cows were coming after her. You could not help teasing anybodylike that. 

I do not see how she managed to do what she did when the enemy gotto Woodside in the war. That was quite remarkable, considering what acoward she was. During 1864 the Yankees on a raid got to her houseone evening in the summer. As it happened, a young soldier, one of hercousins (she had no end of cousins), had got a leave of absence, and hadcome there sick with fever just the day before (the house was alwaysa sort of hospital). He was in the boys' room in bed when the Yankeesarrived, and they were all around the house before she knew it. She wentdownstairs to meet them. They had been informed by one of the negroesthat Cousin Charlie was there, and they told her that they wanted him. She told them they could not get him. They asked her, "Why? Is he notthere?" (I heard her tell of it once. ) She said:

"You know, I thought when I told them they could not get him that theywould go away, but when they asked me if he was not there, of course Icould not tell them a story; so I said I declined to answer impertinentquestions. You know poor Charlie was at that moment lying curled upunder the bed in the boys' room with a roll of carpet a foot thickaround him, and it was as hot as an oven. Well, they insisted on goingthrough the house, and I let them go all through the lower stories; butwhen they started up the staircase I was ready for them. I had alwayskept, you know, one of papa's old horse-pistols as a protection. Ofcourse, it was not loaded. I would not have had it loaded for anythingin the world. I always kept it safely locked up, and I was dreadfullyafraid of it even then. But you have no idea what a moral support itgave me, and I used to unlock the drawer every afternoon to see if itwas still there all right, and then lock it again, and put the key awaycarefully. Well, as it happened, I had just been looking at it--which Icalled 'inspecting my garrison'. I used to feel just like Lady Margaretin Tillietudlam Castle. Well, I had just been looking at it thatafternoon when I heard the Yankees were coming, and by a suddeninspiration--I cannot tell for my life how I did it--I seized thepistol, and hid it under my apron. I held on to it with both hands, Iwas so afraid of it, and all the time those wretches were going throughthe rooms down-stairs I was quaking with terror. But when they startedup the stairs I had a new feeling. I knew they were bound to get poorCharlie if he had not melted and run away, --no, he would never have runaway; I mean evaporated, --and I suddenly ran up the stairway a few stepsbefore them, and, hauling out my big pistol, pointed it at them, andtold them that if they came one step higher I would certainly pull thetrigger. I could not say I would shoot, for it was not loaded. Well, do you know, they stopped! They stopped dead still. I declare I was soafraid the old pistol would go off, though, of course, I knew it was notloaded, that I was just quaking. But as soon as they stopped, I beganto attack. I remembered my old grandmother and her scissors, and, likeGeneral Jackson, I followed up my advantage. I descended the steps, brandishing my pistol with both hands, and abusing them with all mymight. I was so afraid they might ask if it was loaded. But they reallythought I would shoot them (you know men have not liked to be slain bya woman since the time of Abimelech), and they actually ran down thesteps, with me after them, and I got them all out of the house. Then Ilocked the door and barred it, and ran up-stairs and had such a cry overCharlie. [That was like an old maid. ] Afterwards they were going to burnthe house, but I got hold of their colonel, who was not there at first, and made him really ashamed of himself; for I told him we were nothingbut a lot of poor defenceless women and a sick boy. He said he thoughtI was right well defended, as I had held a company at bay. He finallypromised that if I would give him some music he would not go up-stairs. So I paid that for my ransom, and a bitter ransom it was too, I can tellyou, singing for a Yankee! But I gave him a dose of Confederate songs, Ipromise you. He asked me to sing the 'Star Spangled Banner'; but I toldhim I would not do it if he burnt the house down with me in it--thoughit was inspired by my cousin, Armistead. Then he asked me to sing 'Home, Sweet Home', and I did that, and he actually had tears in his eyes--thehypocrite! He had very fine eyes, too. I think I did sing it well, though. I cried a little myself, thinking of the old house being sonearly burnt. There was a young doctor there, a surgeon, a reallynice-looking fellow for a Yankee; I made him feel ashamed of himself, Itell you. I told him I had no doubt he had a good mother and sister upat home, and to think of his coming and warring on poor women. And theyreally placed a guard over the house for me while they were there. "

This she actually did. With her old empty horse-pistol she cleared thehouse of the mob, and then vowed that if they burned the house she wouldburn up in it, and finally saved it by singing "Home, Sweet Home", forthe colonel. She could not have done much better even if she had notbeen an old maid. 

I did not see much of her after I grew up. I moved away from the oldcounty. Most others did the same. It had been desolated by the war, andgot poorer and poorer. With an old maid's usual crankiness and inabilityto adapt herself to the order of things, Cousin Fanny remained behind. She refused to come away; said, I believe, she had to look after the oldplace, mammy, and Fash, or some such nonsense. I think she had some ideathat the church would go down, or that the poor people around would missher, or something equally unpractical. Anyhow, she stayed behind, andlived for quite awhile the last of her connection in the county. Ofcourse all did the best they could for her, and had she gone to livearound with her relatives, as they wished her to do, they would haveborne with her and supported her. But she said no; that a single womanought never to live in any house but her father's or her own; and wecould not do anything with her. She was so proud she would not takemoney as a gift from anyone, not even from her nearest relatives. 

Her health got rather poor--not unnaturally, considering the way shedivided her time between doctoring herself and fussing after sick peoplein all sorts of weather. With the fancifulness of her kind, she finallytook it into her head that she must consult a doctor in New York. Ofcourse, no one but an old maid would have done this; the home doctorswere good enough for everyone else. Nothing would do, however, but shemust go to New York; so, against the advice of everyone, she wrote toa cousin who was living there to meet her, and with her old wraps, andcap, and bags, and bundles, and stick, and umbrella, she started. Thelady met her; that is, went to meet her, but failed to find her at thestation, and supposing that she had not come, or had taken some otherrailroad, which she was likely to do, returned home, to find her in bed, with her "things" piled up on the floor. Some gentleman had come acrossher in Washington, holding the right train while she insisted on takingthe wrong route, and had taken compassion on her, and not only escortedher to New York, but had taken her and all her parcels and brought herto her destination, where she had at once retired. 

"He was a most charming man, my dear, " she said to her cousin, who toldme of it afterward in narrating her eccentricities; "and to think of it, I don't believe I had looked in a glass all day, and when I got here, my cap had somehow got twisted around and was perched right over my leftear, making me look a perfect fright. He told me his name, but I haveforgotten it, of course. But he was such a gentleman, and to think ofhis being a Yankee! I told him I hated all Yankees, and he just laughed, and did not mind my stick, nor old umbrella, nor bundles a bit. You'dhave thought my old cap was a Parisian bonnet. I will not believe he wasa Yankee. "

Well, she went to see the doctor, the most celebrated in New York--atthe infirmary, of course, for she was too poor to go to his office; oneconsultation would have taken every cent she had--her cousin went withher, and told me of it. She said that when she came downstairs to go shenever saw such a sight. On her head she had her blue cap, and her greenshade and her veil, and her shawl; and she had the old umbrella and longstick, which she had brought from the country, and a large pillow underher arm, because she "knew she was going to faint. " So they started out, but it was a slow procession. The noise and bustle of the street dazedher, her cousin fancied, and every now and then she would clutch hercompanion and declare she must go back or she should faint. At everystreet-crossing she insisted upon having a policeman to help her over, or, in default of that, she would stop some man and ask him to escorther across, which, of course, he would do, thinking her crazy. 

Finally they reached the infirmary, where there were already a largenumber of patients, and many more came in afterwards. Here she shortlyestablished an acquaintance with several strangers. She had to wait anhour or more for her turn, and then insisted that several who had comein after her should go in before her, because she said the poor thingslooked so tired. This would have gone on indefinitely, her cousin said, if she had not finally dragged her into the doctor's room. There thefirst thing that she did was to insist that she must lie down, shewas so faint, and her pillow was brought into requisition. The doctorhumored her, and waited on her. Her friend started to tell him abouther, but the doctor said, "I prefer to have her tell me herself. " Shepresently began to tell, the doctor sitting quietly by listening andseeming to be much interested. He gave her some prescription, and toldher to come again next day, and when she went he sent for her aheadof her turn, and after that made her come to his office at his privatehouse, instead of to the infirmary, as at first. He turned out to be thesurgeon who had been at her house with the Yankees during the war. Hewas very kind to her. I suppose he had never seen anyone like her. She used to go every day, and soon dispensed with her friend's escort, finding no difficulty in getting about. Indeed, she came to be known onthe streets she passed through, and on the cars she travelled by, andpeople guided her. Several times as she was taking the wrong car menstopped her, and said to her, "Madam, yours is the red car. " She said, sure enough it was, but she never could divine how they knew. Sheaddressed the conductors as, "My dear sir", and made them help her notonly off, but quite to the sidewalk, when she thanked them, andsaid "Good-by", as if she had been at home. She said she did this onprinciple, for it was such a good thing to teach them to help a feeblewoman. Next time they would expect to do it, and after a while it wouldbecome a habit. She said no one knew what terror women had of being runover and trampled on. 

She was, as I have said, an awful coward. She used to stand still on theedge of the street and look up and down both ways ever so long, then goout in the street and stand still, look both ways and then run back; oras like as not start on and turn and run back after she was more thanhalf way across, and so get into real danger. One day, as she waspassing along, a driver had in his cart an old bag-of-bones of a horse, which he was beating to make him pull up the hill, and Cousin Fanny, with an old maid's meddlesomeness, pushed out into the street and caughthold of him and made him stop, which of course collected a crowd, andjust as she was coming back a little cart came rattling along, andthough she was in no earthly danger, she ran so to get out of the way ofthe horse that she tripped and fell down in the street and hurt herself. So much for cowardice. 

The doctor finally told her that she had nothing the matter with her, except something with her nerves and, I believe, her spine, and that shewanted company (you see she was a good deal alone). He said it was thefirst law of health ever laid down, that it was not good for man tobe alone; that loneliness is a specific disease. He said she wantedoccupation, some sort of work to interest her, and make her forget heraches and ailments. He suggested missionary work of some kind. Thiswas one of the worst things he could have told her, for there was nomissionary work to be had where she lived. Besides, she could not havedone missionary work; she had never done anything in her life; she wasalways wasting her time pottering about the country on her old horse, seeing sick old darkies or poor people in the pines. No matter how badthe weather was, nor how deep the roads, she would go prowling aroundto see some old "aunty" or "uncle", in their out-of-the-way cabins, or somebody's sick child. I have met her on old Fashion in the rain, toiling along in roads that were knee-deep, to get the doctor to cometo see some sick person, or to get a dose of physic from the depot. Howcould she have done any missionary work?

I believe she repaid the doctor for his care of her by sending him acharity patient to look after--Scroggs's eldest girl, who was bedriddenor something. Cousin Fanny had a fancy that she was musical. I neverknew how it was arranged. I think the doctor sent the money down to havethe child brought on to New York for him to see. I suppose Cousin Fannyturned beggar, and asked him. I know she told him the child was thedaughter of "a friend" of hers (a curious sort of friend Scroggs was, adrunken creature, who had done everything he could to pain her), andshe took a great deal of trouble to get her to the train, lending oldFashion to haul her, which was a great deal more than lending herself;and the doctor treated her in New York for three months without anycharge, till, I believe, the child got better. Old maids do not mindgiving people trouble. 

She hung on at the old place as long as she could, but it had to besold, and finally she had to leave it; though, I believe, even after itwas sold she tried boarding for a while with Scroggs, the former tenant, who had bought it. He treated her so badly that finally she had toleave, and boarded around. I believe the real cause was she caught himploughing with old Fashion. 

After that I do not know exactly what she did. I heard that though theparish was vacant she had a Sunday-school at the old church, and sokept the church open; and that she used to play the wheezy old organ andteach the poor children the chants; but as they grew up they all joinedanother Church; they had a new organ there. I do not know just how shegot on. I was surprised to hear finally that she was dead--had been deadsince Christmas. It had never occurred to me that she would die. She hadbeen dying so long that I had almost come to regard her as immortal, andas a necessary part of the old county and its associations. 

I fell in some time afterwards with a young doctor from the old county, who, I found, had attended her, and I made some inquiries about her. Hetold me that she died Christmas night. She came to his house on her oldmare, in the rain and snow the night before, to get him to go to seesomeone, some "friend" of hers who was sick. He said she had more sickfriends than anyone he ever knew; he told her that he was sick himselfand could not go; but she was so importunate that he promised to gonext morning (she was always very worrying). He said she was wet andshivering then (she never had any idea about really protecting herself), and that she appeared to have a wretched cold. She had been riding allday seeing about a Christmas-tree for the poor children. He urged her tostop and spend the night, but she insisted that she must go on, thoughit was nearly dark and raining hard, and the roads would have mireda cat (she was always self-willed). Next day he went to see the sickwoman, and when he arrived he found her in one bed and Cousin Fanny inanother, in the same room. When he had examined the patient, he turnedand asked Cousin Fanny what was the matter with her. "Oh, just alittle cold, a little trouble in the chest, as Theodore Hook said, " shereplied. "But I know how to doctor myself. " Something about her voicestruck him. He went over to her and looked at her, and found hersuffering from acute pneumonia. He at once set to work on her. He tookthe other patient up in his arms and carried her into another room, where he told her that Cousin Fanny was a desperately ill woman. "Shewas actually dying then, sir, " he said to me, "and she died that night. When she arrived at the place the night before, which was not untilafter nine o'clock, she had gone to the stable herself to put up her oldmare, or rather to see that she was fed--she always did that--so whenshe got into the house she was wet and chilled through, and she had togo to bed. She must have had on wet clothes, " he said. 

I asked him if she knew she was going to die. He said he did not thinkshe did; that he did not tell her, and she talked about nothing excepther Christmas-tree and the people she wanted to see. He heard herpraying in the night, "and, by the way, " he said, "she mentioned you. She shortly became rather delirious, and wandered a good deal, talkingof things that must have happened when she was young; spoke of goingto see her mother somewhere. The last thing she ever said was somethingabout fashion, which, " he said, "showed how ingrained is vanity in thefemale mind. " The doctor knows something of human nature. He concludedwhat he had to say with, "She was in some respects a very remarkablewoman--if she had not been an old maid. I do not suppose that she everdrew a well breath in her life. Not that I think old maids cannot bevery acceptable women, " he apologized. "They are sometimes very useful. "The doctor was a rather enlightened man. 

Some of her relatives got there in time for the funeral, and a goodmany of the poor people came; and she was carried in a little old springwagon, drawn by Fashion, through the snow, to the old home place, whereScroggs very kindly let them dig the grave, and was buried there in theold graveyard in the garden, in a vacant space just beside her mother, with the children around her. I really miss her a great deal. The otherboys say they do the same. I suppose it is the trouble she used to giveus. 

The old set are all doing well. Doug is a professor. He says the word"spinster" gave him a twist to philology. Old Blinky is in Paris. He hada picture in the salon last year, an autumn landscape, called "Le Cotedu Bois". I believe the translation of that is "The Woodside". Hiscoloring is said to be nature itself. To think of old Blinky being agreat artist! Little Kitty is now a big girl, and is doing finely atschool. I have told her she must not be an old maid. Joe is a preacherwith a church in the purlieus of a large city. I was there not longago. He had a choral service. The Gregorian music carried me back to oldtimes. He preached on the text, "I was sick, and ye visited me. " It wassuch a fine sermon, and he had such a large congregation, that I askedwhy he did not go to a finer church. He said he was "carrying soup toMrs. Ronquist. " By the way, his organist was a splendid musician. Sheintroduced herself to me. It was Scroggs's daughter. She is married, andcan walk as well as I can. She had a little girl with her that I thinkshe called "Fanny". I do not think that was Mrs. Scroggs's name. Frankis now a doctor, or rather a surgeon, in the same city with Joe, and becoming very distinguished. The other day he performed a greatoperation, saving a woman's life, which was in all the papers. He saidto an interviewer that he became a surgeon from dressing a sore on anold mare's back. I wonder what he was talking about? He is about tostart a woman's hospital for poor women. Cousin Fanny would have beenglad of that; she was always proud of Frank. She would as likely as nothave quoted that verse from Tennyson's song about the echoes. She sleepsnow under the myrtle at Scroggs's. I have often thought of what thatdoctor said about her: that she would have been a very remarkable woman, if she had not been an old maid--I mean, a spinster. 

THE BURIAL OF THE GUNS

Lee surrendered the remnant of his army at Appomattox, April 9, 1865, and yet a couple of days later the old Colonel's battery lay intrenchedright in the mountain-pass where it had halted three days before. Twoweeks previously it had been detailed with a light division sent to meetand repel a force which it was understood was coming in by way ofthe southwest valley to strike Lee in the rear of his long line fromRichmond to Petersburg. It had done its work. The mountain-pass hadbeen seized and held, and the Federal force had not gotten by thatroad within the blue rampart which guarded on that side the heart ofVirginia. This pass, which was the key to the main line of passage overthe mountains, had been assigned by the commander of the division tothe old Colonel and his old battery, and they had held it. The positiontaken by the battery had been chosen with a soldier's eye. A betterplace could not have been selected to hold the pass. It was its highestpoint, just where the road crawled over the shoulder of the mountainalong the limestone cliff, a hundred feet sheer above the deep river, where its waters had cut their way in ages past, and now lay deep andsilent, as if resting after their arduous toil before they began to boilover the great bowlders which filled the bed a hundred or more yardsbelow. 

The little plateau at the top guarded the descending road on either sidefor nearly a mile, and the mountain on the other side of the river wasthe centre of a clump of rocky, heavily timbered spurs, so inaccessiblethat no feet but those of wild animals or of the hardiest hunter hadever climbed it. On the side of the river on which the road lay, the only path out over the mountain except the road itself was acharcoal-burner's track, dwindling at times to a footway known only tothe mountain-folk, which a picket at the top could hold against an army. The position, well defended, was impregnable, and it was well defended. This the general of the division knew when he detailed the old Coloneland gave him his order to hold the pass until relieved, and not let hisguns fall into the hands of the enemy. He knew both the Colonel and hisbattery. The battery was one of the oldest in the army. It had been inthe service since April, 1861, and its commander had come to be known as"The Wheel Horse of his division". He was, perhaps, the oldest officerof his rank in his branch of the service. Although he had bitterlyopposed secession, and was many years past the age of service when thewar came on, yet as soon as the President called on the State for herquota of troops to coerce South Carolina, he had raised and uniformedan artillery company, and offered it, not to the President of the UnitedStates, but to the Governor of Virginia. 

It is just at this point that he suddenly looms up to me as a soldier;the relation he never wholly lost to me afterward, though I knew himfor many, many years of peace. His gray coat with the red facing and thebars on the collar; his military cap; his gray flannel shirt--it was thefirst time I ever saw him wear anything but immaculate linen--his highboots; his horse caparisoned with a black, high-peaked saddle, withcrupper and breast-girth, instead of the light English hunting-saddleto which I had been accustomed, all come before me now as if it were butthe other day. I remember but little beyond it, yet I remember, as ifit were yesterday, his leaving home, and the scenes which immediatelypreceded it; the excitement created by the news of the President's callfor troops; the unanimous judgment that it meant war; the immediatedetermination of the old Colonel, who had hitherto opposed secession, that it must be met; the suppressed agitation on the plantation, attendant upon the tender of his services and the Governor's acceptanceof them. The prompt and continuous work incident to the enlistment ofthe men, the bustle of preparation, and all the scenes of that time, come before me now. It turned the calm current of the life of an old andplacid country neighborhood, far from any city or centre, and stirred itinto a boiling torrent, strong enough, or fierce enough to cut itsway and join the general torrent which was bearing down and sweepingeverything before it. It seemed but a minute before the quiet oldplantation, in which the harvest, the corn-shucking, and the Christmasholidays alone marked the passage of the quiet seasons, and where astrange carriage or a single horseman coming down the big road wasan event in life, was turned into a depot of war-supplies, and theneighborhood became a parade-ground. The old Colonel, not a colonel yet, nor even a captain, except by brevet, was on his horse by daybreak andoff on his rounds through the plantations and the pines enlisting hiscompany. The office in the yard, heretofore one in name only, became onenow in reality, and a table was set out piled with papers, pens, ink, books of tactics and regulation, at which men were accepted andenrolled. Soldiers seemed to spring from the ground, as they did fromthe sowing of the dragon's teeth in the days of Cadmus. Men came up thehigh road or down the paths across the fields, sometimes singly, butoftener in little parties of two or three, and, asking for the Captain, entered the office as private citizens and came out soldiers enlistedfor the war. There was nothing heard of on the plantation exceptfighting; white and black, all were at work, and all were eager; theservants contended for the honor of going with their master; the womenflocked to the house to assist in the work of preparation, cuttingout and making under-clothes, knitting socks, picking lint, preparingbandages, and sewing on uniforms; for many of the men who had enlistedwere of the poorest class, far too poor to furnish anything themselves, and their equipment had to be contributed mainly by wealthier neighbors. The work was carried on at night as well as by day, for the occasionwas urgent. Meantime the men were being drilled by the Captain and hislieutenants, who had been militia officers of old. We were carried tosee the drill at the cross-roads, and a brave sight it seemed to us:the lines marching and countermarching in the field, with the horsesgalloping as they wheeled amid clouds of dust, at the hoarse commandsof the excited officers, and the roadside lined with spectators of everyage and condition. I recall the arrival of the messenger one night, withthe telegraphic order to the Captain to report with his company at "CampLee" immediately; the hush in the parlor that attended its reading;then the forced beginning of the conversation afterwards in a somewhatstrained and unnatural key, and the Captain's quick and decisiveoutlining of his plans. 

Within the hour a dozen messengers were on their way in variousdirections to notify the members of the command of the summons, and todeliver the order for their attendance at a given point next day. It seemed that a sudden and great change had come. It was the actualappearance of what had hitherto only been theoretical--war. The nextmorning the Captain, in full uniform, took leave of the assembledplantation, with a few solemn words commending all he left behind toGod, and galloped away up the big road to join and lead his battery tothe war, and to be gone just four years. 

Within a month he was on "the Peninsula" with Magruder, guardingVirginia on the east against the first attack. His camp was first atYorktown and then on Jamestown Island, the honor having been assignedhis battery of guarding the oldest cradle of the race on this continent. It was at "Little Bethel" that his guns were first trained on the enemy, and that the battery first saw what they had to do, and from this timeuntil the middle of April, 1865, they were in service, and no batterysaw more service or suffered more in it. Its story was a part ofthe story of the Southern Army in Virginia. The Captain was a rigiddisciplinarian, and his company had more work to do than most newcompanies. A pious churchman, of the old puritanical type not uncommonto Virginia, he looked after the spiritual as well as the physicalwelfare of his men, and his chaplain or he read prayers at the head ofhis company every morning during the war. At first he was not popularwith the men, he made the duties of camp life so onerous to them, it was"nothing but drilling and praying all the time, " they said. But he hadnot commanded very long before they came to know the stuff that was inhim. He had not been in service a year before he had had four horsesshot under him, and when later on he was offered the command of abattalion, the old company petitioned to be one of his batteries, andstill remained under his command. Before the first year was out thebattery had, through its own elements, and the discipline of theCaptain, become a cohesive force, and a distinct integer in the Armyof Northern Virginia. Young farmer recruits knew of its prestige andexpressed preference for it of many batteries of rapidly growing orgrown reputation. Owing to its high stand, the old and clumsy guns withwhich it had started out were taken from it, and in their place waspresented a battery of four fine, brass, twelve-pound Napoleons ofthe newest and most approved kind, and two three-inch Parrotts, allcaptured. The men were as pleased with them as children with new toys. The care and attention needed to keep them in prime order broke themonotony of camp life. They soon had abundant opportunities totest their power. They worked admirably, carried far, and wereextraordinarily accurate in their aim. The men from admiration of theirguns grew to have first a pride in, and then an affection for, them, andgave them nicknames as they did their comrades; the four Napoleons beingdubbed "The Evangelists", and the two rifles being "The Eagle", becauseof its scream and force, and "The Cat", because when it became hot fromrapid firing "It jumped, " they said, "like a cat. " From many a hill-topin Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania "The Evangelists" spoke theirhoarse message of battle and death, "The Eagle" screamed her terriblenote, and "The Cat" jumped as she spat her deadly shot from her hotthroat. In the Valley of Virginia; on the levels of Henrico and Hanover;on the slopes of Manassas; in the woods of Chancellorsville; onthe heights of Fredericksburg; at Antietam and Gettysburg; in theSpottsylvania wilderness, and again on the Hanover levels and on thelines before Petersburg, the old guns through nearly four years roaredfrom fiery throats their deadly messages. The history of the battery wasbound up with the history of Lee's army. A rivalry sprang up amongthe detachments of the different guns, and their several records werejealously kept. The number of duels each gun was in was carefullycounted, every scar got in battle was treasured, and the men aroundtheir camp-fires, at their scanty messes, or on the march, braggedof them among themselves and avouched them as witnesses. New recruitscoming in to fill the gaps made by the killed and disabled, readily fellin with the common mood and caught the spirit like a contagion. It wasnot an uncommon thing for a wheel to be smashed in by a shell, but if ithappened to one gun oftener than to another there was envy. Two of theEvangelists seemed to be especially favored in this line, while the Catwas so exempt as to become the subject of some derision. The men stoodby the guns till they were knocked to pieces, and when the fortune ofthe day went against them, had with their own hands oftener than oncesaved them after most of their horses were killed. 

This had happened in turn to every gun, the men at times working likebeavers in mud up to their thighs and under a murderous fire to gettheir guns out. Many a man had been killed tugging at trail or wheelwhen the day was against them; but not a gun had ever been lost. At lastthe evil day arrived. At Winchester a sudden and impetuous charge fora while swept everything before it, and carried the knoll where the oldbattery was posted; but all the guns were got out by the toiling andrapidly dropping men, except the Cat, which was captured with its entiredetachment working at it until they were surrounded and knocked from thepiece by cavalrymen. Most of the men who were not killed were retakenbefore the day was over, with many guns; but the Cat was lost. Sheremained in the enemy's hands and probably was being turned againsther old comrades and lovers. The company was inconsolable. The death ofcomrades was too natural and common a thing to depress the men beyondwhat such occurrences necessarily did; but to lose a gun! It was likelosing the old Colonel; it was worse: a gun was ranked as a brigadier;and the Cat was equal to a major-general. The other guns seemed lostwithout her; the Eagle especially, which generally went next to her, appeared to the men to have a lonely and subdued air. The battery wasno longer the same: it seemed broken and depleted, shrunken to a meresection. It was worse than Cold Harbor, where over half the men werekilled or wounded. The old Captain, now Colonel of the battalion, appreciated the loss and apprehended its effect on the men as much asthey themselves did, and application was made for a gun to take theplace of the lost piece; but there was none to be had, as the mensaid they had known all along. It was added--perhaps by a departmentclerk--that if they wanted a gun to take the place of the one they hadlost, they had better capture it. "By----, we will, " they said--addingepithets, intended for the department clerk in his "bomb-proof", notto be printed in this record--and they did. For some time afterwards inevery engagement into which they got there used to be speculation amongthem as to whether the Cat were not there on the other side; some ofthe men swearing they could tell her report, and even going to the rashlength of offering bets on her presence. 

By one of those curious coincidences, as strange as anything in fiction, a new general had, in 1864, come down across the Rapidan to takeRichmond, and the old battery had found a hill-top in the line in whichLee's army lay stretched across "the Wilderness" country to stop him. The day, though early in May, was a hot one, and the old battery, likemost others, had suffered fearfully. Two of the guns had had wheels cutdown by shells and the men had been badly cut up; but the fortune of theday had been with Lee, and a little before nightfall, after a terriblefight, there was a rapid advance, Lee's infantry sweeping everythingbefore it, and the artillery, after opening the way for the charge, pushing along with it; now unlimbering as some vantage-ground wasgained, and using canister with deadly effect; now driving ahead againso rapidly that it was mixed up with the muskets when the long lineof breastworks was carried with a rush, and a line of guns were caughtstill hot from their rapid work. As the old battery, with latheredhorses and smoke-grimed men, swung up the crest and unlimbered on thecaptured breastwork, a cheer went up which was heard even above the longgeneral yell of the advancing line, and for a moment half the men in thebattery crowded together around some object on the edge of the redoubt, yelling like madmen. The next instant they divided, and there was theCat, smoke-grimed and blood-stained and still sweating hot from her lastfire, being dragged from her muddy ditch by as many men as could gethold of trail-rope or wheel, and rushed into her old place beside theEagle, in time to be double-shotted with canister to the muzzle, andto pour it from among her old comrades into her now retiring formermasters. Still, she had a new carriage, and her record was lost, whilethose of the other guns had been faithfully kept by the men. This made adifference in her position for which even the bullets in her wheelsdid not wholly atone; even Harris, the sergeant of her detachment, feltthat. 

It was only a few days later, however, that abundant atonement wasmade. The new general did not retire across the Rapidan after his firstdefeat, and a new battle had to be fought: a battle, if anything, morefurious, more terrible than the first, when the dead filled the trenchesand covered the fields. He simply marched by the left flank, and Leemarching by the right flank to head him, flung himself upon him againat Spottsylvania Court-House. That day the Cat, standing in her placebehind the new and temporary breastwork thrown up when the battery wasposted, had the felloes of her wheels, which showed above the top of thebank, entirely cut away by Minie-bullets, so that when she jumped in therecoil her wheels smashed and let her down. This covered all old scores. The other guns had been cut down by shells or solid shot; but neverbefore had one been gnawed down by musket-balls. From this time allthrough the campaign the Cat held her own beside her brazen and bloodysisters, and in the cold trenches before Petersburg that winter, whenthe new general--Starvation--had joined the one already there, she madeher bloody mark as often as any gun on the long lines. 

Thus the old battery had come to be known, as its old commander, nowcolonel of a battalion, had come to be known by those in yet highercommand. And when in the opening spring of 1865 it became apparent tothe leaders of both armies that the long line could not longer be heldif a force should enter behind it, and, sweeping the one partiallyunswept portion of Virginia, cut the railways in the southwest, and aman was wanted to command the artillery in the expedition sent to meetthis force, it was not remarkable that the old Colonel and his battalionshould be selected for the work. The force sent out was but small; forthe long line was worn to a thin one in those days, and great changeswere taking place, the consequences of which were known only to thecommanders. In a few days the commander of the expedition found thathe must divide his small force for a time, at least, to accomplish hispurpose, and sending the old Colonel with one battery of artillery toguard one pass, must push on over the mountain by another way to meetthe expected force, if possible, and repel it before it crossed thefarther range. Thus the old battery, on an April evening of 1865, founditself toiling alone up the steep mountain road which leads above theriver to the gap, which formed the chief pass in that part of the BlueRidge. Both men and horses looked, in the dim and waning light of thegray April day, rather like shadows of the beings they represented thanthe actual beings themselves. And anyone seeing them as they toiledpainfully up, the thin horses floundering in the mud, and the men, oftenup to their knees, tugging at the sinking wheels, now stopping to rest, and always moving so slowly that they seemed scarcely to advance at all, might have thought them the ghosts of some old battery lost from somelong gone and forgotten war on that deep and desolate mountain road. Often, when they stopped, the blowing of the horses and the murmuringof the river in its bed below were the only sounds heard, and the tiredvoices of the men when they spoke among themselves seemed hardly morearticulate sounds than they. Then the voice of the mounted figure on theroan horse half hidden in the mist would cut in, clear and inspiring, ina tone of encouragement more than of command, and everything would wakeup: the drivers would shout and crack their whips; the horses would bendthemselves on the collars and flounder in the mud; the men would springonce more to the mud-clogged wheels, and the slow ascent would beginagain. 

The orders to the Colonel, as has been said, were brief: To hold thepass until he received further instructions, and not to lose his guns. To be ordered, with him, was to obey. The last streak of twilightbrought them to the top of the pass; his soldier's instinct and a briefrecognizance made earlier in the day told him that this was his place, and before daybreak next morning the point was as well fortified as anight's work by weary and supperless men could make it. A prettier spotcould not have been found for the purpose; a small plateau, somethingover an acre in extent, where a charcoal-burner's hut had once stood, lay right at the top of the pass. It was a little higher on eitherside than in the middle, where a small brook, along which thecharcoal-burner's track was yet visible, came down from the woodedmountain above, thus giving a natural crest to aid the fortification oneither side, with open space for the guns, while the edge of the woodcoming down from the mountain afforded shelter for the camp. 

As the battery was unsupported it had to rely on itself for everything, a condition which most soldiers by this time were accustomed to. A dozenor so of rifles were in the camp, and with these pickets were armed andposted. The pass had been seized none too soon; a scout brought in theinformation before nightfall that the invading force had crossed thefarther range before that sent to meet it could get there, and takingthe nearest road had avoided the main body opposing it, and been metonly by a rapidly moving detachment, nothing more than a scouting party, and now were advancing rapidly on the road on which they were posted, evidently meaning to seize the pass and cross the mountain at thispoint. The day was Sunday; a beautiful Spring Sunday; but it wasno Sabbath for the old battery. All day the men worked, making andstrengthening their redoubt to guard the pass, and by the next morning, with the old battery at the top, it was impregnable. They were just intime. Before noon their vedettes brought in word that the enemy wereascending the mountain, and the sun had hardly turned when the advanceguard rode up, came within range of the picket, and were fired on. 

It was apparent that they supposed the force there only a small one, forthey retired and soon came up again reinforced in some numbers, anda sharp little skirmish ensued, hot enough to make them more prudentafterwards, though the picket retired up the mountain. This gave themencouragement and probably misled them, for they now advanced boldly. They saw the redoubt on the crest as they came on, and unlimbering asection or two, flung a few shells up at it, which either fell short orpassed over without doing material damage. None of the guns was allowedto respond, as the distance was too great with the ammunition thebattery had, and, indifferent as it was, it was too precious to bewasted in a duel at an ineffectual range. Doubtless deceived by this, the enemy came on in force, being obliged by the character of the groundto keep almost entirely to the road, which really made them advancein column. The battery waited. Under orders of the Colonel the gunsstanding in line were double-shotted with canister, and, loaded to themuzzle, were trained down to sweep the road at from four to five hundredyards' distance. And when the column reached this point the six guns, aimed by old and skilful gunners, at a given word swept road andmountain-side with a storm of leaden hail. It was a fire no mortal mancould stand up against, and the practised gunners rammed their piecesfull again, and before the smoke had cleared or the reverberation haddied away among the mountains, had fired the guns again and yet again. The road was cleared of living things when the draught setting down theriver drew the smoke away; but it was no discredit to the other force;for no army that was ever uniformed could stand against that battery inthat pass. Again and again the attempt was made to get a body of men upunder cover of the woods and rocks on the mountain-side, while the gunsbelow utilized their better ammunition from longer range; but it wasuseless. Although one of the lieutenants and several men were killed inthe skirmish, and a number more were wounded, though not severely, theold battery commanded the mountain-side, and its skilful gunnersswept it at every point the foot of man could scale. The sun went downflinging his last flame on a victorious battery still crowning themountain pass. The dead were buried by night in a corner of the littleplateau, borne to their last bivouac on the old gun-carriages whichthey had stood by so often--which the men said would "sort of ease theirminds. "

The next day the fight was renewed, and with the same result. The oldbattery in its position was unconquerable. Only one fear now faced them;their ammunition was getting as low as their rations; another such dayor half-day would exhaust it. A sergeant was sent back down the mountainto try to get more, or, if not, to get tidings. The next day it wassupposed the fight would be renewed; and the men waited, alert, eager, vigilant, their spirits high, their appetite for victory whetted bysuccess. The men were at their breakfast, or what went for breakfast, scanty at all times, now doubly so, hardly deserving the title of ameal, so poor and small were the portions of cornmeal, cooked in theirfrying-pans, which went for their rations, when the sound of artillerybelow broke on the quiet air. They were on their feet in an instant andat the guns, crowding upon the breastwork to look or to listen; for theroad, as far as could be seen down the mountain, was empty except fortheir own picket, and lay as quiet as if sleeping in the balmy air. Andyet volley after volley of artillery came rolling up the mountain. Whatcould it mean? That the rest of their force had come up and was engagedwith that at the foot of the mountain? The Colonel decided to be readyto go and help them; to fall on the enemy in the rear; perhaps theymight capture the entire force. It seemed the natural thing to do, andthe guns were limbered up in an incredibly short time, and a roadwaymade through the intrenchment, the men working like beavers under theexcitement. Before they had left the redoubt, however, the vedettes sentout returned and reported that there was no engagement going on, and thefiring below seemed to be only practising. There was quite a stir inthe camp below; but they had not even broken camp. This was mysterious. Perhaps it meant that they had received reinforcements, but it was aqueer way of showing it. The old Colonel sighed as he thought of thegood ammunition they could throw away down there, and of his emptylimber-chests. It was necessary to be on the alert, however; the gunswere run back into their old places, and the horses picketed once moreback among the trees. Meantime he sent another messenger back, this timea courier, for he had but one commissioned officer left, and the picketbelow was strengthened. 

The morning passed and no one came; the day wore on and still no advancewas made by the force below. It was suggested that the enemy had left;he had, at least, gotten enough of that battery. A reconnoissance, however, showed that he was still encamped at the foot of the mountain. It was conjectured that he was trying to find a way around to take themin the rear, or to cross the ridge by the footpath. Preparation wasmade to guard more closely the mountain-path across the spur, and adetachment was sent up to strengthen the picket there. The waiting toldon the men and they grew bored and restless. They gathered about theguns in groups and talked; talked of each piece some, but not with theold spirit and vim; the loneliness of the mountain seemed to oppressthem; the mountains stretching up so brown and gray on one side ofthem, and so brown and gray on the other, with their bare, dark forestssoughing from time to time as the wind swept up the pass. The minds ofthe men seemed to go back to the time when they were not so alone, butwere part of a great and busy army, and some of them fell to talking ofthe past, and the battles they had figured in, and of the comrades theyhad lost. They told them off in a slow and colorless way, as if it wereall part of the past as much as the dead they named. One hundred andnineteen times they had been in action. Only seventeen men were left ofthe eighty odd who had first enlisted in the battery, and of these fourwere at home crippled for life. Two of the oldest men had been among thehalf-dozen who had fallen in the skirmish just the day before. Itlooked tolerably hard to be killed that way after passing for fouryears through such battles as they had been in; and both had wives andchildren at home, too, and not a cent to leave them to their names. Theyagreed calmly that they'd have to "sort of look after them a little" ifthey ever got home. These were some of the things they talked aboutas they pulled their old worn coats about them, stuffed their thin, weather-stained hands in their ragged pockets to warm them, and squatteddown under the breastwork to keep a little out of the wind. One thingthey talked about a good deal was something to eat. They describedmeals they had had at one time or another as personal adventures, anddiscussed the chances of securing others in the future as if they wereprizes of fortune. One listening and seeing their thin, worn faces andtheir wasted frames might have supposed they were starving, and theywere, but they did not say so. 

Towards the middle of the afternoon there was a sudden excitement in thecamp. A dozen men saw them at the same time: a squad of three men downthe road at the farthest turn, past their picket; but an advancingcolumn could not have created as much excitement, for the middle mancarried a white flag. In a minute every man in the battery was on thebreastwork. What could it mean! It was a long way off, nearly half amile, and the flag was small: possibly only a pocket-handkerchief ora napkin; but it was held aloft as a flag unmistakably. A hundredconjectures were indulged in. Was it a summons to surrender? A requestfor an armistice for some purpose? Or was it a trick to ascertain theirnumber and position? Some held one view, some another. Some extreme onesthought a shot ought to be fired over them to warn them not to come on;no flags of truce were wanted. The old Colonel, who had walked to theedge of the plateau outside the redoubt and taken his position where hecould study the advancing figures with his field-glass, had not spoken. The lieutenant who was next in command to him had walked out afterhim, and stood near him, from time to time dropping a word or two ofconjecture in a half-audible tone; but the Colonel had not answered aword; perhaps none was expected. Suddenly he took his glass down, andgave an order to the lieutenant: "Take two men and meet them at the turnyonder; learn their business; and act as your best judgment advises. Ifnecessary to bring the messenger farther, bring only the officer who hasthe flag, and halt him at that rock yonder, where I will join him. " Thetone was as placid as if such an occurrence came every day. Two minuteslater the lieutenant was on his way down the mountain and the Colonelhad the men in ranks. His face was as grave and his manner as quiet asusual, neither more nor less so. The men were in a state of suppressedexcitement. Having put them in charge of the second sergeant the Colonelreturned to the breastwork. The two officers were slowly ascending thehill, side by side, the bearer of the flag, now easily distinguishablein his jaunty uniform as a captain of cavalry, talking, and thelieutenant in faded gray, faced with yet more faded red, walking besidehim with a face white even at that distance, and lips shut as thoughthey would never open again. They halted at the big bowlder which theColonel had indicated, and the lieutenant, having saluted ceremoniously, turned to come up to the camp; the Colonel, however, went down to meethim. The two men met, but there was no spoken question; if the Colonelinquired it was only with the eyes. The lieutenant spoke, however. "Hesays, " he began and stopped, then began again--"he says, General Lee--"again he choked, then blurted out, "I believe it is all a lie--a damnedlie. "

"Not dead? Not killed?" said the Colonel, quickly. 

"No, not so bad as that; surrendered: surrendered his entire army atAppomattox day before yesterday. I believe it is all a damned lie, " hebroke out again, as if the hot denial relieved him. The Colonel simplyturned away his face and stepped a pace or two off, and the two menstood motionless back to back for more than a minute. Then the Colonelstirred. 

"Shall I go back with you?" the lieutenant asked, huskily. 

The Colonel did not answer immediately. Then he said: "No, go back tocamp and await my return. " He said nothing about not speaking of thereport. He knew it was not needed. Then he went down the hill slowlyalone, while the lieutenant went up to the camp. 

The interview between the two officers beside the bowlder was not a longone. It consisted of a brief statement by the Federal envoy of the factof Lee's surrender two days before near Appomattox Court-House, with thesources of his information, coupled with a formal demand on the Colonelfor his surrender. To this the Colonel replied that he had been detachedand put under command of another officer for a specific purpose, andthat his orders were to hold that pass, which he should do until he wasinstructed otherwise by his superior in command. With that they parted, ceremoniously, the Federal captain returning to where he had left hishorse in charge of his companions a little below, and the old Colonelcoming slowly up the hill to camp. The men were at once set to work tomeet any attack which might be made. They knew that the message was ofgrave import, but not of how grave. They thought it meant that anotherattack would be made immediately, and they sprang to their work withrenewed vigor, and a zeal as fresh as if it were but the beginning andnot the end. 

The time wore on, however, and there was no demonstration below, thoughhour after hour it was expected and even hoped for. Just as the sunsank into a bed of blue cloud a horseman was seen coming up the darkenedmountain from the eastward side, and in a little while practised eyesreported him one of their own men--the sergeant who had been sent backthe day before for ammunition. He was alone, and had something whitebefore him on his horse--it could not be the ammunition; but perhapsthat might be coming on behind. Every step of his jaded horse wasanxiously watched. As he drew near, the lieutenant, after a word withthe Colonel, walked down to meet him, and there was a short colloquyin the muddy road; then they came back together and slowly entered thecamp, the sergeant handing down a bag of corn which he had got somewherebelow, with the grim remark to his comrades, "There's your rations, " andgoing at once to the Colonel's camp-fire, a little to one side among thetrees, where the Colonel awaited him. A long conference was held, andthen the sergeant left to take his luck with his mess, who were alreadyparching the corn he had brought for their supper, while the lieutenantmade the round of the camp; leaving the Colonel seated alone on a logby his camp-fire. He sat without moving, hardly stirring until thelieutenant returned from his round. A minute later the men were calledfrom the guns and made to fall into line. They were silent, tremulouswith suppressed excitement; the most sun-burned and weather-stained ofthem a little pale; the meanest, raggedest, and most insignificant notunimpressive in the deep and solemn silence with which they stood, theireyes fastened on the Colonel, waiting for him to speak. He stepped outin front of them, slowly ran his eye along the irregular line, up anddown, taking in every man in his glance, resting on some longer thanon others, the older men, then dropped them to the ground, and thensuddenly, as if with an effort, began to speak. His voice had a somewhatmetallic sound, as if it were restrained; but it was otherwise theordinary tone of command. It was not much that he said: simply that ithad become his duty to acquaint them with the information which he hadreceived: that General Lee had surrendered two days before at AppomattoxCourt-House, yielding to overwhelming numbers; that this afternoon whenhe had first heard the report he had questioned its truth, but that ithad been confirmed by one of their own men, and no longer admittedof doubt; that the rest of their own force, it was learned, had beencaptured, or had disbanded, and the enemy was now on both sides of themountain; that a demand had been made on him that morning to surrendertoo; but that he had orders which he felt held good until they werecountermanded, and he had declined. Later intelligence satisfied himthat to attempt to hold out further would be useless, and would involveneedless waste of life; he had determined, therefore, not to attempt tohold their position longer; but to lead them out, if possible, so as toavoid being made prisoners and enable them to reach home sooner andaid their families. His orders were not to let his guns fall into theenemy's hands, and he should take the only step possible to prevent it. In fifty minutes he should call the battery into line once more, androll the guns over the cliff into the river, and immediately afterwards, leaving the wagons there, he would try to lead them across the mountain, and as far as they could go in a body without being liable to capture, and then he should disband them, and his responsibility for them wouldend. As it was necessary to make some preparations he would now dismissthem to prepare any rations they might have and get ready to march. 

All this was in the formal manner of a common order of the day; and theold Colonel had spoken in measured sentences, with little feeling in hisvoice. Not a man in the line had uttered a word after the firstsound, half exclamation, half groan, which had burst from them at theannouncement of Lee's surrender. After that they had stood in theirtracks like rooted trees, as motionless as those on the mountain behindthem, their eyes fixed on their commander, and only the quick heaving upand down the dark line, as of horses over-laboring, told of the emotionwhich was shaking them. The Colonel, as he ended, half-turned to hissubordinate officer at the end of the dim line, as though he were aboutto turn the company over to him to be dismissed; then faced the lineagain, and taking a step nearer, with a sudden movement of his handstowards the men as though he would have stretched them out to them, began again:

"Men, " he said, and his voice changed at the word, and sounded likea father's or a brother's, "My men, I cannot let you go so. We wereneighbors when the war began--many of us, and some not here to-night; wehave been more since then--comrades, brothers in arms; we have allstood for one thing--for Virginia and the South; we have all done ourduty--tried to do our duty; we have fought a good fight, and nowit seems to be over, and we have been overwhelmed by numbers, notwhipped--and we are going home. We have the future before us--we don'tknow just what it will bring, but we can stand a good deal. We haveproved it. Upon us depends the South in the future as in the past. Youhave done your duty in the past, you will not fail in the future. Gohome and be honest, brave, self-sacrificing, God-fearing citizens, as you have been soldiers, and you need not fear for Virginia and theSouth. The war may be over; but you will ever be ready to serve yourcountry. The end may not be as we wanted it, prayed for it, fought forit; but we can trust God; the end in the end will be the best that couldbe; even if the South is not free she will be better and stronger thatshe fought as she did. Go home and bring up your children to love her, and though you may have nothing else to leave them, you can leave themthe heritage that they are sons of men who were in Lee's army. "

He stopped, looked up and down the ranks again, which had instinctivelycrowded together and drawn around him in a half-circle; made a sign tothe lieutenant to take charge, and turned abruptly on his heel to walkaway. But as he did so, the long pent-up emotion burst forth. With awild cheer the men seized him, crowding around and hugging him, aswith protestations, prayers, sobs, oaths--broken, incoherent, inarticulate--they swore to be faithful, to live loyal forever to theSouth, to him, to Lee. Many of them cried like children; others offeredto go down and have one more battle on the plain. The old Colonelsoothed them, and quieted their excitement, and then gave a commandabout the preparations to be made. This called them to order at once;and in a few minutes the camp was as orderly and quiet as usual: thefires were replenished; the scanty stores were being overhauled; theplace was selected, and being got ready to roll the guns over the cliff;the camp was being ransacked for such articles as could be carried, andall preparations were being hastily made for their march. 

The old Colonel having completed his arrangements sat down by hiscamp-fire with paper and pencil, and began to write; and as the menfinished their work they gathered about in groups, at first around theircamp-fires, but shortly strolled over to where the guns still stoodat the breastwork, black and vague in the darkness. Soon they were allassembled about the guns. One after another they visited, closing aroundit and handling it from muzzle to trail as a man might a horse to tryits sinew and bone, or a child to feel its fineness and warmth. Theywere for the most part silent, and when any sound came through the duskfrom them to the officers at their fire, it was murmurous and fitfulas of men speaking low and brokenly. There was no sound of the noisycontroversy which was generally heard, the give-and-take of thecamp-fire, the firing backwards and forwards that went on on the march;if a compliment was paid a gun by one of its special detachment, it wasaccepted by the others; in fact, those who had generally run it down nowseemed most anxious to accord the piece praise. Presently a smallnumber of the men returned to a camp-fire, and, building it up, seatedthemselves about it, gathering closer and closer together until theywere in a little knot. One of them appeared to be writing, while two orthree took up flaming chunks from the fire and held them as torches forhim to see by. In time the entire company assembled about them, standingin respectful silence, broken only occasionally by a reply from one oranother to some question from the scribe. After a little there was asound of a roll-call, and reading and a short colloquy followed, andthen two men, one with a paper in his hand, approached the fire besidewhich the officers sat still engaged. 

"What is it, Harris?" said the Colonel to the man with the paper, whobore remnants of the chevrons of a sergeant on his stained and fadedjacket. 

"If you please, sir, " he said, with a salute, "we have been talking itover, and we'd like this paper to go in along with that you're writing. "He held it out to the lieutenant, who was the nearer and had reachedforward to take it. "We s'pose you're agoin' to bury it with the guns, "he said, hesitatingly, as he handed it over. 

"What is it?" asked the Colonel, shading his eyes with his hands. 

"It's just a little list we made out in and among us, " he said, "witha few things we'd like to put in, so's if anyone ever hauls 'em outthey'll find it there to tell what the old battery was, and if theydon't, it'll be in one of 'em down thar 'til judgment, an' it'll sort ofease our minds a bit. " He stopped and waited as a man who had deliveredhis message. The old Colonel had risen and taken the paper, and now heldit with a firm grasp, as if it might blow away with the rising wind. Hedid not say a word, but his hand shook a little as he proceeded to foldit carefully, and there was a burning gleam in his deep-set eyes, backunder his bushy, gray brows. 

"Will you sort of look over it, sir, if you think it's worth while? Wewas in a sort of hurry and we had to put it down just as we come to it;we didn't have time to pick our ammunition; and it ain't written thebest in the world, nohow. " He waited again, and the Colonel opened thepaper and glanced down at it mechanically. It contained first a roster, headed by the list of six guns, named by name: "Matthew", "Mark", "Luke", and "John", "The Eagle", and "The Cat"; then of the men, beginning with the heading:

 "Those killed". 

Then had followed "Those wounded", but this was marked out. Then came aroster of the company when it first entered service; then of those whohad joined afterward; then of those who were present now. At the endof all there was this statement, not very well written, nor whollyaccurately spelt:

"To Whom it may Concern: We, the above members of the old battery known, etc. , of six guns, named, etc. , commanded by the said Col. Etc. , lefton the 11th day of April, 1865, have made out this roll of the battery, them as is gone and them as is left, to bury with the guns which thesame we bury this night. We're all volunteers, every man; we joined thearmy at the beginning of the war, and we've stuck through to the end;sometimes we aint had much to eat, and sometimes we aint had nothin', but we've fought the best we could 119 battles and skirmishes as nearas we can make out in four years, and never lost a gun. Now we're agoin'home. We aint surrendered; just disbanded, and we pledges ourselves toteach our children to love the South and General Lee; and to come whenwe're called anywheres an' anytime, so help us God. "

There was a dead silence whilst the Colonel read. 

"'Taint entirely accurite, sir, in one particular, " said the sergeant, apologetically; "but we thought it would be playin' it sort o' lowdown on the Cat if we was to say we lost her unless we could tell aboutgittin' of her back, and the way she done since, and we didn't have timeto do all that. " He looked around as if to receive the corroboration ofthe other men, which they signified by nods and shuffling. 

The Colonel said it was all right, and the paper should go into theguns. 

"If you please, sir, the guns are all loaded, " said the sergeant; "inand about our last charge, too; and we'd like to fire 'em off once more, jist for old times' sake to remember 'em by, if you don't think no harmcould come of it?"

The Colonel reflected a moment and said it might be done; they mightfire each gun separately as they rolled it over, or might get all readyand fire together, and then roll them over, whichever they wished. Thiswas satisfactory. 

The men were then ordered to prepare to march immediately, and withdrewfor the purpose. The pickets were called in. In a short time they wereready, horses and all, just as they would have been to march ordinarily, except that the wagons and caissons were packed over in one corner bythe camp with the harness hung on poles beside them, and the guns stoodin their old places at the breastwork ready to defend the pass. Theembers of the sinking camp-fires threw a faint light on them standing sostill and silent. The old Colonel took his place, and at a command fromhim in a somewhat low voice, the men, except a detail left to hold thehorses, moved into company-front facing the guns. Not a word was spoken, except the words of command. At the order each detachment went to itsgun; the guns were run back and the men with their own hands ran themup on the edge of the perpendicular bluff above the river, where, sheerbelow, its waters washed its base, as if to face an enemy on the blackmountain the other side. The pieces stood ranged in the order in whichthey had so often stood in battle, and the gray, thin fog rising slowlyand silently from the river deep down between the cliffs, and wreathingthe mountain-side above, might have been the smoke from some unearthlybattle fought in the dim pass by ghostly guns, yet posted there in thedarkness, manned by phantom gunners, while phantom horses stood behind, lit vaguely up by phantom camp-fires. At the given word the laniardswere pulled together, and together as one the six black guns, belchingflame and lead, roared their last challenge on the misty night, sendinga deadly hail of shot and shell, tearing the trees and splintering therocks of the farther side, and sending the thunder reverberating throughthe pass and down the mountain, startling from its slumber the sleepingcamp on the hills below, and driving the browsing deer and the prowlingmountain-fox in terror up the mountain. 

There was silence among the men about the guns for one brief instantand then such a cheer burst forth as had never broken from them even inbattle: cheer on cheer, the long, wild, old familiar rebel yell for theguns they had fought with and loved. 

The noise had not died away and the men behind were still trying toquiet the frightened horses when the sergeant, the same who had written, received from the hand of the Colonel a long package or roll whichcontained the records of the battery furnished by the men and by theColonel himself, securely wrapped to make them water-tight, and it wasrammed down the yet warm throat of the nearest gun: the Cat, and thenthe gun was tamped to the muzzle to make her water-tight, and, likeher sisters, was spiked, and her vent tamped tight. All this took but aminute, and the next instant the guns were run up once more to the edgeof the cliff; and the men stood by them with their hands still on them. A deadly silence fell on the men, and even the horses behind seemed tofeel the spell. There was a long pause, in which not a breath was heardfrom any man, and the soughing of the tree-tops above and the rushingof the rapids below were the only sounds. They seemed to come from far, very far away. Then the Colonel said, quietly, "Let them go, and God beour helper, Amen. " There was the noise in the darkness of trampling andscraping on the cliff-top for a second; the sound as of men straininghard together, and then with a pant it ceased all at once, and themen held their breath to hear. One second of utter silence; then oneprolonged, deep, resounding splash sending up a great mass of white foamas the brass-pieces together plunged into the dark water below, and thenthe soughing of the trees and the murmur of the river came again withpainful distinctness. It was full ten minutes before the Colonel spoke, though there were other sounds enough in the darkness, and some of themen, as the dark, outstretched bodies showed, were lying on the groundflat on their faces. Then the Colonel gave the command to fall in in thesame quiet, grave tone he had used all night. The line fell in, the mengetting to their horses and mounting in silence; the Colonel put himselfat their head and gave the order of march, and the dark line turnedin the darkness, crossed the little plateau between the smoulderingcamp-fires and the spectral caissons with the harness hanging besidethem, and slowly entered the dim charcoal-burner's track. Not a word wasspoken as they moved off. They might all have been phantoms. Only, thesergeant in the rear, as he crossed the little breastwork which ranalong the upper side and marked the boundary of the little camp, halfturned and glanced at the dying fires, the low, newly made mounds in thecorner, the abandoned caissons, and the empty redoubt, and said, slowly, in a low voice to himself, "Well, by God!"

THE GRAY JACKET OF "NO. 4"

My meeting with him was accidental. I came across him passing through"the square". I had seen him once or twice on the street, each timelurching along so drunk that he could scarcely stagger, so that I wassurprised to hear what he said about the war. He was talking to someonewho evidently had been in the army himself, but on the other side--agentleman with the loyal-legion button in his coat, and with a beautifulscar, a sabre-cut across his face. He was telling of a charge in somebattle or skirmish in which, he declared, his company, not himself--forI remember he said he was "No. 4", and was generally told off to holdthe horses; and that that day he had had the ill luck to lose his horseand get a little scratch himself, so he was not in the charge--did thefinest work he ever saw, and really (so he claimed) saved the day. Itwas this self-abnegation that first arrested my attention, for I hadbeen accustomed all my life to hear the war talked of; it was one of theinspiring influences in my humdrum existence. But the speakers, although they generally boasted of their commands, never of themselvesindividually, usually admitted that they themselves had been in theactive force, and thus tacitly shared in the credit. "No. 4", however, expressly disclaimed that he was entitled to any of the praise, declaring that he was safe behind the crest of the hill (which he saidhe "hugged mighty close"), and claimed the glory for the rest of thecommand. 

"It happened just as I have told you here, " he said, in closing. "OldJoe saw the point as soon as the battery went to work, and sent BinfordTerrell to the colonel to ask him to let him go over there and takeit; and when Joe gave the word the boys went. They didn't go at a walkeither, I tell you; it wasn't any promenade: they went clipping. Atfirst the guns shot over 'em; didn't catch 'em till the third fire; thenthey played the devil with 'em: but the boys were up there right in 'embefore they could do much. They turned the guns on 'em as they wentdown the hill (oh, our boys could handle the tubes then as well as theartillery themselves), and in a little while the rest of the line cameup, and we formed a line of battle right there on that crest, and heldit till nearly night. That's when I got jabbed. I picked up anotherhorse, and with my foolishness went over there. That evening, you know, you all charged us--we were dismounted then. We lost more men then thanwe had done all day; there were forty-seven out of seventy-two killed orwounded. They walked all over us; two of 'em got hold of me (you see, I went to get our old flag some of you had got hold of), but I was tooworthless to die. There were lots of 'em did go though, I tell you; oldJoe in the lead. Yes, sir; the old company won that day, and old Joe led'em. There ain't but a few of us left; but when you want us, Colonel, you can get us. We'll stand by you. "

He paused in deep reflection; his mind evidently back with his oldcompany and its gallant commander "old Joe", whoever he might be, whowas remembered so long after he passed away in the wind and smoke ofthat unnamed evening battle. I took a good look at him--at "No. 4", ashe called himself. He was tall, but stooped a little; his features weregood, at least his nose and brow were; his mouth and chin were weak. His mouth was too stained with the tobacco which he chewed to tell muchabout it--and his chin was like so many American chins, not strong. Hiseyes looked weak. His clothes were very much worn, but they had oncebeen good; they formerly had been black, and well made; the buttonswere all on. His shirt was clean. I took note of this, for he had adissipated look, and a rumpled shirt would have been natural. A man'slinen tells on him before his other clothes. His listener had evidentlybeen impressed by him also, for he arose, and said, abruptly, "Let's goand take a drink. " To my surprise "No. 4" declined. "No, I thank you, "he said, with promptness. I instinctively looked at him again to see ifI had not misjudged him; but I concluded not, that I was right, and thathe was simply "not drinking". I was flattered at my discrimination whenI heard him say that he had "sworn off". His friend said no more, butremained standing while "No. 4" expatiated on the difference between aman who is drinking and one who is not. I never heard a more strikingexposition of it. He said he wondered that any man could be such a foolas to drink liquor; that he had determined never to touch another drop. He presently relapsed into silence, and the other reached out his handto say good-by. Suddenly rising, he said: "Well, suppose we go and havejust one for old times' sake. Just one now, mind you; for I have nottouched a drop in----" He turned away, and I did not catch the length ofthe time mentioned. But I have reason to believe that "No. 4" overstatedit. 

The next time I saw him was in the police court. I happened to be therewhen he walked out of the pen among as miscellaneous a lot of chronicdrunkards, thieves, and miscreants of both sexes and several colorsas were ever gathered together. He still had on his old black suit, buttoned up; but his linen was rumpled and soiled like himself, and hewas manifestly just getting over a debauch, the effects of which werestill visible on him in every line of his perspiring face and thinfigure. He walked with that exaggerated erectness which told hisself-deluded state as plainly as if he had pronounced it in words. Hehad evidently been there before, and more than once. The justice noddedto him familiarly:

"Here again?" he asked, in a tone part pleasantry, part regret. 

"Yes, your honor. Met an old soldier last night, and took a drop forgood fellowship, and before I knew it----" A shrug of the shoulderscompleted the sentence, and the shoulders did not straighten any more. 

The tall officer who had picked him up said something to the justice ina tone too low for me to catch; but "No. 4" heard it--it was evidently astatement against him--for he started to speak in a deprecating way. Thejudge interrupted him:

"I thought you told me last time that if I let you go you would not takeanother drink for a year. "

"I forgot, " said "No. 4", in a low voice. 

"This officer says you resisted him?"

The officer looked stolidly at the prisoner as if it were a matter ofnot the slightest interest to him personally. "Cursed me and abusedme, " he said, dropping the words slowly as if he were checking off aschedule. 

"I did not, your honor; indeed, I did not, " said "No. 4", quickly. "Iswear I did not; he is mistaken. Your honor does not believe I wouldtell you a lie! Surely I have not got so low as that. "

The justice turned his pencil in his hand doubtfully, and looked away. "No. 4" took in his position. He began again. 

"I fell in with an old soldier, and we got to talking about thewar--about old times. " His voice was very soft. "I will promise yourhonor that I won't take another drink for a year. Here, I'll take anoath to it. Swear me. " He seized the greasy little Bible on the deskbefore him, and handed it to the justice. The magistrate took itdoubtfully. He looked down at the prisoner half kindly, half humorously. 

"You'll just break it. " He started to lay the book down. 

"No; I want to take the pledge, " said "No. 4", eagerly. "Did I everbreak a pledge I made to your honor?"

"Didn't you promise me not to come back here?"

"I have not been here for nine months. Besides, I did not come of myown free will, " said "No. 4", with a faint flicker of humor on hisperspiring face. 

"You were here two months ago, and you promised not to take anotherdrink. "

"I forgot that. I did not mean to break it; indeed, I did not. I fell inwith----"

The justice looked away, considered a moment, and ordered him back intothe pen with, "Ten days, to cool off. "

"No. 4" stood quite still till the officer motioned him to the gate, behind which the prisoners sat in stolid rows. Then he walked dejectedlyback into the pen, and sat down by another drunkard. His look touchedme, and I went around and talked to the magistrate privately. But he wasinexorable; he said he knew more of him than I did, and that ten daysin jail would "dry him out and be good for him. " I told him the storyof the battle. He knew it already, and said he knew more than that abouthim; that he had been one of the bravest soldiers in the whole army;did not know what fear was; had once ridden into the enemy and torna captured standard from its captors' hands, receiving two desperatebayonet-wounds in doing it; and had done other acts of conspicuousgallantry on many occasions. I pleaded this, but he was obdurate; hard, I thought at the time, and told him so; told him he had been a soldierhimself, and ought to be easier. He looked troubled, not offended; forwe were friends, and I think he liked to see me, who had been a boyduring the war, take up for an old soldier on that ground. But he stoodfirm. I must do him the justice to say that I now think it would nothave made any difference if he had done otherwise. He had tried theother course many times. 

"No. 4" must have heard me trying to help him, for one day, about amonth after that, he walked in on me quite sober, and looking somewhatas he did the first day I saw him, thanked me for what I had done forhim; delivered one of the most impressive discourses on intemperancethat I ever heard; and asked me to try to help him get work. He waswilling to do anything, he said; that is, anything he could do. I gothim a place with a friend of mine which he kept a week, then got drunk. We got hold of him, however, and sobered him up, and he escaped thepolice and the justice's court. Being out of work, and very firm inhis resolution never to drink again, we lent him some money--a verylittle--with which to keep along a few days, on which he got drunkimmediately, and did fall into the hands of the police, and was sent tojail as before. This, in fact, was his regular round: into jail, out ofjail; a little spell of sobriety, "an accidental fall", which occurredas soon as he could get a drop of liquor, and into jail again forthirty or sixty days, according to the degree of resistance he gave thepolice--who always, by their own account, simply tried to get him to gohome, and, by his, insulted him--and to the violence of the language heapplied to them. In this he excelled; for although as quiet as possiblewhen he was sober, when he was drunk he was a terror, so the policesaid, and his resources of vituperation were cyclopedic. He possessedin this particular department an eloquence which was incredible. Hisblasphemy was vast, illimitable, infinite. He told me once that he couldnot explain it; that when he was sober he abhorred profanity, and neveruttered an oath; when he was in liquor his brain took this turn, anddistilled blasphemy in volumes. He said that all of its energies werequickened and concentrated in this direction, and then he took not onlypleasure, but pride in it. 

He told me a good deal of his life. He had got very low at this time, much lower than he had been when I first knew him. He recognized thishimself, and used to analyze and discuss himself in quite an impersonalway. This was when he had come out of jail, and after having the liquor"dried out" of him. In such a state he always referred to his conditionin the past as being something that never would or could recur; whileon the other hand, if he were just over a drunk, he frankly admitted hisabsolute slavery to his habit. When he was getting drunk he shamelesslymaintained, and was ready to swear on all the Bibles in creation, thathe had not touched a drop, and never expected to do so again--indeed, could not be induced to do it--when in fact he would at the very timebe reeking with the fumes of liquor, and perhaps had his pocket thenbulging with a bottle which he had just emptied, and would willinglyhave bartered his soul to refill. 

I never saw such absolute dominion as the love of liquor had over him. He was like a man in chains. He confessed it frankly and calmly. He saidhe had a disease, and gave me a history of it. It came on him, he said, in spells; that when he was over one he abhorred it, but when the fitseized him it came suddenly, and he was in absolute slavery to it. Hesaid his father was a gentleman of convivial habits (I have heard thathe was very dissipated, though not openly so, and "No. 4" never admittedit). He was killed at the battle of Bull Run. His mother--he alwaysspoke of her with unvarying tenderness and reverence--had sufferedenough, he said, to canonize her if she were not a saint already; shehad brought him up to have a great horror of liquor, and he had nevertouched it till he went into the army. In the army he was in a convivialcrowd, and they had hard marching and poor rations, often none. Liquorwas scarce, and was regarded as a luxury; so although he was verymuch afraid of it, yet for good fellowship's sake, and because it wasconsidered mannish, he used to drink it. Then he got to like it; andthen got to feel the need of it, and took it to stimulate him when hewas run down. This want brought with it a great depression when he didnot have the means to satisfy it. He never liked the actual taste of it;he said few drunkards did. It was the effect that he was always after. This increased on him, he said, until finally it was no longer a desire, but a passion, a necessity; he was obliged to have it. He felt then thathe would commit murder for it. "Why, I dream about it, " he said. "I willtell you what I have done. I have made the most solemn vows, and havegone to bed and gone to sleep, and waked up and dressed and walked milesthrough the rain and snow to get it. I believe I would have done it ifI had known I was going next moment to hell. " He said it had ruined him;said so quite calmly; did not appear to have any special remorse aboutit; at least, never professed any; said it used to trouble him, but hehad got over it now. He had had a plantation--that is, his mother hadhad--and he had been quite successful for a while; but he said, "A mancan't drink liquor and run a farm, " and the farm had gone. 

I asked him how?

"I sold it, " he said calmly; "that is, persuaded my mother to sell it. The stock that belonged to me had nearly all gone before. A man who isdrinking will sell anything, " he said. "I have sold everything in theworld I had, or could lay my hands on. I have never got quite so low asto sell my old gray jacket that I used to wear when I rode behind oldJoe. I mean to be buried in that--if I can keep it. "

He had been engaged to a nice girl; the wedding-day had been fixed; butshe had broken off the engagement. She married another man. "She wasa mighty nice girl, " he said, quietly. "Her people did not like mydrinking so much. I passed her not long ago on the street. She did notknow me. " He glanced down at himself quietly. "She looks older than shedid. " He said that he had had a place for some time, did not drink adrop for nearly a year, and then got with some of the old fellows, andthey persuaded him to take a little. "I cannot touch it. I have eithergot to drink or let it alone--one thing or the other, " he said. "But Iam all right now, " he declared triumphantly, a little of the old firelighting up in his face. "I never expect to touch a drop again. "

He spoke so firmly that I was persuaded to make him a little loan, taking his due-bill for it, which he always insisted on giving. Thatevening I saw him being dragged along by three policemen, and he wascursing like a demon. 

In the course of time he got so low that he spent much more than halfhis time in jail. He became a perfect vagabond, and with his clothesragged and dirty might be seen reeling about or standing around thestreet corners near disreputable bars, waiting for a chance drink, orsitting asleep in doorways of untenanted buildings. His companions wouldbe one or two chronic drunkards like himself, with red noses, bloatedfaces, dry hair, and filthy clothes. Sometimes I would see him hurryingalong with one of these as if they had a piece of the most importantbusiness in the world. An idea had struck their addled brains that bysome means they could manage to secure a drink. Yet in some way he stillheld himself above these creatures, and once or twice I heard of himbeing under arrest for resenting what he deemed an impertinence fromthem. 

Once he came very near being drowned. There was a flood in the river, and a large crowd was watching it from the bridge. Suddenly a littlegirl's dog fell in. It was pushed in by a ruffian. The child cried out, and there was a commotion. When it subsided a man was seen swimming forlife after the little white head going down the stream. It was "No. 4". He had slapped the fellow in the face, and then had sprung in after thedog. He caught it, and got out himself, though in too exhausted a stateto stand up. When he was praised for it, he said, "A member of old Joe'scompany who would not have done that could not have ridden behind oldJoe. " I had this story from eye-witnesses, and it was used shortly afterwith good effect; for he was arrested for burglary, breaking into aman's house one night. It looked at first like a serious case, for somemoney had been taken out of a drawer; but when the case was investigatedit turned out that the house was a bar-room over which the manlived, --he was the same man who had pitched the dog into the water, --andthat "No. 4", after being given whiskey enough to make him a madman, hadbeen put out of the place, had broken into the bar during the nightto get more, and was found fast asleep in a chair with an empty bottlebeside him. I think the jury became satisfied that if any money had beentaken the bar-keeper, to make out a case against "No. 4", had takenit himself. But there was a technical breaking, and it had to be gotaround; so his counsel appealed to the jury, telling them what he knewof "No. 4", together with the story of the child's dog, and "No. 4"'s reply. There were one or two old soldiers on the jury, and theyacquitted him, on which he somehow managed to get whiskey enough to landhim back in jail in twenty-four hours. 

In May, 1890, there was a monument unveiled in Richmond. It was a greatoccasion, and not only all Virginia, but the whole South, participatedin it with great fervor, much enthusiasm, and many tears. It was anoccasion for sacred memories. The newspapers talked about it for a goodwhile beforehand; preparations were made for it as for the celebrationof a great and general ceremony in which the whole South was interested. It was interested, because it was not only the unveiling of a monumentfor the old commander, the greatest and loftiest Southerner, and, asthe South holds, man, of his time; it was an occasion consecrated to thewhole South; it was the embalming in precious memories, and laying awayin the tomb of the Southern Confederacy: the apotheosis of the Southernpeople. As such all were interested in it, and all prepared for it. Itwas known that all that remained of the Southern armies would be there:of the armies that fought at Shiloh, and Bull Run, and Fort Republic;at Seven Pines, Gaines's Mill, and Cold Harbor; at Antietam, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, and Gettysburg; at Franklin, Atlanta, Murfreesboro, and Chickamauga, Spottsylvania, the Wilderness, andPetersburg; and the whole South, Union as it is now and ready to fightthe nation's battles, gathered to glorify Lee, the old commander, and tosee and glorify the survivors of those and other bloody fields in whichthe volunteer soldiers of the South had held the world at bay, and addedto the glorious history of their race. Men came all the way from Oregonand California to be present. Old one-legged soldiers stumped it fromWest Virginia. Even "No. 4", though in the gutter, caught thecontagion, and shaped up and became sober. He got a good suit ofclothes somewhere--not new--and appeared quite respectable. He even gotsomething to do, and, in token of what he had been, was put on one ofthe many committees having a hand in the entertainment arrangements. Inever saw a greater change in anyone. It looked as if there was hope forhim yet. He stopped me on the street a day or two before the unveilingand told me he had a piece of good news: the remnant of his old companywas to be here; he had got hold of the last one, --there were nine ofthem left, --and he had his old jacket that he had worn in the war, andhe was going to wear it on the march. "It's worn, of course, " he said, "but my mother put some patches over the holes, and except for the stainon it it's in good order. I believe I am the only one of the boys thathas his jacket still; my mother kept this for me; I have never got sohard up as to part with it. I'm all right now. I mean to be buried init. "

I had never remarked before what a refined face he had; his enthusiasmmade him look younger than I had ever seen him. 

I saw him on the day before the eve of the unveiling; he was as busyas a bee, and looked almost handsome. "The boys are coming in by everytrain, " he said. "Look here. " He pulled me aside, and unbuttoned hisvest. A piece of faded gray cloth was disclosed. He had the old grayjacket on under his other coat. "I know the boys will like to see it, "he said. "I'm going down to the train now to meet one--Binford Terrell. I don't know whether I shall know him. Binford and I used to be muchof a size. We did not use to speak at one time; had a falling out aboutwhich one should hold the horses; I made him do it, but I reckon hewon't remember it now. I don't. I have not touched a drop. Good-by. " Hewent off. 

The next night about bedtime I got a message that a man wanted to see meat the jail immediately. It was urgent. Would I come down there at once?I had a foreboding, and I went down. It was as I suspected. "No. 4" wasthere behind the bars. "Drunk again, " said the turnkey, laconically, ashe let me in. He let me see him. He wanted me to see the judge andget him out. He besought me. He wept. "It was all an accident;" he had"found some of the old boys, and they had got to talking over old times, and just for old times' sake, " etc. He was too drunk to stand up; butthe terror of being locked up next day had sobered him, and his mind wasperfectly clear. He implored me to see the judge and to get him to lethim out. "Tell him I will come back here and stay a year if he will letme out to-morrow, " he said brokenly. He showed me the gray jacket underhis vest, and was speechless. Even then he did not ask release on theground that he was a veteran. I never knew him to urge this reason. Eventhe officials who must have seen him there fifty times were sympathetic;and they told me to see the justice, and they believed he would let himout for next day. I applied to him as they suggested. He said, "Comedown to court to-morrow morning. " I did so. "No. 4" was present, paleand trembling. As he stood there he made a better defence than any oneelse could have made for him. He admitted his guilt, and said he hadnothing to say in extenuation except that it was the "old story", he"had not intended it; he deserved it all, but would like to get off thatday; had a special reason for it, and would, if necessary, go back tojail that evening and stay there a year, or all his life. " As hestood awaiting sentence, he looked like a damned soul. His coat wasunbuttoned, and his old, faded gray jacket showed under it. The justice, to his honor, let him off: let all offenders off that day. "No. 4" shookhands with him, unable to speak, and turned away. Then he had astrange turn. We had hard work to get him to go into the procession. Hepositively refused; said he was not fit to go, or to live; began to cry, and took off his jacket. He would go back to jail, he said. We finallygot him straight; accepted from him a solemn promise not to touch a droptill the celebration was over, so help him God, and sent him off to joinhis old command at the tobacco-warehouse on the slip where the cavalryrendezvoused. I had some apprehension that he would not turn up inthe procession; but I was mistaken. He was there with the old cavalryveterans, as sober as a judge, and looking every inch a soldier. 

It was a strange scene, and an impressive one even to those whose heartswere not in sympathy with it in any respect. Many who had been thehardest fighters against the South were in sympathy with much of it, if not with all. But to those who were of the South, it was sublime. It passed beyond mere enthusiasm, however exalted, and rested in theprofoundest and most sacred deeps of their being. There were manycheers, but more tears; not tears of regret or mortification, but tearsof sympathy and hallowed memory. The gayly decorated streets, in allthe bravery of fluttering ensigns and bunting; the martial music of manybands; the constant tramp of marching troops; the thronged sidewalks, verandas, and roofs; the gleam of polished arms and glittering uniforms;the flutter of gay garments, and the smiles of beautiful women sweetwith sympathy; the long line of old soldiers, faded and broken and gray, yet each self-sustained, and inspired by the life of the South thatflowed in their veins, marching under the old Confederate battle-flagsthat they had borne so often in victory and in defeat--all contributedto make the outward pageant a scene never to be forgotten. But thiswas merely the outward image; the real fact was the spirit. It was theSouth. It was the spirit of the South; not of the new South, nor yetmerely of the old South, but the spirit of the great South. Whenthe young troops from every Southern State marched by in their freshuniforms, with well-drilled battalions, there were huzzas, much applauseand enthusiasm; when the old soldiers came there was a tempest:wild cheers choking with sobs and tears, the well-known, once-heard-never-forgotten cry of the battling South, known in historyas "the rebel yell". Men and women and children joined in it. Itbegan at the first sight of the regular column, swelled up the crowdedstreets, rose to the thronged housetops, ran along them for squares likea conflagration, and then came rolling back in volume only to rise andswell again greater than before. Men wept; children shrilled; womensobbed aloud. What was it! Only a thousand or two of old or aging menriding or tramping along through the dust of the street, under some oldflags, dirty and ragged and stained. But they represented the spirit ofthe South; they represented the spirit which when honor was in questionnever counted the cost; the spirit that had stood up for the Southagainst overwhelming odds for four years, and until the South hadcrumbled and perished under the forces of war; the spirit that is thestrongest guaranty to us to-day that the Union is and is to be; thespirit that, glorious in victory, had displayed a fortitude yet greaterin defeat. They saw in every stain on those tattered standards the bloodof their noblest, bravest, and best; in every rent a proof of theirglorious courage and sacrifice. They saw in those gray and carewornfaces, in those old clothes interspersed now and then with a faded grayuniform, the men who in the ardor of their youth had, for the South, faced death undaunted on a hundred fields, and had never even thought itgreat; men who had looked immortality in the eyes, yet had been throwndown and trampled underfoot, and who were greater in their overthrowthan when glory poured her light upon their upturned faces. Not one ofthem all but was self-sustaining, sustained by the South, or had evereven for one moment thought in his direst extremity that he would havewhat was, undone. 

The crowd was immense; the people on the fashionable street up which theprocession passed were fortunate; they had the advantage of their yardsand porticos, and they threw them open to the public. Still the throngon the sidewalks was tremendous, and just before the old veterans camealong the crush increased. As it resettled itself I became consciousthat a little old woman in a rusty black dress whom I had seen patientlystanding alone in the front line on the street corner for an hour hadlost her position, and had been pushed back against the railing, and hadan anxious, disappointed look on her face. She had a little, faded knotof Confederate colors fastened in her old dress, and, almost hidden bythe crowd, she was looking up and down in some distress to see if shecould not again get a place from which she could see. Finally she seemedto give it up, and stood quite still, tiptoeing now and then to try tocatch a glimpse. I saw someone about to help her when, from a gay andcrowded portico above her, a young and beautiful girl in a white dress, whom I had been observing for some time as the life of a gay party, as she sat in her loveliness, a queen on her throne with her courtiersaround her, suddenly arose and ran down into the street. There was ashort colloquy. The young beauty was offering something which the oldlady was declining; but it ended in the young girl leading the olderwoman gently up on to her veranda and giving her the chair of state. Shewas hardly seated when the old soldiers began to pass. 

As the last mounted veterans came by, I remembered that I had not seen"No. 4"; but as I looked up, he was just coming along. In his hand, with staff resting on his toe, he carried an old standard so torn andtattered and stained that it was scarcely recognizable as a flag. Idid not for a moment take in that it was he, for he was not in the grayjacket which I had expected to see. He was busy looking down at thethrong on the sidewalk, apparently searching for some one whom heexpected to find there. He was in some perplexity, and pulled in hishorse, which began to rear. Suddenly the applause from the portico abovearrested his attention, and he looked toward it and bowed. As he did sohis eye caught that of the old lady seated there. His face lighted up, and, wheeling his prancing horse half around, he dipped the tatteredstandard, and gave the royal salute as though saluting a queen. Theold lady pressed her wrinkled hand over the knot of faded ribbon on herbreast, and made a gesture to him, and he rode on. He had suddenly grownhandsome. I looked at her again; her eyes were closed, her hands wereclasped, and her lips were moving. I saw the likeness: she was hismother. As he passed me I caught his eye. He saw my perplexity aboutthe jacket, glanced up at the torn colors, and pointed to a figure justbeyond him dressed in a short, faded jacket. "No. 4" had been selected, as the highest honor, to carry the old colors which he had once saved;and not to bear off all the honors from his friend, he had with truecomradeship made Binford Terrell wear his cherished jacket. He made abrave figure as he rode away, and my cheer died on my lips as I thoughtof the sad, old mother in her faded knot, and of the dashing youngsoldier who had saved the colors in that unnamed fight. 

After that we got him a place, and he did well for several months. Heseemed to be cured. New life and strength appeared to come back to him. But his mother died, and one night shortly afterward he disappeared, andremained lost for several days. When we found him he had been brought tojail, and I was sent for to see about him. He was worse than I had everknown him. He was half-naked and little better than a madman. I wentto a doctor about him, an old army surgeon, who saw him, and shook hishead. "'Mania a potu'. Very bad; only a question of time, " he said. Thiswas true. "No. 4" was beyond hope. Body and brain were both gone. Itgot to be only a question of days, if not of hours. Some of his otherfriends and I determined that he should not die in jail; so we tookhim out and carried him to a cool, pleasant room looking out on an oldgarden with trees in it. There in the dreadful terror of raving deliriumhe passed that night. I with several others sat up with him. I couldnot have stood many more like it. All night long he raved and tore. Hisoaths were blood-curdling. He covered every past portion of his life. His army life was mainly in his mind. He fought the whole war over. Sometimes he prayed fervently; prayed against his infirmity; prayedthat his chains might be broken. Then he would grow calm for awhile. Onething recurred constantly: he had sold his honor, betrayed his cause. This was the order again and again, and each time the paroxysm offrightful fury came on, and it took all of us to hold him. He wascovered with snakes: they were chains on his wrists and around his body. He tried to pull them from around him. At last, toward morning, came oneof those fearful spells, worse than any that had gone before. Itpassed, and he suddenly seemed to collapse. He sank, and the stimulantadministered failed to revive him. 

"He is going, " said the doctor, quietly, across the bed. Whether hisdull ear caught the word or not, I cannot say; but he suddenly rousedup, tossed one arm, and said:

"Binford, take the horses. I'm going to old Joe, " and sank back. 

"He's gone, " said the doctor, opening his shirt and placing his ear overhis heart. As he rose up I saw two curious scars on "No. 4"'s emaciatedbreast. They looked almost like small crosses, about the size of thedecorations the European veterans wear. The old doctor bent over andexamined them. 

"Hello! Bayonet-wounds, " he said briefly. 

A little later I went out to get a breath of fresh morning air toquiet my nerves, which were somewhat unstrung. As I passed by a littlesecond-hand clothing-store of the meanest kind, in a poor, back street, I saw hanging up outside an old gray jacket. I stopped to examine it. It was stained behind with mud, and in front with a darker color. An oldpatch hid a part of the front; but a close examination showed two holesover the breast. It was "No. 4"'s lost jacket. I asked the shopman aboutit. He had bought it, he said, of a pawnbroker who had got it from somedrunkard, who had probably stolen it last year from some old soldier. Hereadily sold it, and I took it back with me; and the others being gone, an old woman and I cut the patch off it and put "No. 4"'s stiffeningarms into the sleeves. Word was sent to us during the day to say thatthe city would bury him in the poorhouse grounds. But we told them thatarrangements had been made; that he would have a soldier's burial. Andhe had it. 

MISS DANGERLIE'S ROSES

Henry Floyd was a crank, at least so many people said; a few thoughthe was a wonderful person: these were mostly children, old women, andpeople not in the directory, and persons not in the directory do notcount for much. He was in fact a singular fellow. It was all naturalenough to him; he was just like what he believed his father had been, his father of whom his mother used to tell him, and whom he rememberedso vaguely except when he had suddenly loomed up in his uniform at thehead of his company, when they went away on that march from which hehad never returned. He meant to be like him, if he was not, and heremembered all that his mother had told him of his gentleness, his highcourtesy, his faithfulness, his devotion to duty, his unselfishness. So it was all natural enough to Floyd to be as he was. But a man canno more tell whether or not he is a crank than he can tell how old helooks. He was, however, without doubt, different in certain ways frommost people. This his friends admitted. Some said he was old-fashioned;some that he was "old-timey"; some that he was unpractical, the shadesof criticism ranging up to those saying he was a fool. This did not meanintellectually, for none denied his intellect. He drove a virile pen, and had an epigrammatic tongue. He had had a hard time. He had borne theyoke in his youth. This, we have strong authority for saying, is goodfor a man; but it leaves its mark upon him. He had been desperatelypoor. He had not minded that except for his mother, and he had approvedof her giving up every cent to meet the old security debts. It had cuthim off from his college education; but he had worked till he was abetter scholar than he might have been had he gone to college. He hadkept his mother comfortable as long as she lived, and then had put upa monument over her in the old churchyard, as he had done before to hisfather's memory. This, everyone said, was foolish, and perhaps it was, for it took him at least two years to pay for them, and he might havelaid up the money and got a start, or, as some charitable persons said, it might have been given to the poor. However, the monuments were putup, and on them were epitaphs which recorded at length the virtues ofthose to whom they were erected, with their descent, and declared thatthey were Christians and Gentlepeople. Some one said to Floyd that hemight have shortened the epitaphs, and have saved something. "I did notwant them shortened, " said he. 

He had borne the yoke otherwise also. One of the first things he haddone after starting in life was to fall in love with a beautiful woman. She was very beautiful and a great belle. Every one said it was sheernonsense for Henry Floyd to expect her to marry him, as poor as hewas, which was natural enough. The only thing was that she led Floyd tobelieve she was going to marry him when she did not intend to do it, andit cost him a great deal of unhappiness. He never said one word againsther, not even when she married a man much older than himself, simply, aseveryone said, because he was very rich. If Floyd ever thought that shetreated him badly, no one ever knew it, and when finally she left herhusband, no one ever ventured to discuss it before Floyd. 

Henry Floyd, however, had suffered, --that everyone could see who hadeyes; but only he knew how much. Generally grave and dreamy; when quietas calm as a dove, as fierce as a hawk when aroused; moving always in aneccentric orbit, which few understood; flashing out now and then gleamswhich some said were sparks of genius but which most people said weremere eccentricity, he had sunk into a recluse. He was in this statewhen he met HER. He always afterward referred to her so. He was at areception when he came upon her on a stairway. A casual word about hislife, a smile flashed from her large, dark, luminous eyes, lighting upher face, and Henry Floyd awoke. She had called him from the dead. Itwas a case of love at first sight. From that time he never had a thoughtfor anyone else, least of all for himself. He lived in her and for her. He blossomed under her sympathy as a tree comes out under the sunshineand soft breath of spring. He grew, he broadened. She was his sun, hisbreath of life; he worshipped her. Then one day she died--suddenly--sankdown and died as a butterfly might die, chilled by a blast. With herHenry Floyd buried his youth. For a time people were sympathetic; butthey began immediately to speculate about him, then to gossip about him. It made no difference to him or in him. He was like a man that is dead, who felt no more. One thing about a great sorrow is that it destroys alllesser ones. A man with a crushed body does not feel pinpricks. HenryFloyd went on his way calmly, doggedly, mechanically. He drifted on andwas talked about continually. Gossip would not let him alone, so she didhim the honor to connect his name with that of every woman he met. Infact, there was as much reason to mention all as one. He was fondof women, and enjoyed them. Women liked him too. There was a certaingentleness mingled with firmness, a kind of protecting air about himwhich women admired, and a mystery of impenetrable sadness which womenliked. Every woman who knew him trusted him, and had a right to trusthim. To none was he indifferent, but in none was he interested. He wassimply cut off. A physician who saw him said, "That man is dying ofloneliness. " This went on for some years. At last his friends determinedto get him back into society. They made plans for him and carried themout to a certain length; there the plans failed. Floyd might be led upto the water, but none could make him drink; there he took the bit inhis teeth and went his own way. He would be invited to meet a girl at adinner got up for his benefit, that he might meet her, and would spendthe evening hanging over a little unheard-of country cousin with a lowvoice and soft eyes, entertaining her with stories of his country daysor of his wanderings; or he would be put by some belle, and afterfive minutes' homage spend the time talking to some old lady about hergrandchildren. "You must marry, " they said to him. "When one rises fromthe dead, " he replied. At length, his friends grew tired of helping himand gave him up, and he dropped out and settled down. Commiseration isone of the bitter things of life. But Floyd had what is harder to bearthan that. It did not affect his work. It was only his health and hislife that suffered. He was like a man who has lost the senses of touchand taste and sight. If he minded it, he did not show it. One can getused to being bedridden. 

One thing about him was that he always appeared poor. He began to beknown as an inventor and writer. It was known that he received highprices for what he did; but he appeared to be no better off than whenhe made nothing. Some persons supposed that he gambled; others whisperedthat he spent it in other dissipation. In fact, one lady gave acircumstantial account of the way he squandered his money, and declaredherself very glad that he had never visited her daughters. When this wasrepeated to Floyd, he said he fortunately did not have to account toher for the way he spent his money. He felt that the woman out under themarble cross knew how his money went, and so did the little cousin whowas named after her, and who was at school. He had a letter from her inhis pocket at that moment. So he drifted on. 

At length one evening he was at a reception in a strange city whitherhis business had taken him. The rooms were filled with light and beauty. Floyd was standing chatting with a child of ten years, whom he foundstanding in a corner, gazing out with wide questioning eyes on thethrong. They were friends instantly, and he was telling her who theguests were, as they came sailing in, giving them fictitious names andtitles. "They are all queens, " he told her, at which she laughed. Shepointed out a tall and stately woman with a solemn face, and with agleaming bodice on like a cuirass, and her hair up on her head like acasque. "Who is that?"

"Queen Semiramis. "

"And who is that?" It was a stout lady with a tiara of diamonds, a redface, and three feathers. 

"Queen Victoria, of course. "

"And who am I?" She placed her little hand on her breast with a prettygesture. 

"The Queen of Hearts, " said Floyd, quickly, at which she laughedoutright. "Oh! I must not laugh, " she said, checking herself andglancing around her with a shocked look. "I forgot. "

"You shall. If you don't, you sha'n't know who another queen is. "

"No, mamma told me I must not make a bit of noise; it is not style, youknow, but you mustn't be so funny. "

"Good heavens!" said Floyd. 

"Oh! who is this coming?" A lady richly dressed was making her waytoward them. "The Queen of Sheba--coming to see Solomon, " said Floyd, as she came up to him. "Let me introduce you to a beautiful girl, SarahDangerlie, " she said, and drew him through the throng toward a door, where he was presented to a tall and strikingly handsome girl and madehis bow and a civil speech, to which the young lady responded with oneequally polite and important. Other men were pressing around her, toall of whom she made apt and cordial speeches, and Floyd fell back andrejoined his little girl, whose face lit up at his return. 

"Oh! I was so afraid you were going away with her. "

"And leave you? Never, I'm not so easily disposed of. "

"Everyone goes with her. They call her the Queen. "

"Do they?"

"Do you like her?"

"Yes. "

"You don't, " she said, looking at him keenly. 

"Yes, she is beautiful. "

"Everyone says so. "

"She isn't as beautiful as someone else I know, " said Floyd, pleasantly. 

"Isn't she? As whom?"

Floyd took hold of the child's hand and said, "Let's go and get somesupper. "

"I don't like her, " said the little girl, positively. 

"Don't you?" said Floyd. He stopped and glanced across the room towardwhere the girl had stood. He saw only the gleam of her fine shoulders asshe disappeared in the crowd surrounded by her admirers. 

A little later Floyd met the young lady on the stairway. He had notrecognized her, and was passing on, when she spoke to him. 

"I saw you talking to a little friend of mine, " she began, then--"Overin the corner, " she explained. 

"Oh! yes. She is sweet. They interest me. I always feel when I havetalked with a child as if I had got as near to the angels as one can geton earth. "

"Do you know I was very anxious to meet you, " she said. 

"Were you? Thank you. Why?"

"Because of a line of yours I once read. "

"I am pleased to have written only one line that attracted yourattention, " said Floyd, bowing. 

"No, no--it was this--"The whitest soul of man or saint is blackbeside a girl's. "

"Beside a child's, " said Floyd, correcting her. 

"Oh! yes, so it is--'beside a child's. '"

Her voice was low and musical. Floyd glanced up and caught her look, andthe color deepened in her cheek as the young man suddenly leant a littletowards her and gazed earnestly into her eyes, which she dropped, butinstantly raised again. 

"Yes--good-night, " she held out her hand, with a taking gesture andsmile. 

"Good-night, " said Floyd, and passed on up the stairs to thedressing-room. He got his coat and hat and came down the stairway. Agroup seized him. 

"Come to the club, " they said. He declined. 

"Roast oysters and beer, " they said. 

"No, I'm going home. "

"Are you ill?" asked a friend. 

"No, not at all. Why?"

"You look like a man who has seen a spirit. "

"Do I? I'm tired, I suppose. Good-night, --good-night, gentlemen, " and hepassed out. 

"Perhaps I have, " he said as he went down the cold steps into the frozenstreet. 

Floyd went home and tossed about all night. His life was breaking up, he was all at sea. Why had he met her? He was losing the anchor that hadheld him. "They call her the queen, " the little girl had said. She mustbe. He had seen her soul through her eyes. 

Floyd sent her the poem which contained the line which she hadquoted; and she wrote him a note thanking him. It pleased him. It wassympathetic. She invited him to call. He went to see her. She was finein grain and in look. A closely fitting dark gown ornamented by a singleglorious red rose which might have grown where it lay, and her soft haircoiled on her small head, as she entered tall and straight and calm, made Floyd involuntarily say to himself, "Yes"--

"She was right, " he said, half to himself, half aloud, as he stoodgazing at her with inquiring eyes after she had greeted him cordially. 

"What was right?" she asked. 

"Something a little girl said about you. "

"What was it?"

"I will tell you some day, when I know you better. "

"Was it a compliment?"

"Yes. "

"Tell me now. "

"No, wait. "

He came to know her better; to know her very well. He did not see hervery often, but he thought of her a great deal. He seemed to find in hera sympathy which he needed. It reminded him of the past. He awoke fromhis lethargy; began to work once more in the old way; mixed amongmen again; grew brighter. "Henry Floyd is growing younger, instead ofolder, " someone said of him. "His health has been bad, " said a doctor. "He is improving. I thought at one time he was going to die. " "He isgetting rich, " said a broker, who had been a schoolmate of his. "I seehe has just invented a new something or other to relieve children withhip or ankle-joint disease. "

"Yes, and it is a capital thing, too; it is being taken up by theprofession. I use it. It is a curious thing that he should have hit onthat when he is not a surgeon. He had studied anatomy as a sort of fad, as he does everything. One of Haile Tabb's boys was bedridden, and hewas a great friend of his, and that set him at it. "

"I don't think he's so much of a crank as he used to be, " said someone. 

The broker who had been his schoolmate met Floyd next day. 

"I see you have been having a great stroke of luck, " he said. 

"Have I?"

"Yes. I see in the papers, that your discovery, or invention, orwhatever it was, has been taken up. "

"Oh! yes--that? It has. "

"I congratulate you. "

"Thank you. "

"I would not mind looking into that. "

"Yes, it is interesting. "

"I might take an interest in it. "

"Yes, I should think so. "

"How much do you ask for it?"

"'Ask for it?' Ask for what?"

"For an interest in it, either a part or the whole?"

"What?"

"You ought to make a good thing out of it--out of your patent. "

"My patent! I haven't any patent. "

"What! No patent?"

"No. It's for the good of people generally. "

"But you got a patent?"

"No. "

"Couldn't you get a patent?"

"I don't know. "

"Well, I'll be bound I'd have got a patent. "

"Oh! no, I don't think so. "

"I tell you what, you ought to turn your talents to account, " said hisfriend. 

"Yes, I know I ought. "

"You could be a rich man. "

"But I don't care to be rich. "

"What! Oh! nonsense. Everyone does. "

"I do not. I want to live. "

"But you don't live. "

"Well, maybe I shall some day. "

"You merely exist. "

"Why should I want to be rich?"

"To live--to buy what you want. "

"I want sympathy, love; can one buy that?"

"Yes--even that. "

"No, you cannot. There is only one sort of woman to be bought. "

"Well, come and see me sometimes, won't you?"

"Well, no, I'm very much obliged to you; but I don't think I can. "

"Why? I have lots of rich men come to my house. You'd find it to youradvantage if you'd come. "

"Thank you. "

"We could make big money together if----"

He paused. Floyd was looking at him. 

"Could we? If--what?"

"If you would let me use you. "

"Thank you, " said Floyd. "Perhaps we could. "

"Why won't you come?"

"Well, the fact is, I haven't time. I shall have to wait to get a littlericher before I can afford it. Besides I have a standing engagement. "

"Oh! no, we won't squeeze you. I tell you what, come up to dinnerto-morrow. I'm going to have a fellow there, an awfully richfellow--want to interest him in some things, and I've invited him down. He is young Router, the son of the great Router, you know who he is?"

"Well, no, I don't believe I do. Good-by. Sorry I can't come; but I havean engagement. "

"What is it?"

"To play mumble-the-peg with some boys: Haile Tabb's boys. "

"Oh! hang the boys! Come up to dinner. It is an opportunity you may nothave again shortly. Router's awfully successful, and you can interesthim. I tell you what I'll do----"

"No, thank you, I'll keep my engagement. Good-by. "

"That fellow's either a fool or he is crazy, " said his friend, gazingafter him as he walked away. "And he's got some sense too. If he'd letme use him I could make money out of him for both of us. "

It was not long before Floyd began to be known more widely. He hadschemes for the amelioration of the condition of the poor. They werepronounced quixotic; but he kept on. He said he got good out of them ifno one else did. 

He began to go oftener and oftener down to the City, where MissDangerlie lived. He did not see a great deal of her; but he wrote toher. He found in her a ready sympathy with his plans. It was not just asit used to be in his earlier love affair, where he used to find himselfuplifted and borne along by the strong spirit which had called him fromthe dead; but if it was not this that he got, it was what contented him. Whatever he suggested, she accepted. He found in her tastes a wonderfulsimilarity with his, and from that he drew strength. 

Women in talking of him in connection with her said it was a pity; mensaid he was lucky. 

One evening, at a reception at her house, he was in the gentlemen'sdressing-room. It was evidently a lady's apartment which had beendevoted for the occasion as a dressing-room. It was quite full at thetime. A man, a large fellow with sleek, short hair, a fat chin, and adazzling waistcoat, pulled open a lower drawer in a bureau. Articles ofa lady's apparel were discovered, spotless and neatly arranged. "Shutthat drawer instantly, " said Floyd, in a low, imperious tone. 

"Suppose I don't, what then?"

"I will pitch you out of that window, " said Floyd, quietly, moving astep nearer to him. The drawer was closed, and the man turned away. 

"Do you know who that was?" asked someone of Floyd. 

"No, not the slightest idea. "

"That was young Router, the son of the great Router. "

"Who is the-great-Router?"

"The great pork man. His son is the one who is so attentive to MissDangerlie. "

"I am glad he closed the drawer, " said Floyd, quietly. 

"He is said to be engaged to her, " said the gentleman. 

"He is not engaged to her, " said Floyd. 

Later on he was talking to Miss Dangerlie. He had taken her out of thethrong. "Do you know who introduced me to you?" he asked. 

"Yes, Mrs. Drivington. "

"No, a little girl. "

"Who? Why, don't you remember! I am surprised. It was just in thedoorway!"

"Oh! yes, I remember well enough. I met a beauty there, but I did notcare for her. I met you first on the stairway, and a child introducedme. "

"Children interest me, they always admire one, " she said. 

"They interest me, I always admire them, " he said. "They are true. "

She was silent, then changed the subject. 

"A singular little incident befell me this evening, " she said. "As I wascoming home from a luncheon-party, a wretched woman stopped me and askedme to let her look at me. "

"You did it, of course, " he said. 

She looked at him with her eyes wide open with surprise. 

"What do you suppose a man said to me upstairs?" he asked her. 

"What?"

"That you were engaged to someone. "

"What! That I was engaged! To whom, pray?" She looked incredulous. 

"To a fellow I saw up there--Mr. 'Router', I think he said was hisname. "

"The idea! Engaged to Mr. Router! You did not believe him, did you?"

"No, of course I did not; I trust you entirely. "

She buried her face in the roses she held in her hand, and did notspeak. Her other hand rested on the arm of her chair next him. It wasfine and white. He laid his on it firmly, and leaning towards her, said, "I beg your pardon for mentioning it. I am not surprised that you arehurt. Forgive me. I could not care for you so much if I did not believein you. "

"It was so kind in you to send me these roses, " she said. "Aren't theybeautiful?"

She turned them round and gazed at them with her face slightly averted. 

"Yes, they are, and yet I hate to see them tied that way; I ordered themsent to you loose. I always like to think of you as arranging roses. "

"Yes, I love to arrange them myself, " she said. 

"The fact is, as beautiful as those are, I believe I like betterthe old-fashioned roses right out of the dew. I suppose it is oldassociation. But I know an old garden up at an old country-place, wheremy mother used to live as a girl. It used to be filled up with roses, and I always think of the roses there as sweeter than any others in theworld. "

"Yes, I like the old-fashioned roses best too, " she said, with thatsimilarity of taste which always pleased him. 

"The next time I come to see you I am going to bring you some of thoseroses, " he said. "My mother used to tell me of my father going out andgetting them for her, and I would like you to have some of them. "

"Oh! thank you. How far is it from your home?"

"Fifteen or twenty miles. "

"But you cannot get them there. "

"Oh! yes, I can; the fact is, I own the place. " She looked interested. "Oh! it is not worth anything as land, " he said, "but I love theassociation. My mother was brought up there, and I keep up the gardenjust as it was. You shall have the roses. Some day I want to see youamong them. " Just then there was a step behind him. She rose. 

"Is it ours?" she asked someone over her shoulder. 

"Yes, come along. "

Floyd glanced around. It was the "son of the great Router". 

She turned to Floyd, and said, in an earnest undertone, "I am verysorry; but I had an engagement. Good-by. " She held out her hand. Floydtook it and pressed it. 

"Good-by, " he said, tenderly. "That is all right. "

She took the-son-of-the-great-Router's arm. 

*****

One afternoon, a month after Miss Dangerlie's reception, Henry Floydwas packing his trunk. He had just looked at his watch, when there was aring at the bell. He knew it was the postman, and a soft look came overhis face as he reflected that even if he got no letter he would see herwithin a few hours. A large box of glorious old-fashioned roses was onthe floor near him, and a roll of money and a time-table lay besideit. He had ridden thirty miles that morning to get and bring the roseshimself for one whom he always thought of in connection with them. 

A letter was brought in, and a pleased smile lit up the young man's faceas he saw the handwriting. He laid on the side of the trunk a coat thathe held, and then sat down on the arm of a chair and opened the letter. His hand stroked it softly as if it were of velvet. He wore a pleasedsmile as he began to read. Then the smile died away and a startled looktook its place. The color faded out of his face, and his mouth closedfirmly. When he was through he turned back and read the letter all overagain, slowly. It seemed hard to understand; for after a pause he readit over a third time. Then he looked straight before him for a moment, and then slowly tore it up into thin shreds and crumpled them up inhis hand. Ten minutes later he rose from his seat and dropped the tornpieces into the fireplace. He walked over and put on his hat and coat, and going out, pulled the door firmly to behind him. The trunk, partlypacked, stood open with the half-folded coat hanging over its edge andwith the roses lying by its side. 

Floyd walked into the Club and, returning quietly the salutations ofa group of friends, went over to a rack and drew out a newspaper file, with which he passed into another room. 

"Announcement of Engagement: Router and Dangerlie, " was the heading onwhich his eye rested. "It is stated, " ran the paragraph, "that they havebeen engaged some time, but no announcement has been made until now, onthe eve of the wedding, owing to the young lady's delicacy of feeling. "

That night Henry Floyd wrote a letter. This was the close of it:

"Possibly your recollection may hereafter trouble you. I wish to saythat I do not hold you accountable in any way. "

That night a wretched creature, half beggar, half worse, was standing onthe street under a lamp. A man came along. She glanced at him timidly. He was looking at her, but it would not do to speak to him, he was agentleman going somewhere. His hands were full of roses. He posted aletter in the box, then to her astonishment he stopped at her side andspoke to her. 

"Here are some roses for you, " he said, "and here is some money. Go hometo-night. "

He pushed the roses and money into her hands, and turning, went back upthe dim street. 

HOW THE CAPTAIN MADE CHRISTMAS

It was just a few days before Christmas, and the men around the largefireplace at the club had, not unnaturally, fallen to talking ofChristmas. They were all men in the prime of life, and all or nearly allof them were from other parts of the country; men who had come to thegreat city to make their way in life, and who had, on the whole, madeit in one degree or another, achieving sufficient success in differentfields to allow of all being called successful men. Yet, as theconversation had proceeded, it had taken a reminiscent turn. When itbegan, only three persons were engaged in it, two of whom, McPheetersand Lesponts, were in lounging-chairs, with their feet stretched outtowards the log fire, while the third, Newton, stood with his back tothe great hearth, and his coat-tails well divided. The other men werescattered about the room, one or two writing at tables, three or fourreading the evening papers, and the rest talking and sipping whiskeyand water, or only talking or only sipping whiskey and water. As theconversation proceeded around the fireplace, however, one after anotherjoined the group there, until the circle included every man in the room. 

It had begun by Lesponts, who had been looking intently at Newton forsome moments as he stood before the fire with his legs well apartand his eyes fastened on the carpet, breaking the silence by asking, suddenly: "Are you going home?"

"I don't know, " said Newton, doubtfully, recalled from somewherein dreamland, but so slowly that a part of his thoughts were stilllingering there. "I haven't made up my mind--I'm not sure that I can goso far as Virginia, and I have an invitation to a delightful place--ahouse-party near here. "

"Newton, anybody would know that you were a Virginian, " said McPheeters, "by the way you stand before that fire. "

Newton said, "Yes, " and then, as the half smile the charge had broughtup died away, he said, slowly, "I was just thinking how good it felt, and I had gone back and was standing in the old parlor at home thefirst time I ever noticed my father doing it; I remember getting up andstanding by him, a little scrap of a fellow, trying to stand just ashe did, and I was feeling the fire, just now, just as I did that night. That was--thirty-three years ago, " said Newton, slowly, as if he weredoling the years from his memory. 

"Newton, is your father living?" asked Lesponts. "No, but my mother is, "he said; "she still lives at the old home in the country. "

From this the talk had gone on, and nearly all had contributed to it, even the most reticent of them, drawn out by the universal sympathywhich the subject had called forth. The great city, with all itsmanifold interests, was forgotten, and the men of the world went back totheir childhood and early life in little villages or on old plantations, and told incidents of the time when the outer world was unknown, andall things had those strange and large proportions which the mind ofchildhood gives. Old times were ransacked and Christmas experiencesin them were given without stint, and the season was voted, withoutdissent, to have been far ahead of Christmas now. Presently, one of theparty said: "Did any of you ever spend a Christmas on the cars? If youhave not, thank Heaven, and pray to be preserved from it henceforth, forI've done it, and I tell you it's next to purgatory. I spent one once, stuck in a snow-drift, or almost stuck, for we were ten hours late, andmissed all connections, and the Christmas I had expected to spend withfriends, I passed in a nasty car with a surly Pullman conductor, animpudent mulatto porter, and a lot of fools, all of whom could havemurdered each other, not to speak of a crying baby whose murder wasperhaps the only thing all would have united on. "

This harsh speech showed that the subject was about exhausted, andsomeone, a man who had come in only in time to hear the last speaker, had just hazarded the remark, in a faint imitation of an English accent, that the sub-officials in this country were a surly, ill-conditionedlot, anyhow, and always were as rude as they dared to be, when Lesponts, who had looked at the speaker lazily, said:

"Yes, I have spent a Christmas on a sleeping-car, and, strange to say, Ihave a most delightful recollection of it. "

This was surprising enough to have gained him a hearing anyhow, butthe memory of the occasion was evidently sufficiently strong to carryLesponts over obstacles, and he went ahead. 

"Has any of you ever taken the night train that goes from here Souththrough the Cumberland and Shenandoah Valleys, or from Washington tostrike that train?"

No one seemed to have done so, and he went on:

"Well, do it, and you can even do it Christmas, if you get the rightconductor. It's well worth doing the first chance you get, for it'salmost the prettiest country in the world that you go through; there isnothing that I've ever seen lovelier than parts of the Cumberland andShenandoah Valleys, and the New River Valley is just as pretty, --thatbackground of blue beyond those rolling hills, and all, --you know, McPheeters?" McPheeters nodded, and he proceeded:

"I always go that way now when I go South. Well, I went South one winterjust at Christmas, and I took that train by accident. I was going to NewOrleans to spend Christmas, and had expected to have gotten off to bethere several days beforehand, but an unlooked-for matter had turnedup and prevented my getting away, and I had given up the idea of going, when I changed my mind: the fact is, I was in a row with a friend ofmine there. I decided, on the spur of the moment, to go, anyhow, andthus got off on the afternoon train for Washington, intending to run myluck for getting a sleeper there. This was the day before Christmas-eveand I was due to arrive in New Orleans Christmas-day, some time. Well, when I got to Washington there was not a berth to be had for love ormoney, and I was in a pickle. I fumed and fussed; abused the railroadcompanies and got mad with the ticket agent, who seemed, I thought, tobe very indifferent as to whether I went to New Orleans or not, andI had just decided to turn around and come back to New York, when theagent, who was making change for someone else, said: 'I'm not positive, but I think there's a train on such and such a road, and you may be ableto get a berth on that. It leaves about this time, and if you hurryyou may be able to catch it. ' He looked at his watch: 'Yes, you've justabout time to stand a chance; everything is late to-day, there are suchcrowds, and the snow and all. ' I thanked him, feeling like a dog over myill-temper and rudeness to him, and decided to try. Anything was betterthan New York, Christmas-day. So I jumped into a carriage and told thedriver to drive like the--the wind, and he did. When we arrived at thestation the ticket agent could not tell me whether I could get a berthor not, the conductor had the diagram out at the train, but he thoughtthere was not the slightest chance. I had gotten warmed up, however, bymy friend's civility at the other station, and I meant to go if therewas any way to do it, so I grabbed up my bags and rushed out of thewarm depot into the cold air again. I found the car and the conductorstanding outside of it by the steps. The first thing that struckme was his appearance. Instead of being the dapper youngnaval-officerish-looking fellow I was accustomed to, he was a stout, elderly man, with bushy, gray hair and a heavy, grizzled mustache, wholooked like an old field-marshal. He was surrounded by quite a number ofpeople all crowding about him and asking him questions at once, some ofwhose questions he was answering slowly as he pored over his diagram, and others of which he seemed to be ignoring. Some were querulous, some good-natured, and all impatient, but he answered them all withimperturbable good humor. It was very cold, so I pushed my way intothe crowd. As I did so I heard him say to someone: 'You asked me ifthe lower berths were all taken, did you not?' 'Yes, five minutes ago!'snapped the fellow, whom I had already heard swearing, on the edge ofthe circle. 'Well, they are all taken, just as they were the first timeI told you they were, ' he said, and opened a despatch given him by hisporter, a tall, black, elderly negro with gray hair. I pushed my way inand asked him, in my most dulcet tone, if I could get an upper berth toNew Orleans. I called him 'Captain', thinking him a pompous old fellow. He was just beginning to speak to someone else, but I caught him andhe looked across the crowd and said 'New Orleans!' My heart sank at thetone, and he went on talking to some other man. 'I told you that I wouldgive you a lower berth, sir, I can give you one now, I have just got amessage that the person who had "lower two" will not want it. ' 'Hold on, then, I'll take that lower, ' called the man who had spoken before, overthe crowd, 'I spoke for it first. ' 'No you won't, ' said the Captain, who went on writing. The man pushed his way in angrily, a big, self-assertive fellow; he was evidently smarting from his first repulse. 'What's that? I did, I say. I was here before that man got here, andasked you for a lower berth, and you said they were all taken. ' TheCaptain stopped and looked at him. 'My dear sir, I know you did; butthis gentleman has a lady along. ' But the fellow was angry. 'I don'tcare, ' he said, 'I engaged the berth and I know my rights; I mean tohave that lower berth, or I'll see which is bigger, you or Mr. Pullman. 'Just then a lady, who had come out on the steps, spoke to the Captainabout her seat in the car. He turned to her: 'My dear madam, you are allright, just go in there and take your seat anywhere; when I come in Iwill fix everything. Go straight into that car and don't come out inthis cold air any more. ' The lady went back and the old fellow said, 'Nick, go in there and seat that lady, if you have to turn every man outof his seat. ' Then, as the porter went in, he turned back to his iratefriend. 'Now, my dear sir, you don't mean that: you'd be the first manto give up your berth; this gentleman has his sick wife with him and hasbeen ordered to take her South immediately, and she's going to have alower berth if I turn every man in that car out, and if you were Mr. Pullman himself I'd tell you the same thing. ' The man fell back, baffledand humbled, and we all enjoyed it. Still, I was without a berth, so, with some misgiving, I began: 'Captain?' He turned to me. 'Oh! you wantto go to New Orleans?' 'Yes, to spend Christmas; any chance for me?' Helooked at his watch. 'My dear young sir, ' he said, 'go into the car andtake a seat, and I'll do the best I can with you. ' I went in, not at allsure that I should get a berth. 

"This, of course, was only a part of what went on, but the crowd hadgotten into a good humor and was joking, and I had fallen into the samespirit. The first person I looked for when I entered the car was, ofcourse, the sick woman. I soon picked her out: a sweet, frail-lookinglady, with that fatal, transparent hue of skin and fine complexion. She was all muffled up, although the car was very warm. Every seat waseither occupied or piled high with bags. Well, the train started, andin a little while the Captain came in, and the way that old fellowstraightened things out was a revelation. He took charge of the car andran it as if he had been the Captain of a boat. At first some of thepassengers were inclined to grumble, but in a little while they gave in. As for me, I had gotten an upper berth and felt satisfied. When I wakedup next morning, however, we were only a hundred and fifty miles fromWashington, and were standing still. The next day was Christmas, andevery passenger on the train, except the sick lady and her husband, andthe Captain, had an engagement for Christmas dinner somewhere a thousandmiles away. There had been an accident on the road. The train which wascoming north had jumped the track at a trestle and torn a part of itaway. Two or three of the trainmen had been hurt. There was no chance ofgetting by for several hours more. It was a blue party that assembledin the dressing-room, and more than one cursed his luck. One man wastalking of suing the company. I was feeling pretty gloomy myself, whenthe Captain came in. 'Well, gentlemen, 'Christmas-gift'; it's a finemorning, you must go out and taste it, ' he said, in a cheery voice, which made me feel fresher and better at once, and which brought aresponse from every man in the dressing-room. Someone asked promptly howlong we should be there. 'I can't tell you, sir, but some little time;several hours. ' There was a groan. 'You'll have time to go over thebattle-field, ' said the Captain, still cheerily. 'We are close to thefield of one of the bitterest battles of the war. ' And then he proceededto tell us about it briefly. He said, in answer to a question, that hehad been in it. 'On which side, Captain?' asked someone. 'Sir!' withsome surprise in his voice. 'On which side?' 'On our side, sir, ofcourse. ' We decided to go over the field, and after breakfast we did. 

"The Captain walked with us over the ground and showed us the lines ofattack and defence; pointed out where the heaviest fighting was done, and gave a graphic account of the whole campaign. It was the onlybattle-field I had ever been over, and I was so much interested thatwhen I got home I read up the campaign, and that set me to reading up onthe whole subject of the war. We walked back over the hills, and I neverenjoyed a walk more. I felt as if I had got new strength from the coldair. The old fellow stopped at a little house on our way back, andwent in whilst we waited. When he came out he had a little bouquet ofgeranium leaves and lemon verbena which he had got. I had noticed themin the window as we went by, and when I saw the way the sick lady lookedwhen he gave them to her, I wished I had brought them instead of him. Some one intent on knowledge asked him how much he paid for them?

"He said, 'Paid for them! Nothing. '

"'Did you know them before?' he asked. 

"'No, sir. ' That was all. 

"A little while afterwards I saw him asleep in a seat, but when thetrain started he got up. 

"The old Captain by this time owned the car. He was not only anofficial, he was a host, and he did the honors as if he were in his ownhouse and we were his guests; all was done so quietly and unobtrusively, too; he pulled up a blind here, and drew one down there, just a fewinches, 'to give you a little more light on your book, sir';--'to shutout a little of the glare, madam--reading on the cars is a little moretrying to the eyes than one is apt to fancy. ' He stopped to lean overand tell you that if you looked out of your window you would see what hethought one of the prettiest views in the world; or to mention thefact that on the right was one of the most celebrated old places in theState, a plantation which had once belonged to Colonel So-and-So, 'oneof the most remarkable men of his day, sir. '

"His porter, Nicholas, was his admirable second; not a porter at all, but a body-servant; as different from the ordinary Pullman-car porteras light from darkness. In fact, it turned out that he had been an oldservant of the Captain's. I happened to speak of him to the Captain, andhe said: 'Yes, sir, he's a very good boy; I raised him, or rather, myfather did; he comes of a good stock; plenty of sense and know theirplaces. When I came on the road they gave me a mulatto fellow whom Icouldn't stand, one of these young, new, "free-issue" some call them, sir, I believe; I couldn't stand him, I got rid of him. ' I asked himwhat was the trouble. 'Oh! no trouble at all, sir; he just didn't knowhis place, and I taught him. He could read and write a little--a negrois very apt to think, sir, that if he can write he is educated--he couldwrite, and thought he was educated; he chewed a toothpick and thought hewas a gentleman. I soon taught him better. He was impertinent, and Iput him off the train. After that I told them that I must have my ownservant if I was to remain with them, and I got Nick. He is an excellentboy (he was about fifty-five). The black is a capital servant, sir, whenhe has sense, far better than the mulatto. '

"I became very intimate with the old fellow. You could not help it. Hehad a way about him that drew you out. I told him I was going to NewOrleans to pay a visit to friends there. He said, 'Got a sweetheartthere?' I was rather taken aback; but I told him, 'Yes. ' He said he knewit as soon as I spoke to him on the platform. He asked me who she was, and I told him her name. He said to me, 'Ah! you lucky dog. ' I told himI did not know that I was not most unlucky, for I had no reason to thinkshe was going to marry me. He said, 'You tell her I say you'll be allright. ' I felt better, especially when the old chap said, 'I'll tellher so myself. ' He knew her. She always travelled with him when she cameNorth, he said. 

"I did not know at all that I was all right; in fact, I was rather lowdown just then about my chances, which was the only reason I was soanxious to go to New Orleans, and I wanted just that encouragement andit helped me mightily. I began to think Christmas on the cars wasn'tquite so bad after all. He drew me on, and before I knew it I had toldhim all about myself. It was the queerest thing; I had no idea in theworld of talking about my matters. I had hardly ever spoken of her toa soul; but the old chap had a way of making you feel that he would becertain to understand you, and could help you. He told me about his owncase, and it wasn't so different from mine. He lived in Virginia beforethe war; came from up near Lynchburg somewhere; belonged to an oldfamily there, and had been in love with his sweetheart for years, butcould never make any impression on her. She was a beautiful girl, hesaid, and the greatest belle in the country round. Her father was oneof the big lawyers there, and had a fine old place, and the stable wasalways full of horses of the young fellows who used to be coming to seeher, and 'she used to make me sick, I tell you, ' he said, 'I used tohate 'em all; I wasn't afraid of 'em; but I used to hate a man to lookat her; it seemed so impudent in him; and I'd have been jealous if shehad looked at the sun. Well, I didn't know what to do. I'd have beenready to fight 'em all for her, if that would have done any good, butit wouldn't; I didn't have any right to get mad with 'em for loving her, and if I had got into a row she'd have sent me off in a jiffy. But justthen the war came on, and it was a Godsend to me. I went in first thing. I made up my mind to go in and fight like five thousand furies, and Ithought maybe that would win her, and it did; it worked first-rate. Iwent in as a private, and I got a bullet through me in about six months, through my right lung, that laid me off for a year or so; then I wentback and the boys made me a lieutenant, and when the captain was made amajor, I was made captain. I was offered something higher once or twice, but I thought I'd rather stay with my company; I knew the boys, and theyknew me, and we had got sort of used to each other--to depending on eachother, as it were. The war fixed me all right, though. When I went homethat first time my wife had come right around, and as soon as I was wellenough we were married. I always said if I could find that Yankee thatshot me I'd like to make him a present. I found out that the greattrouble with me had been that I had not been bold enough; I used tolet her go her own way too much, and seemed to be afraid of her. I WASafraid of her, too. I bet that's your trouble, sir: are you afraid ofher?' I told him I thought I was. 'Well, sir, ' he said, 'it will neverdo; you mustn't let her think that--never. You cannot help being afraidof her, for every man is that; but it is fatal to let her know it. Standup, sir, stand up for your rights. If you are bound to get down on yourknees--and every man feels that he is--don't do it; get up and run outand roll in the dust outside somewhere where she can't see you. Why, sir, ' he said, 'it doesn't do to even let her think she's having her ownway; half the time she's only testing you, and she doesn't really wantwhat she pretends to want. Of course, I'm speaking of before marriage;after marriage she always wants it, and she's going to have it, anyway, and the sooner you find that out and give in, the better. You mustconsider this, however, that her way after marriage is always laid downto her with reference to your good. She thinks about you a great dealmore than you do about her, and she's always working out something thatis for your advantage; she'll let you do some things as you wish, justto make you believe you are having your own way, but she's just beenpretending to think otherwise, to make you feel good. '

"This sounded so much like sense that I asked him how much a manought to stand from a woman. 'Stand, sir?' he said; 'why, everything, everything that does not take away his self-respect. ' I said I believedif he'd let a woman do it she'd wipe her shoes on him. 'Why, of courseshe will, ' he said, 'and why shouldn't she? A man is not good enoughfor a good woman to wipe her shoes on. But if she's the right sort of awoman she won't do it in company, and she won't let others do it at all;she'll keep you for her own wiping. '"

"There's a lot of sense in that, Lesponts, " said one of his auditors, atwhich there was a universal smile of assent. Lesponts said he had foundit out, and proceeded. 

"Well, we got to a little town in Virginia, I forget the name of it, where we had to stop a short time. The Captain had told me that his homewas not far from there, and his old company was raised around there. Quite a number of the old fellows lived about there yet, he said, and hesaw some of them nearly every time he passed through, as they 'kept therun of him. ' He did not know that he'd 'find any of them out to-day, asit was Christmas, and they would all be at home, ' he said. As the traindrew up I went out on the platform, however, and there was quite a crowdassembled. I was surprised to find it so quiet, for at other placesthrough which we had passed they had been having high jinks: firing offcrackers and making things lively. Here the crowd seemed to be quietand solemn, and I heard the Captain's name. Just then he came out on theplatform, and someone called out: 'There he is, now!' and in a secondsuch a cheer went up as you never heard. They crowded around the oldfellow and shook hands with him and hugged him as if he had been agirl. "

"I suppose you have reference to the time before you were married, "interrupted someone, but Lesponts did not heed him. He went on:

"It seemed the rumor had got out that morning that it was the Captain'strain that had gone off the track and that the Captain had been killedin the wreck, and this crowd had assembled to meet the body. 'We weregoing to give you a big funeral, Captain, ' said one old fellow; 'they'vegot you while you are living, but we claim you when you are dead. Weain't going to let 'em have you then. We're going to put you to sleep inold Virginia. '

"The old fellow was much affected, and made them a little speech. Heintroduced us to them all. He said: 'Gentlemen, these are my boys, myneighbors and family;' and then, 'Boys, these are my friends; I don'tknow all their names yet, but they are my friends. ' And we were. Herushed off to send a telegram to his wife in New Orleans, because, as hesaid afterwards, she, too, might get hold of the report that he had beenkilled; and a Christmas message would set her up, anyhow. She'd bea little low down at his not getting there, he said, as he had nevermissed a Christmas-day at home since '64. 

"When dinner-time came he was invited in by pretty nearly everyone inthe car, but he declined; he said he had to attend to a matter. I wasgoing in with a party, but I thought the old fellow would be lonely, so I waited and insisted on his dining with me. I found that it hadoccurred to him that a bowl of eggnogg would make it seem more likeChristmas, and he had telegraphed ahead to a friend at a little place tohave 'the materials' ready. Well, they were on hand when we got there, and we took them aboard, and the old fellow made one of the finesteggnoggs you ever tasted in your life. The rest of the passengers hadno idea of what was going on, and when the old chap came in with a bigbowl, wreathed in holly, borne by Nick, and the old Captain marchingbehind, there was quite a cheer. It was offered to the ladies first, ofcourse, and then the men assembled in the smoker and the Captain did thehonors. He did them handsomely, too: made us one of the prettiest littlespeeches you ever heard; said that Christmas was not dependent on thefireplace, however much a roaring fire might contribute to it; that itwas in everyone's heart and might be enjoyed as well in a railway-car asin a hall, and that in this time of change and movement it behooved usall to try and keep up what was good and cheerful and bound us together, and to remember that Christmas was not only a time for merry-making, butwas the time when the Saviour of the world came among men to bring peaceand good-will, and that we should remember all our friends everywhere. 'And, gentlemen, ' he said, 'there are two toasts I always like topropose at this time, and which I will ask you to drink. The first isto my wife. ' It was drunk, you may believe. 'And the second is, "Myfriends: all mankind. "' This too, was drunk, and just then someonenoticed that the old fellow had nothing but a little water in his glass. 'Why, Captain, ' he said, 'you are not drinking! that is not fair. ''Well, no, sir, ' said the old fellow, 'I never drink anything on duty;you see it is one of the regulations and I subscribed them, and, ofcourse, I could not break my word. Nick, there, will drink my share, however, when you are through; he isn't held up to quite such highaccountability. ' And sure enough, Nick drained off a glass and made aspeech which got him a handful of quarters. Well, of course, the oldCaptain owned not only the car, but all in it by this time, and wespent one of the jolliest evenings you ever saw. The glum fellow who hadinsisted on his rights at Washington made a little speech, and paid theCaptain one of the prettiest compliments I ever heard. He said he haddiscovered that the Captain had given him his own lower berth after hehad been so rude to him, and that instead of taking his upper berth ashe had supposed he would have done, he had given that to another personand had sat up himself all night. That was I. The old fellow had giventhe grumbler his 'lower' in the smoking-room, and had given me his'upper'. The fellow made him a very handsome apology before us all, andthe Captain had his own berth that night, you may believe. 

"Well, we were all on the 'qui vive' to see the Captain's wife when wegot to New Orleans. The Captain had told us that she always came down tothe station to meet him; so we were all on the lookout for her. He toldme the first thing that he did was to kiss her, and then he went andfiled his reports, and then they went home together, 'And if you'll comeand dine with me, ' he said to me, 'I'll give you the best dinner youever had--real old Virginia cooking; Nick's wife is our only servant, and she is an excellent cook. ' I promised him to go one day, though Icould not go the first day. Well, the meeting between the old fellowand his wife was worth the trip to New Orleans to see. I had formed apicture in my mind of a queenly looking woman, a Southern matron--youknow how you do? And when we drew into the station I looked around forher. As I did not see her, I watched the Captain. He got off, and Imissed him in the crowd. Presently, though, I saw him and I asked him, 'Captain, is she here?' 'Yes, sir, she is, she never misses; that's thesort of a wife to have, sir; come here and let me introduce you. ' Hepulled me up and introduced me to a sweet little old lady, in an old, threadbare dress and wrap, and a little, faded bonnet, whom I had seenas we came up, watching eagerly for someone, but whom I had not thoughtof as being possibly the Captain's grand-dame. The Captain's manner, however, was beautiful. 'My dear, this is my friend, Mr. Lesponts, andhe has promised to come and dine with us, ' he said, with the air ofa lord, and then he leaned over and whispered something to her. 'Why, she's coming to dine with us to-day, ' she said with a very cheery laugh;and then she turned and gave me a look that swept me from top to toe, asif she were weighing me to see if I'd do. I seemed to pass, for she cameforward and greeted me with a charming cordiality, and invited meto dine with them, saying that her husband had told her I knew MissSo-and-So, and she was coming that day, and if I had no other engagementthey would be very glad if I would come that day, too. Then she turnedto the Captain and said, 'I saved Christmas dinner for you; for whenyou didn't come I knew the calendar and all the rest of the world werewrong; so to-day is our Christmas. '"

--"Well, that's all, " said Lesponts; "I did not mean to talk so much, but the old Captain is such a character, I wish you could know him. You'd better believe I went, and I never had a nicer time. They werejust as poor as they could be, in one way, but in another they wererich. He had a sweet little home in their three rooms. I found thatmy friend always dined with them one day in the Christmas-week, and Ihappened to hit that day. " He leaned back. 

"That was the beginning of my good fortune, " he said, slowly, and thenstopped. Most of the party knew Lesponts's charming wife, so no furtherexplanation was needed. One of them said presently, however, "Lesponts, why didn't you fellows get him some better place?"

"He was offered a place, " said Lesponts. "The fellow who had made therow about the lower berth turned out to be a great friend of the head ofthe Pullman Company, and he got him the offer of a place at three timesthe salary he got, but after consideration, he declined it. He wouldhave had to come North, and he said that he could not do that: hiswife's health was not very robust and he did not know how she couldstand the cold climate; then, she had made her friends, and she was tooold to try to make a new set; and finally, their little girl was buriedthere, and they did not want to leave her; so he declined. When shedied, he said, or whichever one of them died first, the other would comeback home to the old place in Virginia, and bring the other two withhim, so they could all be at home together again. Meantime, they werevery comfortable and well satisfied. "

There was a pause after Lesponts ended, and then one of the fellows rangthe bell and said, "Let's drink the old Captain's health, " which wasunanimously agreed to. Newton walked over to a table and wrote a note, and then slipped out of the club; and when next day I inquired afterhim of the boy at the door, he said he had left word to tell anyone whoasked for him, that he would not be back till after Christmas; that hehad gone home to Virginia. Several of the other fellows went off hometoo, myself among them, and I was glad I did, for I heard one of the mensay he never knew the club so deserted as it was that Christmas-day. 

LITTLE DARBY

I

The County had been settled as a "frontier" in early colonial days, andwhen it ceased to be frontier, settlement had taken a jump beyond it, and in a certain sense over it, to the richer lands of the Piedmont. When, later on, steam came, the railway simply cut across it at itsnarrowest part, and then skirted along just inside its border onthe bank of the little river which bounded it on the north, as if itintentionally left it to one side. Thus, modern progress had not greatlyinterfered with it either for good or bad, and its development wasentirely natural. 

It was divided into "neighborhoods", a name in itself implying somethingboth of its age and origin; for the population was old, and the customsof life and speech were old likewise. 

This chronicle, however, is not of the "neighborhoods", for they wereknown, or may be known by any who will take the trouble to plungeboldly in and throw themselves on the hospitality of any of thedwellers therein. It is rather of the unknown tract, which lay vagueand undefined in between the several neighborhoods of the upper end. Thehistory of the former is known both in peace and in war: in the pleasanthomesteads which lie on the hills above the little rivers which makedown through the county to join the great river below, and in the longlist of those who fell in battle, and whose names are recorded on theslabs set up by their comrades on the walls of the old Court House. Thehistory of the latter, however, is unrecorded. The lands were in themain very poor and grown up in pine, or else, where the head-waters ofa little stream made down in a number of "branches", were swampy andmalarial. Possibly it was this poverty of the soil or unwholesomenessof their location, which more than anything else kept the people of thisdistrict somewhat distinct from others around them, however poor theymight be. They dwelt in their little cabins among their pines, or downon the edges of the swampy district, distinct both from the gentlemenon their old plantations and from the sturdy farmer-folk who owned thesmaller places. What title they had to their lands originally, or howthey traced it back, or where they had come from, no one knew. They hadbeen there from time immemorial, as long or longer, if anything, thanthe owners of the plantations about them; and insignificant as theywere, they were not the kind to attempt to question, even had anyonebeen inclined to do so, which no one was. 

They had the names of the old English gentry, and were a clean-limbed, blond, blue-eyed people. 

When they were growing to middle age, their life told on them and madethem weather-beaten, and not infrequently hard-visaged; but when theywere young there were often among them straight, supple young fellowswith clear-cut features, and lithe, willowy-looking girls, with pinkfaces and blue, or brown, or hazel eyes, and a mien which one might haveexpected to find in a hall rather than in a cabin. 

Darby Stanley and Cove Mills (short for Coverley) were the leaders ofthe rival factions of the district. They lived as their fathers hadlived before them, on opposite sides of the little stream, the branchesof which crept through the alder and gum thickets between them, and contributed to make the district almost as impenetrable tothe uninitiated as a mountain fastness. The long log-cabin of theCove-Millses, where room had been added to room in a straight line, until it looked like the side of a log fort, peeped from its pinesacross at the clearing where the hardly more pretentious home of DarbyStanley was set back amid a little orchard of ragged peach-trees, andhalf hidden under a great wistaria vine. But though the two places laywithin rifle shot of each other, they were almost as completely dividedas if the big river below had rolled between them. Since the great fightbetween old Darby and Cove Mills over Henry Clay, there had rarely beenan election in which some members of the two families had not had a"clinch". They had to be thrown together sometimes "at meeting", andtheir children now and then met down on the river fishing, or at "thewashing hole", as the deep place in the little stream below where thebranches ran together was called; but they held themselves as muchaloof from each other as their higher neighbors, the Hampdens and theDouwills, did on their plantations. The children, of course, would "runtogether", nor did the parents take steps to prevent them, sure thatthey would, as they grew up, take their own sides as naturally as theythemselves had done in their day. Meantime "children were children", andthey need not be worried with things like grown-up folk. 

When Aaron Hall died and left his little farm and all his smallbelongings to educate free the children of his poor neighbors, thefarmers about availed themselves of his benefaction, and the childrenfor six miles around used to attend the little school which was startedin the large hewn-log school-house on the roadside known as "Hall's FreeSchool". Few people knew the plain, homely, hard-working man, or whollyunderstood him. Some thought him stingy, some weak-minded, some onlyqueer, and at first his benefaction was hardly comprehended; but in timequite a little oasis began about the little fountain, which the poorfarmer's bequest had opened under the big oaks by the wayside, andgradually its borders extended, until finally it penetrated as far asthe district, and Cove Mills's children appeared one morning at the doorof the little school-house, and, with sheepish faces and timid voices, informed the teacher that their father had sent them to school. 

At first there was some debate over at Darby Stanley's place, whetherthey should show their contempt for the new departure of the Millses, bystanding out against them, or should follow their example. It was hardfor a Stanley to have to follow a Mills in anything. So they stoodout for a year. As it seemed, however, that the Millses were gettingsomething to which the Stanleys were as much entitled as they, onemorning little Darby Stanley walked in at the door, and without takinghis hat off, announced that he had come to go to school. He wasabout fifteen at the time, but he must have been nearly six feet (hissobriquet being wholly due to the fact that Big Darby was older, nottaller), and though he was spare, there was something about his faceas he stood in the open door, or his eye as it rested defiantly on theteacher's face, which prevented more than a general buzz of surprise. 

"Take off your hat, " said the teacher, and he took it off slowly. "Isuppose you can read?" was the first question. 

"No. "

A snicker ran round the room, and little Darby's brow clouded. 

As he not only could not read, but could not even spell, and in fact didnot know his letters, he was put into the alphabet class, the class ofthe smallest children in the school. 

Little Darby walked over to the corner indicated with his head up, hishands in his pockets, and a roll in his gait full of defiance, and tookhis seat on the end of the bench and looked straight before him. Hecould hear the titter around him, and a lowering look came into his blueeyes. He glanced sideways down the bench opposite. It happened that thenext seat to his was that of Vashti Mills, who was at that time justnine. She was not laughing, but was looking at Darby earnestly, and ashe caught her eye she nodded to him, "Good-mornin'. " It was the firstgreeting the boy had received, and though he returned it sullenly, itwarmed him, and the cloud passed from his brow and presently he lookedat her again. She handed him a book. He took it and looked at it as ifit were something that might explode. 

He was not an apt scholar; perhaps he had begun too late; perhaps therewas some other cause; but though he could swim better, climb better, and run faster than any boy in the school, or, for that matter, in thecounty, and knew the habits of every bird that flitted through the woodsand of every animal that lived in the district, he was not good at hisbooks. His mind was on other things. When he had spent a week over thealphabet, he did know a letter as such, but only by the places on thepage they were on, and gave up when "big A" was shown him on anotherpage, only asking how in the dickens "big A" got over there. He pulledoff his coat silently whenever ordered and took his whippings like alamb, without a murmur and almost without flinching, but every boy inthe school learned that it was dangerous to laugh at him; and though hecould not learn to read fluently or to train his fingers to guide a pen, he could climb the tallest pine in the district to get a young crow forVashti, and could fashion all sorts of curious whistles, snares, andother contrivances with his long fingers. 

He did not court popularity, was rather cold and unapproachable, andVashti Mills was about the only other scholar with whom he seemed to beon warm terms. Many a time when the tall boy stood up before the thinteacher, helpless and dumb over some question which almost anyone in theschool could answer, the little girl, twisting her fingers in an ecstacyof anxiety, whispered to him the answer in the face of almost certaindetection and of absolutely certain punishment. In return, he worshippedthe ground she walked on, and whichever side Vashti was on, Darby wassure to be on it too. He climbed the tallest trees to get her nuts;waded into the miriest swamps to find her more brilliant nosegays offlowers than the other girls had; spent hours to gather rarer birds'eggs than they had, and was everywhere and always her silent worshipperand faithful champion. They soon learned that the way to secure hishelp in anything was to get Vashti Mills to ask it, and the little girlquickly discovered her power and used it as remorselessly over hertall slave as any other despot ever did. They were to be seen any daytrailing along the plantation paths which the school-children tookfrom the district, the others in a clump, and the tall boy and littlecalico-clad girl, who seemed in summer mainly sun-bonnet and bare legs, either following or going before the others at some distance. 

The death of Darby--of old Darby, as he had begun to be called--cut offLittle Darby from his "schoolin'", in the middle of his third year, andbefore he had learned more than to read and cipher a little and to writein a scrawly fashion; for he had been rather irregular in his attendanceat all times. He now stopped altogether, giving the teacher as hisreason, with characteristic brevity: "Got to work. "

Perhaps no one at the school mourned the long-legged boy's departureexcept his little friend Vashti, now a well-grown girl of twelve, verystraight and slim and with big dark eyes. She gave him when he went awaythe little Testament she had gotten as a prize, and which was one of hermost cherished possessions. Other boys found the first honor as climber, runner, rock-flinger, wrestler, swimmer, and fighter open once more tothem, and were free from the silent and somewhat contemptuous gaze ofhim who, however they looked down on him, was a sort of silent poweramong them. Vashti alone felt a void and found by its sudden absence howgreat a force was the steady backing of one who could always be countedon to take one's side without question. She had to bear the gibes of theschool as "Miss Darby", and though her two brothers were ready enoughto fight for her if boys pushed her too hardly, they could do nothingagainst girls, and the girls were her worst tormentors. 

The name was fastened on her, and it clung to her until, as time wenton, she came to almost hate the poor innocent cause of it. 

Meantime Darby, beginning to fill out and take on the shoulders and formof a man, began to fill also the place of the man in his littlehome. This among other things meant opposition, if not hostility, toeverything on Cove Mills's side. When old Darby died the Millses allwent to the funeral, of course; but that did not prevent theirhaving the same feeling toward Little Darby afterward, and the breachcontinued. 

At first he used to go over occasionally to see Vashti and carry herlittle presents, as he had done at school; but he soon found that it wasnot the same thing. He was always received coolly, and shortly he wasgiven to understand that he was not wanted there, and in time Vashtiherself showed that she was not the same she had been to him before. Thus the young fellow was thrown back on himself, and the hostilitybetween the two cabins was as great as ever. 

He spent much of his time in the woods, for the Stanley place was smallat best, only a score or so of acres, and mostly covered with pines, andLittle Darby was but a poor hand at working with a hoe--their only farmimplement. He was, however, an unerring shot, with an eye like a hawk tofind a squirrel flat on top of the grayest limb of the tallest hickoryin the woods, or a hare in her bed among the brownest broomsedge in thecounty, and he knew the habits of fish and bird and animal as if he hadcreated them; and though he could not or would not handle a hoe, hewas the best hand at an axe "in the stump", in the district, and Mrs. Stanley was kept in game if not in meal. 

The Millses dilated on his worthlessness, and Vashti, grown to be aslender slip of a girl with very bright eyes and a little nose, wasloudest against him in public; though rumor said she had fallen afoul ofher youngest brother and boxed his jaws for seconding something she hadsaid of him. 

The Mills's enmity was well understood, and there were not wanting thoseto take Darby's side. He had grown to be the likeliest young man in thedistrict, tall, and straight as a sapling, and though Vashti flauntedher hate of him and turned up her little nose more than it was alreadyturned up at his name, there were many other girls in the pines wholooked at him languishingly from under their long sun-bonnets, andthought he was worth both the Mills boys and Vashti to boot. So whenat a fish-fry the two Mills boys attacked him and he whipped them bothtogether, some said it served them right, while others declared theydid just what they ought to have done, and intimated that Darby was lessanxious to meet their father than he was them, who were nothing morethan boys to him. These asked in proof of their view, why he haddeclined to fight when Old Cove had abused him so to his face. This wasmet by the fact that he "could not have been so mighty afeared, " for hehad jumped in and saved Chris Mills's life ten minutes afterward, whenhe got beyond his depth in the pond and had already sunk twice. But, then, to be sure, it had to be admitted that he was the best swimmer onthe ground, and that any man there would have gone in to save his worstenemy if he had been drowning. This must have been the view that VashtiMills took of the case; for one day not long afterward, having met Darbyat the cross-roads store where she was looking at some pink calico, andwhere he had come to get some duck-shot and waterproof caps, she turnedon him publicly, and with flashing eyes and mantling cheeks, gave himto understand that if she were a man he "would not have had to fight twoboys, " and he would not have come off so well either. If anything, thisattack brought Darby friends, for he not only had whipped the Mills boysfairly, and had fought only when they had pressed him, but had, as hasbeen said, declined to fight old man Mills under gross provocation; andbesides, though they were younger than he, the Mills boys were seventeenand eighteen, and "not such babies either; if they insisted on fightingthey had to take what they got and not send their sister to talk andabuse a man about it afterward. " And the weight of opinion was that, "that Vashti Mills was gettin' too airified and set up anyways. "

All this reached Mrs. Stanley, and was no doubt sweet to her ears. Sherelated it in her drawling voice to Darby as he sat in the door oneevening, but it did not seem to have much effect on him; he neverstirred or showed by word or sign that he even heard her, and finally, without speaking, he rose and lounged away into the woods. The old womangazed after him silently until he disappeared, and then gave a lookacross to where the Mills cabin peeped from among the pines, which wasfull of hate. 

*****

The fish-fry at which Darby Stanley had first fought the Mills boys andthen pulled one of them out of the river, had been given by one of thecounty candidates for election as delegate to a convention which was tobe held at the capital, and possibly the division of sentiment inthe district between the Millses and Little Darby was as much due topolitical as to personal feeling; for the sides were growing more andmore tightly drawn, and the Millses, as usual, were on one side andLittle Darby on the other; and both sides had strong adherents. Thequestion was on one side, Secession, with probable war; and on theother, the Union as it was. The Millses were for the candidate whoadvocated the latter, and Little Darby was for him who wanted secession. Both candidates were men of position and popularity, the one a young manand the other older, and both were neighbors. 

The older man was elected, and shortly the question became imminent, and all the talk about the Cross-roads was of war. As time had worn on, Little Darby, always silent, had become more and more so, and seemed tobe growing morose. He spent more and more of his time in the woods orabout the Cross-roads, the only store and post-office near the districtwhere the little tides of the quiet life around used to meet. At lengthMrs. Stanley considered it so serious that she took it upon herself togo over and talk to her neighbor, Mrs. Douwill, as she generally did onmatters too intricate and grave for the experience of the district. Shefound Mrs. Douwill, as always, sympathetic and kind, and though shetook back with her not much enlightenment as to the cause of her son'strouble or its cure, she went home in a measure comforted with theassurance of the sympathy of one stronger than she. She had found outthat her neighbor, powerful and rich as she seemed to her to be, hadher own troubles and sorrows; she heard from her of the danger of warbreaking out at any time, and her husband would enlist among the first. 

Little Darby did not say much when his mother told of her visit; but hisusually downcast eyes had a new light in them, and he began to visit theCross-roads oftener. 

At last one day the news that came to the Cross-roads was that therewas to be war. It had been in the air for some time, but now it wasundoubted. It came in the presence of Mr. Douwill himself, who hadcome the night before and was commissioned by the Governor to raisea company. There were a number of people there--quite a crowd forthe little Cross-roads--for the stir had been growing day by day, andexcitement and anxiety were on the increase. The papers had been full ofsecession, firing on flags, raising troops, and everything; but thatwas far off. When Mr. Douwill appeared in person it came nearer, though still few, if any, quite took it in that it could be actual andimmediate. Among those at the Cross-roads that day were the Millses, father and sons, who looked a little critically at the speaker as onewho had always been on the other side. Little Darby was also there, silent as usual, but with a light burning in his blue eyes. 

That evening, when Little Darby reached home, which he did somewhatearlier than usual, he announced to his mother that he had enlisted asa soldier. The old woman was standing before her big fireplace when hetold her, and she leaned against it quite still for a moment; then shesat down, stumbling a little on the rough hearth as she made her way toher little broken chair. Darby got up and found her a better one, whichshe took without a word. 

Whatever entered into her soul in the little cabin that night, when Mrs. Stanley went among her neighbors she was a soldier's mother. She evenwent over to Cove Mills's on some pretext connected with Darby's going. Vashti was not at home, but Mrs. Mills was, and she felt a sudden loss, as if somehow the Millses had fallen below the Stanleys. She talkedof it for several days; she could not make out entirely what it was. Vashti's black eyes flashed. 

The next day Darby went to the Cross-roads to drill; there was, besidesthe recruits, who were of every class, quite a little crowd there tolook at the drill. Among them were two women of the poorest class, oneold and faded, rather than gray, the other hardly better dressed, thougha slim figure, straight and trim, gave her a certain distinction, evenhad not a few ribbons and a little ornament or two on her pink calico, with a certain air, showed that she was accustomed to being admired. 

The two women found themselves together once during the day, and theireyes met. It was just as the line of soldiers passed. Those of the elderlighted with a sudden spark of mingled triumph and hate, those of theyounger flashed back for a moment and then fell beneath the elder'sgaze. There was much enthusiasm about the war, and among others, both ofthe Mills boys enlisted before the day was ended, their sister going inwith them to the room where their names were entered on the roll, andcoming out with flashing eyes and mantling cheeks. She left the placeearlier than most of the crowd, but not until after the drill was overand some of the young soldiers had gone home. The Mills boys' enlistmentwas set down in the district to Vashti, and some said it was because shewas jealous of Little Darby being at the end of the company, with a newgun and such a fine uniform; for her hatred of Little Darby was wellknown; anyhow, their example was followed, and in a short time nearlyall the young men in the district had enlisted. 

At last one night a summons came for the company to assemble at theCross-roads next day with arms and equipment. Orders had come for themto report at once at the capital of the State for drill, before beingsent into the field to repel a force which, report said, was alreadyon the way to invade the State. There was the greatest excitement andenthusiasm. This was war! And everyone was ready to meet it. The day wasgiven to taking an inventory of arms and equipment, and then there was adrill, and then the company was dismissed for the night, as many of themhad families of whom they had not taken leave, and as they had not comethat day prepared to leave, and were ordered to join the commander nextday, prepared to march. 

Little Darby escorted his mother home, taciturn as ever. At first therewas quite a company; but as they went their several ways to their home, at last Little Darby and his mother were left alone in the piney path, and made the last part of their way alone. Now and then the old woman'seyes were on him, and often his eyes were on her, but they did notspeak; they just walked on in silence till they reached home. 

It was but a poor, little house even when the wistaria vine coveredit, wall and roof, and the bees hummed among its clusters of violetblossoms; but now the wistaria bush was only a tangle of twisted wireshung upon it, and the little weather-stained cabin looked bare andpoor enough. As the young fellow stood in the door looking out with theevening light upon him, his tall, straight figure filled it as if ithad been a frame. He stood perfectly motionless for some minutes, gazingacross the gum thickets before him. 

The sun had set only about a half-hour and the light was still lingeringon the under edges of the clouds in the west and made a sort of glow inthe little yard before him, as it did in front of the cabin on the otherhill. His eye first swept the well-known horizon, taking in the thicketsbelow him and the heavy pines on either side where it was already dusk, and then rested on the little cabin opposite. Whether he saw it ornot, one could hardly have told, for his face wore a reminiscent look. Figures moved backward and forward over there, came out and went in, without his look changing. Even Vashti, faintly distinguishable inher gay dress, came out and passed down the hill alone, without hisexpression changing. It was, perhaps, fifteen minutes later that heseemed to awake, and after a look over his shoulder stepped from thedoor into the yard. His mother was cooking, and he strolled down thepath across the little clearing and entered the pines. Insensibly hispace quickened--he strode along the dusky path with as firm a step as ifit were broad daylight. A quarter of a mile below the path crossed thelittle stream and joined the path from Cove Mills's place, which he usedto take when he went to school. He crossed at the old log and turneddown the path through the little clearing there. The next moment hestood face to face with Vashti Mills. Whether he was surprised or notno one could have told, for he said not a word, and his face was in theshadow, though Vashti's was toward the clearing and the light from thesky was on it. Her hat was in her hand. He stood still, but did notstand aside to let her pass, until she made an imperious little gestureand stepped as if she would have passed around him. Then he stoodaside. But she did not appear in a hurry to avail herself of the freedomoffered, she simply looked at him. He took off his cap sheepishlyenough, and said, "Good-evenin'. "

"Good-evenin', " she said, and then, as the pause became embarrassing, she said, "Hear you're agoin' away to-morrer?"

"Yes--to-morrer mornin'. "

"When you're acomin' back?" she asked, after a pause in which she hadbeen twisting the pink string of her hat. 

"Don't know--may be never. " Had he been looking at her he might haveseen the change which his words brought to her face; she lifted her eyesto his face for the first time since the half defiant glance she hadgiven him when they met, and they had a strange light in them, but atthe moment he was looking at a bow on her dress which had been pulledloose. He put out his hand and touched it and said:

"You're a-losin' yer bow, " and as she found a pin and fastened it again, he added, "An' I don' know as anybody keers. "

An overpowering impulse changed her and forced her to say: "I don't knowas anybody does either; I know as I don't. "

The look on his face smote her, and the spark died out of her eyes ashe said, slowly: "No, I knowed you didn'! I don't know as anybody does, exceptin' my old woman. Maybe she will a little. I jist wanted to tellyou that I wouldn't a' fit them boys if they hadn't a' pushed me sohard, and I wan't afeared to fight your old man, I jist wouldn't--that'sall. "

What answer she might have made to this was prevented by him; for hesuddenly held out his hand with something in it, saying, "Here. "

She instinctively reached out to take whatever it was, and he placed inher hand a book which she recognized as the little Testament which shehad won as a prize at school and had given him when they went to schooltogether. It was the only book she had ever possessed as her very own. 

"I brought this thinking as how maybe you might 'a'-wanted--me tokeep it, " he was going to say; but he checked himself and said: "might'a'-wanted it back. "

Before she could recover from the surprise of finding the book in herhand her own, he was gone. The words only came to her clearly as hisretreating footsteps grew fainter and his tall figure faded in thedarkening light. She made a hasty step or two after him, then checkedherself and listened intently to see if he were not returning, and then, as only the katydids answered, threw herself flat on the ground andgrovelled in the darkness. 

There were few houses in the district or in the county where lights didnot burn all that night. The gleam of the fire in Mrs. Stanley's littlehouse could be seen all night from the door of the Mills cabin, as thecandle by which Mrs. Mills complained while she and Vashti sewed, couldbe faintly seen from Little Darby's house. The two Mills boys sleptstretched out on the one bed in the little centre-room. 

While the women sewed and talked fitfully by the single tallow candle, and old Cove dozed in a chair with his long legs stretched out towardthe fire and the two shining barrels of his sons' muskets restingagainst his knees, where they had slipped from his hands when he hadfinished rubbing them. 

The younger woman did most of the sewing. Her fingers were supplerthan her mother's, and she scarcely spoke except to answer the latter'squerulous questions. Presently a rooster crowed somewhere in thedistance, and almost immediately another crowed in answer closer athand. 

"Thar's the second rooster-crow, it's gittin' erlong toward themornin', " said the elder woman. 

The young girl made no answer, but a moment later rose and, laying asidethe thing she was sewing, walked to the low door and stepped out intothe night. When she returned and picked up her sewing again, her mothersaid:

"I de-clar, Vashti, you drinks mo' water than anybody I ever see. "

To which she made no answer. 

"Air they a-stirrin' over at Mis's Stanley's?" asked the mother. 

"They ain't a-been to bed, " said the girl, quietly; and then, as if asudden thought had struck her, she hitched her chair nearer the doorwhich she had left open, and sat facing it as she sewed on the brownthing she was working on a small bow which she took from her dress. 

"I de-clar, I don't see what old Mis's Stanley is actually a-gwine todo, " broke out Mrs. Mills, suddenly, and when Vashti did not feel calledon to try to enlighten her she added, "Do you?"

"Same as other folks, I s'pose, " said the girl, quietly. 

"Other folks has somebody--somebody to take keer on 'em. I've got yourpappy now; but she ain't got nobody but little Darby--and when he's gonewhat will she do?"

For answer Vashti only hitched her chair a little nearer the door andsewed on almost in darkness. "Not that he was much account to her, nerto anybody else, except for goin' aroun' a-fightin' and a-fussin'. "

"He was account to her, " flamed up the girl, suddenly; "he was accountto her, to her and to everybody else. He was the fust soldier that'listed, and he's account to everybody. "

The old woman had raised her head in astonishment at her daughter'sfirst outbreak, and was evidently about to reply sharply; but the girl'sflushed face and flashing eyes awed and silenced her. 

"Well, well, I ain't sayin' nothin' against him, " she said, presently. 

"Yes, you air--you're always sayin' somethin' against him--and so iseverybody else--and they ain't fitten to tie his shoes. Why don't theysay it to his face! There ain't one of 'em as dares it, and he's thebest soldier in the comp'ny, an' I'm jest as proud of it as if he was myown. "

The old woman was evidently bound to defend herself. She said:

"It don't lay in your mouth to take up for him, Vashti Mills; for you'rethe one as has gone up and down and abused him scandalous. "

"Yes, and I know I did, " said the girl, springing up excitedly andtossing her arms and tearing at her ribbons. "An' I told him to his facetoo, and that's the only good thing about it. I knowed it was a lie whenI told him, and he knowed it was a lie too, and he knowed I knowed itwas a lie--what's more--and I'm glad he did--fo' God I'm glad he did. He could 'a' whipped the whole company an' he jest wouldn't--an' that'sGod's truth--God's fatal truth. "

The next instant she was on her knees hunting for something on thefloor, in an agony of tears; and as her father, aroused by the noise, rose and asked a question, she sprang up and rushed out of the door. 

The sound of an axe was already coming through the darkness across thegum thickets from Mrs. Stanley's, telling that preparation was beingmade for Darby's last breakfast. It might have told more, however, byits long continuance; for it meant that Little Darby was cutting hismother a supply of wood to last till his return. Inside, the old woman, thin and faded, was rubbing his musket. 

*****

The sun was just rising above the pines, filling the little bottombetween the cabins with a sort of rosy light, and making the dewy bushesand weeds sparkle with jewel-strung gossamer webs, when Little Darby, with his musket in his hand, stepped for the last time out of the lowdoor. He had been the first soldier in the district to enlist, he mustbe on time. He paused just long enough to give one swift glance aroundthe little clearing, and then set out along the path at his old swingingpace. At the edge of the pines he turned and glanced back. His motherwas standing in the door, but whether she saw him or not he could nottell. He waved his hand to her, but she did not wave back, her eyes werefailing somewhat. The next instant he disappeared in the pines. 

He had crossed the little stream on the old log and passed the pointwhere he had met Vashti the evening before, when he thought he heardsomething fall a little ahead of him. It could not have been a squirrel, for it did not move after it fell. His old hunter's instinct causedhim to look keenly down the path as he turned the clump of bushes whichstopped his view; but he saw no squirrel or other moving thing. Theonly thing he saw was a little brown something with a curious spot onit lying in the path some little way ahead. As he came nearer it, hesaw that it was a small parcel not as big as a man's fist. Someone hadevidently dropped it the evening before. He picked it up and examinedit as he strode along. It was a little case or wallet made of some brownstuff, such as women carry needles and thread in, and it was tied upwith a bit of red, white and blue string, the Confederate colors, on theend of which was sewed a small bow of pink ribbon. He untied it. It waswhat it looked to be: a roughly made little needle-case such as womenuse, tolerably well stocked with sewing materials, and it had somethinghard and almost square in a separate pocket. Darby opened this, and hisgun almost slipped from his hand. Inside was the Testament he had givenback to Vashti the evening before. He stopped stock-still, and gazed atit in amazement, turning it over in his hand. He recognized the bow ofpink ribbon as one like that which she had had on her dress the eveningbefore. She must have dropped it. Then it came to him that she must havegiven it to one of her brothers, and a pang shot through his heart. Buthow did it get where he found it? He was too keen a woodsman not to knowthat no footstep had gone before his on that path that morning. It was amystery too deep for him, and after puzzling over it a while he tied theparcel up again as nearly like what it had been before as he could, and determined to give it to one of the Mills boys when he reached theCross-roads. He unbuttoned his jacket and put it into the little innerpocket, and then rebuttoning it carefully, stepped out again morebriskly than before. 

It was perhaps an hour later that the Mills boys set out for theCross-roads. Their father and mother went with them; but Vashti did notgo. She had "been out to look for the cow, " and got in only just beforethey left, still clad in her yesterday's finery; but it was wet andbedraggled with the soaking dew. When they were gone she sat down in thedoor, limp and dejected. 

More than once during the morning the girl rose and started down thepath as if she would follow them and see the company set out on itsmarch, but each time she came back and sat down again in the door, remaining there for a good while as if in thought. 

Once she went over almost to Mrs. Stanley's, then turned back and satdown again. 

So the morning passed, and the first thing she knew, her father andmother had returned. The company had started. They were to march to thebridge that night. She heard them talking over the appearance that theyhad made; the speech of the captain; the cheers that went up as theymarched off--the enthusiasm of the crowd. Her father was in muchexcitement. Suddenly she seized her sun-bonnet and slipped out of thehouse and across the clearing, and the next instant she was flying downthe path through the pines. She knew the road they had taken, and a paththat would strike it several miles lower down. She ran like a deer, uphill and down, availing herself of every short cut, until, about an hourafter she started, she came out on the road. Fortunately for her, thedelays incident to getting any body of new troops on the march haddetained the company, and a moment's inspection of the road showedher that they had not yet passed. Clambering up a bank, she concealedherself and lay down. In a few moments she heard the noise they made inthe distance, and she was still panting from her haste when they camealong, the soldiers marching in order, as if still on parade, and aconsiderable company of friends attending them. Not a man, however, dreamed that, flat on her face in the bushes, lay a girl peering downat them with her breath held, but with a heart which beat so loud toher own ears that she felt they must hear it. Least of all did DarbyStanley, marching erect and tall in front, for all the sore heart in hisbosom, know that her eyes were on him as long as she could see him. 

When Vashti brought up the cow that night it was later than usual. Itperhaps was fortunate for her that the change made by the absence of theboys prevented any questioning. After all the excitement her mother wasin a fit of despondency. Her father sat in the door looking straightbefore him, as silent as the pine on which his vacant gaze was fixed. Even when the little cooking they had was through with and his supperwas offered him, he never spoke. He ate in silence and then took hisseat again. Even Mrs. Mills's complaining about the cow straying so farbrought no word from him any more than from Vashti. He sat silent asbefore, his long legs stretched out toward the fire. The glow of theembers fell on the rough, thin face and lit it up, bringing out thefeatures and making them suddenly clear-cut and strong. It might havebeen only the fire, but there seemed the glow of something more, andthe eyes burnt back under the shaggy brows. The two women likewise weresilent, the elder now and then casting a glance at her husband. Sheoffered him his pipe, but he said nothing, and silence fell as before. 

Presently she could stand it no longer. "I de-clar, Vashti, " she said, "I believe your pappy takes it most harder than I does. "

The girl made some answer about the boys. It was hardly intended for himto hear, but he rose suddenly, and walking to the door, took down fromthe two dogwood forks above it his old, long, single-barrelled gun, and turning to his wife said, "Git me my coat, old woman; by Gawd, I'ma-gwine. " The two women were both on their feet in a second. Their faceswere white and their hands were clenched under the sudden stress, theirbreath came fast. The older woman was the first to speak. 

"What in the worl' ken you do, Cove Mills, ole an' puny as you is, an'got the rheumatiz all the time, too?"

"I ken pint a gun, " said the old man, doggedly, "an' I'm a-gwine. "

"An' what in the worl' is a-goin' to become of us, an' that cow got torunnin' away so, I'm afeared all the time she'll git in the mash?" Hertone was querulous, but it was not positive, and when her husband saidagain, "I'm a-gwine, " she said no more, and all the time she was gettingtogether the few things which Cove would take. 

As for Vashti, she seemed suddenly revivified; she moved about with anew step, swift, supple, silent, her head up, a new light in her face, and her eyes, as they turned now and then on her father, filled with anew fire. She did not talk much. "I'll a-teck care o' us all, " she saidonce; and once again, when her mother gave something like a moan, shesupported her with a word about "the only ones as gives three from onefamily. " It was a word in season, for the mother caught the spirit, anda moment later declared, with a new tone in her voice, that that wasbetter than Mrs. Stanley, and still they were better off than she, forthey still had two left to help each other, while she had not a soul. 

"I'll teck care o' us all, " repeated the girl once more. 

It was only a few things that Cove Mills took with him that morning, when he set out in the darkness to overtake the company before theyshould break camp--hardly his old game-bag half full; for the equipmentof the boys had stripped the little cabin of everything that could be ofuse. He might only have seemed to be going hunting, as he slung down thepath with his old long-barrelled gun in his hand and his game-bag overhis shoulder, and disappeared in the darkness from the eyes of the twowomen standing in the cabin door. 

The next morning Mrs. Mills paid Mrs. Stanley the first visit she hadpaid on that side the branch since the day, three years before, whenCove and the boys had the row with Little Darby. It might have seemedaccidental, but Mrs. Stanley was the first person in the district toknow that all the Mills men were gone to the army. She went over again, from time to time, for it was not a period to keep up open hostilities, and she was younger than Mrs. Stanley and better off; but Vashti neverwent, and Mrs. Stanley never asked after her or came. 

II

The company in which Little Darby and the Millses had enlisted was oneof the many hundred infantry companies which joined and were mergedin the Confederate army. It was in no way particularly signalized byanything that it did. It was commanded by the gentleman who did mosttoward getting it up; and the officers were gentlemen. The seventy oddmen who made the rank and file were of all classes, from the sons of theoldest and wealthiest planters in the neighborhood to Little Darby andthe dwellers in the district. The war was very different from what thosewho went into it expected it to be. Until it had gone on some time itseemed mainly marching and camping and staying in camp, quite uselesslyas seemed to many, and drilling and doing nothing. Much of thetime--especially later on--was given to marching and getting food;but drilling and camp duties at first took up most of it. This wasespecially hard on the poorer men, no one knew what it was to them. Somemoped, some fell sick. Of the former class was Little Darby. He was toostrong to be sickly as one of the Mills boys was, who died of fever inhospital only three months after they went in, and too silent to be asthe other, who was jolly and could dance and sing a good song and wassoon very popular in the company; more popular even than Old Cove, whowas popular in several rights, as being about the oldest man in thecompany and as having a sort of dry wit when he was in a good humor, which he generally was. Little Darby was hardly distinguished at all, unless by the fact that he was somewhat taller than most of his comradesand somewhat more taciturn. He was only a common soldier of a commonclass in an ordinary infantry company, such a company as was common inthe army. He still had the little wallet which he had picked up in thepath that morning he left home. He had asked both of the Mills boysvaguely if they ever had owned such a piece of property, but they hadnot, and when old Cove told him that he had not either, he had contentedhimself and carried it about with him somewhat elaborately wrapped upand tied in an old piece of oilcloth and in his inside jacket pocket forsafety, with a vague feeling that some day he might find the owneror return it. He was never on specially good terms with the Millses. Indeed, there was always a trace of coolness between them and him. Hecould not give it to them. Now and then he untied and unwrapped it ina secret place and read a little in the Testament, but that was all. He never touched a needle or so much as a pin, and when he untied theparcel he generally counted them to see that they were all there. 

So the war went on, with battles coming a little oftener and foodgrowing ever a little scarcer; but the company was about as before, nothing particular--what with killing and fever a little thinned, agood deal faded; and Little Darby just one in a crowd, marching with therest, sleeping with the rest, fighting with the rest, starving withthe rest. He was hardly known for a long time, except for his silence, outside of his mess. Men were fighting and getting killed or woundedconstantly; as for him, he was never touched; and as he did what he wasordered silently and was silent when he got through, there was no oneto sing his praise. Even when he was sent out on the skirmish line asa sharp-shooter, if he did anything no one knew it. He would disappearover a crest, or in a wood, and reappear as silent as if he were huntingin the swamps of the district; clean his gun; cut up wood; eat what hecould get, and sit by the fire and listen to the talk, as silent awakeas asleep. 

One other thing distinguished him, he could handle an axe better thanany man in the company; but no one thought much of that--least of all, Little Darby; it only brought him a little more work occasionally. 

One day, in the heat of a battle which the men knew was being won, if shooting and cheering and rapid advancing could tell anything, theadvance which had been going on with spirit was suddenly checked by amurderous artillery fire which swept the top of a slope, along the crestof which ran a road a little raised between two deep ditches topped bythe remains of heavy fences. The infantry, after a gallant and hopelesscharge, were ordered to lie down in the ditch behind the pike, and weresheltered from the leaden sleet which swept the crest. Artillery wasneeded to clear the field beyond, by silencing the batteries which sweptit, but no artillery could get into position for the ditches, and theday seemed about to be lost. The only way was up the pike, and the onlybreak was a gate opening into the field right on top of the hill. Thegate was gone, but two huge wooden gate-posts, each a tree-trunk, stillstood and barred the way. No cannon had room to turn in between them; abattery had tried and a pile of dead men, horses, and debris marked itsfailure. A general officer galloped up with two or three of his staff totry to start the advance again. He saw the impossibility. 

"If we could get a couple of batteries into that field for threeminutes, " he said, "it would do the work, but in ten minutes it will betoo late. "

The company from the old county was lying behind the bank almost exactlyopposite the gate, and every word could be heard. 

Where the axe came from no one knew; but a minute later a man slunghimself across the road, and the next second the sharp, steady blows ofan axe were ringing on the pike. The axeman had cut a wide cleft in thebrown wood, and the big chips were flying before his act was quite takenin, and then a cheer went up from the line. It was no time to cheer, however; other chips were flying than those from the cutter's axe, and the bullets hissed by him like bees, splintering the hard post andknocking the dust from the road about his feet; but he took no notice ofthem, his axe plied as steadily as if he had been cutting a tree inthe woods of the district, and when he had cut one side, he turned asdeliberately and cut the other; then placing his hand high up, he flunghis weight against the post and it went down. A great cheer went up andthe axeman swung back across the road just as two batteries of artillerytore through the opening he had made. 

Few men outside of his company knew who the man was, and few had time toask; for the battle was on again and the infantry pushed forward. As forLittle Darby himself, the only thing he said was, "I knowed I could cutit down in ten minutes. " He had nine bullet holes through his clothesthat night, but Little Darby thought nothing of it, and neither didothers; many others had bullet holes through their bodies that night. Ithappened not long afterward that the general was talking of the battleto an English gentleman who had come over to see something of the warand was visiting him in his camp, and he mentioned the incident of abattle won by an axeman's coolness, but did not know the name of theman who cut the post away; the captain of the company, however, was thegeneral's cousin and was dining with his guest that day, and he saidwith pride that he knew the man, that he was in his company, and he gavethe name. 

"It is a fine old name, " said the visitor. 

"And he is a fine man, " said the captain; but none of this was everknown by Darby. He was not mentioned in the gazette, because there wasno gazette. The confederate soldiery had no honors save the approval oftheir own consciences and the love of their own people. It was not evenmentioned in the district; or, if it was, it was only that he had cutdown a post; other men were being shot to pieces all the time and thedistrict had other things to think of. 

Poor at all times, the people of the district were now absolutelywithout means of subsistence. Fortunately for them, they were inured tohardship; and their men being all gone to the war, the women made suchshift as they could and lived as they might. They hoed their littlepatches, fished the streams, and trapped in the woods. But it was poorenough at best, and the weak went down and only the strong survived. Mrs. Mills was better off than most, she had a cow--at first, and shehad Vashti. Vashti turned out to be a tower of strength. She trappedmore game than anyone in the district; caught more fish with lines andtraps--she went miles to fish below the forks where the fish were biggerthan above; she learned to shoot with her father's old gun, which hadbeen sent back when he got a musket, shot like a man and better thanmost men; she hoed the patch, she tended the cow till it was lost, andthen she did many other things. Her mother declared that, when Chrisdied (Chris was the boy who died of fever), but for Vashti she could nothave got along at all, and there were many other women in the pines whofelt the same thing. 

When the news came that Bob Askew was killed, Vashti was one of thefirst who got to Bob's wife; and when Billy Luck disappeared in abattle, Vashti gave the best reasons for thinking he had been takenprisoner; and many a string of fish and many a squirrel and hare foundtheir way into the empty cabins because Vashti "happened to pass by. "

From having been rather stigmatized as "that Vashti Mills", she came tobe relied on, and "Vashti" was consulted and quoted as an authority. 

One cabin alone she never visited. The house of old Mrs. Stanley, nowalmost completely buried under its unpruned wistaria vine, she neverentered. Her mother, as has been said, sometimes went across the bottom, and now and then took with her a hare or a bird or a string of fish--oncondition from Vashti that it should not be known she had caught them;but Vashti never went, and Mrs. Mills found herself sometimes put to itto explain to others her unneighborliness. The best she could make of itto say that "Vashti, she always DO do her own way. "

How Mrs. Stanley's wood-pile was kept up nobody knew, if, indeed, itcould be called a wood-pile, when it was only a recurring supply ofdry-wood thrown as if accidentally just at the edge of the clearing. Mrs. Stanley was not of an imaginative turn, even of enough to explainhow it came that so much dry-wood came to be there broken up just theright length; and Mrs. Mills knew no more than that "that cow was alwaysa-goin' off and a-keepin' Vashti a-huntin' everywheres in the worl'. "

All said, however, the women of the district had a hungry time, and thewar bore on them heavily as on everyone else, and as it went on theysuffered more and more. Many a woman went day after day and week afterweek without even the small portion of coarse corn-bread which wasordinarily her common fare. They called oftener and oftener at thehouse of their neighbors who owned the plantations near them, and alwaysreceived something; but as time went on the plantations themselves werestripped; the little things they could take with them when they went, such as eggs, honey, etc. , were wanting, and to go too often withoutanything to give might make them seem like beggars, and that they werenot. Their husbands and sons were in the army fighting for the South, aswell as those from the plantations, and they stood by this fact on thesame level. 

The arrogant looks of the negroes were unpleasant, and in markedcontrast to the universal graciousness of their owners, but they wereslaves and they could afford to despise them. Only they must upholdtheir independence. Thus no one outside knew what the women of thedistrict went through. When they wrote to their husbands or sons thatthey were in straits, it meant that they were starving. Such a lettermeant all the more because they were used to hunger, but not to writing, and a letter meant perhaps days of thought and enterprise and hours oflabor. 

As the war went on the hardships everywhere grew heavier and heavier;the letters from home came oftener and oftener. Many of the men gotfurloughs when they were in winter quarters, and sometimes in summer, too, from wounds, and went home to see their families. Little Darbynever went; he sent his mother his pay, and wrote to her, but he did noteven apply for a furlough, and he had never been touched except for acouple of flesh wounds which were barely skin-deep. When he heard fromhis mother she was always cheerful; and as he knew Vashti had never evenvisited her, there was no other reason for his going home. It was inthe late part of the third campaign of the war that he began to think ofgoing. 

When Cove Mills got a letter from his wife and told Little Darby how"ailin'" and "puny" his mother was getting, Darby knew that the letterwas written by Vashti, and he felt that it meant a great deal. Heapplied for a furlough, but was told that no furloughs would begranted then--which then meant that work was expected. It came shortlyafterward, and Little Darby and the company were in it. Battle followedbattle. A good many men in the company were killed, but, as it happened, not one of the men from the district was among them, until one day whenthe company after a fierce charge found itself hugging the ground ina wide field, on the far side of which the enemy--infantry andartillery--was posted in force. Lying down they were pretty wellprotected by the conformation of the ground from the artillery; andlying down, the infantry generally, even with their better guns, couldnot hurt them to a great extent; but a line of sharp-shooters, wellplaced behind cover of scattered rocks on the far side of the field, could reach them with their long-range rifles, and galled them withtheir dropping fire, picking off man after man. A line of sharp-shooterswas thrown forward to drive them in; but their guns were not as good andthe cover was inferior, and it was only after numerous losses that theysucceeded in silencing most of them. They still left several men upamong the rocks, who from time to time sent a bullet into the line withdeadly effect. One man, in particular, ensconced behind a rock on thehill-side, picked off the men with unerring accuracy. Shot after shotwas sent at him. At last he was quiet for so long that it seemed he musthave been silenced, and they began to hope; Ad Mills rose to his kneesand in sheer bravado waved his hat in triumph. Just as he did so a puffof white came from the rock, and Ad Mills threw up his hands and fellon his back, like a log, stone dead. A groan of mingled rage and dismaywent along the line. Poor old Cove crept over and fell on the boy's bodywith a flesh wound in his own arm. Fifty shots were sent at the rock, but a puff of smoke from it afterward and a hissing bullet showed thatthe marksman was untouched. It was apparent that he was secure behindhis rock bulwark and had some opening through which he could fire at hisleisure. It was also apparent that he must be dislodged if possible; buthow to do it was the question; no one could reach him. The slope downand the slope up to the group of rocks behind which he lay were both inplain view, and any man would be riddled who attempted to cross it. Abit of woods reached some distance up on one side, but not far enoughto give a shot at one behind the rock; and though the ground in thatdirection dipped a little, there was one little ridge in full viewof both lines and perfectly bare, except for a number of bodies ofskirmishers who had fallen earlier in the day. It was discussed in theline; but everyone knew that no man could get across the ridge alive. While they were talking of it Little Darby, who, with a white face, hadhelped old Cove to get his boy's body back out of fire, slipped off toone side, rifle in hand, and disappeared in the wood. 

They were still talking of the impossibility of dislodging thesharp-shooter when a man appeared on the edge of the wood. He movedswiftly across the sheltered ground, stooping low until he reached theedge of the exposed place, where he straightened up and made a dashacross it. He was recognized instantly by some of the men of his companyas Little Darby, and a buzz of astonishment went along the line. Whatcould he mean, it was sheer madness; the line of white smoke alongthe wood and the puffs of dust about his feet showed that bullets wereraining around him. The next second he stopped dead-still, threw up hisarms, and fell prone on his face in full view of both lines. A groanwent up from his comrades; the whole company knew he was dead, and onthe instant a puff of white from the rock and a hissing bullet told thatthe sharp-shooter there was still intrenched in his covert. The men werediscussing Little Darby, when someone cried out and pointed to him. Hewas still alive, and not only alive, but was moving--moving slowly butsteadily up the ridge and nearer on a line with the sharp-shooter, asflat on the ground as any of the motionless bodies about him. A strangethrill of excitement went through the company as the dark object draggeditself nearer to the rock, and it was not allayed when the whack ofa bullet and the well-known white puff of smoke recalled them to thesharp-shooter's dangerous aim; for the next second the creeping figuresprang erect and made a dash for the spot. He had almost reached it whenthe sharp-shooter discovered him, and the men knew that Little Darby hadunderestimated the quickness of his hand and aim; for at the same momentthe figure of the man behind the rock appeared for a second as he sprangerect; there was a puff of white and Little Darby stopped and staggeredand sank to his knees. The next second, however, there was a puff fromwhere he knelt, and then he sank flat once more, and a moment laterrolled over on his face on the near side of the rock and just at itsfoot. There were no more bullets sent from that rock that day--at least, against the Confederates--and that night Little Darby walked into hiscompany's bivouac, dusty from head to foot and with a bullet-hole in hisclothes not far from his heart; but he said it was only a spent bulletand had just knocked the breath out of him. He was pretty sore from itfor a time, but was able to help old Cove to get his boy's body off andto see him start; for the old man's wound, though not dangerous, wasenough to disable him and get him a furlough, and he determined to takehis son's body home, which the captain's influence enabled him to do. Between his wound and his grief the old man was nearly helpless, andaccepted Darby's silent assistance with mute gratitude. Darby asked himto tell his mother that he was getting on well, and sent her what moneyhe had--his last two months' pay--not enough to have bought her a pairof stockings or a pound of sugar. The only other message he sent wasgiven at the station just as Cove set out. He said:

"Tell Vashti as I got him as done it. "

Old Cove grasped his hand tremulously and faltered his promise to do so, and the next moment the train crawled away and left Darby to plod backto camp in the rain, vague and lonely in the remnant of what had oncebeen a gray uniform. If there was one thing that troubled him it wasthat he could not return Vashti the needle-case until he replaced thebroken needles--and there were so many of them broken. 

After this Darby was in some sort known, and was put pretty constantlyon sharp-shooter service. 

The men went into winter quarters before Darby heard anything from home. It came one day in the shape of a letter in the only hand in the worldhe knew--Vashti's. What it could mean he could not divine--was hismother dead? This was the principal thing that occurred to him. Hestudied the outside. It had been on the way a month by the postmark, for letters travelled slowly in those days, and a private soldier in aninfantry company was hard to find unless the address was pretty clear, which this was not. He did not open it immediately. His mother must bedead, and this he could not face. Nothing else would have made Vashtiwrite. At last he went off alone and opened it, and read it, spellingit out with some pains. It began without an address, with the simplestatement that her father had arrived with Ad's body and that ithad been buried, and that his wound was right bad and her mother wasmightily cut up with her trouble. Then it mentioned his mother and saidshe had come to Ad's funeral, though she could not walk much now andhad never been over to their side since the day after he--Darby--hadenlisted; but her father had told her as how he had killed the man asshot Ad, and so she made out to come that far. Then the letter brokeoff from giving news, and as if under stress of feelings long pent up, suddenly broke loose: she declared that she loved him; that she hadalways loved him--always--ever since he had been so good to her--a greatbig boy to a little bit of a girl--at school, and that she did not knowwhy she had been so mean to him; for when she had treated him worst shehad loved him most; that she had gone down the path that night whenthey had met, for the purpose of meeting him and of letting him know sheloved him; but something had made her treat him as she did, and all thetime she could have let him kill her for love of him. She said she hadtold her mother and father she loved him and she had tried to tell hismother, but she could not, for she was afraid of her; but she wanted himto tell her when he came; and she had tried to help her and keep herin wood ever since he went away, for his sake. Then the letter told howpoorly his mother was and how she had failed of late, and she said shethought he ought to get a furlough and come home, and when he did shewould marry him. It was not very well written, nor wholly coherent;at least it took some time to sink fully into Darby's somewhat dazedintellect; but in time he took it in, and when he did he sat like a manoverwhelmed. At the end of the letter, as if possibly she thought, inthe greatness of her relief at her confession, that the temptation sheheld out might prove too great even for him, or possibly only becauseshe was a woman, there was a postscript scrawled across the coarse, blueConfederate paper: "Don't come without a furlough; for if you don't comehonorable I won't marry you. " This, however, Darby scarcely read. Hisbeing was in the letter. It was only later that the picture of hismother ill and failing came to him, and it smote him in the midst of hishappiness and clung to him afterward like a nightmare. It haunted him. She was dying. 

He applied for a furlough; but furloughs were hard to get then and hecould not hear from it; and when a letter came in his mother's name ina lady's hand which he did not know, telling him of his mother's povertyand sickness and asking him if he could get off to come and see her, itseemed to him that she was dying, and he did not wait for the furlough. He was only a few days' march from home and he felt that he could seeher and get back before he was wanted. So one day he set out in therain. It was a scene of desolation that he passed through, for thecountry was the seat of war; fences were gone, woods burnt, and fieldscut up and bare; and it rained all the time. A little before morning, on the night of the third day, he reached the edge of the district andplunged into its well-known pines, and just as day broke he entered theold path which led up the little hill to his mother's cabin. All duringhis journey he had been picturing the meeting with some one else besideshis mother, and if Vashti had stood before him as he crossed the oldlog he would hardly have been surprised. Now, however, he had otherthoughts; as he reached the old clearing he was surprised to find itgrown up in small pines already almost as high as his head, and tallweeds filled the rows among the old peach-trees and grew up to the verydoor. He had been struck by the desolation all the way as he came along;but it had not occurred to him that there must be a change at his ownhome; he had always pictured it as he left it, as he had always thoughtof Vashti in her pink calico, with her hat in her hand and her heavyhair almost falling down over her neck. Now a great horror seized him. The door was wet and black. His mother must be dead. He stopped andpeered through the darkness at the dim little structure. There was alittle smoke coming out of the chimney, and the next instant he strodeup to the door. It was shut, but the string was hanging out and hepulled it and pushed the door open. A thin figure seated in the smallsplit-bottomed chair on the hearth, hovering as close as possible overthe fire, straightened up and turned slowly as he stepped into the room, and he recognized his mother--but how changed! She was quite whiteand little more than a skeleton. At sight of the figure behind her shepulled herself to her feet, and peered at him through the gloom. 

"Mother!" he said. 

"Darby!" She reached her arms toward him, but tottered so that she wouldhave fallen, had he not caught her and eased her down into her chair. 

As she became a little stronger she made him tell her about the battleshe was in. Mr. Mills had come to tell her that he had killed the man whokilled Ad. Darby was not a good narrator, however, and what he had totell was told in a few words. The old woman revived under it, however, and her eyes had a brighter light in them. 

Darby was too much engrossed in taking care of his mother that day tohave any thought of any one else. He was used to a soldier's scant fare, but had never quite taken in the fact that his mother and the women athome had less even than they in the field. He had never seen, evenin their poorest days after his father's death, not only the houseabsolutely empty, but without any means of getting anything outside. Itgave him a thrill to think what she must have endured without lettinghim know. As soon as he could leave her, he went into the woods with hisold gun, and shortly returned with a few squirrels which he cooked forher; the first meat, she told him, that she had tasted for weeks. Onhearing it his heart grew hot. Why had not Vashti come and seen abouther? She explained it partly, however, when she told him that every onehad been sick at Cove Mills's, and old Cove himself had come neardying. No doctor could be got to see them, as there was none left in theneighborhood, and but for Mrs. Douwill she did not know what they wouldhave done. But Mrs. Douwill was down herself now. 

The young man wanted to know about Vashti, but all he could manage tomake his tongue ask was, "Vashti?"

She could not tell him, she did not know anything about Vashti. Mrs. Mills used to bring her things sometimes, till she was taken down, butVashti had never come to see her; all she knew was that she had beensick with the others. 

That she had been sick awoke in the young man a new tenderness, thedeeper because he had done her an injustice; and he was seized with agreat longing to see her. All his old love seemed suddenly accumulatedin his heart, and he determined to go and see her at once, as he had notlong to stay. He set about his little preparations forthwith, puttingon his old clothes which his mother had kept ever since he went away, asbeing more presentable than the old worn and muddy, threadbare uniform, and brushing his long yellow hair and beard into something like order. He changed from one coat to the other the little package which he alwayscarried, thinking that he would show it to her with the hole in it, which the sharp-shooter's bullet had made that day, and he put herletter into the same pocket; his heart beating at the sight of her handand the memory of the words she had written, and then he set out. Itwas already late in the evening, and after the rain the air was soft andbalmy, though the western sky was becoming overcast again by a cloud, which low down on the horizon was piling up mountain on mountain ofvapor, as if it might rain again by night. Darby, however, havingdressed, crossed the flat without much trouble, only getting a littlewet in some places where the logs were gone. As he turned into the pathup the hill, he stood face to face with Vashti. She was standing bya little spring which came from under an old oak, the only one on thehill-side of pines, and was in a faded black calico. He scarcely took inat first that it was Vashti, she was so changed. He had always thoughtof her as he last saw her that evening in pink, with her white throatand her scornful eyes. She was older now than she was then; looked morea woman and taller; and her throat if anything was whiter than everagainst her black dress; her face was whiter too, and her eyes darkerand larger. At least, they opened wide when Darby appeared in the path. Her hands went up to her throat as if she suddenly wanted breath. All ofthe young man's heart went out to her, and the next moment he was withinarm's length of her. Her one word was in his ears:

"Darby!" He was about to catch her in his arms when a gesture restrainedhim, and her look turned him to stone. 

"Yer uniform?" she gasped, stepping back. Darby was not quick always, and he looked down at his clothes and then at her again, his dazed brainwondering. 

"Whar's yer uniform?" she asked. 

"At home, " he said, quietly, still wondering. She seemed to catch somehope. 

"Yer got a furlough?" she said, more quietly, coming a little nearer tohim, and her eyes growing softer. 

"Got a furlough?" he repeated to gain time for thought. "I--I----" Hehad never thought of it before; the words in her letter flashed into hismind, and he felt his face flush. He would not tell her a lie. "No, Iain't got no furlough, " he said, and paused whilst he tried to get hiswords together to explain. But she did not give him time. 

"What you doin' with them clo'se on?" she asked again. 

"I--I----" he began, stammering as her suspicion dawned on him. 

"You're a deserter!" she said, coldly, leaning forward, her handsclenched, her face white, her eyes contracted. 

"A what!" he asked aghast, his brain not wholly taking in her words. 

"You're a deserter!" she said again--"and--a coward!"

All the blood in him seemed to surge to his head and leave his heartlike ice. He seized her arm with a grip like steel. 

"Vashti Mills, " he said, with his face white, "don't you say that tome--if yer were a man I'd kill yer right here where yer stan'!" Hetossed her hand from him, and turned on his heel. 

The next instant she was standing alone, and when she reached the pointin the path where she could see the crossing, Darby was already on theother side of the swamp, striding knee-deep through the water as if hewere on dry land. She could not have made him hear if she had wished it;for on a sudden a great rushing wind swept through the pines, bendingthem down like grass and blowing the water in the bottom into whitewaves, and the thunder which had been rumbling in the distance suddenlybroke with a great peal just overhead. 

In a few minutes the rain came; but the girl did not mind it. She stoodlooking across the bottom until it came in sheets, wetting her to theskin and shutting out everything a few yards away. 

The thunder-storm passed, but all that night the rain came down, and allthe next day, and when it held up a little in the evening the bottom wasa sea. 

The rain had not prevented Darby from going out--he was used to it; andhe spent most of the day away from home. When he returned he brought hismother a few provisions, as much meal perhaps as a child might carry, and spent the rest of the evening sitting before the fire, silent andmotionless, a flame burning back deep in his eyes and a cloud fixed onhis brow. He was in his uniform, which he had put on again the nightbefore as soon as he got home, and the steam rose from it as he sat. Theother clothes were in a bundle on the floor where he had tossed themthe evening before. He never moved except when his mother now and thenspoke, and then sat down again as before. Presently he rose and said hemust be going; but as he rose to his feet, a pain shot through him likea knife; everything turned black before him and he staggered and fellfull length on the floor. 

He was still on the floor next morning, for his mother had not been ableto get him to the bed, or to leave to get any help; but she had madehim a pallet, and he was as comfortable as a man might be with a ragingfever. Feeble as she was, the sudden demand on her had awakened the oldwoman's faculties and she was stronger than might have seemed possible. One thing puzzled her: in his incoherent mutterings, Darby constantlyreferred to a furlough and a deserter. She knew that he had a furlough, of course; but it puzzled her to hear him constantly repeating thewords. So the day passed and then, Darby's delirium still continuing, she made out to get to a neighbor's to ask help. The neighbor had to goto Mrs. Douwill's as the only place where there was a chance of gettingany medicine, and it happened that on the way back she fell in with acouple of soldiers, on horseback, who asked her a few questions. Theywere members of a home and conscript guard just formed, and when sheleft them they had learned her errand. 

Fortunately, Darby's illness took a better turn next day, and by sunsethe was free from delirium. 

Things had not fared well over at Cove Mills's during these days anymore than at Mrs. Stanley's. Vashti was in a state of mind which madeher mother wonder if she were not going crazy. She set it down to thestorm she had been out in that evening, for Vashti had not mentionedDarby's name. She kept his presence to herself, thinking that--thinkingso many things that she could not speak or eat. Her heart was like leadwithin her; but she could not rid herself of the thought of Darby. Shecould have torn it out for hate of herself; and to all her mother'squestioning glances she turned the face of a sphinx. For two days sheneither ate nor spoke. She watched the opposite hill through the rainwhich still kept up--something was going on over there, but what it wasshe could not tell. At last, on the evening of the third day, she couldstand it no longer, and she set out from home to learn something; shecould not have gone to Mrs. Stanley's, even if she had wished to do so;for the bottom was still a sea extending from side to side, and it wasover her head in the current. She set off, therefore, up the stream onher own side, thinking to learn something up that way. She met the womanwho had taken the medicine to Darby that evening, and she told her allshe knew, mentioning among other things the men of the conscript guardshe had seen. Vashti's heart gave a sudden bound up into her throat. As she was so near she went on up to the Cross-roads; but just as shestepped out into the road before she reached there, she came on a smallsquad of horsemen riding slowly along. She stood aside to let them pass;but they drew in and began to question her as to the roads about them. They were in long cloaks and overcoats, and she thought they were theconscript guard, especially as there was a negro with them who seemedto know the roads and to be showing them the way. Her one thought wasof Darby; he would be arrested and shot. When they questioned her, therefore, she told them of the roads leading to the big river aroundthe fork and quite away from the district. Whilst they were stilltalking, more riders came around the curve, and the next instant Vashtiwas in the midst of a column of cavalry, and she knew that they were theFederals. She had one moment of terror for herself as the restive horsestrampled around her, and the calls and noises of a body of cavalrymoving dinned in her ears; but the next moment, when the others gave wayand a man whom she knew to be the commander pressed forward and began toquestion her, she forgot her own terror in fear for her cause. She hadall her wits about her instantly; and under a pretence of repeatingwhat she had already told the first men, she gave them such a mixtureof descriptions that the negro was called up to unravel it. She madeout that they were trying to reach the big river by a certain road, andmarched in the night as well as in the day. She admitted that she hadnever been on that road but once. And when she was taken along with thema mile or two to the place where they went into bivouac until the moonshould rise, she soon gave such an impression of her denseness andignorance that, after a little more questioning, she was told that shemight go home if she could find her way, and was sent by the commanderout of the camp. She was no sooner out of hearing of her captors thanshe began to run with all her speed. Her chief thought was of Darby. Deserter as he was, and dead to her, he was a man, and could adviseher, help her. She tore through the woods the nearest way, unheeding thebranches which caught and tore her clothes; the stream, even where shestruck it, was out of its banks; but she did not heed it--she wadedthrough, it reaching about to her waist, and struck out again at the topof her speed. 

It must have been a little before midnight when she emerged from thepines in front of the Stanley cabin. The latch-string was out, and sheknocked and pushed open the door almost simultaneously. All she couldmake out to say was, "Darby. " The old woman was on her feet, and theyoung man was sitting up in the bed, by the time she entered. 

Darby was the first to speak. 

"What do you want here?" he asked, sternly. 

"Darby--the Yankees--all around, " she gasped--"out on the road yonder. "

"What!"

A minute later the young man, white as a ghost, was getting on hisjacket while she told her story, beginning with what the woman she hadmet had told her of the two men she had seen. The presence of a soldierhad given her confidence, and having delivered her message both womenleft everything else to him. His experience or his soldier's instincttold him what they were doing and also how to act. They were a raidwhich had gotten around the body of the army and were striking for thecapital; and from their position, unless they could be delayed theymight surprise it. In the face of the emergency a sudden genius seemedto illuminate the young man's mind. By the time he was dressed he wasready with his plan--Did Vashti know where any of the conscript guardstayed?

Yes, down the road at a certain place. Good; it was on the way. Then hegave her his orders. She was to go to this place and rouse any one shemight find there and tell them to send a messenger to the city with allspeed to warn them, and were to be themselves if possible at a certainpoint on the road by which the raiders were travelling, where a littlestream crossed it in a low place in a heavy piece of swampy woods. Theywould find a barricade there and a small force might possibly keep themback. Then she was to go on down and have the bridge, ten or twelvemiles below on the road between the forks burned, and if necessary wasto burn it herself; and it must be done by sunrise. But they were onthe other road, outside of the forks, the girl explained, to which Darbyonly said, he knew that, but they would come back and try the bridgeroad. 

"And you burn the bridge if you have to do it with your own hand, youhear--and now go, " he said. 

"Yes--I'll do it, " said the girl obediently and turned to the door. Thenext instant she turned back to him: he had his gun and was getting hisaxe. 

"And, Darby----?" she began falteringly, her heart in her eyes. 

"Go, " said the young soldier, pointing to the door, and she went just ashe took up his old rifle and stepped over to where his mother sat whiteand dumb. As she turned at the edge of the clearing and looked back upthe path over the pine-bushes she saw him step out of the door with hisgun in one hand and his axe in the other. 

An hour later Darby, with the fever still hot on him, was cuttingdown trees in the darkness on the bank of a marshy little stream, andthrowing them into the water on top of one another across the road, ina way to block it beyond a dozen axemen's work for several hours, andVashti was trudging through the darkness miles away to give the warning. Every now and then the axeman stopped cutting and listened, and thenwent on again. He had cut down a half-dozen trees and formed a barricadewhich it would take hours to clear away before cavalry could pass, when, stopping to listen, he heard a sound that caused him to put down hisaxe: the sound of horses splashing along through the mud. His practisedear told him that there were only three or four of them, and he took uphis gun and climbed up on the barricade and waited. Presently the littlesquad of horsemen came in sight, a mere black group in the road. Theysaw the dark mass lying across the road and reined in; then after acolloquy came on down slowly. Darby waited until they were within fiftyyards of his barricade, and then fired at the nearest one. A horsewheeled, plunged, and then galloped away in the darkness, and severalrounds from pistols were fired toward him, whilst something went onon the ground. Before he could finish reloading, however, the men hadturned around and were out of sight. In a minute Darby climbed over thebarricade and strode up the road after them. He paused where the man hehad shot had fallen. The place in the mud was plain; but his comradeshad taken him up and carried him off. Darby hurried along after them. Day was just breaking, and the body of cavalry were preparing to leavetheir bivouac when a man emerged from the darkness on the opposite sideof the camp from that where Little Darby had been felling trees, and walked up to the picket. He was halted and brought up where thefire-light could shine on him, and was roughly questioned--a tall youngcountryman, very pale and thin, with an old ragged slouched hat pulledover his eyes, and an old patched uniform on his gaunt frame. He did notseem at all disturbed by the pistols displayed around him, but seatedhimself at the fire and looked about in a dull kind of way. 

"What do you want?" they asked him, seeing how cool he was. 

"Don't you want a guide?" he asked, drawlingly. 

"Who are you?" inquired the corporal in charge. He paused. 

"Some calls me a d'serter, " he said, slowly. 

The men all looked at him curiously. 

"Well, what do you want?"

"I thought maybe as you wanted a guide, " he said, quietly. 

"We don't want you. We've got all the guide we want, " answered thecorporal, roughly, "and we don't want any spies around here either, youunderstand?"

"Does he know the way? All the creeks is up now, an' it's sort o'hard to git erlong through down yonder way if you don't know the waytoller'ble well?"

"Yes, he knows the way too--every foot of it--and a good deal more thanyou'll see of it if you don't look out. "

"Oh! That road down that way is sort o' stopped up, " said the man, as ifhe were carrying on a connected narrative and had not heard him. "They'ssoldiers on it too a little fur'er down, and they's done got word you'rea-comin' that a-way. "

"What's that?" they asked, sharply. 

"Leastways it's stopped up, and I knows a way down this a-way in andabout as nigh as that, " went on the speaker, in the same level voice. 

"Where do you live?" they asked him. 

"I lives back in the pines here a piece. "

"How long have you lived here?"

"About twenty-three years, I b'leeves; 'ats what my mother says. "

"You know all the country about here?"

"Ought to. "

"Been in the army?"

"Ahn--hahn. "

"What did you desert for?"

Darby looked at him leisurely. 

"'D you ever know a man as 'lowed he'd deserted? I never did. " A faintsmile flickered on his pale face. 

He was taken to the camp before the commander, a dark, self-containedlooking man with a piercing eye and a close mouth, and there closelyquestioned as to the roads, and he gave the same account he had alreadygiven. The negro guide was brought up and his information tallied withthe new comer's as far as he knew it, though he knew well only the roadwhich they were on and which Darby said was stopped up. He knew, too, that a road such as Darby offered to take them by ran somewhere downthat way and joined the road they were on a good distance below; but hethought it was a good deal longer way and they had to cross a fork ofthe river. 

There was a short consultation between the commander and one or twoother officers, and then the commander turned to Darby, and said:

"What you say about the road's being obstructed this way is partly true;do you guarantee that the other road is clear?"

Darby paused and reflected. 

"I'll guide you, " he said, slowly. 

"Do you guarantee that the bridge on the river is standing and that wecan get across?"

"Hit's standing now, fur as I know. "

"Do you understand that you are taking your life in your hand?"

Darby looked at him coolly. 

"And that if you take us that way and for any cause--for any causewhatsoever we fail to get through safe, we will hang you to the nearesttree?"

Darby waited as if in deep reflection. 

"I understand, " he said. "I'll guide you. "

The silence that followed seemed to extend all over the camp. Thecommander was reflecting and the others had their eyes fastened onDarby. As for him, he sat as unmoved as if he had been alone in thewoods. 

"All right, " said the leader, suddenly, "it's a bargain: we'll take yourroad. What do you want?"

"Could you gi'me a cup o' coffee? It's been some little time since I hadanything to eat, an' I been sort o' sick. "

"You shall have 'em, " said the officer, "and good pay besides, if youlead us straight; if not, a limb and a halter rein; you understand?"

A quarter of an hour later they were on the march, Darby trudging infront down the middle of the muddy road between two of the advanceguard, whose carbines were conveniently carried to insure his fidelity. What he thought of, who might know?--plain; poor; ignorant; unknown;marching every step voluntarily nearer to certain and ignominious deathfor the sake of his cause. 

As day broke they saw a few people who lived near the road, and some ofthem recognized Darby and looked their astonishment to see him guidingthem. One or two of the women broke out at him for a traitor and a dog, to which he said nothing; but only looked a little defiant with two redspots burning in his thin cheeks, and trudged on as before; now and thenanswering a question; but for the most part silent. 

He must have thought of his mother, old and by herself in her cabin;but she would not live long; and of Vashti some. She had called him adeserter, as the other women had done. A verse from the Testament shegave him may have come into his mind; he had never quite understood it:"Blessed are ye when men shall revile ye. " Was this what it meant?This and another one seemed to come together. It was something about"enduring hardship like a good soldier", he could not remember itexactly. Yes, he could do that. But Vashti had called him a deserter. Maybe now though she would not; and the words in the letter she hadwritten him came to him, and the little package in his old jacket pocketmade a warm place there; and he felt a little fresher than before. Thesun came up and warmed him as he trudged along, and the country grewflatter and flatter, and the road deeper and deeper. They were passingdown into the bottom. On either side of them were white-oak swamps, sothat they could not see a hundred yards ahead; but for several milesDarby had been watching for the smoke of the burning bridge, and as theyneared the river his heart began to sink. There was one point on thebrow of a hill before descending to the bottom, where a sudden bend ofthe road and curve of the river two or three miles below gave a sightof the bridge. Darby waited for this, and when he reached it and saw thebridge still standing his heart sank like lead. Other eyes saw it too, and a score of glasses were levelled at it, and a cheer went up. 

"Why don't you cheer too?" asked an officer. "You have more to make orlose than anyone else. "

"We ain't there yit, " said Darby. 

Once he thought he had seen a little smoke, but it had passed away, andnow they were within three miles of the bridge and there was nothing. What if, after all, Vashti had failed and the bridge was still standing!He would really have brought the raiders by the best way and have helpedthem. His heart at the thought came up into his throat. He stopped andbegan to look about as if he doubted the road. When the main body cameup, however, the commander was in no doubt, and a pistol stuck againsthis head gave him to understand that no fooling would be stood. So hehad to go on. 

As to Vashti, she had covered the fifteen miles which lay between thedistrict and the fork-road; and had found and sent a messenger to givewarning in the city; but not finding any of the homeguard where shethought they were, she had borrowed some matches and had trudged onherself to execute the rest of Darby's commands. 

The branches were high from the backwater of the fork, and she often hadto wade up to her waist, but she kept on, and a little after daylightshe came to the river. Ordinarily, it was not a large stream; a boycould chuck a stone across it, and there was a ford above the bridgenot very deep in dry weather, which people sometimes took to water theirhorses, or because they preferred to ride through the water to crossingthe steep and somewhat rickety old bridge. Now, however, the waterwas far out in the woods, and long before the girl got in sight of thebridge she was wading up to her knees. When she reached the point whereshe could see it, her heart for a moment failed her; the whole flat wasunder water. She remembered Darby's command, however, and her couragecame back to her. She knew that it could not be as deep as it lookedbetween her and the bridge, for the messenger had gone before her thatway, and a moment later she had gone back and collected a bundle of"dry-wood", and with a long pole to feel her way she waded carefully in. As it grew deeper and deeper until it reached her breast, she took thematches out and held them in her teeth, holding her bundle above herhead. It was hard work to keep her footing this way, however, and onceshe stepped into a hole and went under to her chin, having a narrowescape from falling into a place which her pole could not fathom; butshe recovered herself and at last was on the bridge. When she tried tolight a fire, however, her matches would not strike. They as well as thewood had gotten wet when she slipped, and not one would light. She mightas well have been at her home in the district. When every match had beentried and tried again on a dry stone, only to leave a white streak ofsmoking sulphur on it, she sat down and cried. For the first time shefelt cold and weary. The rays of the sun fell on her and warmed her alittle, and she wiped her eyes on her sleeve and looked up. The sun hadjust come up over the hill. It gave her courage. She turned and lookedthe other way from which she had come--nothing but a waste of water andwoods. Suddenly, from a point up over the nearer woods a little sparklecaught her eye; there must be a house there, she thought; they mighthave matches, and she would go back and get some. But there it wasagain--it moved. There was another--another--and something black moving. She sprang to her feet and strained her eyes. Good God! they werecoming! In a second she had turned the other way, rushed across thebridge, and was dashing through the water to her waist. The water wasnot wide that way. The hill rose almost abruptly on that side, and up itshe dashed, and along the road. A faint curl of smoke caught her eye andshe made for it through the field. 

It was a small cabin, and the woman in it had just gotten her firewell started for the morning, when a girl bare-headed and bare-footed, dripping wet to the skin, her damp hair hanging down her back, her facewhite and her eyes like coals, rushed in almost without knocking andasked for a chunk of fire. The woman had no time to refuse (she told ofit afterward when she described the burning of the bridge); for withoutwaiting for answer and before she really took in that it was not aghost, the girl had seized the biggest chunk on the hearth and wasrunning with it across the field. In fact, the woman rather thought shewas an evil spirit; for she saw her seize a whole panel of fence--morerails than she could have carried to save her life, she said, and dashedwith them over the hill. 

In Vashti's mind, indeed, it was no time to waste words, she was backon the bridge with the chunk of fire and an armful of rails before thewoman recovered from her astonishment, and was down on her knees blowingher chunk to rekindle it. The rails, however, like everything else, were wet and would not light, and she was in despair. At last she got alittle blaze started, but it would not burn fast; it simply smoked. Sheexpected the soldiers to come out of the woods every minute, and everysecond she was looking up to see if they were in sight. What would Darbythink? What would happen if she failed? She sprang up to look around:the old rail of the bridge caught her eye; it was rotted, but whatremained was heart and would burn like light-wood. She tore a pieceof it down and stuck one end in the fire: it caught and sputtered andsuddenly flamed up; the next second she was tearing the rail down allalong and piling it on the blaze, and as it caught she dashed backthrough the water and up the hill, and brought another armful of rails. Back and forth she waded several times and piled on rails until she gota stack of them--two stacks, and the bridge floor dried and caught andbegan to blaze; and when she brought her last armful it was burning allacross. She had been so busy bringing wood that she had forgotten tolook across to the other side for some time, and was only reminded ofit as she was wading back with her last armful of rails by somethingbuzzing by her ear, and the second after the crack of a half-dozen gunsfollowed from the edge of the wood the other side. She could not seethem well for the burden in her arms, but she made out a number ofhorses dashing into the water on the little flat, and saw some puffs ofsmoke about their heads. She was bound to put her wood on, however, soshe pushed ahead, went up on the bridge through the smoke as far as shecould go, and flung her rails on the now devouring fire. A sudden veerof the wind blew the smoke behind her and bent the flames aside, andshe could see clear across the fire to the other bank. She saw a greatnumber of men on horses at the edge of the woods, in a sort of mass;and a half-dozen or so in the water riding up to their saddle-skirtshalf-way to the bridge, and between the first two, wading in water tohis waist, Darby. He was bare-headed and he waved his hat to her, andshe heard a single cheer. She waved her hand to him, and there wasa little puff of smoke and something occurred in the water among thehorses. The smoke from the fire suddenly closed around her and shut outeverything from her eyes, and when it blew away again one of the horseshad thrown his rider in the water. There was a lot of firing both fromthe edge of the wood and from the horsemen in the water, and Darby haddisappeared. 

She made her way back to the bank and plunged into a clump of bushes, where she was hidden and watched the raiders. She saw several of themtry to ford the river, one got across but swam back, the others wereswept down by the current, and the horse of one got out below withouthis rider. The other she did not see again. 

Soon after their comrade had rejoined them, the men on the edge of thewood turned around and disappeared, and a half-hour later she saw theglint of the sun on their arms and accoutrements as they crossed overthe top of the hill returning two miles above. 

*****

This is the story of the frustration of the raid upon which so much hopewas built by some in high position at Washington. A day was lost, andwarning was given to the Confederate Government, and the bold plan ofthe commander of the raiding party was defeated. 

As to Little Darby, the furlough he had applied for came, but came toolate and was returned. For a time some said he was a deserter; but twowomen knew differently. 

A Federal soldier who was taken prisoner gave an account of the raid. Hesaid that a contraband had come from Washington and undertaken to leadthem across the country, and that he had brought them around the headof the streams, when one night a rebel deserter came into camp andundertook to show them a better way by a road which ran between therivers, but crossed lower down by a bridge; that they had told him that, if for any reason they failed to get through by his road they would hanghim, a bargain which he had accepted. That he had led them straight, butwhen they had got to the bridge it had been set on fire and was burningat that moment; that a half-dozen men, of whom he, the narrator, wasone, rode in, taking the guide along with them, to see if they could notput the fire out, or, failing that, find the ford; and when they wereabout half-way across the little flat they saw the person on the bridgein the very act of burning it, and waving his hand in triumph; and theman who was riding abreast of him in front fired his carbine at him. Ashe did so the deserter wheeled on him, and said, "God d--n you--don'tyou know that's a woman, " and springing on him like a tiger tore himfrom his horse; and, before they took in what he was doing, had, beforetheir very eyes, flung both of them into a place where the current wasrunning, and they had disappeared. They had seen the deserter's headonce in the stream lower down, and had fired at him, and he thought hadhit him, as he went down immediately and they did not see him again. 

This is all that was known of Little Darby, except that a year or moreafterward, and nearly a year after Mrs. Stanley's death, a package withan old needle-case in it and a stained little Testament with a bullethole through it, was left at the Cross-roads, with a message that a manwho had died at the house of the person who left it as he was tryingto make his way back to his command, asked to have that sent to VashtiMills. 

 The End. 

NOTES:

 Thomas Nelson Page is known primarily for his short stories. 1853. Born at Oakland Plantation, in Hanover County, Virginia. 1872. Graduated from Washington and Lee University. 1874. Received his degree in law from the University of Virginia. 1922. Died. 

Some books by Thomas Nelson Page:

 In Ole Virginia. Meh Lady. A Story of the War. Marse Chan. A Tale of Old Virginia. The Burial of the Guns. Elsket and Other Stories. Newfound River. The Old South. Polly. A Christmas Recollection. Among the Camps. Young People's Stories of the War. Two Little Confederates. "Befo' de War. " Echoes of Negro Dialect. (with A. C. Gordon)