CHAPTER VI.
MR. COLBURNE SEES HIS WAY CLEAR TO BE A SOLDIER.
Stragglers arrived, and then the regiments. People were not angry withthe beaten soldiers, but treated them with tenderness, gave themplentiful cold collations, and lavished indignation on their raggedshoddy uniforms. Then the little State, at first pulseless with despair,took a long breath of relief when it found that Beauregard had notoccupied Washington, and set bravely about preparing for far bloodierbattles than that of Bull Run.
Lieutenant-Colonel Carter did not return with his regiment; and Colburneread with a mixture of emotions that he had been wounded and takenprisoner while gallantly leading a charge. He marked the passage, andleft the paper with his compliments for the Ravenels, after debating atthe door of the hotel whether he should call on them, and deciding inthe negative. Not being able as yet to appreciate that blessing indisguise, Bull Run, his loyal heart was very sad and sore over it, andhe felt a thrill of something like horror whenever he thought of thejoyful shriek with which Lillie had welcomed the shocking tidings. Hewas angry with her, or at least he tried to be. He called up hispatriotism, that strongest of New England isms, and resolved that with asecessionist, a woman who wished ill to her country, he would not fallin love. But to be sure of this he must keep away from her; for thusmuch of love, or of perilous inclination at least, he already had toacknowledge; and moreover, while he was somewhat ashamed of the feeling,he still could not heartily desire to eradicate it. Troubled thusconcerning the affairs of the country and of his own heart, he keptaloof from the Ravenels for three or four days. Then he said to himselfthat he had no cause for avoiding the Doctor, and that to do so wasdisgraceful treatment of a man who had proved his loyalty by taking upthe cross of exile.
This story will probably have no readers so destitute of sympathy withthe young and loving, as that they can not guess the result ofColburne's internal struggles. After two or three chance conversationswith Ravenel he jumped, or to speak more accurately, he gently slid tothe conclusion that it was absurd and unmanly to make a distinction infavor of the father and against the daughter. Quarrel with a woman; howridiculous! how unchivalrous! He colored to the tips of his repentantears as he thought of it and of what Miss Ravenel must think of it. Hehastened to call on her before the breach which he had made between herand himself should become untraversable; for although the embargo ontheir intercourse had lasted only about a week, it already seemed to hima lapse of time measureable by months; and this very naturally, inasmuchas during that short interval he had lived a life of anguish as a manand a patriot. Accordingly the old intimacy was resumed, and the twoyoung people seldom passed forty-eight hours apart. But of therebellion they said little, and of Bull Run nothing. These were suchsore subjects to him that he did not wish to speak of them except to theear of sympathy; and she, divining his sensitiveness, would not give himpain notwithstanding that he was an abolitionist and a Yankee. If theDoctor, ignorant of what passed in these young hearts, turned theconversation on the war, Lillie became silent, and Colburne,appreciating her forbearance, tried to say very little. Thus without acompact, without an explanation, they accorded in a strain of mutualcharity which predicted the ultimate conversion of one or the other.
Moreover, Colburne asked himself, what right had he to talk if he didnot fight? If he wanted to answer this woman's outcry of delight overthe rout of Bull Run, the place to do it was not a safe parlor, but afield of victorious battle. Why did he not act in accordance with thesetruly chivalrous sentiments? Why not fall into one of the new regimentswhich his gallant little State was organizing to continue the struggle?Why not march on with the soul of old John Brown, joining in the sublimethough quaint chorus of, "We're coming, Father Abraham, three hundredthousand more?"
He did talk very earnestly of it with various persons, and, amongothers, with Doctor Ravenel. The latter approved the young man's warlikeinclinations promptly and earnestly.
"It is the noblest duty that you may ever have a chance to performduring your life," said he. "To do something personally towardsupholding this Union and striking down slavery is an honor beyond anything that ever was accorded to Greek or Roman. I wish that I were youngenough for the work, or fitted for it by nature or education. I would bewilling to have my tombstone set up next year, if it could only bear theinscription, 'He died in giving freedom to slaves.'"
"Oh! do stop," implored Lillie, who entered in time to hear theconcluding sentence. "What do you talk about your tombstone for? Youwill get perfectly addled about abolition, like all the rest. Now, papa,you ought to be more consistent. You didn't use to be so violent againstslavery. You have changed since five years ago."
"I know it," says the Doctor. "But that doesn't prove that I am wrongnow. I wasn't infallible five years ago. Why, my dear, the progress ofour race from barbarism to civilization is through the medium ofconstant change. If the race is benefited by it, why not the individual?I am a sworn foe to consistency and conservation. To stick obstinatelyto our old opinions, because they are old, is as foolish as it would bein a soldier-crab to hold on to his shell after he had outgrown itinstead of picking up a new one fitted to his increased size. Supposethe snakes persisted in going about in their last year's skins? No, no;there are no such fools in the lower animal kingdom; that stupidity isconfined to man."
"The world does move," observed Colburne. "We consider ourselves prettystrict and old-fashioned here in New Boston. But if our Puritanancestors could get hold of us, they would be likely to have us whippedas heretics and Sabbath-breakers. Very likely we would be equally severeupon our own great-great-grandchildren, if we should get a chance atthem."
"Weak spirits are frightened by this change, this growth, this forwardimpetus," said the Doctor. "I must tell you a story. I was travelling inGeorgia three years ago. On the seat next in front of me sat a cracker,who was evidently making his first railroad experience, and in otherrespects learning to go on his hind legs. Presently the train crossed abridge. It was narrow, uncovered and without sides, so that a passengerwould not be likely to see it unless he sat near the window. Now thecracker sat next the alley of the car, and away from the window. Iobserved him give a glare at the river and turn away his head suddenly,after which he rolled about in a queer way, and finally went on thefloor in a heap. We picked him up; spirits were easily produced, (theyalways are down there); and presently the cracker was brought to hissenses. His first words were, 'Has she lit'-- He was under theimpression that the train had taken the river at a running jump. Nowthat is very much like the judgment of timid and ill-informed people onthe progress of the nation or race at such a time as this. They don'tknow about the bridge; they think we are flying through the air; and sothey go off in general fainting-fits."
Colburne laughed, as many another man has done before him, at this goodold story.
"On our train," said he, "on the train of human progress, we are partsof the engine and not mere passengers. I ought to be revolvingsomewhere. I ought to be at work. I want to do something--I am mostanxious to do something--but I don't know precisely what. I suppose thatthe inability exists in me, and not in my circumstances. I am like thegentleman who tired himself out with jumping, but never could jump highenough to see over his own standing-collar."
"I know how you feel. I have been in that state myself, often and invarious ways. For instance it has occurred to me, especially in myyounger days, to feel a strong desire to write, without having anythingto say. There was a burning in my brain; there was a sentiment orsensation which led me to seek pens, ink and paper; there was animpatient, uncertain, aimless effort to commence; there was a pause, arevery, and all was over. It was a storm of sheet-lightning. There wereglorious gleams, and far off openings of the heavens; but no sound,droppings, no sensible revelation from the upper world.--However, yourlongings are for action, and I am convinced that you will find youropportunity. There will be work enough in this matter for all."
"I don't know," said Colburne. "The sixth and seventh r
egiments arefull. I hear that there isn't a lieutenantcy left."
"You will have to raise your own company."
"Ah! But for what regiment? We shan't raise another, I am afraid. Yes, Iam actually afraid that the war will be over in six months."
Miss Ravenel looked up hastily as if she should like to say "Fortyyears," but checked herself by a surprising effort of magnanimity andgood nature.
"That's queer patriotism," laughed the Doctor. "But let me assure you,Mr. Colburne, that your fears are groundless. There will be moreregiments needed."
Miss Ravenel gave a slight approving nod, but still said nothing,remembering Bull Run and how provokingly she had shouted over it.
"This southern oligarchy," continued the Doctor, "will be a tough nut tocrack. It has the consolidated vigor of a tyranny."
"I wonder where Lieutenant-Colonel Carter is?" queried Colburne. "It issix weeks since he was taken prisoner. It seems like six years."
Miss Ravenel raised her head with an air of interest, glanced hastily ather father, and gave herself anew to her embroidery. The Doctor made agrimace which was as much as to say that he thought small beer or sourbeer of Lieutenant-Colonel Carter.
"He is a very fine officer," said Colburne. "He was highly spoken of forhis conduct at Bull Run."
"I would rather have you for a Colonel," replied the Doctor.
Colburne laughed contemptuously at the idea of his fitness for acolonelcy.
"I would rather have any respectable man of tolerable intellect,"insisted the Doctor. "I tell you that I know that type perfectly. I knowwhat he is as well as if I had been acquainted with him for twentyyears. He is what we southerners, in our barbarous local vanity, areaccustomed to call a southern gentleman. He is on the model of thesugar-planters of St. Dominic Parish. He needs somebody to care for him.Let me tell you a story. When I was on a mineralogical expedition inNorth Carolina some years ago, I happened to be out late at nightlooking for lodgings. I was approaching one of those cross-roadgroggeries which they call a tavern down there, when I met a mostcurious couple. It was a man and a goose. The man was drunk, and thegoose was sober. The man was staggering, and the goose was waddlingperfectly straight. Every few steps it halted, looked back and quacked,as if to say, Come along. The moon was shining, and I could see thewhole thing plainly. I was obliged to put up for the night in thegroggery, and there I got an explanation of the comedy. It seems thatthis goose was a pet, and had taken an unaccountable affection to itsowner, who was a wretched drunkard of a cracker. The man came nearlyevery night to the groggery, got drunk as regularly as he came, andgenerally went to sleep on one of the benches. About midnight the goosewould appear and cackle for him. The bar-keeper would shake up thedrunkard and say, 'Here! your goose has come for you.' As soon as thebrute could get his legs he would start homeward, guided by his moreintelligent companion. If the man fell down and couldn't get up, thegoose would remain by him and squawk vociferously for assistance.--Now,sir, there was hardly a sugar-planter, hardly a southern gentleman, inSt. Dominic Parish, who didn't need some such guardian. Often and often,as I have seen them swilling wine and brandy at each other's tables, Ihave charitably wished that I could say to this one and that one, Sir,your goose has come for you."
"But you never have seen the Lieutenant-Colonel so badly off," answeredColburne, after a short meditation.
"Why no--not precisely," admitted the Doctor. "But I know his type," hepresently added with an obstinacy which Miss Ravenel secretly thoughtvery unjust. She thought it best to direct her spirit of censure inanother direction.
"Papa," said she, "what a countryfied habit you have of tellingstories!"
"Don't criticise, my dear," answers papa. "I am a high toned southerngentleman, and always knock people on the head who criticise me."
The question still returns upon us, why Mr. Colburne did not join thearmy. It is time, therefore, to state the hitherto unimportant fact thathe was the only son of a widow, and that his life was a necessity toher, not only as a consolation to her loneliness, but as a support toher declining fortunes. Doctor Colburne had left his wife and child anestate of about twenty-five thousand dollars, which at the time of hisdeath was a respectable fortune in New Boston. But the influx of goldfrom California, and the consequent rise of prices, seriously diminishedthe value of the family income just about the time that Edward, bygrowing into manhood and entering college, necessitated an increase ofexpenses. Therefore Mrs. Colburne was led to put one half of the jointfortune into certain newly-organized manufacturing companies, whichpromised to increase her annual six per cent to twenty-four--nor was shetherein exceedingly to blame, being led away by the example and adviceof some of the sharpest New Boston capitalists, many of whom had theirexperienced pinions badly lamed in these joint-stock adventurings.
"What you want, Mr. Colburne," said a director, "is an investment whichis both safe and permanent. Now this is just the thing."
I can not say much for the safety of the investment, but it certainlywas a permanent one. During the first year the promised twenty-four percent was paid, and the widow could have sold out for one hundred andtwenty. Then came a free-trade, Democratic improvement on the tariff;the manufacturing interest of the country was paralyzed, and theBraggville stock fell to ninety. Mrs. Colburne might still have soldout at a profit, counting in her first year's dividend; but as it wasnot in her inexperience to see that this was wisdom, she held on fora--decline. By the opening of the war her certificates of manufacturingstock were waste paper, and her annual income was reduced to eighthundred dollars. Indeed, for a year or two previous to the commencementof this story, she had been forced to make inroads upon her capital.
Of this crisis in the family affairs Edward was fully aware, and like atrue-born, industrious Yankee, did his best to meet it. From everylowermost branch and twig of his profession he plucked some fruit bydint of constant watchfulness, so that during the past year he had beenvery nearly able to cover his own conscientiously economicalexpenditures. He was gaining a foothold in the law, although he as yethad no cases to plead. If he held on a year or two longer at this ratehe might confidently expect to restore the family income and stave offthe threatened sale of the homestead.
But this was not all which prevented him from going forth to battle. Thecry of his mother's heart was, "My son, how can I let thee go?" She wasan abolitionist, as was almost every body of her set in New Boston; shewas an enthusiastic patriot, as was almost every one in the north duringthat sublime summer of popular enthusiasm; but this war--oh, thisstrange, ferocious war! was horrible. Her sensitively affectionatenature, blinded by veils of womanly tenderness, folded in habits oflife-long peace, could not see the hard, inevitable necessity of thecontest. Earnestly as she sympathised with its loyal and humane objects,she was not logical enough or not firm enough to sympathise with theiron thing itself. Lapped in sweet influences of peace all her lovinglife, why must she be called to death amid the clamor of murderouscontests? For her health was failing; a painful and fatal disease hadfastened its clutches on her; another year's course she did not hope torun. And if the hateful struggle must go on, if it must torment herlast few days with its agitations and horrors, so much the more did sheneed her only child. Other women's sons--yes, if there was no help forit--but not hers--might put on the panoply of strife, and disappear fromanxiously following eyes into the smoke and flame of battle. Edward toldher every day the warlike news of the journals, the grand and sternputting on of the harness, the gigantic plans for crushing the nation'sfoes. She could take no interest in such tidings but that of aversion.He read to her in a voice which thrilled like swellings of martialmusic, Tennyson's Charge of the Six Hundred. She listened to theclarion-toned words with distaste and almost with horror.
Well, the summer wore away, that summer of sombre preparation andpreluding skirmishes, whose scattering musketry and thin cannonadefaintly prophecied the orchestral thunders of Gettysburg and theWilderness, and whose few dead preceded like skirmishers the massi
vecolumns which for years should firmly follow them into the dark valley.Its forereaching shadows fell upon many homes far away from thebattlefield, and chilled to death many sensitive natures. Old personsand invalids sank into the grave that season under the oppression of itsstraining suspense and preliminary horror; and among these victims, whomno man has counted and whom few have thought of collectively, was themother of Colburne.
One September afternoon she sent for Edward. The Doctor had gone; hislabors were over. The clergyman had gone; neither was he longer needed.There was no one in the room but the nurse, the dying mother and theonly child. The change had been expected for days, and Edward hadthought that he was prepared for it; had indeed marvelled and beenshocked at himself because he could look forward to it with such seemingcomposure; for, reason with his heart and his conscience as he might, hecould not feel a fitting dread and anguish. In the common phrase ofhumanity, when numbed by unusual sorrow, he could not realize it. Butnow, as, leaning over the footboard and looking steadfastly upon hismother's face, he saw that the final hour had come, a sickness of heartfell upon him, and a trembling as if his soul were being torn asunder.Yet neither wept; the Puritans and the children of the Puritans do notweep easily; they are taught, not to utter, but to hide their emotions.The nurse perceived no signs of unusual feeling, except that the face ofthe strong man became suddenly as pale as that of the dying woman, andthat to him this was an hour of anguish, while to her it was one ofunspeakable joy. The mother knew her son too well not to see, even withthose failing eyes, into the depths of his sorrow.
"Don't be grieved for me, Edward," she said. "I am sustained by thefaith of the promises. I am about to return from the place whence Icame. I am re-entering with peace and with confidence into a blessedeternity."
He came to the side of the bed, sat down on it and took her hand withoutspeaking.
"You will follow me some day," she went on. "You will follow me to theplace where I shall be, at the right hand of the Lord. I have prayed forit often;--I was praying for it a moment ago; and, my child, my prayerwill be granted. Oh, I have been so fearful for you; but I am fearful nolonger."
He made no answer except to press her hand while she paused to draw afew short and wearisome breaths.
"I can bear to part with you now," she resumed. "I could not bear ittill the Lord granted me this full assurance that we shall meet again. Ileave you in his hands. I make no conditions with him. I have beensweetly brought to give you altogether up to one who loves you betterthan I know how to love you. He gave me my love, and he has kept morethan he gave. Perhaps I have been selfish, Edward, to hold on to you asI have. You have felt it your duty to go into the army, and perhaps Ihave been selfish to prevent you. Now you are free; to-morrow I shallnot be here. If you still see that to be your duty, go; and the Lord gowith you, darling, and give you strength and courage. I do not ask himto spare you, but only to guide you here below, and restore you to meabove.----And he will do it, Edward, for his own sake. I am full ofconfidence; the promises are sure. For you and for myself, I rejoicewith a joy unspeakable and full of glory."
While thus speaking, or rather whispering, she had put one arm aroundhis neck. As he kissed her wasted cheek and let fall his first tears onit, she drew her hand across his face with a caressing tenderness, andsmiling, fell back softly on her pillow, closing her eyes as calmly asif to sleep. A few broken words, a murmuring of unutterable, unearthly,infinite happiness, echoes as it were of greetings far away withwelcoming angels, were her last utterances. To the young man, who stillheld her hand and now and then kissed her cheek, she seemed to slumber,although her breathing gradually sank so low that he could not perceiveit. But after a long time the nurse came to the bedside, bent over it,looked, listened, and said, "She is gone!"
He was free; she was not there.
He went to his room with a horrible feeling that for him there was nomore love; that there was nothing to do and nothing to expect; that hislife was a blank. He could fix his mind on nothing past or future; noteven upon the unparalleled sorrow of the present. Taking up the Biblewhich she had given him, he read a page before he noticed that he hadnot understood and did not remember a single passage. In that vacancy,that almost idiocy, which beclouds afflicted souls, he could not recalla distinct impression of the scene through which he had just passed, andseemed to have forgotten forever his mother's dying words, herconfidence that they should meet again, her heavenly joy. With the sameperverseness, and in spite of repeated efforts to close his ears to thesound, some inner, wayward self repeated to him over and over againthese verses of the unhappy Poe--
"Thank Heaven! the crisis, The danger is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last, And the fever called Living Is conquered at last."
The sad words sounded wofully true to him. For the time, for some days,it seemed to him as if life were but a wearisome illness, for which thegrave was but a cure. His mind, fevered by night watching, anxiety, andan unaccustomed grappling with sorrow, was not in a healthy state. Hethought that he was willing to die; he only desired to fall usefully,honorably, and in consonance with the spirit of his generation; he wouldset his face henceforward towards the awful beacons of the battle-field.His resolution was taken with the seriousness of one, who, thoughcheerful and even jovial by nature, had been permeated to some extent bythe solemn passion of Puritanism. He painted to himself in strong colorsthe risk of death and the nature of it; then deliberately chose the partof facing this tremendous mystery in support of the right. All thiswhile, be it remembered, his mind was somewhat exalted by the fever ofbodily weariness and of spiritual sorrow.
Miss Ravenel's conversion from secession to loyalty Page 9
