The Crisis — Complete

by Winston Churchill

  CHAPTER XVI. THE GUNS OF SUMTER

  Winter had vanished. Spring was come with a hush. Toward a little islandset in the blue waters of Charleston harbor anxious eyes were strained.

  Was the flag still there?

  God alone may count the wives and mothers who listened in the stillhours of the night for the guns of Sumter. One sultry night in AprilStephen's mother awoke with fear in her heart, for she had heard them.Hark! that is the roar now, faint but sullen. That is the red flashfar across the black Southern sky. For in our beds are the terrors andcruelties of life revealed to us. There is a demon to be faced, andnought alone.

  Mrs. Brice was a brave woman. She walked that night with God.

  Stephen, too, awoke. The lightning revealed her as she bent over him.On the wings of memory be flew back to his childhood in the great Bostonhouse with the rounded front, and he saw the nursery with its highwindows looking out across the Common. Often in the dark had she come tohim thus, her gentle hand passing over aim to feel if he were covered.

  "What is it, mother?" he said.

  She said: "Stephen, I am afraid that the war has come."

  He sat up, blindly. Even he did not guess the agony in her heart.

  "You will have to go, Stephen."

  It was long before his answer came.

  "You know that I cannot, mother. We have nothing left but the little Iearn. And if I were--" He did not finish the sentence, for he felt hertrembling. But she said again, with that courage which seems woman'salone:

  "Remember Wilton Brice. Stephen--I can get along. I can sew."

  It was the hour he had dreaded, stolen suddenly upon him out of thenight. How many times had he rehearsed this scene to himself! He,Stephen Brice, who had preached and slaved and drilled for the Union,a renegade to be shunned by friend and foe alike! He had talked for hiscountry, but he would not risk his life for it. He heard them repeatingthe charge. He saw them passing him silently on the street. Shamefullyhe remembered the time, five months agone, when he had worn the veryuniform of his Revolutionary ancestor. And high above the tier of hisaccusers he saw one face, and the look of it stung to the very quick ofhis soul.

  Before the storm he had fallen asleep in sheer weariness of thestruggle, that face shining through the black veil of the darkness. Ifhe were to march away in the blue of his country (alas, not of hers!)she would respect him for risking life for conviction. If he stayed athome, she would not understand. It was his plain duty to his mother. Andyet he knew that Virginia Carvel and the women like her were ready tofollow with bare feet the march of the soldiers of the South.

  The rain was come now, in a flood. Stephen's mother could not see in theblackness the bitterness on his face. Above the roar of the waters shelistened for his voice.

  "I will not go, mother," he said. "If at length every man is needed,that will be different."

  "It is for you to decide, my son," she answered. "There are many ways inwhich you can serve your country here. But remember that you may have toface hard things."

  "I have had to do that before, mother," he replied calmly. "I cannotleave you dependent upon charity."

  She went back into her room to pray, for she knew that he had laid hisambition at her feet.

  It was not until a week later that the dreaded news came. All throughthe Friday shells had rained on the little fort while Charleston lookedon. No surrender yet. Through a wide land was that numbness whichprecedes action. Force of habit sent men to their places of business,to sit idle. A prayerful Sunday intervened. Sumter had fallen. SouthCarolina had shot to bits the flag she had once revered.

  On the Monday came the call of President Lincoln for volunteers.Missouri was asked for her quota. The outraged reply of her governorwent back,--never would she furnish troops to invade her sister states.Little did Governor Jackson foresee that Missouri was to stand fifth ofall the Union in the number of men she was to give. To her was creditedin the end even more men than stanch Massachusetts.

  The noise of preparation was in the city--in the land. On the Mondaymorning, when Stephen went wearily to the office, he was met by Richterat the top of the stairs, who seized his shoulders and looked into hisface. The light of the zealot was on Richter's own.

  "We shall drill every night now, my friend, until further orders. Itis the Leader's word. Until we go to the front, Stephen, to put downrebellion." Stephen sank into a chair, and bowed his head. What wouldhe think,--this man who had fought and suffered and renounced his nativeland for his convictions? Who in this nobler allegiance was ready to diefor them? How was he to confess to Richter, of all men?

  "Carl," he said at length, "I--I cannot go."

  "You--you cannot go? You who have done so much already! And why?"

  Stephen did not answer. But Richter, suddenly divining, laid his handsimpulsively on Stephen's shoulders.

  "Ach, I see," he said. "Stephen, I have saved some money. It shall befor your mother while you are away."

  At first Stephen was too surprised for speech. Then, in spite ofhis feelings, he stared at the German with a new appreciation of hischaracter. Then he could merely shake his head.

  "Is it not for the Union?" implored Richter, "I would give a fortune, ifI had it. Ah, my friend, that would please me so. And I do not need themoney now. I 'have--nobody."

  Spring was in the air; the first faint smell of verdure wafted acrossthe river on the wind. Stephen turned to the open window, tears ofintense agony in his eyes. In that instant he saw the regiment marching,and the flag flying at its head.

  "It is my duty to stay here, Carl," he said brokenly.

  Richter took an appealing step toward him and stopped. He realized thatwith this young New Englander a decision once made was unalterable. Inall his knowledge of Stephen he never remembered him to change. With thedemonstrative sympathy of his race, he yearned to comfort him, and knewnot how. Two hundred years of Puritanism had reared barriers not to bebroken down.

  At the end of the office the stern figure of the Judge appeared.

  "Mr. Brice!" he said sharply.

  Stephen followed him into the littered room behind the ground glassdoor, scarce knowing what to expect,--and scarce caring, as on thatfirst day he had gone in there. Mr. Whipple himself closed the door, andthen the transom. Stephen felt those keen eyes searching him from theirhiding-place.

  "Mr. Brice," he said at last, "the President has called for seventy-fivethousand volunteers to crush this rebellion. They will go, and beswallowed up, and more will go to fill their places. Mr. Brice, peoplewill tell you that the war will be over in ninety days. But I tell you,sir, that it will not be over in seven times ninety days." He broughtdown his fist heavily upon the table. "This, sir, will be a war to thedeath. One side or the other will fight until their blood is all let,and until their homes are all ruins." He darted at Stephen one look fromunder those fierce eyebrows. "Do you intend to go sir?"

  Stephen met the look squarely. "No, sir," he answered, steadily, "notnow."

  "Humph," said the Judge. Then he began what seemed a never-ending searchamong the papers on his desk. At length he drew out a letter, put on hisspectacles and read it, and finally put it down again.

  "Stephen," said Mr. Whipple, "you are doing a courageous thing. But ifwe elect to follow our conscience in this world, we must not expect toescape persecution, sir. Two weeks ago," he continued slowly, "two weeksago I had a letter from Mr. Lincoln about matters here. He mentionsyou."

  "He remembers me!" cried Stephen

  The Judge smiled a little. "Mr. Lincoln never forgets any one," saidhe. "He wishes me to extend to you his thanks for your services to theRepublican party, and sends you his kindest regards."

  This was the first and only time that Mr. Whipple spoke to him of hislabors. Stephen has often laughed at this since, and said that hewould not have heard of them at all had not the Judge's sense of dutycompelled him to convey the message. And it was with a lighter heartthan he had felt for many a day that he went out of the door.

/>   Some weeks later, five regiments were mustered into the service of theUnited States. The Leader was in command of one. And in response to hisappeals, despite the presence of officers of higher rank, the Presidenthad given Captain Nathaniel Lyon supreme command in Missouri.

  Stephen stood among the angry, jeering crowd that lined the streets asthe regiments marched past. Here were the 'Black Jaegers.' No wonder thecrowd laughed. Their step was not as steady, nor their files as straightas Company A. There was Richter, his head high, his blue eyes defiant.And there was little Tiefel marching in that place of second lieutenantthat Stephen himself should have filled. Here was another company,and at the end of the first four, big Tom Catherwood. His fatherhad disowned him the day before, His two brothers, George and littleSpencer, were in a house not far away--a house from which a strange flagdrooped.

  Clouds were lowering over the city, and big drops falling, as Stephenthreaded his way homeward, the damp anal gloom of the weather in hisvery soul. He went past the house where the strange flag hung againstits staff In that big city it flaunted all unchallenged. The housewas thrown wide open that day, and in its window lounged young men ofhonored families. And while they joked of German boorishness and Yankeecowardice they held rifles across their knees to avenge any insult tothe strange banner that they had set up. In the hall, through the opendoorway, the mouth of a shotted field gun could be seen. The guardianswere the Minute Men, organized to maintain the honor and dignity of thestate of Missouri.

  Across the street from the house was gathered a knot of curious people,and among these Stephen paused. Two young men were standing on thesteps, and one was Clarence Colfax. His hands were in his pockets, anda careless, scornful smile was on his face when he glanced down into thestreet. Stephen caught that smile. Anger swept over him in a hot flame,as at the slave auction years agone. That was the unquenchable fire ofthe war. The blood throbbed in his temples as his feet obeyed,--and yethe stopped.

  What right had he to pull down that flag, to die on the pavement beforethat house?