CHAPTER XIX. THE TENTH OF MAY
Would the sons of the first families surrender, "Never!" cried a younglady who sat behind the blinds in Mrs. Catherwood's parlor. It seemed toher when she stopped to listen for the first guns of the coming battlethat the tumult in her heart would drown their roar.
"But, Jinny," ventured that Miss Puss Russell who never feared to speakher mind, "it would be folly for them to fight. The Dutch and Yankeesoutnumber them ten to one, and they haven't any powder and bullets."
"And Camp Jackson is down in a hollow," said Maude Catherwood,dejectedly. And yet hopefully, too, for at the thought of bloodshed shewas near to fainting.
"Oh," exclaimed Virginia, passionately, "I believe you want them tosurrender. I should rather see Clarence dead than giving his sword to aYankee."
At that the other two were silent again, and sat on through an endlessafternoon of uncertainty and hope and dread in the darkened room. Nowand anon Mr. Catherwood's heavy step was heard as he paced the hall.From time to time they glanced at Virginia, as if to fathom herthought. She and Puss Russell had come that day to dine with Maude. Mr.Catherwood's Ben, reeking of the stable, had brought the rumor of themarching on the camp into the dining-room, and close upon the heels ofthis the rumble of the drums and the passing of Sigel's regiment. It wasVirginia who had the presence of mind to slam the blinds in the faces ofthe troops, and the crowd had cheered her. It was Virginia who flew tothe piano to play Dixie ere they could get by, to the awe and admirationof the girls and the delight of Mr. Catherwood who applauded her spiritdespite the trouble which weighed upon him. Once more the crowd hadcheered,--and hesitated. But the Dutch regiment slouched on, impassive,and the people followed.
Virginia remained at the piano, her mood exalted patriotism, upliftedin spirit by that grand song. At first she had played it with all hermight. Then she sang it. She laughed in very scorn of the booby soldiersshe had seen. A million of these, with all the firearms in the world,could not prevail against the flower of the South. Then she had begunwhimsically to sing a verse of a song she had heard the week before, andsuddenly her exaltation was fled, and her fingers left the keys. Gainingthe window, trembling, half-expectant, she flung open a blind.The troops, the people, were gone, and there alone in the roadstood--Stephen Brice. The others close behind her saw him, too, and Pusscried out in her surprise. The impression, when the room was dark oncemore, was of sternness and sadness,--and of strength. Effaced was thepicture of the plodding recruits with their coarse and ill-fittinguniforms of blue.
Virginia shut the blinds. Not a word escaped her, nor could they tellwhy--they did not dare to question her then. An hour passed, perhapstwo, before the shrill voice of a boy was heard in the street below.
"Camp Jackson has surrendered!"
They heard the patter of his bare feet on the pavement, and the cryrepeated.
"Camp Jackson has surrendered!"
And so the war began for Virginia. Bitter before, now was she on fire.Close her lips as tightly as she might, the tears forced themselves toher eyes. The ignominy of it!
How hard it is for us of this age to understand that feeling.
"I do not believe it!" she cried. "I cannot believe it!"
The girls gathered around her, pale and frightened and anxious. Suddenlycourage returned to her, the courage which made Spartans of Southernwomen. She ran to the front door. Mr. Catherwood was on the sidewalk,talking to a breathless man. That man was Mr. Barbo, Colonel Carvel'sbook-keeper.
"Yes," he was saying, "they--they surrendered. There was nothing elsefor them to do. They were surrounded and overpowered."
Mr. Catherwood uttered an oath. But it did not shock Virginia.
"And not a shot fired?" he said.
"And not a shot fired?" Virginia repeated, mechanically. Both menturned. Mr. Barbo took off his hat.
"No, ma'am."
"Oh, how could they!" exclaimed Virginia.
Her words seemed to arouse Mr. Catherwood from a kind of stupor. Heturned, and took her hand.
"Virginia, we shall make them smart for this yet, My God!" he cried,"what have I done that my son should be a traitor, in arms against hisown brother fighting for his people? To think that a Catherwood shouldbe with the Yankees! You, Ben," he shouted, suddenly perceiving anobject for his anger. "What do you mean by coming out of the yard? ByG-d, I'll have you whipped. I'll show you niggers whether you're to befree or not."
And Mr. Catherwood was a good man, who treated his servants well.Suddenly he dropped Virginia's hand and ran westward down the hill. Wellthat she could not see beyond the second rise.
Let us go there--to the camp. Let us stand on the little mound atthe northeast of it, on the Olive Street Road, whence Captain Lyon'sartillery commands it. What a change from yesterday! Davis Avenue isno longer a fashionable promenade, flashing with bright dresses. Thosequiet men in blue, who are standing beside the arms of the state troops,stacked and surrendered, are United States regulars. They have been inKansas, and are used to scenes of this sort.
The five Hessian regiments have surrounded the camp. Each commanderhas obeyed the master mind of his chief, who has calculated the timeof marching with precision. Here, at the western gate, Colonel Blair'sregiment is in open order. See the prisoners taking their places betweenthe ranks, some smiling, as if to say all is not over yet; some withheads hung down, in sulky shame. Still others, who are true to theUnion, openly relieved. But who is this officer breaking his sword tobits against the fence, rather than surrender it to a Yankee? Listen tothe crowd as they cheer him. Listen to the epithets and vile names whichthey hurl at the stolid blue line of the victors, "Mudsills!" "NegroWorshippers."
Yes, the crowd is there, seething with conflicting passions. Men withbrows bent and fists clenched, yelling excitedly. Others pushing, andeager to see,--there in curiosity only. And, alas, women and childrenby the score, as if what they looked upon were not war, but a parade,a spectacle. As the gray uniforms file out of the gate, the crowd hasbecome a mob, now flowing back into the fields on each side of the road,now pressing forward vindictively until stopped by the sergeants andcorporals. Listen to them calling to sons, and brothers, and husbands ingray! See, there is a woman who spits in a soldier's face!
Throughout it all, the officers sit their horses, unmoved. A man on thebank above draws a pistol and aims at a captain. A German private stepsfrom the ranks, forgetful of discipline, and points at the man, who iscursing the captain's name. The captain, imperturbable, orders his manback to his place. And the man does not shoot--yet.
Now are the prisoners of that regiment all in place between the twofiles of it. A band (one of those which played lightsome music on thebirthday of the camp) is marched around to the head of the column. Theregiment with its freight moves on to make place for a battalion ofregulars, amid imprecations and cries of "Hurrah for Jeff Davis!" and"Damn the Dutch! Kill the Hessians!"
Stephen Brice stood among the people in Lindell's Grove, looking up atthe troops on the road, which was on an embankment. Through the rows offaces he had searched in vain for one. His motive he did not attemptto fathom--in truth, he was not conscious at the time of any motive. Heheard the name shouted at the gate.
"Here they are,--the dragoons! Three cheers for Colfax! Down with theYankees!"
A storm of cheers and hisses followed. Dismounted, at the head of hissmall following, the young Captain walked erect. He did not seem to hearthe cheers. His face was set, and he held his gloved hand over the placewhere his sword had been, as if over a wound. On his features, in hisattitude, was stamped the undying determination of the South. How thosethoroughbreds of the Cavaliers showed it! Pain they took lightly. Thefire of humiliation burned, but could not destroy their indomitablespirit. They were the first of their people in the field, and the lastto leave it. Historians may say that the classes of the South caused thewar; they cannot say that they did not take upon themselves the greatestburden of the suffering.
Twice that day was the future re
vealed to Stephen. Once as he stoodon the hill-crest, when he had seen a girl in crimson and white ina window,--in her face. And now again he read it in the face of hercousin. It was as if he had seen unrolled the years of suffering thatwere to come.
In that moment of deep bitterness his reason wavered. What if the Southshould win? Surely there was no such feeling in the North as thesepeople betrayed. That most dangerous of gifts, the seeing of twosides of a quarrel, had been given him. He saw the Southern view. Hesympathized with the Southern people. They had befriended him in hispoverty. Why had he not been born, like Clarence Colfax, the owner of alarge plantation, the believer in the divine right of his race to rule?
Then this girl who haunted his thoughts! Would that his path had been asstraight, his duty as easy, as that of the handsome young Captain.
Presently these thoughts were distracted by the sight of a backstrangely familiar. The back belonged to a gentleman who wasenergetically climbing the embankment in front of him, on the topof which Major Sexton, a regular, army officer, sat his horse. Thegentleman was pulling a small boy after him by one hand, and held anewspaper tightly rolled in the other. Stephen smiled to himself when itcame over him that this gentleman was none other than that Mr. WilliamT. Sherman he had met in the street car the day before. Somehow Stephenwas fascinated by the decision and energy of Mr. Sherman's slightestmovements. He gave Major Saxton a salute, quick and genial. Then, almostwith one motion he unrolled the newspaper, pointed to a paragraph, andhanded it to the officer. Major Saxton was still reading when a drunkenruffian clambered up the bank behind them and attempted to pass throughthe lines. The column began to move forward. Mr. Sherman slid down thebank with his boy into the grove beside Stephen. Suddenly there was astruggle. A corporal pitched the drunkard backwards over the bank, andhe rolled at Mr. Sherman's feet. With a curse, he picked himself up,fumbling in his pocket. There was a flash, and as the smoke rolled frombefore his eyes, Stephen saw a man of a German regiment stagger andfall.
It was the signal for a rattle of shots. Stones and bricks filled theair, and were heard striking steel and flesh in the ranks. The regimentquivered,--then halted at the loud command of the officers, and theranks faced out with level guns, Stephen reached for Mr. Sherman's boy,but a gentleman had already thrown him and was covering his body.He contrived to throw down a woman standing beside him before themini-balls swished over their heads, and the leaves and branches beganto fall. Between the popping of the shots sounded the shrieks of woundedwomen and children, the groans and curses of men, and the stampeding ofhundreds.
"Lie down, Brice! For God's sake lie down!" Mr. Sherman cried.
He was about to obey when a young; man, small and agile, ran past himfrom behind, heedless of the panic. Stopping at the foot of the bank hedropped on one knee, resting his revolver in the hollow of his leftarm. It, was Jack Brinsmade. At the same time two of the soldiers abovelowered their barrels to cover him. Then smoke hid the scene. When itrolled away, Brinsmade lay on the ground. He staggered to his feet withan oath, and confronted a young man who was hatless, and upon whoseforehead was burned a black powder mark.
"Curse you!" he cried, reaching out wildly, "curse you, you d--d Yankee.I'll teach you to fight!"
Maddened, he made a rush at Stephen's throat. But Stephen seized hishands and bent them down, and held them firmly while he kicked andstruggled.
"Curse you!" he panted; "curse you, you let me go and I'll killyou,--you Yankee upstart!"
But Stephen held on. Brinsmade became more and more frantic. One of theofficers, seeing the struggle, started down the bank, was reviled, andhesitated. At that moment Major Sherman came between them.
"Let him go, Brice," he said, in a tone of command. Stephen did as hewas bid. Whereupon Brinsmade made a dash for his pistol on the ground.Mr. Sherman was before him.
"Now see here, Jack," he said, picking it up, "I don't want to shootyou, but I may have to. That young man saved your life at the risk ofhis own. If that fool Dutchman had had a ball in his gun instead of awad, Mr. Brice would have been killed."
A strange thing happened. Brinsmade took one long look at Stephen,turned on his heel, and walked off rapidly through the grove. And it maybe added that for some years after he was not seen in St. Louis.
For a moment the other two stood staring after him. Then Mr. Shermantook his boy by the hand.
"Mr. Brice," he said, "I've seen a few things done in my life, butnothing better than this. Perhaps the day may come when you and I maymeet in the army. They don't seem to think much of us now," he added,smiling, "but we may be of use to 'em later. If ever I can serve you,Mr. Brice, I beg you to call on me."
Stephen stammered his acknowledgments. And Mr. Sherman, nodding his headvigorously, went away southward through the grove, toward Market Street.
The column was moving on. The dead were being laid in carriages, and thewounded tended by such physicians as chanced to be on the spot. Stephen,dazed at what had happened, took up the march to town. He strode fasterthan the regiments with their load of prisoners, and presently he foundhimself abreast the little file of dragoons who were guarded by some ofBlair's men. It was then that he discovered that the prisoners' band infront was playing "Dixie."
They are climbing the second hill, and are coming now to the fringeof new residences which the rich citizens have built. Some of them areclosed and dark. In the windows and on the steps of others women arecrying or waving handkerchiefs and calling out to the prisoners, someof whom are gay, and others sullen. A distracted father tries to breakthrough the ranks and rescue his son. Ah, here is the Catherwood house.That is open. Mrs. Catherwood, with her hand on her husband's arm, withred eyes, is scanning those faces for the sight of George.
Will he ever come back to her? Will the Yankees murder him for treason,or send him North to languish the rest of his life? No, she will notgo inside. She must see him. She will not faint, though Mrs. James has,across the street, and is even now being carried into the house. Fewof us can see into the hearts of those women that day, and speak of thesuffering there.
Near the head of Mr. Blair's regiment is Tom. His face is cast down ashe passes the house from which he is banished. Nor do father, or mother,or sister in their agony make any sound or sign. George is coming. Thewelcome and the mourning and the tears are all for him.
The band is playing "Dixie" once more. George is coming, and some oneelse. The girls are standing in a knot bend the old people, dry-eyed,their handkerchiefs in their hands. Some of the prisoners take off theirhats and smile at the young lady with the chiselled features and brownhair, who wears the red and white of the South as if she were born tothem. Her eyes are searching. Ah, at last she sees him, walking erectat the head of his dragoons. He gives her one look of entreaty, and thatsmile which should have won her heart long ago. As if by common consentthe heads of the troopers are uncovered before her. How bravely shewaves at them until they are gone down the street! Then only do her eyesfill with tears, and she passes into the house.
Had she waited, she might have seen a solitary figure leaving the lineof march and striding across to Pine Street.
That night the sluices of the heavens were opened, and the blood waswashed from the grass in Lindell Grove. The rain descended in floodson the distracted city, and the great river rose and flung brush fromMinnesota forests high up on the stones of the levee. Down in the longbarracks weary recruits, who had stood and marched all the day long,went supperless to their hard pallets.
Government fare was hard. Many a boy, prisoner or volunteer, sobbedhimself to sleep in the darkness. All were prisoners alike, prisonersof war. Sobbed themselves to sleep, to dream of the dear homes that werehere within sight and sound of them, and to which they were powerless togo. Sisters, and mothers, and wives were there, beyond the rain, holdingout arms to them.
Is war a thing to stir the blood? Ay, while the day lasts. But what ofthe long nights when husband and wife have lain side by side? What ofthe children who ask piteously where their
father is going, and who aregathered by a sobbing mother to her breast? Where is the picture of thatlast breakfast at home? So in the midst of the cheer which is saddest inlife comes the thought that, just one year ago, he who is the staffof the house was wont to sit down just so merrily to his morning meal,before going to work in the office. Why had they not thanked God ontheir knees for peace while they had it?
See the brave little wife waiting on the porch of her home for him to goby. The sun shines, and the grass is green on the little plot, and thegeraniums red. Last spring she was sewing here with a song on her lips,watching for him to turn the corner as he came back to dinner. Butnow! Hark! Was that the beat of the drums? Or was it thunder? Her goodneighbors, the doctor and his wife, come in at the little gate to cheerher. She does not hear them. Why does God mock her with sunlight andwith friends?
Tramp, tramp, tramp! They are here. Now the band is blaring. That is hiscompany. And that is his dear face, the second from the end. Will sheever see it again? Look, he is smiling bravely, as if to say a thousandtender things. "Will, are the flannels in your knapsack? You have notforgotten that medicine for your cough?" What courage sublime is thatwhich lets her wave at him? Well for you, little woman, that you cannotsee the faces of the good doctor and his wife behind you. Oh, those gunsof Sumter, how they roar in your head! Ay, and will roar again, throughforty years of widowhood!
Mrs. Brice was in the little parlor that Friday night, listening to thecry of the rain outside. Some thoughts such as these distracted her. Whyshould she be happy, and other mothers miserable? The day of reckoningfor her happiness must surely come, when she must kiss Stephen a bravefarewell and give him to his country. For the sins of the fathers arevisited on the children, unto the third and fourth generation of themthat hate Him who is the Ruler of all things.
The bell rang, and Stephen went to the door. He was startled to see Mr.Brinsmade. That gentleman was suddenly aged, and his clothes were wetand spattered with mud. He sank into a chair, but refused the spiritsand water which Mrs. Brice offered him in her alarm.
"Stephen," he said, "I have been searching the city for John. Did yousee him at Camp Jackson--was he hurt?"
"I think not, sir," Stephen answered, with clear eyes.
"I saw him walking southward after the firing was all over."
"Thank God," exclaimed Mr. Brinsmade, fervently. "If you will excuse me,madam, I shall hurry to tell my wife and daughter. I have been able tofind no one who saw him."
As he went out he glanced at Stephen's forehead. But for once in hislife, Mr. Brinsmade was too much agitated to inquire about the pain ofanother.
"Stephen, you did not tell me that you saw John," said his mother, whenthe door was closed.
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