Title: The Victim - A romance of the Real Jefferson Davis
Author: Dixon, Thomas, 1864-1946
Language: English
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THE VICTIM

A Romance of the Real Jefferson Davis

by

THOMAS DIXON

Illustrated by J. N. Marchand



  BOOKS BY THOMAS DIXON

  The Victim
  The Southerner
  The Sins of the Father
  The Leopard's Spots
  The Clansman
  The Traitor
  The One Woman
  Comrades
  The Root of Evil
  The Life Worth Living



[Illustration: "The man in front gave a short laugh and advanced
on the girl" [Page 300]]



THE VICTIM



"_A majestic soul has passed_"--Charles A. Dana


[Illustration: Colophon]



New York and London
D. Appleton and Company
1914
Copyright, 1914, by
Thomas Dixon
All rights reserved, including that of translation into all
foreign languages, including the Scandinavian
Printed in the United States of America



  TO
  THE BRAVE WHO DIED
  FOR WHAT THEY BELIEVED
  TO BE RIGHT



  _Fold up the banners! Smelt the guns!
  Love rules. Her gentle purpose runs.
  A mighty mother turns in tears
  The pages of her battle years
  Lamenting all her fallen sons!_

  THOMPSON



TO THE READER


_In the historical romance which I have woven of the dramatic events of
the life of Jefferson Davis I have drawn his real character unobscured
by passion or prejudice. Forced by his people to lead their cause, his
genius created an engine of war so terrible in its power that through it
five million Southerners, without money, without a market, without
credit, withstood for four years the shock of twenty million men of
their own blood and of equal daring, backed by boundless resources._

_The achievement is without a parallel in history, and adds new glory to
the records of our race._

_The scenes have all been drawn from authentic records in my possession.
I have not at any point taken a liberty with an essential detail of
history._

Thomas Dixon.



CONTENTS



PROLOGUE


        I The Curtain Rises
       II The Parting
      III A Midnight Session
       IV A Friendly Warning
        V Boy and Girl
       VI God's Will
      VII The Best Man Wins
     VIII The Storm Center
       IX The Old Régime
        X The Gauge of Battle
       XI Jennie's Vision
      XII A Little Cloud
     XIII The Closing of the Ranks
      XIV Richmond in Gala Dress
       XV The House on Church Hill
      XVI The Flower-Decked Tent
     XVII The Fatal Victory
    XVIII The Aftermath
      XIX Socola's Problem
       XX The Anaconda
      XXI Gathering Clouds
     XXII Jennie's Recruit
    XXIII The Fatal Blunder
     XXIV The Sleeping Lioness
      XXV The Bombardment
     XXVI The Irreparable Loss
    XXVII The Light that Failed
   XXVIII The Snare of the Fowler
     XXIX The Panic in Richmond
      XXX The Deliverance
     XXXI Love and War
    XXXII The Path of Glory
   XXXIII The Accusation
    XXXIV The Turn of the Tide
     XXXV Suspicion
    XXXVI The Fatal Deed
   XXXVII The Raiders
  XXXVIII The Discovery
    XXXIX The Conspirators
       XL In Sight of Victory
      XLI The Fall of Richmond
     XLII The Capture
    XLIII The Victor
     XLIV Prison Bars
      XLV The Master Mind
     XLVI The Torture
    XLVII Vindication



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


"The man in front gave a short laugh and advanced on the girl"

"'You have given me new eyes--'"

"'We have won, sir!' was the short curt answer"

"Dick saluted and sprang into the saddle--'I understand, sir'"

"Jennie thrust her trembling little figure between the two men and
confronted Dick"

"'Do your duty--put them on him!'"



LEADING CHARACTERS OF THE STORY


_The Prologue_

1814-1853

  Lt. Jefferson Davis, Of the U. S. Army.
  Joseph E. Davis, His Big Brother.
  Colonel Zachary Taylor, "Old Rough and Ready."
  Sarah Knox Taylor, His Daughter.
  James Pemberton, A Faithful Slave.


_The Story_

1860-1867

  Hon. Roger Barton, An Original Secessionist.
  Jennie, His Daughter.
  Dick Welford, A Confederate Soldier.
  Joseph Holt, A Renegade Southerner.
  Henrico Socola, A Soldier of Fortune.
  The President, Of the Confederacy.
  Mrs. Davis, His Wife.
  Burton Harrison, His Secretary.
  Joseph E. Johnston, A Master of Retreat.
  P. G. T. Beauregard, The First Hero.
  Stonewall Jackson, Of the "Foot Cavalry."
  Robert E. Lee, The Southern Commander.
  U. S. Grant, The Bull Dog Fighter.
  Nelson A. Miles, A Jailer.
  John C. Underwood, A Reconstruction Judge.



THE VICTIM

The Prologue



THE VICTIM


PROLOGUE



I

KIDNAPPED


The hot sun of the South was sinking in red glow through the giant
tree-tops of a Mississippi forest beyond the village of Woodville.
A slender girl stood in the pathway watching a boy of seven trudge
manfully away beside his stalwart brother.

Her lips trembled and eyes filled with tears.

"Wait--wait!" she cried.

With a sudden bound she snatched him to her heart.

"Don't, Polly--you hurt!" the little fellow faltered, looking at her
with a feeling of sudden fear. "Why did you squeeze me so hard?"

"You shouldn't have done that, honey," the big brother frowned.

"I know," the sister pleaded, "but I couldn't help it."

"What are you crying about?" the boy questioned.

Again the girl's arm stole around his neck.

"What's the matter with her, Big Brother?" he asked with a brave attempt
at scorn.

The man slowly loosened the sister's arms.

"I'm just going home with you, ain't I?" the child went on, with a
quiver in his voice.

The older brother led him to a fallen log, sat down, and held his hands.

"No, Boy," he said quietly. "I'd as well tell you the truth now. I'm
going to send you to Kentucky to a wonderful school, taught by learned
men from the Old World--wise monks who know everything. You want to go
to a real school, don't you?"

"But my Mamma don't know--"

"That's just it, Boy. We can't tell her. She wouldn't let you go."

"Why?"

"Well, she's a good Baptist, and it's a long, long way to the St. Thomas
monastery."

"How far?"

"A thousand miles, through these big woods--"

The blue eyes dimmed.

"I want to see my Mamma before I go--" his voice broke.

The man shook his head.

"No, Boy; it won't do. You're her baby--"

The dark head sank with a cry.

"I want to see her!"

"Come, come, Jeff Davis, you're going to be a soldier. Remember you're
the son of a soldier who fought under General Washington and won our
freedom. You're named after Thomas Jefferson, the great President. Your
three brothers have just come home from New Orleans. Under Old Hickory
we drove the British back into their ships and sent 'em flying home to
England. The son of a soldier--the brother of soldiers--can't cry--"

"I will if I want to!"

"All right!" the man laughed--"I'll hold my hat and you can cry it
full--"

He removed his hat and held it smilingly under the boy's firm little
chin. The childish lips tightened and the cheeks flushed with anger.
His bare toes began to dig holes in the soft rich earth. The appeal to
his soldier blood had struck into the pride of his heart and the insult
of a hat full of tears had hurt.

At last, he found his tongue:

"Does Pa know I'm goin'?"

"Yes. He thinks you're a very small boy to go so far, but knows it's for
the best."

"That's why he kissed me when I left?"

"Yes."

"I thought it was funny," he murmured with a half sob; "he never kissed
me before--"

"He's quiet and reserved, Boy, but he's wise and good and loves you.
He's had a hard time out here in the wilderness fighting his way with a
wife and ten children. He never had a chance to get an education and the
children didn't either. Some of us are too old now. There's time for
you. We're going to stand aside and let you pass. You're our baby
brother, and we love you."

The child's hand slowly stole into the rough one of the man.

"And I love you, Big Brother--" the little voice faltered, "and all the
others, too, and that's-why-I'm-not-goin'!"

"I'm so glad!" The girl clapped her hands and laughed.

"Polly!--"

"Well, I am, and I don't care what you say. He's too little to go so far
and you know he is--"

The man grasped her hand and whispered:

"Hush!"

The brother slipped his arm around the Boy and drew him on his knee. He
waited a moment until the hard lines at the corners of the firm mouth
had relaxed under the pressure of his caress, pushed the tangled hair
back from his forehead and looked into the fine blue-gray eyes. His
voice was tender and his speech slow.

"You must make up your mind to go, Boy. I don't want to force you. I
like to see your eyes flash when you say you _won't_ go. You've got the
stuff in you that real men are made of. That's why it's worth while to
send you. I've seen that since you could toddle about the house and
stamp your feet when things didn't suit you. Now, listen to me. I've
made a vow to God that you shall have as good a chance as any man to
make your way to the top. We're going to be the greatest nation in the
world. I saw it in the red flash of guns that day at New Orleans as I
lay there in the trench and watched the long lines of Red Coats go down
before us. Just a lot of raw recruits with old flintlocks! The men who
charged us, the picked veterans of England's grand army. But we cut 'em
to pieces, Boy! I fired a cannon loaded with grape shot that mowed a
lane straight through 'em. It must have killed two hundred men. They
burned our Capitol at Washington and the Federalist traitors at Hartford
were firin' on us in the rear, but Old Hickory showed the world that we
could lick England with one hand tied behind our back. And we did it. We
drove 'em like sheep--drove 'em into the sea.

"There's but one name on every lip in this country now, Boy, and that's
Old Hickory. He'd be President next time--but for one thing,--just one
thing--he didn't have a chance to learn when he was a boy. He's not
educated."

The brother paused, and a dreamy look came into his eyes. "We may make
him President anyhow. But if he'd been educated--there wouldn't be any
if or and about it. Washington and Jefferson and Madison belong to the
rich and powerful class. Jackson is a yeoman like your father. But he'd
be President. Boy, if he'd been educated! Nothing could stop him. Don't
you see this is your country? This is a poor man's world. All you have
to do is to train your mind. You've got to do this--you
understand--you've got to do it--"

The man paused suddenly and looked into the Boy's wondering eyes. He had
forgotten the child's rebellion. The young pioneer of the wilderness was
talking to himself. Again he had seen a vision.

He seized the Boy's arms:

"Don't you see, Boy, don't you?"

The child's mouth hardened again:

"No, I don't. I'm just a little boy. I love my Mamma. She's good and
sweet to me and I'm not going to leave her--"

Again Polly laughed.

A smile slowly played about the brother's lips and eyes. He must show
his trump card.

"But you don't know what I've got for you--"

"What?"

"Something you've always wanted to have for your own--"

"A pony?"

The man slowly rose:

"Come out to the big road--"

The Boy seized his sister's hand:

"Polly, let's see!"

The girl's eyes grew dim:

"Oh, Jeff, I know you're goin'!"

"No--we'll just see what it is--come on!"

In five minutes they emerged from the deep woods into the clearing
around a cabin. Beside the roadway stood a horse and pony, both bridled
and saddled.

The swift feet of the Boy flew across the opening, the sister wide-eyed
and trembling, close on his heels. He threw his arms around the pony's
neck and stroked his head with gentle touch. The pony pressed his mouth
against the Boy's cheek in friendly response.

"Did you see him kiss me, Polly?" he cried tremblingly.

"Yes, I saw him," was the solemn response.

"Isn't he a beauty? Look, Polly--he's got a white spot on every foot and
one in his forehead and black as a coal all over--and Oh--what a
saddle--a red belt and red martingales!"

He touched the saddle lovingly and circled the pony's neck with his
arms.

The brother smiled again:

"Well, what do you think of that?"

The Boy was trembling now from head to foot, his heart in his throat as
he slowly asked:

"You mean that--you'll--give--him--to me--for--all my own?"

"If you'll be a good boy, go to school and work hard--yes."

"All right, Big Brother," was the quick answer, "I'll go. Help me on him
quick, and let me try him!"

The Boy lifted his bare foot into the strong hand, sprang into the
saddle, bounded down the road, wheeled, flew back and leaped to the
ground.

"He's a dandy!"

Polly dropped her head and started home, making a brave fight to keep
back the tears. Half way across the clearing she gave up in a long
pitiful wail.

The Boy, busy with his pony, had not missed her. In a moment he was by
her side, his arms about her neck.

"Don't cry, Polly honey, I'll be back before long," he pleaded.

The only answer was a sob:

"Good-by, Jeff--"

Her hands slowly slipped through his.

"Good-by, Polly--"

He watched her go with quivering lips, and as the little figure slowly
faded into the shadows of the woods he called in broken accents:

"Kiss Mamma for me--and tell her I wanted to go back and say
good-by--but Joe wouldn't let me!"

"Yes, honey!"

"And you--watch out for that old drunk man we saw once in the woods,
Polly!"

"Yes!"

"Don't let him get you--"

"No--I won't--good--good-by!"

"Good-by--"

The last good-by stuck in the Boy's throat, but he lifted his blue eyes,
saw his pony and smiled through the tears.



II

THE WILDERNESS


A journey of a thousand miles through the unbroken wilderness--the home
of the Choctaw and Chickasaw Indian Nations and all on his own beautiful
pony! It was no time for tears.

The Boy's soul leaped for joy.

The party was a delightful one. Major Hinds, a veteran of General
Jackson's campaign, the commander of the famous Mississippi Dragoons at
the battle of New Orleans, was the leader, accompanied by his wife, her
sister and niece, and best of all a boy his own age, the Major's little
son Howell.

Howell also was riding a pony. He was a nice enough pony, of course, as
ponies went, but couldn't compare with his own. He made up his mind to
race the first chance they got, and show those pretty white heels to
his rival. He was just dying to tell him how fast they could beat the
ground--but he'd wait and surprise the party.

A negro maid accompanied the ladies and a stalwart black man rode a
pack-mule laden with tents, blankets and a cooking outfit. They stopped
at houses when one could be reached at nightfall. If not, they camped in
the woods beneath the towering trees. There was no need of the tents
unless it rained. So dense was the foliage that only here and there a
bright star peeped through, or a moonbeam shot its silvery thread to the
ground. The Indians were all friendly. It was the boast of the Choctaws
that no man of their breed had ever shed the blood of a white man.

For days they followed the course of the majestic river rolling its
yellow flood to the sea and watched the lazy flat and keel boats drift
slowly down to New Orleans bearing the wealth of the new Western World.
The men who had manned these rude craft were slowly tramping on foot
back to their homes in the North. Their boats could not stem the tide
for the return trip. Every day they passed these weary walkers. The Boy
was sorry they couldn't ride. His pony's step was so firm and quick and
strong.

He raced with Howell the first day and beat him so far there was no fun
in it. He never challenged his rival again. He was the guest of Major
Hinds on this trip. It would be rude. But he slipped out in the dark
that night, and hugged his pony:

"You're the finest horse that ever was!" he whispered.

"Of course I am!" the pony laughed.

"I love you--"

"And I love you," was the quick response as the warm nose touched his
cheek.

In the second week, they reached the first stand, "Folsoms'," on the
border of the Choctaw Nation. These stands were log cabins occupied by
squaw men--whites who had married Indian women. They must pass three
more of these stands the Major said--the "Leflores," known as the first
and second French camps, and the one at the crossing of the Tennessee
River, which had the unusual distinction of being kept by a half-breed
Chickasaw Indian.

Here, weary, footsore travelers stopped to rest and refresh
themselves--and many dropped and died miles from those they loved. The
little graveyard with its rude, wooden-marked mounds the Boy saw with a
dull ache in his heart.

And then the first bitter pang of homesickness came. He wondered if his
sweet mother were well. He wondered what she said when they told her he
had gone. He knew she had cried. What if she were dead and he could
never see her again? He sat down on a log, buried his face in his hands
and tried to cry the ache out of his heart. He felt that he must turn
back or die. But it wouldn't do. He had promised his Big Brother. He
rose, brushed the tears away, fed and watered his pony and tenderly
rubbed down every inch of his beautiful black skin. He forgot the ache
in his new-found love and the strength which had come into his boy's
soul from the sense of kinship with Nature which this beautiful dumb
four-footed friend had brought him. No man could be friendless or
forsaken who possessed the love of a horse. His horse knew and loved
him. He said it in a hundred ways. His wide, deep, lustrous eyes,
shining with intelligence, had told him! So had the touch of his big
warm mouth in many a friendly pony kiss. His pony could laugh, too. He
had seen the smiles flicker about his mouth and eyes as he pretended to
bite his bare legs. How could any human being be cruel or mean to a
horse! His pony had given him new courage and conscious power. He was
the master of Nature now when they flew along the trail through the deep
woods. His horse had given him wings.

He looked up into the star-sown sky, and promised God to be kind and
gentle to all the dumb world for the love of the beautiful friend He had
given.



III

THE HERMITAGE


At the last stand on the banks of the winding Tennessee, the Major sat
up late in eager discussion about Old Hickory with an enthusiastic
Tennesseean. The ladies had retired, and the Boy listened with quiet
eagerness to the talk.

"Waal, we're goin' ter make Andrew Jackson President anyhow, Major!" the
Tennesseean drawled.

"I'm afraid they'll beat us," the Major answered, with a shake of his
head.

"How'll they beat us when we git ready ter make the fight?"

"Old Hickory says himself, he ain't fit--"

"I reckon we know more about that than he does," persisted the man from
Tennessee.

"The aristocrats don't think so--"

"What t'ell they got agin him? Ain't he the biggest man in this country
to-day? Didn't he lick Spain and England both at Pensacola and didn't he
finish the Red Coats at New Orleans--"

"They say his education's poor--"

"He knowed enough to make this country cock o' the walk--what more do
they want--damn 'em!"

"They say he swears--"

The Tennesseean roared:

"Waal, if all the cussin' men vote fur him--he'll sho be elected!"

"The real trouble--" the Major said thoughtfully, "is what the
scandal-mongers keep saying about his wife--"

"He's killed one son-of-a-gun about that already, an' they better let
him alone--"

"That's just it, my friend: he killed that skunk in a duel and it's not
the only one he has fought either. Old Hickory's got the temper of the
devil."

"Waal, thar ain't nothin' in them lies about his wife--"

The Major lifted his hand and moved closer:

"There's just enough truth at the bottom of it all to give the liars the
chance they need to talk forever--"

"I never knowed thar wuz ary grain er truth in hit, at all--"

"There is, though," the Major interrupted, "and that's where we're going
to have a big fight on our hands when it comes to the rub. This Lewis
Robards, her first husband, was a quarrelsome cuss. Every man that
looked at his wife, he swore was after her, and if she lifted her eyes,
he was sure she was guilty. There was no divorce law in Virginia and
Robards petitioned the Legislature to pass an Act of Divorce in his
favor. The dog swore in this petition that his wife had deserted him and
was living with Andrew Jackson. He _was_ boarding with her mother, the
widow Donelson. The Legislature passed the Act, but it only authorized
the Courts of the Territory of Kentucky to try the case, and grant the
divorce if the facts were proven.

"Robards never went to Court with it for over two years, and Jackson,
under the impression that the Legislature had given the divorce, married
Rachel Robards at Natchez in August, 1791.

"Two years later, the skunk slips into Court and gets his divorce!

"As quick as Old Hickory heard this, he married her over again. There
was a mighty hullabaloo kicked up about it by the politicians. They
tried to run Jackson out of the country--the little pups who were afraid
of him. He challenged the leader of this pack of hounds, and shot him
dead--"

"Served him right, too," broke in the Tennesseean, removing his pipe,
with a nod of his shaggy head.

"But it don't help him on the way to Washington!" The Major grunted,
suddenly rising and dismissing the subject for the night.

The Boy's curiosity was kindled to see the great man whose name had
filled the world.

The distance to Nashville was quickly covered. The Major pressed
straight through the town without pause and drew rein at the General's
gate.

The welcome they received from their distinguished host was so simple,
so genuine, so real, the Boy's heart went out in loyal admiration.

The house was a big rambling structure of logs, in front of which stood
a stately grove of magnificent forest trees. Behind it stretched the
grain and cotton fields.

Nothing could surpass the unaffected and perfect courtesy with which the
General welcomed his guests. The tall, stately figure, moving with the
unconscious grace of perfect manhood, needed no rules of a dancing
master for his guidance. He had sprung from the common people, but he
was a born leader and ruler of men.

The Boy listened with keen ears to hear him rip out one of those
terrible oaths of which so much had been said. His speech was gentle and
kind, and he asked a blessing at every meal exactly as his own quiet,
dignified father at home. In all the three weeks they remained his
guests not an oath or an ugly word fell from his lips. The Boy wondered
how people could tell such lies.

The General liked boys, too. It was easy to see that. He gave hours of
his time to the games and sports of his adopted son, Andrew Jackson,
Jr., and his two little guests. He got up contests of all sorts. They
raced their ponies. They ran and jumped. They played marbles. They
followed the hounds. And always with them as friend and counselor, the
General, gentle, kind, considerate. The only thing he prohibited was
wrestling.

"No, boys," he said with a frown. "That's not a good sport for high
spirited youth. To feel the hand of a rival on your body may lead to a
fight."

The deep set eyes flashed with the memory of his own hot blooded boyhood
and young manhood.

The General's wife won the Boy's whole heart from the moment he saw her.

"How could they tell such lies!" he kept repeating with boyish
indignation. Pure and sweet as the face of his own mother was hers.
Loving, unselfish, tender and thoughtful, she moved through her house
with the gentle step of a ministering angel. The knightly deference with
which the General attended her slightest wish, stirred the Boy's
imagination. He could see him standing erect, pistol in hand, in the
gray dawn of the morning on which he faced the enemy who had slandered
her. He could see the big firm hand grip the pistol's handle in a clasp
of steel as he waited the signal of Death. He wondered what sort of
wound Dickenson's bullet had made in the General's breast. Anyhow, it
had not been fatal. His enemy lived but a few hours.

He set his lips firmly, and repeated the Tennesseean's verdict:

"Served him right, too."

The Boy left the Hermitage under the spell of Old Hickory's personality
for life. He had seen a great man.



IV

THE MONASTERY BELLS


The journey from Nashville to Springfield, Kentucky, was quick and
uneventful. Long before the spire of St. Thomas' church loomed on the
horizon, they passed through the wide, fertile fields of the Dominican
monks. The grim figure of a black friar was directing the harvest of a
sea of golden-yellow wheat. His workmen were sleek negro slaves. Herds
of fat cattle grazed on the hills. A flock of a thousand sheep were
nipping the fresh sweet grass in the valley. They passed a big flour
mill, whose lazy wheel swung in rhythmic unison with the laughing waters
of the creek that watered the rich valley. The monks were vowed to
poverty and self-denial. But their Order was rich in slaves and land, in
mills and herds and flocks and generous harvests.

As the sun sank in a smother of purple and red behind the hills, they
saw the church and monastery. The bells were chanting their call to
evening prayer.

The Boy held his breath in silent ecstasy. He had never heard anything
like it before. It was wonderful--those sweet notes echoing over hill
and valley in the solemn hush of the gathering twilight.

They waited for the priests to emerge from the chapel before making
their presence known. Through the open windows the deep solemn throb of
the organ pealed. The soul of the Boy rose enchanted on new wings whose
power he had never dreamed. Hidden depths were sounded of whose
existence he could not know. There was no organ in the little bare log
church the Baptists had built near his father's farm in Mississippi. His
father and mother were Baptists and of course he was going to be a
Baptist some day. But why didn't they have stained glass windows like
those through which he saw the light now streaming--wonderful flashing
lights, whose colors seemed to pour from the soul of the organ. And why
didn't they have a great organ?

He was going to like these Roman Catholics. He wondered what his mother
would say to that?

It all seemed so familiar, too. Where had he heard those bells? Where
had he heard the peal of that organ and seen the flash of those gorgeous
lights? In the sky at sunset perhaps, and in the rumble of the storm.
Maybe in dreams--and now they had come true.

In a few months, he found himself the only Protestant boy in school and
the smallest of all the scholars. The monks were kind. They seemed
somehow to love him better than the others. Father Wallace reminded him
of his big brother. He was so gentle.

The Boy made up his mind to join the Catholic Church and went straight
to Father Wilson, the venerable head of the college.

The old man smiled pleasantly:

"And why do you wish this, my son?"

"Oh, it's so much more beautiful than the Baptist Church. Besides it's
so much easier--"

"Indeed?"

"Yes, sir. The Baptists have such a hard time getting religion. They
seek and mourn so long--"

"Really?"

"Indeed they do--yes, sir--I've seen stubborn sinners mourn all summer
in three protracted meetings and then not come through!"

"And you don't like that sort of penance?"

"No, sir. I've always dreaded it. And the worst thing is the new
converts have to stand right up in church before all the crowd and tell
their experience out loud. I'd hate that--"

"And you like our ways better?"

"A great deal better. The Catholics manage things so nicely. All you
have to do is to go to church, learn the catechism and the good priests
do all the rest--"

"Oh--I see!"

"Yes, sir."

Father Wilson laid his wrinkled hand tenderly on the Boy's head:

"You are very, very young, my son, and you are growing rapidly. What you
really need is good Catholic food. Sit down and have a piece of bread
and cheese with me."

The Boy sat down and ate the offered bread and cheese in silence.

"I can't join, Father Wilson?" he asked at last.

The priest smiled again:

"No, my son."

"You don't like me, Father?" the boy asked wistfully.

"We like you very much, sir. But we are responsible for the trust your
father and mother have put in us. In God's own time when you are older
and know the full meaning of your act, I should be glad--but not this
way."

The Boy was so small, in fact, that a fine old priest in pity for his
tender years had a little bed put in his own room for him to watch the
light and shadows in eager young eyes when homesickness threatened. And
then he talked of the wonders and glory of Rome on her seven hills by
the Tiber, of the Coliseum, the death of Christian martyrs in the
arena--of the splendors of St. Peter's, beside whose glory all other
churches pale into insignificance. He lifted the curtain of history and
gave the child's mind flashes of the Old World whose pageants stretch
down the ages into the mists of eternity.

Of books, the Boy learned little--but the monks kindled a light in his
soul the years could not dim.

To the other students the old man was not so gentle. They were tougher
and he set their tasks accordingly. They rebelled at last and decided on
revenge. The plot was hatched and all in readiness for its execution.
The only problem was how to put the light out in his room.

The Boy held the key to the citadel. He was on the inside. He could blow
the candle out and the thing was done. He refused at first, but the
rebels crowded around him and appealed to his sense of loyalty.

"They can force you to sleep in his room," pleaded the ringleader, "but,
by Gimminy, that don't make you a monk, does it?"

"No, of course not--"

"You're one of _us_--stand by us. You didn't ask to sleep in his old
room, did you?"

"No."

"Well, you're there--the right man in the right place, in the nick of
time. _Will_ you stand by us?"

"What do you want me to do?"

"Just blow out the candle--that's all--we'll do the rest. Will you do
it?"

The Boy hesitated, smiled and said:

"Yes--when everything's quiet."

The old man had gone to bed and began to snore. The Boy rose noiselessly
and blew the candle out.

Instantly from the darkness without, poured a volley of cabbage heads,
squashes, potatoes and biscuits. Not a word was spoken, but the charge
of the light brigade was swift and terrible.

The Boy pulled the cover over his head and waited for the storm to pass.

When the light was lit and search made, not a culprit could be found.
They were all in bed sound asleep. The only one awake was the Boy in the
little bed on which lay scattered potatoes, biscuits and cabbage.

The priest drew him from under the cover. His face was stern--the firm
mouth rigid with anger.

"Did you know they were going to do that, sir?" he asked.

The Boy trembled but held his tongue.

"Answer me, sir!"

"I didn't know just what they were going to do--"

"You knew they were up to something?"

"Yes!"

"And you didn't tell me?"

"No."

"Why?"

"I couldn't be a traitor, sir."

"To those young rascals--no--but you could betray me--"

"I'm not a monk, Father--"

"Tell me what you know at once, sir, before I thrash you."

"I don't know much," the Boy slowly answered, "and I can't tell you
that."

There was a final ring in the tones with which he ended the sentence.
The culprit must be punished. It was out of the question that he should
whip him--this quiet, gentle, bright little fellow he had grown to love.
He was turned over to another--an old monk of fine face and voice full
of persuasive music.

He took the Boy by the hand and led him up the last flight of stairs to
the top of the house and into a tiny bare room. The only piece of
furniture was an ominous looking cot in the middle of the floor. The Boy
had not read the history of the Spanish Inquisition, but it required no
great learning in history or philosophy to guess the use of that
machine.

There was no terror in the blue eyes. Their light grew hard with
resolution. The monk to whom he had been delivered for punishment was
the one of all the monastery who had the kindliest, gentlest face. The
Boy had always thought him one of his best friends.

Yet, without a word, he laid the culprit face downward on the strange
leather couch and drew the straps around his slim body. He had dreamed
of mercy, but all hope vanished now. He held his breath and set his lips
to receive the blow--the first he had ever felt.

The monk took the switch in his hand and hesitated. He loved the bright,
handsome lad. The task was harder than he thought.

He knelt beside the cot and put his hand on the dark little head:

"I hate to strike you, my son--"

"Don't then, Father," was the eager answer.

"I've always had a very tender spot in my heart for you. Tell me what
you know and it'll be all right."

"I can't--"

"No matter how little, and I'll let you off."

"Will you?"

"I promise."

"I know one thing," the Boy said with a smile.

"Yes?"

"I know who blew out the light."

"Good!"

"If I tell you that much, you'll let me off?"

"Yes, my son."

The little head wagged doubtfully:

"Honest, now, Father?"

"I give you my solemn word."

"I blew it out!"

The fine old face twitched with suppressed laughter as he loosed the
straps, sat down on the cot and drew the youngster in his lap.

"You're a bright chap, my son. You'll go far in this world some day. A
great diplomat perhaps, but the road you've started on to-night can only
lead you at last into a blind alley. You know now that I love you, don't
you?"

"Yes, Father."

"Come now, my Boy, there's too much strength and character in those fine
eyes and that splendid square chin and jaw for you to let roistering
fools lead you by the nose. You wouldn't have gotten into that devilment
if they hadn't persuaded you--now would you?"

"No."

"All right. Use the brain and heart God has given you. Don't let fools
use it for their own ends. Do your own thinking. Be your own man. Stand
on your own bottom."

And then, in low tones, the fine old face glowing with enthusiasm, the
monk talked to his little friend of Truth and Right, of Character and
Principle, of Love and God, until the tears began to slowly steal down
the rosy cheeks.

A new resolution fixed itself in the Boy's soul. He _would_ live his own
life. No other human being should do it for him.



V

HOME


The mother's heart rebelled at last. She would not be put off longer.
Her baby had been gone two years. She refused point blank to listen to
any further argument.

Charles Green, the young Mississippian, studying law in Kentucky, and
acting as the Boy's guardian, was notified to bring him at the end of
the spring term.

On a glorious day in June they left Bardstown for Louisville, to take
the new steamboat line for home. These wonderful boats were the marvels
of their day. Their names conveyed but a hint of the awe they inspired.
The fleet of three vessels bore the titles, _Volcano_, _Vesuvius_ and
_Ætna_. And the sparks that flew heavenward from their black chimneys
were far more impressive to the people who crowded the shores than the
smoke and lava of old Vesuvius to the lazy loungers of Naples.

The Boy saw his pony safely housed on board the _Ætna_, and amid the
clang of bells and the scream of whistles, the floating wonder swung out
from her wharf into the yellow tide of the Ohio.

Scores of people crowded her decks for the pleasure of a ride ten miles
down the river to return in their carriages.

The Captain of the _Ætna_, Robinson DeHart, held the Boy in a spell by
his lofty manners. He had been a sailor on board an ocean-going brig. To
him the landing of his vessel was an event, no matter how often the stop
was made, whether to put off a single passenger, or take on a regiment.
In fact, he never landed the _Ætna_, even to take on a cord of wood,
without the use of his enormous speaking trumpet and his big brass
spy-glass.

A beautiful, slow, uneventful voyage on the Father of Waters landed the
Boy in safety at the Woodville stopping-place. He leaped down the
gang-plank with a shout and clasped his Big Brother's hand.

"My, my, but you've grown, Boy!"

"Haven't I?"

"Won't little mother be surprised and glad?"

"Let's fool her," the Boy cried. "Let me go up by myself and she won't
know me!"

"All right--we'll try."

The brother stopped at the village and the young stranger walked alone
to his father's house. How beautiful it all seemed--the big log house
with the cabins clustering around it! A horse neighed at the barn and a
colt answered from the field.

He walked boldly up to the porch and just inside the door sat his lovely
mother. She had been one of the most beautiful girls in all South
Carolina in her day, his father had often said. She was beautiful still.
She had known what happiness was. She was the mother of ten strong
children--five boys and five girls--and her heart was young with their
joys and hopes. A smile was playing about her fine mouth. She was
dreaming perhaps of his coming.

The Boy cleared his throat with a deep manly note and spoke in studied
careless tones:

"Seen any stray horses around here, ma'am?"

The mother's eyes flashed as she sprang through the doorway and snatched
him to her heart with a cry of joy:

"No--but I see a stray Boy! Oh, my darling, my baby, my heart!"

And then words failed. She loosed her hold and held him at arm's length,
tried to say something, but only clasped him again and cried for joy.

"Please, Ma, let me have him!" Polly pleaded.

And then he clasped his sister in a long, voiceless hug--loosed her and
caught her again:

"I missed you, Polly, dear!" he sighed.

When all the others had been greeted, he turned to his mother:

"Where's Pa?"

"Down in the field with the colts."

"I'll go find him!"

With a bound he was off. He wondered what his silent, undemonstrative
father would do. He had always felt that he was a man of deep emotion
for all his self-control.

He saw him in the field, walked along the edge of the woods, and
suddenly came before him without warning. The father's lips trembled. He
stooped without a word, clasped the Boy in his arms and kissed him again
and again.

The youngster couldn't help wondering why a strong man should kiss so
big a boy. The mother--yes--but his father, a man--no.

It was sweet, this home-coming to those who loved deepest. Somehow the
monastery, its bells, its organ, its jeweled windows, and its kindly
black-robed priests seemed far away and unreal now--only a dream that
had passed.



VI

REBELLION


The mother's breakdown was not allowed to stop the Boy's education. Both
father and older brother were determined on this. They would use the
schools at home now.

He was sent to the County Academy in the fall. The Boy didn't like it.
After the easy life with the kindly old monks at St. Thomas, this
academy was not only cheap and coarse and uninteresting, but the teacher
had no sense. He gave lessons so long and hard it was impossible to
memorize them.

The Boy complained to the teacher. A lesson of the same length was
promptly given again. The rebel showed the teacher he was wrong by
failing to know it.

"I'll thrash you, sir!" was the stern answer.

The Boy would not take that from such a fool. He rose in his wrath, went
home and poured out the indignant story of his wrongs.

The father was a man of few words, but the long silence which followed
gave a feeling of vague uneasiness. He was never dictatorial to his
children, but meant what he said. His voice was quiet and persuasive
when he finally spoke.

"Of course, my son, you will have to choose for yourself whether you
will work with your hands only, or with your head and hands. You can't
be an idler, I need more cotton pickers. You don't like school, try the
cotton, I'll give you work."

The Boy flushed and looked at his father keenly. It was no joke. He
meant exactly what he had said, and a boy with any sand in his gizzard
couldn't back down.

"All right, sir," was the firm answer. "I'll begin in the morning."

He went forth to his task with grim determination. The sun of early
September had just risen and it was already hot as he bent to work.
Cotton picking looked easy from a distance. When you got at it, things
somehow were different. A task of everlasting monotony, this bending
from boll to boll along the endless rows! He never realized before how
long the cotton rows were. There was a little stop at the end before
turning and selecting the next, but these rows seemed to stretch away
into eternity.

Three hours at it, and he was mortally tired. His back ached in a dull
hopeless pain. He lifted his head and gazed longingly toward the school
he had scorned.

"What a fool!" he sighed. "But I'll stick to it. I can do what any
nigger can."

He looked curiously at the slaves who worked without apparent effort.
Not one of them seemed the least bit tired. He could get used to it,
too. After all, this breath of the open world was better than being
cooped up in a stuffy old schoolhouse with a fool to set impossible
tasks.

"Pooh! I'll show my father!" he exclaimed.

The negroes broke into a plantation song. Jim Pemberton, the leader,
sang each stanza in a clear fine tenor that rang over the field and
echoed through the deep woods. The others joined in the chorus and after
the last verse repeated in low sweet notes that died away so softly it
was impossible to tell the moment the song had ceased.

The music was beautiful, but it was impossible for him to join in their
singing. He couldn't lower himself to an equality with black slaves.
This cotton picking seemed part of their scheme of life. Their strong
black bodies swayed in a sort of rhythmic movement even when they were
not singing. Somehow his body didn't fit into the scheme. His back ached
and ached. No matter. He had chosen, and he would show them he had a
man's spirit inside a boy's breast.

At noon the ache had worn away and he felt a sense of joy in conquering
the pain.

He ate his dinner in silence and wondered what Polly was thinking about
at school. Girl-like, she had cried and begged him to go back.

With a cheerful wave of his hand to his mother, he returned to the field
before the negroes, strapped the bag on his shoulder and bent again to
his task. The afternoon was long. It seemed at three o'clock there could
be no end to it and still those long, long rows of white fleece
stretched on and on into eternity--all alike in dull, tiresome monotony.

He whistled to keep up his courage.

The negroes whispered to one another and smiled as they looked his way.
He paid no attention.

By four o'clock, the weariness had become a habit and at sundown he felt
stronger than at dawn. He swung the bag over his back and started to the
weighing place.

"Pooh--it's easy!" he said with scorn.

The negroes crowded around his pile of cotton.

"Dat Boy is sho one cotton-picker!" cried Jim Pemberton, regarding him
with grinning admiration.

"Of course, I can pick cotton if I want to--"

"But ye raly don't wanter?" Jim grinned.

"Sure I do. I'm sick of school."

Jim laughed aloud and, coming close, whispered insinuatingly:

"I'se sho sick er pickin' cotton, an' when yer quits de job--"

"I'm not going to quit--"

"Yassah, yassah?--I understan' dat--but de pint is, _when_ yer _do_
quit, don't fergit Jim, Marse Jeff. I likes you. You got de spunk. I
wants ter be yo' man."

The appeal touched the Boy's pride. He answered with quiet dignity:

"All right, James--"

Jim lifted his head and walled his eyes:

"Des listen at him call me Jeemes! I knows a real marster when I sees
him!"

That night, the father asked no questions and made no comment on the
fact that he had picked a hundred and ten pounds of cotton--as much as
any man in the field. His deciding to work with his hands had apparently
been accepted as final.

This thing of deciding life for himself was a serious business. It would
be very silly to jump into a career with slaves, coarse and degrading,
just because a fool happened to be teaching at the County Academy. He
must think this thing over. Tired as he was, he lay awake until eleven
o'clock, thinking, thinking for himself.

It was lonesome work, too, this thinking for himself.

If his father had only done the thinking for him, it would have been so
much easier to accept his decision and then rebel if he didn't like it.

He returned to the field next morning with renewed determination.
Through the long, hot, interminable day he bent and fought the battle in
silence. His back ached worse than the first day. Every muscle in his
finely strung little body was bruised and sore and on fire.

He began to ask if his father were right. Wasn't a man a double fool who
had brains and refused to use them?

An idiot could pick cotton when the bag was fastened on his back. All he
needed was one hand. All he had to do was to bend, hour after hour, day
after day, until it became the habit of life and the ache stopped.

He could see this now, for himself. He smiled at the quiet wisdom of his
father. He certainly knew how to manage boys. He must acknowledge that.
He was quiet and considerate about it, too. He didn't dictate. He only
suggested things for consideration and choice. It was easy to meet the
views of that kind of a father. He treated a boy with the dignity of a
man.

When the cotton was weighed, the Boy faced his father:

"I've thought it all over, sir, and I'd like to go back to school."

"All right, my son, you can return in the morning."

He made no comment. He indulged in no smile at the Boy's expense. He
received his decision with the serious dignity of a judge of the
Supreme Court of Life.

The rebellion ended for all time. Teachers and schools took on a new
meaning. A lesson was no longer a hard task set by a heartless fool who
had been accidentally placed in a position of power. School meant the
training of his mind for a higher and more useful life.

Progress now was steady. The next year a new teacher came, a real
teacher, the Rev. John Shaw from Boston, Massachusetts--a man of even
temper, just, gentle, a profound scholar with a mind whose contagious
enthusiasm drew the spirits of the young as a magnet.

The Boy learned more under his guidance within a year than in all his
life before, and next full was ready to enter Transylvania University at
Lexington, Kentucky.

The polite, handsome boy from Mississippi who had served an
apprenticeship with his father's negroes in a cotton field, gave the
professors no trouble. Good-natured, prudent, joyous, kind, manly, he
attended to his lessons and his own business. He neither gambled nor
drank, nor mingled with the rowdy set. He had come there for something
else.

He had just passed his examinations for the Senior class in July, 1824,
when the first great sorrow came. The wise father whom he had grown to
love and reverence died in his sixty-eighth year.

His thoughtful Big Brother came in person to tell him and break the blow
with new ambitions and new hopes. He had secured an appointment from
President Monroe as a cadet to West Point from the State of Mississippi.

And then began the four years of stern discipline that makes a soldier
and fits him to command men.

But once in those busy years did the gay spirit within rise in
rebellion, to learn wisdom in the bitterness of experience.

With Emile Laserre, his jolly Creole friend from Louisiana, he slipped
down to Bennie Haven's on a frolic--taking French leave, of course. The
alarm was given of the approach of an instructor, and the two culprits
bolted for the barracks at breakneck speed through pitch darkness.
Scrambling madly through the woods, there was a sudden cry, a crash and
silence. He had fallen sixty feet over a precipice to the banks of the
Hudson. Young Laserre crawled carefully to the edge of the rock, peered
over and called through the darkness:

"Are you dead, Jeff?"

He was suffering too much to laugh, though he determined to give an
Irishman's reply to that question, if it killed him. He managed to
wheeze back the answer:

"Not dead--but spachless!"

Many were the temptations of rebellion from the friends he loved in the
years that followed, but never again did he yield. Somehow the thing
didn't work in his case.

There was one professor who put his decision of obedience to the supreme
test. For some reason this particular instructor took a violent dislike
to the tall, dignified young Southerner. Perhaps because he was more
anxious to have the love of his cadet friends than the approval of his
teachers. Perhaps from some hidden spring of character within the
teacher which antagonized the firm will and strong personality of the
student who dared to do his own thinking. From whatever cause, it was
plain to all that the professor sought opportunities to insult and
browbeat the cadet he could not provoke into open rebellion.

The professor was lecturing the class on presence of mind as the
supreme requisite of a successful soldier. He paused, and looked
directly at his young enemy:

"Of course, there are some who will always be confused and wanting in an
emergency--not from cowardice, but from the mediocre nature of their
minds."

The insult was direct and intended. He hoped to provoke an outburst
which would bring punishment, if not disgrace.

The cadet's lips merely tightened and the steel from the depths of his
blue eyes flashed into his enemy's for a moment. He would bide his time.

Three days later, in a building crowded with students, the professor was
teaching the class the process of making fire-balls.

The room was a storehouse of explosives and the ball suddenly burst into
flames.

Cadet Davis saw it first and calmly turned to his tormentor:

"The fire-ball has ignited, sir,--what shall I do?"

The professor dashed for the door:

"Run! Run for your lives!"

The cadet snatched the fire-ball from the floor, dashed it through the
window and calmly walked out.

He had saved many lives and the building from destruction. His revenge
was complete and sweet. But deeper and sweeter than his triumph over an
enemy was the consciousness that he was master of himself. He had
learned life's profoundest lesson.



VII

LIFE


On his graduation, the Second Lieutenant of Infantry, from the State of
Mississippi, barely twenty years old, reported for duty to the
Jefferson Barracks at St. Louis.

He was ordered to the frontier to extend the boundaries of the growing
Republic--now accompanied by his faithful body servant, James Pemberton.

The Fort, situated on the Wisconsin River, was the northern limit of the
Illinois tribe of Indians, and the starting point of all raids against
the Iroquois who still held the rich lands around the village of
Chicago.

The Boy Lieutenant was the first lumberman to put axe into the virgin
forests of Wisconsin. He was sent into the wilderness with a detachment
for cutting timber to enlarge the Fort.

Under the direction of two voyageurs he embarked in a little open boat
and began the perilous journey.

The first day out his courage and presence of mind were put to quick
test.

The Indians suddenly appeared on the shore and demanded a trade for
tobacco. The little party rowed to the bank and began to parley. A
guide's keen eyes saw through their smooth palaver the hostile purpose
of a bloody surprise and warned the commander. The order to push into
the river and pull for their lives was instantly given.

With savage yells the Indians sprang into their canoes and gave chase.

It was ten to one and they were sure of their prey. The chance of escape
from such strong, swift rowers in light bark canoes was slight. The low
fierce cries of victory and the joyous shout of coming torture rang over
the waters.

The Indians gained rapidly.

The young Lieutenant's eye measured the distance between them and saw
the race was hopeless. With quick command he ordered a huge blanket
stretched in the bow for a sail. The wind was blowing a furious gale
and might swamp their tiny craft. It was drowning or death by torture.
The commander's choice was instantaneous.

The frail boat plunged suddenly forward, swayed and surged from side to
side through the angry, swirling waters, settled at last, and drew
steadily away from the maddened savages.

With a curious smile, the boyish commander stood in the stern and
watched the black swarm of yelling devils fade in the distance.

He was thinking of his old professor at West Point. His insult had been
the one thing in life to which he owed most. He could see that clearly
now. His heart went out in a wave of gratitude to his enemy. Our enemies
are always our best friends when we have eyes to see.

The winter following he was ordered down to Winnebago.

The village of Chicago was the nearest center of civilization. The only
way of reaching it was by wagon, and the journey consumed three months.

There was much gambling in the long still nights, and some drinking. In
lieu of the excitement of the gaming table, he took his fun in breaking
and riding wild horses, and hairbreadth escapes were the order of his
daily exercise. It was gambling, perhaps, but it developed the muscles
of mind and body.

His success with horses was remarkable. No animal that man has broken to
his use is keener to recognize a master and flout a coward than the
horse. No coward has ever been able to do anything with a spirited
horse.

He was wrestling one day with a particularly vicious specimen, to the
terror and anguish of Jim Pemberton.

"For de Lawd's sake, Marse Jeff, let dat debbil go!"

"No, James, not yet--"

"He ain't no count, no how--"

"All the more reason why I should be his master, not he be mine."

The horse was possessed of seven devils. He jumped and plunged and
bucked, wheeled and reared and walked on his hind legs in mad effort to
throw his cool rider. The moment he reared, the Lieutenant dropped his
feet from the stirrups and leaned close to the brute's trembling, angry
head. At last in one supreme effort the beast threw himself straight
into the air and fell backwards, with the savage purpose of crushing his
tormentor beneath his body.

With a quiet laugh, the young officer slipped from the saddle and
allowed him to thump himself a crashing blow. As the horse sprang to his
feet to run, the Lieutenant leaped lightly into the saddle and the fight
was over.

"Well, for de Lawd, did ye ebber see de beat er dat!" Jim Pemberton
cried with laughing admiration.

Scarcely a week passed without its dangerous excursions against the
Pawnees, Comanches and other hostile tribes of Indians. The friendly
tribes, too, were everlastingly changing to hostiles in a night. Death
rode in the saddle with every man who left a fortified post in these
early days of our national life.

The Lieutenant was ordered on a peculiarly long and daring raid into
hostile territory, and twice barely escaped a massacre. Their errand
accomplished, and leisurely returning to the Fort, they suddenly met a
large party of Indians.

The Lieutenant shot a swift glance at their leader and saluted him with
friendly uplifted hand:

"Can you tell us the way to the Fort, Chief?"

The tall brave placed himself squarely in the path and pointed in the
wrong direction.

Instantly the Lieutenant spurred his horse squarely on the savage,
grasped him by the hair, dragged him a hundred yards and flung him into
the bushes. The assault was so sudden, so unexpected, so daring, the
whole band was completely cowed, and the soldiers rode by without
attack.

Nor was the Indian the only enemy to test the youngster's mettle. The
pioneer soldiers of the rank and file in these turbulent days had minds
of their own which they sometimes dared to use.

The Lieutenant had no beard. His smooth, handsome face, clear blue eyes,
fresh color and gay laughter, gave the impression of a boy of nineteen,
when by the calendar he could boast of twenty-one.

A big strapping, bearded soldier, employed in building the Fort, had
proven himself the terror of his fellow workmen. He was a man of
enormous strength and gave full rein to an ugly, quarrelsome
disposition.

His eyes rested with decided disapproval on the graceful young master of
horses.

"I'll whip that baby-faced Lieutenant," he coolly announced to his
satellites, "if ever he opens his jaw to me--watch me if I don't. What
does he know about work?"

The men reported the threat to the Lieutenant. The next day without a
moment's hesitation, in quiet tones, he gave his first order to the
giant:

"Put that piece of dressed scantling beside the window--"

The man deliberately lifted a rough board and placed it.

"The rough board won't do," said the even voice. "It must he a dressed
scantling."

The soldier threw him an insolent laugh, and stooped to take up a board
exactly like the one he had laid down.

The baby-faced Lieutenant suddenly seized a club, knocked him down, and
beat him until he yelled for quarter.

The soldiers had watched the clash at first with grins and winks and
nudges, betting on their giant. His strength was invincible. When the
unexpected happened, and they saw the slender, plucky youngster standing
over the form of the fallen brave, they raised a lusty shout for him.

When the giant scrambled to his feet, the victor said with a smile:

"This has been a fight, man to man, and I'm satisfied. I'll not report
it officially."

The big one grinned sheepishly and respectfully offered his hand:

"You're all right, Lieutenant. I made a mistake. I beg your pardon.
You're the kind of a commander I've always liked."

Again the soldiers gave a shout. No man under him ever again presumed on
his beardless face. He had only to make his orders known to have them
instantly obeyed.

Jim Pemberton had watched the little drama of officer and man with an
ugly light gleaming in his eyes. The young master had not seen him. That
night in his quarters Jim quietly said:

"I'd a killed him ef he'd a laid his big claws on you, Marse Jeff."

"Would you, James?"

"Dat I would, sah."

Nothing more was said. But a new bond was sealed between master and man.

While at Fort Crawford, the Lieutenant had been ordered up the Yellow
River to build a saw mill. He had handled the neighboring Indians with
such friendly skill and won their good will so completely, he was
adopted by their chief as a brother of the tribe. An old Indian woman
bent with age traveled a hundred miles to the Fort to warn the "Little
Chief" of a coming attack of hostile bands. Her warning was unheeded by
the new commander and a massacre followed.

The success of this attack raised the war spirit of the entire frontier
and gave the soldiers a winter of exceptional danger and hardship. The
country in every direction swarmed with red warriors on the warpath. The
weather was intensely cold, and his Southern blood suffered agonies
unknown to his companions. Often wet to the skin and compelled to remain
in the saddle, the exposure at last brought on pneumonia. For months he
lay in his bed, directing, as best he could, the work of his men.

James Pemberton lifted his weak, emaciated form in his arms as if he
were a child. The black man carried his money, his sword and pistols. At
any moment, day or night, he could have stepped from the door into the
wilderness and been free. He was free. He loved the man he served. With
tireless patience and tenderness, he nursed him back from the shadows of
death into life again.

On recovering from this illness, the Lieutenant faced a new commander at
the head of his regiment--a man destined to set in motion the greatest
event of his life.

Colonel Zachary Taylor had been promoted to the command of the First
Infantry on the death of Colonel Morgan. Already he had earned the title
that would become the slogan of his followers in the campaign which made
him President. "Old Rough and Ready" at this time was in the prime of
his vigorous manhood.

Colonel Taylor sent the Lieutenant on an ugly, important mission.

Four hundred pioneers had taken possession of the lead mines at Dubuque
against the protest of the Indians whose rights had been ignored. The
Lieutenant and fifty men were commissioned to eject the miners. To a
man, they were heavily armed. They believed they were being cheated of
their rights of discovery by the red tape of governmental interference.
They had sworn to resist any effort to drive them out of these mines.
Most of them were men of the higher types of Western adventurer. The
Lieutenant liked these hardy sons of his own race, and determined not to
use force against them if it could he avoided.

He crossed the river to announce his official instructions, and was met
by a squad of daring, resolute fellows, armed and ready for a fight.

Their leader, a tall, red-headed, serious-looking man, opened the
conference with scant ceremony. Looking the youthful officer squarely in
the eye, he slowly drawled:

"Young man, we have defied the gov'ment once befo' when they sent their
boys up here to steal our mines. Now, ef yer know when yer well off,
you'll let honest white men alone and quit sidin' with Injuns--"

There was no mistaking his accent. He meant war.

The Lieutenant's answer came in quick, even, tones:

"The United States Government has ordered your removal, gentlemen. My
business as a soldier is to obey. I shall be sorry to use force. But
I'll do it, if it's necessary. I suggest a private interview with your
leader--" he nodded to the red-headed man.

"Sure!"

"Talk it over!"

"All right."

The men from all sides gave their approval. The leader hesitated a
moment, and measured the tall, straight young officer. He didn't like
this wrestle at close quarters with those penetrating eyes and the
trained mind behind them. But with a toss of his red locks he muttered:

"All right, fire away--you can talk your head off, for all the good
it'll do ye."

They walked off together a few yards and sat down.

With the friendliest smile the Lieutenant extended his hand:

"Before we begin our chat, let's shake hands?"

"Certain--shore--"

The brawny hand clasped his.

"I want you to know," the young officer continued earnestly, "my real
feelings toward you and your men. I've been out here four years with you
fellows, pushing the flag into the wilderness, and the more I see of you
the better I like you. I know real men when I see them. You're strong,
generous, brave, and you do things. You're building a great republic on
this frontier of the world. I've known your hospitality. You've had
little education in the schools, but you're trained for this big work in
the only school that counts out here--the School of Danger and Struggle
and Experience--"

The brawny hand was lifted in a helpless sort of protest:

"Look a here, Boy, you're goin' ter bamboozle me, I kin jist feel it in
my bones--"

"On the other hand," the Lieutenant continued eagerly, "I assure you I
am going to treat you and your friends with the profoundest respect.
It's due you. Let's reason this thing out. You've taken up these mines
under the old right of first discovery--"

"Yes, and they're ours, too,"--the lean jaws came together with a snap.

"So I say. But it will take a little time and a little patience to
establish your claims. The Indian, you know, holds the first rights to
this land--"

"T'ell with Injuns!"

"Even so, isn't it better to first settle their claims and avoid war?"

"Mebbe so."

"And you know we can't settle with the Indians while you hold by force
the mines they claim as the owners of the soil--"

The leader scratched his head and rose with sudden resolution:

"Come on, and tell this to the boys."

The leader escorted the Lieutenant to the crowd, and commanded them to
hear him. His speech was interrupted at first by angry exclamations, but
at its close there was respectful silence. The fight was won without a
blow.

The new Colonel was much pleased at the successful ending of the
dangerous job. He had received the orders to eject these miners with a
wry face. That the work had been done without bloodshed had lifted a
load from his mind.

The Lieutenant was honored on the night of his return by an invitation
to dine with Colonel Taylor's family. They had been settled in the
crowded quarters of the Fort during his absence--the wife, three
daughters and a little son.

The Lieutenant's curiosity was but mildly roused at the thought of
meeting the girls. In the lofty ways of youth, he had put marriage out
of his mind. A soldier should not marry. He had given his whole soul to
his country, its flag and its service. He would be agreeable to the
ladies, of course, in deference to his commander and the honor he was
receiving at his hands.

The dinner was a success. The mother was charming and gracious in her
welcome. Something in her ways recalled his own mother.

She extended her hand with a genial smile, and took his breath with her
first remark:

"I've quite fallen in love with you, sir, because of a story I heard of
your West Point career--"

"Not in pity for my fall over the cliff, I hope," he answered gravely.

The mother's voice dropped to a whisper:

"No,--your friend Albert Sydney Johnston told me that you saved a large
part of your allowance and sent it home to your mother--"

The young officer's lips trembled, and he looked away for a moment:

"But she sent it back to me, madam."

"Yes, until you wrote that she hurt you by not keeping it--"

To relieve his evident embarrassment, the mother introduced him in rapid
succession to her daughters, the eldest Anne, the second Sarah Knox, the
youngest Elizabeth. Richard, the handsome little boy, had introduced
himself. He had liked the Lieutenant from the first.

He had been so surprised by the mother's possession of one of the
sweetest secrets of his schoolboy life, and had blushed so furiously
over it, he had scarcely noticed the girls, merely bowing in his
confusion.

It was not until they were seated at the table and the dinner had fairly
begun, that he became conscious of the charm of the second daughter, who
sat directly opposite.

Her beauty was not dazzling, but in fifteen minutes she had completely
absorbed his attention. It was impossible, of course, not to look at
her. She sat squarely before him. There was no embarrassment in the
frank, honest curiosity with which she returned his gaze.

The thing that first impressed him was the frankness of a winsome
personality. He listened with keen attention to her voice. There was no
simper, no affectation, no posing. She was just herself. He found
himself analyzing her character. Refined--yes. Intelligent--beyond a
doubt. She talked with her father in a quiet, authoritative way which
left no doubt on that score. Graceful, tender, sincere, too--her tones
to her impulsive brother and her younger sister proved that. And a will
of her own she had. The firmly set, full lips were eloquent of
character. He liked that above all things in a woman. He couldn't stand
a simpering doll.

"Sing for us, Sarah!" her brother said impulsively, as they rose from
the table.

"Certainly, Dick, if you wish it."

There was no holding back for urging. No mock modesty. No foolishness in
her answer. It was straight, affectionate, responsive, open hearted,
generous--just like his own sweet little sister Polly when he had asked
of her a favor.

And then, he blushed to find himself staring at her in a sort of dreamy
reverie. He hoped her music would not spoil the impression her
personality had made. This had happened once in his life. He could never
talk to the girl again, after he had heard her sing. The memory of it
was a nightmare.

He watched her tune the guitar with a sense of silly dread. The tuning
finished, she turned to her brother and asked with a smile:

"And what shall I sing, Sir Richard?"

"The one I love best--'Fairy Bells.'"

When the first line with its sweet accompaniment floated out from the
porch on the balmy air of the June evening, the Lieutenant's fears had
vanished. Never had he heard a song whose trembling melody so found his
inmost soul. It set the Fairy Bells ringing in the deep woods of his
far-away Mississippi home. He could see the fairy ringing them--her
beautiful hair streaming in the moonlight, a smile on her lips, the joy
and beauty of eternal youth in every movement of her exquisite form.

When the last note had died softly away, he leaned close and before he
knew what he was doing, whispered:

"Glorious, Miss Sarah!"

"You like it very much?" she asked.

"It's divine."

"My favorite, too."

All night the "Fairy Bells" rang in his heart. For the first time in
life, he failed to sleep. He listened entranced until dawn.



VIII

LOVE


In the swift weeks which followed, life blossomed with new and wonderful
meaning.

In the stern years on the plains, the young officer had known but one
motive of action--duty. He was an exile from home and its comforts,
friends and the haunts of civilized man for his country's sake. He had
come to plant her flag on the farthest frontier and push it farther
against all corners.

In the struggle against the snows of winter and the pestilence of the
summer wilderness, he had fought Nature with the dogged determination of
the soldier. Snow meant winter quarters, the spring marching and
fighting. The hills were breastworks. The night brought dreams of
strategy and surprise. The grass and flowers were symbols of a nation's
wealth and the prophecy of war.

By a strange magic, the coming of a girl had transformed the world. He
had seen the strategic value of these hills and valleys often before. He
had not dreamed of their beauty. The mists that hung over the ragged
lines of the western horizon were no longer fogs that might conceal an
army. They were the folds of a huge veil which Nature was softly drawing
over the face of a beautiful bride. Why had he not seen this before?

The awful silence of the plains from which he had fled to books had
suddenly become God's great whispering gallery. He listened with joyous
awe and reverence.

The stars had been his guides by night to find the trail. He had merely
lifted his eyes to make the reckoning. He had never seen before the
crystal flash from their jeweled depths.

He looked into the eyes of the graceful young rider by his side and
longed to tell her of this miracle wrought in his soul. But he
hesitated. She was too dignified and self-possessed. It would be silly
when put into words.

But the world to-day was too beautiful to hurry through it. He just
couldn't.

"Let's stop on this hill and watch the sunset, Miss Sarah?" he
suggested.

"I'd love to," was the simple answer.

With a light laugh, she sprang from the saddle. They touched the ground
at the same moment.

He looked at her with undisguised admiration.

"You're a wonderful rider," he said.

"A soldier's daughter must be--it's part of her life."

He tied their horses to the low hanging limbs of a cluster of scrub
trees, and found a seat on the bowlders which the Indians had set for a
landmark on the lonely hilltop.

Westward the plains stretched, a silent ocean of green, luscious grass.

"What's that dark spot in the valley?" the girl eagerly asked.

"Watch it a moment--"

They sat in silence for five minutes.

"Why, it's moving!" she cried.

"Yes."

"How curious--"

"An illusion?" he suggested.

"Nonsense, I'm not dreaming."

"I've been dreaming a lot lately--"

A smile played about the corners of her fine mouth. But she ignored the
hint.

"Tell me," she cried; "you studied the sciences at West Point, what does
it mean?"

"Look closely. Any fifteen-year-old boy of the plains could explain it."

"Am I so ignorant?" she laughed.

"No," he answered soberly, "our eyes just refuse to see things at which
we are looking until the voice within reveals. The eyes of a hunter
could make no mistake about such a spot--particularly if it moved."

"It might be a passing cloud--"

"There's none in the sky."

"Tell me!" she pleaded.

"A herd of buffalo."

"That big black field! It must be ten acres--"

The man laughed at her ignorance with a sudden longing in his heart to
help and protect her.

"Ten acres! Look again. They are twenty miles away. The herd is packed
so densely, the ground is invisible. They cover a thousand acres."

"Impossible--"

"I assure you, it's true. They were once even more plentiful. But we're
pushing them back with the Indians into the sunset. And they, too, will
fade away into the twilight at last--"

He stopped suddenly. He had almost spoken a sentence that would have
committed him beyond retreat. It was just on his lips to say:

"I didn't take such tender views of Indians and buffaloes until I met
you!"

For the life of him he couldn't make the girl out. Her voice was music.
Her laughter contagious. And yet she was reserved. About her personality
hung a spell which forbade familiarity. Flirting was a pastime in the
army. But it had never appealed to him. He was not so sure about her
when she laughed.

And then her father worried him. The fiery old Southerner had the temper
of the devil when roused. He could see that this second daughter was his
favorite. He had caught a look of unreasonable anger and jealousy in his
eye only that afternoon when they rode away together.

Still he must risk it. He had really suggested this sunset scene for
that purpose. The field was his own choosing. Only a coward could run
now.

He managed at last to get his lips to work.

"Since you came, Miss Sarah--I've been seeing life at a new angle--" he
paused awkwardly.

The red blood mounted to her cheeks.

"You have given me new eyes--"

[Illustration: "'You have given me new eyes'"]

She turned her head away. There was no mistaking the tremor of his
tones. She was too honest to simper and pretend. Her heart was pounding
so loudly she wondered if he could hear.

He fumbled nervously with his glove, glanced at her from the corner of
his eye, and his voice sank to a whisper:

"I--I love you, Sarah!"

She turned slowly and looked at him through dimmed eyes:

"And I love you--"

She paused, brushed a tear from her cheek, and with sweet reproach
quietly added:

"Why didn't you tell me sooner? We've lost so many beautiful days that
might have been perfect--"

He suddenly stooped and kissed her full lips.

"We'll not lose any more--"

"The world _is_ beautiful, isn't it, dear!" she said, nestling closer.

"Since I see with your eyes--yes. It was only a place to fight in,
before. Now it's a fairy world, and these wild flowers that cover the
plains only grow to make a carpet for the feet of the girl I love--"

"A fairy world--yes--" she whispered, "it's been just that to me since I
first sang the 'Fairy Bells' for you--"

"I'll never love another song as that," he said reverently.

"Nor I," was the low response. "My heart will beat to its music
forever--it just means you, now--"

For a long time they sat without words, holding each other's hand. The
sun hung a glowing ball of fire on the rim of the far-away hills, and
the shadows of the valley deepened into twilight.

"How wonderful the silence of the plains!" the lover sighed.

"It used to oppress me."

The man nodded.

"And now, I hear the beat of angels' wings and know that God is near--"

"Because we love--" and she laughed for joy.

Again they sat in sweet, brooding silence.

A horseman rode over the hilltop in the glow of the fading sun. From its
summit, he lifted his hand and waved a salute. They looked below, and in
the doorway of a cabin, a young mother stood, a babe in her arms
answering with hand uplifted high above her child.

"What does it matter, dear," she whispered, "a cabin or a palace!"



IX

WAR


Side by side through the still white light of the full moon they rode
home, in each heart the glow of the wonder and joy of Love's first
revelation. Words were an intrusion. The eyes of the soul were seeing
now the hidden things of life.

The gleam of the lights at the Fort brought them sharply out of
dreamland into the world of fact.

"You must see my father to-night, dear," she said eagerly.

"Must I, to-night?"

"It's best."

"I'd rather face a hundred Red Men in war paint."

A merry laugh was her answer as she leaned close:

"Don't be silly, he likes you."

"But he _loves_ you."

"Of course, and for that reason my happiness will be his."

"God knows, I hope so," was the doleful response. "But if I must, I
must. I'll see him."

A quick kiss in the friendly shadows and she was gone.

He walked alone an hour after supper, screwing up his courage to the
point of bearding the Colonel in his den. He fumbled the door-bell at
last, his heart in his throat.

Old Rough and Ready was not inclined to help him in his embarrassment.
Never had he seen the lines of his strong jaw harder or more set than
when he grunted:

"Sit down, sir. Don't stand there staring. I'm not on inspection."

The perspiration started on his forehead and he moistened his dry lips.

"I beg your pardon, Colonel. I was a little flustered.
I've--a--something--on--my mind--"

"Out with it!"

"I--I--I'm in love with Miss Sarah."

"You don't say?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"Well, it's no news to me. The whole family have been enjoying the
affair for some time. I suppose you're asking--or think you're
asking--for my daughter's hand in marriage?"

"That's it--yes, sir--exactly."

"I guessed as much. I'm glad to tell you, young man, that I've always
had the kindliest feelings for you personally--"

"Thank you, sir--"

"And the warmest admiration for your talents as an officer. You're a
good soldier. You have brains. You have executive ability. You're a
leader of men. You'll go far in your profession--"

"Thank you, sir--"

"And that's why I don't like you as a son-in-law."

"W--Wha--"

"I love my daughter, and I want her to be happy in a real home with a
real husband and children by her side. A soldier's life is a dog's life.
I've pitied the poor girl who gave up her home for me. Many a bitter
tear has she shed over my absence, in torturing dread of the next letter
from the frontier--"

He paused and sprang to his feet:

"A hundred times I've sworn no daughter of mine should ever marry a
soldier! The better the soldier, the more reason she should not marry
him--"

"But, sir--"

"There's no 'but' about it!" the Colonel thundered. "You're asking me to
let you murder my girl, that's all--but it's life. I'll have to give my
consent and wish you good luck, long life, and all the happiness you can
get out of a soldier's lot."

The Colonel extended his hand and the Lieutenant grasped it with
grateful eagerness.

The days that followed were red lettered in the calendar of life.

And then it came--a crash of thunder out of the clear sky--the thing he
had somehow felt and dreaded.

A petty court-martial was called to adjust a question of army
discipline. The court was composed of Z. Taylor, Colonel Commanding,
Major Thomas F. Smith, a fiery-tempered gay officer of the old army,
Lieutenant Jefferson Davis, and the new Second Lieutenant who had just
arrived from the Jefferson Barracks at St. Louis.

The army regulations required that each officer sitting in court-martial
should be in full uniform. The new arrival from St. Louis had come
without his uniform. His trunk had miscarried and was returned to the
Jefferson Barracks.

He rose with embarrassment:

"I must beg the pardon of the Court, Colonel," he began cautiously, "for
not appearing in my uniform. As it is in St. Louis I respectfully ask to
be excused to-day from wearing it."

The old Colonel scowled. It was just like a young fool to wish to sit in
solemn judgment on a fellow officer--in his shirt sleeves. If he had
asked to be excused from serving on the Court--yes--he could accept his
excuse and let him go. But this insolence was unbearable. The Colonel
glanced over the Court before putting the question to a vote. Smith was
his enemy. Whichever way he voted as President, the Major could be
depended on to go against his decision. There was a feud between those
two hot-tempered fire-eaters which had lasted for years. He glanced at
his future son-in-law with a smile of assured victory. Tom Smith would
vote against him, but the trembling youngster who had quailed before him
that night asking for his daughter's hand was practically in the family.
He smiled at the certainty of downing Smith once more.

In a voice, whose tones left nothing to the imagination of the
presumptuous Second Lieutenant, the Colonel growled:

"Gentlemen, we are asked to allow an officer to sit in the formal
judgment of a court-martial without uniform--I put the question to a
vote and cast mine. No!"

"I vote yes!" shouted the Major.

The Colonel did not condescend to look his way. He knew what that vote
was before he heard it. He bent his piercing eyes on his future
son-in-law:

"Lieutenant Davis?"

There was just a moment's hesitation. The Lieutenant smiled at his
embarrassed young fellow officer and mildly answered:

"I think, Colonel, in view of the distance to St. Louis, we may excuse
the young man for the first offense--I vote--yes."

The old Colonel stared at him in speechless amazement. Smith grinned.

The Colonel's face grew purple with rage. He was just able to gasp his
words during the progress of the trial. It was brief, and when it ended
and the rest had gone, he faced the Lieutenant with blazing eyes:

"How dare you, sir, vote with that damned fool against me?"

"Why, I never thought to hurt you, Colonel--"

"No? And what _did_ you think?"

"I only thought of relieving the evident embarrassment of a young
officer--"

"You did, eh?--no thought of me or my feelings, of my wishes. You're a
hell of a son-in-law, you are--"

He paused for breath and choked with rage no words could express. When
at last his tongue found speech, he swore in oaths more expressive and
profound than modern man has ever dreamed. He damned the Court. He
damned Tom Smith. He damned the Second Lieutenant. He damned the
regiment. He damned the Government that created it. He damned the
Indians that called it to the plains. He damned the world and all in it,
and all things under it. But, particularly and specifically, he damned
the young ass who dared to flaunt his feelings and opinions after
smiling in his face at his house, for days and weeks and months.

Finally, facing the blushing Lieutenant, his eyes flashing indignant
scorn, he shouted:

"No man who votes with a damned fool like Tom Smith, can marry my
daughter!"

"Colonel, I protest," pleaded the heartsick lover.

"I forbid you to ever put your foot inside my quarters again!"

"Colonel--"

"Silence, sir! I forbid you to ever speak to my daughter again!"

"But, Colonel--"

"I repudiate you and all yours. I wipe you from the map. You don't
exist. I don't know you. I never knew you. Get out of my sight!"

The tall, slender form slowly straightened and a look of cold pride
shot from the depths of his blue eyes. Without a word he turned and
left.



X

ROMANCE


Black Hawk was leading his red warriors in a great uprising. A wave of
fierce excitement swept the frontier. There was stern work now for men
to do and women must wait alone.

The regiment marched to the front. The Colonel as a man was freezingly
formal with the Lieutenant. As an officer, he knew his worth and relied
on it in every emergency. The State of Illinois had raised two companies
of raw recruits to join in subduing the Indians. The Colonel sent his
most efficient subordinate to swear in the new soldiers. On the morning
of the muster, there appeared before the tall Lieutenant, a man full
three inches taller, and famous in his county as the gawkiest,
slab-sidest, homeliest, best-natured fellow in the State. He was dressed
in a suit of blue jeans.

In slow, pleasing drawl, he announced:

"I am the Captain, of this company--"

And he waved his long arm toward the crowd of his countrymen on the
right.

Lieutenant Jefferson Davis promptly administered to Abraham Lincoln his
first oath to support the Constitution and laws of the United States.

Two men destined to immortal fame had met and passed with scarcely a
glance at each other. The young army officer was too much of a gentleman
to mark the ill-fitting blue jeans of the awkward captain of militia.
Great events, after all, make men great. Only the eye of God could
foresee the coming tragedy in which these two would play their mighty
rôles.

At the end of the brief struggle on the frontier, Black Hawk's people
were scattered to the four winds and the brave old warrior, with a
handful of his men, sought Colonel Taylor's command to surrender.

Again, the Colonel sent his most accomplished officer, the Lieutenant
whom he had forbidden to enter his house,--to treat with the fallen
Chief.

The Lieutenant received with kindly words the broken-hearted warrior,
his two sons and sixty braves, and conducted them at once as prisoners
of war to the barracks at St. Louis.

The cholera was raging at Rock Island, and on the boat two of the Indian
prisoners were seized with the fatal disease. The Lieutenant, at the
risk of his life, personally ministered to their needs. The two stricken
men made known to the commander in broken words and signs that they had
sworn an oath of eternal friendship. In pleading tones the stronger
said:

"We beg the good Chief to put us ashore that hand in hand we may go to
the happy hunting grounds together."

Near the first little settlement their prayer was granted.

The young officer turned to his boat with a sigh as he saw the red
warriors slip their arms about each other and slowly sink to the ground
to die alone and unattended.

Old Black Hawk sat in silent, stolid indifference to his fate until the
curious settlers began to crowd on the boat and stare at his misery.

The Lieutenant interfered with sharp decision.

"Push those men back, Corporal!" he ordered angrily.

The crowd was roughly pushed back and the Lieutenant took Black Hawk
kindly by the arm and led him into a reserved apartment where he was
free from vulgar eyes.

The old man's lips tightened. He gazed at the officer steadily and spoke
in measured tones:

"The young war Chief treats me with much kindness. He is good and brave.
He puts himself in my place and sees all that I suffer. With him I am
much pleased."

The Lieutenant bowed and left him under the protection of the guard.
Courtesy to a fallen foe in the old days was the first obligation of an
officer and a gentleman.

In the autumn, Colonel Taylor again sent his Lieutenant on a distant
duty--this time one of peculiar danger. He was ordered to Louisville and
Lexington on recruiting service. And the cholera was known to be
epidemic but a few miles from Lexington.

The good-by scene that night at the lovers' trysting place, the little
tent reception-room of the McCreas', was long and tender and solemn.

"Oh, I feel dreadful about this trip, dear," his sweetheart kept
repeating with pitiful despair that refused to be comforted.

"You must be brave, my own," he answered with a frown. "A soldier's
business is to die. I am a soldier. I go where duty calls--"

"To battle--yes--but this black pestilence that comes in the night--I'm
afraid--I just can't help it--I'm afraid. I've always had a horror of
such things. I've a presentiment that you'll die that way--"

"Presentiments and dreams go by opposites. I'll live to a ripe old
age--"

She looked up into his face with a tender smile:

"You think so?"

"Yes, why not?"

"Well--I've something to tell you--"

She paused and the man bent low.

"What?"

"I've made a vow to God--" the voice stopped with a sob--"that if He
will only send you safely back to me this time--I'll wait no longer on
my father's whim--I am yours--"

The lover clasped her trembling form to his heart.

"Good-by, dearest," he said at last. "I wish to go with that promise
ringing in my soul."

Ten days after he reached Lexington, the cholera broke out, and hundreds
fled. He stood by his men, watched their diet, nursed the sick, and
buried the dead. He helped the carpenter make the coffins and reverently
bore the victims to their graves. No fear was in his soul. Love was
chanting the anthem of Life.

A strange new light was burning in the eyes of the woman he loved on the
day he returned in safety.

She seized his hand and spoke with decision:

"Come with me."

Her father was standing at the gate. She faced him, holding defiantly
the hand of her lover.

The old man saw and understood. His jaw was set with sullen
determination and his face hardened.

"We have waited two long years," she began softly. "We have been patient
and hopeful, but you have given no sign. My lover's character is beyond
reproach, and I am proud of him. I am sorry to cross you, Father, but
I've made up my mind, I am going to marry him now."

The Colonel turned in silence and slowly walked into the house.

Captain McCrea engaged a stateroom for her on the boat for Louisville.
The lovers planned to meet at her aunt's, the Colonel's oldest sister.
The tearful good-bys had been said to Mother and sisters and brother.

The Colonel had not spoken, but he had business on the boat before she
cast her lines from the shore.

The daughter drew him into her stateroom and slipped her arms around his
neck. Few words were spoken and they were broken.

"Please, Father--please?--I love you--please--"

"No."

"I'm no longer a child. I'm a woman. You're a real man and you know I
could have no respect for myself if I should yield my life's happiness
to a whim--"

The old Colonel stroked her shoulder:

"I understand. You're a chip off the old block. You're just as stubborn
as I am. And--I--won't--eat--my--words."

With firm hand, he drew away and hurried from the boat.

The Taylor clan of Kentucky gathered for the wedding in force. The
romance appealed to their fancy. They loved their high-spirited,
self-poised little kinswoman and they liked the tall, modest, young
officer she had chosen for her husband. The stern old Colonel was not
there, but his brother and his three sisters and all their tribe made
merry at the wedding feast.

On the deck of the lazy river steamer, the bride and groom slowly
drifted down the moonlit shimmering way to the fields of Mississippi.

The bride nestled close to her lover's side in the long sweet silences
too deep for words.

He took her hand in his at last, and said tenderly:

"I've something very important to tell you now, my dear--"

"I'm not afraid--"

"You trust me implicitly?"

"Perfectly--"

"You have given up all for me," he went on evenly, "I'll show your
father what I can do for you--"

"You love me--it's enough."

"No. I have resigned my commission in the army. I have given up my
career. We'll live only for each other now and build our nest in the far
sunny South beyond the frost line."

A little smothered cry was her answer. And then her head slowly sank
with a sob on his breast.



XI

THE FAIRY BELLS


They built their home on the banks of the great river where the tide
sweeps in graceful curve, all but completing the circle of an enchanted
isle.

From the little flower-veiled porch through festoons of lacing boughs
gleamed the waters of the huge curved mirror held by Nature's hand. The
music from the decks of the steamers floated up on the soft air until
music and perfume of flowers seemed one.

In the cool of the morning, on swift, high-bred horses, they rode side
by side along the river's towering bluff and laughed in sheer joy at
their foolish happiness. In the waning afternoon, hand in hand, they
walked the sunlit fields and paused at dusk to hear the songs of slaves.
The happiness of lovers is contagious. It sets the hearts of slaves to
singing.

In the white solemn splendor of the Southern moon they strolled through
enchanted paths of scented roses. On the rustic seat beneath a magnolia
in full second bloom they listened to the song of a mocking-bird whose
mate had built her nest in the rose trellis beside their door. They
could count the beat of his bird heart night after night as he sang the
glory of his love and the beauty of his coming brood of young.

"You are happy, dearest?" the lover sighed.

"In heaven,--I am with you."

"And it shall be forever."

"Forever!"

"The old life of blood and strife--it seems an ugly dream."

"Except for the sweet days when you were near."

"This only is life, my own, to hold your hand, and walk the way
together, to build, not to destroy, to make flowers bloom, birds and
slaves sing, to create, not kill--production is communion with God. We
live now in His peace that passeth understanding!"

A long silence followed. An owl in a distant tree top gave a shrill
plaintive cry. The bride nestled closer and he felt her shiver.

"You are chill, dearest?" he murmured.

"Just a little."

"We're forgetting the late August night winds--"

"No--no--it's nothing--I'm just a wee bit afraid of an owl, that's all."

A dark figure slowly approached and stood with uncovered head.

"What is it, James?" the master asked.

"It's too late, sir, for you and the mistis to be out in dis air--it's
chill an' fever time--"

"Thank you, James--we'll go in at once."

When the faithful footfall had died away, the lover lifted his bride in
his arms and carried her in, while she softly laughed and clung to his
strong young shoulders.

It came with swift, sure tread, the silent white figure of the
Pestilence that walks in Tropic Splendor.

The lover laughed the doctor's fears to scorn and the old man was brave
and cheerful in the presence of youth and happiness.

James Pemberton followed him to the gate and held his horse's bridle
with a tremor in his black hand.

"You don't think, doctor--" he paused, afraid to say the thing--"you
don't think my young mistis gwine ter die?"

"She's very ill, Jim--it's an even fight for life."

"Ef she do--hit'll kill my young marster--"

"Soldiers can't die that way--no--"

"Yassah--but dey ain't been married but three months, sah, an' he des
worship de very groun' her little foot walks on--she des can't die--she
too young an' putty, sah--hit des natchally can't be--"

The doctor's gray head slowly moved as if in remembrance of tragic
scenes.

"Death loves a shining mark sometimes!"

He turned to the slave in tones of warning:

"Watch your master closely--"

"My _marster_--sah!"

"He'll go down next--"

"Yassah--yassah!"

Two days later, the strong man collapsed with a crash that took even the
experienced old doctor by surprise. An iron will had bent over the
bedside of his bride and fought with grim defiance the battle with
unseen foe until the last ounce of strength had gone.

In his delirium they moved him to another room and he awoke to find
himself in a prison cell on a desert island a thousand miles from the
mate he adored.

He watched his jailers and at last his hour came. The tired guard beside
his prison pallet slept. With fevered stealth he rose and with the
strength of a giant, bent the bars of his cage and crawled and fought
his way over hill and valley, rocks and mountains, back to the bedside
of his beloved.

He paused in rapture at the door. She was sitting up in bed, the pillows
propped behind her back, singing their favorite song--"Fairy Bells." How
soft and weirdly sweet her voice--its notes so far away and
plaintive--never had she sung so divinely!

He held his breath lest a word or quiver of its melody should be lost.
And then he slipped his strong arms about her and looked into her eyes
shining with unearthly beauty.

"You have come at last, my own!" she sighed. "I knew the Bells would
call you--"

"Yes--dearest--and I'll never leave you again--they took me away a
wounded prisoner of war--but I broke the bars and came when I heard you
call--"

"Look," she whispered, pointing with the slender blue-veined finger,
"there she is, in the doorway again with her baby in her arms, waving at
sunset to her lover on the hill?--what does it matter, a cabin or a
palace!"

The shining eyes grew dim, the figure drooped, and a wild piteous cry
came from the lover's fevered lips:

"Lord God of Love and Pity--she's dying!--Help--Help--Help!"

His faithful servant, worn with watching day and night, heard the cry,
rushed to his side and caught his fainting form, as the light of the
world faded.



XII

TRUTH


They nursed him slowly back into life again, the loving heart of the
older brother guiding the arm of his faithful slave.

He refused to live at first.

"It's no use, Joe," he cried with bitter despair. "Life isn't worth the
struggle any more. I'm tired, I just want to rest--by her side--that's
all."

"I know, Boy, how you feel. But you must live. Duty calls. Great events
are stirring the world. You've a man's part to play--"

"I won't play it. I'm done with ambition. I'm done with strife. The
game's not worth the candle. I've lived the only life worth living, and
it's finished."

Little by little, each day, the brother slowly rebuilt in the stricken
soul the will to live. Before he was able to walk, he lifted the frail
form in his arms, carried him into his big library, and seated him in an
arm-chair before a fire of glowing logs.

With a sweep of his arm about the room toward the crowded shelves he
began in earnest tones:

"You're going to live with me now, Boy. We love each other with the love
of strong men. I need your help and companionship in my study. You had
the advantage of a college career--I didn't. We'll master here these
records of the world's life. We'll seek wisdom in the history and
experience of man. What do you know of the treasures buried in those big
volumes? Our young men go to school and plunge into life with a mere
smattering. Do you know the history of your own country, how it was
discovered, how its colonies grew, how its battles were fought against
overwhelming and impossible odds? How its great Constitution grew in the
hands of inspired leaders, who builded better than they knew a chart for
the guidance of man. Do you know the history of the mind of man? Do you
know the story of those ragged bleeding feet--of the great thinkers of
the ages who have found the path of truth through blood and tears and
then walked its way to the stake, to the block and the gallows? Come
with me into the big world of the past--read, study, think, and gird
yourself with power! We're just entering on the struggle that means life
or death to our Republic. I believe as I believe in God, that we have
set a beacon light on the shores of the world that will guide the human
race to its mightiest achievements--unless we fail to keep its lantern
trimmed and bright.

"The poison of indolence is in our blood--the tendency to centralized
tyranny. We are but a few years removed from its curse. As we grow in
years, the temptation to make Washington the gilded Capital of an Empire
becomes more and more apparent. Unless we control this tendency to lapse
into the past, we are lost and the story of our fallen Republic will be
but one more added to the failures of history. Unless we can preserve
the sovereignty of our States, the Union will become an Empire, not a
Republic of republics. It's a difficult thing for men to govern
themselves, though they can do it better than anyone else has ever done
it for them. We are making this wonderful experiment here in the new
world. The fate of unborn millions hangs on its success. You're done
with self and self-seeking. Ambition is a dream that is passed. Good!
Lay your life in unselfish sacrifice on the altar of your country. Only
the man who has given up ambition is fit for great leadership. He alone
dares to seek and know and speak the Truth!"

The tired spirit rose with a new view of human life, its aim and
purpose. For eight years he buried himself in the library on his
brother's estate. Through the long winter nights the two brilliant minds
fought over in friendly contests the battles of the ages until the
passion for Truth grew into the one purpose of a great soul.

When the first rumblings of the storm that was to shake a continent
broke over the Republic, he stepped forth to take his place in the world
of action--the best equipped, most thoroughly trained, most perfectly
poised man who had ever entered the arena of American politics.

His rise was brilliant and unprecedented. In his first contest he met
the foremost orator of the age, Sergeant Prentiss, and vanquished him on
his own ground. In two years he took his seat in Congress, the favorite
son of Mississippi.

He had scarcely begun his career, as a lawmaker, when war was declared
against Mexico. He resigned his high office, raised a regiment and once
more found himself a soldier under the orders of stern old Zachary
Taylor.

On his first battle field at the head of his Mississippi regiment, he
planted the flag of the Republic on the Grand Plaza of Monterey. And in
the supreme crisis of the battle of Buena Vista, with the blood
streaming from his wounds, he led his men in a charge against
overwhelming odds, turned the tide from defeat to victory and gave the
Presidency to the man who had denied to him his daughter's hand.

He hobbled back on crutches to his brother's home in Mississippi amid
the shouts and frenzied acclaim of a proud and grateful people. Within
three years from the day he entered public life, he took his seat in the
Senate Chamber of the United States beside Clay, Calhoun and Webster,
the peer of any man within its walls, and with the conscious power of
Knowledge and Truth, girded himself for the coming struggle of giants.



The Story



CHAPTER I

THE CURTAIN RISES


"For the Lord's sake, Jennie--"

Dick Welford paused at the bottom of a range of steps which wound up the
capitol hill from Pennsylvania Avenue.

The girl standing at the top stamped her foot imperiously.

"Hurry--hurry!"

"I won't--"

"Then I'll leave you!"

The boy laughed.

"You don't dare. It's barely sunup--still dark in spots--the boogers'll
get you--"

With a grin he deliberately sat down.

"Dick Welford, you're the laziest white man I ever saw in my life--We
won't get a seat, I tell you--"

"We can stand up."

"We won't even get our noses in the door--"

"You don't think these old Senators get up at daylight, do you?"

"They didn't go to bed last night--"

"I'll bet they didn't!" Dick laughed.

"I know one that didn't anyhow--"

"Who?"

"Senator Davis."

"How do you know?"

"Spent the night there. Father stayed so late, Mrs. Davis put me to bed.
Regular procession all night long! And among his visitors the Blackest
Republican of them all--"

"Old Abe run over from Illinois to say good-by?"

"No, but his right hand man Seward did--"

"Sly old snuff-dipping hypocrite--"

"Anyhow, he's the brains of his party."

"And he called on Jeff Davis last night?"

"Not the first time either. Mrs. Davis told me that when the Senator was
so ill with neuralgia and came near losing his sight, Seward came every
day, sat in the darkened room and talked for hours to his enemy--"

"That's because he's a Black Republican. Their ways are dark. They like
rooms with the shades pulled down--"

"Anyhow he likes Mr. Davis."

"Well, it's good-by to the old Union--how many Senators are going
to-day?"

"Yulee and Mallory from Florida, Clay and Fitzpatrick from Alabama and
Senator Davis--"

"All in a day?"

"Yes--"

"Jennie, they'll talk their heads off. It'll be three o'clock before the
first one finishes. We'll die. Let's go to Mt. Vernon--"

"Dick Welford, I'm ashamed of you. You've no patriotism at all--"

"And I just proposed a pilgrimage to the home of George Washington!"

"You don't care what happens in the Senate Chamber to-day--"

"No--I don't."

The boy's lazy figure slowly rose, mounted the steps, paused and looked
down into the tense eager young face.

"You really want to know," he began slowly, "why speaking tires me now?"

"Yes--why?"

"Because it's a waste of breath--we're going to fight!"

The girl flushed with excitement.

"Who told you? What have you heard? Who said so?"

A dreamy look in the boy's eyes deepened.

"Nobody's told me. I just know. It's in the air. A wild duck knows when
to go north. A bluebird knows when to move south. It's in the air.
That's the way I know--" his voice dropped. "Let's go to Mt. Vernon and
spend the day, Jennie--"

The girl looked up sharply. The low persuasive tones were unmistakable.

The faintest flush mantled her cheeks.

"No--I wouldn't miss those speeches for anything. You promised to take
me to the Senate gallery. Come on."

With a quick bound the boy scaled the next flight of steps and looked
down at her laughing:

"All right, why don't _you_ come on!"

With a frown she sprang up the stone stairs and he caught her step with
a sudden military salute. They walked in silence for a few minutes.

"What's the matter with you to-day, Dick Welford?"

"Why, Miss Jennie Barton?"

"I never saw you quite so foolish."

"Maybe it's because I never saw you quite so pretty--"

The little figure stiffened with dignity.

"That will do now, sir--"

"Yessum!"

She threw him a look of quiet scorn as they picked their way through the
piles of building material for the unfinished dome of the Capitol and
mounted the steps.

Barely half past seven o'clock and the crowds were pouring into the
Senate Chamber, its cloak rooms and galleries. Within thirty minutes
after they had found seats opposite the diplomatic gallery every inch of
space in the great hall was jammed and packed.

Southern women and their escorts outnumbered the others five to one. The
Southern wing of official Washington was out in force.

The tense electric atmosphere was oppressive.

The men and women whose eager anxious faces looked down on the circular
rows of senatorial chairs and desks were painfully conscious that they
were witnessing the final scene of a great historical era.

What the future might hold God alone could know. Their fathers had
dreamed a beautiful dream--"_E Pluribus Unum_"--one out of many. The
Union had yet to be realized as an historical fact. The discordant
elements out of which our Constitution had been strangely wrought had
fought their way at last into two irreconcilable hostile sections, the
very structure of whose civilization rested on antagonistic conceptions
of life and government.

The Northern Senators were in their seats with grave faces long before
the last straggling Southerner picked his way into the Chamber bowing
and smiling and apologizing to the ladies on whose richly embroidered
dresses he must step or give up the journey.

For weeks the pretense of polite formalities between parties had been
unconsciously dropped. Men no longer bowed and smirked and passed the
time of day with shallow words.

With heads erect, they glanced at each other and passed on. And if they
spoke, it was with taunt, insult and challenge.

Jennie's keen eyes rested on two vacant chairs on the floor of the
Senate--every seat was crowded save these two.

She pressed Dick's arm.

"See--the vacant seats of South Carolina!"

"They're not vacant," the boy drawled.

"They are--look--"

"I see a white figure in each--"

"Nonsense!"

"We're going to have war, I tell you! Death sits in those chairs to-day,
Jennie--"

"Sh--don't talk like that--"

The boy laughed.

"I'm not afraid, you know--just a sort of second sight--maybe it means
I'll be killed--"

       *     *     *     *     *

South Carolina had felt no forebodings on the day her Convention had
recalled those Senators. Kiett the eloquent leader of the Convention
sprang to his feet, his face flaming with passion that was half delirium
as he shouted:

"This day is the culmination of long years of bitterness, of suffering
and of struggle. We are performing a great deed, which holds in its
magic not only the stirring present, it embraces the ages yet to come. I
am content with what has been done to-day. I shall be content with it
to-morrow. We have lowered the body of the old Union to its last resting
place. We drop the flag over its grave."

When the vote was announced, without a single dissenting voice, the
crowd rose to their feet with a shout of applause which shook the
building to its foundations. It died away at last only to rise again
with redoubled fury.

Alabama, Mississippi, Georgia and Florida had followed in rapid
succession, Louisiana's Convention was to meet on the twenty-sixth,
Texas on February first. On this the twenty-first day of January the
Senators from Florida, Mississippi and Alabama had announced their
farewell addresses to the Old Union.

The girl's eyes swept the crowded tiers of the galleries packed with
beautifully gowned Southern women. Every glove, fan, handkerchief,
bonnet or dress--every dainty stocking and filmy piece of lingerie had
been imported direct from the fashion centers of Europe. Gowns of
priceless lace and velvets had been woven to order in the looms of
Genoa, Venice and Brussels.

The South was rich.

And yet not one of her representatives held his office in Washington
because of his money. Her ruling classes were without exception an
aristocracy of brains--yet they were distinctly an aristocracy.

The election of Abraham Lincoln was more than a threat to confiscate
three thousand millions of dollars which the South had invested in
slaves. The homely rail splitter from the West was the prophecy of a new
social order which threatened the foundations of the modern world. He
himself was all unconscious of this fact. And yet this big reality was
the secret of the electric tension which strangled men into silence and
threw over the scene the sense of ominous foreboding.

The debates in Congress during the tempestuous session had been utterly
insincere and without meaning. The real leaders knew that the time for
discussion had passed. Two absolutely irreconcilable moral principles
had clashed and the Republic was squarely and hopelessly broken into two
vast sectional divisions on the issue.

Beyond the fierce and uncompromising hatred of Slavery which had grown
into a consuming passion throughout the North and had resulted in the
election of Lincoln as a purely sectional candidate--behind and
underneath this apparent moral rage lay a bigger and far more elemental
fact--the growing consciousness of the laboring man that the earth and
the fullness thereof were his.

And bigger than the fear of the confiscation of their property and the
destruction of the Constitution their fathers had created loomed before
the Southern mind the Specter of a new democracy at the touch of whose
fetid breath the soul of culture and refinement they believed must die.
In the vulgar ranks of this democracy must march sooner or later four
million negroes but yesterday from the jungles of Africa.

This greater issue was felt but dimly by the leaders on either side but
it was realized with sufficient clearness to make compromise impossible.

In vain did the aged and the feeble plead once more for compromise. Real
men no longer wished it.

The day of reckoning had come. The seeds of this tragedy were planted in
the foundation structure of the Republic.

The Union of our fathers, for all the high sounding phrases of its
Declaration of Independence was not a democracy. It was from the
beginning an aristocratic republic founded squarely on African Slavery.
And the degraded position assigned to the man who labored with his hands
was recognized in our organic law.

The Constitution itself was the work of a rich and powerful group of
leaders in each State, and its provisions were a compromise of
conflicting sectional property interests.

The world had moved from 1789 to 1861.

The North was unconsciously lifting the banner of a mighty revolution.
The South was clinging with the desperation of despair to the faith of
its fathers.

The North was the world of steam and electricity, of new ideas, of
progress. The South still believed in the divine inspiration of the men
who founded the Republic. They must believe in it, for their racial life
depended on it. Four million negroes could not be loosed among five
million Southern white people and two such races live side by side under
the principles of a pure democracy. Had this issue been put to them in
the beginning not one Southern State would have entered the Union.

The Northern workingman, with steam and electricity bringing North and
South into closer and closer touch, answered this cry of fear from the
South with the ultimatum of democracy:

"This Nation can not endure half slave and half free!"

Back of all the mouthings of demagogues and the billingsgate of
sectionalists lay this elemental fact--a democracy against a republic.

Nor could the sword of the Sections settle such an issue. The sectional
sword could only settle an issue which grew out of it--whether a group
of States holding a common interest in this conflict of principles could
combine for their own peace and safety, leave the old Union, form a new
one and settle it in their own way.

The North said no--the South said yes. This conviction bigger than party
platforms was the brooding terror which brought the sense of tragedy to
young and old, the learned and the unlearned--that made young men see
visions and maids dream of mighty deeds.

       *     *     *     *     *

The Southern boy's eyes had again rested on the vacant chairs of the
Senators from South Carolina with a set look in their depths.

The crowd turned with sudden stir to the door of the Senate Chamber.

"Look," Jennie cried, "that's Mrs. Clem Clay of Alabama--how pale and
beautiful she is! The Senator's going to make the speech of his life
to-day. She's scared--Ah, that dress, that dress--isn't it a dream? Did
you ever see such a piece of velvet--and--do look at that dear little
gold hand holding the skirt up just high enough to see the exquisite
lace on her petticoat--"

"Where's the golden hand--I don't see it?" Dick broke in skeptically.

"Don't you see the chain hanging from her waist?"

"Yes, I see that."

"Follow it with your eye and you'll see the hand. The Bayard sisters
introduced them from Paris, you know."

The boy had ceased to listen to Jennie's chatter. His eye had suddenly
rested on a group of three men seated in the diplomatic gallery--one
evidently of high official position by the deference paid him. The man
on the left of the official was young, handsome, slender, and pulled the
corners of his mustache with a slow lazy touch of his graceful hand. His
eyes were fixed on Jennie with a steady gaze. The Minister from
Sardinia, of the Court of Victor Emmanuel, sat on the right, bowing and
gesticulating with an enthusiasm out of all proportion to the importance
of the conversation.

Behind this group sat a fourth man who leaned forward occasionally and
whispered to the official. His face was in shadow and the only thing
Dick could see was the thick dark brown beard which covered his regular
features and a pair of piercing black eyes.

"For heaven's sake, Jennie," the boy cried at last, "who is that villain
in the Diplomatic gallery?"

"Where?"

"In the corner there on the right."

"Oh, that's the Sardinian Minister--King Victor Emmanuel's new drummer
of trade for Genoa. He's getting ahead of the French, too."

"No--no, I don't mean that little rat. I mean the big fellow with the
heavy jaw and a face like a rattlesnake. He's trying to charm you too."

Jennie laughed.

"Silly! That's the new Secretary of War, Joseph Holt."

"A scoundrel, if God ever made one--"

"Because he looks at me?"

"No--that shows his good taste. It's the way he looks at you and moves
his crooked mouth and the way he bends his big flat head forward."

"Rubbish--he's a loyal Southerner--and if we have to fight he'll be with
us."

"Yes--he--_will_!"

"Of course, he will. He's careful now. He's in old Buck's cabinet. Wait
and see. He called on Mr. Davis last night."

"That's nothing--so did old Seward--"

"Different--Seward's a Black Republican from New York--Holt's a Southern
Democrat from Mississippi."

"And who's the young knight by his side with the dear little mustache to
which he seems so attached?"

Jennie looked in silence for a moment.

"I never saw him before. He's handsome, isn't he?"

"Looks to me like a young black snake just shed his skin waiting for
that old adder to show him how to strike."

"Dick--"

"God save the Queen! They're coming here--they're coming for you--"

The Secretary of War had nodded in recognition of Jennie, risen
suddenly, and moved toward the gallery exit with his slender companion.

"Nonsense, Dick--he only bowed because he saw me staring--"

"He's bringing that mustache to meet you--"

The boy turned with a scowl toward the door of their gallery and saw the
Secretary of War slowly making his way through the crowd to their seats.

"I told you so--"

Jennie blushed and smiled in friendly response to the Secretary's
awkward effort at Southern politeness.

"Miss Barton, may I ask a little favor of you?"

"Certainly, Mr. Holt. Allow me to introduce my friend, Mr. Welford of
Virginia."

The Secretary bowed stiffly and Dick nodded his head with indifference.

"The Italian Minister with whom I've just been talking wishes the honor
of an introduction for his Secretary. Miss Jennie, will you meet him?"

"Certainly--"

"He's looking forward to the possible new Empire of the South," Holt
whispered, "and proposes at an early day to forestall the French--"

Dick threw him a look of scorn as he returned to the door and rose with
a scowl.

"I'll go out and get fresh air."

"Don't go--"

"I can't breathe in here. Two's company and three's a crowd."

She seized his arm:

"Please sit down, Dick."

"I'll be back directly--"

In spite of her protest he bounded up the steps of the gallery, turned
sharply to the right, avoided the intruders and disappeared in the
crowd.

The Secretary of War bowed again:

"Miss Barton, permit me to introduce to you Signor Henrico Socola,
Secretary to His Excellency, the Minister of Sardinia."

The slender figure bent low with an easy grace.

"Pleased to meet you, Signor Socola," Jennie responded, lifting the
heavy lashes from her lustrous brown eyes with the slightest challenge
to his.

"The pleasure is all mine, Mad'moiselle," he gravely replied.

"You'll excuse me now if I hurry on?" the Secretary said, again bowing
and disappearing in the crowd.

"Mr. Holt tells me, Miss Barton, that you know every Senator on the
floor."

"Yes. My father has been in Congress and the Senate for twenty years."

"You'll explain the drama to me to-day when the curtain rises?"

"If I can."

"I'll be so much obliged--" he paused and the even white teeth smiled
pleasantly. "I'm pretty well up on American history but confess a little
puzzled to-day. Your Southern Senators are really going to surrender
their power here without a struggle?"

"What do you mean?" the girl asked with a slight frown.

"That your Democratic party has still a majority in both the House and
the Senate. If the Southern members simply sit still in their places,
the incoming administration of Abraham Lincoln will be absolutely
powerless. The new President can not even call a cabinet to his side
without their consent."

"The North has elected their President," Jennie answered with decision.
"The South scorns to stoop to the dishonor of cheating them out of it.
They've won the election. They can have it. The South will go and build
a government of her own--as we built this one--"

"And fight twenty-three million people of the North?"

"If forced to--yes!"

"With the certainty of an uprising of your slaves at home?"

Jennie laughed.

"Our slaves would fight for us if we'd let them--"

A curious smile twitched the lips of the Italian.

"You speak with great confidence, Miss Barton!"

"Yes. I know what I'm talking about."

The keen eyes watched her from the shadows of the straight thick brows.

"And your Senators who took a solemn oath in entering this Chamber to
support the Constitution will leave their seats in violation of that
oath?"

The Southern girl flushed, turned with quick purpose to answer, laughed
and said with winning frankness:

"You don't mind if I give you my father's answer in his own words? I
know them by heart--"

"By all means."

"An oath to support the Constitution of the United States does _not_
bind the man who takes it to support an administration elected by a mob
whose purpose is to subvert the Constitution!"

"Oh,--I see," was the quiet response.

"You speak English with perfection, Signor!" Jennie said with a smile.

"Yes, Mad'moiselle, I've spent my life in the Diplomatic service."

He bowed gravely, lifted his head and caught the smile on the lips of
the Secretary of War standing in the shadows of the doorway of the
Diplomatic gallery.

The stately figure of John C. Breckinridge, the Vice-President, suddenly
mounted the dais and his piercing eyes swept the assembly. He rapped for
order and the silence which followed was as the hush of death.

"The curtain rises on our drama, Mad'moiselle," the smooth even voice
said.

"Sh!" the girl whispered.



CHAPTER II

THE PARTING


The breathless galleries leaned forward to catch the slightest sound
from the arena below.

One by one the Senators from the seceding Southern States rose and
renounced their allegiance to the United States in obedience to the
voice of their people.

With each solemn exit the women of the galleries grew hysterical, waved
their perfumed handkerchiefs and shouted their approval with cries of
sympathy and admiration.

David Yulee, Stephen K. Mallory and Benjamin Fitzpatrick had each closed
his portfolio and with slow measured tread marched down the crowded
aisle and out of the Chamber never again to enter its doors.

All eyes were focused now on the brilliant young Senator from Alabama,
Clement C. Clay, Jr. It was understood that he had prepared an eloquent
defense of his action and would voice the passionate feeling of the
masses of the Southern people in this his last utterance in the
crumbling temple of the old Republic.

He rose in his place, lifted his strong head with its leonine locks and
broad, high forehead, paused a moment and began his speech in the clear
steady tones of the trained orator, master of himself, his theme and his
audience. The Northern Senators met his gaze with scorn and he answered
with a look of bold defiance.

The formal announcement of the secession of his State he made in brief
sharp sentences and plunged at once into the reasons for their solemn
act.

"Forty-two years ago, Alabama was admitted into the Union," he declared
in ringing tones. "She entered it as she goes out, with the Republic
convulsed by the hostility of the North to her domestic institutions.
Not a decade has passed, not a year has elapsed since her birth as a
State that has not been marked by the steady and insolent growth of the
mob violence of the North which has demanded the confiscation of her
property and the destruction of the foundations of her civilization.

"Who are the leaders of these mobs who seek thus to overthrow the
Constitution? Who are these hypocrites who claim the championship of
freedom and the moral leadership of the world?

"The men who sold their own slaves to us because they could not use them
with profit in a northern climate; the men who built and manned every
American slave ship that ever sailed the seas; the sons of old Peter
Faneuil of Boston who built Faneuil Hall, their cradle of liberty, out
of the profits of slave ships whose trade the Southern people had
forbidden by law; the men who have flooded Congress for two generations
with petitions to dissolve the Union; the men who threatened to secede
with the addition of every foot of territory we have added to our
Republic!

"These are the men who have denied to the manhood of the South Christian
Communion because they could not endure what they have been pleased to
style the moral leprosy of Slavery! These are the men who refuse us
permission to sojourn or even pass through the sacred precincts of a
Northern State and dare to carry our servants with us. These are the men
who deny to the South equal rights in the lands of the West bought by
Southern blood and brains and added to our inheritance against their
furious protests. These are the men who burn the sacred charters of
American Liberty in their public squares, and inscribe on their banners
the foul motto:

"'The Constitution is an agreement with Death, a covenant with Hell.'

"These are the men who dare to call us traitors! These are the men who
have deliberately passed laws in fourteen Northern States nullifying the
provisions of the Constitution of the Union which they have sworn to
defend and enforce--"

The speaker paused and lifted high above his head a little morocco bound
volume.

"Here in the presence of Almighty God--the God of our fathers, and these
witnesses, I read its solemn provisions which the laws of fourteen
Northern States have brazenly and openly defied!"

He opened the little book and slowly read:

"'Article 4, Section 2.

"'_No person held to service of labor in one State, under the laws
thereof, escaping into another, shall in consequence of any law or
regulation therein, be discharged from such service or labor--but shall
be delivered up on claim of the party to whom such service or labor may
be due._'"

He turned suddenly to the Northern Senators:

"Your States have not only repudiated the Constitution you have sworn to
uphold, but your emissaries have invaded the peaceful South and sought
to lay it waste with fire and sword and servile insurrection. You have
murdered Southern men who have dared demand their rights on Northern
soil. You have invaded the borders of Southern States, burned their
dwellings and murdered their people. You have proclaimed John Brown, the
criminal maniac who sought to murder innocent and helpless men, women
and children in Virginia, a hero and martyr and then denounced _us_ in
your popular meetings, your religious and legislative assemblies as
habitual violators of the laws of God and the rights of humanity! You
have exerted all the moral and physical agencies that human ingenuity
can devise or a devil's malice employ to heap odium and infamy upon us
and make the very name of the South a by-word of hissing and of scorn
throughout the civilized world--"

He paused overcome with emotion and lifted his hand to stay the burst of
applause from the galleries.

"We have borne all this for long years and might have borne it many more
under the assurance of our Northern friends that such fanaticism does
not represent the true heart of the Northern people. But the fallacy of
these promises and the folly of our hopes have been too clearly proven
in the late election. The platform of the political party on which you
have swept every Northern State and elected a sectional President is a
foul libel upon our character and a declaration of open war on the lives
and property of the Southern people.

"In defiance of the Constitution which protects our rights your mob has
decreed the confiscation of three thousand million dollars' worth of our
property. If we claim the protection of our common law, your mob
solemnly burns the Constitution in your public squares and denounces it
as 'an agreement with Death and covenant with Hell.' We appeal to the
Supreme Court of the Republic and when its Judges unanimously sustain
our position on every point, your mob cries:

"'Down with the Supreme Court of the United States!'

"You have not only insulted us as unchristian and heathen, you have
proclaimed that four million ignorant negroes but yesterday taken from
the savagery of cannibal Africa are our equals and entitled to share in
the solemn rights of American citizenship. Your declaration is an open
summons that they rise in insurrection with the knife in one hand and
the torch in the other.

"Your mob has declared the South outlawed, branded with ignominy,
consigned to execration and ultimate destruction. Your mob has decreed
the death of Slavery and sends the new President to execute their
decree.

"All right--kill Slavery and then what? Kill Slavery and what will you
do with its corpse? Who shall deliver us from the body of this death? We
are not leaving this Hall to fight for the Institution of African
Slavery. The grim specter of a degraded and mongrel citizenship which
lies back of your mob's programme of confiscation is the force that is
driving the Southern people out of the Union to find peace and safety.
Whatever may be the sins of Slavery in the South they are as nothing
when compared to the degradation of your life which must follow their
violent emancipation. The Southern white man is slowly lifting the
African out of barbarism into the light of Christian civilization. In
our own good time we will emancipate him and start him on a new life
beyond the boundaries of our Republic. Whatever may be the differences
of opinion in the South on the institution of slavery--there is no
difference and there has never been on one point--it was true
yesterday--it is true to-day--it will be true to-morrow--_Slavery is the
only modus viviendi by which two such races as the Negro and the Aryan
can live side by side in a free democracy with equality the law of its
life_--"

Again a burst of tumultuous applause swept the gallery.

"The issue is clear cut and terrible in its simplicity--the South stands
on the faith of our fathers who created this Republic. The South stands
for Constitutional freedom under the forms of established law. The
North has lifted the red flag of revolution and proclaims the
irresponsible despotism of an enthroned mob!

"For a generation your school mistresses have been training your boys to
hate us and arming them to fight us. Make no mistake about this movement
to-day. We who go are but the servants of those who sent us. They now
recall their ambassadors, and we obey their sovereign will. Make no
mistake about it. They are not a brave and rash people, deluded by bad
men, who are attempting in an illegal way to wreck the Union. They seek
peace and safety outside driven by the Rebellion against Law and Order
within.

"Are we more or less than men? Can we love our enemies and bless them
that curse and revile us? Are we devoid of the sensibilities, the
sentiments, the passions, the reason, and the instincts of mankind? Have
we no pride, no honor, no sense of shame, no reverence for our
ancestors, no care for posterity, no love for home, or family or
friends? Must we quail before the onion breath of an enthroned mob,
confess our baseness, discredit the fame of our sires, degrade our
children, abandon our homes, flee from our country and dishonor
ourselves--all for the sake of a Union whose Constitution you have
publicly burned and whose Supreme Court you have spit upon?

"Shall we consent to live under an administration controlled by those
who not only deny us justice and equality and brand us as infamous, but
boldly proclaim their purpose to rob us of our property and destroy our
civilization?

"The freemen of Alabama have proclaimed to the world they will not. In
their sovereign power they have recalled me. As their servant I go!"

With a wave of his hand in an imperious gesture of defiance to the
silent Senators of the North, amid a scene of unparalleled passion, the
speaker turned to his seat, gathered his books and papers and strode
with quick firm step down the aisle.

Jennie had leaped to her feet and stood clapping her hands in a frenzy
of excitement, unconscious of the existence of the strangely quiet young
man by her side.

He rose and stood smiling into her flushed face as she gasped:

"A wonderful speech--wasn't it?"

"They say the South has never lacked audacity, Miss Barton. I'm
wondering if they are really going to make good such words with deeds."

He spoke with a cold detachment that chilled and angered the impulsive
girl. A hot answer was on her lips when she remembered suddenly that he
was a foreigner.

"Of course, Signor, you can not understand our feelings!"

"On the other hand, I assure you, I do--I'm just wondering in a cold
intellectual way whether the oratorical temperament--the temperament of
passion, of righteous wrath of the explosive type which we have just
witnessed, will win in the trial by fire which war will bring--"

"You doubt our courage?" she interrupted, with a slight curve of the
proud little lips.

"Far from it--I assure you! I'm only wondering if it has the sullen,
dogged, staying qualities these stolid Northern men down there have
exhibited while they listened--"

The girl threw him a quick surprised look and he stopped. His voice had
unconsciously taken the tones of a soliloquy.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Barton," he said, with sudden swing to the
polite tones of society. "I'm annoying you with my foreign
speculations--"

A sudden murmur swept the galleries and all eyes were turned on the tall
slender figure of Jefferson Davis as he slowly entered the Senate
Chamber.

"Who is it?" Socola asked.

"Senator Davis--you don't know him?"

"I have never seen him before. He has been quite ill I hear."

"Yes. He's been in bed for the past week suffering agonies from
neuralgia. He lost the sight of one of his eyes from chronic pain caused
by exposure in the service of his country in the northwest."

"Really--I didn't know that."

"He was compelled to remain in a darkened room for months the past year
to save the sight of his remaining eye."

"That accounts for my not having seen him before."

Socola followed the straight military figure with painful interest as he
slowly moved toward his seat greeting with evident weakness his
colleagues as he passed. He was astonished beyond measure at the
personality of the famous leader of the "Southern Conspirators" of whom
he had heard so much. He was the last man in all the crowd he would have
singled out for such a rôle. The face was too refined, too spiritual,
too purely intellectual for the man of revolution. His high forehead,
straight nose, thin compressed lips and pointed chin belonged to the
poet and dreamer rather than the man of action. The hollow cheek bones
and deeply furrowed mouth told of suffering so acute the sympathy of
every observer was instantly won.

In spite of evident suffering his carriage was erect, dignified, and
graceful. The one trait which fastened the attention from the first and
held it was the remarkable intensity of expression which clothed his
thin muscular face.

"You like him?" Jennie ventured at last.

"I can't say, Miss Barton," was the slowly measured answer. "He is a
remarkably interesting man. I'm surprised and puzzled--"

"Surprised and puzzled at what?"

"Well, you see I know his history. The diplomatist makes it his business
to know the facts in the lives of the leaders of a nation to whose
Government he is accredited. Mr. Davis spent four years at West Point.
He gave seven years of his life to the service of the army in the West.
He carried your flag to victory in Mexico and hobbled home on crutches.
He was one of your greatest Secretaries of War. He sent George B.
McClellan and Robert E. Lee to the Crimea to master European warfare,
organized and developed your army, changed the model of your arms,
introduced the rifled musket and the minie ball. He explored your
Western Empire and surveyed the lines of the great continental railways
you are going to build to the Pacific Ocean. He planned and built your
system of waterworks in the city of Washington and superintends now the
extension of the Capitol building which will make it the most imposing
public structure in the world. He has never stooped to play the part of
a demagogue. He has never sought an office higher than the rôle of
Senator which fits his character and temperament. His mind has always
been busy dreaming of the imperial future of your widening Republic. His
eye has seen the vision of its extension to the Arctic on the north and
the jungles of Panama on the south. Why should such a man deliberately
come into this chamber to-day before this assembled crowd and commit
hari-kari?"

"He's a true son of the South!" Jennie Barton proudly answered.

"Even so, how can he do the astounding thing he proposes to carry out
to-day? His record shows that passionate devotion to the Union has been
the very breath of his life. I've memorized one of his outbursts as a
model of your English language--"

Jennie laughed.

"I never heard of his Union speeches, I'm sure!"

"Strange that your people have forgotten them. Listen: 'From sire to son
has descended the love of the Union in our hearts, as in our history are
mingled the names of Concord and Camden, of Yorktown and Saratoga, of
New Orleans and Bunker Hill. Together they form a monument to the common
glory of our common country. Where is the Southern man who would wish
that monument less by one Northern name that constitutes the mass? Who,
standing on the ground made sacred by the blood of Warren, could allow
sectional feeling to curb his enthusiasm as he looks upon that obelisk
which rises a monument to freedom's and his country's triumph, and
stands a type of the time, the men and the event it commemorates; built
of material that mocks the waves of time, without niche or molding for
parasite or creeping thing to rest upon, pointing like a finger to the
sky to raise man's thoughts to high and noble deeds!'"

Socola paused and turned his dark eyes on Jennie's upturned face.

"How can the man who made that speech in Boston do this mad deed
to-day?"

"Senator Clay has given the answer," was the girl's quick reply.

"For Senator Clay, yes--the fiery, impulsive, passionate child of
emotion. But this thin hollow-cheeked student, thinker and philosopher,
who spoke the thrilling words I quote--he should belong to the order of
the Prophet and the Seer--the greatest leaders and teachers of history."

"We believe he does, Signor!" was the quick answer. "Look--he's going
to speak--you'll hear him now."

Jennie leaned forward, her thoughtful little chin in both hands, as a
silence so intense it was pain fell suddenly on the hushed assembly.

The face of the Southern leader was chalk white in its pallor. His first
sentences were weak and scarcely reached beyond the circle of his
immediate hearers. His physician had forbidden him to leave his room.
The iron will had risen to perform a solemn duty. The Senators leaned
forward in their arm-chairs fearful of losing a word.

He paused as if for breath and gazed a moment on the upturned faces with
the look of lingering tenderness which the dying cast on those upon whom
they gaze for the last time.

His figure suddenly rose to its full height, as if the soul within had
thrust the feeble body aside to speak its message. His words, full,
clear and musical rang to the furthest listener craning his neck through
the jammed doorways of the galleries. Never was the music of the human
voice more profoundly appealing. Unshed tears were in its throbbing
tones.

There was no straining for effect--no outburst of emotion. The
impression which reached the audience was the sense of restraint and the
consciousness of his unlimited reserve power. Back of the simple
clean-cut words which fell in musical cadence from his white lips was
the certainty that he was only speaking a small part of what he felt,
saw and knew. He neither stormed nor raved and yet he filled the hearts
of his hearers with unspeakable passion.

He turned suddenly and bent his piercing single eye on the Northern
Senators:

"I hope none who hear me will confound my position with the advocacy of
the right of a State to remain in the Union and disregard its
Constitutional obligations by the nullification of the law--"

A sudden cheer swept the tense galleries. The sergeant-at-arms called
for order. The cheer rose again. The Vice-President rapped for silence
and threatened to close the galleries. The speaker lifted his hand and
commanded silence.

"It was because of his deep attachment to the Union--his determination
to find some remedy for existing ills short of a severance of the ties
which bound South Carolina to the other States--that John C. Calhoun
advocated the doctrine of nullification which he proclaimed to be
peaceful and within the limits of State power.

"Secession belongs to a different class of remedies. It is to be
justified upon the basis that the States are sovereign. There was a time
when none denied it. The phrase 'to execute the laws' General Jackson
applied to a State refusing to obey the law while yet a member of the
Union. You may make war on a foreign state. If it be the purpose of
gentlemen--"

He paused and again his eagle eye swept the tiers of Northern Senators.

"You may make war against a State which has withdrawn from the Union;
but there are no laws of the United States to be executed within the
limits of a seceded State--"

Seward leaned forward in his seat and shook his head in grave dissent.
The speaker bent his gaze directly upon his great antagonist and spoke
with strange regretful tenderness.

"A State finding herself in a condition in which Mississippi has judged
she is--in which her safety requires that she should provide for the
maintenance of her rights out of the Union--surrenders all the benefits
(and they are known to be many), deprives herself of all the advantages
(and they are known to be great), severs all the ties of affections (and
they are close and enduring) which have bound her to the Union; and thus
divesting herself of every benefit--taking upon herself every
burden--she claims to be exempt from any power to execute the laws of
the United States within her limits.

"When Massachusetts was arraigned before the bar of the Senate for her
refusal to permit the execution of the laws of the United States within
her borders, my opinion was the same then as now. Her State is
sovereign. She never delegated to the Federal Government the power to
drive her by force. And when she chooses to take the last step which
separates her from the Union, it is her right to go!--"

Another electric wave swept the crowd that burst into applause. The
speaker lifted his long arm with an impatient gesture.

"And I would not vote one dollar nor one man to coerce her back into
unwilling submission. I would say to her--'God speed in the memory of
the kind associations which once existed between her and her sister
States.'

"It has been a conviction of pressing necessity--a belief that we are to
be deprived in the Union of the rights which our fathers bequeathed
us--which has brought Mississippi to her present decision.

"You have invoked the sacred Declaration of Independence as the basis of
an attack upon her social order. The Declaration of Independence is to
be construed by the circumstances and purposes for which it was made. It
was written by a Southern planter and slave owner. The Colonies were
declaring their independence from foreign tyranny--were asserting in the
language of Jefferson, 'that no man was born booted and spurred to ride
over the rest of mankind; that men were created equal'--meaning the men
of their American political community; that there was no divine right to
rule; that no man could inherit the right to govern; that there were no
classes by which power and place descended from father to son; but that
all stations were equally within the grasp of each member of the body
politic. These were the principles they announced.

"They had no reference to a slave. The same document denounced George
III for the crime of attempting to stir their slaves to insurrection, as
John Brown attempted at Harper's Ferry. If their Declaration of
Independence announced that negroes were free and the equals of English
citizens how could the Prince be arraigned for daring to raise servile
insurrection among them? And how should this be named among the high
crimes of George III which caused the Colonies to sever their connection
with the Mother country?

"If slaves were declared our equals how did it happen that in the
organic law of the Union they were given a lower caste and their
population allowed (and that only through the dominant race) a basis of
three-fifths representation in Congress? So stands the compact of Union
which binds us together.

"We stand upon the principles on which our Government was founded!--"

The sentence rang clear and thrilling as the peal of a trumpet. The
effect was electric. The galleries leaped to their feet, and cheered.

Jennie turned to the silent diplomat.

"Isn't he glorious!"

"He stirs the hearts of men"--was the even answer.

Around them were unmistakable evidences. Women were weeping hysterically
and men embracing one another in silence and tears.

Again the Senator's hand was lifted high in command for silence and
again he faced Seward and his Northern colleagues with figure tense,
erect.

"When you repudiate these principles, and when you deny to us the right
to withdraw from a Government which, thus perverted, threatens to
destroy our rights, we but tread the path of our fathers when we
proclaim our independence and take the hazard!"

Again a cheer and shout which the Vice-President's gavel could not
quell. When the murmur at last died away the speaker's voice had dropped
to low appealing tenderness.

"We do this, Senators, not in hostility to others, not to injure any
section of our common country, not for our own pecuniary benefit, but
from the high and solemn motive of defending and protecting the rights
we inherited, which we will transmit unshorn to our children. We seek
outside the Union that peace, with dignity and honor, which we can no
longer find within.

"I trust I find myself a type of the general feeling of my constituents
towards yours. I am sure I feel no hostility toward you, Senators from
the North--"

He paused and swept the Northern tiers with a look of tender appeal.

"I am sure there is not one of you, whatever sharp discussion there may
have been between us, to whom I can not now say in the presence of my
God, I wish you well!"

Seward turned his head from the speaker, his eyes dimmed--the scheming
diplomat and unscrupulous politician lost in the heart of the man for
the moment.

"Such I am sure is the feeling of the people whom I represent toward
those whom you represent. I but express their desire when I say I hope
and they hope for peaceful relations with you, though we must part--"

He paused as if to suppress emotions too deep for words while a silence,
intense and suffocating, held the crowd in a spell. The speaker's voice
dropped to still lower and softer notes of persuasive tenderness as each
rounded word of the next sentence fell slowly from the thin lips.

"If war must come, we can only invoke the God of our fathers, who
delivered us from the power of the lion, to protect us from the ravages
of the bear, and putting our trust in Him and in our firm hearts and
strong arms we will vindicate the right as best we may--"

No cheer greeted this solemn utterance. In the pause which followed, the
speaker deliberately gazed over the familiar faces of his Northern
opponents and continued with a suppressed intensity of feeling that
gripped his bitterest foe.

"In the course of my service here, associated at different times with a
great variety of Senators, I see now around me some with whom I have
served long. There have been points of collision, but, whatever offense
there has been to me, I leave here. I carry with me no hostile
remembrance. For whatever offense I may have given which has not been
redressed, or for which satisfaction has not been demanded, I have,
Senators, in this solemn hour of our parting to offer you my apology--"

The low musical voice died softly away in the silence of tears.

A woman sobbed aloud.

Socola bent toward his trembling companion and whispered:

"Who is she?"

Jennie brushed the tears from her brown eyes before replying:

"The Senator's wife. She's heart-broken over it all--didn't sleep a
wink all night. I've been looking for her to faint every minute."

The leader closed his portfolio. His hollow cheeks, thin lips and white
drawn face were clothed with an expression of sorrow beyond words as he
slowly turned and left the scene of his life's triumphs.

The spell of his eloquence at last thrown off the crowd once more
dissolved into hostile lowering groups.

Stern old Zack Chandler of Michigan collided with Jennie's father in the
cloak room, his eyes red with wrath.

"Well, Barton," he growled, "after the damned insolence of that scene if
the North don't fight, I'll be much mistaken--"

"You generally are, sir," Barton retorted.

"If they don't fight, by the living God, I'll leave this country and
join another nation--the Comanche Indians preferred to this Government."

Barton glanced at his opponent and his heavy jaw closed with a snap.

"I trust, Senator," he said with deliberate venom, "you will not carry
out that resolution--the Comanche Indians have already suffered too much
from contact with the whites!"

Dick Welford heard the shot and gripped the fierce old Southerner's hand
as Chandler turned on his heel and disappeared with an oath.

"You got him that time, Senator!"

Barton laughed with boyish glee.

"I did, didn't I? Sometimes we can only think of our best things when
it's too late. But by Gimminy I got the old rascal this time, didn't I?"

"You certainly plugged him--what did you think of the speeches?"

"Clay said something! Davis is too slow. He's got no blood in his
veins. I don't like him. He'll pull us back into the Union yet if we
don't watch him. He's a reconstructionist at heart. The State of
Mississippi is dragging him out of Washington by the heels. He makes me
tired. The time for talk has passed. To your tents now, O Israel!"

Dick hurried to the gallery and watched Socola talking in his graceful
Italian way with Jennie. He had hated this elegant foreigner the moment
he had laid eyes on him. He made up his mind to declare himself before
another sun set.

He ignored the Italian's existence.

"You are ready, Miss Jennie?"

She took Dick's proffered arm in silence and bowed to Socola who watched
them go with a peculiar smile playing about his handsome mouth.

Jennie insisted on stopping at Senator Davis' home to tell his wife of
the wonderful power with which his speech had swept the galleries.

The house was still, the library door open. The girl paused on the
threshold in awe. The Senator's tall figure was lying prostrate across
his desk, his thin hands clasped in prayer, his face buried in his arms.
His lips were murmuring words too low to be heard until at last they
swelled in sorrowful repetition:

"May God have us in his holy keeping and grant that before it is too
late peaceful councils may prevail!"

The girl turned softly and left without a word.



CHAPTER III

A MIDNIGHT SESSION


The Secretary of War invited Socola to join him at the White House after
the Cabinet meeting which President Buchanan had called at the unusual
hour of ten at night. He had waited for more than two hours in the
anteroom and still the Cabinet was in session. Without show of
impatience he smoked cigar after cigar, flicked their ashes into the
fireplace and listened with an expression of quiet amusement to the
storm raging within while the sleet of a January blizzard rattled
against the windows with increasing fury.

Once more the question of the little fort in the harbor of Charleston
had plunged the discordant Cabinet of the dying administration into the
convulsions of a miniature war.

The feeble old President, overwhelmed by the gathering storm, crouched
in the corner by the fire. His emaciated figure was shrouded in a
ridiculous old dressing-gown. Mentally and physically prostrate he sat
shivering while his ministers wrangled.

He rose at last, shambled to the Cabinet table, and leaned his trembling
hands on it for support.

"What can I do, gentlemen--what can I do? If Anderson hadn't gone into
that fort at night, the State of South Carolina might not have
seceded--"

Stanton shook his massive head with an expression of uncontrollable
rage.

"Great God!"

The President continued in feeble, pleading tones:

"Now they tell me that unless Anderson withdraws his troops their
presence will provoke bloodshed--"

"Let them fire on him if they dare!" shouted Stanton.

"I cannot plunge my country into fratricidal war. My sands are nearly
run. I only ask of God that my sun may not set in a sea of blood--"

He paused and lifted his thin hands, trembling like two withered leaves
of aspen in the winter's blast.

"What can I do?"

Stanton suddenly sprang from his seat and confronted the shivering old
man.

"I'll tell you what you can _not_ do!"

The President gasped for breath and listened helplessly.

"You can't yield that fort to the conspirators who demand it. Dare to do
it, and I tell you, as the Attorney General of the United States, you
are guilty of high treason--and by the living God you should be hung!"

The venerable Secretary of the Navy, Isaac Toucey, lifted his hand in
protest. Stanton merely threw him a look of scorn, and shouted into the
President's face:

"Your act could no more be defended than Benedict Arnold's!"

"And what say you, Holt?" the President asked, turning to his
heavy-jawed Secretary of War.

"Send a ship to the relief of Sumter within twenty-four hours, and let
South Carolina take the consequences--"

"Good!" Stanton cried.

Holt's crooked mouth was drawn in grim lines, and the left-hand corner
was twisted into a still lower knot of ugly muscles. His furtive eyes
beneath their shaggy brows glanced quickly around the table to see the
effect of his patriotic stand.

The President turned to the white-haired Secretary of the Navy:

"And you, General Toucey?"

The venerable statesman from Connecticut bowed gravely to his Chief and
spoke with quiet dignity.

"I would order Anderson to return at once to Fort Moultrie--"

Stanton smashed the table with his big fist.

"And you know that the State of South Carolina has dismantled Fort
Moultrie?"

Toucey answered Stanton's bluster with quiet emphasis.

"I'm aware of that fact, sir!"

"And it makes no difference?"

"None whatever. Anderson left Fort Moultrie and moved into Fort Sumter
without orders--"

A faint smile flickered about the drooping corners of Holt's mouth--

The speaker turned to Holt:

"As a matter of fact, he moved into that fort against the positive
orders of your predecessor, James B. Floyd, the Secretary of War. As he
went there without orders, and against orders, he should be ordered back
forthwith--"

"With the look of a maddened tiger Stanton flew at him.

"And you expect to go back to Connecticut after making that statement?"

"I do, sir--"

"I couldn't believe it."

"And why, pray?"

"I asked the question in good faith, that I might know the character of
the people of Connecticut, or your estimate of them."

The old man drew himself up with cold dignity.

"I have served the people of my State for over forty years--their
Congressman, their Attorney General, their Governor, their Senator. I
consult no upstart of your feeble record, sir, on any question of
principle or policy!"

Stanton quailed a moment beneath the cold scorn of his antagonist,
surprised that another man should dare to use his methods of invective.

He lifted his hands with a gesture of contempt.

"All I can say is, that if I should dare take that position and return
to the State of Pennsylvania, I should expect to be stoned the moment I
set foot on her soil, stoned through the State and flung into the river
at Pittsburg with a stone around my neck--"

Toucey stared at his opponent.

"And in my opinion they would deserve well of their country for the
performance!"

While his Cabinet wrangled, the feeble, old man in the faded wrapper
shambled to the window and gazed with watery eyes on the swaying trees
of the White House grounds. The sleet had frozen in shining crystals and
every limb was hung in diamonds. The wind had risen to hurricane force,
howling and shrieking its requiem through the chill darkness. A huge
bough broke and fell to the ground with a crash that sent a shiver
through his distracted soul.

He turned back to the table to hear their decision. It came with but one
dissenting voice, Toucey, Secretary of the Navy.

"A ship be sent at once to the relief of Sumter."

With stubborn terror the President refused to sign the order for an
armed vessel. At one o'clock they compromised on the little steamer,
_Star of the West_, and Buchanan agreed that she should attempt to land
provisions for Anderson's fifty-odd men.

Holt hurried from the council chamber at one o'clock with a smile of
triumph playing about his sinister mouth. His plan had succeeded. He had
worked Stanton as the legal adviser of the President exactly as he had
foreseen. The little steamer would test the mettle of the men of South
Carolina who were training their batteries on Fort Sumter. If they dared
to fire on her--all right--the lines of battle would be drawn.

He seized Socola's arm.

"Come with me to the War Office."

Inside, he closed the door, inspected the room in every nook and corner
for a possible eavesdropper, seated himself and leaned close to his
attentive listener.

"I have established your character now through your connection with the
Minister from Sardinia beyond the possibility of any doubt. Your
position will not be called in question. You will appear in the South as
the representative, unofficial and yet duly accredited, for King Victor
Emmanuel. Your purpose will be, of course, the cultivation of friendly
relations with the officials of the new Government looking to the day of
its coming recognition--you understand?"

"Perfectly--"

"You have absolutely consecrated your life, and every talent, to your
country?"

"Body and soul--"

The dark eyes flashed with the light of a religious fanatic.

"Good." The Secretary paused and studied his man a moment.

"I introduced you to the girl not merely to obtain an invaluable witness
to your credentials should they be questioned--but for a double
purpose."

Socola nodded.

"I guessed as much."

"She's bright, young, pretty, and you can pass the time pleasantly in
her company. The association will place you in a strong position. Her
father is a fool--the storm petrel of Secession. He has the biggest
mouth in America, barring none. His mouth is so huge, they'll never find
a muzzle big enough if they could get men enough around him to put it
on. He's bound to land somewhere high in the councils of the coming
Confederacy--"

"There'll be one?"

Holt smiled.

"You doubt it?"

"It may be bluster after all."

"Men of the Davis type don't bluster, my boy. They are to meet at
Montgomery, Alabama, on February fourth. They'll organize the Cotton
States into a Southern Confederacy. If they can win Virginia, North
Carolina, Tennessee and Arkansas, they may gobble Maryland, Kentucky,
and Missouri--all Slave States. If they get them all--they'll win
without a fight, and reconstruct the Union on their own terms; if they
don't--well, we'll see what we'll see--"

"And you wish?"

"That you get for me--and get quickly--inside information of what is
done and what is proposed to be done at Montgomery. I want the names of
every man discussed for high office among them, his chances of
appointment, his friends, his enemies--why they are his friends, why
they are his enemies. I want their plans, their prospects, their hopes,
their fears, and I want this information quickly. You will be supplied
with ample funds, and your report must be made to me in person. My
tenure of this office will be but a few weeks longer--but you are my
personal representative, you understand?"

"Quite."

"Your report must be in person to me, and to me alone."

"I understand, sir."

Socola rose, extended his hand, drew his cloak about his slender
shoulders and passed out into the storm, his dark face lighted by a
smile as he recalled the winsome face of Jennie Barton.



CHAPTER IV

A FRIENDLY WARNING


The withdrawal of the Southern Senators and Representatives from
Congress produced in Washington the upheaval of a social earthquake.

An atmosphere of tears and ominous foreboding hung pall-like over the
city's social life. Each step in the departure of wives and daughters
was a pang.

Carriages drawn by sleek, high-bred horses dashed through the broad
streets with excited haste. The black coachman on the box held his reins
with a nervous grip that communicated itself to the horses. He had
caught the excitement in the quivering social structure of which he was
part. What he was really thinking down in the depths of his African soul
only God could see. His dark face merely grinned in quick obedience to
command.

From every house where these farewells were being said, a weeping woman
emerged and waved a last adieu to the tear-stained faces at the window.

Wagons and carts lumbered through the streets on their way to the wharf
or station, piled high with baggage.

Hotel-keepers stood in the doorway of their establishments with darkened
brows. The glory of the past was departing. The future was a blank.

On the morning after his farewell address to the Senate, a messenger,
who refused to give his name, was ushered into the library of Senator
Davis.

The stately black butler bowed again with quiet dignity.

"Yo' name, sah? I--failed to catch it?"

The messenger lifted his hand:

"No name. Please say to the Senator that I came from an important
official with a message of the gravest importance--I wish to see him
alone at once--"

The faithful servant eyed his visitor with an ominous look. There was no
question of his loyalty to the man he served.

"It's all right, Robert, I'm a friend of Senator Davis."

A moment's hesitation and the black man bowed with deference.

"Yassah--yassah--I tell him right away, sah. You sho' knows me anyhow,
sah--"

The Senator was in bed suffering again from facial neuralgia. He rose
promptly, dressed hastily but completely and carefully and extended both
hands to his visitor.

"You have come to see me at an unusual hour, sir. It must be
important--"

"Of the utmost importance, Senator. A high official in the confidence of
the President sent me to inform you that Stanton, the Attorney General,
is planning to issue a warrant for your arrest for high treason."

"Indeed?"

"You are advised to leave Washington on the first train."

A dry smile flickered about the corners of the Senator's strong mouth.

"Thank you. Please say to my friend that I appreciate the spirit that
prompted his message. Ask him to say to Mr. Stanton that I have decided
to remain in Washington a week. Nothing would please me better than to
submit this issue to the courts for adjustment. He will find me at home
every day and at all hours."



CHAPTER V

BOY AND GIRL


From the moment Dick Welford had seen Socola bowing and smiling before
Jennie Barton he had hated the man. He hated foreigners on general
principles, anyhow. This kind of foreigner he particularly loathed--the
slender, nervous type which suggested over-refinement to the point of
effeminacy. He had always hated slender, effeminate-looking men of the
native breed. This one was doubly offensive because he was an Italian.
How any woman with true womanly instincts could tolerate such a spider
was more than he could understand.

Jennie Barton had always frankly said that she admired men of his own
type. He was six feet one, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and weighed a hundred
and ninety-six pounds at twenty-one years of age. He had always felt
instinctively that he was exactly the man for Jennie's mate. She was
nineteen, dark and slender, a bundle of quick, sensitive, nervous
intelligence. Her brown eyes were almost black and her luxuriant hair
seemed raven-hued beside his. He had always imagined it nestling beside
his big blond head in perfect contentment since the first summer he had
spent with Tom Barton at their cottage at the White Sulphur Springs.

He had taken it for granted that she would say yes when he could screw
up his courage to speak. She had treated him as if he were already in
the family.

"Confound it," he muttered, clenching his big fist, "that's what worries
me! Maybe she just thinks of me as one of her brothers!"

It hadn't occurred to him until he saw the light kindle in her eyes at
the sight of that smooth-tongued reptilian foreigner. He was on his way
now to her house, to put the thing to the test before she could leave
Washington. Thank God, the spider was tied down here at the Sardinian
Ministry. He hoped Victor Emmanuel would send him as Consul to Shanghai.

Mrs. Barton met him at the door with a motherly smile.

"Walk right in the parlor, Dick. It's sweet of you to come so early
to-day. We're all in tears, packing to go. Jennie'll be delighted to see
you. Poor child--she's sick over it all."

Mrs. Barton pressed Dick's hand with the softest touch that reassured
his fears. The only trouble about Mrs. Barton was she was gentle and
friendly to everybody, black and white, old and young, Yankee or
Southerner. She was even sorry for old John Brown when they hung him.

"Poor thing, he was crazy," she said tenderly. "They ought to have sent
him to the asylum."

Try as he might, he couldn't fling off the impression of tragedy the
meeting of Socola with Jennie had produced. He was in a nervous fit to
see and tell her of his love. Why the devil hadn't he done so before
anyhow? They might have been engaged and ready to be married by this
time. They had met when she was sixteen.

Why on earth couldn't he throw off the fool idea that he was going to
lose her? His big fist suddenly closed with resolution.

"I'll not lose her! I'll wring that viper's neck--I'll wade through
blood and death and the fires of h--"

Just as he was plunging waist deep through the flames of the Pit, she
appeared in the door, the picture of wistful, tender beauty.

He rose awkwardly and extended his hand.

"Good morning, Dick!"

"Good morning, Jennie--"

Her hand was hot, her eyes heavy with tears.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"As if you didn't know--I've been saying good-by to some of the dearest
friends I've ever known. It's terrible. I just feel it's the end of the
world--"

He started to say: "Don't worry, Jennie darling, you have me. I love
you!" The thought of it made the cold beads of perspiration suddenly
stand out on his forehead. It was one thing to think such
things--another to say it aloud to a girl with Jennie's serious brown
eyes.

She seemed terribly serious this morning and far away somehow. Never had
he seen her so utterly lovely. The mood of tender seriousness made her
more beautiful than ever. If he only dared to crush her in his arms and
laugh the smiles back into her eyes.

When he spoke it was only a commonplace he managed to blurt out:

"So you're really going to-morrow?"

"Yes--we've telegraphed the boys to come home from school at once and
join us in Montgomery."

He tried to say it again, but the speech turned out to be political, not
personal.

"Of course Virginia'll stand by her Southern sisters, Jennie--"

"Yes--"

"It's just a few old moss-backs holding her. No army will ever march
across her soil to fight a Southern State--"

"I hope not."

"Of course not. I'll meet them on the border with one musket anyhow--"

The girl was looking out the window at the slowly drizzling rain and
made no answer. He flushed at her apparent indifference to his heroic
stand.

"Don't you believe I would?"

"Would what, Dick?" she smiled, recovering herself from her reverie.

It was no use beating about the bush, trying to talk politics. He had to
make the plunge.

He suddenly took her hand in his.

She threw him a startled look, sat bolt upright, made the faintest
effort to draw her hand away, and blushed furiously.

He was in for it now. There was no retreat. He gripped with desperate
earnestness, tried to speak, and choked.

He drew a deep breath, tried again and only squeezed her hand harder.

The girl began to smile in a sweet, triumphant way. It was nice, this
conscious power over a big, stunning six-footer who grasped her hand as
a drowning man a straw. The sense of her strength was thrilling.

She looked at him with demure reproach.

"Dick!"

He grinned sheepishly and clung to her hand.

"Yes--Jennie--"

"Do you know what you are doing?"

"No--but--I
know--what--I'm--trying--to--do--and--I'm--going--to--do--it--"

Again his big hand crushed hers.

"You're trying to break every bone in my hand as near as I can make
out--I'd like it back when you're through with it--"

He found his tongue at last:

"I--I--can't let you have it back, Jennie, I'm going to keep it
forever--"

"Really?"

"Yes--I am. I--I love you--Jennie--don't you love me--just--a--little
bit?"

The girl laughed.

"No!"

"Not the least--little--tiny--bit?"

"I don't think so--"

The hand slipped through his limp fingers and he stared at her in a
hopeless, pitiful way.

Her heart went out in a wave of tender sympathy. She put her hand back
in his in a wistful touch.

"I'm sorry, Dick dear, I didn't think you loved me in that way--"

"What did you think I was hanging round you so much for?"

"I knew you liked me, of course. And I like you--but I've never thought
seriously about love."

"There's no other fellow?"

"Of course, not--"

"You liked that Socola, didn't you?"

"I liked him--yes--"

"I thought so."

"He's cultured, handsome, interesting--"

"He's a sissy!"

"Dick!"

"A little wizened-faced rat--the spider-snake! I could break his long
neck. Yes--you do like him! I saw it when you met him. You're throwing
me down because you met him!"

"Dick!"

"But he shan't have you, I tell you--I'll show him I could lick a
thousand such sissies with one hand tied behind me."

The girl rose with dignity.

"Don't you dare to speak to me like that, sir--"

"You're going to see that fellow again--I'll bet you've got an
engagement with him now--to-night--to-day!"

The slender figure rose.

"I'll see him if I please--when I please and where I please and I'll not
consult you about it, Dick Welford--Good day!"

Trembling with anger the big, awkward boy turned and stumbled out of the
house.



CHAPTER VI

GOD'S WILL


Dick Welford had played directly into the hands of his enemy. When
Socola called at the Barton home to pay his respects to Miss Jennie and
wish them health and happiness and success in their new and dangerous
enterprise, he found the girl in a receptive mood. The accusation of
interest had stimulated her to her first effort to entertain the
self-poised and gentlemanly foreigner.

He turned to Jennie with a winning appeal in his modulated voice:

"Will you do me a very great favor, Miss Barton?"

"If I can--certainly," was the quick answer.

"I wish to meet your distinguished father. He is a great Southern
leader. I have been commissioned by the Sardinian Ministry to cultivate
the acquaintance of the leaders of the Confederacy. I am to make a
report direct to the Court of King Emmanuel on the prospects of the
South."

Jennie rose with a smile.

"With pleasure. I'll call father at once."

Barton was delighted at the announcement.

"Invite him to spend a week with us at Fairview," Jennie suggested.

"Good idea--we'll show him what Southern hospitality means!"

Burton grasped Socola's outstretched hand with enthusiasm.

"Permit me," he began in his grand way, "to extend you a welcome to the
South. Your King is interested in our movement. It's natural. Europe
must reckon with us from the first. Cotton is the real King. We are
going to build on this staple an industrial empire whose influence will
dominate the world. The sooner the political rulers realize this the
better."

Socola bowed.

"I quite agree with you, Senator Barton. His Majesty King Victor
Emmanuel has great plans for the future. He is profoundly interested in
your movement. He does not believe that the map of Italy has yet been
fixed. It will be quite easy to convince his brilliant, open mind that
the boundaries of this country may be readjusted--"

"I shall be delighted to show you every courtesy within my power, sir,"
Barton responded. "You must go South with us to-morrow and spend a week
at Fairview, our country estate. You must meet my grand old father and
my mother and see the curse of slavery at its worst!"

Barton laughed heartily and slipped his arm persuasively about the
graceful shoulders of his guest.

"I hadn't thought of being so honored, I assure you--"

He paused and looked at Jennie with a timid sort of appeal.

"Come with us--we'll be delighted to have you--"

"I'll enjoy it, I'm sure," he said hesitatingly. "We will reach
Montgomery in time for the meeting of the Convention of Seceding
States?"

"Certainly," Barton replied. "I'm already elected a delegate from my
State. Her secession is but a question of days."

Socola's white, even teeth gleamed in a happy smile.

"I'll go with pleasure, Senator. You leave to-morrow?"

"The ten-twenty train for the South. You'll join our party, of course?"

"Of course."

With a graceful bow he hurried home to complete the final preparations
for his departure. He walked with quick, strong step. And yet as he
approached the door of the little house in the humbler quarter of the
city his gait unconsciously slowed down.

He dreaded this last struggle with his mother. But it must come. He
entered the modestly furnished sitting room and looked at her calm,
sweet face with a sudden sinking. She would be absolutely alone in the
world. And yet no harm could befall her. She was the friend of every
human being who knew her. It was the agony of this parting he dreaded
and the loneliness that would torture her in his absence.

He spoke with forced cheerfulness.

"Well, mater, it's all settled. I leave at ten-twenty to-morrow
morning."

She rose and placed her hands on his shoulders. The tears blinded her.

"How little I thought when I taught your boyish lips to speak the
musical tongue of Italy I was preparing this bitter hour for my soul! I
begged your father to resign his consulship at Genoa and brought you
home to teach you the great lesson--to love your country and reverence
your country's God. And since your father's death the dream of my heart
has been to see you a minister, teaching and uplifting the people into a
higher and nobler life--"

"That is my aim, mater dear. I am consecrating body, mind and soul to
the task now of saving the Union, an inheritance priceless and glorious
to millions yet unborn. I'm going to break the chains that bind slaves.
I'm going to break the brutal and cruel power of the Southern Tyranny
that has been strangling the nation for forty years!"

His eyes flashed with the fire of fanatical enthusiasm.

He slipped his arm about his mother's slender waist, drew her to the
window and pointed to the unfinished dome of the white, majestic
capitol.

"See, mater dear, the sun is bursting through the clouds now and
lighting with splendor the marble columns. Last night when the speeches
were done and the crowds gone I stood an hour and studied the flawless
symmetry of those magnificent wings and over it all the great solemn
dome with its myriad gleaming eyes far up in the sky--and I wondered if
God meant nothing big or significant to humanity when he breathed the
dream of that poem in marble into the souls of our people! I can't
believe it, dear. I stood and prayed while I dreamed. I saw in the
ragged scaffolding and the big ugly crane swinging from its place in the
sky the symbol of our crude beginnings--our ragged past. And then the
snow-white vision of the finished building, the most majestic monument
ever reared on earth to Freedom and her cause--and I saw the glory of a
new Democracy rising from the blood and agony of the past to be the hope
and inspiration of the world!

"You hate this masquerade--this battle name I've chosen. Forget this,
dear, and see the vision your God has given to me. You've prayed that I
might be His minister. And so I am--and so I shall be when danger calls;
you dislike this repulsive mission on which I'm entering. Just now it's
the _one_ and only thing a brave man can do for his country. Forget that
I'm a spy and remember that I'm fitted for a divine service. I speak two
languages beside my own. Our people don't study languages. Few men of my
culture and endowment will do this dangerous and disagreeable work. I
rise on wings at the thought of it!"

The mother's spirit caught at last the divine spark from the soul of the
young enthusiast. Her eyes were wide and shining without tears when she
slipped both arms about his neck and spoke with deep tenderness.

"You have fully counted the cost, my son?"

"Yes."

"The lying, the cheating, the false pretenses, the assumed name, the
trusting hearts you must betray, the men you must kill alone, sometimes
to save your own life and serve your country's?"

"It's war, mater dear. I hate its cruelty and its wrongs. I'll do my
best in these early days to make it impossible. But if it comes, I'll
play the game with my life in my hands, and if I had a hundred lives I'd
give them all to my country--my only regret is that I have but one--"

"How strange the ways of God!" the mother broke in. "He planted this
love in your soul. He taught it to me and I to you and now it ends in
darkness and blood and death--"

"But out of it, dear, must come the greater plan. You believe in
God--you must believe this, or else the Devil rules the universe, and
there is no God."

The mother drew the young lips down and kissed them tenderly.

"God's will be done, my Boy--it's the bitterness of death to me--but I
say it!"



CHAPTER VII

THE BEST MAN WINS


Before Socola could purchase his ticket for the South, Senator Barton
laid his heavy hand on his shoulder.

"I just ran down, sir, to ask you to wait and go in Senator Davis'
party. He has been threatened with arrest by the cowards who are at the
present moment in charge of the Government. He can't afford to leave
town while there's a chance that so fortunate an event may be pulled
off. I have decided to stay until Lincoln's inauguration. My wife and
daughter will make you welcome at Fairview. And you'll meet my three
boys. I'm sorry I can't be with you."

Socola's masked face showed no trace of disappointment. He merely asked
politely:

"And the party of Senator Davis will start?"

"A week from to-day, sir--and my wife and daughter will accompany
them--unless--of course--"

He laughed heartily.

"Unless the great Attorney General, Edwin M. Stanton, decides to arrest
him--if he'll only do it!"

Socola nodded carelessly.

"I understand, Senator. A week from to-day. The same hour--the same
train."

In a moment he had disappeared in the crowd and hurried to the office of
the Secretary of War.

Holt received his announcement with a smile about the corners of his
strong, crooked mouth.

"That's lucky. I'd rather you were with Davis ten to one. Amuse yourself
for the week by getting all the information possible of their junta
here--"

"Barton will stay until the inauguration--"

"Of course--a spy in the camp of the enemy. He could be arrested, but
it's not wise under the circumstances--"

"You will not arrest Senator Davis?"

"Nonsense. Stanton's a fool. Nothing would please them better. I've
convinced him of that. A wrangle in the courts now over such an issue
would postpone its settlement indefinitely. The Supreme Court of the
United States has sustained the South on every issue that has been
raised. The North is leading a revolution. The South is entrenched
behind the law. They can't be ousted by law. It can only be done by the
bayonet--"

Holt paused and looked thoughtfully across the Potomac.

"Report to me daily--"

Socola silently saluted and left the office with his first feeling of
suspicion and repulsion for his Chief. He didn't like the blunt, brutal
way this Southern Democrat talked. He couldn't believe in his honesty.
Beneath those bushy eyebrows burned a wolf's hunger for office and
power. On the surface he was loyal to the Union. He wondered if he were
not in reality playing a desperate waiting game, ready at the moment of
the crisis to throw his information to either side? The air of
Washington reeked with suspicion and double dealing.

"Oh, my Country," he murmured bitterly, "if ever true men were needed!"

He strolled through the street on which Senator Davis and Barton lived
directly opposite each other. He would call on Jennie and express his
regret that their party had been postponed. At the door he changed his
mind. Too much attention at this stage of the game would not be wise. He
passed on, glancing at the distinguished-looking group of men who were
emerging from the Davis door.

He wondered what was going on in that home? It seemed impossible that
Davis should be the leader of a Southern rebellion. Clay or Toombs,
yes--but this man with his blood-marked history of devotion to the
Union--this man with his proud record of constructive statesmanship as
Senator and Secretary of War--it seemed preposterous!

Could he have heard the counsel Davis was giving at that moment to the
excited men who made his unpretentious house their Mecca, he would have
been still more astonished. For six days and nights with but a few hours
snatched for sleep, he implored the excited leaders of Southern opinion
to avoid violence, and be patient. The one note of hopefulness in his
voice came with the mention of the new President-elect, Abraham Lincoln.

"Mr. Lincoln is a man of friendly, moderate opinions personally," he
persistently advised. "He may he able to surround himself with a council
of conservative men who will use their power to hold the radical wing of
his party in check until by delay we can call a convention of all the
States and in this national assembly find a solution short of bloodshed.
We must try. We must exhaust every resource before we dream of war. We
must accept war only when it is forced upon us by our enemies."

By telegrams and letters to every Southern leader he knew he urged
delay, moderation, postponement of all action.

The week passed and the Cabinet of Buchanan had not dared accept the
Southern leader's challenge to arrest and trial.

The Davis party had found their seats in the train for the South. Socola
strolled the platform alone, waiting without sign of interest for the
hour of departure.

Dick Welford arrived five minutes before the train left and extended his
hand to Jennie.

"Forgive me, Jennie!"

With a bright smile she clasped his hand.

"Of course, Dick--I took your silly ravings too seriously."

"No--I was a fool. I'll make up for it. I'll go over now and shake hands
with the reptile if you say so--"

"Nonsense--you'll not do anything of the sort. He's nothing to me. He's
the guest of the South--that's all."

"Honest now, Jennie--you don't care for any other fellow?"

"Nor for you, either!" she laughed.

"Of course, I know that--but I can keep on trying, can't I?"

"I don't see how I can prevent it!"

Dick grinned good-naturedly and Jennie laughed again.

"You're in for a siege with me, I'll tell you right now."

"It's a free fight, Dick. I'm indifferent to the results."

"Then you don't _mind_ if I win?"

"Not in the least. At the present moment I'm a curious spectator--that's
all."

"Lord, I wish I were going with you--"

"I wish so, too--"

"Honest, Jennie?"

"Cross my heart--"

Dick laughed aloud.

"Say--I tell you what I'm going to do!"

"Yes?"

"If Virginia don't secede in ten days--I will. I'll resign my job here
with old Hunter and join the Confederacy. I don't like this new
clerkship business anyhow--expect me in ten days--"

Before Jennie could answer he turned suddenly and left the car.

At the end of the platform he ran squarely into Socola. He was about to
pass without recognition, stopped on an impulse, and extended his hand:

"Fine day, Signor!"

"Beautiful, M'sieur," was the smooth answer.

Dick hesitated.

"I'm afraid I was a little rude the other day?"

"No offense, I'm sure, Mr. Welford--"

"Of course, you can guess I'm in love with Miss Barton--"

"I hadn't speculated on that point!" Socola laughed.

"Well, I've been speculating about you--"

"Indeed?"

"Yes--and I'm going to be honest with you--I don't like you--we're
enemies from to-day. But I'll play the game fair and the best man
wins--"

The two held each other's eye steadily for a moment and Socola's white
teeth flashed.

"The best man wins, M'sieur!"



CHAPTER VIII

THE STORM CENTER


Socola hastened, through Jennie, to cultivate the acquaintance of
Senator Davis.

"You'll be delighted with Mrs. Davis, too," the girl informed him with
enthusiasm. "His second love affair you know--this time, late in life,
he married the young accomplished granddaughter of Governor Howell of
New Jersey. Their devotion is beautiful--"

The train had barely pulled out of the station before Socola found
himself in a delightful conversation with the Senator. To his amazement
he discovered that the Southerner was a close student of European
statesmanship and well informed on the conditions of modern Italy.

"I am delighted beyond measure, Signor," he said earnestly, "to learn of
the interest of your King in the South. I have long felt that Cavour was
one of the greatest statesmen and diplomats of the world. His
achievement in establishing the Kingdom of Sardinia in the face of the
bitter rivalries and ambitions of Europe, to say nothing of the power of
Rome, was in itself enough to mark him as the foremost man of his age."

"The King has great ambitions, Senator. Very shortly his title will be
King of Italy. He dreams of uniting all Italians."

"And if it is possible, the Piedmontese are the people ordained for
leadership in that sublime work--"

He looked thoughtfully out of the window at the Virginia hills and
Socola determined to change the conversation. He was fairly well
informed of the affairs in the little Kingdom on whose throne young
Victor Emmanuel sat, but this man evidently knew the philosophy of its
history as well as the facts. A question or two with his keen eye boring
through him might lead to an unpleasant situation.

"Your family are all with you, Senator?" he asked pleasantly.

Instantly the clouds lifted from the pale, thoughtful face.

"Yes--I've three darling babies. I wish you to meet Mrs. Davis--come,
they are in the next car."

In a moment the statesman had forgotten the storm of revolution. He was
laughing and playing with his children. However stern and high his
uncompromising opinions might be on public questions, he was wax in the
hands of the two lovely boys who climbed over him and the vivacious
little girl who slipped her arms about his neck. His respite from care
was brief. At the first important stop in Virginia a dense crowd had
packed the platforms. Their cries throbbed with anything but the spirit
of delay and compromise.

"Davis!"

"Hurrah for Jefferson Davis!"

"Speech--speech!"

"Davis!"

"Speech!"

There was something tense and compelling in the tones of these cries.
They rang as bugle calls to battle. In their hum and murmur there was
more than curiosity--more than the tribute of a people to their leader.
There was in the very sound the electric rush of the first crash of the
approaching storm. The man inside who had led soldiers to death on
battle fields felt it instantly and the smile died on his thin lips. The
roar outside his car window was not the cry of a mob echoing the
sentiments of a leader. It was the shrill imperial cry of a rising
people creating their leaders.

From the moment he bowed his head and lifted his hand over the crowd
that greeted him, hopeless sorrow filled his soul.

War was inevitable.

These people did not realize it. But he saw it now in all its tragic
import. He had intended to counsel patience, moderation and delay.
Before the hot breath of the storm he felt already in his face such
advice was a waste of words. He would tell them the simple truth. He
could do most good in that way. These fiery, impulsive Southern people
were tired of argument, tired of compromise, tired of delay. They were
reared in the faith that their States were sovereign. And these
Virginians had good reason for their faith. The bankers of Europe had
but yesterday refused to buy the bonds of the United States Government
unless countersigned by the State of Virginia!

These people not only believed in the sovereignty of their States and
their right to withdraw from the Union when they saw fit, but they could
not conceive the madness of the remaining States attempting to use force
to hold them. They knew, too, that millions of Northern voters were as
clear on that point as the people of the South.

Their spokesman, Horace Greeley, in _The Tribune_ had said again and
again:

"If the Southern States are mad enough to withdraw from the Union, they
must go. We cannot prevent it. Let our erring sisters go in peace."

The people before him believed that Horace Greeley's paper represented
the North in this utterance. Davis knew that it was not true.

In a flash of clear soul vision he saw the inevitable horror of the
coming struggle and determined to tell the people so.

The message he delivered was a distinct shock. He not only told them in
tones of deep and tender emotion that war was inevitable, but that it
would be long and bloody.

"We'll lick 'em in two months!" a voice yelled in protest and the crowd
cheered.

The leader shook his fine head.

"Don't deceive yourselves, my friends. War once begun, no man can
predict its end--"

"It won't begin!" another cried.

"You have convinced me to-day that it is now inevitable."

"The Yankees won't fight!" shouted a big fellow in front.

The speaker bent his gaze on the stalwart figure in remonstrance.

"You never made a worse mistake in your life, my friend. I warn you--I
know these Yankees. Once in it they'll fight with grim, dogged, sullen,
unyielding courage. We're men of the same blood. They live North, you
South--that's all the difference."

At every station the same scene was enacted. The crowd rushed around his
car with the sudden sweep of a whirlwind, and left for their homes with
grave, thoughtful faces.

By three o'clock in the afternoon he was thoroughly exhausted by the
strain. The eager crowds had sapped his last ounce of vitality.

The conductor of the train looked at him with pity and whispered:

"I'll save you at the next station."

The leader smiled his gratitude for the sympathy but wondered how it
could be done.

At the next stop, the Senator had just taken his position on the rear
platform, lifted his hand for silence and said:

"Friends and fellow citizens--"

The engine suddenly blew off steam with hiss and roar and when it ceased
the train pulled out with a jerk amid the shouts and protests of the
crowd. The grateful speaker waved his hand in regretful but happy
farewell.

The conductor repeated the trick for three stations until the exhausted
speaker had recovered his strength and then allowed him a few brief
remarks at each stop.

From the moment the train entered the State of Mississippi, grim,
earnest men in groups of two, three, four and a dozen stepped on board,
saluted their Chief and took their seats.

When the engine pulled into the station at Jackson a full brigade of
volunteer soldiers had taken their places in the ranks.

The Governor and state officials met their leader and grasped his hand.

"You have been commissioned, Senator," the Governor began eagerly, "as
Major-General in command of the forces of the State of Mississippi. Four
Brigadier-Generals have been appointed and await your assignment for
duty."

The tall figure of the hero of Buena Vista suddenly stiffened.

"I thank you. Governor, for the high honor conferred on me. No service
could be more congenial to my feelings at this moment."

The Governor waved his hand at the crowd of silent waiting men. "Your
men are ready--the first question is the purchase of arms. I think a
stand of 75,000 will be sufficient for all contingencies?"

The Senator spoke with emphasis:

"The limit of your purchases should be our power to pay--"

"You can't mean it!" the Governor exclaimed.

"I repeat it--the limit of your purchase of arms should be the power to
pay. I say this to every State in the South. We shall need all we can
get and many more I fear."

The Governor laughed.

"General, you overrate our risks!"

"On the other hand," Davis continued earnestly, "we are sure to
underestimate them at every turn."

He paused, overcome with emotion.

"A great war is impending, Governor, whose end no man can foresee. We
are not prepared for it. We have no arms, we have no ammunition and we
have no establishments to manufacture them. The South has never realized
and does not now believe that the North will fight her on the issue of
secession. They do not understand the silent growth of the power of
centralization which has changed the opinions of the North under the
teaching of Abolition fanatics--"

Again he paused, overcome.

"God help us!" he continued. "War is a terrible calamity even when waged
against aliens and strangers--our people are mad. They know not what
they do!"

The new Commander hurried to Briarfield, his plantation home, to
complete his preparations for a long absence.

Socola on a sudden impulse asked the honor of accompanying him. It was
granted without question and with cordial hospitality.

It was an opportunity not to be lost. An intimate view of this man in
his home might be of the utmost importance. He promised Jennie to hasten
to Fairview when he had spent two days at Briarfield. Mrs. Barton was
glad of the opportunity to set her house in order for her charming and
interesting guest.

The Davis plantation was a distinct shock to his fixed New England ideas
of the hellish institution of Slavery.

The devotion of these simple black men and women to their master was not
only genuine, it was pathetic. He had never before conceived the abject
depths to which a human being might sink in contentment with chains.

And he had come to break chains! These poor ignorant blacks kissed the
hand that bound them and called him their best friend.

The man they called master actually moved among them, a minister of love
and mercy. He advised the negroes about the care of their families in
his long absence. He talked as a Hebrew Patriarch to his children. He
urged the younger men and women to look after the old and helpless.

He was particularly solicitous about Bob, the oldest man on the place.
Over and over again he enumerated the comforts he thought he might need
and made provision to supply them. He sent him enough cochineal flannel
for his rheumatism to wrap him four-ply deep. For Rhinah, his wife, he
ordered enough flannel blankets for two families.

"Is there anything else you can think of, Uncle Bob?" he asked kindly.

The old man scratched his gray head and hesitated, looked into his
master's face, smiled and said:

"I _would_ like one er dem rockin' cheers outen de big house, Marse
Jeff.--yassah!"

"Of course, you shall have it. Come right up, you and Rhinah, and pick
out the two you like best."

With suppressed laughter Socola watched the old negroes try each chair
in the hallway and finally select the two best rockers in the house.

The Southern leader was obviously careworn and unhappy. Socola found his
heart unconsciously going out to him in sympathy.

Assuming carefully his attitude of foreign detached interest, the young
man sought to draw him out.

"You have given up all hope of adjustment and reunion with the North?"
he asked.

"No," was the thoughtful reply, "not until the first blood is spilled."

"Your people must see, Senator, that secession will imperil the
existence of their three thousand millions of dollars invested in
slaves?"

"Certainly they see it," was the quick answer. "Slavery can never
survive the first shot of war, no matter which side wins. If the North
wins, we must free them, or else maintain a standing army on our borders
for all time. It would be unthinkable. Rivers are bad boundaries. We
could have no others. Fools have said and will continue to say that we
are fighting to establish a slave empire. Nothing could be further from
the truth. We are seeking to find that peace and tranquillity outside
the Union we have not been able to enjoy for the past forty years
inside. If the Southern States enact a Constitution of their own, they
will merely reaffirm the Constitution of their fathers with no essential
change. The North is leading a revolution, not the South.

"Not one man in twenty down here owns a slave. The South would never
fight to maintain Slavery. We know that it is doomed. We simply demand
as the sons of the men who created this Republic, equal rights under its
laws. If we fight, it will be for our independence as freemen that we
may maintain those rights."

"I must confess, sir," Socola replied with carefully modulated voice,
"that I fail to see as a student from without, why, if Slavery is doomed
and your leaders realize that fact, a compromise without bloodshed
would not be possible?"

"If Slavery were the only issue, it would be possible--although as a
proud and sensitive people we propose to be the judge of the time when
we see fit to emancipate our slaves. Abolition fanatics, whose fathers
sold their slaves to us, can't dictate to the South on such a _moral_
issue."

"I see--your pride is involved."

"Not merely pride--our self-respect. In 1831 before the Northern
Abolitionists began their crusade of violence there were one hundred
four abolition societies in America--ninety-eight of them in the South
and only six in the entire North. But the South grew rich. At the bottom
of our whole trouble lies the issue of sectional power. New England
threatened to secede from the Union when we added the Territory of
Louisiana to our domain, out of which we have carved seven great States.
Slavery at that time was not an issue. Sectional rivalry and sectional
hatred antedates even our fight against England for our freedom.
Washington was compelled to warn his soldiers when they entered New
England to avoid the appearance of offense. The Governor of
Massachusetts refused to call on George Washington, the first President
of the Union, when he visited Boston.

"And mark you, back of the sectional issue looms a vastly bigger
one--whether the Union is a Republic of republics or a Centralized
Empire. The millions of foreigners who have poured into the North from
Europe during the past thirty years, until their white population
outnumbers ours four to one, know nothing and care nothing about the
Constitution of our fathers. They know nothing and care nothing for the
principles on which the Federal Union was founded. They came from
empires. They think as their fathers thought in Europe. And they are
driving the sons of the old Revolution in the North into the acceptance
of the ideas of centralized power. If this tendency continues the
President of the United States will become the most autocratic ruler of
the world. The South stands for the sovereignty of the States as the
only bulwark against the growth of this irresponsible centralized
despotism. The Democratic party of the North, thank God, yet stands with
us on that issue. Our only possible hope of success in case of war lies
in this fact--"

Socola suddenly started.

"Quite so--I see--The North may be divided, the South will be a unit."

"Exactly; they'll fight as one man if they must."

The longer Socola talked with this pale, earnest, self-poised man, the
deeper grew the conviction of his utter sincerity, his singleness of
purpose, his pure and lofty patriotism. His conception of the man and
his aims had completely changed and with this change of estimate came
the deeper conviction of the vastness of the tragedy toward which the
Nation was being hurled by some hidden, resistless power. He had come
into the South with a sense of moral superiority and the consciousness
not only of the righteousness of his cause but the certainty that God
would swiftly confound the enemies of the Union. He had waked with a
shock to the certainty that they were entering the arena of the
mightiest conflict of the century.

He girded his soul anew for the rôle he had chosen to play. The
character of this Southern leader held for him an endless fascination.
It was part of his mission to study him and he lost no opportunity. The
greatest surprise he received during his stay was the day of the
election of President at Montgomery. He had expected to be present at
this meeting of the Southern Convention but, hearing that it would be
held behind closed doors, had decided on his visit to Briarfield.

A messenger dashed up to the gate, sprang from his horse, hurried into
the garden, thrust a telegram into the Senator's hand.

He opened it without haste, and read it slowly. His face went white and
he crushed the piece of paper with a sudden gesture of despair. For a
moment he forgot his guest, his head was raised as if in prayer and from
the depths came the agonizing cry of a soul in mortal anguish:

"Lord, God, if it be possible let this cup pass from me!"

A moment of dazed silence and he turned to Socola. He spoke as a judge
pronouncing his own sentence of death. His voice trembled with despair
and his lips twitched with pitiful suffering.

"I have been elected President of the Southern Confederacy!"

He handed the telegram to Socola, who scanned it with thrilling
interest. He had half expected this announcement from the first. What he
could not dream was the remarkable way in which the Southern leader
would receive it.

"You are a foreigner, Signor. I may be permitted to speak freely to you.
You are a man of culture and sympathy and you can understand me. As God
is my judge, I have neither desired nor expected this position. I took
particular pains to forestall and make it impossible. But it has come. I
am not a politician. I have never stooped to their tricks. I cannot lie
and smile and bend to low chicanery. I hate a fool and I cannot hedge
and trim and be all things to all men. I have never been a demagogue.
I'm too old to begin. Other men are better suited to this position than
I--"

He paused, overcome. Socola studied him with surprise.

"Permit me to say, sir," he ventured disinterestedly, "that such a
spirit is evidence that your people have risen to the occasion and that
their choice may be an inspiration."

The leader's eye suddenly pierced his guest's.

"God knows what is best. It may be His hand. It may be that I must bow
to His will--"

Again he paused and looked wistfully at Socola's youthful face.

"You are young, Signor--you do not know what it is to yield the last
ambition of life! I have given all to my country for the past years. I
have sacrificed health and wealth and every desire of my soul--peace and
contentment here with those I love! When I saw this mighty struggle
coming, I feared a tragic end for my people. I fear it now. The man who
leads her armies will win immortality no matter what the fate of her
cause--I've dreamed of this, Signor--but they've nailed me to the
cross!"

He called his negroes together and made them an affectionate speech.
They responded with deep expressions of their devotion and their faith.
With the greatest sorrow of life darkening his soul he left next day for
his inauguration at Montgomery.



CHAPTER IX

THE OLD RÉGIME


Socola left Briarfield with the assurance of the President-elect of the
Confederacy that he might spend a week with the Bartons and yet be in
ample time for the inauguration at Montgomery.

He boarded the steamer at the Davis landing and floated lazily down to
Baton Rouge.

From Briarfield he carried an overwhelming impression of the folly of
Slavery from its economic point of view. The thing which amazed his
orderly New England mind was the confusion, the waste, the sentimental
extravagance, the sheer idiocy of the slave system of labor as
contrasted with the free labor of the North.

The one symbol before his vivid imagination was the sight of old Uncle
Bob and Aunt Rhinah seated in their rocking chairs gravely listening to
the patriarchal farewell of their master. The ancient seers dreamed of
Nirvana. These two wonderful old Africans had surely found it in the new
world. No wave of trouble could ever roll across their peaceful breasts
so long as their lord and master lived. He was their king, their
protector, their physician, their almoner, their friend. The burden of
life was on his shoulders, not on theirs. Their working days were over.
He must feed and clothe, house and care for their worthless bodies unto
the end. And the number of these helpless ones were constantly
increased.

He marveled at the folly that imagined such a system of labor possible
in a real world where the iron laws of economic survival were allowed
free play. He ceased to wonder why it still flourished in the South. The
South was yet an unsettled jungle of bewildering tropical beauty. One
might travel for miles and hundreds of miles without the sight of a
single important town. Vast reaches of untouched forests stretched away
in all directions. Apparently the foot of man had never pressed them.
Rich plantations of thousands of acres were only scratched in spots to
yield their marvelous harvests of cotton and cane, of rice and corn.

The idea of defending such a territory, extending over thousands of
miles, from the invading hosts of the rich and densely populated North
was preposterous. His heart leaped with the certainty of swift and sure
triumph for the Union should the question be submitted to the test of
the sword.

As the boat touched her landing at Baton Rouge, Jennie waved her welcome
from the shore. The graceful figure of her younger brother stood
straight and trim by her side in his new volunteer uniform. Whatever the
political leaders might think or do, these Southern people meant to
fight. There was no mistaking that fact. With every letter to his Chief
in Washington he had made this plain. The deeper he had penetrated the
lower South the more overwhelming this conviction had become.

For the moment he put the thought of his tragic mission out of his
heart. There was something wonderful in the breath of this early
Southern spring. The first week in February and flowers were blooming on
every lawn of every embowered cottage and every stately house! The song
of birds, the hum of bees, the sweet languor of the perfumed air found
his inmost soul. The snows lay cold and still and deathlike over the
Northern world.

This was fairyland.

And the Bartons' home on the banks of the river was the last touch that
completed the capture of his imagination. Through a vista of overhanging
boughs he caught the flash of its white fluted pillars in the distance.
The broad verandas were arched with climbing roses. In the center of the
sunlit space in front a fountain played, the splash of its cooling
waters keeping time to the song of mocking birds in shrubs and trees. In
the spacious grounds which swept to the water's edge more than a
thousand magnificent trees spread their cooling shade. The white rays of
the Southern sun shot through them like silver threads and glowed here
and there in the changing, shimmering splotches on the ground.

And everywhere the grinning faces of slowly moving negroes. The very
rhythm of their lazy walk seemed a part of the landscape.

This fairy world belonged to his country. His heart went out in renewed
devotion. Not one shining Southern star should ever be torn from her
diadem! He swore it.

For three days he bathed in the beauty and joy of a Southern home. He
saw but little of Jennie. The boys absorbed him. They were eager for
news. They plied him with a thousand questions. Tom was going to join
the navy, Jimmie and Billy the army.

"Would the United States Army stand by the old flag?" Tom asked with
painful eagerness.

Socola was non-committal.

"As a rule the sailor is loyal to the flag of his ship. It's the symbol
of home, of country, of all he holds dear."

"That's so, too," Tom answered thoughtfully. "Well, we'll build a navy.
We built the old one. We can build a new one!"

The last night he spent at Fairview was one never to be forgotten. It
gave him another picture of the old régime. They sat on the great
pillared front porch looking out on the silvery surface of the moonlit
river. Jennie's grandfather. Colonel James Barton, a stately man of
eighty-five, who had led a regiment with Jefferson Davis in the Mexican
War, though at that time long past the age of military service, honored
them with his presence to a late hour.

His eyes were failing but his voice was stentorian. Its tones had been
developed to even deeper power during the past ten years owing to the
deafness of his wife. This beautiful old woman sat softly rocking beside
the Colonel, answering in gentle monosyllables the questions he roared
into her ears.

To escape the volume of the Colonel's conversation Socola asked Jennie
to walk to the river's edge.

They sat down on a bench perched high on the bluff which rose abruptly
from the water at the lower end of the grounds. The scene was one of
memorable beauty.

He laughed at the folly of his schemes to learn the inner secrets of the
South. These people had no secrets. They wore their hearts on their
sleeves. He had only to ask a question to receive the answer direct
without reserve.

"Your three younger brothers will fight for the South, of course, Miss
Jennie?"

"Of course--I only wish I were a man!"

"You have an older brother in New Orleans, I believe?"

"Judge Barton, yes."

"He, too, will enter the army?"

The girl drew a deep breath and hesitated.

"He says he will not. He is bitterly opposed to my father's views."

Socola's eyes sparkled.

"He is for the Union then?"

"Yes."

"He is a man of decided views and character I take it."

"Yes--as firm and unyielding in his position as my father on the other
side."

"You will be very bitter towards him if war should come?"

"Bitter?" A little sob caught her voice. "He is my Big Brother. I love
him. It would break my heart--that's all--but I'll love him always."

Her tones were music, her loyalty to her own so sweet in its simplicity,
so utterly charming, he opened his lips to speak the first words to test
her personal attitude toward him. A flirtation would be delightful with
such a girl. And Mr. Dick Welford was a fearful temptation. He put the
thought out of his heart. She was too good and fine to be made a pawn in
such a game. Beside it was utterly unnecessary.

He had gotten exactly the information about this older brother in New
Orleans he desired and sat in brooding silence.

Jennie rose suddenly.

"Oh, I forgot--I must go in. My maids are waiting for me, I've an affair
to settle between them before they go to bed."

Socola accompanied her to the door and turned again on the lawn to enjoy
the white glory of the Southern moon. The lights were still twinkling in
the long rows of negro cabins that lined the way to the overseer's
house. Through the shadows of the trees he could see the dark figures in
the doorways of their cabins silhouetted against the lighted candles in
the background.

He strolled leisurely into the lower hall. The door of the library was
open. He paused at the scene within. A group of four little negro girls
surrounded Jennie. She was reading the Bible to them.

"Can't you say your prayers together to-night?" the young mistress
asked.

The kinky heads shook emphatically.

Lucy couldn't say hers with Amy:

"'Cause she ain't got no brother and sister to pray for."

Maggie couldn't say hers with Mandy:

"'Cause she ain't got no mother and father."

So each repeated her prayer alone and stood before their little mistress
who sat in judgment on their day's deeds.

Lucy had jabbed a carving knife into Amy's arm in a fit of temper. Her
prayer had made no mention of this important fact. The judge gave a
tender lecture on the need of repentance. The little sullen black figure
hung back stubbornly for a moment and walled her eyes at her enemy. A
sudden burst of tears and they were in each other's arms, crying and
begging forgiveness. And then they filed out, one by one.

"Good night, Miss Jennie!"

"Good night!"

"God bless you, Miss Jennie--"

"I'll never be bad no mo'!"

He had come to break the chains that cut through human flesh and he had
found this--great God!

For hours he lay awake, dreaming with wide staring eyes of the long
blood-stained history of human Slavery and its sharp contrast with the
strange travesty of such an institution which the South was giving to
the world.

He had barely lost consciousness when he leaped to the floor, roused by
loud voices, tramping feet and the flash of weird lights on the lawn.
Growls and long calls echoed from point to point on the spacious
grounds, hulloes and echoing answers and the tramp of many feet.

Some horrible thing had happened--sudden death, murder or war had broken
out. A voice was screaming from the balcony aloft that sounded like the
trumpet of the arch-angel calling the end of time.

He listened.

It was old Colonel Barton yelling at the sleepy negroes. In heaven's
high name what could they be doing?

Socola dressed hastily and rushed down-stairs. Jennie and the boys
appeared almost at the same moment.

"What is it?" Socola asked excitedly. "War has been declared? The slaves
have risen?"

Jennie laughed.

"No--no! Grandmamma smells a smell. She thinks something is burning
somewhere."

"Oh--"

The whole place, house, yard, grounds, outhouses, swarmed with bellowing
negroes. Those that were not bellowing were muttering in sleepy,
quarrelsome protest.

And they all carried candles to look for a fire in the dark!

There were at least seventy--two-thirds of them too old or too young to
be of any service, but they belonged to the house.

The old Colonel's voice could be heard a mile. In his nightgown he was
roaring from the balcony, giving his orders for the busy crowd hunting
for fire with their candles flickering in the shadows.

Old Mrs. Barton, serenely deaf, was of course oblivious of the sensation
she had created. The loss of her hearing had rendered doubly acute her
sense of smell. Candles had to be taken out of her room to be snuffed.
Lamps were extinguished only on the portico or on the lawn. Violets she
couldn't endure. A tea rose was never allowed in her room. Only one kind
of sweet rose would she tolerate at close range.

In the mildest voice she was suggesting places to be searched.

Far out at the negro quarters the candle brigade at length gathered--the
flickering lights closing in to a single point one by one.

The smell was found.

A family had been boiling soap--a slave-ridden plantation was a
miniature world which must be practically self-supporting. There could
be no economy of labor by its scientific division. Around the soap pot
the negro woman had swept some woolen rags. They were smoldering there
and the faint odor had been wafted to the great house.

Socola couldn't sleep. All night long he could hear that wild
commotion--the old Colonel's voice roaring from the balcony and seventy
sleepy, good-for-nothing negroes with lighted candles looking for a fire
in the dark. When at last he was tired of laughing at the ridiculous
picture, his foolish fancy took another turn and fixed itself again on
old Bob and Aunt Rhinah in their rocking chairs, swathed in cochineal
flannel.



CHAPTER X

THE GAUGE OF BATTLE


Socola found the little town of Montgomery, Alabama, breathing under a
suppression of emotion that was little short of uncanny on the day
Jefferson Davis was inaugurated President.

The streets were crowded to suffocation and tents were necessary to
accommodate the people who could not be housed.

He was surprised at the strange quiet which the spirit of the new
President had communicated to the people. There was no loud talk, no
braggadocio, no threats, no clamor for war. On the contrary there had
suddenly developed an overwhelming desire for a peaceful solution of the
crisis.

The Convention which had unanimously elected Jefferson Davis, President,
and Alexander H. Stephens, Vice President, had relegated the hot heads
and fire eaters to the rear.

Three great agitators had really created the new nation, William L.
Yancey of Alabama, Robert Toombs of Georgia and Barnwell Rhett of South
Carolina. And they were consumed with ambition for the Presidency.

Toombs was the most commanding figure among the uncompromising advocates
of secession in the South--an orator of consummate power, a man of wide
learning and magnetic personality. William L. Yancey was as powerful an
agitator as ever stirred the souls of an American audience since the
foundation of our Republic. Barnwell Rhett of the Charleston _Mercury_
was the most influential editor the country had ever produced.

Yet the suddenness with which these fiery leaders were dropped in the
hour of crisis was so amazing to the men themselves they had not yet
recovered sufficient breath to begin complaints.

Toombs destroyed what chance he ever had by getting drunk at a banquet
the night before the Convention met. William L. Yancey's turbulent
history ruled him out of consideration. He had killed his father-in-law
in a street brawl. Rhett's extreme views had been the bugle call to
battle but something more than sound was needed now.

Toombs was dropped even for Vice-President for Alexander H. Stephens,
the man who had pleaded in tears with his State not to secede.

The highest honor had been forced on the one man in all the South who
most passionately wished to avoid it.

So acute was the consciousness of tragedy there was scarcely a ripple of
applause at public functions where Socola had looked for mad enthusiasm.

The old Constitution had been reënacted with no essential change. The
new President had even insisted that the Provisional Congress retain the
old flag as their emblem of nationality with only a new battle flag for
use in case of war. The Congress over-ruled him at this point with an
emphasis which they meant as a rebuke to his tendency to cling to the
hope of reconciliation.

It was exactly one o'clock on Monday, February 18, 1861, that Jefferson
Davis rose between the towering pillars of the State Capitol in
Montgomery and began his inaugural address. It was careful, moderate,
statesmanlike, and a model of classic English. The closing sentence
swept the crowd.

"It is joyous in the midst of perilous times to look thus upon a people
united in heart, whose one purpose of high resolve animates and actuates
the whole; where the sacrifices to be made are not weighed in the
balance against honor, and right, and liberty and equality."

The cheer that greeted his appeal rose and fell again and again the
third time with redoubled power and enthusiasm.

The President-elect stepped forward, placed his hand on the open Bible,
and took the oath of office. As the last word fell from his white lips
cannon thundered a salute from the hill crest and the great silk ensign
of the South was slowly lifted by the hand of the granddaughter of
President Tyler.

As the breeze unrolled its huge red, white and blue folds against the
shining Southern skies the crowd burst into hysterical applause.

A Nation had been born whose history might be brief, but the people who
created it and the leader who guided its destiny were the pledge of its
immortality.

Socola found no difficulty in possessing himself of every secret of the
new Government. What was not proclaimed from the street corners and
shouted from the housetops, the newspapers printed in double leads. The
new Government had yet to organize its secret service.

The President addressed himself with energy to the task which confronted
him. But seven States had yet enrolled in the Confederacy. Of four more
he felt sure. The first attempt to coerce a Southern State by force of
arms would close the ranks with Virginia, North Carolina, Tennessee and
Arkansas by his side. Maryland, Kentucky and Missouri were peopled by
the South and the institution of Slavery bound them in a common cause.

And yet the defense of these eleven Southern States with their five
million white population and four million blacks was a task to stagger
the imagination of the greatest statesman of any age. This vast
territory would present an open front on land of more than a thousand
miles without a single natural barrier. Its sea coast presented three
thousand miles of water front--open to the attack of the navy. This
enormous coast of undefended shore was pierced by river after river
whose broad, deep waters would carry the gunboats of an enemy into the
heart of the South.

The audacity of our fathers in challenging the power of Great Britain
was reasonable in comparison with the madness of the South's challenge
to the North. Three thousand miles of storm-tossed ocean defended our
Revolutionary ancestors from the base of the enemy supplies. Three
thousand miles of undefended coast invited the attack of the U. S. Navy,
while twenty million Northerners stood with their feet on the borders of
the South ready to advance without the possibility of hindrance save the
bare breasts of the men who might oppose them.

The difference between the sections in material resources was absurd.
The North was rich and powerful Her engines of war were exhaustless and
under perfect control. The railroads of the South were few and poorly
equipped, with no work shops from which to renew their equipment when
exhausted. The railroad system of the entire country was absolutely
dependent on the North for supplies. The Missouri River was connected
with the Northern seaboard by the finest system of railways in the
world, with a total mileage of over thirty thousand. Its annual tonnage
was thirty-six million and its revenue valued at four thousand millions
of dollars. The annual value of the manufactures of the North was over
two thousand millions, and their machinery was complete for the
production of all the material of war. Her ships sailed every sea and
she could draw upon the resources of the known world. Her manufacturing
power compared to the South was five hundred to one.

No leader in the history of his race was ever confronted by such
insuperable difficulties as faced Jefferson Davis.

He had been called to direct the government of a proud, sensitive,
jealous people thrown without preparation into a position which
threatened their existence, without an army, without arms, or the means
to manufacture them, without even powder, or the means to make it, or
the material out of which it must be made, without a navy or a single
ship-yard in which to build one, and three thousand miles of coast to be
defended against a navy which had whipped the greatest maritime nation
of the world. His genius must meet every difficulty and supply every
want or his Confederacy would fall at the first shock of war.

The one tremendous and apparently insuperable difficulty in case of war
was the lack of a navy. A navy could not be built in a day, or a year or
two years, were the resources of the Confederacy boundless. The ships of
war now in the possession of the United States were of incalculable
power in such a crisis. The South was cut in every quarter by navigable
rivers. Many of their waters opened on Northern interiors accessible to
great workshops from which new gunboats could be built with rapidity and
launched against the South. The Mississippi River, navigable for a
thousand miles, flowed through the entire breadth of the Confederacy
with its approaches and its mouth in the hands of the North. Both the
Tennessee and the Cumberland rivers had their mouths open to Northern
frontiers and were navigable in midwinter for transports and gunboats
which could pierce the heart of Tennessee and Alabama.

It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that the first purpose of the
President of the Confederacy was to secure peace by all means consistent
with public honor and the trust imposed on him by the people.

His first official act was the dispatch of Confederate Commissioners to
Washington to treat for peace.

The hope that they would be received with courtesy and consideration was
a reasonable one. The greatest newspapers of the North were outspoken in
their opposition to the use of arms against any State of the Union.

The New York _Tribune_, the creator of Lincoln's party, led in this
opposition to the use of force. The Albany _Argus_ and the New York
_Herald_ were equally emphatic. Governor Seymour of New York boldly
declared in a great mass meeting his unalterable opposition to coercion.
The Detroit _Free Press_ suggested that a fire would be poured into the
rear of any troops raised to coerce a State. It was already known that
Mr. Lincoln would not advocate coercion in his inaugural.

Stephen A. Douglas, leader of the millions of the Northern Democracy,
offered a resolution in the Senate of the United States recommending the
immediate withdrawal of the garrisons from all forts within the limits
of the States which had seceded except those at Key West and Dry
Tortugas needful for coaling stations.

"I proclaim boldly," declared the Senator from Illinois, "the policy of
those with whom I act. We are for peace!"

Socola reported to his Chief in Washington that nothing was more certain
than that Jefferson Davis hoped for reunion, with guarantees against
aggression by the stronger section of the Union.

Buchanan had agreed to receive the Southern Commissioners, and sent a
message to Congress announcing their presence and their overtures.

The Commissioners found Washington seething with passion and trembling
with excitement. Buchanan had collapsed in terror, fearing each hour to
hear that his home had been sacked and burned at Wheatland.

But the Southern leaders' hope of peaceful settlement was based on a
surer foundation than the shattered nerves of the feeble old man in the
White House. Joseph Holt, the Secretary of War, was a Southern Democrat
born in Kentucky, and from the State of Mississippi. Holt had called on
Davis in Washington and assured him of his loyalty to the South and her
people. The President of the Confederacy knew of his consuming personal
ambitions and had assured him of his influence to secure generous
treatment.

But the Secretary of War had received information from the South. He had
studied the situation carefully. He believed his chances of advancement
in the North a better risk. The new Government had ignored him in the
selection of a Cabinet--and with quick decision he cast his fortunes
with the Union. That he had deceived Davis and Clay, to whom he had
given his pledge of Southern loyalty, was a matter of no importance,
save that these two men, who alone knew his treachery, were marked for
his vengeance.

Little could they dream in this hour the strange end toward which Fate
was even now hurrying them through the machinations of this sullen,
envious Southern renegade.

The Secretary of War placed his big fist on the throat of the trembling
President, and the Peace Commissioners could not reach the White House
or its councils.

They were forced to await the inauguration of Abraham Lincoln.

Jefferson Davis gave himself body and soul to the task of preparing his
over-sanguine, credulous people for the possible tragedy of war.

General Beauregard was ordered to command the forces in South Carolina,
and erect batteries for the defense of Charleston and the reduction of
Fort Sumter in case of an attempt to reënforce it. This grim fort, in
the center of the harbor of the chief Southern Atlantic city, commanded
the gateway of the Confederacy. If it should be reënforced, the
Confederate Government might be strangled by the fall of Charleston, and
the landing of an army even before a blow could be struck.

Captain Raphael Semmes was sent North to buy every gun in the market. He
was directed to secure machinery, and skilled workingmen to man it, for
the establishment of arsenals and shops, and above all to buy any vessel
afloat suitable for offensive or defensive work. Not a single ship of
any description could be had, and the intervention of the authorities
finally prevented the delivery of a single piece of machinery or the
arms he had purchased.

Major Huse was sent to Europe on the third day after the inauguration at
Montgomery on a similar mission.

General G. W. Rains was appointed to establish a manufactory for
ammunition. His work was an achievement of genius. He created artificial
niter beds, from which sufficient saltpeter was obtained, and within a
year was furnishing the finest powder.

General Gorgas was appointed Chief of Ordnance. There was but one iron
mill in the South which could cast a cannon, and that was the little
Tredegar works at Richmond, Virginia. The State of Virginia had voted
against secession and it would require the first act of war against her
Southern sisters to bring her to their defense.

The widespread belief in the North that the South had secretly prepared
for war, was utterly false, and yet the impression was of the utmost
importance to the President of the Confederacy. It gave his weak
government a fictitious strength, and gave him a brief time in which to
prepare his raw recruits for their first battle.

Day and night he prayed for peace at any sacrifice save that of honor.
The first bloodshed would be the match in the powder magazine. He
pressed his Commissioners in Washington for haste.

The inaugural address of Abraham Lincoln had been so carefully worded,
its utterances so conservative and guarded, his expressions of good will
toward the South so surprisingly emphatic, that Davis could not believe
an act of aggression which would bring bloodshed could be committed by
his order.

And yet day dragged after day with no opportunity afforded his
Commissioners to treat with the new Administration save through the
undignified course of an intermediary. The Southern President ordered
that all questions of form or ceremony be waived.

Seward, the Secretary of State, gave to these Commissioners repeated
assurances of the peaceful intention of the Government at Washington,
and the most positive promise that Fort Sumter would be evacuated. He
also declared that no measure would be instituted either by the
Executive or Congress changing the situation except on due notice given
the Commissioners.

These assurances were accepted by the Confederate President in absolute
good faith. And yet early in April the news was flashed to Montgomery
that extraordinary preparations were being made in the Northern ports
for a military and naval expedition against the South. On April the
fifth, sixth and seventh, a fleet of transports and warships with
shotted guns, munitions and military supplies sailed for Charleston.

The Commissioners in alarm requested an answer to their proposals. To
their amazement they were informed that the President of the United
States had already determined to hold no communication with them
whatever in any capacity or listen to any proposals they had to make.

On Beauregard's report to them that Anderson was endeavoring to
strengthen his position instead of evacuating the Fort the Commissioners
again communicated with Mr. Seward.

The wily Secretary of State assured them that the Government had not
receded from his promise. On April seventh Mr. Seward sent them this
message:

"Faith as to Sumter fully kept: wait and see."

His war fleet was already on the high seas, their black prows pointed
southward, their one hundred and twenty guns shotted, their battle flags
streaming in the sky!

Lincoln's sense of personal honor was too keen to permit this crooked
piece of diplomacy to stain the opening of his administration. He
dispatched a special messenger to the Governor of South Carolina and
gave notice of his purpose to use force if opposed in his intention of
supplying Fort Sumter.

On the eve of the day the fleet was scheduled to arrive this notice was
delivered. But a storm at sea had delayed the expedition and Beauregard
asked the President of the Confederacy for instructions.

His Cabinet was called, and its opinion was unanimous that Fort Sumter
must be reduced or the Confederacy dissolved. There was no choice.

Their President rose, his drawn face deadly pale:

"I agree with you, gentlemen. The order of the sailing of the fleet was
a declaration of war. The responsibility is on their shoulders, not
ours. To juggle for position as to who shall fire the first gun in such
an hour is unworthy of a great people and their cause. A deadly weapon
has been aimed at our heart. Only a fool would wait until the shot has
been fired. The assault has already been made. It is of no importance
who shall strike the first blow or fire the first gun."

With quick decision he seized his pen and wrote the order for the
reduction of Fort Sumter.



CHAPTER XI

JENNIE'S VISION


Wild rumors of bombardment held Charleston in a spell.

Jennie Barton sat alone on the roof of her aunt's house at two o'clock
on the morning of April 13. The others had gone to bed, certain that the
rumors were false. She had somehow felt the certainty of the crash.

Seated beside the brick coping of the roof she leaned the strong little
chin in her hands, waited and watched. Lights were flickering around the
shore batteries like fireflies winking in the shadows of deep woods. Her
three brothers were there. She might look on their dead faces to-morrow.
Her father had rushed to Charleston from Washington at the first news of
the sailing of the fleet. He had begged and pleaded with General
Beauregard to reduce the Fort immediately, with or without orders from
Davis.

"For God's sake, use your discretion as Commanding General and open
fire. If that fleet reaches Sumter the cause of the Confederacy is lost.
Old Davis is too slow. He's still crying peace, peace, when there is no
peace. The war has begun!"

The General calmly shook his head and asked for instructions.

Besides losing her brothers, she might be an orphan to-morrow. Her
father was quite capable of an attack on Sumter without orders. And if
the bombardment should begin he would probably be roaming over the
harbor from fort to fort, superintending the job under the guns of both
sides.

"If Anderson does not accept the terms of surrender offered he will be
fired on at four o'clock." Jennie repeated the headlines of the extra
with a shiver.

The chimes of St. Michael's struck three. The minutes slowly dragged.
The half hour was sung through the soft balmy air of the Southern
spring.

Dick Welford, too, was behind one of those black guns on the shore. How
handsome he had looked in his bright new uniform! He was a soldier from
the crown of his blond head to the soles of his heavy feet. He had
laughed at danger. She had liked him for that. He hadn't posed. He
hadn't asked for sympathy or admiration. He just marched to his duty
with the quick, firm step of the man who means business.

She was sorry now she hadn't told him how much she liked and admired
him. She might not have another chance--

"Nonsense, of course I will!" she murmured with a toss of her brown
head.

A dog barked across the street, and a wagon rattled hurriedly over the
cobblestones below. A rooster crowed for day.

She looked across the way, and a dark group of whispering women were
huddled in a corner on the roof, their gaze fixed on Sumter.

Another wagon rumbled heavily over the cobbles, and another, and
another. A blue light flamed from Fort Sumter, blinking at intervals.
Anderson was signaling someone. To the fleet that lay on the eastern
horizon beyond the bar, perhaps.

The chimes of St. Michael struck the fatal hour of four. Their sweet
notes rang clear and soft and musical over the dim housetops just as
they had sung to the sleeping world through years of joyous peace.

Jennie sprang to her feet and strained her eyes toward the black lump
that was Sumter out in the harbor. She waited with quick beating heart
for the first flash of red from the shore batteries. It did not come.
Five minutes passed that seemed an hour, and still no sound of war.

Only those wagons were rumbling now at closer intervals--one after the
other in quick succession. They were ammunition trains! The crack of the
drivers' whips could be heard distinctly, and the cries of the men
urging their horses on. The noise became at last a dull, continuous
roar.

The chimes from the old church tower again sang the half hour and then
it came--_a sudden sword leap of red flame on the horizon_! A shell rose
in the sky, glowing in pale phosphorescent trail, and burst in a flash
of blinding flame over the dark lump in the harbor. The flash had
illumined the waters and revealed the clear outlines of the casemates
with their black mouths of steel gaping through the portholes. A roar of
deep, dull thunder shook the world.

Jennie fell on her knees with clasped hands and upturned face. Her lips
were not moving, and no sound came from the little dry throat, but from
the depths of her heart rose the old, old cry of love.

"Lord have mercy on my darling brothers, and keep them safe--let no harm
come to them--and Dick, too--brave and strong!"

The house below was stirring with the rush of hurrying feet in the
corridors and the clatter on the narrow stairs that led to the roof.
They crowded to the edge and gazed seaward. The hum of voices came now
from every house. Women were crying. Some were praying. Men were talking
in low, excited tones.

Jennie paid no attention to the people about her. Her eyes were fixed
on those tongues of flame that circled Sumter.

Anderson was firing now, his big guns flashing their defiant answer to
Beauregard's batteries. Jennie watched the lurid track of his shells
with sickening dread.

A man standing beside her in the gray dawn spoke.

"A waste of ammunition!"

The cannon boomed now with the regular throb of a great human pulse. The
sobs and excited cries and prayers of women had become a part of the
weird scene.

A young mother stood beside Jennie with a baby boy in her arms. He was
delighted with the splendid display and the roar of the guns.

He pointed his fingers to the circling shells and cried:

"'Ook, mamma, 'ook!"

The mother made no answer. Only with her hungry eyes did she follow
their track to the shore. Her mate was there.

The baby clapped his hands and caught the rhythm of the throb and roar
of the cannon in his little voice:

"Boom!--Boom!"

The sun rose from the sea, a ball of dull red fire glowing ominously
through the haze of smoke that hung in the sky.

Hour after hour the guns pealed, the windows rattled and the earth
trembled.

Couriers were dashing into the city with reports from the batteries.
Soldiers were marching through the streets. It was reported that the men
from the fleet would attempt a landing.

The women rushed to the little iron balcony and watched the troops
marching to repel them.

In the first line Jennie saw the tall figure of Dick Welford. He glanced
upward, lifted his cap and held it steadily in his hand for four blocks
until they turned and swept out of sight.

Jennie was leaning on the rail with tear-dimmed eyes.

"I wonder why that soldier took his hat off?" her aunt asked.

"Yes--I wonder!" was the soft answer.

By three o'clock it was known that not a man had been killed at either
of the shore batteries and women began to smile and breathe once more.

The newsboys were screaming an extra.

Jennie hurried into the street and bought one.

In big black headlines she read:

    RICHMOND AND WASHINGTON ABLAZE WITH EXCITEMENT!

    THE NORTH WILD WITH RAGE

    VIRGINIA AND NORTH CAROLINA ARMING TO COME TO OUR RESCUE!

She walked rapidly to the water's edge to get the latest news from the
front. A tiny rowboat was deliberately pulling through the harbor
squarely under the guns of Sumter. She watched it with amazement,
looking each moment to see it disappear beneath the waves. It was
probably her foolish father.

With steady, even stroke the boatman pulled for the shore as unconcerned
as if he were listening to the rattle of firecrackers on the fourth of
July.

To her surprise it proved to be a negro. He tied his boat and
deliberately unloaded his supply of vegetables. His stolid, sphinx-like
face showed neither fear nor interest.

"Weren't you afraid of Anderson's cannon, uncle?" Jennie asked.

"Nobum--nobum--"

"You might have been blown to pieces--"

"Nobum--Marse Anderson daresn't hit me!"

"Why not?"

"He knows my marster don't 'low nuttin like dat--I'se too val'eble er
nigger. Nobum, dey ain't none ob 'em gwine ter pester me, an' I ain't
gwine ter meddle wid dem--dey kin des fight hit out twixt 'em--"

Through the long night the steady boom of cannon, and the scream of
shells from the shore.

At one o'clock next day the flagstaff was cut down by a solid shot, and
Sumter was silent.

At three o'clock a mob surged up the street following Senator Barton,
who had just come from the harbor. He was on his way to Beauregard's
headquarters.

Anderson had surrendered.

A strange quiet held the city. There was no jubilation, no bonfires, no
illuminations to celebrate the victory. A sigh of relief for deliverance
from a great danger that had threatened their life--that was all.

The Southern flag was flying now from the battered walls, and the people
were content. They were glad that Beauregard had given old Bob Anderson
the privilege of saluting his flag and marching out with the honors of
war. All they asked was to be let alone.

And they were doubly grateful for the strange Providence that had saved
every soldier's life while the walls of the Fort had been hammered into
a shapeless mass. No blood had yet been spilled on either side. The
President of the Confederacy caught the wonderful news from the wires
with a cry of joy.

"Peace may yet be possible!" he exclaimed excitedly. "No blood has been
spilled in actual conflict--"

His joy was short lived. A rude awakening was in store.

Dick Welford strolled along the brilliantly lighted "Battery" that night
with Jennie's little hand resting on his arm.

"I tell you, Jennie, I was scared!" he was saying with boyish
earnestness. "You see a fellow never knows how he's going to come out of
a close place like that till he tries it. I had a fine uniform and I'd
learned the drill and all that--but I had not smelled brimstone at short
range. I didn't know how I'd do under fire. Now I know I'm a worthy
descendant of my old Scotch-Irish ancestor who held a British officer
before him for a shield and gracefully backed out of danger."

They stopped and gazed over the lazy, shimmering waters of the harbor.

Jennie looked up into his manly face with a glow of pride.

"You're splendid, Dick,--I'm proud of you!"

"Are you?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes. You're just like my brothers."

"Look here now, Jennie," he protested, "don't you go telling me that
you'll be a sister to me. I've got a lot of sisters at home and I don't
need any more--"

"I didn't mean it that way, Dick," she responded tenderly. "My brothers
are just the finest, bravest men that God ever made in this
world--that's what I meant."

"Don't you like me a little?"

"I almost love you to-night--maybe it's our victory--maybe it's the fear
that made me pray for you and the boys on that house top the other
night--I don't know--"

"Did you pray for me?" he asked softly.

"Yes--"

"I ought to be satisfied with that, but I'm not--I want you! Won't you
be mine?"

She smiled into his eager face in a gentle, whimsical way. A half
promise to him was just trembling on her lips when Socola's slender,
erect figure suddenly crossed the street. He lifted his hat with a
genial bow.

Dick ground his teeth in a smothered oath, and Jennie spoke abruptly:

"Come--it's late--we must go in."

Through the long night the girl lay awake with the calm, persistent,
smiling face of the foreigner looking into the depths of her brown
eyes.



CHAPTER XII

A LITTLE CLOUD


The first aggressive act of the President of the Confederacy revealed
his alert and far-seeing mind. His keen eye was bent upon the sea, with
an instinctive appreciation of the tremendous import of the long
Southern coast line.

Without a ship afloat or a single navy yard, by a stroke of his pen he
created a fleet destined to sweep the commerce of the North from every
sea. His task was to create something out of nothing and how well he did
it events swiftly bore their testimony.

The United States Government was the only nation which had refused to
join the agreement to abandon the use of letters of marque and reprisal
for destroying the unarmed vessels of commerce in time of war. This
unfortunate piece of diplomacy gave Jefferson Davis the opportunity to
strike his first blow at the power and prestige of the North.

He immediately issued a proclamation offering to issue such letters to
any ship that would arm herself and enlist under the ensign of the
Confederate navy. The response was quick and the ultimate result the
lowering of the flag of the Union from practically every ship of
commerce that sailed the ocean.

Gideon Welles conferred with his Chief in Washington and Abraham Lincoln
issued a proclamation which at the time created scarcely a ripple of
excitement. And yet that order was the most important document which
came from the White House during the entire four years of the war.

When the test came sixteen captains, thirty-four commanders and one
hundred and eleven midshipmen resigned and cast their fortunes with the
South. Not one of them attempted to use his position to surrender a
ship.

Small as it was, the entire navy of the United States was practically
intact. It comprised ninety ships of war--forty-two of them ready for
active service. The majority of the vessels ready for war were
steam-propelled craft of the latest improved type.

The United States had been one of the first world powers to realize the
value of steam and rebuild its navy accordingly. In twenty years,
practically a new navy had been constructed, ranking in effective power
third only to England and France. Within the past five years, the
Government had built the steam frigates, _Merrimac_, _Niagara_,
_Colorado_, _Wabash_, _Minnesota_, and _Roanoke_. In addition to these
twelve powerful steam sloops of war had been commissioned--the
_Hartford_, _Brooklyn_, _Lancaster_, _Richmond_, _Narragansett_,
_Dakota_, _Iroquois_, _Wyoming_, and _Seminole_. They were of the
highest type of construction and compared favorably with the best ships
of the world.

These ships at the opening of the war were widely scattered, but their
homeward bound streamers were all fluttering in the sky.

President Lincoln in his proclamation ordered the most remarkable
blockade in the history of the world. This document declared three
thousand miles of Southern coast, from the Virginia Capes to the Rio
Grande, closed to the commerce of the world.

The little fleet boldly sailed on its tremendous mission. The smoke of
its funnels made but a tiny smudge on the wide, shining Southern skies.
But with swift and terrible swirl this cloud, no bigger than a man's
hand, grew into a storm whose black shadow shrouded the Southland in
gloom.



CHAPTER XIII

THE CLOSING OF THE RANKS


A wave of fierce anger swept the North. The fall of Sumter was the one
topic on every lip. Men stopped their trade, their work, their play and
looked about them for the nearest rallying ground of soldiers.

The President of the United States was quick to seize the favorable
moment to call for 75,000 volunteers. That these troops were to fight
the Confederacy was not questioned for a moment.

The effect of this proclamation on the South was a political earthquake.
In a single day all differences of opinion were sunk in the common
cause. A feeling of profound wonder swept every thoughtful man within
the Southern States. To this moment, even a majority of those who
favored the policy of secession had done so under the belief that it was
the surest way of securing redress of grievances and of bringing the
Federal Government back to its original Constitutional principles. Many
of them believed, and all of their leaders in authority hoped, that a
re-formation of the Union would soon take place in peaceful ways on the
basis of the new Constitution proclaimed at Montgomery. Many Northern
newspapers, led by the New York _Herald_, had advocated this course. The
hope of the majority of the Southern people was steadfast that the Union
would thus be continued and strengthened, and made more perfect, as it
had been in 1789 after the withdrawal of nine States from the Old Union
by the adoption of the Constitution of 1787.

Abraham Lincoln's proclamation shattered all hope of such peaceful
adjustment.

Thousands of the best men in Virginia and North Carolina had voted
against secession. Not one of them, in the face of this proclamation,
would dispute longer with their brethren. Whatever they might think
about the expediency of withdrawing from the Union, they were absolutely
clear on two points. The President of the United States had no power
under the charter of our Government to declare war. Congress only could
do that. If the Cotton States were out of the Union, his act was illegal
because the usurpation of supreme power. If they were yet in the Union,
the raising of an army to invade their homes was a plain violation of
the Constitution.

The heart of the South beat as one man. The cause of the war had been
suddenly shifted to a broader and deeper foundation about which no
possible difference could ever again arise in the Southern States.

The demand for soldiers to invade the South was a bugle call to Southern
manhood to fight for their liberties and defend their homes. It gave
even to the staunchest Union men of the Old South the overt act of an
open breach of the Constitution. From the moment Abraham Lincoln
proclaimed a war without the act of Congress, from that moment he became
a dictator and a despot who deliberately sought to destroy their
liberties.

The cause of the South not only meant the defense of their homes from
foreign invasion; it became a holy crusade for the reëstablishment of
Constitutional freedom.

Virginia immediately seceded from the Union by the vote of the same men
who had refused to secede but a few weeks before. The old flag fell from
its staff on her Capitol and the new symbol of Southern unity was
unfurled in its place. As if by magic the new flag fluttered from every
hill, housetop and window, while crowds surged through the streets
shouting and waving it aloft. Cannon boomed its advent and cheering
thousands saluted it.

A great torchlight parade illumined the streets on April 19. In this
procession walked the men who a week ago had marched through Franklin
Street waving the old flag of the Union and shouting themselves hoarse
in their determination to uphold it. They had signed the ordinance of
secession with streaming eyes, but they signed it with firm hands, and
sent their sons to the muster fields next day.

Augusta County, a Whig and Union center, and Rockingham, an equally
strong Democratic Union county, each contributed fifteen hundred
soldiers to the new cause. Women not only began to prepare the equipment
for their men, but many of them began to arm and practice themselves.
Boys from ten to fourteen were daily drilling. In Petersburg three
hundred free negroes offered their services to fight or to ditch and
dig.

The bitterness of the answers of the Southern Governors from the Border
States yet in the Union amazed the President at Washington.

His demand for troops was refused in tones of scorn and defiance.

Governor Magoffin of Kentucky replied:

"The State will furnish no troops for the wicked purpose of subduing her
sister Southern States."

Governor Harris telegraphed from Nashville:

"The State of Tennessee will not furnish a single man for coercion, but
fifty thousand if necessary for the defense of her rights."

The message of Governor Ellis of North Carolina was equally emphatic:

"I will be no party to this wicked violation of the laws of our
country, and to this war upon the liberties of a free people."

Governor Rector of Arkansas replied:

"Your demand adds insult to injury."

Governor Jackson of Missouri was indignant beyond all others:

"Your requisition in my judgment is illegal, unconstitutional, and
revolutionary--its objects inhuman and diabolical."

Tennessee followed Virginia by seceding on May 6. Arkansas on May 18,
and North Carolina by unanimous vote on May 21.

North Carolina had been slow to announce her final separation from the
old Union. But she had been prompt in proclaiming her own sovereign
rights within her territory when the National Government had dared to
call them in question. On the day the President had issued his
proclamation she seized Fort Macon at Beaufort. Fort Caswell was taken
and garrisoned by her volunteers, and on April 19, the arsenal at
Fayetteville was captured without bloodshed. The value of this
achievement to the South was incalculable. The Confederacy thus secured
sixty-five thousand stand of arms, of which twenty-eight thousand were
of the most modern pattern.

Virginia had seceded on April 17 and immediately moved to secure under
the resumption of her complete sovereignty all the arms, munitions of
war, ship stores and military posts within her borders. Two posts of
tremendous importance she attempted to seize at once--the great navy
yard at Norfolk and the arsenal and shops at Harper's Ferry. The navy
yard contained a magnificent dry dock worth millions, huge ship houses,
supplies, ammunition, small arms and cannon, and had lying in its basin
several vessels of war, complete and incomplete.

Harper's Ferry contained ten thousand muskets, five thousand rifles and
a complete set of machinery for the manufacture of arms capable of
turning out two thousand muskets a month.

A force of Virginia volunteers moved on Harper's Ferry. The small
Federal garrison asked for a parley, which was granted. In a short time
flames were pouring from the armory and arsenal. The garrison had set
fire to the buildings and escaped across the railroad bridge into
Maryland.

The Virginia troops rushed into the burning buildings, and saved five
thousand muskets and three thousand unfinished rifles. The garrison had
laid trains of powder to blow up the workshops, but the Virginians
extinguished the flames and saved to the South the invaluable machinery
for making and repairing muskets and rifles. It was shipped to
Fayetteville and Richmond and installed for safety.

The destruction of the navy yard at Norfolk was more complete and
irreparable. The dry dock was little damaged, but the destruction of
stores and property was enormous. All ships in the harbor were set on
fire and scuttled.

Events moved now with swift and terrible certainty.

Massachusetts attempted, on April 19, to send a regiment through the
streets of Baltimore to invade the South, and the indignant wrath of her
citizens could not be controlled by the mayor or police. The street cars
on which they were riding across town to the Camden station were thrown
from the tracks. The crowds jammed the streets and shouted their curses
in the face of the advancing volunteers. Stones were hurled into their
ranks and two soldiers dropped. A volley was poured into the crowd and
several fell dead and wounded.

The crowd went mad. Revolvers were drawn and fired point blank into the
ranks of the soldiers and those who were unarmed rushed to arm
themselves. From Frederic to Smith Streets the firing on both sides
continued with the regular crash of battle. Citizens were falling, but
even the unarmed men continued to press forward and hurl stones into the
ranks of the New Englanders.

The troops began to yield before the determined onslaughts of the
infuriated crowds, bewildered and apparently without real commanders.
They pressed through the streets, staggering, confused, breaking into a
run and turning to fire on their assailants as they retreated.

Harassed, bleeding and exhausted, the regiment at last reached the
Baltimore & Ohio station. The fight continued without pause. Volleys of
stones were hurled into the cars, shattering windows and paneling. The
troops were ordered to lie down on the floors and keep their heads below
the line of the windows. Maddened men pressed to the car windows,
cursing and yelling their defiance. For half a mile along the tracks the
crowd struggled and shouted, piling the rails with new obstructions as
fast as policemen could remove them. Through a steady roar of hoots,
yells and curses the train at last pulled slowly out, the troops pouring
a volley into the crowd.

In this first irregular battle of the sections the Massachusetts
regiment lost four killed and thirty-six wounded. The Baltimoreans lost
twelve killed and an unknown number wounded.

A wave of tremendous excitement swept the State of Maryland. Bridges on
all railroads leading north were immediately burned and the City of
Washington cut off from communication with the outside world. Troops
were compelled to avoid Baltimore and find transportation by water to
Annapolis. Mass meetings were held and speeches of bitter defiance
hurled against the Federal Government. The Baltimore Council
appropriated five hundred thousand dollars to put the city in a state of
defense, though the State had proclaimed its neutrality.

The shrewd, good-natured, even-tempered President at Washington used all
his powers of personal diplomacy to pour oil on the troubled waters of
Maryland. In the meantime with swift, sure, and merciless tread he moved
on the turbulent State with the power of Federal arms. It was impossible
to hold the Capital of the Nation with a hostile State separating it
from the loyal North.

The steps he took were all clearly unconstitutional, but they were
necessary to save the Capital. They were the acts of a dictator, for
Congress was not in session, but he dared to act. Troops were suddenly
thrown into the city of Baltimore and its streets and heights planted
with cannon. The chief of police was arrested and imprisoned, the police
board was suspended and the city brought under the rule of drumhead
court-martial. The writ of _habeas corpus_ was suspended by Federal
authorities in a free and sovereign State whose Legislature had
proclaimed its neutrality in the sectional conflict. Blank warrants were
issued by military officers and the house of every suspect entered by
force and searched. The mayor and his Council were arrested without
warrant, held without trial, and imprisoned in a military fortress, and
when the Legislature dared to protest, its members were arrested and its
session closed by bayonets.

So thoroughly was this work done that within thirty days from the attack
on the troops of New England, Maryland's Governor by proclamation called
for four regiments of volunteers to assist the Washington Government in
the proposed invasion of the South.

In like manner, with hand of steel within a velvet glove, Mr. Lincoln
prevented the secession of Kentucky and Missouri. It was done with less
violence, but it was done, and these rich and powerful States saved to
the Union.

The swift and bloodless conquest of Maryland inspired the North with the
most grotesque conception of the war and its outcome.

The British and French Governments had immediately recognized the
Confederate States as belligerents under the terms of international law
and closed their ports to the armed vessels of both contestants. Mr.
Seward, Lincoln's Secretary of State, hastened to assure the nations of
Europe that a dissolution of the Union was an absurd impossibility. It
had never entered the mind of any candid statesman in America and should
be dismissed at once by statesmen in Europe. And yet at this time eleven
Southern States, stretching from the James to the Rio Grande, with a
population of eight millions, had by solemn act of their Legislatures
withdrawn from the Union and their armies were camping within a few
miles of the City of Washington.

In all the North not a single statesman or a single newspaper appeared
to have any conception of the serious task before them. The fusillades
of rant, passion and bombast which filled the air would have been comic
but for the grim tragedy which was stalking in their wake.

The "Rebellion" was ridiculed and sneered at in terms that taxed the
genius of the writers for words of contempt.

The New York _Tribune_, the greatest and most powerful organ of public
opinion in the North, a paper which had boldly from the first proclaimed
the right of the South to peaceable secession, was now swept away with
the popular fury.

Its editor gravely declared:

"The Southern rebellion is nothing more or less than the natural
recourse of all mean-spirited and defeated tyrannies to rule or ruin,
making of course a wide distinction between the will and the power, for
the hanging of traitors is soon to begin before a month is over. The
Nations of Europe may rest assured that Jeff Davis and Co. will be
swinging from the battlements at Washington, at least by the fourth of
July. We spit upon a later and longer deferred justice."

The New York _Times_ gave its opinion with equal clearness:

"Let us make quick work. The Rebellion is an unborn tadpole. Let us not
fall into the delusion of mistaking a local commotion for a revolution.
A strong active pull together will do our work in thirty days. We have
only to send a column of twenty-five thousand men across the Potomac to
Richmond to burn out the rats there; another column of twenty-five
thousand to Cairo to seize the Cotton ports of the Mississippi and
retain the remaining twenty-five thousand called for by the President at
Washington--not because there is any need for them there but because we
do not require their services elsewhere."

The staid old Philadelphia _Press_ declared:

"No man of sense can for a moment doubt that all this
much-ado-about-nothing will end in a month. The Northern people are
invincible. The rebels are a band of ragamuffins who will fly like chaff
before the wind on our approach."

The West vied with the East in boastful clamor.

The Chicago _Tribune_ shouted from the top of its columns:

"We insist that the West be allowed the honor of settling this little
trouble by herself since she is most interested in its suppression to
insure the free navigation of the Mississippi River. Let the East stand
aside. This is our war. We can end it successfully in two months.
Illinois can whip the whole South by herself. We insist on the affair
being turned over to us."

With prospects of a short war and cheaply earned glory the rage for
volunteering was resistless. The war for three months was to be a
holiday excursion and every man would return a hero crowned with
garlands of flowers, the center of admiring thousands. The blacksmiths
of Brooklyn were busy making handcuffs for one of her crack regiments.
Each volunteer had sworn to lead at least one captive rebel in chains
through the crowded streets in the great parade on their return.

Socola on his arrival at Montgomery from Charleston read these
fulminations from the North with amazement and rage. He sent his bitter
and emphatic protest against such madness to Holt. The faithful Joseph
had been rewarded with an office to his liking. He was now the Judge
Advocate General of the United States Army. He turned Socola's letters
over to Cameron, the new Secretary of War, who read them with rising
wrath.

"The author of those letters," he said with a scowl, "is either a damned
fool, or traitor."

Holt's lower lip was thrust out and the lines of his big mouth drawn
into a knot.

"I assure you, sir--he is neither. He is absolutely loyal. His
patriotism is a religion. He has entered his dangerous and important
mission with the zeal of a religious fanatic."

"That accounts for it then--he's insane. I don't care to read any more
such twaddle and I won't pay for the services of such a man out of the
funds of the War Department."

With the utmost difficulty Holt secured the consent of the Secretary of
War to continue Socola's commission for two months longer.

The only consolation the young patriot found in the contemptuous reply
his Government made to his solemn warnings was the almost equal fatuity
with which the Southern people were now approaching their first test of
battle.

Until the proclamation of President Lincoln, both Jefferson Davis and
the South had believed in the possibility of a peaceful reconciliation.
Even when the proclamation had been made and the wild response of the
North had been instantly given, the Southern people refused to believe
that the millions of Northern voters who still clung to the old forms of
Constitutional Government under the leadership of Stephen A. Douglas
would surrender their principles, arm themselves and march to coerce a
State at the command of a President against whom they had voted.

Senator Barton, from his new position in the Confederate Senate, scouted
the idea of serious war.

"Bah!" he growled to Socola, who was drawing him out. "The Yankees won't
fight!"

"That's what they say about you, sir," was the cool response.

"Who ever heard of a race of shopkeepers turning into soldiers?" The
Senator laughed. "Such men have no martial prowess! They are unequal to
mighty deeds of valor."

The white teeth of the young observer gleamed in a smile.

"On the other hand, Senator, I'm afraid history proves that commercial
communities, once aroused, are the most dogged, pugnacious, ambitious
and obstinate fighters of the world--Carthage, Venice, Genoa, Holland
and England have surely proven this--"

"There's one thing certain," Barton roared. "We'll bring England to her
knees if there is a war. Cotton is the King of Commerce, and we hold the
key of his empire. The population of England will starve without our
cotton. If we need them they've got to come to our rescue, sir!"

Socola did not argue the point. It was amazing how widespread was this
idea in the South. He wrote his Government again and again that the
whole movement of secession was based on this conception.

There was one man in Washington who read these warnings with keen
insight--Gideon Welles, the Secretary of the Navy. The part this quiet,
unassuming man was preparing to play in the mighty drama then unfolding
its first scene was little known or understood by those who were filling
the world with the noise of their bluster.

Jefferson Davis at his desk in Montgomery saw with growing anxiety the
confidence of his people in immediate and overwhelming success. In
answer to Abraham Lincoln's proclamation calling for 75,000 volunteers
to fight the South, he called for 100,000 to defend it. The rage for
volunteering in the South was even greater than the North. An army of
five hundred thousand men could have been enrolled for any length of
service if arms and equipment could have been found. It was utterly
impossible to arm and equip one hundred thousand, before the first
battle would be fought.

Ambitious Southern boys, raging for the smell of battle, rushed from
post to post, begged and pleaded for a place in the ranks. They offered
big bounties for the places assigned to men who were lucky enough to be
accepted.

The Confederate Congress, to the chagrin of their President, fixed the
time of service at six months. Jefferson Davis was apparently the only
man in the South who had any conception of the gigantic task before his
infant government. He begged and implored his Congress for an enrollment
of three years or the end of the war. The Congress laughed at his absurd
fears. The utmost they would grant was enlistment for the term of one
year.

With grim foreboding but desperate earnestness the President of the
Confederacy turned his attention to the organization and equipment of
this force with which he was expected to defend the homes of eight
million people scattered over a territory of 728,000 square miles, with
an open frontier of a thousand miles and three thousand leagues of open
sea.



CHAPTER XIV

RICHMOND IN GALA DRESS


From the moment Virginia seceded from the Union it wan a foregone
conclusion that Richmond would be the capital of the new
Confederacy--not only because the great Virginian was the Father of the
Country and his glorious old Commonwealth the mother of States and
Presidents, but because her soil must be the arena of the first great
battle.

On May 23, the Provisional Congress at Montgomery adjourned to meet in
Richmond on July 20, and Jefferson Davis began his triumphal procession
to the new Capital.

Jennie Barton, her impulsive father, the Senator, Mrs Barton, with
temper serene and unruffled, and Signor Henrico Socola of the Sardinian
Ministry, were in the party. Dick Welford and two boys were already in
Virginia with their regiments. Tom was in New Orleans with Raphael
Semmes, fitting out the little steamer _Sumter_ for a Confederate
cruiser.

Senator Barton had been requested by the new President to act as his
aide, and the champion of secession had accepted the honor under
protest. It was not of importance commensurate with his abilities, but
it was perhaps worth while for the moment until a greater field was
opened.

The arrangement made Socola's association with Jennie of double
importance. As the train whirled through the sunlit fields of the South
he found his position by her side more and more agreeable and
interesting. She was a girl of remarkable intelligence. He had observed
that she was not afraid of silence. Her tongue was not forever going. In
fact she seemed disinclined to talk unless she had something to say.

He glanced at her from the corners of his dark eyes with a friendly
smile.

"You are serious to-day, Miss Jennie?"

"Yes. I wish I were a man!"

"You'd go to the front, of course?"

"Yes--wouldn't you?"

"For _my_ country--yes--"

He paused a moment and went on carelessly:

"Your older brother, the Judge, will fight for the Union?"

The sensitive lips trembled.

"No--thank God. He has sent my mother word that for her sake and mine
he'll not fight his father and younger brothers in battle. He's going to
do a braver thing than march to the front. He's going to face his
neighbors in New Orleans and stand squarely by his principles."

"It will take a brave man to do that, won't it?"

"The bravest of the brave."

The train was just pulling into a sleepy Southern town, the tracks
running straight down the center of its main street. A company was drawn
up to salute the new President and cheering thousands had poured in from
the surrounding country to do him honor. They cheered themselves hoarse
and were still at it when the train slowly started northward. The
company which greeted their arrival with arms presented were on board
now, chatting, shouting, singing, waving their caps and handkerchiefs to
tear-stained women.

The country through which the Presidential party passed had been
suddenly transformed into a vast military camp, the whole population war
mad.

Every woman from every window of every house in sight of the train waved
a handkerchief. The flutter of those white flags never ceased.

The city of Richmond gave their distinguished visitor a noble reception.
He was quartered temporarily at the Spotswood Hotel, but the City
Council had purchased the handsomest mansion in town at a cost of
$40,000 and offered it to him as their token of admiration of his
genius.

Mr. Davis was deeply touched by this mark of esteem from Virginia, but
sternly refused the gift for himself. He accepted it for the Confederate
Government as the official residence of the President.

Socola found the city a mere comfortable village in comparison with New
York or Boston or Philadelphia, though five times the size of
Montgomery. He strolled through its streets alone, wondering in which
one of the big old-fashioned mansions lived the remarkable Southern
woman to whom his Government had referred him for orders. He must await
the arrival of the messenger who would deliver to him in person its
description. In the meantime with tireless eye he was studying the
physical formation of every street and alley. He must know it, every
crook and turn.

Until the advent of the troops Richmond had been one of the quietest of
all the smaller cities of America. Barely forty thousand inhabitants,
one third of whom were negro slaves, it could boast none of the displays
or excitements of a metropolis. Its vices were few, its life orderly and
its society the finest type of the genuine American our country had
developed.

Rowdyism was unknown. The police department consisted of a dozen
"watchmen" whose chief duty was to round up a few straggling negroes who
might be found on the streets after nine o'clock at night and put them
in "the Cage" until morning. "The Cage" was a ramshackled wooden
building too absurd to be honored by the name of prison.

The quiet, shady streets were suddenly transformed into the throbbing,
tumultuous avenues of a crowded Capital--already numbering more than one
hundred thousand inhabitants.

Its pulse beat with a new and fevered life. Its atmosphere was tense
with the electric rumble of the coming storm--everywhere bustle, hurry
and feverish preparations for war. The Tredegar Iron Works had doubled
its force of men. Day and night the red glare of the furnaces threw its
sinister glow over the yellow, turbulent waters of the James. With every
throb now of its red heart a cannon was born destined to slay a thousand
men.

Every hill was white with the tents of soldiers, their camps stretching
away into the distant fields and forests.

Every street was thronged. Couriers on blooded horses dashed to and fro
bearing the messages of imperious masters. From every direction came the
crash of military bands. And over all the steady, low rumble of
artillery and the throbbing tramp of soldiers. In every field and wood
for miles around the city could be heard the neighing of horses, the
bugle call of the trooper, the shouts of gay recruits and the sharp
command of drilling officers.

The rattle of the ambulance and the long, red trenches of the uncoffined
dead had not come yet. They were not even dreamed in the hearts of the
eager, rollicking, fun-loving children of the South.

There were as yet no dances, no social festivities. The town was soldier
mad. Few men not in uniform were to be seen on the streets. A man in
citizen's clothes was under suspicion as to his principles.

With each train, new companies and regiments arrived. Day and night the
tramp of soldiers' feet, the throb of drum, the scream of fife, the
gleam of bayonets.

Everywhere soldiers were welcomed, fêted, lionized. The finest ladies of
Richmond vied with one another in serving their soldier guests. Society
turned out _en masse_ to every important review.

Southern society was melted into a single pulsing thought--the fight in
defense of their homes and their liberty. In the white heat of this
mighty impulse the barriers of class and sex were melted.

The most delicately reared and cultured lady of society admitted without
question the right of any man who wore a gray uniform to speak to her
without introduction and escort her anywhere on the streets. In not a
single instance was this high privilege abused by an insult, indignity
or an improper word.

Socola saw but one lady who showed the slightest displeasure.

A dainty little woman of eight, delicately trained in the ways of polite
society, was shocked at the familiarity of a soldier who had dared to
caress her.

She turned to her elderly companion and gasped with indignation:

"Auntie! Did you ever! Any man who wears a stripe on his pantaloons now
thinks he can speak to a lady!"

Socola laughed and passed on to inspect the camp of the famous Hampton
Legion of South Carolina.

His heart went out in a sudden wave of admiration for these Southern
people who could merge thus their souls and bodies into the cause of
their country.

The Hampton Legion was recruited, armed and equipped and led by Wade
Hampton. Its private soldiers were the flower of South Carolina's
society. The dress parades of this regiment of gentlemen were the
admiration of the town. The carriages that hung around their maneuvers
were as gay and numerous as the assemblage on a fashionable race course.
Each member of this famous legion went into Richmond with his trunks and
body servant. They, too, were confident of a brief struggle.

A kind fate held fast the dark curtains of the future. The camp was a
picnic ground, and Death was only a specter of the dim unknown.

Just as Socola strolled by the grounds, the camp spied the handsome
figure of young Preston Hampton in a pair of spotless yellow kid gloves.
They caught and rolled him in the dust and spoiled his gloves.

He laughed and took it good naturedly.

The hardier sons of the South held the attention of the keen, observing
eyes with stronger interest. He knew what would become of those trunks
and fine clothes. The thing he wished most to know was the quality and
the temper of the average man in the Southern ranks.

Socola met Dick Welford suddenly face to face, smiled and bowed. Dick
hesitated, returned his recognition and offered his hand.

"Mr. Welford--"

"Signor Socola."

Dick's greeting was a little awkward, but the older man put him at once
at ease with his frank, friendly manners.

"A brave show your _Champ de Mars_, sir!"

"Does look like business, doesn't it?" Dick responded with pride. "Would
you like to go through the camps and see our men?"

"Very much."

"Come, I'll show you."

Two hundred yards from the camp of the Hampton Legion they found the
Louisiana Zouaves of Wheat's command, small, tough-looking men with
gleaming black eyes.

"Frenchmen!" Dick sneered. "They'll fight though--"

"Their people in the old world have that reputation," Socola dryly
remarked.

Beyond them lay a regiment of fierce, be-whiskered countrymen from the
lower sections of Mississippi.

"Look out for those fellows," the young Southerner said serenely.
"They're from old Jeff's home. You'll hear from them. Their fathers all
fought in Mexico."

Socola nodded.

Beside the Mississippians lay a regiment of long-legged, sinewy riflemen
from Arkansas.

A hundred yards further they saw the quaint coon-skin caps of John B.
Gordon's company from Georgia.

Socola watched these lanky mountaineers with keen interest.

"The Raccoon Roughs," Dick explained. "First company of Georgia
volunteers. They had to march over two or three States before anybody
would muster them in. They're happy as June bugs now."

They passed two regiments of quiet North Carolinians. The young
Northerner observed their strong, muscular bodies and earnest faces.

"And these two large regiments, Mr. Welford?" Socola asked.

"Oh," the Virginian exclaimed with a careless touch of scorn in his
voice, "they're Tarheels--not much for looks, but I reckon they'll
_stick_."

"I've an idea they will," was the serious reply.

Dick pointed with pride to a fine-looking regiment of Virginians.

"Good-looking soldiers," Socola observed.

"Aren't they? That's my regiment. You'll hear from them in the first
battle."

"And those giants?" Socola inquired, pointing to the right at a group of
tall, rude-looking fellows.

"Texas Rangers."

"I shouldn't care to meet them in a row--"

"You know what General Taylor said of them in the Mexican War?"

"No--"

"_They're anything but gentlemen or cowards._"

"I agree with him," Socola laughed.

"What chance has a Yankee got against such men?" Dick asked with a wag
of his big blond head.

"Let me show you what they think--"

Socola drew a leaf of _Harper's Magazine_ from his pocket and spread it
before the young trooper's indignant gaze.

The cartoon showed a sickly-looking Southerner carrying his musket under
an umbrella accompanied by a negro with a tray full of mint juleps.

"That's a joke, isn't it!" Dick roared. "Will you give me this paper?"

"Certainly, Monsieur!"

Dick folded the sheet, still laughing. "I'll have some fun with this in
camp to-night. Come on--I want to show you just one more bunch of these
sickly-looking mint-julipers--"

Again the Southerner roared.

They quickened their pace and in a few minutes were passing through the
camps of the Red River men from Arkansas and Northern Louisiana.

"Aren't you sorry for these poor fellows?" Dick laughed.

"I have never seen anything like them," Socola admitted, looking on
their stalwart forms with undisguised admiration. Scarcely a man was
under six feet in height, with broad, massive shoulders and chests and
not an ounce of superfluous flesh. Their resemblance to each other was
remarkable. Nature had cast each one in the same heroic mold. The spread
of giant unbroken forests spoke in their brawny arms and legs. The look
of an eagle soaring over great rivers and fertile plains flashed in
their fearless eyes.

"What do you think of them?" Dick asked with boyish pride.

"I'd like to send their photographs to _Harper's_--"

"For God's sake, don't do that!" Dick protested. "If you do, we'll never
get a chance to see a Yankee. I want to get in sight of 'em anyhow
before they run. All I ask of the Lord is to give me one whack at those
little, hump-backed, bow-legged shoemakers from Boston!"

Socola smiled dryly.

"In five minutes after we meet--there won't be a shoe-string left fit to
use."

The dark face flashed with a strange light from the depths of the somber
eyes--only for an instant did he lose self-control. His voice was velvet
when he spoke.

"Your faith is strong, M'sieur!"

"It's not faith--we know. One Southerner can whip three Yankees any
day."

"But suppose it should turn out that he had to whip five or six or a
dozen?"

"Don't you think these fellows could do it?"

Socola hesitated. It was a shame to pull down a faith that could remove
mountains. He shrugged his slender shoulders and a pensive look stole
over his face. He seemed to be talking to himself.

"Your President tells me that his soldiers will do all that pluck and
muscle, endurance and dogged courage, dash and red-hot patriotism can
accomplish. And yet his view is not sanguine. A sad undertone I caught
in his voice. He says your war will be long and bloody--"

"Yes--I know," Dick broke in, "but nobody agrees with him. We'll show
old Jeff what we can do, if he'll just give us _one_ chance--that's all
we ask--just _one_ chance. Read that editorial in the Richmond
_Examiner_--"

He thrust a copy of the famous yellow journal of the South into Socola's
hand and pointed to a marked paragraph:

"From mountain top and valleys to the shores of the seas there is one
wild shout of fierce resolve to capture Washington City at all and every
human hazard!"

The North was marching southward with ropes and handcuffs with which to
end in triumph their holiday excursion on July 4. The South was marching
to meet them with eager pride, each man afraid the fight would be over
before he could reach the front to fire a single shot. And behind each
gay regiment of scornful men marched the white silent figure of Death.



CHAPTER XV

THE HOUSE ON CHURCH HILL


As Socola left his room at the Spotswood the following night, a stranger
met him at the turn of the dimly lighted corridor.

"Signor Socola, I believe?"

"At your service."

"I know some mutual friends in Washington connected with the Sardinian
Ministry--"

"I'm just starting for a stroll through the city," Socola interrupted.
"Will you join me?"

"With pleasure. As I am well acquainted with the streets of Richmond,
allow me to be your guide."

Socola followed with a nod of approval. Their walk led to the highest of
the city's seven hills. But few were stirring at this hour--half-past
seven. The people were busy at supper.

The two men paused at the gate of a stately, old-fashioned mansion in
the middle of a spacious lawn. The odor of sweet pinks filled the air.
The rose trellis and elaborate scheme of flower beds and the boxwood
hedges told the story of wealth and culture and high social position.

"I wish to introduce you to one of the most charming ladies of
Richmond," the stranger said in quick, business-like tones, opening the
gate as if he were used to the feel of the latch.

"Certainly," was the short reply.

In answer to the rap of the old-fashioned brass knocker, a quaint little
woman of forty opened the door and showed them into the parlor.

The blinds were closed, and the room lighted by a single small kerosene
lamp.

With quick precision the stranger presented his companion.

"Miss Van Lew, permit me to introduce to you Signor Henrico Socola of
the Sardinian Ministry. He is the duly accredited but unofficial agent
of his Majesty, Victor Emmanuel, and is cultivating friendly relations
with the new Government of the South."

Miss Van Low extended her hand and took the outstretched one with a
warmth that surprised her visitor beyond measure.

"I recognized him at once," she said with emotion.

"Recognized me?"

"Your dear mother, sir, was my schoolmate in Philadelphia. I loved her.
How alike you are!"

"Then we shall be friends--"

"We shall be more than friends--we shall be comrades--"

She paused and turned to the stranger:

"You can leave us now."

With a bow the man turned and left the room.

Socola studied the little woman who had deliberately chosen to lay her
life, her fortune and her home on the altar of her Country. He saw with
a glance at her delicate but commanding figure the brilliant,
accomplished, resolute woman of personality and charm.

She took the young man's hand again in hers and led him to a high-backed
mahogany settee. She stroked the hands with her thin, cold fingers.

"How perfect the image of your mother! I would have known you anywhere.
_You_ must know and trust me. I was sent North to school. I came back to
Virginia a more determined Abolitionist than ever. Our people have
always hated Slavery. I made good my faith by freeing mine. We're not
so well-to-do now, my mother and I."

She paused and looked wistfully about the stately room.

"This house could tell the story of gay and beautiful scenes--of
balls--receptions and garden parties in bowers of roses--of coaches
drawn by six snow-white horses standing at our door for the start to the
White Sulphur Springs--"

She stopped suddenly, mastered her emotions and went on dreamily:

"Of great men and distinguished families our guests from the North and
the South--Bishop Mann, Chief Justice John Marshall, the Lees, the
Robinsons, Wickhams, Adams, Cabells,--the Carringtons--Fredrika Bremer,
the Swedish novelist, visited us and wrote of us in her 'Homes in the
New World.' Jennie Lind in the height of her glory sang in this room.
Edgar Allan Poe read here aloud his immortal poem, 'The Raven.' You must
realize what it means to me to become an outcast in Richmond--"

She drew from her bosom a newspaper clipping and handed it to Socola.

"Read that paragraph from this morning's editorial columns--"

The young man scanned the marked clipping.

    RAPPED ON THE KNUCKS

    "One of the City papers contained on Monday a word of exhortation
    to certain females of Southern residence (and perhaps birth) but
    of decidedly Northern and Abolition proclivities. The creatures,
    though specially alluded to, are not named. If such people do not
    wish to be exposed and dealt with as alien enemies to the country
    they would do well to cut stick while they can do so with safety
    to their worthless carcasses--"

"And you will not 'cut stick'?"

"It's not the way of our breed. I've been doing what I could for the
past year. I have sent the Government at Washington letter after letter
giving them full and accurate accounts of men and events here. I have
made no concealment of my principles. We are Abolitionists and Unionists
and they know it. These Southern men will not lift their hands against
two helpless women unless they discover the deeper plans I've laid. I've
stopped them on the streets and openly flung my sentiments into their
faces. As the excitement has increased I have grown more violent and
more incoherent. They have begun to say that I am insane--"

Socola lifted his hand in a quiet gesture.

"Good. You can play the part."

A look of elation overspread the thin, intellectual features.

"True--I'll do it. I see it in a flash. 'Crazy old Bet,' they'll call
me--"

She sprang to her feet.

"Come upstairs."

He followed her light step up three flights of stairs into the attic.
She pushed aside an old-fashioned wardrobe and opened a small door of
plain pine boards about four feet in height which led to the darkened
space beneath the roof.

She stooped and entered and he followed. A small, neat room was revealed
eight feet high beside the inner wall, with ceiling sloping to three
feet on the opposite side. An iron safe was fitted into the space beside
the chimney and covered skillfully by a door completely cased in brick.
The device was so perfect it was impossible to detect the fact that it
was not a part of the chimney, each alternate layer of bricks fitted
exactly into the place chiseled out for it in the wall of the chimney
itself.

Socola examined the arrangement with care.

"A most skillful piece of work!" he exclaimed.

"I laid those bricks in that door casing with my own hand. The old safe
has been there since my grandfather's day. This is your room, sir. That
safe is for your important papers. You can spend the night here in
safety when necessary. My house has been offered to the Government as
the headquarters of its secret service. I have in this safe an important
document for you."

She opened it and handed Socola a sealed envelope addressed:


    "Signor Henrico Socola,
      Richmond, Virginia."


He broke the seal and read the order from the new Bureau of Military
Information placing him in command of its Richmond office.

He offered the paper to the little woman who held the candle for him to
read.

"I know its contents," she said, observing him keenly. "The Government
has chosen wisely. You can render invaluable service--"

She paused and looked at Socola with a curious smile.

"You know any girls in Richmond?"

"But one and she has just arrived with the Presidential party--Miss
Jennie Barton--"

"The Senator's daughter?"

"The same."

"Wonderful!" the little woman went on eagerly. "Her father is on the
staff of Jefferson Davis. Old Barton is a loud-mouthed fool who can't
keep a secret ten minutes. You must make love to his daughter--"

Socola laughed. "Is it necessary?"

"Absolutely. You can't remain in Richmond indefinitely without a better
excuse than your unofficial connection with the Ministry of Sardinia.
You are young. You are handsome. All Southern girls have
sweethearts--all Southern boys. They can't understand the boy who
hasn't. You'll be suspected at once unless you comply with the custom of
the country."

"Of course. I needn't actually make love to her--"

"That's exactly what you must do. Make love to her with all your
might--as if your life depends on her answer and your stay in Richmond
can be indefinite."

"I don't like the idea," he protested.

"Neither do I like this--" She swept the little attic room with a wave
of her slender hand. "Come, my comrade, you must--"

He hesitated a moment, laughed, and said:

"All right."



CHAPTER XVI

THE FLOWER-DECKED TENT


When Socola rose the following morning he determined to throw every
scruple to the winds and devote himself to Jennie Barton with a zeal and
passion that would leave to his Southern rivals no doubt as to the
secret of his stay.

At the first informal reception at the White House of the Confederacy
Jennie had been pronounced the most fascinating daughter of the new
Republic, as modest and unassuming as she was brilliant and beautiful.

After the manner of Southern beaux he addressed a note to her on a sheet
of exquisitely tinted foreign paper, at the top of which was the richly
embossed coat of arms of the Socola family of North Italy.

He asked of her the pleasure of a horseback ride over the hills of
Virginia. He was a superb horseman, and she rode as if born in the
saddle.

He sealed the note with a piece of tinted wax and stamped it with the
die which reproduced his coat of arms. He smiled with satisfaction as he
addressed the envelope in his smooth and perfectly rounded handwriting.

He read the answer with surprise and disappointment. The Senator had
replied for his daughter. A slight accident to her mother had caused her
to leave on the morning train for the South. She would probably remain
at Fairview for two weeks.

There was no help for it. He must await her return. In the meantime
there was work to do. The army of the South was slowly but surely
shaping itself into a formidable engine of war.

The master mind at the helm of the new Government had laid the
foundations of one of the most efficient forces ever sent into the arena
of battle. It was as yet only a foundation but one which inspired in his
mind not only a profound respect for his judgment, but a feeling of deep
foreboding for the future.

Jefferson Davis had received a training of peculiar fitness for his
task. The first work before the South was the organization, equipment
and handling of its army of defense. The President they had called to
the leadership had spent four years at West Point and seven years in the
army on our frontiers, pushing the boundaries of the Republic into the
West. He had led a regiment of volunteers in the conquest of Mexico, and
in the battle of Buena Vista, not only saved the day in the moment of
supreme crisis, but had given evidence of the highest order of military
genius. On his return from the Mexican War he had been appointed a
Brigadier General by the President of the United States but had declined
the honor.

For four years as Secretary of War in the Cabinet of Franklin Pierce he
had proven himself a master of military administration, had reorganized
and placed on a modern basis of the highest efficiency the army of the
Union and in this work has proven himself a terror to weakness,
tradition and corruption.

He knew personally every officer of the first rank in the United States
Army. His judgment of these men and their ability as commanders was
marvelous in its accuracy. His genius as an army administrator
undoubtedly gave to the South her first advantage in the opening of the
conflict.

From the men who had resigned from the old army to cast their fortunes
with the South his keen eye selected without hesitation the three men
for supreme command whose abilities had no equal in America for the
positions to which they were assigned. And these three men were patriots
of such singleness of purpose, breadth of vision and greatness of soul
that neither of them knew he was being considered for the highest
command until handed his commission.

Samuel Cooper had been Adjutant General of the United States Army since
1852. Davis knew his record of stern discipline and uncompromising
efficiency, and although a man of Northern birth, he appointed him
Adjutant General of the Confederate Army without a moment's hesitation.

Albert Sidney Johnston was his second appointment to the rank of full
General and Robert E. Lee his third--each destined to immortality.

His fourth nomination for the rank of full General he made with
hesitation. Joseph E. Johnston under the terms of the law passed by the
Provisional Congress of the Confederacy was entitled to a position in
the first rank as acting Commissary General of the old army. The keen
intuition of the President had perceived from the first the evidences of
hesitation and of timidity in crisis which was the chief characteristic
of Joseph E. Johnston. His sense of fairness under the terms of the law
required that this man be given his chance. With misgivings but with
high hopes the appointment was made.

Robert E. Lee he made military chieftain of the Government with
headquarters in Richmond.

From four points the Northern forces were threatening the South. From
the West by a flanking movement which might open the Mississippi River;
from the mountains of Western Virginia whose people were in part opposed
to secession; from Washington by a direct movement on Richmond; and
from Fortress Monroe on the Virginia Peninsula.

The first skirmish before Fortress Monroe, led by B. F. Butler, had been
repulsed with such ease no serious danger was felt in that quarter. The
ten thousand men under Holmes and McGruder could hold Butler
indefinitely.

Davis had seen from the first that one of the supreme dangers of the
South lay in the long line of exposed frontier in the West. If a
commander of military genius should succeed in turning his flank here
the heart of the lower South would be pierced.

For this important command he reserved Albert Sidney Johnston.

The Northern army under George B. McClellan and Rosecrans had defeated
the troops in Western Virginia. In a series of small fights they had
lost a thousand men and all their artillery. General Lee was dispatched
from Richmond to repair if possible this disaster.

The first two clashes had been a draw. The South had won first blood on
the Peninsula--the North in Western Virginia. The main army of the South
was now concentrated to oppose the main army of the North from
Washington.

Brigadier General Beauregard, the widely acclaimed hero of Fort Sumter,
was in command of this army near Manassas Station on the road to
Alexandria.

Beauregard's position was in a measure an accident of fortune. The first
shot had been fired by him at Sumter. He was the first paper-made hero
of the war. He had led the first regiment into Virginia to defend her
from invasion.

He was the man of the hour. His training and record, too, gave promise
of high achievements. He had graduated from West Point in 1838, second
in a class of forty-five men. His family was of high French extraction,
having settled in Louisiana in the reign of Louis XV. He had entered the
Mexican War a lieutenant and emerged from the campaign a major. He was
now forty-five years old, in the prime of life. His ability had been
recognized by the National Government in the beginning of the year by
his appointment as Superintendent of the Military Academy at West Point.
His commission had been revoked at the last moment by the vacillating
Buchanan because his brother-in-law, Senator Slidell of Louisiana, had
made a secession speech in Washington.

Jefferson Davis was not enthusiastic in his confidence in the new hero.
He was too much given to outbursts of a public kind to please the
ascetic mind of the Southern leader. He had written some silly letters
to the public deriding the power of the North. No one could know better
than Davis how silly these utterances were. He "hated and despised the
Yankees." Davis feared and recognized their power. Beauregard's
assertion that the South could whip the North even if her only arms were
flintlocks and pitchforks had been often and loudly repeated.

Of the army marshaling in front of him under the command of the
venerable Winfield Scott he wrote with the utmost contempt.

"The enemies of the South," he declared, "are little more than an armed
rabble, gathered together hastily on a false pretense and for an unholy
purpose, with an octogenarian at its head!"

In spite of his small stature, Beauregard was a man of striking personal
appearance--small, dark, thin, hair prematurely gray, his manners
distinguished and severe.

It was natural that, with the fame of his first victory, itself the
provoking cause of the conflict, his distinguished foreign name and
courtly manners, he should have become the toast of the ladies in these
early days of the pomp and glory of war. He was the center of an ever
widening circle of fair admirers who lavished their attentions on him in
letters, in flags, and a thousand gay compliments. His camp table was
filled with exquisite flowers which flanked and sometimes covered his
maps and plans. He used his bouquets for paper weights.

It was not to be wondered at, therefore, that the cold intellectual
standard by which Davis weighed men should have found Beauregard wanting
in the qualifications of supreme command.

The President turned his eye to the flower-decked tent of his general
with grave misgivings. Yet he was the man of the hour. It was fair that
he should have his chance.



CHAPTER XVII

THE FATAL VICTORY


On the banks of the Potomac General Scott had massed against Beauregard
the most formidable army which had ever marched under the flag of the
Union. Its preparation was considered thorough, its numbers all that
could he handled, and its artillery was the best in the world. All the
regular army east of the Rockies, seasoned veterans of Indian campaigns,
were joined with the immense force of volunteers from the Northern
States--fifty full regiments of volunteers, eight companies of regular
infantry, four companies of marines, nine companies of regular cavalry
and twelve batteries of artillery with forty-nine big guns.

In command of this army of invasion was General McDowell, held to be the
most scientific general in the North.

To supplement Beauregard's weakness as a commanding General in case of
emergency, Joseph E. Johnston was placed at Harper's Ferry to guard the
entrance of the Shenandoah Valley, secure the removal of the invaluable
machinery saved from the Arsenal, and form a junction with Beauregard
the moment he should be threatened.

The movement of General Patterson's army against Harper's Ferry had been
too obviously a feint to deceive either Davis or Lee, his chief military
adviser. Johnston was given ten thousand men and able assistants
including General Jackson.

On the tenth of July Beauregard, anxiously awaiting information of the
Federal advance, received an important message from an accomplished
Southern woman, Mrs. Rose O'Neal Greenhow. She had remained in
Washington as Miss Van Lew had in Richmond, to lay her life on the altar
of her country. During the administration of Buchanan she had been a
leader of Washington society. She was now a widow, noted for her wealth,
beauty, wit and forceful personality. Her home was the meeting place of
the most brilliant men and women of the old régime. Buchanan was her
personal friend, as was William H. Seward. Her niece, a granddaughter of
Dolly Madison, was the wife of the Little Giant of the West, Stephen A.
Douglas.

Before leaving Washington to become the Adjutant General of Beauregard's
army Colonel Thomas Jordan had given her the cipher code of the South
and arranged to make her house the Northern headquarters of the Southern
secret service.

Her first messenger was a girl carefully disguised as a farmer's
daughter returning from the sale of her vegetables in the Washington
market. She passed the lines without challenge and delivered her message
into Beauregard's hands.

With quick decision Beauregard called his aide and dispatched the news
to the President at Richmond:


    "I have positive information direct from Washington that the enemy
    will move in force across the Potomac on Manassas via Fairfax Court
    House and Centreville. I urge the immediate concentration of all
    available forces on my lines."


The Southern commander began his preparations to receive the attack.

The house on Church Hill had not been idle. Richmond swarmed with
Federal spies under the skillful guidance of Socola.

General Scott knew in Washington within twenty-four hours that
Beauregard was planting his men behind the Bull Run River in a position
of great strength and that the formation of the ground was such with
Bull Run on his front that his dislodgment would be a tremendous task.

The advance of the Federal army was delayed--delayed until the last gun
and scrap of machinery from Harper's Ferry had been safely housed in
Richmond and Fayetteville and Johnston had withdrawn his army to
Winchester in closer touch with Beauregard.

And still the Union army did not move. Beauregard sent a trusted scout
into Washington to Mrs. Greenhow with a scrap of paper on which was
written in cipher the two words:

"Trust Bearer--"

He arrived at the moment she had received the long sought information of
the date of the army's march. She glanced at the stolid masked face of
the messenger and hesitated a moment.

"You are a Southerner?"

Donellan smiled.

"I've spent most of my life in Washington, Madam," he said frankly. "I
was a clerk in the Department of the Interior. I cast my fortunes with
the South."

It was enough. Her keen intuitions had scented danger in the man's
manner, his walk and personality. He was not a typical Southerner. The
officials of the Secret Service Bureau had already given her evidence of
their suspicions. She could not be too careful.

She seized her pen and hastily wrote in cipher:

"Order issued for McDowell to move on Manassas to-night."

She handed the tiny scrap of paper to Donellan.

"My agents will take you in a buggy with relays of horses down the
Potomac to a ferry near Dumfries. You will be ferried across."

The man touched his hat.

"I'll know the way from there, Madam."

The scout delivered his message into Beauregard's hands that night
before eight o'clock.

At noon the next day Colonel Jordan had placed in her hands his answer:

"Yours received at eight o'clock. Let them come. We are ready. We rely
upon you for precise information. Be particular as to description and
destination of forces and quantity of artillery."

She had not been idle. She was able to write a message of almost equal
importance to the one she had dispatched the day before. With quick
nervous hand she wrote on another tiny scrap of paper:

"The Federal commander has ordered the Manassas railroad to be cut to
prevent the junction of Johnston with Beauregard."

The moment the first authentic information reached President Davis of
the purpose to attack Beauregard he immediately urged General Johnston
to make his preparations for the juncture of their forces.

And at once the President received confirmation of his fears of his
General-in-Chief. Johnston delayed and began a correspondence of
voluminous objections.

July 17, on receipt of the dispatch to Beauregard announcing the plan to
cut the railroad, the President was forced to send Johnston a positive
order to move his army to Manassas. The order was obeyed with a
hesitation which imperiled the issue of battle. And while on the march,
Beauregard's pickets exchanging shots with McDowell's skirmish line,
Johnston began the first of his messages of complaint and haggling to
his Chief at Richmond. Jealous of Beauregard's popularity and fearful
of his possible insubordination, Johnston telegraphed Davis demanding
that his relative rank to Beauregard should be clearly defined before
the juncture of their armies.

The question was utterly unnecessary. The promotion of Johnston to the
full grade of general could leave no conceivable doubt on such a point.
The President realized with a sickening certainty the beginning of a
quarrel between the two men, dangerous to the cause of the South. Their
failure to act in harmony would make certain the defeat of the raw
recruits on their first field of battle.

He decided at the earliest possible moment to go in person and prevent
this threatened quarrel. Already blood had flowed. With a strong column
of infantry, artillery and cavalry McDowell had attempted to force the
approaches to one of the fords of Bull Run. They were twice driven back
and withdrew from the field. Longstreet's brigade had lost fifteen
killed and fifty-three wounded in holding his position.

The President hastened to telegraph his sulking general the explicit
definition of rank he had demanded:


    Richmond, July 20, 1861.

    "General J. E. Johnston,

    "Manassas Junction, Virginia.

    "You are a General of the Confederate Army possessed of the power
    attached to that rank. You will know how to make the exact knowledge
    of Brigadier General Beauregard, as well of the ground as of the
    troops and preparation avail for the success of the object for which
    you coöperate. The zeal of both assures me of harmonious action.

    "Jefferson Davis."


As a matter of fact the President was consumed with painful anxiety lest
there should not be harmonious action if Johnston should reach the
field in time for the fight. His own presence was required by law at
Richmond on July 20, for the delivery of his message to the assembled
Congress. It was impossible for him to leave for the front before Sunday
morning the 21st.

The battle began at eight o'clock.

General McDowell's army had moved to this attack hounded by the clamor
of demagogues for the immediate capture of Richmond by his "Grand Army."

Every Northern newspaper had dinned into his ears and the ears of an
impatient public but one cry for months:

"On to Richmond!"

At last the news was spread in Washington that the army would move and
bivouac in Richmond's public square within ten days. The march was to be
a triumphal procession. The Washington politicians filled wagons and
carriages with champagne to celebrate the victory. Tickets were actually
printed and distributed for a ball in Richmond. The army was accompanied
by long lines of excited spectators to witness the one grand struggle of
the war--Congressmen, toughs from the saloons, gaudy ladies from
questionable resorts, a clamoring, perspiring rabble bent on witnessing
scenes of blood.

The Union General's information as to Beauregard's position and army was
accurate and full. He knew that Johnston's command of ten thousand men
had begun to arrive the day before. He did not know that half of them
were still tangled up somewhere on the railroad waiting for
transportation. Even with Johnston's entire command on the ground his
army outnumbered the Southerners and his divisions of seasoned veterans
from the old army and his matchless artillery gave him an enormous
advantage.

With consummate skill he planned the battle and began its successful
execution.

His scouts had informed him that the Southern line was weak on its left
wing resting on the Stone Bridge across the river. Here the long drawn
line of Beauregard's army thinned to a single regiment supported at some
distance by a battalion. Here the skillful Union General determined to
strike.

At two-thirty before daylight his dense lines of enthusiastic men swung
into the dusty moonlit road for their movement to flank the Confederate
left.

Swiftly and silently the flower of McDowell's army, eighteen thousand
picked men, moved under the cover of the night to their chosen crossing
at Sudley's Ford, two miles beyond the farthest gray picket of
Beauregard's left.

Tyler's division was halted at the Stone Bridge on which the lone
regiment of Col. Evans lay beyond the stream. He was ordered to feign an
attack on that point while the second and third divisions should creep
cautiously along a circuitous road two miles above, cross unopposed and
slip into the rear of Beauregard's long-drawn left wing, roll it up in a
mighty scroll of flame, join Tyler's division as it should sweep across
the Stone Bridge and together the three divisions in one solid mass
could crush the ten-mile battle line into hopeless confusion.

The plan was skillfully and daringly conceived.

Tyler's division halted at the Stone Bridge and silently formed as the
first glow of dawn tinged the eastern hills.

The dull red of the July sun was just coloring the sky with its flame
when the second and third divisions crossed Bull Run at Sudley's Ford
and began their swift descent upon the rear of the unsuspecting Southern
army.

As the sun burst above the hills, a circle of white smoke suddenly
curled away from a cannon's mouth above the Stone Bridge and slowly rose
in the still, clear morning air. Its sullen roar echoed over the valley.
The gray figures on the hill beyond leaped to their feet and looked.
Only the artillery was engaged and their shots were falling short.

The Confederates appeared indifferent. The action was too obviously a
feint. Colonel Evans was holding his regiment for a clearer plan of
battle to develop. From the hilltop on which his men lay he scanned with
increasing uneasiness the horizon toward the west. In the far distance
against the bright Southern sky loomed the dark outline of the Blue
Ridge. The heavy background brought out in vivid contrast the woods and
fields, hollows and hills of the great Manassas plain in the foreground.

Suddenly he saw it--a thin cloud of dust rising in the distance. As the
rushing wall of sixteen thousand men emerged from the "Big Forest,"
through which they had worked their way along the crooked track of a
rarely used road, the dust cloud flared in the sky with ominous menace.

Colonel Evans knew its meaning. Beauregard's army had been flanked and
the long thin lines of his left wing were caught in a trap. When the
first rush of the circling host had swept his little band back from the
Stone Bridge Tyler's army would then cross and the three divisions swoop
down on the doomed men.

Evans suddenly swung his regiment and two field pieces into a new line
of battle facing the onrushing host and sent his courier flying to
General Bee to ask that his brigade be moved instantly to his support.

When the shock came there were five regiments and six little field
pieces in the Southern ranks to meet McDowell's sixteen thousand
troops.

With deafening roar their artillery opened. The long dense lines of
closely packed infantry began their steady firing in volleys. It sounded
as if some giant hand had grasped the hot Southern skies and was tearing
their blue canvas into strips and shreds.

For an hour Bee's brigade withstood the onslaught of the two Federal
divisions--and then began to slowly fall back before the resistless wall
of fire. The Union army charged and drove the broken lines a half mile
before they rallied.

Tyler's division now swept across the Stone Bridge and the shattered
Confederate left wing was practically surrounded by overwhelming odds.
Again the storm burst on the unsupported lines of Bee and drove them
three quarters of a mile before they paused.

The charging Federal army had struck something they were destined to
feel again on many a field of blood.

General T. J. Jackson had suddenly swung his brigade of five regiments
into the breach and stopped the wave of fire.

Bee rushed to Jackson's side.

"General," he cried pathetically, "they are beating us back!"

The somber blue eyes of the Virginian gleamed beneath the heavy lashes:

"Then sir, we will give them the bayonet!"

Bee turned to his hard-pressed men and shouted:

"See Jackson and his Virginians standing like a stone wall! Let us
conquer or die!"

The words had scarcely passed his lips when Bee fell, mortally wounded.

Four miles away on the top of a lonely hill sat Beauregard and Johnston
befogged in a series of pitiable blunders.

The flanking of the Southern army was a complete and overwhelming
surprise. Johnston, unacquainted with the ground, had yielded the
execution of the battle to his subordinate.

While the two puzzled generals were waiting on their hill top for their
orders of battle to be developed on the right they looked to the left
and the whole valley was a boiling hell of smoke and dust and flame.
Their left flank had been turned and the triumphant enemy was rolling
their long line up in a shroud of flame and death.

The two Generals put spurs to their horses and dashed to the scene of
action, sending their couriers flying to countermand their first orders.
They reached the scene at the moment Bee's and Evans' shattered lines
were taking refuge in a wooded ravine and Jackson had moved his men into
a position to breast the shock of the enemy's avalanche.

In his excitement Johnston seized the colors of the fourth Alabama
regiment and offered to lead them in a charge.

Beauregard leaped from his horse, faced the troops and shouted:

"I have come to die with you!"

The first of the reserves were rushing to the front in a desperate
effort to save the day. But in spite of the presence of the two
Commanding Generals, in spite of the living stone wall Jackson had
thrown in the path of the Union hosts, a large part of the crushed left
wing could not be stopped and in mad panic broke for the rear toward
Manassas Junction.

The fate of the Southern army hung on the problem of holding the hill
behind Jackson's brigade. On its bloody slopes his men crouched with
rifles leveled and from them poured a steady flame into the ranks of the
charging Union columns.

Beauregard led the right wing of his newly formed battle line and
Jackson the center in a desperate charge. The Union ranks were pierced
and driven, only to re-form instantly and hurl their assailants back to
their former position. Charge and counter-charge followed in rapid and
terrible succession.

The Confederates were being slowly overwhelmed. The combined Union
divisions now consisted of an enveloping battle line of twenty thousand
infantry, seven companies of cavalry and twenty-four pieces of
artillery, while behind them yet hung ten thousand reserves eager to
rush into action.

Beauregard's combined forces defending the hill were scarcely seven
thousand men. At two o'clock the desperate Southern commander succeeded
in bringing up additional regiments from his right wing. Two brigades at
last were thrown into the storm center and a shout rose from the
hard-pressed Confederates. Again they charged, drove the Union hosts
back and captured a battery of artillery.

The hill was saved and the enemy driven across the turnpike into the
woods.

McDowell now hurried in a division of his reserves and re-formed his
battle line for the final grand assault. Once more he demonstrated his
skill by throwing his right wing into a wide circling movement to
envelop the Confederate position on its left flank.

The scene was magnificent. As far as the eye could reach the glittering
bayonets of the Union infantry could be seen sweeping steadily through
field and wood flanked by its cavalry. Beauregard watched the cordon of
steel draw around his hard-pressed men and planted his regiments with
desperate determination to hurl them back.

Far off in the distance rose a new cloud of dust in the direction of the
Manassas railroad. At their head was lifted a flag whose folds drooped
in the hot, blistering July air. They were moving directly on the rear
of McDowell's circling right wing.

If they were Union reserves the day was lost.

The Southerner lifted his field glasses and watched the drooping flag
now shrouded in dust--now emerging in the blazing sun. His glasses were
not strong enough. He could not make out its colors.

Beauregard turned to Colonel Evans, whose little regiment had fought
with sullen desperation since sunrise.

"I can't make out that flag. If it's Patterson's army from the
valley--God help us--"

"It may be Elzey and Kirby Smith's regiments," Evans replied. "They're
lost somewhere along the road from Winchester."

Again Beauregard strained his eyes on the steadily advancing flag. It
was a moment of crushing agony.

"I'm afraid it's Patterson's men. We must fall back on our last
reserve--"

He quickly lowered his glasses.

"I haven't a courier left, Colonel. You must help me--"

"Certainly, General."

"Find Johnston, and ask him to at once mass the reserves to support and
protect our retreat--"

Evans started immediately to execute the order.

"Wait!" Beauregard shouted.

His glasses were again fixed on the advancing flag. A gust of wind
suddenly flung its folds into the bright Southern sky line--the Stars
and Bars of the Confederacy!

"Glory to God!" the commander exclaimed. "They're our men!"

The dark face of the little General flashed with excitement as he turned
to Evans:

"Ride, Colonel--ride with all your might and order General Kirby Smith
to press his command forward at double quick and strike that circling
line in the flank and rear!"

There were but two thousand in the advancing column but the moral effect
of their sudden assault on the rear of the advancing victorious men,
unconscious of their presence, would be tremendous. A charge at the same
moment by his entire army confronting the enemy might snatch victory out
of the jaws of defeat.

Beauregard placed himself at the head of his hard-pressed front, and
waited the thrilling cry of Smith's men. At last it came, the
heaven-piercing, hell-quivering, Rebel yell--the triumphant cry of the
Southern hunter in sight of his game!

Jackson, Longstreet and Early with sudden rush of tigers sprang at the
throats of the Union lines in front.

The men had scarcely gripped their guns to receive the assault when from
the rear rose the unearthly yell of the new army swooping down on their
unprotected flank.

It was too much for the raw recruits of the North. They had marched and
fought with dogged courage since two o'clock before day--without pause
for food or drink. It was now four in the afternoon and the blazing sun
of July was pouring its merciless rays down on their dust-covered and
smoke-grimed faces without mercy.

McDowell's right wing was crumpled like an eggshell between the combined
charges front and rear. It broke and rushed back in confusion on his
center. The whole army floundered a moment in tangled mass. In vain
their officers shouted themselves hoarse proclaiming their victory and
ordering them to rally.

Wild, hopeless, senseless, unreasoning panic had seized the Union army.
They threw down their guns in thousands and started at breakneck speed
for Washington. With every jump they cursed their idiotic commanders
for leading them blindfolded into the jaws of hell. At least they had
common sense enough left to save what was left.

The fields were covered with black swarms of flying soldiers. They cut
the horses from the gun carriages, mounted them and dashed forward
trampling down the crazed mobs on foot.

As the shouting, screaming throng rushed at the Cub Run bridge, a well
directed shot from Kemper's battery smashed a team of horses that were
crossing. The wagon was upset and the bridge choked.

In mad efforts to force a passage mob piled on mob until the panic
enveloped every division of the army that thirty minutes before was
sweeping with swift, sure tread to its final victorious charge.

Across every bridge and ford of Bull Run the panic-stricken thousands
rushed pellmell, horse, foot, artillery, wagons, ambulances, excursion
carriages, red-jowled politicians mingling with screaming women whose
faces showed death white through the rouge on their lips and cheeks.

For three miles rolled the dark tide of ruin and confusion--with not one
Confederate soldier in sight.

It was three o'clock before the train bearing the anxious Confederate
President and his staff drew into Manassas Junction. He had heard no
news from the front and feared the worst. The long deep boom of the
great guns told him that the battle was raging.

From the car window he saw rising an ominous cloud of dust rapidly
approaching the Junction. To his trained eye it could mean but one
thing--retreat.

He sprang from the car and asked its meaning of a pale trembling youth
in disheveled, torn gray uniform.

Billy Barton turned his bloodshot eyes on the President. His teeth were
chattering.

"M-m-eaning of w-what?" he stammered.

"That cloud of dust coming toward the station?"

Billy stared in the direction the President pointed.

"Why, that's the--the--w-w-wagoners--they're trying to save the pieces I
reckon--"

"The army has been pushed back?" the President asked.

"No, sir--they--they never p-p-ushed 'em back! They--they just jumped
right on top of 'em and made hash out of 'em where they stood! Thank God
a few of us got away."

The President turned with a gesture of impatience to an older man,
dust-covered and smoke-smeared.

"Can you direct me to General Beauregard's headquarters?"

"Beauregard's dead!" he shouted, rushing toward the train to board it
for home. "Johnston's dead. Bee's dead. Bartow's dead. They're all
dead--piled in heaps--fur ez ye eye kin see. Take my advice and get out
of here quick."

Without waiting for an answer he scrambled into the coach from which the
President had alighted.

The station swarmed now with shouting, gesticulating, panic-stricken men
from the front. They crowded around the conductor.

"Pull out of this!"

"Crowd on steam!"

"Save your engine and your train, man!"

"And take us with you for God's sake!"

The President pushed his way through the crowd.

"I must go on, Conductor--the train is the only way to reach the
field--"

"I'm sorry, sir," the conductor demurred. "I'm responsible for the
property of the railroad--"

The panic-stricken men backed him up.

"What's the use?"

"The battle's lost!"

"The whole army's wiped off the earth."

"There's not a grease spot left!"

The President confronted the trembling conductor:

"Will you move your train?"

"I can't do it, sir--"

"Will you lend me your engine?"

The conductor's face brightened.

"I might do that."

The engine was detached to the disgust of the panic-stricken men and the
cool-headed engineer nodded to the President, pulled his lever and the
locomotive shot out of the station and in five minutes Davis alighted
with his staff near the battle field. By the guidance of stragglers they
found headquarters.

Adjutant General Jordan sent for horses and volunteered to conduct the
President to the front.

While they were waiting he turned to Mr. Davis anxiously:

"I think it extremely unwise, sir, for you to take this risk."

The thin lips smiled:

"I'll take the responsibility, General."

The President and his staff mounted and galloped toward the front.

The stragglers came now in droves. They were generous in their warnings.

"Say, men, do ye want to die?"

"You're ridin' straight inter the jaws er death."

"Don't do it, I tell ye!"

The President began to rally the men. As they neared the front he was
recognized and the wounded began to cheer.

A big strapping soldier was carrying a slender wounded boy to the rear.

The boy put his trembling hand on the man's shoulder, snatched off his
cap and shouted: "Three cheers for the President! Look, boys, he's
here--we'll lick 'em yet!"

The President lifted his hat to the stripling, crying:

"To a hero of the South!"

The storm of battle was now rolling swiftly to the west--its roar
growing fainter with each cannon's throb.

The President, sitting his horse with erect tense figure, dashed up the
hill to General Johnston:

"How goes the battle, General?"

"We have won, sir," was the sharp curt answer.

[Illustration: "'We have won, sir!' was the short, curt answer."]

The President wheeled his horse and rode rapidly into the front lines
until stopped by the captain of a command of cavalry.

"You are too near the front, sir, without an escort--"

The President rode beside the captain and watched him form his men for
their last charge on the enemy. He inspected the field with growing
amazement. For miles the earth was strewn with the wreck of the Northern
army--guns, knapsacks, blankets, canteens--and Brooklyn-made handcuffs!

Their defeat had been so sudden, so complete, so overwhelming, it was
impossible at first to grasp its meaning.

He passed the rugged figure of Jackson who had won his immortal title of
"Stonewall." An aide was binding a cloth about his wounded arm.

The grim General pushed aside his surgeon, raised his battered cap and
shouted:

"Hurrah for the President! Ten thousand fresh men and I will be in
Washington to-night!"

The President lifted his hat and congratulated him.

The victory of the South was complete and overwhelming. Jefferson Davis
breathed a sigh of relief for deliverance. Within two hours he knew that
this victory had not been won by superior generalship of his commanding
officers. They had been outwitted at every turn and overwhelmed by the
plan of battle their wily foe had forced upon them. It had not been won
by the superior courage of his men in the battle which raged from
sunrise until four o'clock. The broken and disorganized lines of the
South and the panic-stricken mob he had met on the way were eloquent
witnesses of Northern valor.

His army had been saved from annihilation by the quick wit and daring
courage of a single Brigadier General who had moved his five regiments
on his own initiative in the nick of time and saved the Confederates
from utter rout.

Victory had been snatched at last from the jaws of defeat by an
accident. The misfortune of a delayed regiment of Johnston's army was
suddenly turned into an astounding piece of luck. The sudden charge of
those two thousand men on the flank of the victorious army had produced
a panic among tired raw recruits. McDowell was at this moment master of
the field. In a moment of insane madness his unseasoned men had thrown
down their guns and fled.

The little dark General in his flower-decked tent had made good his
boasts. And worse--the Northern army had proven his wildest assertions
true. They were a rabble. The star of Beauregard rose in the Southern
sky, and with its rise Disaster stalked grim and silent toward the
hilarious Confederacy.

The South had won a victory destined to prove itself the most fatal
calamity that ever befell a nation.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE AFTERMATH


Socola dismissed his hope of a speedy end of the war and devoted himself
with new enthusiasm to his work. His eyes were sleepless--his ear to the
ground. The information on conditions and public sentiment in Richmond
and the South which he had dispatched to Washington were of incalculable
service to his government. One of the immediate effects of the battle
was the return of Jennie Barton to the Capital. Her mother was improving
and Jimmie had been wounded. Her coming was most fortunate. It was of
the utmost importance that he secure a position in the Civil Service of
the Confederacy. It could be done through her father's influence.

Socola watched the first division of Northern prisoners march through
the streets amid the shouts and laughter of a crowd of urchins black and
white. A feeling of blind rage surged within him. That the tables would
be shortly turned, he was sure. He would play his part now without a
scruple. He would use pretty Jennie Barton as any other pawn on the
chessboard of Life and Death over which he bent.

Jefferson Davis watched the effects of the battle on the North with
breathless interest and increasing dismay.

His worst fears were confirmed.

He had hoped that a decisive victory would place his Government in a
position to make overtures for a peaceful adjustment of the conflict.

The victory had been too decisive. The disgraceful rout of the Northern
army had stung twenty-three million people to the quick. Defeat so
overwhelming and surprising had roused the last drop of fighting blood
in their veins.

Boasting and loud talk suddenly ceased. There was no lying about the
results. In all their bald hideous reality the Northern mind faced them
and began with steady purpose their vast preparations to wipe that
disgrace out in blood.

Abraham Lincoln suddenly found himself relieved of all embarrassment in
the conduct of the war. His critics had threatened to wreck his
administration unless he forced their "Grand Army" to march on Richmond
and take it without a day's delay.

In obedience to this idiotic clamor he was forced to order the army to
march. They came home by a shorter route than they marched and they came
quicker.

They returned without baggage.

Incompetent men and hungry demagogues had clamored for high positions in
the army. Their influence had been so great he had been forced to find
berths for many incompetent officers.

He had suddenly become the actual Commander-in-Chief of the Army and
Navy and his word was law. Fools and incompetents were relegated to the
rear. Men who knew how to fight and how to organize armies marched to
the front.

His administration had been embarrassed for funds. It was found next to
impossible to float a loan of a paltry seven million dollars for war
purposes. He borrowed one hundred and fifty million dollars next day at
a fraction above the legal rate of interest in New York. He asked
Congress for 400,000 more men and $400,000,000 to support them. Congress
voted a half million men and five hundred millions of dollars--a
hundred million more than he had asked.

While Washington's streets were thronged with the mud-smeared,
panic-stricken rabble that was once an army, the Federal Congress
eagerly began the task of repairing the disaster. When they had done all
and much more than their President had asked, they calmly and
unanimously passed this resolution:


    "_Resolved_, That the maintenance of the Constitution, the
    preservation of the Union, and the enforcement of the laws, are
    sacred trusts which must be executed; that no disaster shall
    discourage us from the most ample performance of this high duty;
    and that we pledge to the Country and the world the employment
    of every resource, national and individual, for the suppression,
    overthrow and punishment of rebels in arms."


To the dismay of the far-seeing Southern leader in Richmond the press
and people of the South received this resolution with shouts of
derision. In vain did he warn his own Congress that the North was
multiplying its armies, and building two navies with furious energy.

The people of the South went mad over their amazing victory. Davis saw
their deliverance suddenly develop into the most appalling disaster.

The decisive battle of the war was fought and won. The European powers
must immediately recognize the new Nation. In this hope their President
could reasonably share. Their other delusions he knew to be madness.

The Southern press without a dissenting voice proclaimed that the
question of manhood between the North and South was settled and settled
forever. From the hustings the demagogue shouted:

"One Southerner is the equal anywhere of five Yankees."

Manassas, with its insignificant record of killed and wounded, was
compared with the decisive battles of the world. The war was over. There
might still be fought a few insignificant skirmishes before peace was
proclaimed but that auspicious event could not be long delayed.

The fatal victory was followed by a period of fancied security and
deadly inactivity. Exertions ceased. Volunteers were few. The volatile,
sanguine people laughed at the fears of their croaking President.

So firmly had they established the new Nation that politicians began to
plot and scheme for control of the Confederate Government on the
expiration of the Davis term of office.

R. M. T. Hunter, the foremost statesman of Virginia, resigned his
position in the Cabinet to be unembarrassed in his fight for the
presidency.

Beauregard had been promoted to the full rank of general and his tent
was now a bower of roses. Around the figure of the little fiery,
impulsive, boastful South Carolinian gathered a group of ambitious
schemers who determined to make him President. They filled the
newspapers with such fulsome praise that the popular nominee for an
honor six years in the distance, and shrouded in the smoke of battle,
sought to add fuel to the flame by waving the Crown aside! In a weak
bombastic letter which deceived no one, dated,

"Within Hearing of the Enemies' Guns," he emphatically declared:

"I am not a candidate, nor do I desire to be a candidate, for any civil
office in the gift of the people or Executive!"

Controversies began between different Southern States, as to the
location of the permanent Capital of the Confederacy. The contest
developed so rapidly and went so far, that the Municipal Council of the
City of Nashville, Tennessee, voted an appropriation of $750,000 for a
residence for the President as an inducement to remove the Capital.

A furious controversy broke out in the yellow journals of the South as
to why the Southern army had not pursued the panic-stricken mob into the
City of Washington, captured Lincoln and his Congress and ended the war
next day in a blaze of glory.

It was inconceivable that it was the fault of the two heroes of the
battle, Joseph E. Johnston and Peter G. T. Beauregard. The President had
rushed to the battlefield for some purpose. The champions of the heroes
insinuated that his purpose was not to prevent their quarreling, but to
take command of the field and rob them of their glory.

They made haste to find a scapegoat on whose shoulders to lay the
failure to pursue. They seized on Jefferson Davis as the man. They
declared in the most positive terms that Johnston and Beauregard,
flushed with victory, were marshaling their hosts to sweep into
Washington when they were stopped by the Confederate Chief and had no
choice but to bivouac for the night.

Three men alone knew the truth: Davis, Beauregard and Johnston. The two
victorious generals remained silent while their friends made this
remarkable accusation against the President.

The President remained silent to save his generals from the wrath of a
fickle public which might end their usefulness to the country.

As a matter of fact, Davis' trained eye had seen the enormous advantage
of quick merciless pursuit the moment he was convinced that McDowell's
army had fled in panic.

He had finally written a positive order commanding pursuit but was
persuaded by the continued pleas of both commanders not to press it.

The reptile press of the South began on the President a bitter,
malignant and unceasing vilification for this, his first fatal and
inexcusable blunder!

Defeat had freed Abraham Lincoln of fools and incompetents and armed him
with dictatorial powers. Victory had saddled on the Confederacy two
heroes destined to cripple its efficiency with interminable controversy,
sulking bitterness and personal ambitions. The halo of supreme military
genius which encircled the brows of Johnston and Beauregard with the
lifting of the smoke from the field of Bull Run grew quickly into two
storm clouds which threatened the life of the new Republic.

Johnston's contempt for Beauregard had from the beginning been outspoken
to his intimate friends. The battle had raised this little upstart to
his equal in rank! He claimed that the President had robbed him of his
true position in the Southern army through favoritism in the appointment
of Albert Sidney Johnston and Robert E. Lee to positions of seniority to
which they were not entitled.

Johnston began a series of bitter insulting letters to the Confederate
President, complaining of his injustice and demanding his rights. Not
content with his letters to the Executive, Johnston poured his
complaints into the ears of his friends and admirers in the Confederate
Congress and began a systematic and determined personal campaign to
discredit and ruin the administration.

Among his first recruits in his campaign against Jefferson Davis was the
fiery, original Secessionist, Roger Barton. Barton had never liked
Davis. Their temperaments were incompatible. He resigned his position on
the staff of the President, allied himself openly with Johnston and
became one of the bitterest and most uncompromising enemies of the
government. His position in the Confederate Senate would be a powerful
weapon with which to strike.

The substance of Johnston's claim on which was founded this malignant
clique in Richmond was the merest quibble about the date of his
commission to the rank of full general. Because its date was later than
that of Robert E. Lee he felt himself insulted and degraded.

When the President mildly and good naturedly informed him that his
position of Quartermaster General in the old army did not entitle him to
a field command and that Lee's rank as field commander was higher, he
replied in a letter which became the text of his champions. Its
high-flown language and bombastic claims showed only too plainly that a
consuming ambition had destroyed all sense of proportion in his mind.

With uncontrolled passion he wrote to the President:


    "Human power cannot efface the past. Congress may vacate my
    commission and reduce me to the ranks. It cannot make it true
    that I was not a general before July 4, 1861.

    "The effect of the course pursued is this:

    "It transforms me from the position first in rank to that of fourth.
    The relative rank of the others among themselves (Cooper, Albert
    Sidney Johnston and Robert E. Lee) is unaltered. It is plain that
    this is a blow aimed at me only. It reduces my rank in the grade
    I hold. This has never been done heretofore in the regular service
    in America but by the sentence of a court-martial as a punishment
    and as a disgrace for some military offense.

    "It seeks to tarnish my fair name as a soldier and as a man, earned
    by more than thirty years of laborious and perilous service. I have
    but this--the scars of many wounds all honestly taken in my front
    and in the front of battle, and my father's revolutionary sword.
    It was delivered to me from his venerable hand without stain of
    dishonor. Its blade is still unblemished as when it passed from his
    hand to mine. I drew it in the war not for rank or fame (sic!), but
    to defend the sacred soil, the homes and hearths, the women and
    children, aye, and the men of my mother, Virginia--my native South.
    It may hereafter be the sword of a general leading armies, or of a
    private volunteer. But while I live and have an arm to wield it, it
    shall never be sheathed until the freedom, independence, and full
    rights of the South are achieved. When that is done, it then will
    be a matter of small concern to the Government, to Congress, or to
    the Country, what my rank or lot may be.

    "What has the aspect of a studied indignity is offered me. My noble
    associate with me in the battle has his preferment connected with the
    victory won by our common trials and dangers. His commission bears
    the date of July 21, 1861, but care seems to be taken to exclude the
    idea that I had any part in winning that triumph.

    "My commission is made to bear such a date that my once inferiors
    in the service of the United States and of the Confederate States
    (Cooper, Albert Sidney Johnston and Robert E. Lee) shall be above me.
    But it must not be dated as of July 21, nor be suggestive of the
    victory of Manassas!

    "If the action against which I have protested is legal, it is not
    for me to question the expediency of degrading one who has served
    laboriously from the commencement of the war on this frontier, and
    borne a prominent part in the only great event of that war, for the
    benefit of persons, neither of whom has yet struck a blow for this
    Confederacy.

    "These views and the freedom with which they are presented may be
    unusual, so likewise is the occasion which calls them forth.

    "I have the honor to be, most respectfully,
     Your obedient servant,
     J. E. Johnston, _General_."


With a curve of his thin lips and a look of mortal weariness on his
haggard face, the man on whose shoulders rested the burden of the lives
of millions of his people seized his pen and wrote this brief note:


    "Richmond, Va., September 14, 1861.

    "General J. E. Johnston:

    "Sir:

    "I have just received and read your letter of the 12 instant. Its
    language is, as you say, unusual; its arguments and statements utterly
    one-sided, and its insinuations as unfounded as they are unbecoming.

    "I am, etc.,
     Jefferson Davis."


While the Commander of the victorious Confederacy was sulking in his
tent on the field of Manassas, playing this pitiful farce about the date
of a commission, and allowing his army to go to pieces, George B.
McClellan with tireless energy and matchless genius as an organizer was
whipping into shape Lincoln's new levy of five hundred thousand
determined Northern men.

To further add to his embarrassment and cripple his work the Vice
President of the Confederacy, Alexander H. Stephens, developed early
into a chronic opponent of the administration. Much of this opposition
was due to dyspepsia but it was none the less effective in undermining
the influence of the Executive. Mr. Stephens' theories were the
outgrowth of the most radical application of the dogma of States'
Rights.

Before secession he had bitterly opposed the withdrawal of Georgia from
the Union. His extreme advocacy of the Sovereignty of the States now
threatened the unity and integrity of the Confederacy as a Republic.

He proclaimed the remarkable doctrine that as the war was one in which
the people had led the politicians into a struggle for their rights,
therefore the people could be absolutely relied on by the administrators
of the Government to properly conduct the war. The people could always
be depended on when a battle was to be fought. When no fighting was to
be done they should be at home attending to their families and their
business. The people were intelligent. They were patriotic. And they
were as good judges of the necessity of their presence with the colors
as the commanders of the armies. The generals were professional
soldiers. They fought for rank and pay and most of them had no property
in the South!

In the face of such doctrines proclaimed from so high a source it was
not to be wondered at if thousands of men obtained furloughs on long
leaves of absence. In the judgment of the intelligent and patriotic
people of the South the war was practically over. Why should they swell
the ranks of great armies to augment the power of military lords?

While these comfortable doctrines were being proclaimed in the South,
the North was drilling five hundred thousand soldiers who had enlisted
for three years.

The soreheads, theorists, and chronic kickers now had their supreme
opportunity to harass the President. They rallied behind the sulking
General and his friends and established a vigilant and malignant
opposition to Jefferson Davis in the Confederate Congress.

They centered their criticism naturally on the weakest spot in the new
Government--the weakest spot in all new nations--its financial policy.

They demanded the immediate purchase of all the cotton in the South and
its exportation to England as a basis of credit. They blithely ignored
two facts--that the Government had no money with which to purchase this
enormous quantity of the property of its people and the still more
important fact that the ports of the South had been blockaded, that this
blockade was becoming more and more effective and that blockade-runners
could not be found with sufficient tonnage to move one-tenth of the crop
if they were willing to risk capture and confiscation.

If the President could have met the members of his Congress in daily
social intercourse much of the opposition could have been cleared by his
close reasoning and the magnetism of his powerful personality. But under
the strain of his official life his health forbade the attempt at social
amenities.

He ceased to entertain except at formal receptions, gave himself body
and soul to his duties as President and allowed his critics full swing
with their tongues.

The Richmond _Examiner_ early developed into the leader of the reptile
press of the South which sought by all means fair or foul to break down
and destroy the President. This sheet was made the organ of all the
bickering, backbiting, complaining and sulking in the army and the civil
life of the new Republic.

Because the President could not spare the time for social
entertainments, he was soundly abused for the stinginess of his
administration. Because the young people of Richmond could not be
received at the White House of the Confederacy on every evening in the
week _The Examiner_ sneered at the assumption of "superior dignity by
the satraps."

This scurrilous newspaper at last made the infamous charge that Davis
was getting rich on his savings from a salary of twenty-five thousand
dollars in Confederate money! Every politician who had been overlooked
rushed into these friendly columns and aired his grievances. The old
secession leaders who had been thrust aside for the presidency by the
people who had forced the office on Jefferson Davis now pressed forward
to put their knives into the sensitive soul of the man they envied. Wm.
L. Yancey, Barnwell Rhett and Robert Toombs joined his foes in a chorus
of criticism and abuse. Every man who had been slighted in high
positions bestowed on rivals rushed now to the attack.

Davis was never a man who could hedge and trim and lie and be all
things to all men. He was totally lacking in the patience that can
flatter a fool. He was too sincere, too downright in his honesty for
such demagoguery.

He was abused for a thousand things for which he was in no sense
responsible and made no effort to defend himself. He merely took refuge
in dignified silence. And when his enemies could not provoke him into
angry outbursts they accused him of contempt for public opinion.

In this hour of his sore trial he lacked the sense of broad humor which
saved Abraham Lincoln. His rival in Washington was abused with far more
savage cruelty--but it always reminded him of a funny story. He told the
story, roared with laughter himself, and turned again to his work.

Not so with Jefferson Davis. He was keenly and painfully sensitive to
the approval or condemnation of the people about him. The thoughtless
word of a child could cut him to the quick. To have explained many of
the difficulties on which he was attacked would have been to endanger
the usefulness of one of his generals or expose the army to danger.

He steadfastly remained silent and accepted as inevitable the accusation
that his manner was cold and repellent.

But once did his soul completely break down under the strain.

An officer whom he loved had been censured by one of his commanding
generals who demanded his removal. This censure was conveyed to the
President in a letter marked "Private."

The officer was removed. Hard as the duty was, he felt that as the
servant of his country he had no other choice.

Flushed and indignant, his old friend called.

"You know me, Mr. President," he cried passionately. "How can I ever
hold my head up again under censure from you--one of my oldest and best
friends?"

The muscles of the drawn face twitched with nervous agony. He could not
with his high sense of honor as President tell this man that he loved
him and found no fault with him. To make his acceptance of the situation
easier, his only course was to roust his friend's anger.

He turned and said curtly:

"You have, I believe, received your orders. I can suggest nothing but
obedience."

Too angry to ask an explanation, he strode from the room without a word.

The President closed his desk, climbed the steep hill of the Capitol
Square, walked home in brooding silence, and locked himself in his room
without eating his dinner.

Alarmed at his absence, Mrs. Davis at last gently rapped on his door.
With tender tact she drew from his reluctant lips the story.

Turning his dimmed eyes on hers, he burst out in tones of quivering
anguish:

"Oh, my Winnie dear, how could any man with a soul write a letter like
that, mark it private and force me to plunge a knife into the heart of
my best friend and leave it there without a word--"

"You should have told your friend the whole truth!"

"No--he could have made trouble in the army. His commander knew that I
could bear it best."

"You must try to mingle more with those men, dear," his wife pleaded.
"Use your brains and personality to win them. You can do it."

"At the cost of precious hours I can give to better service for my
country. No. I've given my life to the South. I'll eat my heart out in
silence if I must--"

He paused and looked at her tenderly.

"Only your friendly eyes shall see, my dear. After all, what does it
matter what men think of me now? If we succeed, we shall hear no more of
malcontents. If we do not succeed, I shall be held accountable by both
friend and foe. It's written so in the book of life. I must accept it.
I'll just do my best and God will give me strength to bear what comes."

And so while the South was gayly celebrating the end of the war and
every crow was busy pecking at the sensitive heart of their leader, the
ominous shadow of five hundred thousand Northern soldiers, armed with
the best weapons and drilled by the masters of military science, was
slowly but surely drawing near.



CHAPTER XIX

SOCOLA'S PROBLEM


Socola found his conquest of Jennie beset with unforeseen difficulties.
His vanity received a shock. His success with girls at home had slightly
turned his head.

His mother was largely responsible for his conceit. She honestly
believed that he was the handsomest man in America. For more than six
years--in fact, since his eighteenth birthday--his mother's favorite pet
name was "Handsome." He had heard this repeated so often he had finally
accepted it philosophically as one of the fixed phenomena of nature.

From the moment he made up his mind to win Jennie he considered the work
done--until he had set seriously about it.

The first difficulty he encountered was the discovery that a large
number of Southern boys apparently considered the chief business of life
going to see the girls--this girl in particular.

The first day he called he found five young men who had lingered beyond
their appointed hours and were encroaching on his time without the
slightest desire to apologize. He could see that she was trying to get
rid of them but they hung on with a dogged, quiet persistence that was
annoying beyond measure.

War seemed to have precipitated an epidemic of furious love-making. He
watched Jennie twist these enterprising young Southerners around her
slender fingers with an ease that was alarming. They were fine-looking,
wholesome fellows, too--a little given to boyish boasting of military
prowess, but for all that genuine, serious, big-hearted boys.

The matter-of-fact way in which she ruled them, as if she were a queen
born to the royal purple and they were so many lackeys, was something
new under the sun.

For a moment the thought was cheering. Perhaps it was her way of serving
notice on his rivals that her real interests lay in another direction.
But the disconcerting thing about it was that it seemed to be a habit of
mind.

For the life of him he couldn't make out her real attitude. The one
encouraging feature was that she certainly treated him with more
seriousness than these home boys. It might be, of course, because she
thought him a foreigner. And yet he didn't believe it. She had a way of
looking frankly and inquiringly into his eyes with a deep, serious
expression. Such a look could not mean idle curiosity.

And yet the problem he could not solve was how far he dared as yet to
presume on that interest. A single false step might imperil his
enterprise. His plan was of double importance since the break between
her impulsive father and the President of the Confederacy. Barton was
now the spokesman for the Opposition. His tongue was one that knew no
restraint. An engagement with his daughter might mean the possession of
invaluable secrets of the Richmond Government. Barton's championship of
the quarrelsome commanders, who, in the first flood tide of their
popularity as the heroes of Manassas, gave them the position of military
dictators, would also place in his hands information of the army which
would be priceless. The Confederate Congress sat behind closed doors. On
the right footing in the Barton household he could put himself in
possession of every scheme of the Southern law-makers from the moment of
its conception.

The trait of the girl's character which astounded him was the sudden
merging of every thought in the cause of the South. Even the time she
spent laughing and flirting with those soldier boys was a sort of holy
service she was rendering to her country. The devotion of these Southern
women to the Confederacy was remarkable.

It had already become an obsession.

From the moment blood had begun to flow, the soul and body of every
Southern woman was laid a living offering on the altar of her country.
He watched this development with awe and admiration. It was an ominous
sign. It meant a reserve power in the South on which statesmen had not
counted. It might set at nought the weight of armies.

The moment he began to carefully approach the inner citadel of the
girl's heart he found the figure of a gray soldier clad in steel on
guard. What he said didn't interest her. He was a foreigner. She
listened politely and attentively but her real thoughts were not there.
He had not believed it possible that patriotism could so obsess the soul
of a beautiful girl of nineteen. The devotion of the Southern women,
young and old, to the cause of the South was fast developing into a
mania.

They were displaying a wisdom, too, which Southern men apparently did
not possess. While the hot-headed, fiery masters of men were busy
quarreling with one another, criticising and crippling the
administration of their Government, the women were supporting the
President with a unanimity and enthusiasm that was amazing.

Jennie Barton refused to listen to her father's abuse.

Socola found them in the middle of a family quarrel on the subject so
intense he could not help hearing the conversation from the adjoining
room before Jennie entered.

"The President hates Johnston, I tell you," stormed the Senator. "He
doesn't like Beauregard either. He's jealous of him!"

"Father dear, how can you be so absurd!" the girl protested. "A few
months ago Beauregard was a captain of artillery. The President has made
him a general of equal rank with Lee and Johnston--"

"He's doing all he can now to spite him!"

"So General Beauregard says--the conceit of it! This little general but
yesterday a captain to dare to say that the President who had honored
him with such high command would sacrifice the country and injure
himself just to spite the man he has promoted!"

"That will do, Jennie," the Senator commanded. "Women don't understand
politics!"

"Thank God I don't understand that kind. I just know enough to be loyal
to my Chief, when our life and his may depend on it--"

With a stamp of his heavy foot the Senator ended the discussion by
leaving the room.

Jennie smiled sweetly as she extended her hand to Socola.

"I hope you were not alarmed, Signor. We never fight--"

"The President of the Confederacy is a very fortunate leader, Miss
Jennie--"

"Why?"

"He has invincible champions--"

The girl blushed.

"I'm afraid we don't know much. We just feel things."

"I think sometimes we only _know_ that way--"

He paused and looked at her hat with a gesture of dismay.

"You're not going out?"

"I must," she said apologetically. "I've bought a whole carriage load of
peaches and grapes. I went to the Alabama hospital yesterday with a
little basket full and made some poor fellows glad. They gave out too
quickly. Those who got none looked so wistfully at me as I passed out. I
couldn't sleep last night. For hours and hours their deep-sunken eyes
followed and haunted me with their pleading. And so I've got a whole
load to take to-day. You'll go with me--won't you?"

He had come to declare his love and make this beautiful girl his
conquest. She was ending the day by making him her lackey and errand
boy.

It couldn't be helped. There was no mistaking the tones of her voice.
She would certainly go. The only way to be with her was to dance
attendance on wounded Confederate soldiers.

It was all in the day's work. Many a scout engulfed in the ranks of his
enemy must charge his own men to save his life. He would not only make
the best of it, he would take advantage of it to press his way a step
closer to her heart.

"Are all of the girls of the South like you, Miss Jennie?" he asked with
a quizzical smile.

"You mean insulting to their fathers?" she laughed.

"If you care to put it so--I mean, is their loyalty to the Confederacy a
mania?"

"Is mine a mania?"

"Perhaps I should say a divine passion--are all your Southern women thus
inspired?"

"Yes."

"In the far South and the West?"

"Everywhere!"

"It's wonderful."

"Perhaps because we can't fight we try to make up for it."

He watched her keenly.

"It's something bigger than that. Somehow it's a prophecy to me of a new
future--a new world. Maybe after all political wisdom shall not begin
and end with man."

Jennie blushed again under the admiring gaze with which Socola held her.

The carriage stopped at the door of the Alabama hospital. Socola leaped
to the ground and extended his hand for Jennie's. He allowed himself the
slightest pressure of the slender fingers as he lifted her out. It was
his right in just that moment to press her hand. He put the slightest
bit more than was needed to firmly grasp it, and the blood flamed hotly
in her cheeks.

He hastened to carry her baskets and boxes of peaches and grapes inside.

For an hour he followed her with faithful dog step in her ministry of
love. His orderly Northern mind shuddered at the sight of the confusion
incident to the sudden organization of this hospital work. He had heard
it was equally bad in the North. Two armed mobs had rushed into battle
with scarcely a thought of what might be done with the mangled men who
would be borne from the field.

Jennie bent low over the cot of a dying boy from her home county. He
clung to her hand piteously. The waters were too swift and deep for
speech. Before she could slip her hand from his and pass on the man on
the next cot died in convulsions.

Socola watched his agonized face with a strange sense of exaltation. It
was the law of progress--this way of death and suffering. The voice
within kept repeating the one big faith of his life:

"Not one drop of human blood shed in defense of truth and right is ever
spilled in vain!"

Through all the scenes of death and suffering beautiful Southern women
moved with soft tread and eager hands.

A pretty girl of sixteen, with wistful blue eyes, approached a rough,
wounded soldier. She carried a towel and tin basin of water.

"Can't I do something for you?" she asked the man in gray.

He smiled through his black beard into her sweet young face:

"No'm, I reckon not--"

"Can't I wash your face?" the girl pleaded.

The wounded man softly laughed.

"Waal, hit's been washed fourteen times to-day, but I'll stand it again,
if you say so!"

The girl laughed and blushed and passed quickly on.

When all the grapes and peaches had been distributed save in one basket
Socola looked at these enquiringly.

"And these, Miss Jennie--they're the finest of the lot?"

The girl smiled tenderly.

"They're for revenge--"

"Revenge?"

"Yes. The next ward is full of Yankees. I'm going to heap coals of fire
on their heads--come--"

The last luscious peach and bunch of grapes had been distributed and the
last soldier in blue had murmured:

"God bless you, Miss!"

Jennie paused at the door and waved her hand in friendly adieu to the
hungry, homesick eyes that still followed her.

She brushed a tear from her cheek and whispered:

"That's for my Big Brother. I'll tell him about it some day. He's still
in the Union--but he's mine!"

She drew her lace handkerchief from her belt, dried her tears and looked
up with a laugh.

"I'm not so loyal after all--am I?"

"No. But I've seen something bigger than loyalty," he breathed softly,
"something divine--"

"Come," said the girl lightly. "I wish you to meet the most wonderful
woman in Richmond. She's in charge of this hospital--"

Socola laughed skeptically.

"I've already seen the most wonderful woman in Richmond, Miss Jennie--"

"But she _is_--really--the most wonderful woman in all the South--I
think in the world--Mrs. Arthur Hopkins--"

"Really?"

"She has done what no man ever has anyhow--sold all her property for two
hundred thousand dollars and given it to the Confederacy. And not
satisfied with giving all she had--she gave herself."

Socola followed the girl in silence into the little office of the
hospital and found himself gasping with astonishment at the sight of the
delicate woman who extended her hand in friendly greeting.

She was so perfect an image of his own mother it was uncanny--the same
straight, firm mouth, the strong, intellectual forehead with the heavy,
straight-lined eyebrows, the waving rich brown hair, with a strand of
silver here and there--the somber dress of black, the white lace collar
and the dainty white lace cap on the back of her beautiful hair--it took
his breath.

The more he saw of these Southern people, men and women, the more absurd
became the stuff he had read so often about the Puritan of New England
and the Cavalier of the South. He was more and more overwhelmed with the
conviction that the Americans were _one_ people racially and
temperamentally. The only difference on earth between them was that
some settled in the bleak hills and rock-bound coast of the North and
others in the sunlit fields and along the shining shores of the South.

He returned with Jennie Barton to her home with the deepening conviction
that he was making no progress. He must use this girl's passionate
devotion to her country as the lever by which to break into her heart or
he would fail.

He paused on the doorstep and spoke with quick decision:

"Miss Jennie, your Southern women have fired my imagination. I'm going
to resign my commission with the Sardinian Ministry and enter the
service of the South--"

"You mean it?"

"I was never in more deadly earnest."

He looked straight into her brown eyes until she lowered them.

"I need not tell you that you have been my inspiration. You understand
that without my saying it."

Before Jennie could answer he had turned and gone with quick, firm step.

She watched his slender, graceful figure with a new sense of
exhilaration and tenderness.



CHAPTER XX

THE ANACONDA


While General Joseph E. Johnston was devoting his energies to a campaign
to change the date of his commission and his friends organizing their
opposition to the President at Richmond, Gideon Welles, the quiet,
unassuming Secretary of the Navy at Washington, was slowly but surely
drawing the mighty coil, the United States Navy, about the throat of the
South. He made little noise but the work he did was destined to become
the determining factor of the war.

The first blow was struck at North Carolina.

On August 26, 1861, at one o'clock the fleet quietly put to sea from
Fortress Monroe. On Tuesday they arrived at Hatteras Inlet, opened fire
on the two forts guarding its entrance and on the twenty-ninth a white
flag was raised. Seven hundred and fifteen prisoners were surrendered,
one thousand stand of arms, and thirty pieces of cannon. At a single
blow the whole vast inland water coast of North Carolina on her Sounds
was opened to the enemy with communications from Norfolk, Virginia, to
Beaufort. A garrison of a thousand men could hold those forts for all
time with the navy in command of the sea.

Burnside followed with his expedition into the Sounds, captured Roanoke
Island and the fall of Newbern was inevitable. Every river-mouth and
inlet of the entire coast of North Carolina was now in the hands of the
Federal Government save the single port of Wilmington.

The moral effect of this blow by the navy was tremendous in the North.
It was the first token of renewed power since the defeat at Bull Run.
The navy had not only turned the tide of defeat in the imagination of
the people, the achievement was one of vast importance to the North and
the most sinister import to the South.

The Federal Government had gained the first important base on the
Southern coast for her blockading squadron and given a foothold for the
military invasion of North Carolina.

The President at Richmond was compelled to watch this tragedy in
helpless sorrow. The South had no navy with which to dispute the command
of the sea and yet she had three thousand miles of coast line!

With swift, remorseless sweep the navy struck Port Royal, South
Carolina, and established the second secure base for the blockading
squadrons.

The Beaufort district of South Carolina captured by this expedition was
one of the richest and most thickly settled of the State, containing
fifteen hundred square miles. It produced annually fifty million pounds
of rice and fourteen thousand bales of cotton. And in its population
were thirty thousand slaves suddenly brought under the power of the
Federal Government.

The coast of Florida was next pierced. The blockade of the enormous
coast line of the South was declared at first an impossibility. Within
less than a year the United States Navy had established bases within
striking distance of every port. New ships were being launched,
purchased or chartered daily and the giant Anaconda was slowly winding
its terrible coil about the commerce of the Confederacy.

Jefferson Davis was not the man to accept this ominous situation without
a desperate struggle. The man who had substituted iron gun carriages for
wood in the army consulted his Secretary of the Navy on the possibility
of revolutionizing the naval-warfare of the world by the construction of
an iron-clad ship of first-class power. In his report to the Confederate
Naval Committee, Secretary Mallory had developed this possibility two
months before the subject had been broached in the report of Gideon
Welles in Washington.

"I regard the possession of an iron-armored ship," Mallory urged, "as a
matter of the first necessity. Such a vessel at this time could traverse
the entire coast of the United States, prevent all blockade, and
encounter with a fine prospect of success their entire navy. Inequality
of numbers may be overcome by invulnerability, and thus not only does
economy but naval success dictate the wisdom and expediency of fighting
with iron against wood, without regard to first cost."

The President of the Confederacy gave his hearty endorsement to this
plan--and summoned the genius of the South to the task. At the bottom of
the harbor of Norfolk lay the half-burned hull of the steam frigate
_Merrimac_ which the Government had set on fire and sunk on destroying
the Navy Yard.

The _Merrimac_ was raised. A board was appointed to draw plans and
estimate the cost of the conversion of the vessel into a powerful,
floating, iron-clad battery. In the crippled condition of the Norfolk
Navy Yard the task was tremendous and the expense would be great.

The President ordered the work prosecuted with the utmost vigor. Day and
night the ring of hammers on heavy iron echoed over the quiet harbor of
Norfolk. Blacksmiths were forging the most terrible ship of war that
ever sailed the seas. If the hopes of her builders should be realized,
the navy of the North would be swept from the ocean and the proudest
ships of the world be reduced to junk in a day.



CHAPTER XXI

THE GATHERING CLOUDS


Disaster followed disaster for the South now in swift succession. The
United States Navy, not content with the supremacy of the high seas, set
to work with determination to build a war fleet on the great rivers of
the West which could pierce the heart of the lower South.

Before the South could possibly secure arms and ammunition with which to
equip the army of Albert Sidney Johnston, these gunboats were steaming
down the Ohio and Mississippi bearing thousands of troops armed, drilled
and led by stark, game-fighting generals from the West.

By the end of November the Federal troops threatening Tennessee numbered
fifty thousand and they were rapidly reënforced until they aggregated a
hundred thousand.

General Albert Sidney Johnston sent the most urgent appeals for arms to
the Governors of Georgia and Alabama, to General Bragg at Pensacola and
to the Government at Richmond. He asked for thirty thousand muskets and
got but one thousand. The guns were not in the South. They could not be
manufactured. Fully one-half his men had no arms at all. Whole brigades
remained without weapons for months. The entire force at his command
never numbered more than twenty-two thousand during this perilous fall.
And yet, by the masterly handling of his little army, its frequent and
rapid expeditions, he kept his powerful opponents in constant
expectations of an attack and produced the impression that he commanded
an enormous force.

In the meantime the sensational newspapers were loud in their demands.

The Richmond yellow Journal shouted:

"Let Johnston muster his forces, advance into Kentucky, capture
Louisville, push across the Ohio and carry the war into Africa."

Swift and terrible the blow fell.

And always the navy's smoke on the horizon. From the Ohio, the Tennessee
and Cumberland rivers could be navigated for hundreds of miles into
Tennessee and Alabama. But two forts guarded the rivers and protected
these States.

Early in February, 1862, the gunboats under Admiral Foote slowly steamed
up the Tennessee and attacked Fort Henry. The array they covered was
commanded by General Grant. The Federal fleet and army hurled twenty
thousand men and fifty-four cannon against the little fort of eleven
guns. With but forty men General Tilghman fought this host and held them
at bay for two hours and ten minutes, until the main body of his
garrison of twenty-five hundred troops had marched out and were safely
on their way to Fort Donelson, twelve miles across the country on the
banks of the Cumberland. Fort Henry was of small importance. Fort
Donelson commanded the approach to Nashville.

There was not a moment's delay. Grant telegraphed Halleck that he would
capture Fort Donelson two days later. Admiral Foote sent three light
gunboats up the Tennessee to clear the river into Alabama, swept down
stream with his heavier craft to the Ohio and turned into the
Cumberland. Grant pressed directly across the strip of twelve miles
with his army bearing on Fort Donelson.

The commander at Fort Donelson had at first but six thousand men
including the garrison from Fort Henry which had just arrived. Had Grant
been able to strike on the eighth of February, the day he had wired to
Halleck he would capture the fort, its fall would have been sure. But
high water delayed him, and Albert Sidney Johnston hastened to pour in
reënforcements. Every available soldier at his command was rushed to the
rescue. He determined to fight for Nashville at Donelson. General
Buckner's command of Kentuckians, General Pillow's Tennesseeans and
General Floyd's brigade of Virginia troops were all poured into the fort
before the thirteenth. This force, approximating twenty thousand men,
properly commanded should hold Donelson indefinitely.

The fortification was magnificently placed on a bluff commanding
the river for two miles. Its batteries consisted of eight
thirty-two-pounders, three thirty-two-pound carronades, one ten-inch
Columbiad and one thirty-two-pounder rifle. A line of entrenchments
stretched for two miles around the fort enclosing it.

Into these trenches the newly arrived troops were thrown.

Dick Welford, with Floyd's Virginians, gripped his musket with eager
enthusiasm for his first real battle. His separation from Jennie had
been a bitter trial. In his eagerness to get to the front he had the
misfortune to serve in the ill fated campaign in West Virginia, which
preceded Bull Run. Beauregard and J. E. Johnston were in easy touch with
Richmond. His unlucky brigade had been transferred to Albert Sidney
Johnston's command.

The men had been in the trenches through the long miserable night
expecting an attack at any moment.

Half waking, half dreaming, he lay on the cold ground wondering what
Jennie was doing--and always with the nightmare of that foreign snake
winding his way into her favor. Well, his chance would come in this
battle. He would lead his men in a charge. He was a corporal now. He
would come out of it with straps on his shoulders, he could see Jennie's
eyes flash with tears of pride as she read the story of his heroism and
his promotion.

"I'll show that reptile what a man can do!" he muttered.

The tired body relaxed and his big blond head sank on his arms.

A sudden crash of thunder and he sprang to his feet, his hand tight on
his gun. There they were in the gray light of the chill February
morning--the fleet of Federal gunboats under Foote, their big black
funnels pouring clouds of smoke into the sky, darkening the dull red
glow of the rising sun. He counted six of them--_Carondalet_,
_Pittsburgh_, _Louisville_, _St. Louis_, _Tyler_ and _Conestoga_.

A white breath of smoke flashed from the _Carondalet's_ bow, and Dick
watched the shell rise with a shriek and fall short of the fort.

The fleet moved closer and another shell screamed through the sky and
again fell short. They moved again, found the range, and for four hours
the earth trembled beneath the steady roar of their forty-six guns.

At eleven o'clock Dick saw the long lines of men in blue deploy for an
assault on the entrenchments. They moved with quick sure step, these men
under Grant. He was sorry for them. They were marching to certain death.

On the blue waves rolled, pouring volley after volley into the heaps of
earth behind which the Southerners lay.

They were close enough now and the quick command rang along the
trenches.

"Fire!"

A storm of death swept the ranks in the open fields. They stood their
ground stubbornly, those dogged western fighters. Dazed and cut to
pieces, they rallied and pressed forward again only to be mowed down in
heaps.

They gave it up at last and sullenly withdrew, leaving the dead piled
high and the wounded slowly freezing to death where they lay.

The artillery kept the earth quivering with the steady roar of their
guns and the Federal sharpshooters harassed the trenches without a
moment's respite. It was impossible to move for food or water until
nightfall.

At dawn next day Dick once more gripped his gun and peered over the
embankment. The morning passed without attack. What could it mean? They
saw at last--another fleet. Clouds of black smoke on the river told the
story. Reënforcements had arrived.

At half-past two o'clock the fleet formed in line of battle--threw their
big flags to the breeze and dashed squarely on the fort.

They swept now within point blank range of three hundred yards, pouring
in a storm of shot.

But the Confederate batteries were too heavy and too well manned.
Fifty-seven shells struck the flagship and more than a hundred took
effect on the five boats leading the assault. The fleet was crushed and
put out of commission. Every boat was disabled except one and that
withdrew beyond the range of the batteries.

Dick watched the magnificent spectacle with thrilling pride. He could
have enjoyed the show but for the bitter cold. It was twenty degrees
below the freezing point, and while the battle raged between the fleet
and fort it began to sleet and snow. When the crippled boats at last
drifted down the yellow tide and out of range, he found to his amazement
that a thick coat of ice had formed on the hand in which he held his
musket. His clothes were frozen stiff on his body.

He leaped to his feet and beat his arms fiercely, and glanced over the
embankment toward those ominous-looking piles of blue. The sleet was
sheathing their bodies in crystal shrouds now. No flag of truce was
allowed and the wounded lay freezing and dying where they fell. He could
hear the stronger ones still crying for help. Their long piteous moans
rang above the howl of the wind through the breaking boughs of the
trees.

It was hideous. Why didn't they rescue those men? Why didn't they
proclaim a truce to bury the dead and save the wounded? Grant must be a
fiend! Far off on the river another black smudge was seen in the sky.
More reënforcements were coming.

The three Confederate generals suddenly waked with a shock to realize
that their foe had landed a second army, cutting their communications
with Nashville.

A council of war was hastily called on the night of the fourteenth. It
was a discordant aggregation. Floyd, the former Secretary of War in
Buchanan's administration, was the senior officer in command. He was
regarded more as a politician than a soldier and his exploits in West
Virginia had not added to his fame. The men around him had little
respect for his capacity as a commander. Besides quarreling had become
the fashion in the armies of the victorious South since the affair at
Bull Run. The example of Joseph E. Johnston and Beauregard was
contagious.

There was but one thing to do. The wrangling generals were unanimous on
that point. They must make a desperate assault next morning on Grant's
right wing and reëstablish their communications with Nashville at all
hazards.

Under cover of the darkness on the morning of the fifteenth, the men
were marched from their trenches and massed on the Federal right. But a
handful were left to guard the entrenchments on the Confederate right.

At the first streak of dawn, the concentrated lines of the Confederates
were hurled on the division of McClernand. Before two o'clock Grant's
right wing had been crushed into a shapeless mass with the loss of his
artillery. The way was open to Nashville and the discordant commanding
generals of the Confederacy paused.

Buckner ordered up his artillery and reserves to pursue the enemy or
hold his newly-won position. Pillow flatly refused to allow a single gun
to be withdrawn from the entrenchments and sent peremptory orders to his
victorious subordinate to return to the trenches on the right.

As Buckner was reluctantly returning to the old lines he encountered
Floyd.

"Where are you going?" the Commander-in-Chief demanded.

"I am ordered back to the entrenchments--"

"You think it wise to walk back into the trap we've just escaped from?"

"I do not!" was the short answer. "We are outnumbered three to one. We
can not hold our connections open in the face of such an army backed by
gunboats and transports which can bring reënforcements daily. The road
is open, we should save our army by an immediate juncture with Albert
Sidney Johnston before Nashville."

"I agree with you," Floyd replied. "Hold your troops until I consult
with Pillow."

While Floyd and Pillow wrangled, Grant dashed on the scene. He had not
been present during the battle. The wounded Commodore had begged him for
a consultation on board his flagship five miles below.

When Grant reached the field he met a sight that should have dismayed
him and sent his shattered army to the shelter of the gunboats and a
hasty retreat down the Cumberland to a place of safety.

McClernand had been crushed and his disorganized troops thrown back in
confusion in front of the entrenchments of the Confederate right. His
troops had been on the field for five days and five nights drenched in
snow, sleet, mud, ice and water. The field was strewn with the dead and
wounded. Great red splotches of frozen blood marked the ground in all
directions. Beneath the sheltering pines where the white, smooth snow
lay unbroken by the tramp of heavy feet and the crush of artillery,
crimson streams could be seen everywhere. For two miles the ground was
covered with the mangled dead, dying, and freezing. Smashed artillery
and dead horses lay in heaps. In the retreat the heavy wheels of the
artillery had rolled over the bodies of the dead and wounded, crushing
and mangling many beyond recognition.

No general ever gazed upon a more ghastly scene than that which greeted
the eye of U. S. Grant in this moment of his life's supreme crisis. The
suffering of his wounded who had fought with the desperation of madness
to save themselves from the cold, had left its mark on their stark,
white faces. The ice had pressed a death mask on the convulsed features
and held them in the moment of agony. They looked up into his face now,
the shining eyes, gaping mouths, clenched fists, and crooked twisted
limbs.

McClernand's raw troops retreating over this field of horrors were
largely beyond control. Grant knew the enemy had been reënforced. He
could reasonably assume from the evidence before him of the terrific
slaughter in the open field that his own army was in peril. The
transports were in sight ready to move his army to a place of safety
where he might re-form his broken ranks.

His decision was instantaneous and thoroughly characteristic. He turned
to C. F. Smith in command of his left wing whose division had been but
slightly engaged.

"General Smith, the enemy does not follow up their advantage.
They are probably in a worse condition than I am. Mass your men
and charge their entrenchments on the right--never let up for a
minute--drive--drive--drive them!"

The charging hosts swept the thin lines of the half abandoned trenches
with the fury of a cyclone. The Confederate right was broken and rolled
back in confusion, fresh troops were rushed from the Federal reserves
and a new cordon of death thrown round the fort.

On the night of this fatal fifteenth of February Dick Welford was
detailed for guard duty at the door of General Floyd's tent. He heard
their council of war with sinking heart.

General Pillow favored a second desperate assault on the enemies' right
to re-open the way to Nashville.

Buckner faced him with rage:

"It was possible to-day, sir, and we did it. Now the enemy has been
reënforced for the third time. If you had sent my guns as I ordered the
way would still be open--"

"We can yet cut our way out," Pillow growled.

"Yes, with the sacrifice of three fourths of our brave men to save one
fourth. I'll not be a party to such butchery. We're caught now in a
death trap. The only rational thing to do is to surrender."

Floyd rose nervously.

"I'm not going to surrender, gentlemen. The North has accused me of
treachery in Buchanan's Cabinet. I couldn't expect decent treatment from
them. A steamer with recruits has just arrived from Nashville. I shall
make my escape on it with as many men as can be carried."

"And I'll accompany you," Pillow declared.

"Go if you like, gentlemen," Buckner replied. "I'll stand by my men and
share their fate."

Floyd and Pillow hastily began their preparations to go.

Buckner quietly asked:

"Am I to consider the command turned over to me?"

"Certainly," Floyd answered. "I turn over the command."

"I pass it, too," Pillow quickly added.

General Buckner called for pen, ink and paper and dispatched a courier
immediately to General Grant. The reply was in two words:

"Unconditional surrender."

Pillow crossed the river under cover of the night and made his way into
the country.

Floyd offered to take Dick Welford on board the little steamer.

"No, thank you," the young Virginian answered curtly.

"You prefer to surrender?"

"I'm not going to surrender. I'm going to join Col. Forrest's cavalry
and fight my way out."

With a wave of his arm Floyd hurried on board the steamer and fled to
Nashville.

Dick had seen Forrest lead one of his matchless charges of cavalry in
their fight that day. With a handful of men he had cut his way through
a solid mass of struggling infantry and thrown them into confusion.

He had watched this grave, silent, unobtrusive man of humble birth and
little education with the keenest interest. He felt instinctively that
he was a man of genius. From to-day he knew that as a leader of cavalry
he had few equals. He had pointed out to his superiors in their council
of war a possible path of escape by a road partially overflowed along
the river banks. It was judged impracticable.

In the darkness of the freezing night Dick rode behind his silent new
commander along this road with perfect faith. Forrest threw his command
into Nashville and saved the city from anarchy when the dreaded news of
the fall of Donelson precipitated a panic.

The South had met her first crushing defeat--a defeat more disastrous
than the North had suffered at Bull Ran. Grant had lost three thousand
men but the Confederate garrisons had been practically wiped out with
the loss of more than fifteen thousand muskets, every big gun and
thirteen thousand prisoners of war.

When Grant met Buckner, the victor and vanquished quietly shook hands.
They had been friends at West Point.

"Why didn't you attack me on Friday?" the Northerner asked.

"I was not in command."

"If you had, my reënforcements could not possibly have reached me in
time."

Buckner smiled grimly.

"In other words a little more promptness on one side, a little less
resolute decision on the other--and the tables would have been turned!"

"That's just it," was the short answer.

It was an ominous day for the South. Bigger than the loss of the capital
of Tennessee which Johnston evacuated the next day, bigger than the
loss of fifteen thousand men and their guns loomed the figure of a new
Federal commander. Out of the mud, and slush, ice and frozen pools of
blood--out of the storm cloud of sleet and snow and black palls of smoke
emerged the stolid, bulldog face of Ulysses S. Grant. Lincoln made him a
major general.



CHAPTER XXII

JENNIE'S RECRUIT


Socola lost no time in applying for a position. The one place of all
others he wished was a berth in the War Department. It was useless to
try for it. No foreigner had ever been admitted to tiny position of
trust in this wing of the Confederate Government.

He would try for a position in the Department of State. His supposed
experience in the Diplomatic Service and his mastery of two languages
besides the English would be in his favor. The struggle for recognition
from the powers of Europe was the card he could play. Once placed in the
Department of State he would make the acquaintance of every clerk and
subordinate who possessed a secret of the slightest value to his cause.

He wished to enter the Department of State for another reason. He had
learned from absolutely reliable sources that Judah P. Benjamin, the
present Secretary of War, was slated for Secretary of State in the new
Cabinet which would be named when Jefferson Davis was inaugurated as
permanent President. He knew Benjamin to be the ablest man in the
Cabinet, the one man on whose judgment Davis leaned with greatest
confidence. It would he of immense value to his cause to be in daily
touch with this man.

Fortunately he had mastered shorthand the last year of his stay in
Washington. This accomplishment, rare in the South, would be an
additional argument with which to secure his appointment.

Jennie had promised to accompany him to the office of the President and
add her voice to his plea. She had quite won the heart of the badgered
chieftain of the Confederacy by her steady loyalty to his
administration. The malignant opposition of Senator Barton was
notorious. This opposition at the moment had become peculiarly
vindictive and embarrassing. The fall of Fort Donelson and the loss of
Nashville had precipitated a storm of hostile criticism. The fierce
junta of malcontents in the Confederate Congress were eager to seize on
any excuse to attack the President. They were now demanding the removal
of Albert Sidney Johnston from his command. Davis knew that his
commanding general in Tennessee was the greatest soldier of his
time--and that all he needed was a single opportunity to demonstrate his
genius. He refused with scorn to sacrifice such a man to public clamor.
At the White House reception the night before he had heard Jennie Barton
stoutly defending him against his accusers who demanded the head of
General Johnston.

He had passed her later in the evening, pressed her hand and whispered:

"If our men were only as loyal! Ask anything you will of me--to the half
of my kingdom."

Jennie wished to put this impulsive promise to the test. She would see
that Socola secured his appointment. This brilliant young recruit for
the South was her gift to her country and she was proud of him. It had
all come about too quickly for her to analyze her feelings. She only
realized that she felt a sense of tender proprietary interest in him.
That he could render valuable service she did not doubt for a moment.

She had told him to meet her at the statue of Washington in the Capitol
Square. They would wait there for the appearance of the President and
follow him. His habits were simple and democratic. He walked daily from
the Confederate White House to the Capitol grounds, crossed the Square
and at the foot of the hill entered his office in the Custom House on
Main Street, unaccompanied by an escort of any kind.

Anybody on earth could approach and speak to him. The humbler the man or
woman, the easier the approach was always made.

Socola was waiting at the big group of statuary contemplating the lines
of its fine workmanship with curious interest.

Jennie startled him from a reverie:

"You like him?"

The white teeth gleamed in pleasant surprise.

"The father of his country?--Yes--I like him. It's going to be my
country, too, you know."

They strolled through the grounds and watched the squirrels leap from
the limbs of a great tree to the swaying boughs of the next.

A tall awkward trooper on whose hat was the sign of a North Carolina
regiment toiled painfully up the hill slightly under the influence of
whisky. Socola saw that he was navigating the steep with difficulty and
turned into a by-path to give him a free passage. It was never pleasant
to meet a man under the influence of liquor in the presence of ladies.

They had taken but a few steps along the little path when the quick firm
military tread of the President was heard.

They turned just in time to see him encounter the toiling trooper from
North Carolina.

The soldier's jaw suddenly dropped and his eyes kindled with joy. He
stood squarely in the President's way and laughed good naturedly.

"Say--Mister!"

"Well, sir?"

"Say--now--ain't yo' name Jeff'son Davis?"

The President nodded in a friendly way.

"It is."

"I knowed it," the trooper laughed. "By Gum, I knowed it, the minute I
laid my eyes on ye--"

He moved closer with insinuating joy.

"I bet ye could never guess how I knowed it--could ye?"

"Hardly--"

"Ye want me ter tell ye?" The trooper laughed again. "I knowed ye the
very minute I seed ye--'cause ye look thez ezactly like a Confederate
postage stamp! I know 'em 'cause I've licked 'em!"

The President laughed and passed on his way without looking back.

They found a crowd of cranks and inventors waiting to see him. He had
the same weakness as Abraham Lincoln for this class of men. He never
allowed a clerk to turn one way without his personal attention. His
interest in all scientific problems was keen, and he had always
maintained the open mind of youth to all inventions.

Socola and Jennie strolled through the city for an hour until the crank
levee was over. The President's secretary, Burton Harrison, promised
them an interview at the end of that time. He ushered them into the room
under the impression that all the callers had gone. He had overlooked a
modest, timid youth who had quietly approached the Chief Executive's
desk.

They paused until he was at leisure. The moment was one of illumination
for Socola. He saw a trait of character in the Southern leader whose
existence he had not suspected.

"My name is Ashe--Mr. President, S. A. Ashe," the youth began.

Davis bowed gravely.

"Have a seat, sir."

The boy sat down and twiddled his cap nervously.

"I've come to ask an appointment of some kind in the regular army of the
Confederacy. I'm an officer of the North Carolina militia. I wish to
enter the regular army."

The Confederate chieftain looked at the peculiarly youthful, beardless
face. He couldn't be more than eighteen from appearances.

"I'm afraid you're too young, sir," he said slowly, shaking his head.

The boy drew himself up with a touch of wounded pride.

"Why, Mr. Davis, I voted for you for President last November."

Instantly the Chief Executive rose, blushing his apology. He laid his
hand on the boy's shoulder and spoke with the utmost deference.

"I beg your pardon, sir. I should have been more observant and
thoughtful. I was very much like you when I was a boy. It was a long
time before I had any whiskers myself."

With a friendly smile he touched his thin beard.

He sent the young man away happy with his promise of consideration. That
he should have asked this beardless boy's pardon in so pointed a manner
Socola thought remarkable. That the Chief Executive of nine million
people should blush suddenly over such a trifle was the flash that
revealed a great soul.

The President advanced and gave Jennie both his hands in cordial
greeting.

"I've brought you a recruit, sir," the girl cried with a merry laugh.

"Indeed?"

"I have resigned my commission with the Sardinian Ministry, Mr.
President, and wish to offer my services to the South."

"We need every true friend the world can send us, Signor--I thank you--"

"I wish, sir," Socola hastened to say, "to render the most efficient
service possible. I have no training as a soldier. I have experience as
a diplomat. I speak three languages and I am an expert stenographer--"

"I'm sorry, Signor," the President interrupted, "that I have no vacancy
in my office--or I should be pleased to have you here."

"Perhaps your State Department may find me useful?"

"No doubt they can. I'll give you a letter to the Secretary recommending
your appointment."

He seated himself at once, wrote the letter and handed it to Socola.

Jennie thanked him and, with a warm pressure of his hand, passed into
the hall with Socola.

At the outer door Burton Harrison overtook them:

"Just a moment, Miss Barton. The President wishes to ask you a
question."

Davis drew her to the window.

"I should have been more careful of the credentials of our friend
perhaps, Miss Jennie. You can vouch for his loyalty?"

"Absolutely."

She had scarcely uttered the word in tones of positive conviction before
she realized the startling fact that she had spoken under the impulse of
some strange intuition and not from her knowledge of the man's character
and history.

In spite of her effort at self-control she blushed furiously. Mr. Davis
apparently did not observe it.

"I have been much impressed with his poise and culture and intelligence.
You met him in Washington, of course?"

"Yes--"

"You know positively that he was the Secretary of the Sardinian
Minister?"

"Positively, Mr. President--"

"Thank you, my dear. I'll take your word for it."

Jennie walked home on air. She had made history. How tragic its sequel
was destined to be, a kind Providence concealed.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE FATAL BLUNDER


On February 22, 1862, Jefferson Davis committed the one irretrievable
mistake of his administration. He consented to his inauguration as
permanent President of the Confederacy under the strict forms of
Constitutional law.

The South was entering the shadows of the darkest hour of her new life.
A military dictator clothed with autocratic power could have subdued the
discordant elements and marshaled the resources of the country to meet
the crisis. A constitutional President would bind himself hand and foot
with legal forms. A military dictator might ride to victory and carry
his country with him.

His two Commanding Generals had allowed the victorious army of Manassas
to drift into a rabble while they wrangled for position, precedence and
power.

The swift and terrible blows which the navy had dealt the South,
delivered so silently and yet with such deadly effect that the people
had not yet realized their import, had convinced the President that the
war would be one of the bloodiest in history.

The fall of Fort Henry and Fort Donelson with the evacuation of
Nashville had been a sword thrust into the heart of the lower South. The
extent of these disasters had not been realized by the public. The South
was yet a sleeping lioness. She could be roused and her powers wielded
with certainty by one man. But his hand must be firm.

There was one man in the Cabinet of the Confederacy who clearly saw this
from the first dawn of the new year--Judah P. Benjamin, the astute
Secretary of War. His keen logical mind had brushed aside the fog of
sentiment and saw _one_ thing--the need of success and the way in which
to attain it.

The morning of February twenty-second was Washington's birthday, and for
that reason fixed by the South as the day of the inauguration of their
President. Nothing could have shown more clearly the tenacity with which
the Southern people were clinging to their old forms. The day slowly
dawned through lowering storm clouds.

The President went early to his office for a consultation with the
members of his new Cabinet. Judah P. Benjamin, his chosen chief
counselor as Secretary of State, was unusually reticent. The details of
the inauguration were quickly agreed on and Davis hastened to return to
his room at the White House to complete his preparations for the
ceremony.

Benjamin followed his Chief thirty minutes later with the most important
communication he had ever decided to make.

As the most trusted adviser of the President he had long had the freedom
of the house.

The resolute Hebrew features of the Secretary were set with resolution.
He pushed his way to the door of Mr. Davis' room, rapped for admission
and without waiting for an answer softly and swiftly entered. His
mission was too important to admit of delay.

He paused at the threshold in surprise.

Jefferson Davis was on his knees in prayer so deep and earnest he had
not heard.

He waited with head bowed in silent sympathy for five minutes and looked
with increasing amazement at the white face of the man who prayed. This
agony of soul before the God of his fathers was a revelation to the
Minister of State.

His lips were moving now in audible words.

"Thou alone art my refuge, O Lord! Without Thee I shall fail. Have pity
on Thy servant--with Thy wisdom guide!"

The time was swiftly passing. The Minister could not wait.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. President," he began in low tones, "but I have
most important communications to make to you--"

The voice of prayer softly died away and slowly the look of earth came
back to the tired face. He turned his hollow cheeks to Benjamin with no
attempt to mask the agony of his spirit, slowly rose and motioned him to
a chair.

The Secretary lifted his hand.

"I'm restless. If you don't mind, I'll stand. I have marked three
editorial attacks on you and your administration in three of the most
powerful newspapers in the South--the Richmond _Examiner_, the Raleigh
_Standard_ and the Charleston _Mercury_--read them please--and then I
have something to say!"

The President seated himself and read each marked sentence with care.

"The same old thing, Benjamin--only a little more virulent this
time--what of it?"

"This! The success of our cause demands the suppression of these reptile
sheets and the imprisonment of their editors--"

"Would success be worth having if we must buy it at the cost of the
liberties of our people?"

Benjamin stopped short in his tracks. He had been walking back and forth
with swift panther-like tread.

"We are at war, Mr. President--fierce, savage, cruel, it's going to be.
You have realized this from the first. The world will demand of us just
one thing--success in arms. With this we win all. Lose this and we lose
all--our liberties and a great deal more. Our coast is pierced now at
regular intervals to the mouth of the Mississippi River--at Fortress
Monroe in Virginia--the entire inland waters of North Carolina, Port
Royal, South Carolina, Florida's line has been broken. Grant's army is
swarming into Tennessee. McClellan is drilling three hundred thousand
men in Washington to descend on Richmond. It's no time to nurse such
reptiles in our bosom--"

"I can't play the petty tyrant--"

"They'll sting you to death--I warn you--no administration on earth can
live in times of war and endure such infamous abuse as these
conspirators are now heaping on your head. And mark you--they have only
begun. The junta of disgruntled generals which they have organized will
strangle the cause of the South unless you grip the situation to-day
with a hand of steel. They are laying their plans in the new Congress to
paralyze your work and heap on your head the scorn of the world."

The President moved with a gesture of impatience.

"I've told you, Benjamin, that I will not suppress these papers nor sign
your order for the arrest of the editors. I am leading the cause of a
great people to preserve Constitutional liberty. Freedom of speech is
one of their rights--"

"In times of peace, yes--but not in the crisis of war when the tongue of
a fool may betray the lives of millions. I am not here merely to ask you
to suppress these three treacherous rags--I'm here to ask a bigger and
far more important thing. I want you to stop this inaugural ceremony
to-day--"

Davis rose with a quick excited movement.

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I say. Stop in time. We inaugurated a Provisional Government
at Montgomery to last one year. Why one year? Because we believed the
war would be over before that year expired. It would have been madness
to provide for the establishment of the elaborate and clumsy forms of a
Constitutional Government during the progress of war. Why set up a
Constitution until you have won by the sword the power to maintain it?"

"But," Davis interrupted, "if we delay the adoption of a Constitution we
confess to the world our want of confidence in the success of our cause.
Such a permanent Constitution will be to our people the supreme sign of
faith--"

"With these jackals and hyenas of the press yelping and snarling and
snapping at your heels? These men will destroy the faith of our best men
and women if you only allow them to repeat their lies often enough. They
will believe them at last, themselves. You have the confidence to-day of
the whole South. Your bitterest enemy could not name a candidate to
oppose your election last November. Give these traitors time and they
will change all--"

"Not with military success--"

"Granted. But if these jackals break down the confidence of the people
in the administration, volunteering ceases and we have no army."

"We must use the Conscription. It is inevitable--"

"Exactly!" the Secretary cried triumphantly. "And Conscription is the
_reductio ad absurdum_ of your dream of Constitutional Law. Why set up a
Constitution at all to-day?"

"Congress must pass a Conscript law when necessity demands it."

"In their own way, yes--with ifs and ands and clauses which defeat its
purpose."

"They must respond to the demands of our people when their patriotism is
aroused."

"Our people have patriotism to spare if we can only guide it in the
right direction. If it goes to seed in the personal quarrels of
generals, if it exhausts itself in abuse of the Executive, while an
overwhelming enemy marches on us--What then?"

The President lifted his head.

"And you recommend?"

"Stop this ceremony. Refuse the position of permanent President and use
your powers as Provisional President in a Military Dictatorship until
the South wins--"

"Never!" was the quick reply. "I'll go down in eternal defeat sooner
than win an empire by such betrayal of the trust imposed in me--"

"You're not betraying the trust imposed in you by assuming these
powers!" Benjamin exclaimed with passion. "You're fulfilling that trust.
You're doing what the people have called you to do--establishing the
independence of the South! The Government at Washington has been
compelled to exercise despotic powers from the first--"

"Exactly--and that's why we can't afford to do it. We are fighting the
battle of the North and the South for Constitutional liberty."

"Even so, if we lose and they win, the cause is lost. Seward is now
imprisoning thousands of Northern men who have dared to sympathize with
us--"

"An act of infamous tyranny!"

"But if he wins--who will dare to criticise the wisdom of his policy
fifty years from to-day? If we lose, who will give us credit for our
high ideals of Civil Law in times of war? You have the chance to-day to
win. Leap into the saddle and command the obedience of every man, woman
and child in the South! Your Congress which assembles to-day is a weak
impossible body of men. They have nothing to do except to make foolish
speeches and hatch conspiracies against your administration. We have
muzzled them behind closed doors. The remedy is worse than the disease.
The rumors they circulate through the reptile press do more harm than
the record of their vapid talk could possibly accomplish. Why tie these
millstones around your neck? They came yesterday to demand the head of
Albert Sidney Johnston. They are organizing to drive Lee out of the
army. They allow no opportunity to pass to sneer at his position as your
chief military adviser since his return from Western Virginia. You know
and I know that Albert Sidney Johnston and R. E. Lee are our greatest
generals--"

"I'll protect them from the chatter of fools--never fear--"

"To what end if you allow them to break down the faith of our people in
their Government? The strong arm, alone, can save us. It's no time to
haggle about the forms of law. Your duty is clear. Stop this foolish
ceremony of Inauguration to-day and assume in due time the
Dictatorship--"

Davis threw both arms up in a gesture of impatient refusal.

"It's a waste of breath, Benjamin. I'll die first!"

The elastic spirit of the younger man recovered its poise at once and
accepted the decision.

With a genial smile he slipped one arm around the tall figure.

"Brave, generous, big-hearted, foolish--my captain! Well, I've done my
duty as your chief counselor. Now I'll obey orders--one thing more I
must add in warning. Richmond swarms with spies. It will be impossible
to defend the Capital on the approach of McClellan's army without a
proclamation of martial law."

The President looked up sharply.

"We'll compromise on that. I'll proclaim martial law and suspend the
_writ_ in Richmond--"

"And a radius of ten miles."

"All right--I'll do that."

It was the utmost concession the wily minister of State could wring from
his Chief. But it was important. The Secretary had his eye on a certain
house on Church Hill. It might be necessary to expel its owners.

"By the way," the President added, as his Secretary stood with his hand
on the door. "I wrote a recommendation to your new department for the
appointment of a young friend of Miss Barton to a position in your
office. He's a man of brilliant talents--a foreigner who has cast his
fortunes with us. Do what you can for him--"

"I'll remember--" the Secretary nodded and hurried to his office to
issue his proclamation of martial law for the city and district of
Richmond.

At ten o'clock the rain began to pour in torrents. The streets were
flooded. Rushing rivers of muddy water roared over its cobble stones and
leaped down its steep hills into the yellow tide of the James.

Every flag drooped and flapped in dismal weeping against its staff. The
decorations of the houses and windows outside were ruined. The bunting
swayed and sagged in deep curves across the streets, pouring a stream of
water from the folds.

At twelve o'clock, the procession formed in the Hall of the Virginia
Legislature and marched through the pouring rain to the platform erected
around the statue of Washington. In spite of the storm an immense crowd
packed the space around the speaker's stand, presenting the curious
spectacle of a sea of umbrellas.

Socola watched this crowd stand patiently in the downpour with a
deepening sense of the tragedy it foreshadowed. The people who could set
their teeth and go through an inauguration ceremony scheduled in the
open air on such a day might be defeated in battle, but the victor would
pay his tribute of blood. He had not dared to ask Jennie to accept his
escort on such a day and yet they drifted to each other's side by some
strange power of attraction.

The scene was weird in its utter depression of all enthusiasm, and yet
the sullen purpose which held the people was sublime in its persistence.
An awning covered the speaker's stand and beneath this friendly cover
the ceremony was performed down to the last detail.

The President rose and faced his audience under the most trying
conditions. Oratory was beyond human effort. He did not attempt it. He
read his frank dignified address in simple, clear, musical tones which
rang with strange effect over the crowd of drenched men and women. Not a
single cheer broke the delivery of his address. He sought in no way to
apologize for the disasters which had befallen his people. He faced them
bravely and summoned his followers to be equally brave.

The close of his address caught the morbid fancy of Socola with peculiar
fascination. Clouds of unusual threatening depths were rolling across
the heavens, against which the canopied platform was sharply outlined.
The thin form of the President rose white and ghost-like against this
black background of clouds. He was extremely pale, his cheeks hollowed
deep, his head bared regardless of the chill mists which beat through
the canopy.

His tall figure stood tense, trembling, deathlike--the emblem of
sacrificial offering on the altar of his country.

Socola whispered to Jennie:

"Where have I witnessed this scene before?"

"Surely not in America--"

"No"--he mused thoughtfully--"I remember now--on a lonely hill outside
Jerusalem the Roman soldiers were crucifying a man on a day like
this--that's where I saw it!"

He had scarcely spoken the uncanny words in a low undertone when the
speaker closed his address with a remarkable prayer.

Suddenly dropping his manuscript on the table he lifted his eyes into
the darkened heavens and cried with deep passion:

"With humble gratitude and adoration, to Thee, O God, I trustingly
commit myself, and prayerfully invoke Thy blessing on my country and its
cause!"



CHAPTER XXIV

THE SLEEPING LIONESS


Again the smoke of the navy shadowed the Southern skies. Two expeditions
were aiming mortal blows at the lower South.

The Confederacy had concentrated its forces of the upper waters of the
Mississippi on Island Number 10 near New Madrid. The work of putting
this little Gibraltar in a state of perfect defense had been rushed with
all possible haste. New Madrid had been found indefensible and evacuated
on March thirteenth.

On the seventeenth, Commodore Foote's fleet steamed into position and
the first shell from his guns shrieked its message of death across the
island. The gunboats concentrated their fire on the main battery which
was located on low ground, almost submerged by the high water and
separated from the others by a wide slough. Their gun platforms were
covered with water--the men in gray must work their pieces standing
half-leg deep in mud and slush. Five iron-clad gunboats led the attack.
Three of them were lashed together in midstream and one lay under the
shelter of each shore. Their concentrated fire was terrific. For nine
hours they poured a stream of shot and shell on the lone battery with
its beaver gunmen.

At three o'clock Captain Rucker in charge of the battery called for
reënforcements to relieve his exhausted men. Volunteers rushed to his
assistance and his guns roared until darkness brought them respite. It
had been done. A single half-submerged battery exposed to the
concentrated fire of a powerful fleet had held them at bay and compelled
them to withdraw at nightfall. Rucker fired the last shot as twilight
gathered over the yellow waters. His battery had mounted five guns at
sunrise. Three of them were dismantled. Two of them still spoke defiance
from their mud-soaked beds.

On April the sixth, the fleet reënforced succeeded in slipping past the
batteries in a heavy fog. A landing was effected above and below the
island in large force, and its surrender was a military necessity.

Foote and Pope captured MacKall, the commander, two brigadier generals,
six colonels, a stand of ten thousand arms, two thousand soldiers,
seventy pieces of siege artillery, thirty pieces of field artillery,
fifty-six thousand solid shot, six transports and a floating battery of
sixteen guns.

A cry of anguish came from the heart of the Confederate President. The
loss of men was insignificant--the loss of this enormous store of heavy
guns and ammunition with no factory as yet capable of manufacturing them
was irreparable.

But the cup of his misery was not yet full. The greatest fleet the
United States Navy had gathered, was circling the mouth of the
Mississippi with its guns pointing toward New Orleans. Gideon Welles had
selected for command of this important enterprise the man of destiny,
Davis Glasgow Farragut, a Southerner whose loyalty to the Union had
never been questioned.

Eighty-two ships answered Farragut's orders in his West Gulf squadron at
their rendezvous. His ships were wood, but no braver men ever walked the
decks of a floating battery.

In March he managed to crawl across the bar and push his fleet into the
mouth of the Mississippi. The _Colorado_ was too deep and was left
outside. The _Pensacola_ and the _Mississippi_ he succeeded in
dragging through the mud.

His ships inside, the Commander ordered them stripped for the death
grapple.

New Orleans had been from the first considered absolutely impregnable to
attack from the sea. Forts Jackson and St. Phillip, twenty miles below
the city, were each fortifications of the first rank mounting powerful
guns which swept the narrow channel of the river from shore to shore.

The use of steam, however, in naval warfare was as yet an untried
element of force in the attacking fleet against shore batteries. That
steam in wooden vessels could overcome the enormous advantage of the
solidity and power of shore guns had been considered preposterous by
military experts.

Jefferson Davis had utilized every shipbuilder in New Orleans to hastily
construct the beginnings of a Southern navy. Two powerful iron-clad
gunboats, _Louisiana_ and _Mississippi_, were under way but not ready
for service. Eight small vessels had been bought and armed.

To secure the city against the possibility of any fleet passing the
forts at night or through fog, the channel of the river between Forts
Jackson and St. Phillip was securely closed. Eleven dismasted schooners
were moored in line across the river and secured by six heavy chains.
These chains formed an unbroken obstruction from shore to shore.

This raft was placed immediately below the forts.

There was no serious alarm in the city on the appearance of the fleet in
the mouth of the river. For months they had been cruising about the Gulf
of Mexico without apparent decision.

The people laughed at their enemy. There was but one verdict:

"They'll think twice before attempting to repeat the scenes of 1812."

Not only were the two great forts impregnable but the shores were lined
with batteries. What could wooden ships do with such forts and guns? It
was a joke that they should pretend to attack them. Their only possible
danger was from the new iron-clad gunboats in the upper waters of the
river. They were building two of their own kind which would be ready
long before the enemy could break through the defenses from the North.

When Farragut stripped his fleet for action and moved toward the forts
on the sixteenth of April, New Orleans was the gayest city in America.
The spirit of festivity was universal. Balls, theaters, operas were the
order of the day. Gay parties of young people flocked down the river and
swarmed the levees to witness the fun of the foolish attempt of a lot of
old wooden ships to reduce the great forts.

The guns were roaring now their mighty anthem. Ships and forts--forts
and ships. The batteries of Farragut's mortar schooners were hurling
their eleven-inch shells with harmless inaccuracy.

The people laughed again.

For six days the earth trembled beneath the fierce bombardment. The
fleet had thrown twenty-five thousand shells and General Duncan reported
but two guns dismantled, with half a dozen men killed and wounded. The
forts stood grim and terrible, their bristling line of black-lipped guns
unbroken, their defenses as strong as when the first shot was fired.

On the evening of April twenty-third, the fire of the fleet slackened.
Farragut had given up the foolish attempt, of course. He had undertaken
the impossible and at last had accepted the fact.

But the people of New Orleans had not reckoned on the character of the
daring commander of the Federal fleet. He coolly decided that since he
could not silence the guns of the forts he would run past them with his
swift steam craft and take the chances of their batteries sending him to
the bottom.

Once past these forts and the city would be at his mercy.

He must first clear the river of the obstruction placed below the forts.
Farragut ordered two gunboats to steal through the darkness without
lights and clear this raft. The work was swiftly done. The task was
rendered unexpectedly easy by a break caused by a severe storm.

At three o'clock in the morning of the twenty-fourth, the lookout on the
ramparts of the forts saw the black hulls of the fleet, swiftly and
silently steaming up the river straight for the mouths of their guns.

The word was flashed to the little nondescript fleet of the Confederacy
lying in the smooth waters above and they moved instantly to the support
of the forts.

The night was one of calm and glorious beauty. The Southern skies
sparkled with jeweled stars. The waning moon threw its soft, mellow
light on the shining waters, revealing the dark hulls of the fleet with
striking clearness. The daring column was moving straight for Fort
Jackson. They must pass close under the noses of her guns.

They were in for it now.

The dim star-lit world with its fading moon suddenly burst into sheets
of blinding, roaring flame. The mortar batteries moored in range, opened
instantly in response--their eleven-inch shells, glowing with
phosphorescent halo, circled and screamed and fell.

The black hulls belched their broadsides of yellow flame now. From
battlement and casemate of forts rolled the thunder of their batteries,
sending their heavy shots smashing into the wooden hulls.

Through the flaming jaws of hell, the fleet, with lungs throbbing with
every pound of steam, dashed and passed the forts!

Farragut led in the _Hartford_. But his work had only begun. He had
scarcely reckoned on the little Confederate fleet. He found them a
serious proposition.

Suddenly above the flash and roar and the batteries of the forts and
over the broadsides of the ships leaped a wall of fire straight into the
sky.

Slowly but surely the flaming heavens moved down on the attacking fleet
lighting the yellow waters with unearthly glare.

The Confederates had loosed a fleet of fire ships loaded with pitch pine
cargoes. Farragut's lines wavered in the black confusion of rolling
clouds of impenetrable smoke, lighted by the glare of leaping flames.

The daring little fleet of the Confederacy moved down through the
blinding vapors of their own fires and boldly attacked the on-coming
hosts. Friend could scarcely be told from foe.

A game little Confederate tug stuck her nose into a fire-ship, pushed it
squarely against Farragut's _Hartford_ and slipped between his guns in
the smoke and flame unharmed. The Flagship ran aground. Her sailors
bravely stuck to their post and from their pumps threw a deluge of water
on the flames and extinguished them. The engines of the _Hartford_,
working with all their might, pulled her off the shore under her own
steam. The _Louisiana_, the new gunboat of the Confederacy, had been
pressed into service with but two of her guns working--but she was of
little use and became unmanageable.

Captain Kennon, the gallant Confederate commander of the _Governor
Moore_, found that the bow of his ship interfered with the aim of his
gunners.

"Lower your muzzle and blow the bow of your ship away!"

The big gun dipped its black mouth and blew the bow of his own ship to
splinters and through the opening poured shot after shot into the
Federal fleet. Kennon fired his last shot at point-blank range, turned
the broken nose of his ship ashore and blew her up.

For an hour and a half the two desperate foes wrestled with each other
amid flame and smoke and darkness. As the first blush of dawn mantled
the eastern sky the conflict slowly died away.

Three of Farragut's gunboats had been driven back and one sunk, but his
fleet had done the immortal deed. Battered and riddled with shots, they
had passed the forts successfully. As the sun rose on the beautiful
spring morning he lifted his battle flags and steamed up the river.

New Orleans, the commercial capital of the South, the largest export
city of the world, lay on the horizon in silent shimmering beauty, a
priceless treasure, at his mercy.

Speechless crowds of thousands thronged the streets. The small garrison
had been withdrawn and the city left to its fate. The marines stood
statue-like before the City Hall, their bayonets glittering in the
sunlight. Not a breath of wind stirred. In dead, ominous silence the
flag of the South was lowered from its staff and the flag of the Union
raised in its old place.

There was one man among the thousands who saw this flag with a cry of
joy. Judge Roger Barton, Jr., had braved the scorn of his neighbors
through good report and evil report, holding their respect by the sheer
heroism of his undaunted courage. His aged grandfather was in the city
at the moment, having come on a visit from Fairview. Baton Rouge must
fall at once. There was nothing to prevent Farragut's fleet from
steaming up the river now for hundreds of miles. The old Colonel was
furious when informed that he could not return to Fairview. But there
was no help for it.

"Don't worry, Grandfather," the judge pleaded; "you can depend on it,
Senator Barton will save Fairview if it's within human power--"

"But your grandmother is there, sir!" thundered the old man, "helpless
on her back. There's no one to protect her from the damned Yankees--"

The Judge smiled.

"Maybe the Yankees will not be so bad after all, grandfather. Anyhow
there's no help for it. I've got you here with me safe and sound and I'm
going to keep you--"

The fall of New Orleans sent a dagger into the heart of the South. Ft.
Donelson had broken the center. The fall of New Orleans had smashed the
left wing of the far-flung battle line. The power of the Confederacy was
crushed in the rich and powerful State of Louisiana at a single stroke.
The route to Texas was cut. The United States Navy had established a
base from which to send their fleets into the interior by the great
rivers and by the gulf from the Rio Grande to the Keys of Florida.

The sleeping lioness stirred at last. The delusion of Bull Run had
passed. It took six months of disasters to do for the South what Bull
Run did for the North in six days. The South began now to rise in her
might and gird her loins for the fight she had foolishly thought won on
the plains of Manassas.

Senator Barton was in bed so ill from an attack of influenza it was
impossible for him to travel.

Jennie hastily packed her trunk and left on the first train for the
South. She must reach her helpless grandmother before the Federal army
could attack Baton Rouge.

The tenderness with which Socola helped her on board the train had
brought the one ray of sunlight into her heart. She had expected to go
in tears and terror for what the future held in store in the stricken
world at home.

A smile on the lips of a stranger had set her heart to beating with joy.

She was ashamed of herself for being so happy. But it was impossible to
make her heart stop beating and laughing. He had not yet spoken a word
of love but she knew. She knew with a knowledge sweet and perfect
because she had suddenly realized her own secret. She might have gone on
for months in Richmond without knowing that she cared any more for him
than for a dozen other boys who were as attentive. In this hour of
parting it had come in a blinding flash as he bent over her hand to say
good-by. It made no difference when he should speak. Love had come into
her own heart full, wonderful, joyous, maddening in its glory. She could
wait in silence until in the fullness of time he must speak. It was
enough to know that she loved.

"May I write to you occasionally, Miss Jennie?" he asked with a timid,
hesitating look.

She laughed.

"Of course, you must write and tell me everything that happens here."

Socola wondered why she laughed. It was disconcerting. He hadn't faced
the question of loving Jennie. She was just a charming, beautiful child
whose acquaintance he could use for great ends. His depression came from
the tremendous nerve strain of his work. The early movement of
McClellan's army had kept him in that darkened attic on Church Hill
continuously every hour of the past night. He was feeling the strain. He
would throw it off when he got a good night's rest.

It was not until twenty-four hours after Jennie's departure that he
waked with a dull ache in his heart that refused to go. And so while he
dragged himself about his task with a sense of sickening loneliness, a
girl was softly singing in the far South.



CHAPTER XXV

THE BOMBARDMENT


Baton Rouge seethed with excitement on the day of Jennie's arrival.
Every wagon and dray was pressed into service. The people were hauling
their cotton to be burned on the commons. Negroes swarmed over the
bales, cutting them open, piling high the fleecy lint and then applying
the torch. The flames leaped upward with a roar and dropped as suddenly
into a smoldering and smoking mass.

A crowd rushed to the wharf to see them fire an enormous flat-boat piled
mountain-high with cotton. A dozen bales had been broken open and the
whole floating funeral pyre stood shrouded in spotless white which
leaped into flames as it was pushed into the stream.

Along the levee as far as the eye could reach negroes crawled like black
ants rolling the cotton into the river. The ties were smashed, and the
white bundle of cotton tumbled into the water and was set on fire. Each
bale sent up its cloud of smoke until the surface of the whole river
seemed alive with a fleet of war crowding its steam to run fresh
batteries. Another flat-boat was piled high, its bales cut open, soaked
with whiskey, and set on fire. The blue flames of burning alcohol gave a
touch of weird and sinister color to the scene.

The men who owned this cotton stood by cheering and helping in its
destruction. The two flat-boats with flames leaping into the smoke pall
of the darkened skies led the fleet of fire down the river to greet
Farragut's men in their way.

Every saloon was emptied and every gutter flowed with wines and liquors.

       *     *     *     *     *

Jennie found her grandmother resting serenely in her great rocking
chair, apparently indifferent to the uproar of the town. The household
with its seventy-odd negro servants was running its usual smooth,
careless course.

Jennie read aloud the announcement in the morning paper of Butler's
order to New Orleans:

"All devices, signs, and flags of the Confederacy shall be suppressed--"

She clenched her fist and sprang to her feet.

"Good! I'll devote all my red, white and blue silk to the manufacture of
Confederate flags! When one is confiscated--I'll make another. I'll wear
one pinned on my bosom. The man who says, 'Take it off,' will have to
pull it off himself. The man who does that--well, I've a pistol
ready!--"

"What are you saying, dear?" the old lady asked with her thin hand
behind her ear.

"Oh, nothing much, grandma dear," was the sweet answer. "I was only
wishing I were a man!"

She slipped her arms about her thin neck and whispered this in deep,
tragic tones. With a bound she was off to the depot to see the last
squad of soldiers depart for the front before the gunboats arrived.

They waved their hats to the crowds of women and children as the train
slowly pulled out.

"God bless you, ladies! We're going to fight for you!"

Jennie drew her handkerchief, waved and sobbed the chorus in reply.

"God bless you, soldiers! Fight for us!"

Four hours later the black gunboats swung at their anchors. The proud
little conquered city lay at the mercy of their guns.

Jennie watched them with shining eyes, and that without fear. The Union
flag was streaming from every peak and halyard.

The girl rushed home, made a flag five inches long, pinned it to her
shoulder and deliberately walked down town. Mattie Morgan joined her at
the corner and drew one from the folds of her dress, emboldened by the
example.

They marched straight to the State House terrace to take a good look at
the _Brooklyn_ lying close inshore. Fifteen or twenty Federal officers
were standing on the first terrace, stared at by the crowd as if they
were wild beasts.

"Oh, Mattie," Jennie faltered. "We didn't expect to meet these people.
What shall we do?"

"Stand by your colors now. There's nothing else to do."

On they marched, hearts thumping painfully with conscious humiliation at
their silly bravado. Fine, noble-looking, quiet fellows those officers
in blue--refinement and gentlemanly bearing in every movement of their
stalwart bodies. They had come ashore as friendly sightseers and stood
admiring the beauty of the quaint old town. Jennie's eyes filled with
tears of vexation.

"Let's go home, Mattie--"

"I say so, too--"

"Never again for me! I'll hang my flag on the mantel. I'll not try to
wave it in the face of a gentleman again--oof--what silly fools we
were!"

The Federal commander of the fleet had warned the citizens of Baton
Rouge that any hostile demonstration against his ships or men would mean
the instant bombardment of the town.

Jennie had just finished breakfast and helped her grandmother to find
her way to the rocker. Mandy had been sent to the store for some thread
with which to make a new uniform for one of the boys. Jennie resolved to
turn her energies to practical account now. No more flaunting of tiny
flags in the faces of brave, dignified young officers of the navy.

The maid rushed through the hall wild with excitement. She had run every
step back from the store without the thread.

"Lowdy, Miss Jennie," she gasped, "sumfin' awful happened!"

"What is it? What's the matter?"

Mandy stood in dumb terror, the whites of her eyes shining. She was
listening apparently for the arch-angel's trumpet to sound.

Jennie seized her shoulders.

"What's the matter? Tell me before I murder you!"

"Yassam!" Mandy gasped and again her head was cocked to one side as if
straining her ears for the dreaded sound of Gabriel.

"What's happened?--Tell me!" Jennie stormed.

At last poor Mandy's senses slowly returned. She stared into her young
mistress' face and gasped:

"Yassam--Mr. Castle's killed a Yankee ossifer on de ship an' dey gwine
ter shell--"

"Boom!"

The deep thunder peal of a great gun shook the world. There was no
mistaking the sound of it or its meaning. The fleet had opened fire on
the defenseless town. Mandy's teeth chattered and her voice failed.

And then pandemonium.

Poor old negroes and helpless pickaninnies swarmed into the house for
shelter from the doom of Judgment Day.

"Run--run for your lives--get out of the way of those shells!" Jennie
shouted.

Her three terror-stricken maids huddled by her side in helpless panic.

Her grandmother sprang to her feet and asked in subdued tones:

"What is it, child?"

"The fleet's shelling the town--grandma--you'll be killed--the house'll
be smashed--you must run--run for your life--"

Jennie screamed her warning into the sweet old lady's ears and seized
her by the hand.

"But they can't shell a town full of helpless women and children, my
dear," the grandmother protested gently. "It's impossible--"

"Boom--boom!" pealed two guns in quick succession.

"De Lawd save us!" Lucy screamed.

"You see they're doing it--come--"

Jennie grasped her grandmother's hand firmly and dragged her from the
house. From the servants' quarters came one long wail of prayer and
lamentation mingled with shouts and exhortation. An old bed-ridden black
woman, a fervent Methodist, raised a hymn:

"_Better days are coming, we'll all go right!_"

Jennie had reached the gate when she suddenly remembered her canary--a
present Billy had given her on her eighteenth birthday. She rushed back
into the house, snatched the cage up and started on the run again.

What was the use? It was impossible to take the bird. He would starve to
death.

She quickly opened the cage, took him out and kissed his yellow head.

"Good-by, Jimmy darling!"

The tears would come in spite of all she could do.

"I hope you'll be happy!"

With quick decision she tossed him in the air.

The bird gave one helpless chirp of surprise and terror at the strange
new world, fluttered in a circle, spread his wings at last and was gone.

The girl brushed her tears away and returned to her grandmother's side.
The gravel was cutting her feet. Her shoes were utterly unfit for
running. She would rush back and get a pair of the boys' strong ones.
She had worn them before.

"Wait, grandma!" she shouted. "I must change my shoes!"

Back into the house she plunged and found the shoes. Seeing the house
still standing, she thought of other things she might need, grasped her
tooth brushes and thrust them in her corset. She would certainly need a
comb. She added that--a powder bag and lace collar lying on the bureau
were also saved. Her hair was tumbling down. She thought of hairpins and
tucking comb and added them.

Her grandmother in alarm came back to find her. They decided between
them to fill a pillow case with little things they would certainly need.

There was a lull in the shelling. Jennie's maids rushed back in terror
at being left alone.

The guns again opened with redoubled fury. Still bent on saving
something Jennie grabbed two soiled underskirts and an old cloak and
once more dragged her grandmother to the door.

       *     *     *     *     *

Five big shells sailed squarely over the house at the same moment. They
seemed to swing in circles, spiral-shaped like corkscrews. The dull whiz
and swish of their flight made the most blood-curdling unearthly noise.
Her grandmother fumbled at the door trying to turn the bolt of the
unused lock.

"Don't fool with that door, grandma!" Jennie cried--"run--run--you'll be
killed."

"I won't run!" the old lady said with firm decision. "I'll go down there
and tell those cowards what I think of their firing on women and
children--"

A big shell whizzed past the house and grandma jumped behind a pillar.
She was painfully deaf to human speech--but the whiz of that shell found
her nerves. They ran now without looking back--ran at least for a
hundred yards until the poor old lady could run no more and then walked
as rapidly as possible.

They were at last on the main country road, leading out of town.
Hurrying terror-stricken people, young, old, black and white, were
passing them every moment now.

A mile and a half out her grandmother broke down completely. A gentleman
passing in a buggy took pity on her gray hairs and lifted her to the
seat by his side while his own little ones crouched at her feet.

Jennie waved her hand as they drove off:

"I'll find you somewhere, grandma dear--don't worry!"

Another mile she trudged with Mandy and Lucy clinging to her skirts and
then sat down to rest. Her nerves were slowly recovering their poise and
she began to laugh at the funny sights the terror-stricken people
presented at every turn.

A cart approached piled high with household goods.

"Let's ride, Mandy!" Jennie cried.

"Yassam, dat's what I says, too," the little black maid eagerly agreed.

The cart belonged to a neighbor. It was driven by an old negro man.

"Let us ride, uncle!" Jennie called.

The old man pulled his reins quickly and laughed good-naturedly.

"Dat you shall, Honey. De name er Gawd, ter see Miss Jennie Barton
settin' here in dis dirty road!"

He helped them climb to seats on the top of his load. Jennie found a
berth between a flour barrel and mattress, while Mandy sat astride of an
enormous bundle of bed clothes. Lucy scrambled up beside the driver.

The hot sun was pouring its fierce rays down without mercy. The old
negro pulled a faded umbrella from beneath his seat, raised it, and
handed it to Jennie with a grand bow.

"Thank you, uncle. You certainly are good to us!"

"Yassam--yassam--I wish I could do mo', honey chile. De ve'y idee er dem
slue-footed Yankees er shellin' our town an' scerin' all our ladies ter
death. Dey gwine ter pay fur all dis 'fore dey git through."

Three miles out they began to overtake the main body of the fugitives
who escaped at the first mad rush. Hundreds of bedraggled women and
children were toiling along the dust-covered road in the blistering sun,
some bare-headed, some with hats on, some with street clothes, others
with their morning wrappers just as they had fled from their unfinished
breakfast.

Little girls of eight and ten and twelve were wandering along through
the suffocating dust alone.

Jennie called to one she knew:

"Where's your mother, child?"

The girl shook her dust-powdered head.

"I don't know, m'am."

"Where are you going?"

"To walk on till I find her."

Her mother was wandering with distracted cries among the crowds a mile
in the rear looking for a nursing baby she had lost in the excitement.

Jennie's eyes kindled at the sight of faithful negroes everywhere
lugging the treasures of their mistresses. She began asking them what
they were carrying just to hear the answer that always came with a touch
of loyal pride.

"Dese is my missy's clothes! I sho weren't gwine let dem Yankees steal
dem!"

"Didn't you save any of your own things?"

"Didn't have time ter git mine!"

They came to a guerilla camp. Men and horses were resting on either side
of the road. Some of them were carrying water to their horses or to the
women who cooked about their camp fires. The scene looked like a monster
barbecue. These irregular troops of the South were friends in time of
need to-day.

They crowded the road, asking for news and commenting freely on the
shelling of the city.

A rough-looking fellow pushed his way to Jennie's cart.

"When did they begin firin'?"

"Just after breakfast."

Yesterday she would have resented the familiar tones in which this
uncouth illiterate countryman spoke without the formality of an
introduction. In this hour of common peril he was a Knight entering the
lists wearing her colors.

He didn't mince words in expressing his opinions.

"It's your own fault if you've saved nothing. The people in Baton Rouge
must have been damned fools not to know trouble wuz comin' with them
gunboats lyin' thar with their big-mouthed cannon gapin' right into the
streets. If the men had had any sense women wouldn't a been drove into
the woods like this--"

"But they had no warning. They began to shell us without a minute's
notice--"

His rough fist closed and his heavy jaw came together with a grinding
sound.

"Waal, you're ruined--so am I--and my brothers and all our people, too.
There's nothin' left now except to die--and I'll do it!"

The girl clapped her hands.

"I wish I could go with you!"

He turned back toward his camp fire with a shake of his unkempt head.

"Die fighting for us!" Jennie cried.

He waved his black powder-stained hand:

"That I will, little girl!"

The rough figure rose in the unconscious dignity with which he waved his
arm and pledged his word to fight to the death. War had leveled all
ranks.

The talk on the road was all of burning homes, buildings demolished,
famine, murder, and death.

Jennie suddenly found herself singing a lot of Methodist Camp Meeting
hymns with an utterly foolish happiness surging through her heart.

She led off with "_Better days are coming._" Mandy was still too scared
to sing the chorus of this first hymn but she joined softly in the next.
It was one of her favorites:

"_I hope to die shoutin'--the Lord will provide._"

The old man driving the cart kept time with a strange undertone of
interpolation all his own. The one he loved best he repeated again and
again.

"I'm a runnin'--a runnin' up ter glory!"

How could she be happy amid a scene of such desolation and suffering?
She tried to reproach herself and somehow couldn't be sorry. A vision of
something more wonderful than houses and land, goods and chattels,
slaves and systems of government, had made her heart beat with sudden
joy and her eyes sparkle with happiness. It was only the picture of a
dark slender young fellow who had never spoken a word of love that
flashed before her. And yet the vision had wrought a spell that
transformed the world.

The guns no longer echoed behind them. A courier came dashing from the
city at sunset asking the people to return to their homes.

Two old men had rowed out to the war ships during the bombardment. They
called to the commander of the flagship as they pushed their skiff
alongside:

"There are no men in town, sir--you're only killing women and children!"

The commander leaned over the rail of his gunboat.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen. I thought, of course, your town had been
evacuated before your men were fools enough to fire on my marines. I've
shelled your streets to intimidate them."

The firing ceased. The order to shell the city had been caused by four
guerillas firing on a yawl which was about to land without a flag of
truce. Their volley killed and wounded three.

"These four men," shouted the elders from the skiff, "were the only
soldiers in town!"

One woman had been killed and three wounded. Twenty houses had been
pierced by shells and two little children drowned in their flight. A
baby had been born in the woods and died of the exposure.

It was three o'clock next day before Jennie reached home, her
grandmother utterly oblivious of her own discomforts but complaining
bitterly because she could hear nothing from the old Colonel who had
found it impossible to leave New Orleans. They had not been separated so
long since the Mexican war. Jennie comforted her as best she could, put
her to bed, and took refuge in a tub of cold water.

The dusty road had peeled the skin off both her heels but no
matter--thank God, she was at home again.

Orders were issued now from the Federal commandant for the government of
the town. No person was permitted to leave without a pass. All families
were prohibited to leave--except persons separated by the former
exodus. Cannon were planted in every street. Five thousand soldiers had
been thrown into the city, General Williams commanding. Any house
unoccupied by its owners would be used by the soldiers.

Jennie decided to stick to the house at all hazards until forced to go.
She walked down town to the post office in the vain hope a letter might
have come through from New Orleans to her grandmother. Soldiers were
lounging in the streets in squads of forty and fifty. A crowd was
playing cards in the ditch and swearing as they fought the flies. Crowds
of soldiers relieved from duty were marching aimlessly along the street.
Some were sleeping on the pavements, others sprawled flat on their backs
in the sun, heads pillowed in each other's lap.

To her surprise a letter addressed in the familiar handwriting of her
brother was handed out at the post office by the young soldier in
charge.

The seal had been broken.

Jennie's eyes flashed with rage.

"How dare you open and read my letter, sir!" she cried with indignation.

"I'm sorry, Miss," he answered politely. "We're only soldiers. Our
business is to obey orders."

Jennie blushed furiously.

"Of course, I beg your pardon. I wasn't thinking when I spoke."

She read the letter with eager interest:


    "Dearest little Sister:

    "You must bring grandmother to New Orleans at the earliest possible
    opportunity. Grandpa can't get out. He is as restless and unhappy as
    a caged tiger. Do come quickly. If you need money let me know. Hoping
    soon to see you. With a heart full of love,

    "Your big brother,

    "Roger."


It would be best. Her grandmother would be safe there in any event. If
our troops again captured New Orleans she would be in the house of the
South. If the Federal army still held it, she was at home in her
grandson's house.

The wildest rumors were flying thick. No passes would be issued to leave
the city on any pretext. Beauregard was reported about to move his army
from Corinth to attack Baton Rouge.

The troops were massing for the defense of the city. The Federal cavalry
had scoured the country for ten miles in search of guerillas.

Through all the turmoil and confusion of the wildly disordered house
Jennie kept repeating the foolish old hymn in soft monotones:

"_I hope to die shouting--the Lord will provide!_"

General Williams sent a guard to protect the house. A file of six
soldiers marched to the gate and their commander saluted:

"Madam, the pickets await your orders."

General Williams had met her brother in New Orleans. His loyalty was
enough to mark the beautiful old homestead for protection.

Jennie laughed. It was a funny situation were it not so tragic. Her
father and three brothers fighting these men with tooth and nail while
an officer saluted and put his soldiers at her command.

Butler's men were arresting the aged citizens of Baton Rouge now.
Without charge or warrant they were hustled on the transports, hurried
to New Orleans and thrown into jail. Jennie ground her white teeth with
rage:

"Oh, to be ruled by such a wretch!"

From the first day he had set foot on the soil of Louisiana Butler had
made himself thoroughly loathed. His order reflecting on the character
of the women of New Orleans had not only shocked the South, it had
roused the indignation of the civilized world.

A proud and sensitive people had no redress.

One of the first six citizens sentenced to prison in Fort Jackson was
Dr. Craven, the Methodist minister. A soldier nosing about his house at
night had heard the preacher at family prayers. He had asked God's
blessing on the cause of the South while kneeling in prayer. When Jennie
heard of it, she cried through her tears:

"Show me a dungeon deep enough to keep me from praying for my brothers
who are fighting for us!"

The speech of Butler which had gone farthest and sank deepest into the
outraged souls of the people of Southern Louisiana was his defiant
utterance to Solomon Benjamin on the threat of England to intervene in
our struggle:

"Let England or France dare to try it," Butler swore in a towering rage,
"and I'll be damned if I don't arm every negro in the South and make
them cut the throats of every man, woman and child in it. I'll make them
lay this country waste with fire and sword and leave it desolate."

That Butler was capable of using his enormous power as the Military
Governor of Louisiana to accomplish this purpose, no one who had any
knowledge of the man or his methods doubted for a moment.

On the slightest pretexts he arrested whom he pleased, male and female,
and threw them into prison. Aged men who had incurred his displeasure
were confined at hard labor with ball and chain. Men were imprisoned in
Fort Jackson, whose only offense was the giving of medicine to sick
Confederate soldiers. The wife of a former member of Congress was
arrested and sent to Ship Island in the Gulf of Mexico. Her only offense
was that she laughed at some foolish thing that marked the progress of
a funeral procession through the streets of the city.

On his office wall in the St. Charles Hotel Butler had inscribed in huge
letters:


    "THERE IS NO DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A HE AND A SHE ADDER IN THEIR VENOM."


His henchmen were allowed to indulge their rapacity at will. The homes
of distinguished men and women were seized on any pretext and turned
into disreputable establishments which were run for gain. They
appropriated the contents of wine cellars, plundered the wardrobes and
dining-rooms of ladies and gentlemen to their hearts' content. Fines
were levied and collected in many cases where it could be secured. Those
who refused to pay were given the choice of ball and chain. A thriving
trade in cotton was opened against the positive orders of the Washington
Government. Butler's own brother was the thrifty banker and broker of
this corrupt transaction.

Property was "confiscated" right and left, provisions and military
stores were exchanged for cotton. The chief of this régime of organized
plunder lived in daily fear of assassination. It was said he wore secret
armor. He never ventured out except heavily guarded. In his office
several pistols lay beside him and the chair on which his visitor was
seated was chained to the wall to prevent someone suddenly rising and
smashing his brains out.

There were ten thousand soldiers in Baton Rouge now though the
anticipated attack of the Confederates had not materialized. Perhaps
they had heard of the heavy reënforcements in time. The poor fellows
from the cool hills and mountains of the North were dying in hundreds in
the blistering July sun of the South. They didn't know how to take care
of themselves and their officers didn't seem to care. Butler was a
lawyer and a politician first--a general only when the navy had done his
work for him.

Jennie saw hundreds of these sick and dying men lying on their backs in
the broiling sun, waiting for wagons to carry them to the hospital. One
had died absolutely alone without a human being near to notice or to
care. The girl's heart was sick with anguish at the sight of scores too
weak to lift their hands to fight the ravenous flies swarming in their
eyes and months. All day and all night Baumstark, the little undertaker,
was working with half a dozen aides making coffins.

Day and night they died like dogs with no human help extended. The
Catholic priest who had not been arrested as yet, passing among them in
search of his own, bent for a moment over a dying soldier and spoke in
friendly tones. The poor fellow burst into tears and with his last gasp
cried:

"Thank God! I have heard _one_ kind word before I die!"

The Federal pickets were driven in at last, and the guard around the
house withdrawn. General Williams insisted that Jennie and her
grandmother find a place of refuge more secure than the coming
battlefield.

They thanked the General but decided to brave battle at home to the
terrors of another flight.

The little band of twenty-five hundred Confederates struck the town like
a thunderbolt and fought with desperation against the combined fleet and
heavy garrison. They drove the Federals at first in panic to the water's
edge and the shelter of the cannon until a Maine regiment barred the
way, fighting like demons, and rallied the fleeing mob. When the smoke
of battle lifted the gray army had gone with the loss of only sixty-five
killed and a hundred and fifty wounded.

The worst calamity which befell Baton Rouge was the death of General
Williams, the gentlemanly and considerate Federal commander.

Butler's man who took his place lacked both his soldierly training and
his fine scruples as a Christian gentleman. There were no more guards
placed around "Rebel" homes.

The marauder came with swift sure tread on the heels of victory.

A squad of officers and men smashed in the front door at Fairview
without so much as a knock for signal. To the shivering servant who
stood in the hall the leader called:

"Where are the damned secesh women? We know they've hid in here and
we'll make them dance for hiding--"

Jennie suddenly appeared in the library door, her face white, her hand
concealed in the pocket of her dress.

"There are but two women here, gentlemen," she began steadily--"my
grandmother and I. The house is at your mercy--"

The man in front gave a short laugh and advanced on the girl. He stopped
short in his tracks at the sight of the glitter of her eye and changed
his mind.

"All right, look out for the old hen. We'll let you know when it's time
to pick up the pieces."

Jennie returned to the library and slipped her arm about her
grandmother's neck standing beside her chair while she set her little
jaw firmly and waited for the end.

They rushed the dining-room first and split its side-board open with
axes--fine old carved mahogany pieces so hardened with age, the ax
blades chipped from the blows as if striking marble. The china was
smashed chests were laid open with axes, and their contents of silver
removed.

They rushed the parlors and stripped them of every ornament. Jennie's
piano they dragged into the center of the floor, smashed its ivory keys
and split its rosewood case into splinters. An officer slashed the
portrait of Mrs. Barton into shreds and hurled the frame on the floor.
Every portrait on the walls shared a similar fate.

Upstairs the fun grew wild. Mrs. Barton's beautiful old mahogany armoir
whose single door was a fine French mirror was shivered with a blow from
a sledge hammer, emptied of every article and the shelves splintered
with axes. They broke every bureau and case of drawers, scattered their
contents on the floor, selecting what suited their fancy. Every rag of
the boys' clothes, the old Colonel's and Senator Barton's were tied in
bundles.

They entered Jennie's room, broke every mirror, tore down the rods from
the bed and ripped the net into shreds. The desk was split, letters
turned out and scattered over the floor. A light sewing machine was sent
below for a souvenir. The heavy one was broken with an ax.

From Jennie's bureau they tore a pink flowered muslin, stuck it on a
bayonet and paraded the room, the officers striking it with their swords
shouting their dull insults:

"I've struck the damned secesh!"

"The proud little hellion!"

"That's the time I cut her!"

One seized her bonnet, put it on, tied the ribbon under his chin and
amid the shouts of his half-drunken companions, paraded the house, and
wore it into the streets when he left.

When the noise had died away and the house was still at last, Jennie
came forth from the little room in which she had taken refuge, leading
her grandmother. Hand in hand they viewed the wreck.

The thing that hurt the girl most of all was the ruin of her desk--her
letters from Dick Welford, the boys, her father and mother, the diary
she had kept with the intimate secrets of her young heart--all had been
opened, thumbed and thrown over the floor. The little perfumed notes she
had received from her first beaux--invitations to buggy rides, concerts,
and parties, and all of them beginning, "Compliments of"--had been
profaned by dirty greasy fingers. Some were torn into little bits and
scattered over the room, others were ground into the floor by hobnails
in heavy boot heels.

Her last letter from Socola was stolen--to be turned over to the
commander for inspection no doubt. And then she broke into a foolish
laugh. The strain was over. What did it matter--this clutter of goods
and chattels on the floor--she was young--it was the morning of life and
she had met her fate!

In a sudden rush of emotion she threw her arms around her grandmother's
neck and cried:

"Thank the good Lord, grandma, they didn't shoot you!"

The sweet old lady was strangely quiet, and her eyes had a queer set
look. She bore the strain without a break until they entered the wreck
of the stately parlor. She saw the slashed portrait of the Colonel lying
on the floor and sank in a heap beside it without a word or sound.

Jennie succeeded at last in obtaining a pass to New Orleans, consigning
the body to Judge Roger Barton. She stepped on board the little steamer
absolutely alone. Every servant had gone to the camp of the soldiers or
had entered the service of the crowd of marauders who decided to return
to Fairview and occupy the house.

Jennie had gone through so much the tired spirit refused to respond to
further sensations. She obeyed orders in a dumb mechanical way.

The officers at New Orleans opened her baggage and searched it without
ceremony, or the slightest show of interest on her part.

They were administering the "oath" of loyalty to the United States. She
would have to turn Yankee to do this last duty of love. She covered her
face with her hands and prayed breathlessly for the boys and for the
Confederacy while the words of the oath were mumbled by the officer--

"So help you God?"

Jennie's only answer was to close her eyes and pray harder.

"So help you God?" the officer shouted again.

The girl lifted her tear-stained face and nodded, closed her eyes again
and prayed.

"Help them, O God,--my brothers Tom and Jimmie and Billy and Dick
Welford--and--and the man I love--save them and their cause for Jesus'
sake--I don't know what they made me say--I only did it for poor
grandpa's sake--I didn't mean it. Forgive me, dear Lord, and save my
people!"

The Judge met them with a carriage and hearse. He slipped his strong arm
around the girl, drew her close and kissed the waving brown hair again
and again.

"Dear little sis--you're at home now," he said softly.

A shiver ran through her figure and she sat bolt upright.

"No, Big Brother," she answered firmly, "I'm not. New Orleans is in the
hands of the enemy. I'd set it on fire and wipe it from the face of the
earth to-morrow if I could sweep old Ben Butler and his men into the
bottomless pit with its ashes--"

She paused at the look of pain on his face.

"Except you--dear--you're my brother, always my dear Big Brother and
I'll love you forever. What you think right is right--for you. You are
for the Union, because you believe it's right. I honor you for being
true to your convictions--"

"You can never know what it has cost me--Honey--"

She drew him down and kissed him tenderly.

"Yes, I do know--and it's all right--even if you draw your sword and
meet us in battle--you're fighting for the right as God shows it to
you--but I've just one favor to ask--"

"I'll do anything on earth for you I can--you know that--"

She looked at him steadily a moment in silence and spoke in hard cold
tones.

"Get me out of New Orleans inside the Confederate lines--anywhere--a
guerilla camp--a swamp--anywhere, you understand. I'll find my way to
Richmond--"

He pressed her hand in silence and then softly answered:

"I understand, dear--and I'll arrange it for you. I'll hire a schooner
to set you across Lake Pontchartrain."

The old Colonel looked on the face of his dead wife and went to bed. He
made no complaints. He asked no questions. The book of life was closed.
Within a week he died as peacefully as a child.

Ten days later Jennie had passed the Federal lines and was whirling
through the Carolinas, her soul aflame with a new deathless courage.



CHAPTER XXVI

THE IRREPARABLE LOSS


Jefferson Davis not only refused to remove Albert Sidney Johnston from
his command in answer to the clamor of his critics, he wrote his general
letters expressing such unbounded confidence in his genius that he
inspired him to begin the most brilliant campaign on which the South had
yet entered.

Grant, flushed with victory, had encamped his army along the banks of
the Tennessee, then at flood and easily navigable for gunboats and
transports. The bulldog fighter of Fort Donelson had allowed his maxim
of war to lead him into a situation which the eye of Johnston was quick
to see.

Grant's famous motto was:

"Never be over anxious about what your enemy is going to do to you; make
him anxious about what you are going to do to him."

In accordance with this principle the Union General was busy preparing
his Grand Army for a triumphant march into the far South. He was
drilling and training his men for their attack on the Confederates at
Corinth. His army was not in a position for defense. It was, in fact,
strung out into a long line of camps for military instruction, preparing
to advance on the foe he had grown to despise.

Sherman's division occupied a position near Shiloh Church. A half mile
further was B. M. Prentiss with newly arrived regiments, one of which
still had no ammunition. Near the river McClernand was camped behind
Sherman and Hurlbert still farther back. Near them lay W. H. L.
Wallace's division, and at Crump's Landing, Lew Wallace was stationed
with six thousand men.

Grant himself was nine miles down the river at Savannah, a point at
which he expected to form a junction with Buell's army approaching from
the east.

Grant sat at breakfast on a beautiful Sunday morning quietly sipping his
coffee while he planned his conquest of the vast territory which now lay
at the mercy of his army the moment the juncture should be effected.

With swift stealthy tread, Johnston was moving through the dense forests
of the wild region to the south. His army had been rapidly recruited to
approximately forty thousand effective men. Beauregard had been detached
from the East and was second in command.

The night before this beautiful spring Sabbath morning the Confederate
army had bivouacked within two miles of the Federal front. Johnston had
so baffled the scouts and reconnoitering parties of Grant that his
presence was not suspected.

In the gray mists of the dawn his divisions silently deployed and formed
in line of battle. General Leonidas Polk on the left, Braxton Bragg in
the center, William J. Hardee on the right and John C. Breckinridge in
reserve.

The men were alert and eager to avenge the defeats of Forts Henry and
Donelson. With chuckles of exhilaration they had listened that night to
the rolling of the drums in Grant's camps.

A mist from the river valley hung low over the fresh budding trees. With
swift elastic tread the gray lines moved forward through the shadows of
the dawn.

So complete was the surprise that not a picket was encountered. Not a
single company of cavalry guarded the flanks of the sleeping army.

The mists lifted and the sheen of white tents could be seen through the
trees.

Only a few of the blue soldiers had risen. They were washing and cooking
their morning meal. Some had sat down to eat at generous mess-chests.
Thousands were yet soundly sleeping in their tents.

On Prentiss' division from flank to flank with sudden fury the gray host
fell. Even the camp sentinels were taken completely by surprise and
barely had time to discharge their guns. On their heels rushed the
Confederates cheering madly.

Officers and men were killed in their beds and many fled in confusion
without their arms. Hildebrand's brigade of Sherman's division was
engulfed by the cyclone and swept from existence, appearing no more in
the battle.

In vain the broken lines of the Federal camps were formed and re-formed.
Charge followed charge in swift and terrible succession.

By half past ten o'clock the Confederates had captured and demolished
three great military encampments and taken three batteries of artillery.
Storehouses and munitions of war in rich profusion were captured at
every turn. The demoralized Union army was retreating at every point.

When Grant reached the field, the lines both of attack and defense were
lost in confusion. The battle raged in groups. Sometimes mere squads of
men surged back and forth over the broken, tangled, blood-soaked arena,
now in ravines and swamps, now for a moment emerging into clearings and
then buried again in the deep woods.

The stolid Federal commander sat his horse, keen-eyed, vigilant and
imperturbable in the storm of ruin. His early efforts counted for little
in the blind confusion and turmoil of his crushed army. Lew Wallace had
been ordered to the field in post haste. The bridge across Owl Creek,
held by Sherman in the morning, was now in the hands of the
Confederates. Wallace marched and countermarched his army in a vain
effort to reach the field.

At two o'clock Johnston had brought up his reserves and ordered the
entire gray army to charge and sweep the field. His fine face flushed
with victory, he rose in his saddle, addressed a few eloquent words to
Breckinridge's division, placed himself at the head of his army and his
sword flashed in the sunlight as he shouted to the line:

"Charge!"

Dick Welford had been detached from Forrest's cavalry on staff duty by
his Chief's side. Forrest had been marked by Johnston for promotion for
his work at Donelson, and Dick had grown to worship his gallant
Commanding General. He had watched his plan of battle grow with boyish
pride. He knew his Chief was going to crush the two divisions of Grant's
army in detail before they could be united. And he had done it. Such
complete and overwhelming victory would lift the South from her slough
of despair.

With a shout of triumph he spurred his horse neck to neck with his
General.

At two o'clock the blue lines were still rolling back on the river in
hopeless confusion, the gray lines cheering and charging and crushing
without mercy.

A ball pierced Johnston's right leg. Dick saw his hand drop the rein for
an instant and a look of pain sweep his handsome face.

"You're wounded, sir?" he asked.

"It's nothing, boy," he answered, "only a flesh cut--drive--drive--drive
them!"

Without pause he rode on and on.

He was riding the white horse of Death--an artery had been cut and his
precious life was slowly but surely ebbing away.

He swayed in his saddle and Dick dashed forward:

"General, your wound must be dressed!"

Governor Harris of Tennessee, his aide, observed him at the same moment
and spurred his horse to his side.

The General turned his dim eyes to the Governor and gasped:

"I fear I'm mortally wounded--"

He reeled in his saddle and would have fallen had not Dick caught him
and tenderly lowered him to the ground.

The brave war Governor of Tennessee received the falling Commander in
his arms and helped Dick bear him a short distance from the field into a
deep ravine.

Dick took the flask of whiskey from his pocket and pressed it to his
lips in vain. A moment and he was dead.

In a passion of grief the boy threw his arms around his beloved Chief
and called through his tears and groans:

"My God, General, you can't die--you mustn't die now! Don't you hear the
boys shouting? They're driving Grant's army into the river. They've
avenged Donelson!--General--for God's sake speak to me--say you won't
die--you can't, you can't--Oh, Lord God, save his precious life!--"

No sign or answer came. His breast had ceased to move. The Governor
tenderly lifted the grief-stricken boy and sent him with his General's
last message.

"Find Beauregard and tell him he is in command of the field. Not a word
of the death of the Chief until his victory is complete."

Dick saluted and sprang into the saddle.

"I understand, sir."

[Illustration: "Dick saluted and sprang into the saddle--'I understand,
sir'"]

It was late in the afternoon before he located General Beauregard and
delivered the fateful news.

The victorious Confederate army had furiously pressed its charge.
Johnston's word had passed from command to command.

"Forward--forward--let every order be forward!"

Everything had yielded at last before them. From camp to camp, from
rallying point to rallying point the Union hosts had been hurled,
division piling on division in wild confusion.

Driven headlong, the broken ranks were thrown in panic on the banks of
the river. Thousands crouched in ravines and sought shelter under the
steep bluffs of the river banks. Trampling mobs were struggling in vain
to board the transports and cross the river. The Federal reserve line
had been completely crushed, and the entire army, driven from the field
they had held that morning, were huddled in a confused mass of a half
mile around the Pittsburg Landing.

The next charge of the Confederates would hurl the whole army into the
river or they must surrender.

The gunboats had opened in vain. They were throwing their shells a mile
beyond the Confederate lines where they fell harmlessly.

The Confederate division commanders were gathering their hosts for the
last charge at sunset. There was yet an hour of daylight in which to end
the struggle with the complete annihilation of the Union army. Down
under the steep banks of the river's edge the demoralized remnants of
the shattered divisions were already stacking their arms to surrender.
They had made their last stand.

General Bragg turned to his aide:

"Tell Major Stewart of the twenty-first Alabama to advance and drive the
enemy into the river!"

The aide saluted.

"And carry that order along the whole line!"

The aide put spurs to his horse to execute the command, when a courier
dashed up from General Beauregard's headquarters.

"Direct me to General Bragg!"

The aide pointed to the General and rode back with Beauregard's courier.

"General Beauregard orders that you cease fighting and rest your men
to-night."

Bragg turned his rugged dark face on the messenger with a scowl.

"You have promulgated this order to the army?"

"I have, sir--"

"If you had not, I would not obey it--"

He paused and threw one hand high above his head.

"Our victory has been thrown to the winds!"

The sudden and inexplicable abandonment of this complete and
overwhelming success was one of the most remarkable events in the
history of modern warfare.

The men bivouacked on the field.

The blunder was fatal and irretrievable. Even while the order was being
given to cease firing the advance guard of Buell's army was already
approaching the other bank of the river. Twenty-five thousand fresh men
under cover of the darkness began to pour their long lines into position
to save Grant's shattered ranks.

As night fell another misfortune was on the way to obscure the star of
Beauregard. His soldiers, elated with their wonderful victory, broke
into disorderly plundering of the captured Federal camps. Except for a
few thousand sternly disciplined troops under Bragg's command the whole
Southern army suddenly degenerated into a mob of roving plunderers, mad
with folly. In the rich stores of the Federal army thousands of gallons
of wines and liquors were found. Hundreds of gray soldiers became
intoxicated. While scenes of the wildest revelry and disorder were being
enacted around the camp fires, Buell's army was silently crossing the
river under cover of the night and forming in line of battle for
to-morrow's baptism of blood.

Albert Sidney Johnston's body lay cold in death--and the army of the
victorious South had no head. Better had there been no second general of
full rank in the field. Either of Johnston's division commanders, Bragg,
Hardee, Polk or Breckinridge, would have driven Grant's panic-stricken
mob into the river within an hour if let alone.

But the little hero of Bull Run of the flower-decked tent halted his men
to rest for the night at the very hour of the day when Napoleon ordered
his first charge on one of his immortal battlefields.

Beauregard gave his foe ample time for breakfast next morning. The sun
was an hour high in the heavens before the battle was joined.

The genius of Johnston had surprised Grant and rolled his army back on
the river--never pausing for a moment to give him time to rally his
broken ranks.

But when Beauregard leisurely led his disorganized army next morning
against Grant's new lines, there was no shock, no surprise--the line was
ready. His panic-stricken men had been reorganized and massed in strong
defensive position and reënforced by the divisions of Generals Nelson,
McCook, Crittenden, and Thomas of Buell's army--twenty-five thousand
strong.

Lew Wallace's division had also effected the junction and the Federal
front presented a solid wall of fifty-three thousand determined men
against whom Beauregard must now throw his little army of thirty
thousand effective fighters.

The assault was made with dash and courage. For four hours the battle
raged with fury. The shattered regiments that had been surprised and
crushed the day before, yielded at one time before the onslaughts of the
Confederates. By noon Beauregard had sent into the shambles his last
brigade and reserves and shortly afterwards gave his first order to
withdraw his army.

Breckinridge's division covered the retreat and there was no attempt at
pursuit. Grant was only too glad to save his army. The first great
battle of the war had been fought and won by the genius of the South's
commander and its results thrown away by the hero of Bull Run.

Never was the wisdom of a great leader more thoroughly vindicated than
was Jefferson Davis in the record Albert Sidney Johnston made at Shiloh.
The men who had been loudest in demanding his removal stood dumb before
the story of his genius.

The death list of this battle sent a shiver of horror through the North
and the South. All other battles of the war were but skirmishes to this.

The Confederate losses in killed, wounded and missing were ten thousand
six hundred and ninety-nine. At Bull Run the combined armies of Joseph
E. Johnston and Beauregard lost but one thousand nine hundred and
sixty-four men.

Grant's army lost thirteen thousand one hundred and sixty-two in killed,
wounded and prisoners. McDowell at Bull Run had lost but two thousand
seven hundred, and yet was removed from his command.

The rage against Grant in the North was unbounded. The demand for his
removal was so determined, so universal, so persistent, it was necessary
for Abraham Lincoln to bow to it temporarily.

Lincoln positively refused to sacrifice his fighting General for his
first error, but sent Halleck into the field as Commander-in-Chief and
left Grant in command of his division.

The bulldog fighter of the North learned his lesson at Shiloh. The South
never again caught him napping.

Great as the losses were to the North they were as nothing to the
disaster which this bloody field brought to the Confederacy. Albert
Sidney Johnston alive was equal to an army of a hundred thousand
men--dead; his loss was irreparable.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE LIGHT THAT FAILED


The struggle which Jefferson Davis was making to parry the force of the
mortal blows delivered by the United States Navy at last gave promise of
startling success.

The fight to establish the right of the Confederacy to arm its allies
under letters of marque and reprisal had been won by the Southern
President. The first armed vessel sailing under the orders of Davis
which was captured by the navy had brought the question to sharp issue.
The Washington Government had proclaimed the vessels flying the
Confederate flag under letters of marque to be pirates and subject to
the treatment of felons.

The Captain and the crew of the _Savannah_ when captured had been put in
irons and condemned to death as pirates. If the Washington Government
could make good this daring assumption, the power of the Confederacy to
damage the commerce of the North would be practically destroyed at a
blow.

Davis met the crisis with firmness. He selected an equal number of
Federal prisoners of war in Richmond and threw them into a dungeon below
Libby Prison. He dispatched a letter to Washington whose language could
not be misunderstood.


    "Dare to execute an officer or sailor of the _Savannah_, and I will
    put to death as felons an equal number of Federal officers and men.
    I have placed them in close confinement and ordered similar treatment
    to that accorded our prisoners from the captured vessel."


Socola received a message summoning him to the house on Church Hill.
A courier had arrived from Washington. The Government must know
immediately if this threat were idle or genuine. If Jefferson Davis
should dare to execute these thirteen officers and men, the
administration could not resist the storm of indignant protest which
would overwhelm it from the North.

Socola read the cipher dispatch by the dim light of the candle in his
attic and turned to Miss Van Lew.

"My information in the State Department is of the most positive kind.
The prisoners have been put in the dungeon set apart for condemned
felons and they but wait the word of the execution of the men from the
_Savannah_, to be led to certain death. It may be talk. We must know.
Apply for permission to visit the condemned men and minister to their
comfort--"

"At once," was the prompt response. "I've made friends with Captain
Todd, the Commandant of Libby Prison; I'll succeed."

Crazy Bet appeared at Libby Prison next morning with a basket of flowers
for the condemned men. Captain Todd humored her mania. Poor old
abolition fanatic, she could do no harm. She was too frank and outspoken
to be dangerous. Besides, it was a war of brothers. His own sister was
the wife of Abraham Lincoln. These condemned men were the best blood of
the North. It was a pitiful tragedy.

Miss Van Lew, with a market basket on her arm, watched for Socola's
appearance from the office of the Secretary of State. The young clerk
was walking slowly down Main Street and turned into an unused narrow
road at the foot of the hill.

Crazy Bet, swinging the basket and humming a song, passed him without
turning her head.

"It's true," she whispered quickly, "all horribly true. Thirteen of the
finest officers of the Union army have been condemned to death the
moment the crew of the _Savannah_ are executed--among them Colonel
Cochrane of New York and Colonel Paul Revere of Massachusetts. The
dispatch must go to-night."

"To-night," was the short answer.

Within an hour Socola's courier was on his way to Washington with a
message which unlocked the prison doors of the condemned men on both
sides of the line.

Abraham Lincoln stoutly opposed a repetition of the effort to treat
Confederate prisoners as outlaws, no matter where taken by land or sea.
Davis had established the legality of his letters of marque and reprisal
beyond question.

The United States Navy in the first flood of its victories made another
false step which brought to the South an hour of brilliant hope. Captain
Wilkes overhauled a British steamer carrying the royal mail and took
from her decks by force the Commissioners Mason and Slidell whom Davis
had dispatched to Europe to plead for the recognition of the
Confederacy. The North had gone wild with joy over the act and Congress
voted Wilkes the thanks of the nation as its hero.

Great Britain demanded an apology and the restoration of the prisoners,
put her navy on a war footing and dispatched a division of her army to
Canada to strike the North by land as well as sea.

The hard common sense of Abraham Lincoln rescued the National Government
from a delicate and dangerous situation. Lincoln apologized to Great
Britain, restored the Confederate Commissioners and returned with
redoubled energy to the prosecution of the war. In answer to the shouts
of demagogues and the reproaches of both friend and foe, the homely
rail-splitter from the West had a simple answer.

"One war at a time."

Jefferson Davis watched this threat of British invasion with breathless
intensity. He saw the hope of thus breaking the power of the navy fade
with sickening disappointment.

There was one more hope. The hull of the _Merrimac_ had been raised from
the bottom of the harbor of Norfolk and the work of transforming her
into a giant iron-clad ship capable of carrying a fighting crew of three
hundred men had been completed, though her engines were slow.

But the enthusiastic men set to this task by Davis had accomplished
wonders. Their reports to him had raised high hopes of a sensation. If
this new monster of the sea should succeed single handed in destroying
the fleet of six vessels lying in Hampton Roads, the naval warfare of
the world would be revolutionized in a day and overtures for peace might
be within sight.

The Norfolk newspapers, under instructions from the Confederate
Commandant, pronounced the experiment of the _Merrimac_ a stupid and
fearful failure. Her engines were useless. Her steering gear wouldn't
work. Her armament was so heavy she couldn't be handled. These papers
were easily circulated at Newport News and Old Point Comfort among the
officers and men of the Federal fleet.

The men who had built the strange craft knew she was anything but a
failure. With eager, excited hands her crew finished the last touch of
her preparations and with her guns shotted she slowly steamed out of the
harbor of Norfolk accompanied by two saucy little improvised gunboats,
the _Beaufort_ and the _Raleigh_.

Her speed was not more than five knots an hour and she steered so badly
the _Beaufort_ was compelled to pull her into the main current of the
channel more than once.

The Federal squadron lay off Newport News, the _Congress_ and the
_Cumberland_ well out in the stream, the _Minnesota_, _Roanoke_ and _St.
Lawrence_ further down toward Fortress Monroe. The _Congress_,
_Cumberland_ and _St. Lawrence_ mounted one hundred and twenty-four
guns, twenty-two of them of nine-inch caliber. Their crews aggregated
more than a thousand men.

The new crack steam frigates _Minnesota_ and _Roanoke_ had crews of six
hundred men each and carried more than eighty guns of nine and
eleven-inch caliber. That any single craft afloat would dare attack such
a squadron was preposterous.

It was one o'clock before the strange black looking object swung into
the channel and turned her nose up stream toward Newport News.

The crews of the _Congress_ and the _Cumberland_ were lounging on deck
enjoying the balmy spring air. It was wash day and the clothes were
fluttering in the breeze.

They couldn't make out the foolish-looking thing at first. It looked
like the top of a long-hipped roof house that had been sawed off at the
eaves and pushed into the water. The two little river steamers that
accompanied the raft seemed to be towing it.

"What 'ell, Bill, is that thing?" a sailor asked his mate on the
_Congress_.

Bill scanned the horizon.

"I give it up, sir," he admitted. "I been a sailin' the seas for forty
years--but that's one on me!"

A battle signal suddenly flashed from the _Cumberland_ and down came the
wash lines.

The _Beaufort_ with a single thirty-two-pounder rifle mounted in her bow
was steaming alongside the port of the strange craft. A puff of white
smoke flared from her single gun and its dull roar waked the still
beautiful waters of the Virginia harbor.

The _Merrimac_ flung her big battle flag into the sky and her tiny
escorts dropped down stream to give her free play. The _Congress_ and
the _Cumberland_ were surprised, but they slipped their anchors in a
jiffy, swung their guns in haste and began pouring a storm of shot on
the iron sides of the coming foe.

The _Merrimac_ moved forward with slow, steady throb as though the shot
that rained on her slanting sides were so many pebbles thrown by school
boys. She passed the _Congress_ and pointed her ugly prow for the
_Cumberland_. The ship poured her broadside squarely into the face of
the Merrimac without damage and the bow gun roared an answer that
pierced her bulwarks.

Through the thick cloud of heavy smoke that hung low on the water the
throbbing monster bore straight down on the _Cumberland_, struck her
amidship and sent her to the bottom.

As the gallant ship sank in sickening lurches her brave crew cheered her
to her grave and continued firing her useless guns until the waves
engulfed the decks. When her keel touched the bottom her flag was still
flying from her masthead. She rolled over on her beam's end and carried
the flag beneath the waves.

The Confederate mosquito fleet, consisting of the little gunboats
_Patrick Henry_, _Teaser_ and _Jamestown_, swung down from the river
now, ran boldly past the flaming shore batteries and joined in the
attack on the Federal squadron.

The _Congress_ had set one of her sails and with the aid of a tug was
desperately working to reach shoal water before she could be sunk. Her
captain succeeded in beaching her directly under the guns of the shore
batteries. At four o'clock she gave up the bloody unequal contest and
hauled down her colors.

The _Minnesota_, _Roanoke_ and _St. Lawrence_, in trying to reach the
scene of the battle, had all been grounded. The _Minnesota_ was still
lying helpless in the mud as the sun set and the new monarch of the seas
slowly withdrew to Sewell's Point to overhaul her machinery and prepare
to finish her work next day.

The _Merrimac_ had lost twenty-one killed and wounded--among the wounded
was her gallant flag officer, Franklin Buchanan. The _Patrick Henry_ had
lost fourteen, the _Beaufort_ eight, the _Raleigh_ seven, including two
officers.

The Federal squadron had lost two ships and four hundred men.

But by far the greatest loss to the United States Navy was the supremacy
of the seas. The power of her fleets had been smashed at a blow. The
ugly, black, powder-stained, iron thing lying under the guns of Sewell's
Point had won the crown of the world's naval supremacy. The fleets of
the United States were practically out of commission while she was
afloat. The panic at the North which followed the startling news from
Hampton Roads was indescribable. Abraham Lincoln hastily called a
Cabinet meeting to consider what action it was necessary to take to meet
the now appalling situation. Never before had any man in authority at
Washington realized how absolute was their dependence on the United
States Navy--how impossible it would be to maintain the Government
without its power.

Edwin M. Stanton, the indefatigable Secretary of War, completely lost
his nerve at this Cabinet meeting. He paced the floor with quick excited
tread, glancing out of the window of the White House toward the waters
of the Potomac with undisguised fear.

"I am sure, gentlemen," he said to the Cabinet, "that monster is now on
her way to Washington. In my opinion we will have a shell from one of
her big guns in the White House before we leave this room!"

Lincoln was profoundly depressed but refused to believe the cause of the
Union could thus be completely lost at a single blow from a nondescript,
iron raft. Yet it was only too easy to see that the moral effect of this
victory would be crushing on public opinion.

The wires to Washington were hot with frantic calls for help. New York
was ready to surrender at the first demand. So utter was the
demoralization at Fortress Monroe, the one absolutely impregnable fort
on the Atlantic coast, that the commander had already determined to
surrender in answer to the first shot the _Merrimac_ should fire.

The preparations for moving McClellan's army to the Virginia Peninsula
for the campaign to capture Richmond were suddenly halted. Two hundred
thousand men must rest on their arms until this crisis should pass. All
orders issued to the Army of the Potomac were now made contingent on the
destruction of the iron monster lying in Hampton Roads.

By one of the strangest coincidences in history the United States Navy
had completed an experiment in floating iron at precisely the same
moment.

While the guns of the battle were yet echoing over the waters of the
harbor, this strange little craft, a floating iron cheese box, was
slowly steaming into the Virginia capes.

At nine o'clock that night Ericsson's _Monitor_ was beside the
panic-stricken _Roanoke_.

When C. S. Bushnell took the model of this strange craft to Washington,
he was referred to Commander C. H. Davis by the Naval Board. When Davis
had examined it he handed it back to Bushnell with a pitying smile:

"Take the little thing home, and worship it. It would not be idolatry,
because it's made in the image of nothing in the heaven above or the
earth beneath or in the waters under the earth."

Wiser councils had prevailed, and the floating cheese box was completed
and arrived in Hampton Roads in time to put its powers to supreme test.

The _Merrimac's_ crew ate their breakfast at their leisure and prepared
to drive their ugly duckling into the battle line again and finish the
work of destroying the battered Federal squadron.

The _Merrimac_ had fought the battle of the day before under the
constant pounding of more than one hundred guns bearing on her iron
sides. Her armor was intact. Two of her guns were disabled by having
their muzzles shot off. Her nose had been torn off and sank with the
_Cumberland_. One anchor, her smoke stacks and steam pipes were shot
away. Every scrap of her railing, stanchions, and boat davits had been
swept clean. Her flag staff was gone and a boarding pike had been set up
in its place.

With stern faces, and absolutely sure of victory, her crew swung her
into the stream, crowded on full steam and moved down on the
_Minnesota_.

Close under the ship's side they saw for the first time the cheese box.
They had heard of the experiment of her building but knew nothing of her
arrival.

Her insignificant size was a surprise and the big _Merrimac_ dashed at
her with a sullen furious growl of her big guns. The game little bulldog
swung out from the _Minnesota_ and made straight for the onrushing
monster.

The flotilla of gunboats had been signaled to retire and watch the
duel.

From the big eleven-inch guns of the _Monitor_ shot after shot was
hurled against the slanting armored walls of the _Merrimac_.

Broadside after broadside poured from her guns against the iron-clad
tower of the _Monitor_.

The _Merrimac_, drawing twenty feet of water, was slow and difficult to
handle. The game little _Monitor_ drew but twelve feet and required no
maneuvering. Her tower revolved. She could stand and fight in one spot
all day.

The big black hull of the _Merrimac_ bore down on the _Monitor_ now to
ram and sink her at a blow. The nimble craft side stepped the avalanche
of iron, turned quickly and attempted to jamb her nose into the steering
gear of the Southerner--but in vain.

For two solid hours the iron-clads pounded and hammered each other. The
shots made no impression on either boat.

Again the _Merrimac_ tried to ram her antagonist and run her aground.
The nimble foe avoided the blow, though struck a grinding, crushing
side-swipe.

The little _Monitor_ now stuck her nose squarely against the side of the
_Merrimac_, held it there, and fired both her eleven-inch guns against
the walls of the Southerner.

The charge of powder was not heavy enough. No harm was done. The impact
of the shots had merely forced the sloping sides an inch or two.

The captain of the _Merrimac_ turned to his men in sharp command.

"All hands on deck. Board and capture her!"

The smoke-smeared crew swarmed to the portholes and were just in the act
of springing on the decks of the _Monitor_, when she backed quickly and
dropped down stream.

After six hours of thunder in each other's faces the _Monitor_ drew
away into the shoal waters guarding the _Minnesota_.

The _Merrimac_ could not follow her in the shallows and at two o'clock
turned her prow again toward Sewell's Point.

The battle was a drawn conflict. But the plucky little _Monitor_ had won
a tremendous moral victory. She had rescued the navy in the nick of
time. The Government at Washington once more breathed.

From the heights of rejoicing the South sank again to the bitterness of
failure. For twenty-four hours her flag had been mistress of the seas.
Jefferson Davis saw the hope of peace fade into the certainty of a
struggle for the possession of Richmond.

The way had been cleared. McClellan's two hundred thousand men were
rushing on their transports for the Virginia peninsula.



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE SNARE OF THE FOWLER


Long before Jennie Barton arrived in Richmond Socola had waked to the
realization of the fact that he had been caught in the trap he had set
for another. He had laughed at his growing interest in the slender dark
little Southerner. He imagined that he had hypnotized himself into the
idea that he really liked her. He had kept no account of the number of
visits he had made. They were part of his programme. They had grown so
swiftly into the habit of his thought and life he had not stopped to
question the motive that prompted his zeal in pressing his attentions.

In fact his mind had become so evenly adjusted to hers, his happiness
had been so quietly perfect, he had lost sight of the fact that he was
pressing his attentions at all.

The day she was suddenly called South and he said good-by with her brown
eyes looking so frankly into his he was brought sharply up against the
fact that he was in love.

When he took her warm hand in his to press it for the last time, he felt
an almost resistless impulse to bend and kiss her. From that moment he
realized that he was in love--madly, hopelessly, desperately.

He had left the car and hurried back to his post in the State
Department, his heart beating like a trip hammer. It was a novel
experience. He had never taken girls seriously before. The last girl on
earth he had ever meant to take seriously was this slip of a Southern
enthusiast. For a moment he was furious at the certainty of his abject
surrender. He lifted his eyes to the big columns of the Confederate
Capitol and laughed:

"Come, come, man--common sense--this is a joke! Forget it all. To your
work--your country calls!"

Somehow the country refused to issue but one call--the old eternal cry
of love. Wherever he turned, Jennie's brown eyes were smiling into his.
He looked at the Confederate Capitol to inspire him to deeds of daring
and all he could remember was that she was a glorious little rebel with
three brothers fighting for the flag that floated there. All he could
get out of the supreme emblem of the "Rebellion" was that it was her
Capitol and _her_ flag and he loved her.

And then he laughed for sheer joy that love had come into his heart and
made the world beautiful. He surrendered himself body and soul to the
madness and wonder of it all.

If he could only see his mother and tell her, she could understand. He
couldn't talk to the bundle of nerves Miss Van Lew had become. Her eyes
burned each day with a deeper and deeper light of fanatical patriotism.
He had yielded none of his own enthusiasm. But this secret of his heart
was too sweet to be shared by a comrade in arms.

Only God's eye, or the soul of the mother who bore him, could understand
what he felt. The realization of his love for Jennie brought a new fear
into his heart. His nerve was put daily to supreme test in the dangerous
work in which he was engaged. A single mistake would start an
investigation sure to end with a rope around his neck. Love had given
life a new meaning. The chatter of the squirrels in the Capitol Square
was all about their homes and babies in the tree tops. The song of
birds in the old flower garden on Church Hill made his heart thump with
a joy that was agony. The flowers were just bursting into full bloom and
their perfume filled the air with the lazy dreaming of the southern
spring.

He must speak his love. His heart would burst with its beating. His mate
must know. And she had returned to Richmond with a bitterness against
the North that was something new in the development of her character.

The newspapers of Richmond had published an elaborate account of the
sacking of her father's house, the smashing of its furniture and theft
of its valuables. It had created a profound sensation. There was no
mistaking the passion with which she had told this story.

He had laughed at first over the fun of winning the fairest little rebel
in the South and carrying his bride away a prize of war, against the
combined efforts of his Southern rivals. His love and pride had not
doubted for a moment that her heart would yield to the man she loved no
matter what uniform he might wear at the end of this war.

He couldn't make up his mind to ask her to marry him until she should
know his real name and his true principles.

What would she do if the truth were revealed? His heart fairly stopped
its beating at the thought. The fall of Richmond he now regarded as a
practical certainty. The _Merrimac_ had proven a vain hope to the
Confederacy.

McClellan was landing his magnificent army on the Peninsula and
preparing to sweep all before him. McDowell's forty thousand men were
moving on his old line of march straight from Washington. Their two
armies would unite before the city and circle it with an invincible wall
of fire and steel. Fremont, Milroy and Banks were sweeping through the
valley of the Shenandoah. Their armies would unite, break the
connections of the Confederacy at Lynchburg and the South would be
crushed.

That this would all be accomplished within thirty days he had the most
positive assurances from Washington. So sure was Miss Van Lew of
McClellan's triumphant entry into Richmond she had put her house in
order for his reception. Her parlor had been scrupulously cleaned. Its
blinds were drawn and the room dark, but a flag staff was ready and a
Union standard concealed in one of her feather beds. Over the old house
on Church Hill the emblem of the Nation would first be flung to the
breeze in the conquered Capital of the Confederacy.

The certainty of his discovery in the rush of the Union army into the
city was now the nightmare which haunted his imagination.

He could fight the Confederate Government on even terms. He asked no
odds. His life was on the hazard. Something more than the life of a
Union spy was at stake in his affair with Jennie. Her life and happiness
were bound in his. He felt this by an unerring instinct.

If this proud, sensitive, embittered girl should stumble on even a
suspicion of the truth, she would tear her heart out of her body if
necessary to put him out of her life.

For a moment he was tempted to give up his work and return to the North.
It was the one sure way to avoid discovery when Richmond fell. The war
over, he would have his even chance with other men when its bitterness
had been softened. His work in Richmond was practically done. His men
could finish it. The number of soldiers in the Southern armies had been
accurately counted and reported to Washington. Why should he risk the
happiness of the woman he loved and his own happiness for life by
remaining another day?

The thought had no sooner taken shape than he put it out of his mind.

"Bah! I've set my hand to a great task. I'm not a quitter. I'll stand by
my guns. No true woman ever loved a coward!"

He would take his chances and tell her his love.

He lifted the old-fashioned brass knocker on Senator Barton's door and
banged it with such force he laughed at his own foolish eagerness:

"At least I needn't smash my way in!" he muttered.

"Yassah, des walk right in de parlor, sah," Jennie's maid said, with her
teeth shining in a knowing smile.

Senator Barton had recovered from his illness. There could be no doubt
about it. He was in the library holding forth in eloquent tones to a
group of Confederate Congressmen who made his house their rendezvous. He
was enjoying the martyrdom which the outrage on his home and the death
of his aged mother and father had brought. He was using it to inveigh
with new bitterness against the imbecility of Jefferson Davis and his
administration. He held Davis personally responsible for every defeat of
the South. He was the one man who had caused the fall of New Orleans,
the loss of Fort Donelson and the failure to reap the victory at Shiloh.

"But you must remember, Senator," one of his henchmen mildly protested,
"that Davis did save Albert Sidney Johnston to us and that alone made a
victory possible."

"And what of it, if he threw it away by appointing a fool second in
Command?"

There was a good answer to this--too good for the henchman to dare use
it. He had sent Beauregard west to join Albert Sidney Johnston's command
because Barton's junta, supporting Joseph E. Johnston against the
administration, would no longer tolerate Beauregard in the same camp
with their chief. They had demanded a free field for Joseph E. Johnston
in the conflict with McClellan or they had threatened his resignation
and the disruption of the Confederate army.

The President, sick unto death over the wrangling of these two generals,
had separated them and sent Beauregard west where the genius of Albert
Sidney Johnston could use his personal popularity, and his own more
powerful mind would neutralize in any council of war the little man's
feeble generalship.

Socola listened to Barton's fierce, unreasoning invective with a sense
of dread. It was impossible to realize that this big-mouthed, bitter,
vindictive, ridiculous politician was the father of the gentle girl he
loved. There must be something of his power of malignant hatred
somewhere in Jennie's nature. He had caught just a glimpse of it in the
story she had told the Richmond papers.

She stood in the doorway at last, a smiling vision of modest beauty. Her
dress of fine old lace seemed woven of the tender smiles that played
about the sensitive mouth.

He sprang to his feet and took her hand, his heart thumping with joy.
She felt it tremble and laughed outright.

"So you have returned a fiercer rebel than ever, Miss Jennie?" he said
hesitatingly.

He tried to say something purely conventional but it popped out when he
opened his mouth--the ugly thought that was gnawing at his happiness.

"Yes," she answered thoughtfully, "I never realized before what it meant
to be with my own people. I could have burned New Orleans and laughed
at its ruins to have smoked Ben Butler out of it--"

"President Davis has proclaimed him an outlaw I see," Socola added.

"If he can only capture and hang him, the people of Louisiana would be
perfectly willing to lose all--"

"But your brother, the Judge, is still loyal to the Union--you can't
hate him you know?"

Jennie's eyes flashed into Socola's.

Why had he asked the one question that opened the wound in her heart?
Perhaps her mind had suggested it. She had scarcely spoken the bitter
words before she saw the vision of his serious face and regretted it.

"Strange you should have mentioned my brother's name at the very moment
his image was before me," the girl thoughtfully replied.

"Clairvoyance perhaps--"

"You believe in such things?" Jennie asked.

"Yes. My mother leaped from her bed with a scream one night and told me
that she had seen my father's spirit, felt him bend over her and touch
her lips. He had died at exactly that moment."

"Wonderful, isn't it," Jennie murmured softly, "the vision of love!"

She was dreaming of the moments of her distress in the sacking of her
home when the vision of this man's smiling face had suddenly set her to
laughing.

"Yes," Socola answered. "I asked you about your older brother because I
don't like the idea of you poisoning your beautiful young life with
hatred. Such thoughts kill--they can't bring health and strength, Miss
Jennie."

"Of course," the girl responded tenderly, "you can see things more
calmly. You can't understand how deep the knife has entered our hearts
in the South."

"That's just what I do understand. It's that against which I'm warning
you. This war can't last always you know. There must be a
readjustment--"

"Between the North and South?"

"Of course--"

"Never!"

With sudden emotion she leaped to her feet her little fists clinched.
She stood trembling in silence for a moment and her face paled.

"No, Signor," she went on in cold tones. "There can be no readjustment
of this war. It's to the death now. I confess myself a rebel body and
soul--_Confess_? I glory in it! I'm proud of being one. I thought my
father extravagant at first. Ben Butler has changed my views. The South
can't look back now. It's forward--forward--always forward to death--or
independence!"

She paused overcome with emotion.

"Yes," she went on in quick tones, "I thank God we're two different
tribes! I'm proud of the South and her old-fashioned, out-of-date
chivalry. The South respects and honors women. God never made the
Southern white man who could issue Butler's orders in New Orleans or
insult the heart-broken women who are forced to enter his office with
the vile motto he has placed over his desk--"

Socola lifted his hand in gentle smiling protest.

"But you must remember, Miss Jennie, that General Butler is a peculiar
individual. He probably does not represent the best that's in New
England--"

"God knows I hope not for their sakes," was the answer. "I only wish I
could fight in the ranks with our boys. If I can't fight at least I'm
going to help our men in other ways. I'll work with my hands as a slave.
I'll sew and knit and nurse. I'll breathe my soul into the souls of our
men. I sing Dixie when I rise in the morning. I hum it all day. I sing
it with my last thoughts as I go to sleep."

Socola moved uneasily.

She looked at him a moment with an expression of sudden tenderness.

"I can't tell you how proud and happy I am in the thought that I may
have helped you to give your brilliant mind to the service of the South.
It's my offering to my country and her cause!"

It was impossible to resist the glow of love in her shining face. Socola
felt his soul dissolve.

With a little gesture of resignation she dropped to a seat on the lounge
beside the window, her young face outlined against a mass of early roses
in full bloom. Their perfume poured through the window and filled the
room.

Socola seated himself deliberately by her side and held her gaze with
direct purpose. She saw and understood and her heart beat in quick
response.

"You realize that you _are_ the incarnate Cause of the South for me?"

She smiled triumphantly.

"I have always known it."

There was no silly boasting in her tones, no trace of the Southern
girl's light mood with one of her numerous beaux. Her words were spoken
with deliberate tenderness.

"And yet how deeply and wonderfully you could not know--"

"I have guessed perhaps--"

He took her hand in his.

"I love you, Jennie--"

Her voice was the tenderest whisper.

"And I love you, my sweetheart--"

He clasped her in his arms and held her in silence.

She pushed him at arm's length and looked wistfully into his face.

"For the past month my heart has been singing. Through all the shame and
misery of the sacking of our home, I could laugh and be happy--foolishly
happy, because I knew that you loved me--"

"How did you know?"

"You told me--"

"When?"

"With the last little touch of your hand when I went South."

He pressed it with desperate tenderness.

"It shall be forever?"

"Forever!"

"Neither life nor death, nor height nor depth can separate us?"

"What could separate us, my lover? You are mine. I am yours. You have
given your life to our cause--"

"I am but a soldier of fortune--"

"You are my soldier--you have given your life because I asked it. I give
you mine in return--"

"Swear to me that you'll love me always!"

She answered with a kiss.

"I swear it."

Again he clasped her in his arms and hurried from the house. The
twilight was falling. Artillery wagons were rumbling through the
streets. A troop train had arrived from the South. Its regiments were
rushing across the city to reënforce McGruder's thin lines on the
Peninsula. McClellan's guns were already thundering on the shores.

He hurried to the house on Church Hill, his dark face flushed with
happiness, his heart beating a reveille of fear and joy.



CHAPTER XXIX

THE PANIC IN RICHMOND


Richmond now entered the shadows of her darkest hour. Three armies were
threatening from the west commanded by Fremont, Milroy, and Banks, whose
forces were ordered to unite. McDowell with forty thousand men lay at
Fredericksburg and threatened a junction with McClellan, who was moving
up the Peninsula with an effective army of 105,000.

Joseph E. Johnston had under his command more than fifty thousand with
which to oppose McClellan's advance. It was the opinion of Davis and Lee
that the stand for battle should be made on the narrow neck of the
Peninsula which lent itself naturally to defense.

To retreat toward Richmond would not only prove discouraging to the
army, and precipitate a panic in the city, it meant the abandonment of
Norfolk, the loss of the navy yard, the destruction of the famous
iron-clad, and the opening of the James River to the gunboats of the
enemy to Drury's Bluff within twelve miles of the Confederate Capital.

In this crisis Johnston gave confirmation to the worst fears of the
President. He displayed the constitutional timidity and hesitation to
fight which marked every step of his military career to its tragic end.

With the greatest army under his command which the Confederacy had ever
brought together--with Longstreet, McGruder and G. W. Smith as his
lieutenants, he was preparing to retreat without a battle.

The President called in council of war General Lee, Randolph, the
Secretary of War, and General Johnston. Johnston asked that Longstreet
and Smith be invited. The President consented.

After full consultation, Davis decided, with Lee's approval to hold the
Peninsula, save the navy yard and keep command of the James. And
Johnston received orders accordingly.

With characteristic stubbornness the Field Commander persisted in his
determination to retreat without a battle.

With aching heart Davis sent him a telegram.


    "Richmond, Va., May 1st, 1861.

    "General Joseph E. Johnston,

    "Yorktown, Va.

    "Accepting your conclusion that you must soon retire, arrangements
    are commenced for the abandonment of the navy yard and removal of
    public property from Norfolk and the Peninsula.

    "Your announcement to-day that you would withdraw to-morrow night,
    takes us by surprise and must involve enormous losses, including
    unfinished gunboats. Will the safety of your army allow more time?

    "Jefferson Davis."


Johnston had retreated from his base at Manassas with absurd haste,
burning enormous stores and supplies of which the Confederacy was in
desperate need. The losses now occasioned by his hasty withdrawal from
Yorktown were even more serious.

The destruction of the iron-clad which had smashed the Federal fleet in
Hampton Roads sent a shiver of horror throughout the South.

       *     *     *     *     *

The fiery trial through which Davis was passing brought out the finest
traits of his strong character.

He had received ample warning that one of the first places marked for
destruction by the Federal fleet passing up the Mississippi River was
his home "Briarfield." He refused to send troops to defend it. His house
was sacked, his valuable library destroyed, the place swept bare of his
fine blooded stock and the negroes deported by force.

To his wife he wrote:


    "You will see the notice of the destruction of our home. If our cause
    succeeds we shall not mourn our personal deprivation; if it should
    not, why--'the deluge.' I hope I shall be able to provide for the
    comfort of the old negroes."


Uncle Bob and Aunt Rhinah had been roughly handled by Butler's men. The
foragers utterly refused to believe them when they told of their
master's kindness in giving them piles of blankets. They were roughly
informed that they had stolen them from the house and their treasures
were confiscated amid the lamentations of the aged couple. The two
precious rocking chairs were left them but of blankets and linens they
were stripped bare.

       *     *     *     *     *

With Johnston's army in retreat toward Richmond, his rear guard of but
twelve thousand men under General McGruder had demonstrated the wisdom
of Davis' position that the Peninsula could be successfully defended.
McGruder's little army held McClellan at bay for nearly thirty days. He
was dislodged from his position with terrible slaughter of the Union
forces. McClellan's army lost two thousand two hundred and seventy-five
men in this encounter, McGruder less than a thousand. Had Johnston
concentrated his fifty thousand men on this line McClellan would never
have taken it, and the only iron-clad the South possessed might have
been saved.

The daring Commander of the _Merrimac_, while McClellan was encamped
before Yorktown, had appeared in Hampton Roads and challenged the whole
Federal fleet again to fight. The _Monitor_ had taken refuge under the
guns of Fortress Monroe and refused to come out. The ugly duckling of
the Confederacy, in plain view of the whole Federal fleet and witnessed
by French and English vessels, captured three schooners and carried them
into port as prizes of war.

When Norfolk was abandoned, the iron-clad drew so much water she could
only ascend the James by lightening her until her wooden sides showed
above the water line. She was therefore set on fire and blown up on
Johnston's retreat uncovering the banks of the James to the artillery of
McClellan.

The Federal fleet could now dash up the James.

They did this immediately on the news of the destruction of the
Confederate iron-clad.

On May fifteenth, the _Galena_, the _Aroostook_, the _Monitor_, the
_Port Royal_, and the _Stevens_ steamed up the river without opposition
to Drury's Bluff within twelve miles of the Capital of the South. A
half-finished fort mounting four guns guarded this point. The river was
also obstructed by a double row of piles and sunken vessels.

If the eleven-inch guns of the _Monitor_ could be brought to bear on
this fort, it was a problem how long the batteries could be held in
action.

The wildest alarm swept Richmond. The railroads were jammed with frantic
people trying to get out. The depots were piled with mountains of
baggage it was impossible to move. A mass meeting was held on the night
the fleet ascended the river which was addressed by Governor Letcher and
Mayor Mayo.

The Governor ended his speech with a sentence that set the crowd wild
with enthusiasm.

"Sooner than see our beloved city conquered to-day by our enemies we
will lay it in ashes with our own hands!"

The Legislature of Virginia showed its grit by passing a resolution
practically inviting the President of the Confederacy to lay the city in
ruins if he deemed wise:


    "_Resolved_, That the General Assembly hereby expresses its desire
    that the Capital of the State be _defended to the last extremity_,
    if such defense is in accordance with the views of the President
    of the Confederate States, and that the President be assured that
    whatever destruction and loss of property of the State or of
    individuals shall thereby result, will be cheerfully submitted to."


When the Committee handed this document to Jefferson Davis, he faced
them with a look of resolution:

"Richmond will not be abandoned, gentlemen, until McClellan marches over
the dead bodies of our army. Not for one moment have I considered the
idea of surrendering the Capital--"

"Good!"

"Thank God!"

"Hurrah for the President!"

The Committee grasped his hand, convinced that no base surrender of
their Capital would be tolerated by their leader.

"Rest assured, gentlemen," he continued earnestly, "if blood must be
shed, it shall be here. No soil of the Confederacy could drink it more
acceptably and none hold it more gratefully. We shall stake all on this
one glorious hour for our Republic. Life, death, and wounds are nothing
if we shall be saved from the fate of a captured Capital and a
humiliated Confederacy--"

The Government and the city had need of grim resolution. The Federal
fleet moved up into range and opened fire on the batteries at Drury's
Bluff. The little Confederate gunboat _Patrick Henry_ which had won fame
in the first engagement of the _Merrimac_ steamed down into line and
joined her fire with the fort.

General Lee had planted light batteries on the banks of the river to
sweep the decks of the fleet with grape and cannister.

The little _Monitor_, the _Galena_, and the _Stevens_ steamed straight
up to within six hundred yards of the battery of the fort and opened
with their eleven-inch guns. The _Galena_ and the _Stevens_ were
iron-clad steamers with thin armor.

For four hours the guns thundered. The batteries poured a hail of shot
on the _Monitor_. They bounded off her round-tower and her water-washed
decks like pebbles. The rifled gun on the _Stevens_ burst and disabled
her. The _Galena_ was pierced by heavy shot and severely crippled,
losing thirty-seven of her men. As the _Monitor_ was built, it was
impossible to make effective her guns at close range against the high
bluff on which the Confederate battery was placed.

At eleven o'clock the crippled fleet slowly moved down the river and
Richmond was saved.

       *     *     *     *     *

When Johnston in his retreat up the Peninsula reached the high ground
near the Chickahominy river, he threw out his lines and prepared to give
McClellan battle. He dispatched a messenger to the President at Richmond
informing him of this fact. The Cabinet was in session. A spirited
discussion ensued. The Secretary of War and the whole council were
alarmed at the prospect of battle on such an ill chosen position. His
rear would rest on an enormous swamp through which the treacherous river
flowed. There were no roads or bridges of sufficient capacity to take
his army rapidly if he should be compelled to retreat.

"I suggest, Mr. President," said the Secretary of War, "that you call
General Johnston's attention to this fact."

Davis shook his head emphatically.

"No, gentlemen. We have entrusted the command to General Johnston. It is
his business with all the facts before him to know what is best. It
would be utterly unfair and very dangerous to attempt to control his
operations by advice from the Capital."

Davis was too great a general and too generous and just to deny Johnston
his opportunity for supreme service to his country. It was the fixed
policy of the President to select the best man for the position to which
he assigned him and leave the responsibility of action on the field to
his judgment.

On the following morning instead of a report of battle the President
received a dispatch announcing that his General had decided to cross the
Chickahominy River and use its swamps and dangerous crossings as his
line of defense.

The Cabinet expressed its sense of profound relief and Davis watched his
commander with an increase of confidence in his judgment. If the narrow
roads and weak bridges across the river were guarded, an army of half
his size could hold McClellan for months. The nearest crossing was
twenty-five miles from Richmond.

General Reagan of the Cabinet rode down that night to see Hood at the
head of his Texas brigade.

At noon next day on returning to the city he saw the President coming
out of his office.

The long arm of the Chief was lifted and Reagan halted.

"Wait a minute--"

"At your service, Mr. President."

"Get your dinner and ride down to the Chickahominy with me. I want to
see General Johnston."

Reagan shouted an answer which the President failed to catch:

"You won't have to go to the Chickahominy to see Johnston!"

Joining Reagan after dinner the President rode rapidly through the
suburban district called "The Rockets," and had reached the high ground
beyond. A half mile away stretched a vast field of white tents.

"Whose camp is that?" Davis asked in surprise.

"Hood's brigade," Reagan replied.

"Why Hood's on the Chickahominy twenty-odd miles from here--"

"I camped here with them last night, sir--"

"Impossible!"

Reagan watched the thin face of the Confederate Chieftain grow deadly
pale.

"If you wish to see General Johnston, Mr. President, you'll find him in
that red brick house on the right--"

Reagan pointed in the direction of the house.

The President looked at his friend a moment, a quizzical expression
relieving his anxiety.

"Of course--it's a joke, Reagan."

"It's true, sir!"

Davis shook his head:

"General Johnston is on the Chickahominy guarding the crossings. I sent
my aide with a dispatch to him last night."

"He hadn't returned when you left the office--"

"No--"

"I thought not. There can be no mistake, sir. I saw General Johnston and
his staff enter that house and establish his headquarters there--"

"Here in the suburbs of Richmond?"

"Right here, sir--"

Davis put spurs to his horse, and waved to his aide:

"Colonel Ives--come!"

Reagan turned and rode again into Hood's camp.

The President rode straight to Johnston's headquarters. He sprang to the
ground with a quick decisive leap.

The ceremony between the two men was scant. No words were wasted.

"You have moved your army into the suburbs of Richmond, General
Johnston?"

"I have--"

"Why?"

"I consider this better ground--"

"You have left no rear guard to contest McClellan's crossing?"

"No."

"May I ask why you chose to give up the defenses of such a river without
a blow?"

"My army was out of provisions--"

"They could have been rushed to you--"

"The ground near the Chickahominy is low and marshy. The water is bad--"

"And you have come to the very gates of the city?"

"Because the ground is dry, the water good, and we are near our
supplies--"

The President's lips trembled with rage.

"And McClellan can now plant his guns within six miles and his soldiers
hear our church bells on Sunday--"

"Possibly--"

The President's eye pierced his General.

"Richmond is to be surrendered without a battle?"

"That depends, sir, upon conditions--"

The Confederate Chief suddenly threw his thin hands above his head and
faced his stubborn sulking Commander.

"If you are not going to give battle, I'll appoint a man in your place
who will--"

Before Johnston could reply the President turned on his heel, waved to
Colonel Ives, mounted his horse and dashed into the city.

His Cabinet was called in hasty consultation with General Lee.

Davis turned to his counselors.

"Gentlemen, I have just held a most amazing conference with General
Johnston. You were afraid he would fight beyond the Chickahominy. He has
crossed the river, left its natural defenses unguarded, and has run all
the way to town without pause. I have told him to fight or get out of
the saddle. In my judgment he intends to back straight through the city
and abandon it without a blow. We must face the situation."

He turned to Lee. The question he was going to put to the man in whom he
had supreme confidence would test both his judgment and his character.
On his answer would hang his career. If it should be what the
Confederate Chief believed, Lee was the man of destiny and his hour had
struck.

"In case Johnston abandons Richmond," the President slowly began, "where
in your opinion, General Lee, is the next best line of defense?"

Lee's fine mouth was set for a moment. He spoke at first with
deliberation.

"As a military engineer, my answer is simple. The next best line of
defense would be at Staten River--but--"

He suddenly leaped to his feet, his eyes streaming with tears.

"Richmond must not be given up--it shall not be given up!"

Davis sprang to his side and clasped Lee's hand.

"So say I, General!"

From that moment the President and his chief military adviser lived on
Johnston's battle line, Lee ready at a moment's notice to spring into
the saddle and hurl his men against McClellan the moment Johnston should
falter.

The Commander was forced to a decision for battle. He could not allow
his arch enemy to remove him without a fight.

The retreat across the Chickahominy had given McClellan an enormous
advantage which his skillful eye saw at once. He threw two grand
divisions of his army across the river and pushed his siege guns up
within six miles of Richmond. His engineers immediately built
substantial bridges across the stream over which he could move in safety
his heaviest guns in any emergency, either for reënforcements or
retreat.

He swung his right wing far to the north in a wide circling movement
until he was in easy touch with McDowell's forty thousand men at
Fredericksburg.

McClellan was within sight of the consummation of his hopes. When this
wide movement of his army had been successfully made without an arm
lifted to oppose, he climbed a tall tree within sight of Richmond from
which he could view the magnificent panorama.

A solid wall of living blue with glittering bayonets and black-fanged
batteries of artillery, his army spread for ten miles. Beyond them here
and there only he saw patches of crouching gray in the underbrush or
crawling through the marshes.

The Northern Commander came down from his perch and threw his arms
around his aide:

"We've got them, boy!" he cried enthusiastically. "We've got them!"

It was not to be wondered at that the boastful oratorical Confederate
Congress should have taken to their heels. They ran in such haste, the
people of Richmond began to laugh and in their laughter took fresh
courage.

A paper printed in double leads on its first page a remarkable account
of the stampede:


    "For fear of accident on the railroad, the stampeded Congress left
    in a number of the strongest and swiftest of our new canal-boats.
    The boats were drawn by mules of established sweetness of temper.
    To protect our law-makers from snakes and bullfrogs that infest the
    line of the canal, General Winder detailed a regiment of ladies to
    march in advance of the mules, and clear the tow-path of these
    troublesome pirates. The ladies are ordered to accompany the
    Confederate Congress to a secluded cave in the mountains of Hepsidan,
    and leave them there in charge of the children of that vicinity until
    McClellan thinks proper to let them come forth. The ladies will at
    once return to the defense of their country."


The President for a brief time was free of his critics.

On May thirty-first, Johnston's army, under the direct eye of Davis and
Lee on the field, gave battle to McClellan's left wing--comprising the
two grand divisions that had been pushed across the Chickahominy to the
environs of Richmond.

The opening attack was delayed by the failure of General Holmes to
strike McClellan's rear as planned. A terrific rain storm the night
before had flooded a stream and it was impossible for him to cross.

Late in the afternoon Longstreet and Hill hurled their divisions through
the thick woods and marshes on McClellan.

Longstreet's men drove before them the clouds of blue skirmishers,
plunged into the marshes with water two feet deep and dashed on the
fortified lines of the enemy. The Southerners crept through the dense
underbrush to the very muzzles of the guns in the redoubts, charged,
cleared them, grappling hand to hand with the desperate men who fought
like demons.

Line after line was thus carried until at nightfall McClellan's left
wing had been pushed back over two miles through swamp and waters red
with blood.

The slaughter had been frightful in the few hours in which the battle
had raged. On the Confederate left where Johnston commanded in person
the Union army held its position until dark, unbroken.

Johnston fell from his horse wounded and Davis on the field immediately
appointed General Lee to command.

The appointment of Lee to be Commander-in-Chief not only intensified the
hatred of Johnston for the President, it made G. W. Smith, the man who
was Johnston's second, his implacable enemy for life. Technically G. W.
Smith would have succeeded to the command of the army had not Davis
exercised his power on the field of battle to appoint the man of his
choice.

In no act of his long, eventful life did Davis evince such clearness of
vision and quick decision, under trying conditions. Lee had failed in
Western Virginia and McClellan had out-generaled him, the yellow
journals had declared. They called Lee "Old Spade." So intense was the
opposition to Lee that Davis had sent him to erect the coast defenses of
South Carolina. The Governor of the State protested against the
appointment of so incompetent a man to this important work. Davis sent
the Governor an emphatic message in reply:

"If Robert E. Lee is not a general I have none to send you."

Davis now called the man whom McClellan had defeated to the supreme
command against McClellan at the head of his grand army in sight of the
housetops of Richmond. Only a leader of the highest genius could have
dared to make such a decision in such a crisis.

Davis made it without a moment's hesitation and in that act of
individual will gave to the world the greatest commander of the age.



CHAPTER XXX

THE DELIVERANCE


From the moment Davis placed Lee in the saddle order slowly emerged from
chaotic conditions and the first rays of light began to illumine the
fortunes of the Confederacy.

Modest and unassuming in his personality, he demonstrated from the first
his skill as an organizer and his power in the conception and execution
of far-reaching strategy.

From the moment he breathed his spirit into the army he made it a rapid,
compact, accurate and terrible engine of war. The contemptible assault
of the Richmond _Examiner_ fell harmless from the armor of his genius.
Davis was bitterly denounced for his favoritism in passing G. W. Smith
and appointing Governor Letcher's pet. He was accused of playing a game
of low politics to make "a spawn of West Point" the next Governor of
Virginia. But events moved with a pace too swift to give the yellow
journals or the demagogues time to get their breath.

Lee had sent Jackson into the Valley of the Shenandoah to make a
diversion which might hold the armies moving on the Capital from the
west and at the same time puzzle McDowell at Fredericksburg.

Lee, Jackson and Davis were three men who worked in perfect harmony from
the moment they met in their first council of war at the White House of
the Confederacy. So perfect was Lee's confidence in Jackson, he was
sent into the Valley unhampered by instructions which would interfere
with the execution of any movement his genius might suggest.

Left thus to his own initiative, Jackson conceived the most brilliant
series of engagements in the history of modern war. He determined to use
his infantry by forced marches to cover in a day the ground usually made
by cavalry and fall on the armies of his opponents one by one before
they could form a juncture.

On May 23, by a swift, silent march of his little army of fifteen
thousand men, he took Banks completely by surprise, crushed and captured
his advance guard at Fort Royal, struck him in the flank and drove him
back into Strassburg, through Winchester, and hurled his shattered army
in confusion and panic across the Potomac on its Washington base.

Desperate alarm swept the Capital of the Union. Stanton, the Secretary
of War, issued a frantic appeal to the Governors of the Northern States
for militia to defend Washington. Panic reigned in the cities of the
North. Governors and mayors issued the most urgent appeals for
enlistments.

Fremont was ordered to move with all possible haste and form a juncture
with a division of McDowell's army and cut off Jackson's line of
retreat.

The wily Confederate General wheeled suddenly and rushed on Fremont
before Shields could reach him. On June 8, at Cross Keys, he crushed
Fremont, turned with sudden eagle swoop and defeated Shields at Port
Republic.

Washington believed that Jackson commanded an enormous army, and that
the National Capital was in danger of his invading host. The defeated
armies of Milroy, Banks, Fremont and Shields were all drawn in to defend
the city.

In this campaign of a few weeks Jackson had marched his infantry six
hundred miles, fought four pitched battles and seven minor engagements.
He had defeated four armies, each greater than his own, captured seven
pieces of artillery, ten thousand stands of arms, four thousand
prisoners and enormous stores of provisions and ammunition. It required
a train of wagons twelve miles long to transport his treasures--every
pound of which he saved for his Government.

He was never surprised, never defeated, never lost a train or an
organized piece of his army, put out of commission sixty thousand
Northern soldiers under four distinguished generals and in obedience to
Lee's command was now sweeping through the mountain passes to the relief
of Richmond.

While Jackson was thus moving to join his forces with Lee, Washington
was shivering in fear of his attack.

On the day Jackson was scheduled to fall on the flank of McClellan's
besieging army Lee moved his men to the assault. The first battle which
Johnston had joined at Seven Pines had only checked McClellan's advance.

The Grand Army of the Potomac still lay on its original lines, and
McClellan had used every day in strengthening his entrenchments. Lee had
built defensive works to enable a part of his army to defend the city
while he should throw the flower of his gray soldiers on his enemy in a
desperate flank assault in coöperation with Jackson.

On the arrival of his triumphant lieutenant from the Shenandoah Valley
Lee suddenly sprang on McClellan with the leap of a lion. The Northern
Commander fought with terrible courage, amazed and uneasy over the
discovery that Jackson had suddenly appeared on his flank.

Within thirty-six hours McClellan's right wing was crushed and in
retreat. Within seven days Lee drove his Grand Army of more than a
hundred thousand men from the gates of Richmond thirty-five miles and
hurled them on the banks of the James at Harrison's Landing under the
shelter of the Federal gunboats.

Instead of marching in triumph through the streets of the Confederate
Capital, McClellan congratulated himself and his Government on his good
fortune in saving his army from annihilation. His broken columns had
reached a place of safety after a series of defeats which had
demoralized his command and resulted in the loss of ten thousand
prisoners and ten thousand more in killed and wounded. He had been
compelled to abandon or burn stores valued at millions. The South had
captured thirty-five thousand stand of arms and fifty-two pieces of
artillery.

Lee in his report modestly expressed his disappointment that greater
results had not been achieved.

"Under ordinary circumstances," he wrote, "the Federal army should have
been destroyed. Its escape was due to causes already stated. Prominent
among them was the want of correct and timely information. The first,
attributable chiefly to the character of the country, enabled General
McClellan skillfully to conceal his retreat and to add much to the
obstructions with which nature had beset the way of our pursuing column.
But regret that more was not accomplished gives way to gratitude to the
Sovereign Ruler of the Universe for the results achieved."

Jackson, the grim soldier, whose habit was to pray all night before
battle, wrote with the fervor of the religious enthusiast.

"Undying gratitude is due to God for this great victory--by which
despondency increases in the North, hope brightens in the South and the
Capital of Virginia and the Confederacy is saved."

A wave of exultation swept the South--while Death stalked through the
streets of Richmond.

Instead of the tramp of victorious hosts, their bayonets glittering in
the sunlight, which Socola had confidently expected, he watched from the
windows of the Department of State the interminable lines of ambulances
bearing the wounded from the fields of McClellan's seven-days' battle.

The darkened room on Church Hill was opened. Miss Van Lew had watched
the glass rattle under the thunder of McClellan's guns, and then with
sinking heart heard their roar fade in the distance until only the
rumble of the ambulances through the streets told that he had been
there. She burned the flag. It was too dangerous a piece of bunting to
risk in her house now. It would be many weary months before she would
need another.

Through every hour of the day and night since Lee sprang on McClellan,
those never-ending lines of ambulances had wound their way through the
streets. Every store and every home and every public building had been
converted into a hospital. The counters of trade were moved aside and
through the plate glass along the crowded streets could be seen the long
rows of pallets on which the mangled bodies of the wounded lay. Every
home set aside at least one room for the wounded boys of the South.

The heart-rending cries of the men from the wagons as they jolted over
the cobble stones rose day and night--a sad, weird requiem of agony,
half-groan, half-chant, to which the ear of pity could never grow
indifferent.

Death was the one figure now with which every man, woman and child was
familiar. The rattle of the dead-wagons could be heard at every turn.
They piled them high, these uncoffined bodies of the brave, and hurried
them under the burning sun to the trenches outside the city. They piled
them in long heaps to await the slow work of the tired grave-diggers.
The frail board coffins in which they were placed at last would often
burst from the swelling corpse. The air was filled with poisonous odors.

The hospitals were jammed with swollen, disfigured bodies of the wounded
and the dying. Gangrene and erysipelas did their work each hour in the
weltering heat of mid-summer.

But the South received her dead and mangled boys with a majesty of grief
that gave no cry to the ear of the world. Mothers lifted their eyes from
the faces of their dead and firmly spoke the words of resignation:

"Thy will, O Lord, be done!"

Her houses were filled with the wounded, the dying and the dead, but
Richmond lifted up her head. The fields about her were covered with
imperishable glory.

The Confederacy had won immortality.

The women of the South resolved to wear no mourning for their dead.
Their boys had laid their lives a joyous offering on their country's
altar. They would make no cry.

Johnston had lost six thousand and eighty-four men, dead, wounded and
missing at Seven Pines, and Lee had lost seventeen thousand five hundred
and eighty-three in seven days of continuous battle. But the South was
thrilled with the joy of a great deliverance.

Jefferson Davis in his address to the army expressed the universal
feeling of his people:


    "Richmond, July 5, 1862.

    "_To the Army of Eastern Virginia_:

    "_Soldiers_:

    "I congratulate you upon the series of brilliant victories which,
    under the favor of Divine Providence, you have lately won; and as
    President of the Confederate States, hereby tender to you the
    thanks of the country, whose just cause you have so skillfuly and
    heroically saved.

    "Ten days ago an invading army, vastly superior to yours in numbers
    and the material of war, closely beleaguered your Capital and
    vauntingly proclaimed our speedy conquest. You marched to attack
    the enemy in his entrenchments. With well-directed movements and
    death-defying valor you charged upon him in his strong positions,
    drove him from field to field over a distance of more than
    thirty-five miles, and, despite his reënforcements, compelled him
    to seek safety under the cover of his gunboats, where he now lies
    cowering before the army so lately despised and threatened with
    utter subjugation.

    "The fortitude with which you have borne trial and privation, the
    gallantry with which you have entered into each successive battle,
    must have been witnessed to be fully appreciated. A grateful people
    will not fail to recognize you and to bear you in loved remembrance.
    Well may it be said of you that you have 'done enough for glory,'
    but duty to a suffering country and to the cause of Constitutional
    liberty claims for you yet further effort. Let it be your pride to
    relax in nothing which can promote your future efficiency; your one
    great object being to drive the invader from your soil, and, carrying
    your standards beyond the outer borders of the Confederacy, to wring
    from an unscrupulous foe the recognition of your birthright and
    independence."


Within the year from the fatal victory at Bull Run the South had through
bitterness, tears and defeat at last found herself. Under the firm and
wise leadership of Davis, her disasters had been repaired and her army
brought to the highest standard of efficiency.

At the head of her armies now stood Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson.
Their fame filled the world. In the west, Braxton Bragg, a brilliant and
efficient commander, was marshaling his army to drive the Union lines
into Kentucky.

From the depths of despair the South rose to the heights of daring
assurance. For the moment the junta of politicians led by Senator Barton
were compelled to halt in their assaults on the President. The people of
the South had forgotten the issue of the date on Joseph E. Johnston's
commission as general.

With characteristic foolhardiness, however, Barton determined that they
should not forget it. He opened a series of bitter attacks on Davis for
the appalling lack of management which had permitted McClellan to save
what was left of his army. He boldly proclaimed the amazing doctrine
that the wounding of Johnston at Seven Pines was an irreparable disaster
to the South.

"Had Johnston remained in command," he loudly contended, "there can be
no doubt that he would have annihilated or captured McClellan's whole
army and ended the war."

On this platform he gave a banquet to General Johnston on the occasion
of his departure from Richmond for his new command in the west. The
Senator determined to hold his faction together for future assaults.
Lee's record was yet too recent to permit the politicians to surrender
without a fight.

The banquet was to be a love feast at which all factions opposed to
Davis should be united behind the banner of Johnston. Henry S. Foote had
quarreled with William L. Yancey. These two fire-eaters were
enthusiastic partisans of his General.

Major Barbour, Johnston's chief quartermaster, presided at the head of
the banquet table in Old Tom Griffin's place on Main Street. Foote was
seated on his right, Governor Milledge T. Bonham of South Carolina next.
Then came Gustavus W. Smith, whose hatred of Davis was implacable for
daring to advance Robert E. Lee over his head. Next sat John U. Daniel,
the editor of Richmond's yellow journal, the _Examiner_. Daniel's arm
was in a sling. He had been by Johnston's side when wounded at Seven
Pines.

At the other end of the table sat Major Moore, the assistant
quartermaster, and by his side on the left, General Joseph E. Johnston,
full of wounds in the flesh and grievances of soul. On his right was
John B. Floyd of Fort Donelson fame whom Davis had relieved of his
command. And next William L. Yancey, the matchless orator of secession,
whose hatred of Davis was greater than this old hatred of Abolition.

The feast was such as only Tom Griffin knew how to prepare.

Johnston as usual was grave and taciturn, still suffering from his
unhealed wound. Yancey and Foote, the reconciled friends who had shaken
hands in a common cause, were the life of the party.

Daniel, the editor of the organ of the Soreheads and Irreconcilables,
was even more taciturn than his beloved Chief. General Bonham sang a
love song. Yancey and Foote vied with each other in the brilliancy of
their wit.

When the banquet had lasted for two hours, Yancey turned to Old Tom
Griffin and said:

"Fresh glasses now and bumpers of champagne!"

When the glasses were filled the Alabama orator lifted his glass.

"This toast is to be drunk standing, gentlemen!"

Every man save Johnston sprang to his feet. Yancey looked straight into
the eye of the General and shouted:

"Gentlemen! We drink to the health of the only man who can save the
Southern Confederacy--General Joseph E. Johnston!"

The glasses were emptied and a shout of applause rang from every
banqueter save one. The General had not yet touched his glass.

Without rising, Johnston lifted his eyes and said in grave tones:

"Mr. Yancey, the man you describe is now in the field--his name is
Robert E. Lee. I drink to his health."

Yancey's quick wit answered in a flash:

"I can only reply to you, sir, as the Speaker of the House of Burgesses
did to General Washington--'Your modesty is only equaled by your
valor!'"

Johnston's tribute to Lee was genuine, and yet nursing his grudge
against the President with malignant intensity he left for the west,
encouraging his friends to fight the Chieftain of the Confederacy with
tooth and nail and that to the last ditch.



CHAPTER XXXI

LOVE AND WAR


Captain Richard Welford reached Richmond from the Western army two days
after Lee had driven McClellan under the shelter of the navy. He had
been wounded in battle, promoted to the rank of Captain for gallantry on
the field and sent home on furlough for two months.

He used his left hand to raise the knocker on Jennie's door. His right
arm was yet in a sling. His heart was beating a wild march as he rushed
from the hotel to the Senator's house. He had not heard from Jennie in
two months but the communications of the Western army had been cut more
than once and he thought nothing of the long silence. It had only made
his hunger to see the girl he loved the more acute. He had fairly
shouted his joy when a piece of shell broke his right arm and hurled him
from his horse. He never thought of promotion for gallantry. It came as
a surprise. The one hope that leaped when he scrambled to his feet and
felt the helpless arm hanging by his side was to see the girl he had
left behind.

"Glory to God!" he murmured fervently, "I'll go to her now!"

He was just a little proud of that broken arm as he waited for her
entrance. The shoulder straps he wore looked well, too. She would be
surprised. It had all happened so quickly, no account had yet reached
the Richmond papers.

Jennie bounded into the room with a cry of joy.

"Oh, Dick, I'm so glad to see you!"

He smiled and extended his left hand.

"Jennie!" was all he could say.

"You are wounded?" she whispered.

Dick nodded.

"Yep--a shell toppled me over but I was on my feet in a minute
laughing--and I'll bet you couldn't guess what about?"

"No--"

"Laughed because I knew I'd get to see you--"

"I'm so proud of you!" she cried through her tears.

"Are you?" he asked tenderly.

"Of course I am--don't you think I know what those shoulder straps
mean?"

"Well, I just care because you care, Jennie--"

"You're a brave Southern boy fighting for our rights--you care for that,
too."

"Oh yes, of course, but that's not the big thing after all, little
girl--"

He paused and seized her hand.

She blushed and drew it gently away.

"Please--not that now--"

"Why--not now?"

He asked the question in tones so low they were almost a gasp. He felt
his doom in the way she had withdrawn her hand.

"Because--" she hesitated just a moment to strike the blow she knew
would hurt so pitifully and then went on firmly, "I've met my fate,
Dick--and pledged him my heart."

The Captain lifted his shoulders with a little movement of soldierly
pride, held himself firmly, mastered the first rush of despair and then
spoke with assumed indifference:

"Socola?"

Jennie smiled faintly.

"Yes."

He rose awkwardly and started to the door. Jennie placed her hand on his
wounded arm with a gesture of pathetic protest.

"Dick!"

"I can't help it, I must go--"

"Not like this!"

"I can't smile and lie to you. It means too much. I hate that man. He's
a scoundrel, if God ever made one--"

Jennie's hand slipped from his arm.

"That will do now--not another word--"

"I beg your pardon, Jennie," he stammered. "I didn't think what I was
saying, honey. It just popped out because it was inside. You'll forgive
me?"

The anger died in her eyes and she took his outstretched hand.

"Of course, I understand--and I'm sorry. I appreciate the love you've
given me. I wish in my heart I could have returned it. You deserve it--"

The Captain lifted his left hand.

"No pity, please. I'm man enough to fight--and I'm going to fight.
You're not yet _Signora_ Socola--"

The girl laughed.

"That's more like a soldier!"

"We'll be friends anyhow, Jennie?"

"Always."

The Captain left the Senator's house with a grim smile playing about his
strong mouth. He had made up his mind to fight for love and country on
the same base. He would ask for his transfer to the Secret Service of
the Confederacy.



CHAPTER XXXII

THE PATH OF GLORY


Jefferson Davis had created the most compact and terrible engine of war
set in motion since Napoleon founded the Empire of France. It had been
done under conditions of incredible difficulty, but it had been done.
The smashing of McClellan's army brought to the North the painful
realization of this fact. Abraham Lincoln must call for another half
million soldiers and no man could foresee the end.

Davis had begun in April, 1861, without an arsenal, laboratory or powder
mill of any capacity, and with no foundry or rolling mill for iron
except the little Tredegar works in Richmond.

He had supplied them.

Harassed by an army of half a million men in blue led by able generals
and throttled by a cable of steel which the navy had drawn about his
coast line, he had done this work and at the same time held his own
defiantly and successfully. Crippled by a depreciated currency,
assaulted daily by a powerful conspiracy of sore-head politicians and
quarreling generals, strangled by a blockade that deprived him of nearly
all means of foreign aid--he had still succeeded in raising the needed
money. Unable to use the labor of slaves except in the unskilled work of
farms, hampered by lack of transportation even of food for the army,
with no stock of war material on hand,--steel, copper, leather or iron
with which to build his establishments--yet with quiet persistence he
set himself to solve these problems and succeeded.

He had created, apparently out of nothing, foundries and rolling mills
at Selma, Richmond, Atlanta and Macon, smelting works at Petersburg, a
chemical laboratory at Charlotte, a powder mill superior to any of the
United States and unsurpassed by any in Europe,--a mighty chain of
arsenals, armories, and laboratories equal in their capacity and
appointments to the best of those in the North, stretching link by link
from Virginia to Alabama.

He established artificial niter beds at Richmond, Columbus, Charleston,
Savannah, Mobile and Selma of sufficient capacity to supply the niter
needed in the powder mills.

Mines for iron, lead and copper were opened and operated. Manufactories
for the production of sulphuric and nitric acid were established and
successfully operated.

Minor articles were supplied by devices hitherto unheard of in the
equipment of armies. Leather was scarce and its supply impossible in the
quantities demanded.

Knapsacks were abolished and haversacks of cloth made by patriotic women
with their needles took their places. The scant supply of leather was
divided between the makers of shoes for the soldiers and saddles and
harness for the horses. Shoes for the soldiers were the prime necessity.
To save leather the waist and cartridge-box belts were made of heavy
cotton cloth stitched in three or four thicknesses. Bridle reins were
made of cotton in the same way. Cartridge boxes were finally made
thus--with a single piece of leather for the flap. Even saddle skirts
for the cavalry were made of heavy cotton strongly stitched.

Men to work the meager tanneries were exempt from military services and
transportation for hides and leather supplies was free.

A fishery was established on the Cape Fear River in North Carolina from
which oil was manufactured. Every wayside blacksmith shop was utilized
as a government factory for the production of horseshoes for the
cavalry.

To meet the demands for articles of prime necessity which could not be
made in the South, a line of blockade runners was established between
the port of Wilmington, North Carolina, and Bermuda. Vessels capable of
storing in their hold six hundred bales of cotton were purchased in
England and put into this service. They were long, low, narrow craft
built for speed. They could show their heels to any ship of the United
States Navy. Painted a pale grayish-blue color, and lying low on the
water they were sighted with difficulty in the day and they carried no
lights at night. The moment one was trapped and sunk by the blockading
fleet, another was ready to take her place.

Depots and stores were established and drawn on by these fleet ships
both at Nassau and Havana.

By the fall of 1862, through the port of Wilmington, from the arsenals
at Richmond and Fayetteville, and from the victorious fields of Manassas
and the Seven Days' Battle around Richmond, sufficient arms had been
obtained to equip two hundred thousand soldiers and supply their
batteries with serviceable artillery.

On April 16, 1862, Davis asked of his Congress that every white man in
the South between the ages of 18 and 35 be called to the colors and all
short term volunteer contracts annulled. The law was promptly passed in
spite of the conspirators who fought him at every turn. Camps of
instruction were established in every State, and a commandant sent from
Richmond to take charge of the new levies.

Solidity was thus given to the military system of the Confederacy and
its organization centralized and freed from the bickerings of State
politicians.

With her loins thus girded for the conflict the South entered the second
phase of the war--the path of glory from the shattered army of McClellan
on the James to Hooker's crushed and bleeding lines at Chancellorsville.

The fiercest clamor for the removal of McClellan from his command swept
the North. The position of the Northern General was one of peculiar
weakness politically. He was an avowed Democrat. His head had been
turned by flattery and he had at one time dallied with the idea of
deposing Abraham Lincoln by the assumption of a military dictatorship.
Lincoln knew this. The demand for his removal would have swayed a
President of less balance.

Lincoln refused to deprive McClellan of his command but yielded
sufficiently to the clamor of the radicals of his own party to appoint
John Pope of the Western army to the command of a new division of troops
designed to advance on Richmond.

The generals under McClellan who did not agree with his slow methods
were detached with their men and assigned to service under Pope.

McClellan did not hesitate to denounce Pope as an upstart and a braggart
who had won his position by the lowest tricks of the demagogue. He
declared that the new commander was a military impostor, a tool of the
radical wing of the Republican party, a man who mistook brutality in
warfare for power and sought to increase the horrors of war by arming
slaves, legalizing plunder and making the people of the South
irreconcilable to a restored Union by atrocities whose memory could
never be effaced.

Pope's first acts on assuming command did much to justify McClellan's
savage criticism. He issued a bombastic address to his army which
brought tears to Lincoln's eyes and roars of laughter from Little Mac's
loyal friends.

He issued a series of silly general orders making war on the
noncombatant population of Virginia within his line. If citizens refused
to take an oath of allegiance which he prescribed they were to be driven
from their homes and if they dared to return, were to be arrested and
treated as spies.

His soldiers were given license to plunder. Houses were robbed and
cattle shot in the fields. Against these practices McClellan had set his
face with grim resolution. He fought only organized armies. He protected
the aged, and all noncombatants. It was not surprising, therefore, when
Lincoln ordered him to march his army to the support of Pope, McClellan
was in no hurry to get there.

Pope had boldly advanced across the Rappahannock and a portion of his
army had reached Culpeper Court House. He had determined to make good
the proclamation with which he had assumed command.

In this remarkable document he said:

"By special assignment of the President of the United States, I have
assumed command of this army. I have come to you from the West where we
have always seen the backs of our enemies--from an army whose business
it has been to seek the adversary and to beat him when found, whose
policy has been attack not defense. Let us study the probable lines of
retreat of our opponents and leave ours to take care of themselves. Let
us look before us and not behind."

While his eyes were steadily fixed before him Jackson, moving with the
stealthy tread of a tiger, slipped in behind his advance guard, sprang
on it and tore his lines to pieces before he could move reënforcements
to their rescue.

When his reënforcements reached the ground Jackson had just finished
burying the dead, picking up the valuable arms left on the field and
sending his prisoners to the rear.

Before Pope could lead his fresh men to an attack the vanguard of Lee's
army was in sight and the general who had just issued his flaming
proclamation took to his heels and fled across the Rappahannock where he
called frantically for the divisions of McClellan's army which had not
yet joined him.

While Lee threatened Pope's front by repeated feints at different points
along the river, he dispatched Jackson's corps of twenty-five thousand
"foot cavalry" on a wide flanking movement through the Blue Ridge to
turn the Federal right, destroy his stores at Manassas Junction and
attack him in the rear before his reënforcements could arrive.

With swiftness Jackson executed the brilliant movement. Within
twenty-four hours his men had made the wide swing through the low
mountain ranges and crouched between Pope's army and the Federal
Capital. To a man of less courage and coolness this position would have
been one of tragic danger. Should Pope suddenly turn from Lee's
pretended attacks and spring on Jackson he might be crushed between two
columns. Franklin and Sumner's corps were at Alexandria to reënforce his
lines.

Jackson had marched into the jaws of death and yet he not only showed no
fear, he made a complete circuit of Pope's army, struck his storehouses
at Manassas Junction and captured them before the Federal Commander
dreamed that an army was in his rear. Eight pieces of artillery and
three hundred prisoners were among the spoils. Fifty thousand pounds of
bacon, a thousand barrels of beef, two thousand barrels of pork, two
thousand barrels of flour, and vast quantities of quartermaster's stores
also fell into his hands.

Jackson took what he could transport and burned the rest.

Pope rushed now in frantic haste to destroy Jackson before Lee's army
could reach him.

Jackson was too quick for the eloquent commander. He slipped past his
opponent and took a strong position west of the turnpike from Warrenton
where he could easily unite with Longstreet's advancing corps.

Pope attempted to turn Jackson's left with a division of his army and
the wily Southerner fell on his moving columns with sudden savage
energy, fought until nine o'clock at night and drove him back with heavy
loss.

When Pope moved to the attack next day at two o'clock Longstreet had
reached Jackson's side. The attack failed and his men fell back through
pools of blood. The Federal Commander was still sending pompous messages
to Washington announcing his marvelous achievements while his army had
steadily retreated from Culpeper Court House beyond the Rappahannock,
back to Manassas where the first battle of the war was fought.

At dawn on August 30, the high spirited troops of the South were under
arms standing with clinched muskets within a few hundred yards of the
pickets of Pope. Their far flung battle line stretched for five miles
from Sudley Springs on the left to the Warrenton road and on obliquely
to the southwest.

The artillery opened the action and for eight hours the heavens shook
with its roar. At three o'clock in the afternoon Pope determined to hurl
the flower of his army against Jackson's corps and smash it. His first
division pressed forward and engaged the Confederates at close
quarters. A fierce and bloody conflict followed, Jackson's troops
refusing to yield an inch. The Federal Commander brought up two reserve
lines to support the first but before they could be of any use,
Longstreet's artillery was planted to rake them with a murderous fire
and they fell back in confusion.

As the reserves retreated Jackson ordered his men to charge and at the
same moment Longstreet hurled his division against the Federal center,
and the whole Confederate army with piercing yell leaped forward and
swept the field as far as the eye could reach.

No sublimer pageant of blood and flame and smoke and shrouded Death ever
moved across the earth than that which Lee now witnessed from the
hilltop on which he stood. For five miles across the Manassas plains the
gray waves rolled, their polished bayonets gleaming in the blazing sun.
They swept through the open fields, now lost a moment in the woods, now
flashing again in the open. They paused and the artillery dashed to the
front, spread their guns in line and roared their call of death to the
struggling, fleeing, demoralized army. Another shout and the charging
hosts swept on again to a new point of vantage from which to fire.
Through clouds of smoke and dust the red tongues of flame from a hundred
big-mouthed guns flashed and faded and flashed again.

The charging men slipped on the wet grass where the dead lay thickest.
Waves of white curling smoke rose above the tree-tops and hung in dense
clouds over the field lighted by the red glare of the sinking sun.

The relief corps could be seen dashing on, with stretchers and
ambulances following in the wake of the victorious army.

The hum and roar of the vast field of carnage came now on the ears of
the listener--the groans of the wounded and the despairing cry of the
dying. And still the living waves of gray-tipped steel rolled on in
relentless sweep.

Again the fleeing Federal soldiers choked the waters of Bull Run. Masses
of struggling fugitives were pushed from the banks into the water and
pressed down. Here and there a wounded man clung to the branch of an
overhanging tree until exhausted and sank to rise no more.

The meadows were trampled and red. Hundreds of weak and tired men were
ridden down by cavalry and crushed by artillery. On and on rushed the
remorseless machine of the Confederacy, crushing, killing, scarring,
piling the dead in heaps.

It was ten o'clock that night before the army of Lee halted and Pope's
exhausted lines fell into the trenches around Centreville for a few
hours' respite. At dawn Jackson was struggling with his tired victorious
division to again turn Pope's flank, get into his rear and cut off his
retreat.

A cold and drenching rainstorm delayed his march and the rabble that was
once Pope's army succeeded in getting into the defenses of Washington.

Davis' army took seven thousand prisoners and picked up more than two
thousand wounded soldiers whom their boastful commander had left on the
field to die. Thirty pieces of artillery and twenty thousand small arms
fell into Lee's hands.

Pope's losses since Jackson first struck his advance guard at Culpeper
Court House had been more than twenty thousand men and his army had been
driven into Washington so utterly demoralized it was unfit for further
service until reorganized under an abler man.

For the moment the North was stunned by the blow. Deceived by Pope's
loud dispatches claiming victory for the first two days it was
impossible to realize that his shattered and broken army was cowering
and bleeding under the shadow of the Federal Capitol.

Even on the night of August thirtieth, with his men lying exhausted at
Centreville where they had dropped at ten o'clock when Lee's army had
mercifully halted, poor Pope continued to send his marvelous messages to
the War Department.

He reported to Halleck:

"The enemy is badly whipped, and we shall do well enough. Do not be
uneasy. We will hold our own here. We have delayed the enemy as long as
possible without losing the army. We have damaged him heavily, and I
think the army entitled to the gratitude of the country."

To this childish twaddle Halleck replied:

"My dear General, you have done nobly!"

Abraham Lincoln, however, realized the truth quickly. He removed Pope
and in spite of the threat of his Cabinet to resign called McClellan to
reorganize the dispirited army.

The North was in no mood to listen to the bombastic defense of General
Pope. They were stunned by the sudden sweep of the Confederate army from
the gates of Richmond on June first, to the defenses at Washington
within sixty days with the loss of twenty thousand men under McClellan
and twenty thousand more under Pope.

The armies of the Union had now been driven back to the point from which
they had started on July 16, 1861. It had been necessary to withdraw
Burnside's army from eastern North Carolina and the forces of the Union
from western Virginia. The war had been transferred to the suburbs of
Washington and the Northern people who had confidently expected
McClellan to be in Richmond in June were now trembling for the safety of
Pennsylvania and Maryland, to say nothing of the possibility of
Confederate occupation of the Capital.

An aggressive movement of all the forces of the South under Lee in the
East and Bragg and Johnston in the West was ordered.

In spite of the fact that Lee's army could not be properly shod--the
supply of army shoes being inadequate and the lack of shoe factories a
defect the Confederacy had yet been unable to remedy, the Southern
Commander threw his army of barefooted veterans across the Potomac and
boldly invaded Maryland on September the fifth.

The appearance of Stonewall Jackson on his entrance into Frederick City,
Maryland, was described by a Northern war correspondent in graphic
terms:

"Old Stonewall was the observed of all observers. He was dressed in the
coarsest kind of homespun, seedy, and dirty at that. He wore an old hat
which any Northern beggar would consider an insult to have offered him.
In his general appearance he was in no respect to be distinguished from
the mongrel barefoot crew who followed his fortunes. I had heard much of
the decayed appearance of rebel soldiers,--but such a looking crowd!
Ireland in her worst straits could present no parallel, and yet they
glory in their shame!"

Lee's army was now fifty miles north of Washington, within striking
distance of Baltimore. His strategy had completely puzzled the War
Department of the Federal Government. McClellan was equally puzzled.
Lincoln and his Cabinet believed Lee's movement into Maryland a feint to
draw the army from the defense of the Capital, and, when this was
accomplished, by a sudden swoop the Southern Commander would turn and
capture the city.

While McClellan was thus halting in tragic indecision one of the
unforeseen accidents of war occurred which put him in possession of
Lee's plan of campaign and should have led to the annihilation of the
Southern army. A copy of the order directing the movement of the
Confederates from Frederick, Maryland, was thrown to the ground by a
petulant officer to whom it was directed. It fell into the hands of a
Federal soldier who hurried to McClellan's headquarters with the fateful
document.

Jackson's corps had been sent on one of his famous "foot cavalry"
expeditions to sweep the Federal garrison from Martinsburg, surround and
capture Harper's Ferry. McClellan at once moved a division of his army
to crush the small command Lee had stationed at South Mountain to guard
Jackson's movement.

McClellan threw his men against this little division of the Confederates
and attempted to force his way to the relief of Harper's Ferry. The
battle raged with fury until nine o'clock at night. Their purpose
accomplished Lee withdrew them to his new position at Sharpsburg to
await the advent of Jackson.

The "foot cavalry" had surrounded Harper's Ferry, assaulted it at dawn
and in two hours the garrison surrendered. Thirteen thousand prisoners
with their rifles and seventy-three pieces of artillery fell into
Jackson's hands. Leaving General A. P. Hill to receive the final
surrender of the troops Jackson set out at once for Sharpsburg to join
his army with Lee's.

The Southern Commander had but forty thousand men with which to meet
McClellan's ninety thousand, but at sunrise on September seventeenth,
his batteries opened fire and the bloodiest struggle of the Civil War
began. Through the long hours of this eventful day the lines of blue and
gray charged and counter-charged across the scarlet field. When darkness
fell neither side had yielded. The dead lay in ghastly heaps and the
long pitiful wail of the wounded rose to Heaven.

Lee had lost two thousand killed and six thousand wounded. McClellan had
lost more than twelve thousand. His army was so terribly shattered by
the bloody work, he did not renew the struggle on the following day. Lee
waited until night for his assault and learning that reënforcements were
on the way to join McClellan's command withdrew across the Potomac.

It was a day later before Lee's movements were sufficiently clear for
McClellan to claim a victory.

On September nineteenth, he telegraphed Washington:

"I do not know if the enemy is falling back or recrossing the river. We
may safely claim the victory as ours."

Abraham Lincoln hastened to take advantage of McClellan's claim to issue
his Emancipation Proclamation. And yet so utter had been the failure of
his general to cope with Lee and Jackson, the President of the United
States relieved McClellan of his command.

While Lee's invasion had failed of the larger purpose, its moral effect
on the North had been tremendous. He carried back into Virginia fourteen
thousand prisoners, eighty pieces of artillery and invaluable equipment
for his army.

In the meantime the Western army under Bragg had invaded Kentucky,
sweeping to the gates of Cincinnati and Louisville and retiring with
more than five thousand prisoners, five thousand small arms and ten
pieces of artillery.

The gain in territory by the invasion of Maryland and Kentucky had been
nothing but the moral effect of these movements had been far reaching.
The daring valor of the small Confederate armies fighting against
overwhelming odds had stirred the imagination of the world. In the west
they had carried their triumphant battle flag from Chattanooga to
Cincinnati, and although forced to retire, had shown the world that the
conquest at the southwestern territory was a gigantic task which was yet
to be seriously undertaken.

The London _Times_, commenting on these campaigns, declared:

"Whatever may be the fate of the new nationality or its subsequent
claims to the respect of mankind, it will assuredly begin its career
with a reputation for genius and valor which the most famous nations may
envy."

On McClellan's fall he was succeeded by General Burnside who found a
magnificently trained army of veteran soldiers at his command. It was
now divided into three grand divisions of two corps each, commanded by
three generals of tried and proven ability, Sumner, Hooker and Franklin.

Burnside quickly formed and began the execution of an advance against
Richmond. He moved his army rapidly down the left bank of the
Rappahannock River to Fredericksburg, and ordered pontoon bridges to
cross the stream. His army could thus defend Washington while moving in
force on the Confederate Capital.

When Burnside led his one hundred and thirteen thousand men across the
river and occupied the town of Fredericksburg, Lee and Jackson were
ready to receive him. Lee had entrenched on the line of crescent-shaped
hills behind the town.

When the new Northern Commander threw his army, with its bands playing
and its thousand flags flying, against these hills on the morning of
December 13, 1862, he plunged headlong and blindfolded into a death
trap.

Charge after charge was repulsed with unparalleled slaughter. Lee's guns
were planted to cross fire on each charging line of blue. Burnside's
men were mowed down in thousands until their sublime valor won the
praise and the pity of their foe.

When night at last drew the veil over the awful scene the shattered
masses of the charging army were huddled under the shelter of the houses
in Fredericksburg leaving the field piled high with the dead and the
wounded. The wounded were freezing to death in the pitiless cold.

Burnside had lost thirteen thousand men--the flower of his troops--the
bravest men the North had ever sent into battle.

Jackson's keen eye was quick to see the shambles into which this
demoralized army had been pushed. The river behind them could be crossed
only on a narrow pontoon bridge. A swift and merciless night attack
would either drive the bleeding lines into the freezing river,
annihilate or capture the whole army. He urged Lee to this attack. Lee
demurred. He could not know the extent of the enemy's losses. It was
inconceivable to the Southern Commander that Burnside with his one
hundred and thirteen thousand picked soldiers, could be repulsed with
such slight losses to the South. Only a small part of the army under his
command had been active in the battle and their losses were
insignificant in comparison with the records of former struggles.
Burnside would renew the attack with redoubled vigor. He refused to move
his men from their entrenchments into the open field where they would be
exposed to the batteries beyond the river.

Jackson turned his somber blue eyes on Lee:

"Send my corps into Fredericksburg alone to-night. Hold the hills with
the rest of the army. I'll do the work."

"You cannot distinguish friend from foe, General Jackson--"

"I'll strip my men to the waist and tie white bands around their right
arms."

"In this freezing cold?"

"They'll obey my orders, General Lee--"

"It's too horrible--"

"It's war, sir," was Jackson's reply. "War means fighting--fighting to
kill, to destroy--fighting with tooth and nail--"

Lee shook his head. He refused to take the risk. Jackson returned to his
headquarters with heavy heart. His chief of medical staff was busy
preparing bandages for his men. He had been sure of Lee's consent. He
countermanded the order and Burnside's army was saved from annihilation.
When the sun rose next morning half his men were safely across the
river--and the remainder quickly followed.

Again the North was stunned. Another wave of horror swept its homes as
the lists of the dead and wounded were printed.

Burnside resigned his command and "Fighting" Joe Hooker was placed at
the head of the Northern troops. Since June first, Lee and Jackson had
destroyed four blue armies and driven their commanders from the
field,--McClellan twice, John Pope and now Burnside.

The political effects of these brilliant achievements of Davis' army had
been paralyzing on the administration of Lincoln. The Proclamation of
Emancipation which he had issued immediately after the bloody battle in
Maryland had not only fallen flat in the North, it had created a
reaction against his policies and the conduct of the war. The November
elections had gone against him and his party had been all but wiped out.

The Democrats in New York had reversed a majority of one hundred and
seven thousand against them in 1860 and swept the State, electing their
entire ticket. The administration was defeated in New Jersey,
Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana and Illinois.

The voters of the North not only condemned the administration for
declaring the slaves free, but they assaulted the war policy of their
Government with savage fury. They condemned the wholesale arrest of
thousands of citizens for their political opinions and arraigned the
Government for its incompetence in conducting the military operations of
an army of more than twice the numbers of the triumphant South.

The Emancipation Proclamation and the victories of Davis' army had not
only divided and demoralized the North, they had solidified Southern
opinion.

Even Alexander H. Stephens, the Vice-President of the Confederacy, who
had been a thorn in the flesh of Davis from the beginning in his
advocacy of foolish and impossible measures of compromise now took his
position for war to the death. In a fiery speech in North Carolina
following Lincoln's proclamation Stephens said:

"As for any reconstruction of the Union--such a thing is
impossible--such an idea must not be tolerated for an instant.
Reconstruction would not end the war, but would produce a more horrible
war than that in which we are now engaged. The only terms on which we
can obtain permanent peace is final and complete separation from the
North. Rather than submit to anything short of that, let us resolve to
die as men worthy of freedom."

A few days after the defeat of Burnside's army at Fredericksburg the
South was thrilled by the feat of General McGruder in Galveston harbor.
The daring Confederate Commander had seized two little steamers and
fitted them up as gun boats by piling cotton on their sides for
bulwarks. With these two rafts of cotton coöperating on the water, his
infantry waded out into the waters of Galveston Bay and attacked the
Federal fleet with their bare hands.

When the smoke of battle lifted the city of Galveston was in Confederate
hands, the fleet had been smashed and scattered and the port opened to
commerce. Commodore Renshaw had blown up his flag ship to prevent her
falling into McGruder's hands and gone down with her. The garrison
surrendered.

Jackson had invented a "foot cavalry." McGruder had supplemented it by a
"foot navy."

At Murfreesboro, Tennessee, on the same day General Bragg had engaged
the army of Rosecrans and fought one of the bloodiest engagements of the
war. Its net results were in favor of the Confederacy in spite of the
fact that he permitted Rosecrans to move into Murfreesboro. The Northern
army had lost nine thousand men, killed and wounded, and Bragg carried
from the field six thousand Federal prisoners, thirty pieces of
artillery, sixty thousand stand of small arms, ambulances, mules, horses
and an enormous amount of valuable stores.

His own losses had been great but far less than those he inflicted on
Rosecrans. He had lost one thousand two hundred and ninety-two killed,
seven thousand nine hundred and forty-five wounded and one thousand
twenty-seven missing.

At Charleston a fleet of iron-clads on the model of the _Monitor_ had
been crushed by the batteries and driven back to sea with heavy loss.
The _Keokuk_ was left a stranded wreck in the harbor.

A second attack on Vicksburg had failed under Sherman. A third attack by
Grant had been repulsed. Farragut's attack on Port Hudson had failed
with the loss of the _Richmond_.

The Federal Government now put forth its grandest effort to crush at a
blow the apparently invincible army of Davis' still lying in its
trenches on the heights behind Fredericksburg.

Hooker's army was raised to an effective force of one hundred and thirty
thousand and his artillery increased to four hundred guns. Lee had been
compelled to detach Longstreet's corps, comprising nearly a third of his
army for service in North Carolina. The force under his command was
barely fifty thousand.

So great was the superiority of the Northern army Hooker divided his
forces for an enveloping movement, each wing of his being still greater
than the whole force under Lee.

Sedgwick's corps crossed the river below Fredericksburg and began a
flanking movement from the south while Hooker threw the main body across
the Rappahannock at three fords seven miles above.

On April thirtieth, he issued an address to his men. His forces were all
safely across the river without firing a shot. He had Lee's little army
caught in a trap between his two grand divisions.

In his proclamation he boldly announced:

"The operations of the last three days have determined that our enemy
must ingloriously fly, or come out from behind their defenses and give
us battle on our own ground, where certain destruction awaits him."

His enemy was not slow in coming out from behind his defenses. With
quick decision Lee divided his little army by planting ten thousand men
under Early on Marye's Heights to stop Sedgwick's division and moved
swiftly with the remainder to meet Hooker in the dense woods of the
Wilderness near Chancellorsville.

With consummate daring and the strategy of genius he again divided his
army. He detached Jackson's corps and sent his "foot cavalry" on a swift
wide detour of twenty-odd miles to swing around Hooker's right and
strike him in the flank while he pretended an attack in force on his
front.

It was nearly sundown when Jackson's tired but eager men saw from the
hill top their unsuspecting foe quietly cooking their evening meal.

When the battle clouds lifted at the end of three days of carnage,
Hooker's army of one hundred and thirty thousand men had been cut to
pieces and flung back across the Rappahannock, leaving seventeen
thousand killed and wounded on the field.

In the face of his crushing defeat Hooker issued another address to his
army.

He boldly announced from his safe retreat beyond the banks of the river:

"The Major-General commanding tenders to the army his congratulations on
its achievements of the last seven days. If it has not accomplished all
that was expected the reasons are well known to the army. It is
sufficient to say, that they were of a character not to be foreseen or
prevented by human sagacity or resources.

"In withdrawing from the south bank of the Rappahannock before
delivering a general battle to our adversaries, the army has given
renewed evidence of its confidence in itself and its fidelity to the
principles it represents.

"Profoundly loyal and conscious of its strength, the Army of the Potomac
will give or decline battle whenever its interests or honor may command
it.

"By the celerity and secrecy of our movements, our advance and passage
of the river was undisputed, and on our withdrawal not a rebel dared to
follow us. The events of the last week may well cause the heart of every
officer and soldier of the army to swell with pride!"

The heart of the North quickly swelled with such pride that the
President was forced to remove General Hooker and appoint General George
Meade to his command.

While the South was celebrating the wonderful achievement of their now
invincible army, Lee's greatest general lay dying at a little farm house
a few miles from the scene of his immortal achievement. Jackson had been
accidentally wounded by a volley from his own men fired by his orders.

His wound was not supposed to be fatal and arrangements were made for
his removal to Richmond when he was suddenly stricken with pneumonia and
rapidly sank. He lifted his eyes to his physician and calmly said:

"If I live, it will be for the best--and if I die, it will be for the
best; God knows and directs all things for the best."

His last moments were marked with expressions of his abiding faith in
the wisdom and love of the God he had faithfully served.

Yet his spirit was still on the field of battle. In the delirium which
preceded death his voice rang in sharp command:

"Tell Major Hawkes to send forward provisions to the men!"

His head sank and a smile lighted his rugged face. In low tender tones
be gasped his last words on earth:

"Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees."

So passed the greatest military genius our race has produced--the man
who never met defeat. His loss was mourned not only by the South but by
the world. His death extinguished a light on the shores of Time.

The leading London paper said of him:

"That mixture of daring and judgment which is the mark of heaven-born
generals distinguished him beyond any man of his age. The blows he
struck at the enemy were as terrible and decisive as those of Bonaparte
himself."

Thousands followed him in sorrow to the grave. The South was bathed in
tears.

Lee realized that he had lost his right arm and yet, undaunted, he
marshaled his legions and girded his loins for an invasion of Northern
soil.



CHAPTER XXXIII

THE ACCUSATION


Captain Welford had entered the Secret Service of the Confederacy
believing firmly that Socola was a Federal spy. He would not make known
his suspicions until he had secured evidence on which to demand his
arrest.

This evidence he found most difficult to secure. For months he had
watched the handsome foreigner with the patience of a hound. He had
taken particular pains to hold Jennie's friendship in order to be thrown
with Socola on every possible occasion. His men from the Secret Service
Department had followed Socola's every movement day and night with no
results.

He pretended the most philosophic acceptance of the situation and
bantered the lovers with expressions of his surprise that an early
marriage had not been announced.

Socola received the Captain's professions of friendship with no sign of
suspicion. He read Dick's mind as an open book. He saw through his
pretentions and the tragic purpose which underlay his good-natured
banter. He knew instinctively that his movements were watched and moved
with the utmost caution. For a time he found it impossible to visit the
house on Church Hill. Detectives were on his heels the moment he turned
his steps to that hill.

The boarding house in which he lived was watched day and night. And yet
so carefully had he executed his work the men who were hounding him were
completely puzzled. They could not know, of course, that Socola had
chosen as his secretary a man in the Department of State. This man he
had involved in his conspiracy so completely and hopelessly from the
first interview that there was no retreat. He had risked his own life on
his judgment of character the day he made his first proposition. But his
estimate had proven correct. The fellow blustered and then accepted the
bribe and entered with enthusiasm into his service.

Through this clerk the wily director of the Federal Bureau of
Information was compelled now to communicate with Miss Van Lew. Socola
had secured his services in the nick of time. He had been an old friend
of the Van Lew family before the war, their people were distantly
related and no suspicion could attach to his visits to her house unless
made at an unusual hour.

It was nearly a year from the day he began his watch before Captain
Welford succeeded in connecting the stenographer in the Department of
State with the woman on Church Hill.

He had been quietly studying "Crazy Bet" for months. From the first he
had accused this woman of being a spy. The older men in the Department
laughed. Miss Van Lew was the standard joke of the amateurs who entered
the Service. The older men all knew that she was a harmless fool whose
mind had been unbalanced by her love for negroes and her abolition
ideas.

With characteristic stubbornness Dick refused to accept their decision
and set about in his own way to watch her. She was in the habit now of
making more and more frequent trips to Libby Prison, carrying flowers
and delicacies to the Northern prisoners. Dick had observed the use of
an old fashioned French platter with an extremely thick bottom. He
called the attention of the guard to this platter.

The keen ears of the woman had heard it mentioned. The double bottom at
that moment was harmless. The messages she had carried to the prisoners
had all been taken from their hiding place and the platter returned to
her through the bars.

She hurried home before the guard could make up his mind to examine the
contrivance. The next day Dick was on the watch. The Captain whispered
to the guard who halted "Crazy Bet" at the door.

"I'll have to examine that thing," he said sharply.

"Take it then!" she said with a foolish laugh.

She slipped the old shawl from around it and suddenly plumped the
platter squarely into the guard's hands. The double bottom that day was
filled with boiling water.

"Hell fire!" the guard yelled, dropping the platter with a crash.

He blew on his fingers and let her pick it up and pass on.

The woman had fooled the guard completely, but she had not been so
successful with Dick. The trick was _too_ smoothly done. No woman with
an unbalanced mind would have been capable of it.

With extraordinary care the Captain followed her through the crowded
streets and saw her pass Socola in front of the Custom House. No sign of
recognition was made by either, but he saw the stenographer stoop and
pick up something from the edge of the sidewalk.

He would have thought nothing of such an act had he not been following
this woman on whom his suspicions had been fixed. He leaped at once to
the truth.

Miss Van Lew had dropped a cypher message and Socola had taken it.

He watched her again the next day, and, suddenly turning the corner of
an obscure street, saw Socola speak to her in low quick tones, raising
his voice on his appearance to an idle conventional greeting.

He passed them without apparently noticing anything unusual and hurried
to his office with his suspicions now a burning certainty. He had only
to wait his opportunity to trap his quarry in the possession of a
dispatch that would send him to the gallows.

His evidence was not yet sufficient to ask for his arrest. It was
sufficient to convince Jennie Barton whose loyalty to the South was so
intense she would not walk on the same side of the street with Miss Van
Lew.

He rushed to the Barton house.

Jennie saw before he spoke that he bore a message of tragic import.

"What is it, Dick?" she asked under her breath. "Why do you look at me
so?"

"Jennie," he began seriously, "you are sure that you love the South?"

"Don't ask me idiotic questions," she answered sternly; "what are you
driving at?"

"If I prove to you that the man to whom you have pledged your love is an
impostor--"

She lifted her head in a gesture of cold protest.

"I thought we had settled that question."

"But you must listen to me," he went on with calm persistence. "If I
prove to you that this man is a Federal spy--"

Jennie broke into a laugh.

"I can't get mad at you--you're such a big clumsy goose--"

"I said if I _prove_ it--"

There was no mistaking the fact that he was in dead earnest.

The girl's face went white and her eyes took on a hard glitter.

"Now, Dick Welford, that you've said it--you've _got_ to prove it--"

The Captain lifted his hand solemnly.

"I'll prove it. You know Miss Van Lew, the old abolitionist on Church
Hill?--"

"I don't know that such a creature walks the earth."

"You've heard of her?"

"Yes."

"You know that she is a traitor to her own people?"

"I've heard it."

The Captain paused and looked straight at her with searching gaze.

"I just ran into Socola talking to this woman--"

"Is that all?"

"No."

"What else?"

"Yesterday I saw them pass each other on Main Street. Socola stooped and
picked up something from the pavement--"

"Something she dropped?"

"I'm sure of it--"

"But you didn't see her drop it?"

"No--"

"How can you be so absurd!"

"You don't believe what I tell you?"

"But it proves nothing--"

"To me, it's as plain as day--"

"Because you hate him. I'm ashamed of you, Dick."

"Mark my words, I'll prove it before I'm through."

"I'll give you the chance now--that's his knock on the front door--"

"I'd rather not make my accusation to-day--"

"You've made it to me."

"You're a loyal Southern girl. I had the right to make it to you."

The girl laughed.

"And I'll demand of him an explanation--"

Before he could protest Socola walked into the room and grasped Jennie's
hand.

"Captain Welford," she laughed, "has just accused you of hobnobbing with
the enemy on the streets--what explanation can you offer?"

"Need I explain?" he asked lightly.

"Miss Van Lew _is_ a suspicious character."

"That's my excuse, I fear. She is a character. I've been curious to know
if she is really sane. I stopped her on the street and asked her a
question. Is it forbidden in Richmond?"

He spoke with easy convincing carelessness.

Jennie smiled.

"Captain Welford evidently thinks so--"

"And you?"

"I am quite satisfied with your explanation--"

Dick took a step closer and faced his enemy.

"Well, I'm not Signor Socola--if that's your name--"

"Dick!" Jennie interrupted angrily.

The Captain ignored the interruption, holding the eye of the man he
hated.

"You spoke to that woman in low quick tones--"

"Your imagination is vivid, Captain--"

Dick squared his jaw into Socola's face.

"It's vivid enough to see through you. I'm going to wring your neck
before we're through with this thing--"

Jennie thrust her trembling figure between the two men and confronted
Dick.

[Illustration: "Jennie thrust her trembling little figure between the
two men and confronted Dick."]

"How dare you insult the man I love in my presence, Dick Welford?"

"Because I love the South better than my life and you do, too, Jennie
Barton--"

The girl's eyes flashed with rage.

"Leave this room, sir!"

Dick still faced Socola.

"Get out of this town to-night--or I'll wring your neck, you damned
spy!"

"Leave this room, Dick Welford!" Jennie repeated.

The Captain turned and left without even a glance over his broad
shoulders.

"I couldn't strike him in your presence, dear," Socola apologized.

"You behaved splendidly. I'm proud of your perfect poise and mastery of
yourself. Our Southern men splutter easily."

Socola took her hand and pressed it.

"You don't believe this?"

"I'd sooner doubt my own heart--I'd sooner doubt God--"

"I'll prove to you that I'm worthy of your love," he murmured gently.

He knelt that night and tried to ask God to show him the way. His heart
was rising in fierce rebellion at the deception into which he had
entrapped himself. And yet never had his country's need been so bitter
and the service he was rendering so priceless. He rose at last with face
stern and pale. He would fight to the end.



CHAPTER XXXIV

THE TURN OF THE TIDE


The death of Jackson was to Jefferson Davis an appalling disaster. He
had never seriously believed the Southern people could win their unequal
struggle against the millions of the North backed by their inexhaustible
resources until the achievements of Lee and Jackson had introduced a new
element into the conflict. So resistless and terrible had become the
effective war power of Southern soldiers led by these two men whose
minds moved in such harmony with each other and with their Chief in
Richmond that the South at last was in sight of success.

The impossible had been accomplished. Anything now seemed possible.
Jackson's death had destroyed this new equation of war.

Davis' faith in Jackson was in every way equal to Lee's and Lee but once
refused to follow Jackson's lead in his veto on his Lieutenant's plan to
annihilate Burnside's army at Fredericksburg.

When the report reached Richmond that Jackson was dying Davis was
inconsolable.

The whole evening the President of the Confederacy shut himself in his
room--unable to think of anything save the impending calamity. When the
end was sure he sent with his own hand the handsomest flag in Richmond
in which to wrap his body.

When Davis gazed on the white, cold, rugged features, the tears were
streaming down his hollow checks. He bent low and the tears fell on the
face of the dead.

When an officer of the Government came to the President's Mansion where
the body lay in state to consult him on a matter of importance, the
Confederate Chieftain stared at his questioner in a dazed sort of way
and remained silent.

Lifting his haggard face at last he said in pathetic tones:

"You must excuse me, my friend, I am staggering from a dreadful blow--I
cannot think--"

Three days and nights the endless procession passed the bier and paid
their tribute of adoration and love. And when he was borne to his last
resting place through the streets of the city, the sidewalks, the
windows and the housetops were a throbbing mass of weeping women and
men.

Jefferson Davis was perhaps the only man in the South in a position to
realize the enormous loss which the Confederacy had sustained in the
death of Lee's great lieutenant.

The Southern people who gloried in Jackson's deeds had as yet no real
appreciation of the services he had rendered. They could not realize
their loss until events should prove that no man could be found to take
his place.

The brilliant victory of Chancellorsville, following so closely on
Fredericksburg, had lifted the Confederacy to the heights.

In the West the army had held its own. The safety of Vicksburg was not
seriously questioned. General Bragg confronted Rosecrans with an army so
strong he dared not attack it and yet not strong enough to drive
Rosecrans from Tennessee.

Two campaigns were discussed with Davis.

The members of his Cabinet, who regarded the possession of Vicksburg and
the continued grip on the Mississippi River vital to the life of the
Confederacy, were alarmed at Grant's purpose to fight his way to this
stronghold and take it.

They urged that Lee's army be divided and half of it sent immediately to
reënforce Bragg. With this force in the West Rosecrans could be crushed
and Grant driven from his design of opening the Mississippi.

Lee, flushed with his victories, naturally objected to the weakening of
his army by such a division. He proposed a more daring and effective way
of relieving Vicksburg.

He would raise his army to eighty-five thousand men, clear Virginia of
the enemy and sweep into Pennsylvania, carry the war into the North,
forage on its rich fields, capture Harrisburg and march on Washington.

Davis did not wish to risk this invasion of Northern soil. But his
situation was peculiar. His relations with Lee had been remarkable for
their perfect accord. They had never differed on an essential point of
political or military strategy. Davis' pride in Lee's genius was
unbounded, his confidence in his judgment perfect.

Lee was absolutely sure that his army raised to eighty-five thousand
effective men could go anywhere on the continent and do anything within
human power. He had crushed McClellan's army of two hundred thousand
with seventy-five thousand men, and driven him from his entrenchments at
Richmond down the Peninsula. With sixty thousand he had crushed Pope and
hurled his army into the entrenchments at Washington, a bleeding,
disorganized mob. With sixty-two thousand he had cut to pieces
Burnside's hundred and thirteen thousand. With fifty thousand he had
rolled up Hooker's host of one hundred and thirty thousand in a scroll
of flame and death and flung them across the Rappahannock.

His fame filled the world. His soldiers worshiped him. At his command
they would charge the gates of hell with their bare hands. His soldiers
were seasoned veterans in whose prowess he had implicit faith. His faith
was not a guess. It was founded on achievements so brilliant there was
scarcely room for a doubt.

Lee succeeded in convincing Davis that he could invade the North, live
on its rich fields and win a battle which would open the way, not only
to save Vicksburg from capture, but secure the peace and independence of
the South.

A single great victory on Northern soil with his army threatening
Washington would make peace a certainty. Davis was quick to see the
logic of Lee's plan. It was reasonable. It was a fair risk. And yet the
dangers were so enormous he consented with reluctance.

Reagan, the Western member of his Cabinet, urged with all the eloquence
of his loyal soul the importance of holding intact the communications
with the territory beyond the Mississippi. He begged and pleaded for the
plan to reënforce Bragg and play the safe game with Vicksburg. Davis
listened to his advice with the utmost respect and weighed each point
with solemn sense of his responsibility.

The one point he made last he tried to drive home in a sharp personal
appeal.

"You cannot afford, Mr. President," he urged with vehemence, "to further
expose your own people of Mississippi to the ravages of such men as now
control the invading army. They have laid your own home waste. The
people of Vicksburg are your neighbors. They know you personally. The
people of this territory have sent their sons and brothers into Virginia
by thousands. There are no soldiers left to defend them--"

The President lifted his thin hand in protest.

"I can't let the personal argument sway me, Reagan. Our own people must
endure what is best for the cause. All I wish to know is what _is_
best--your plan or General Lee's."

Lee persuaded him against his personal judgment to consent to the daring
scheme of Northern invasion.

So intent was Reagan on the plan of direct relief to Vicksburg that
after Lee had begun his preparations for the advance, Davis called a
Cabinet meeting and reconsidered the whole question. Reagan pleaded with
tears at last for what he knew his Chief felt to be best. Davis weighed
for the second time each point with care and again decided that Lee's
plan promised the greater end--peace.

The moment his final decision was made Davis at once commissioned Vice
President Alexander H. Stephens, who knew Lincoln personally, to go to
Washington to make the proposition for an armistice and begin the
negotiations for a permanent peace on the day Lee should make good his
promise.

The letter with which Stephens started to Washington asked on its face
that the President of the United States arrange for an exchange of
prisoners which would be prompt and effective and prevent all suffering
by Northern men in Southern climates and Southern men in Northern
prisons. Davis had asked again and again that all prisoners be
exchanged. The Federal War Department had obstructed this exchange until
thousands of Northern soldiers crowded the prisons of the South and it
was impossible for the Confederate authorities to properly care for
them. Medicine had been made contraband of war by the North and the
simplest remedies could not be had for the Confederate soldiers or their
prisoners. Behind this humane purpose of Stephens' mission lay the
bigger proposition, which was a verbal one, to propose peace on Lee's
victory on Northern soil.

Lee's army lay on the plains of Culpeper during the beautiful month of
May. The vast field was astir with the feverish breath of preparations
for the grand march. Trains rushed to the front loaded with munitions of
war. New batteries of artillery with the finest equipment ever known
were added to his army. The ordnance trains were packed to their
capacity. His troops were better equipped than ever before in the
history of the war. Every department of the huge, pitiless machine was
running like clockwork.

Fifteen thousand cavalry were reviewed at Brandy Station led by Stuart's
waving plume--Stuart, the matchless leader who had twice ridden round a
hostile army of a hundred thousand men. Crowds of cheering women watched
this wonderful pageant and waved their handkerchiefs to the handsome
young cavalier as he passed on his magnificent horse draped with
garlands of flowers.

It required an entire week to review the cavalry, infantry, and
artillery.

On June the first, the advance began.

Ewell's corps, once commanded by Jackson, led the way. They swung
rapidly through the Blue Ridge Mountains, into the Valley and suddenly
pounced on General Milroy at Winchester. Milroy with a few of his
officers escaped through the Confederate lines at night and succeeded in
crossing the Potomac at Harper's Ferry. Ewell captured three thousand
prisoners, thirty pieces of artillery, a hundred wagons and great
stores. Seven hundred more men were taken at Martinsburg.

On June twenty-seventh, the whole of Lee's army was encamped at
Chambersburg in Pennsylvania in striking distance of the Capital of the
State.

The execution of this march had been a remarkable piece of strategy. He
had completely baffled the Northern Commanders, spread terror through
the North and precipitated the wildest panic in Washington.

Within twenty-odd days the Southern General had brought his forces from
Fredericksburg, Virginia, confronted by an army of one hundred thousand
men, through the Blue Ridge, and the Shenandoah Valley into
Pennsylvania. He had done this in the face of one of the most powerful
and best equipped armies the North had put into the field. He had swept
the hostile garrisons at Winchester, Martinsburg and Harper's Ferry into
his prisons and camped in Pennsylvania without his progress being once
arrested or a serious battle forced upon him. He had cleared Virginia of
the army which threatened Richmond and they were rushing breathlessly
after him in a desperate effort to save the Capital of Pennsylvania.

So far Lee had made good every prediction on which he had based his plan
of campaign.

Davis felt so sure that he would make good his promised victory that he
hurriedly dispatched Stephens to Fortress Monroe under a flag of truce
and asked for a safe conduct for his Commissioner to Washington.

In alarm the Governors of Ohio, Pennsylvania, New York, Maryland, and
West Virginia called out their militia. Lee was not deterred by their
panic. He knew that those raw troops would cut no figure in the swift
and terrible drama which was being staged among the ragged crags around
Gettysburg. The veteran armies of the North and South would decide the
issue. If he won, he would brush aside the militia as so many school
boys and march into Washington.

Meade was rushing his army after his antagonist with feverish haste. His
advance guard struck Lee before the town of Gettysburg on July first,
1863. A desperate struggle ensued. Neither Meade nor Lee had yet reached
the field.

Within a mile of the town the Confederates made a sudden and united
charge and smashed the Federal line into atoms. General Reynolds, their
Commander, was killed and his army driven headlong into the streets of
Gettysburg. Ewell, charging through the town, swept all before him and
took five thousand prisoners.

The crowded masses of fugitives, fleeing for their lives, passed out of
the town and rushed up the slopes of the hills beyond.

At five o'clock Lee halted his men until the rest of his army should
reach the field.

During the night General Meade rallied his disorganized men, poured his
fresh troops among them and entrenched his army on the heights where his
defeated advance guard had taken refuge.

Had Lee withdrawn the next morning when he scanned those hills which
looked down on him through bristling brows of brass and iron the history
of the Confederacy might have been longer. It could not have been more
illustrious.

His reasons for assault were sound. To his council of war he was
explicit.

"I had not intended, gentlemen," he said, "to fight a general battle at
such distance from our base, unless attacked by the enemy. We find
ourselves confronted by the Federal army. It is difficult to withdraw
through the mountains with our large trains. The country is unfavorable
for collecting supplies while in the presence of the main body of the
enemy as he can restrain our foraging parties by occupying the mountain
passes. The battle is in a measure unavoidable. We have won a great
victory to-day. We can defeat Meade's army in spite of these hills."

When Lee surveyed the heights of Gettysburg again on the morning of the
second of July, he saw that the Northerners held a position of
extraordinary power. Yet his men were flushed with victory after
victory. They had swept their foe before them in the first encounter as
chaff before a storm. They were equal to anything short of a miracle.

He ordered Longstreet to hurl his corps against Cemetery Ridge and drive
the enemy from his key position before the entrenchments could be
completed.

Longstreet was slow. Jackson would have struck with the rapidity of
lightning. On this swift action Lee had counted. The blow should have
been delivered before eight o'clock. It was two o'clock in the afternoon
before Longstreet made the attack and Meade's position had been made
stronger each hour.

From two o'clock until dark the long lines of gray rolled and dashed
against the heights and broke in red pools of blood on their rocky
slopes.

Three hundred pieces of artillery thundered their message in an Oratorio
of Death. The earth shook. Hills and rocks danced and reeled before the
excited vision of the onrushing men. For two hours the guns roared and
thundered without pause. The shriek of shell, the crash of falling
trees, the showers of flying rocks ripped from cliffs by solid shot, the
shouts of charging hosts, the splash of bursting shrapnel, the neighing
of torn and mangled horses, transformed the green hills of Pennsylvania
into a smoke-wreathed, flaming hell. The living lay down that night to
sleep with their heads pillowed on the dead.

On this second day Lee's men had gained a slight advantage. They had
taken Round Top and held it for two hours. They had at least proven that
it could be done. They had driven in the lines on the Federal left. The
Southern Commander still believed his men could do the impossible.
Longstreet begged his Chief that night to withdraw and choose another
field. Lee ordered the third day's fight. On his gray horse he watched
Pickett lead his immortal charge and fall back down the hill.

He rode quietly to the front, rallying the broken lines. He made no
speech. He uttered no bombast.

He calmly lifted his hand and cried:

"Never mind--boys!"

To his officers he said:

"It's all my fault. We'll talk it over afterward. Let every good man
rally now."

His army had never known a panic. The men quietly fell into line and
cheered their Commander.

To an English officer on the field Lee quietly said:

"This has been a sad day for us, Colonel--a sad day; but we can't expect
always to gain victories."

Lee had lost twenty thousand men and fourteen generals. Meade had lost
twenty-three thousand men and seventeen generals. Lee withdrew his army
across the swollen Potomac, carrying away his guns and all the prisoners
he had taken.

General Meade had saved the North, but Lee's army was still intact, on
its old invincible lines in Virginia, sixty-five thousand strong.

The news from Gettysburg crushed the soul of Davis. He had hoped with
this battle to end the war, and stop the frightful slaughter of our
noblest men, North and South. His Commissioner, Alexander H. Stephens,
was halted at Fortress Monroe and sent back to Richmond with an
insulting answer.

So bitter was Lee's disappointment that he offered his resignation to
Davis.

The President at once wrote a generous letter in which he renewed the
expressions of his confidence in the genius of his Commanding General
and begged him to guard his precious life from undue exposure.

Gettysburg was but one of the appalling calamities which crushed the
hopes of the Confederate Chieftain on this memorable fourth of July,
1863.

On the recovery of Joseph E. Johnston from his wound at Seven Pines he
was assigned to the old command of Albert Sidney Johnston in the West.
His department included the States of Tennessee, Mississippi, Alabama,
Georgia and North Carolina.

He entered on the duties of his new and important field--complaining,
peevish, sulking.

On the day before his departure Mrs. Davis visited his wife and
expressed to General Johnston the earnest wish of her heart for her
husband's success.

"I sincerely hope, General," she said cordially, "that your campaign
will be brilliant and successful."

The General pursed the hard lines of his mouth.

"I might succeed if I had Lee's chances with the army of Northern
Virginia."

From the moment Johnston reached his field he began to quarrel with his
generals and complain to the Government at Richmond. He made no serious
effort to unite his forces for the defense of Vicksburg and continuously
wrote and telegraphed to the War Department that his authority was
inadequate to really command so extended a territory. He made no effort
to throw the twenty-four thousand men he commanded into a juncture with
Pemberton who was struggling valiantly against Grant's fifty thousand
closing in on the doomed city.

On May eighteenth, Johnston sent a courier to Pemberton and advised him
to evacuate Vicksburg without a fight! Pemberton held a council of war
and refused to give up the Mississippi River without a struggle.
Johnston sat down in his tent and left him to his fate.

Grant closed in on Vicksburg and the struggle began. Pemberton could not
believe that Johnston would not march to his relief.

Women and children stood by their homes amid the roar of guns and the
bursting of shells. Caves were dug in the hills and they took refuge
under the ground.

A shell burst before a group of children hurrying from their homes to
the hills. The dirt thrown up from the explosion knocked three little
fellows down, but luckily no bones were broken. They jumped up, brushed
their clothes, wiped the dirt from their eyes, and hurried on without a
whimper.

When the dark days of starvation came, the women nursed the sick and
wounded, lived on mule and horse meat and parched corn.

Johnston continued to send telegrams to the War Department saying he
needed more troops and didn't know where to get them. Yet he was in
absolute command of all the troops in his department and could order
them to march at a moment's notice in any direction he wished. He
hesitated and continued to send telegrams and write letters for more
explicit instructions.

He got them finally in a direct peremptory order from the War
Department.

On June fifteenth, he telegraphed his Government:

"I consider saving Vicksburg hopeless."

Davis ordered his Secretary of War to reply immediately in unmistakable
language:


    "Your telegram grieves and alarms us, Vicksburg must not be lost
    without a struggle. The interest and honor of the Confederacy
    forbid it. I rely on you to avert this loss. If better resource
    does not offer you must hazard attack. It may be made in concert
    with the garrison, if practicable, but otherwise without. By day
    or night as you think best."


The Secretary of War, brooding in anxiety over the possibility of
Johnston's timidity in the crisis, again telegraphed him six days
later:


    "Only my convictions of almost imperative necessity for action
    induced the official dispatch I have sent you. On every ground I
    have great deference to your judgment and military genius, but I
    feel it right to share, if need be to take the responsibility and
    leave you free to follow the most desperate course the occasion may
    demand. Rely upon it, the eyes and hopes of the whole Confederacy
    are upon you, with the full confidence that you will act, and with
    the sentiment that it were better to fail nobly daring, than through
    prudence even to be inactive. I rely on you for all possible to save
    Vicksburg."


On June twenty-seventh, Grant telegraphed Washington:


    "Joe Johnston has postponed his attack until he can receive ten
    thousand reënforcements from Bragg's army. They are expected early
    next week. I feel strong enough against this increase and do not
    despair of having Vicksburg before they arrive."


Pemberton's army held Vicksburg practically without food for forty-seven
days. His brave men were exposed to blistering suns and drenching rains
and confined to their trenches through every hour of the night. They had
reached the limit of human endurance and were now physically too weak to
attempt a sortie. Johnston still sat in his tent writing letters and
telegrams to Richmond.

Pemberton surrendered his garrison to General Grant on July fourth, and
the Mississippi was opened to the Federal fleet from its mouth to its
source.

Grant telegraphed to Washington:


    "The enemy surrendered this morning, General Sherman will face
    immediately on Johnston and drive him from the State."


But the great letter writer did not wait for Sherman to face him. He
immediately abandoned the Capital of Mississippi and retreated into the
interior.

In the fall of Vicksburg, the Confederacy had suffered a most appalling
calamity--not only had the Mississippi River been opened to the Federal
gunboats, but Grant had captured twenty-four thousand prisoners of war,
including three Major Generals and nine Brigadiers, ninety pieces of
artillery and forty thousand small arms.

The Johnston clique at Richmond made this disaster the occasion of
fierce assaults on Jefferson Davis and fresh complaints of the treatment
of their favorite General. The dogged persistence with which this group
of soreheads proclaimed the infallibility of the genius of the weakest
and most ineffective general of the Confederacy was phenomenal. The more
miserable Johnston's failures the louder these men shouted his praises.
The yellow journals of the South continued to praise this sulking old
man until half the people of the Confederacy were hoodwinked into
believing in his greatness.

The results of this Johnston delusion were destined to bear fatal fruit
in the hour of the South's supreme trial.



CHAPTER XXXV

SUSPICION


Jennie Barton had refused to listen to Captain Welford's accusation of
treachery against her lover but the seed of suspicion had been planted.
It grew with such rapidity her peace of mind was utterly destroyed.

In vain she put the ugly thought aside.

"It's impossible!" she murmured a hundred times only to come back to the
idea that would not down.

Night after night she tossed on her pillow unable to sleep. The longer
she faced the problem of Socola's character and antecedents the more
probable became the truth of Dick's suspicions. She had made his present
position in the State Department possible.

Again her love rose in rebellion. "It's a lie--a lie!" she sobbed. "I
won't believe it. Dick's crazy jealousy's at the bottom of it all--"

Why had Socola buried himself in the Department of State so completely
since the scene with Dick? His calls had been brief. Their relations had
been strained in spite of her honest effort to put them back on the old
footing.

He gave as his excuse for not calling oftener the enormous pressure of
work which the crisis of the invasion of Pennsylvania had brought to his
office. The excuse was valid. But perfect love would find a way. It
should need no excuse.

There was something wrong. She realized it now with increasing agony.
Unable to endure the strain she sent for Socola.

Their meeting was awkward. She made no effort to apologize or smooth
things over. Her attitude was instinctive. She gave her feelings full
rein.

She fixed on him a steady searching gaze.

"It's useless for me to try to pretend, my love. There's something wrong
between us."

"Your mind has been poisoned," was the quick, serious answer. "Thoughts
are things. They have the power to kill or give life. A poisonous idea
has been planted in your soul. It's killing your love for me. I feel
it--and I'm helpless."

"You can cast it out," she answered tenderly.

"How?"

"Tell me frankly and honestly the whole story of your life--"

"You believe me an impostor?"

"I love you--"

"And that is not enough?"

"No. Make suspicion impossible. You can do this--if you are innocent as
I believe you are--"

She paused and a sob caught her voice.

"Oh, my love, it's killing me--I can neither eat nor sleep. Show me that
such a thing is impossible--"

He took her hand.

"How foolish, my own, to ask this of me--we love right or wrong. Love is
the fulfillment of the law. You call me here to cross-examine me--"

"No--no--dear heart--just to have you soothe my fears and make me laugh
again--"

"But how is it possible--once this thought has found its way into your
mind? If I am a spy, as your Captain Welford says, it is my business to
deceive the enemy. I couldn't tell the truth and live in Richmond. I
would swing from the nearest limb if I should be discovered--"

Jennie covered her face with her hands:

"Don't--don't--please--"

"Can't you see how useless such a question?"

"You can't convince me?" she asked pathetically.

"I won't try," he said firmly. "You must trust me because you love me.
Nothing I could say could convince you--"

He paused and held her hands in a desperate clasp--

"Trust me, dear--I promise in good time to convince you that I am all
your heart has told you--"

"You must convince me now--or I'll die," she sobbed.

"You're asking the impossible--"

He stroked her hand with tender touch, rose and led her to the door.

"You'll try to trust me?"

There was an unreal sound in her voice as Jennie slowly replied:

"Yes--I'll try."

Socola hurried to the house on Church Hill and dispatched a courier on a
mission of tragic importance. Kilpatrick and Dahlgren were preparing to
capture Richmond by a daring raid of three thousand cavalrymen.

Jennie watched him go with the determination to know the truth at all
hazards.



CHAPTER XXXVI

THE FATAL DEED


The battle of Gettysburg and the disaster of the fall of Vicksburg once
more gave to the Johnston junta in the Confederate Congress their
opportunity to harass the President.

Their power for evil had been greatly diminished by the pressure of the
swiftly moving tragedy of the war.

The appearance of this Congress was curiously plain and uninteresting.
With the exception of J. L. M. Curry of Alabama and Barksdale of
Mississippi there was not a man among them of constructive ability as a
statesman. Foote of Tennessee was noted for his high-flown English, his
endless harangues and his elaborate historical illustrations. Had his
ability been equal to the intensity of his hatred for Davis he would
have been a dangerous man to the administration. James Lyons of Virginia
stood six feet three in his stockings, had fine, even, white teeth, and
was considered the handsomest man in the assembly.

Yancey, the fierce, uncompromising agitator of secession, was too
violent to command the influence to which his genius entitled him.

Senator Barton, fierce, impatient, bombastic, had long ago exhausted the
vocabulary of invective and could only repeat himself in descending
anti-climax.

Hill of Georgia was a young man of ability who gave promise of greater
things under more favorable conditions.

The real business of this Congress was transacted in secret executive
sessions. When the public was admitted, the people of Richmond generally
looked on with contempt. They sneeringly referred to them as "the
College Debating Society, on Capitol Hill."

The surroundings of their halls added to the impression of
inefficiency--dingy, dirty and utterly lacking in the luxuries which the
mind associates with the exercise of sovereign power.

The Senate was forced to find quarters in the third story of the "State
House." There was no gallery and the spectators were separated from the
members by an improvised railing. The only difference noticeable between
the Senators and the spectators was that the members had seats and the
listeners and loafers had standing room only behind the rail.

The House of Representatives had a better chamber. But its walls were
bare of ornament or paintings, its chairs were uncushioned, its desks
dingy and slashed with pocket knives. Its members sat with their heels
in the air and their bodies sprawled in every conceivable attitude of
ugly indifference.

The heart and brains of the South were on the field of battle--her
noblest sons destined to sleep in unmarked graves.

The scenes of personal violence which disgraced the sittings of this
nondescript body of law makers did much to relieve the President of the
burden of their hostility.

Foote of Tennessee provoked an encounter with Judge Dargan of Alabama
which came near a tragic ending. The Judge was an old man of eccentric
dress, much given to talking to himself--particularly as he wandered
about the streets of Richmond. The gallery of the House loved him from
the first for his funny habit of scratching his arm when the itch of
eloquence attacked him. And he always addressed the Speaker as "Mr.
Cheerman." They loved him particularly for that. The eccentric Judge had
a peculiarly fierce antipathy to Foote. Words of defiance had passed
between them on more than one occasion. The House was in secret night
session. The Judge was speaking.

Foote sitting near, glanced up at his enemy and muttered:

"Damned old scoundrel--"

The Judge's gray head suddenly lifted, he snatched a bowie knife from
his pocket and dashed for the man who had insulted him.

From every direction rose the shouts and cries of the excited House.

"Stop him!"

"Hold him!"

"Great God!"

"Judge--Judge!"

The wildest uproar followed. Half a dozen members threw themselves on
the old man, dragged him to the floor, pinned him down and wrested the
knife from his grasp.

When the eloquent gentleman from Tennessee saw that his assailant was
disarmed and safely guarded by six stalwart men he struck an attitude,
expanded his chest, smote it with both hands and exclaimed with
melodramatic gusto:

"I defy the steel of the assassin!"

The House burst into shouts of uncontrollable laughter, and adjourned
for the night.

Another scene of more tragic violence occurred in the Senate--a hand to
hand fight between William L. Yancey and Ben Hill. The Senator from
Georgia threw his antagonist across a desk, held him there in a grip of
steel and pounded his face until dragged away by friends. Yancey's spine
was wrenched in the struggle, and it was rumored that this injury caused
his death. It possibly hastened the end already sure from age, disease
and careless living.

Committees from this assembly of law makers who attempted to instruct
the conscientious, hard-working man of genius the Southern people had
made their President found little comfort in their efforts.

Davis received them with punctilious ceremony. His manners were always
those of a gentleman--but he never allowed them to return to their
onerous work in the Debating Society without a clear idea of his views.
They were never expressed with violence. But the ice sometimes formed on
the window panes if he stood near while talking.

A Congressional Committee were demanding the restoration of Beauregard
to command.

"General Beauregard asked me to relieve him, gentlemen--"

"Only on furlough for illness," interrupted the Chairman.

"And you have forced him into retirement!" added a member.

The President rose, walked to the window, gazed out on the crowded
street for a moment and turned, suddenly confronting his tormentors. He
spoke with quiet dignity, weighing each word with cold precision:

"If the whole world asked me to restore General Beauregard to the
command which I have given to Braxton Bragg, I would refuse." He resumed
his seat and the Committee retired to Senator Barton's house where they
found a sympathetic ear.

Bragg was preparing to fight one of the greatest battles of the war. At
Chickamauga, the "River of Death," he encountered Rosecrans. At the end
of two days of carnage the Union army was totally routed, right, left,
and center and hurled back from Georgia into Chattanooga. Polk's wing
captured twenty-eight pieces of artillery and Longstreet's twenty-one.
Eight thousand prisoners of war were taken, fifteen thousand stand of
arms and forty regimental colors.

Rosecrans' army of eighty thousand men was literally cut to pieces by
Bragg's fifty thousand Southerners. No more brilliant achievement of
military genius illumines history. Chickamauga was in every way as
desperate a battle as Arcola--and in all Napoleon's Italian campaigns
nothing more daring and wonderful was accomplished by the Man of
Destiny.

Bragg had justified the faith of Davis. Rosecrans was hemmed in in
Chattanooga, his supplies cut off and his army facing starvation when he
was relieved of his command, Thomas succeeding him. Grant was hurried to
Chattanooga with two army corps to raise the siege.

With his reënforcements Grant raised the siege, surprised and defeated
Bragg's army which had been weakened by the detachment of Longstreet's
corps for a movement on Knoxville.

Bragg withdrew his army again into Georgia and resigned his command. The
stern, irritable Confederate fighter was disgusted with the constant
attacks on him by peanut politicians and refused to hear Davis' plea
that he remain at the head of the Western army. The President called him
to Richmond and made him his Chief of Staff.

The disaster to the Confederacy at Chattanooga which gave General Grant
supreme command of the Union forces, brought to the Johnston junta at
Richmond its opportunity to once more press their favorite to the front.
Since his Vicksburg fiasco the President had isolated him. Davis
resisted this appointment with deep foreboding of its possible disaster
to the South.

In the midst of this bitter struggle over the selection of a Western
Field Commander, the President of the Confederacy received the first
and only recognition of his Government accorded by any European power.

His early education at the St. Thomas Monastery had given the Southern
leader a lofty opinion of the Roman Catholic Church. Davis had always
seen in the members of this faith in America friends who could not be
alienated from the oppressed.

Failing to receive recognition from the great powers of Europe, he
dispatched his diplomatic representative to Rome with a carefully worded
letter to the Pope in which he expressed his gratitude to Pius IX for
his efforts in behalf of peace. The Pope had urged his bishops in New
Orleans and New York to strive to end the war.

The Vatican received the Confederate diplomat with every mark of
courtesy and every expression of respect accorded the most powerful
nations of the world. The Dominican friars had not forgotten the
wistful, eager boy they had taught, and loved in Kentucky.

The Pope replied to this communication in an official letter which
virtually recognized the Confederacy--both in his capacity as a temporal
sovereign and as the head of the Roman Catholic Church.

The President read this letter with renewed hope of favorable action
abroad.


    "ILLUSTRIOUS AND HONORABLE PRESIDENT:

    "Salutation:

    "We have just received with all suitable welcome the persons sent by
    you to place in our hands your letter dated twenty-third of September
    last.

    "Not slight was the pleasure we experienced when we learned from
    those persons and the letter, with what feelings of joy and gratitude
    you were animated, illustrious and honorable President, as soon as
    you were informed of our letters to our venerable brother John,
    Archbishop of New York, and John, Archbishop of New Orleans, dated
    the eighteenth of October of last year, and in which we have with all
    our strength excited and exhorted these venerable brothers, that in
    their episcopal piety and solicitude, they should endeavor, with the
    most ardent zeal, and in our name, to bring about the end of the
    fatal civil war which has broken out in those countries, in order
    that the American people may obtain peace and concord, and dwell
    charitably together.

    "It is particularly agreeable to us to see that you, illustrious and
    honorable President, and your good people, are animated with the
    same desire of peace and tranquillity which we have in our letters
    inculcated upon our venerable brothers. May it please God at the same
    time to make the other people of America and their ruler, reflecting
    seriously how terrible is civil war, and what calamities it engenders,
    listen to the inspiration of a calm spirit, and adopt resolutely the
    part of peace.

    "As for us, we shall not cease to offer up the most fervent prayers
    to God Almighty that He may pour out upon all the people of America
    the Spirit and peace and charity, and that He will stop the great
    evils which afflict them. We at the same time beseech the God of pity
    to shed abroad upon you the light of His countenance and attach you
    to us by a perfect friendship.

    "Given at Rome, at St. Peter's, the third of December, 1863, of our
    Pontificate 18.

    "(Signed) Pius IX."


The dark hour was swiftly approaching when the South and her leader
would need the prayers of all God's saints.

Failing to persuade Bragg to reconsider his resignation, Davis appointed
General Hardee as his successor to command the Western army. Hardee
declared the responsibility was more than he could assume.

Under the urgent necessity of driving the Union army back from its
position at Chattanooga and heartsick with eternal wrangling of the
opposition, Davis reluctantly ordered Joseph E. Johnston personally to
assume command of the Army of Tennessee--and the fatal deed was done.



CHAPTER XXXVII

THE RAIDERS


In February, 1864, both North and South were straining every nerve for
the last act of the grand drama of blood and tears. The Presidential
election would be held in November to choose a successor to Abraham
Lincoln. At this moment Lincoln was the most unpopular, the most
reviled, the most misunderstood and the most abused man who had ever
served as President of the United States. The opposition to him inside
his own party was fierce, malignant, vindictive and would stop short of
nothing to encompass his defeat in their nominating convention. They had
not hesitated even to accuse his wife of treason.

Military success and military success alone could save the
administration at Washington. George B. McClellan, the most popular
general of the Union army, was already slated to oppose Lincoln on a
platform demanding peace.

If the South could hold her own until the first Monday in November, the
opposition to the war in the North would crush the administration and
peace would be had at the price of Southern independence.

No man in America understood the tense situation more clearly than
Jefferson Davis. His agents in the North kept him personally informed of
every movement of the political chess board. Personally he had never
believed in the possibility of the South winning in a conflict of arms
since the death of Jackson had been given its full significance in the
battle of Gettysburg. He had however believed in the possibility of the
party of the North which stood for the old Constitution winning an
election on the issue of a bloody and unsuccessful war and, on their
winning, that he could open negotiations for peace and gain every point
for which the war had been fought. It all depended on the battles of the
coming spring and summer.

Grant, the new Commander-in-Chief of the armies of the Union, had been
given a free hand with unlimited resources of men and money. He was now
directing the movements of nearly a million soldiers in blue.

Sherman was drilling under his orders an army of a hundred thousand with
which to march into Georgia--while Grant himself would direct the
movement of a quarter of a million men in his invasion of Virginia.

The Confederate President saw at once that Lee's army must be raised to
its highest point of efficiency and that it was of equal importance that
Joseph E. Johnston should be given as many or more men with which to
oppose Sherman.

To allow for Johnston's feeble strategy, Davis sent him 68,000 soldiers
to Dalton, Georgia, to meet Sherman's 100,000 and gave Lee 64,000 with
which to oppose Grant's 150,000 threatening to cross the Rapidan and
move directly on Richmond.

Socola had informed the War Department at Washington that the
Confederate Capital had been stripped of any semblance of an effective
garrison to fill the ranks of Lee and Johnston.

General Judson Kilpatrick was authorized to select three thousand picked
cavalry, dash suddenly on Richmond, capture it and release the 15,000
Union prisoners confined in its walls and stockades.

These prisoners Grant steadily refused to receive in exchange. In vain
Davis besought the Federal Government to take them home in return for
an equal number of Confederate prisoners who were freezing and dying in
the North.

Grant's logic was inexorable. Every Confederate prisoner exchanged and
sent back home meant a recruit to Lee's army. It was cruel to leave his
men to languish in beleaguered Richmond whose citizens were rioting in
the streets for bread, but he figured these prisoners as soldiers dying
in battle. The Confederate Government had no medicine for them. The
blockade was drawn so tight scarcely an ounce of medicine could be
obtained for the Confederate army. Davis offered the Washington
Government to let their own surgeons come to Richmond and carry medicine
and food to their prisoners. His request was refused.

The only thing Grant conceded was his consent to Kilpatrick's attempt to
free and arm these 15,000 prisoners and loose them with fire and sword
in the streets of the Confederate Capital.

Little did the men, women and children of Richmond dream that they were
lying down each night to sleep on the thin crust of a volcano.

Captain Welford in the pursuit of Socola and Miss Van Lew had found that
the woman on Church Hill persisted in her visits to the prisons. Libby,
which contained a number of Union officers of rank, was her favorite.

On the last day of February his patient watch was rewarded. He had
placed a spy in Libby disguised as a captive Union soldier.

This man had sent the Captain an urgent message to communicate with him
at once. Within thirty minutes Welford confronted him in the guardroom
of the prison.

The Captain spoke in sharp nervous tones:

"Well?"

"I've something big--"

He paused and glanced about the room.

"Go on!"

"There's a plot on foot inside to escape--"

"Of course. They're always plotting to escape--we've no real prison
system--no discipline. Hundreds have escaped already. It's nothing
new--"

"This _is_ new," the spy went on eagerly, "They let me into their
councils last night. There's going to be a big raid on Richmond--the men
inside are going to fight their way out, arm themselves and burn the
city. When they get the signal from the outside they'll batter down the
walls and rush through--"

"Batter down the walls?"

"Yes, sir--"

"How?"

"They've loosed two big rafters and have them ready to use as battering
rams--"

"You're sure of this?"

"Sure's God's in heaven. Go in and see for yourself--"

Captain Welford gave a low whistle.

"This is big news. There are enough prisoners in Richmond to make an
army corps--eleven hundred in here--twenty-five hundred at Crew and
Pemberton's--at Belle Isle and the other stockades at least fifteen
thousand in all. They are guarded by a handful of men. If they realize
their power, they can batter their way out in five minutes and sweep the
city with blood and fire--"

He stopped suddenly, drew a deep breath and turned again to the man.

"That'll do for you here. Take a little rest. You'd as well go back into
a lion's den when they find out that I know. They'd spot you sure and
tear you limb from limb."

The spy saluted.

"Report to me a week from to-day at the office. You've earned a
vacation."

The man saluted again and passed quickly out.

Captain Welford asked the Superintendent to call his prisoners together.

"I have something to say to them."

A thousand silent men in blue were gathered in the assembly room of the
old warehouse.

Captain Welford boldly entered the place carrying a box in his hand. He
placed it on the floor, sprang on it and lifted his hand over the crowd:

"I've an announcement to make, gentlemen," he began quietly amid a
silence that was death like. "The Department which I represent has
learned that you are planning to batter down the walls and join a force
of raiders who are on the way to capture Richmond--"

He paused and a murmur of smothered despair, inarticulate, bitter, crept
through the crowd.

"To forestall this little scheme, I have planted a thousand pounds of
powder under this building. I have mined every other prison. The first
one of you that lifts his finger to escape gives the signal that will
blow you into Eternity--"

Dick stepped from the box and made his way out without another word. He
could feel the wild heart beat of baffled hope as they followed him to
the door with despairing eyes.

A murmur of sickening rage swept the prison. An ominous silence fell
where hope had beat high.

The same strategic announcement was made in every prison in Richmond. No
mines had been laid. But the story served its purpose. Fifteen thousand
men were bound hand and foot by fear. Three hundred soldiers guarded
them successfully. Not a finger was lifted to help their bold rescuers
who were already dashing toward the city.

Colonel Ulric Dahlgren was crossing the James above Richmond to strike
from the south side, while General Kilpatrick led the attack direct from
the north, Dahlgren crossed the river at Ely's Ford, passed in the rear
of Lee's army, captured a Confederate court martial in session, but
missed a park of sixty-eight pieces of artillery which had been left
unguarded.

When they again reached the James at Davis' Mill, where a ford was
supposed to be, none could be found. Stanton had sent from Washington a
negro guide. They accused the negro of treachery and hung him from the
nearest limb without the formality of a drumhead court martial.

At dawn on March first, Bradley Johnson's cavalry, guarding Lee's flank,
struck one of Kilpatrick's parties and drove them in on the main body.
They pursued Kilpatrick's men through Ashland and down to the outer
defenses of Richmond.

Hero the raiders dismounted their twenty-five hundred men and prepared
to attack the entrenchments. Wade Hampton immediately moved out to meet
him. Bradley Johnson's Marylanders drew up in Kilpatrick's rear at the
same moment, and captured five men bearing dispatches from Dahlgren. He
would attack on the rear at sunset. He asked Kilpatrick to strike at the
same moment.

Johnson boldly charged Kilpatrick's rear with his handful of men and
drove him headlong down the Peninsula to the York River. The Confederate
leader had but seventy-five men and two pieces of artillery but he hung
on Kilpatrick's division of twenty-five hundred and captured a hundred
and forty prisoners.

Dahlgren at night with but four hundred men boldly attacked the defenses
on the north side of the city. He was met by a company of Richmond boys
under eighteen years of age. The youngsters gave such good account of
themselves that he withdrew from the field, leaving forty of his men
dead and wounded.

In his retreat down the Peninsula, he failed to find Kilpatrick's
division. His command was cut to pieces and captured and Dahlgren
himself killed.

The part which Socola had played in this raid was successfully
accomplished without a hitch. He was compelled to answer the drum which
called every clerk of his Department to arms for the defense of the
city. In the darkness he succeeded in pressing into Dahlgren's lines and
on his retreat made his way back to his place in the ranks of the
Confederates.

It was a little thing which betrayed him after the real danger was past
and brought him face to face with Jennie Barton.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE DISCOVERY


From the moment Captain Welford had discovered the plot of the prisoners
to coöperate with Kilpatrick and Dahlgren he was morally sure that Miss
Van Lew had been their messenger. He was equally sure that Socola had
been one of her accomplices.

On the day of the announcement of his powder plant to the prisoners he
set a guard to watch the house on Church Hill, and report to him the
moment "Crazy Bet" should emerge.

Within two hours he received the message that she was on her way down
town with her market basket swinging on her arm. Dick knew that this
woman could not recognize him personally. He was only distantly related
to the Welfords of Richmond.

Miss Van Lew was in a nervous agony to deliver her dispatch to
Kilpatrick, warning him that the purpose of the raid had been discovered
and that he must act with the utmost caution. She had no scout at hand
and Kilpatrick's was expected every moment at her rendezvous near the
market.

Dick turned the corner, circled a block, and met her. She was childishly
swinging the basket on her arm and humming a song. She smiled vacantly
into his face. He caught the look of shrewd intelligence and saw through
her masquerade. A single word from her lips now would send her to the
gallows and certainly lead to Socola's arrest.

The Captain was certain that she carried dispatches on her person at
that moment. If he could only induce her to drop them, the trick would
be turned.

He turned, retraced his steps, overtook her and whispered as he passed:

"Your trusted messenger--"

She paid no attention. There was not the slightest recognition--no
surprise--no inquiry. Her thin face was a mask of death.

Was this man Kilpatrick's scout? Or was he a Secret Service man on her
trail? The questions seethed through her excited soul. Her life hung on
the answer. It was a question of judgment of character and personality.
The man was a stranger. But the need was terrible. Should she take the
chance?

She quickened her pace and passed Dick.

Again she heard him whisper:

"Your messenger is here. I am going through to-night."

In her hand clasped tight was her dispatch torn into strips and each
strip rolled into a tiny ball. Should she commence to drop them one by
one?

Perplexed, she stopped and glanced back suddenly into Dick's face. Her
decision was instantaneous. The subtle sixth sense had revealed in a
flash of his eager eyes her mortal danger. She turned into a side street
and hurried home.

The Captain was again baffled by a woman's wit. His disappointment was
keen. He had hoped to prove his accusation to Jennie Barton before the
sun set. She had ceased to fight his suspicions of Socola. His name was
not mentioned. She was watching her lover with more desperate
earnestness even than he.

The Captain had failed to entrap the wily little woman with her market
basket, but through her he struck the trail of the big quarry he had
sought for two years. Socola was imperiled by a woman's sentimental
whim--this woman with nerves of steel and a heart whose very throb she
could control by an indomitable will.

Heartsick over her failure to get through the lines her warning to
Kilpatrick, she had felt the responsibility of young Dahlgren's tragic
death. Woman-like she determined, at the risk of her life and the life
of every man she knew, to send the body of this boy back to his father
in the North.

In vain Socola pleaded against this mad undertaking.

The woman's soul had been roused by the pathetic figure of the daring
young raider whose crutches were found strapped to his saddle. He had
lost a leg but a few months before.

He had been buried at the cross-roads where he fell--the roads from
Stevensville and Mantua Ferry. In pity for the sorrow of his
distinguished father Davis had ordered the body disinterred and brought
into Richmond. It was buried at night in a spot unknown to anyone save
the Confederate authorities. Feeling had run so high on the discovery of
the purpose of the raiders to burn the city that the Confederate
President feared some shocking indignity might be offered the body.

The night Miss Van Lew selected for her enterprise was cold and dark and
the rain fell in dismal, continuous drizzle. The grave had been
discovered by a negro who saw the soldiers bury the body. It was
identified by the missing right leg.

The work was done without interruption or discovery.

Socola placed the body in Rowley's wagon which was filled with young
peach trees concealing the casket. The pickets would be deceived by the
simple device. Should one of them thrust his bayonet into the depths of
those young trees more than one neck would pay the penalty. But they
wouldn't. He was sure of it.

At the picket post Rowley sat in stolid indifference while he heard the
order to search his wagon. He engaged the guard in conversation. Wagons
entered and passed and still he talked lazily to his chosen friend.

The Lieutenant looked from his tent and yelled at last:

"What 'ell's the matter with you--search that man and let him go--"

"It would be a pity to tear up all those fruit trees!" the guard said
with a yawn.

"I didn't think you'd bother 'em," Rowley answered indifferently, "but I
know a soldier's duty--"

Another wagon dashed up in a hurry. The guard examined him and he passed
on.

Again the Lieutenant called:

"Search that man and let him go!"

Rowley's face was a mask of lazy indifference.

The guard glanced at him and spoke in low tones:

"Your face is guarantee enough, partner--go on--"

Socola flanked the picket and joined Rowley. Near Hungary, on the farm
of Orrick the German, a grave was hurriedly dug and the casket placed in
it. The women helped to heap the dirt in and plant over it one of the
peach trees.

Three days later in response to a pitiful appeal from Dahlgren's father,
Davis ordered the boy's body sent to Washington. The grave had been
robbed. The sensation this created was second only to the raid itself.

It was only too evident to the secret service of the Confederate
Government that an organization of Federal spies honeycombed the city.
The most desperate and determined efforts were put forth to unearth
these conspirators.

Captain Welford had made the discovery that the conspirators who had
stolen Dahlgren's body had cut his curling blond hair and dispatched it
to Washington. The bearer of this dispatch was a negro. He had been
thoroughly searched, but no incriminating papers were found. The Captain
had removed a lock of this peculiarly beautiful hair and allowed the
messenger of love to go on his way determined to follow him on his
return to Richmond and locate his accomplices.

Dick's report of this affair to Jennie had started a train of ideas
which again centered her suspicions on Socola. The night this body had
been stolen she had sent for her lover in a fit of depression. The rain
was pouring in cold, drizzling monotony. Her loneliness had become
unbearable.

He was not at home and could not be found. Alarmed and still more
depressed she sent her messenger three times. The last call he made was
long past midnight.

Her suspicion of his connection with the service of the enemy had become
unendurable. She had not seen or heard from him since the effort to find
him that night. He was at his desk at work as usual next morning.

She wrote him a note and begged that he call at once. He came within
half an hour, a wistful smile lighting his face as he extended his hand:

"I am forgiven for having been born abroad?"

"I have sent for you--"

"I've waited long."

"It's not the first time I've asked you to call," she cried in strained
tones.

"No?"

She held his gaze with steady intensity.

"I sent for you the night young Dahlgren's body was stolen--"

"Really?"

"It was raining. I was horribly depressed. I couldn't endure the
strain. I meant to surrender utterly and trust you--"

"I didn't get your message--"

"I know that you didn't--where were you?"

"Engaged on important business for the Government--"

"What Government?"

"How can you ask such a question?"

"I do ask it. I sent for you three times--the third time after midnight.
It wasn't very modest, perhaps, I was so miserable I didn't care. I just
wanted to put my arms around your neck and tell you to love me
always--that nothing else mattered--"

"Nothing else does matter, dearest--"

"Yes--it does. It matters whether you have used me to betray my people.
Where were you at twelve o'clock night before last?"

"I'd rather not tell you--"

"I demand it--"

A quizzical smile played about Socola's handsome mouth as he faced her
frankly.

"I was in a gambling establishment--"

"Whose?"

"Johnnie Worsham's--"

"What were you doing there? You neither drink nor gamble."

Again the dark face smiled.

"I was asked by my Chief to report on the habits of every man in my
Department--particularly to report every man who frequents the gambling
hells of Richmond--"

Jennie watched him nervously, her hands trembling.

"It's possible of course--"

Her eyes suddenly filled with tears and she threw herself into his
arms.

And then it happened--the little thing, trivial and insignificant,
that makes and unmakes life.

For a long while no words were spoken. With gentle touch he soothed her
trembling body, bending to kiss the waves of rich brown hair.

She pushed him at arm's length at last and looked up smiling.

"I can't help it--I love you!"

"When will you learn that we must trust where we love--"

He stopped suddenly. Her brown eyes were fixed with terror on a single
strand of curling blond hair caught on the button of his waistcoat.

"What is it?" he asked in alarm.

She drew the hair from his coat carefully and held it to the light in
silence.

"You can't be jealous?"

She looked at him curiously.

"Yes. I have a rival--"

"A rival?"

Her eyes pierced him.

"Your love for the Union! I've suspected you before. You've evaded my
questions. Our love has been so big and sweet a thing that you have
always stammered and hesitated to tell me a deliberate lie. It's not
necessary now. I know. Ulrich Dahlgren is the age of my brother Billy.
They used to play together in Washington at Commodore Dahlgren's home
and at ours. He had the most peculiarly beautiful blond hair I ever saw
on a man. I'd know it anywhere on earth. That strand is his, poor boy!
Besides, Dick Welford captured your messenger with that pathetic little
bundle on his way to Washington--"

Socola started in spite of his desperate effort at self-control and was
about to speak when Jennie lifted her hand.

"Don't, please. It's useless to quibble and argue with me longer. We
face each other with souls bare. I don't ask you why you have deceived
me. Your business as a Federal spy is to deceive the enemy--"

"You are not my enemy," he interrupted in a sudden burst of passion.
"You are my mate! You are mine by all the laws of God and nature. I love
you. I worship you. We are _not_ enemies. We never have been--we never
shall be. With the last breath I breathe your name shall be on my
lips--"

"You may speak your last word soon--"

"What do you mean?"

"I am going to surrender you to the authorities--"

"And you have just been sobbing in my arms--the man you have sworn to
love forever?"

"It's the only atonement I can make. Through you I have betrayed my
country and my people. I would gladly die in your place. The hard thing
will be to do my duty and give you up to the death you have earned."

"You can deliver me to execution?"

"Yes--" was the firm answer. "Listen to this--"

She seized a copy of the morning paper.

"Colonel Dahlgren's instructions to his men. This document was found on
his person when shot. There is no question of its genuineness--"

She paused and read in cold hard tones:


    "Guides, pioneers (with oakum, turpentine and torpedoes), signal
    officer, quarter master, commissary, scouts, and picket men in rebel
    uniform--remain on the north bank and move down with the force on the
    south bank. If communications can be kept up without giving an alarm
    it must be done. Everything depends upon a surprise, and no one must
    be allowed to pass ahead of this column. All mills must be burned and
    the canal destroyed. Keep the force on the southern side posted of
    any important movement of the enemy, and in case of danger some of
    the scouts must swim the river and bring us information. We must try
    to secure the bridge to the city (one mile below Belle Isle) and
    release the prisoners at the same time. If we do not succeed they
    must then dash down, and we will try to carry the bridge from each
    side. The bridges once secured, and the prisoners loosed and over the
    river, the bridges will be secured and the city destroyed--"


Jennie paused and lifted her eyes burning with feverish light.

"Merciful God! How? With oakum and turpentine. A city of one hundred
thousand inhabitants, under the cover of darkness--men, women and
children, the aged, the poor, the helpless!"

Socola made no answer. A thoughtful dreamy look masked his handsome
features.

Jennie read the next sentence from the Dahlgren paper in high quivering
tones:


    "The men must be kept together and well in hand, and once in the
    city, it must be destroyed and _Jeff Davis and his Cabinet_ killed--"


The girl paused and fixed her gaze on Socola.

"The man who planned that raid came with the willful and deliberate
murder of unarmed men in his soul. The man who helped him inside is
equally guilty of his crime--"

She resumed her reading without waiting for reply.


    "Prisoners will go along with combustible material. The officer must
    use his discretion about the time of assisting us. Pioneers must be
    prepared to construct a bridge or destroy one. They must have plenty
    of oakum and turpentine for burning, which will be rolled in soaked
    balls, and given to the men to burn when we get into the city--"


Socola lifted his hand.

"Please, dear--these instructions are not mine. I do not excuse or
palliate them. The daring youngster who conceived this paid the penalty
with his life. It's all that any of us can give for his country. There's
something that interests me now far more than this sensation--far more
than the mere fact that my true business here has been discovered by you
and my life forfeited to your Government--"

"And that is?"

"That the woman I love can deliver me to death--"

"You doubt it?"

"I had not believed it possible."

"I'll show you."

Jennie stepped to the door and pulled the old-fashioned bell-cord.

A servant appeared.

In strained tones the girl said:

"Go to Captain Welford's office and ask him to come here immediately
with two soldiers--"

"Yassam--"

The negro bowed and hurried from the house, and Jennie sat down in
silence beside the door.

Socola confronted her, his hands gripped in nervous agony behind his
back, his slender figure erect, his breath coming in deep excited
draughts.

"You think that I'll submit to my fate without a fight?"

"You've got to submit. Your escape from Richmond is a physical
impossibility--"

He searched the depths of her heart.

"I was not thinking of my body just then. I have no desire to live if
you can hand me to my executioner--"

He paused and a sob came from the girl's distracted soul.

He moved a step closer.

"I'm not afraid to die--you must know that--I'm not a coward--"

"No. I couldn't have loved a coward!"

"The thing I can't endure is that you, the woman to whom I have
surrendered my soul, should judge me worthy of death. Come, my own, this
is madness. We must see each other as God sees now. You must realize
that only the highest and noblest motive could have sent a man of my
character and training on such a mission. We differ in our political
views for the moment--even as you differ from the older brother whom you
love and respect--"

"I am not responsible for my brother's acts. I am for yours--"

"Nonsense, dear heart. My work was ordained of God from the beginning.
It was fate. Nothing could have stopped me. I came under a mighty
impulse of love for my country--bigger than the North or the South. God
sent me. You have helped me. But if you had not I would still have
succeeded. Can't you forget for the moment the details of this
blood-stained struggle--the maimed lad with his crutches strapped to his
saddle, lost in the black storm night in the country of his enemies and
shot to pieces--the mad scheme his impulsive brain had dreamed of wiping
your Capital from the earth and leading fifteen thousand shouting
prisoners back into freedom and life--surely he paid for his madness.
Forget that I have deceived you, and see the vision of which I dream--a
purified and redeemed Nation--united forever--no North, no South--no
East, no West--the inheritance of our children and all the children of
the world's oppressed! I am fighting for you and yours as well as my
own. The South is mine. I love its beautiful mountains and plains--its
rivers and shining seas--Oh, my love, can't you see this divine vision
of the future? The Union must be saved. The stars in their courses
fight its battles. Nothing is surer in the calendar of time than that
the day is swiftly coming when the old flag your fathers first flung to
the breeze will be again lifted from your Capitol building. You can't
put me out of your life as a criminal worthy of death! I won't have it.
I am yours and you are mine. I am not pleading for my life. I'm pleading
for something bigger and sweeter than life. I'm pleading for my love. I
can laugh at death. I can't endure that you put me out of your heart--"

Jennie rose with determination, walked to the window and laughed
hysterically.

"Well, I'm going to put you out. Captain Welford and his men are coming.
They've just turned the corner!"

The man's figure slowly straightened, and his eyes closed in
resignation.

"Then it's God's will and my work is done."

With a sudden cry Jennie threw herself in his arms.

"Forgive me, dear Lord. I can't do this hideous thing! It's my duly, but
I can't. My darling--my own! You shall not die. I was mad. Forgive me!
Forgive me! My own--"

"Halt!"

The sharp command of the Captain rang outside the door.

"Get into this room--quick--" the girl cried, pushing Socola into the
adjoining room and slamming the door as Dick entered the hall.

She faced the Captain with a smile.

"It's all right, now, Dick. I thought I had discovered an important
secret. It was a mistake--"

The Captain smiled.

"You don't mind my looking about the house?"

"_Searching_ the house?"

"Just the lower floor?"

"I do mind it. How dare you suggest such a thing, sir--"

"Because I've made a guess at the truth. You discovered important
evidence incriminating Socola. Your first impulse was to do your
duty--you weakened at the last moment--"

"Absurd!" she gasped.

"I happened to hear a door slam as I entered. I'll have to look around a
little."

He started to the door behind which Socola had taken refuge. Jennie
confronted him.

"You can't go in there--"

"It's no use, Jennie--I'm going to search that room--the whole house if
necessary."

"Why?"

"I know that Socola is here--"

"And if he is?"

"I'll arrest him--"

"On what charge?"

"He is a Federal spy and you know it--"

"You can't prove it."

"I've found the evidence. I have searched his rooms--"

"Searched his _rooms_?"

"Your servant told me that he was here. I leaped to a conclusion, forced
his door and found this--"

He thrust a well-thumbed copy of the cipher code of the Federal Secret
Service into her hand.

"You--you--can't execute him, Dick," Jennie sobbed.

"I will."

"You can't. I love him. He can do no more harm here."

"He's done enough. His life belongs to the South--"

She placed her trembling hand on his arm.

"You are sure that deep down in your heart there's not another motive?"

"No matter how many motives--one is enough. I have the evidence on which
to send him to the gallows--"

The girl's head drooped.

"And I gave it to you--God have mercy!"

The tears began to stream down her checks. Dick moved uneasily and
looked the other way.

"I've got to do it," he repeated stubbornly.

Her voice was the merest whisper when she spoke.

"You're not going to arrest him, Dick. He will leave Richmond never to
enter the South again. I'll pledge my life on his promise. His death can
do us no good. It can do you no good--I--I--couldn't live and know
that I had killed the man I love--"

"You haven't killed him. He has forfeited his life a thousand times in
his work as a spy."

"I sent for you. I caused his betrayal. I shall be responsible if he
dies--"

Again the little head drooped in pitiful suffering. She lifted it at
last with a smile.

"Dick, you're too big and generous for low revenge. You hate this man.
But you love me. I know that. I'm proud and grateful for it. I appeal to
the best that's in you. Save my life and his--"

"You couldn't live if he should die, Jennie?" the man asked tenderly.

"Not if he should die in this way--"

The Captain struggled and hesitated.

Again her hand touched his arm.

"I ask the big divine thing of you, Dick?"

"It's hard. I've won and you take my triumph from me. For two years I've
given body and soul to the task of unmasking this man."

"I'm asking his life--and mine--" the pleading voice repeated.

"I'll give him up on one condition--"

"What?"

The Captain held her gaze in silence a moment.

"That you send him back to the North and put him out of your life
forever!"

Jennie laughed softly through her tears.

"You big, generous, foolish boy--you might have left that to me--"

"All right," he hastened to agree. "I'll leave it to you. Forgive me. I
can't deny you anything--"

"You're a glorious lover, Dick!" she cried tenderly. "Why didn't I love
you?"

"I don't know, honey," he replied chokingly. "We just love because we
must--there's no rhyme or reason to it--"

He paused and laughed.

"Well, it's all over now, Jennie. I've given him back to you--good-by--"

She grasped his hand and held it firmly.

"Don't you dare say good-by to me, sir--you've got to love me, too--as
long as I live--my first sweetheart--brave, generous, kind--"

She drew his blond head low and kissed him.

He looked at her through dimmed eyes and slowly said:

"That makes life worth living, Jennie."

He turned and quickly left the house.

She heard his low orders to his men and watched them pass up the street
with their rifles on their shoulders.

She opened the door and Socola entered, his face deathlike in its
pallor.

"Why did he stay so long?"

"He has searched your room and found your cipher code--"

"And you have saved my life?"

"It was I who put it in peril--"

"No--I gave my life in willing sacrifice when the war began--"

"You are to leave," Jennie went on evenly--"leave at once--"

"Of course--"

"And give me your solemn parole--never again during this war to fight
the South--"

"It is your right to demand it. I agree."

She gently took his hand.

"I know that I can trust you now--" She paused and looked wistfully into
his face. "One last long look into your dear eyes--"

"Not the last--"

"One last kiss--"

She drew his lips down to hers.

"One last moment in your arms." She clung to him desperately and freed
herself with quick resolution.

"And now you must go--from Richmond--from the South and out of my life
forever--"

"You can't mean this!" he protested bitterly.

"I do," was the firm answer. "Good-by."

He pressed her hand and shook his head.

"I refuse to say it--"

"You must."

"No--"

"It is the end--"

"It is only the beginning."

With a look of tenderness he left her standing in the doorway, the
hunger of eternity in her brown eyes.



CHAPTER XXXIX

THE CONSPIRATORS


The raid of Dahlgren and Kilpatrick had sent a thrill of horror through
Richmond. The people had suddenly waked to the realization of what it
meant to hold fifteen thousand desperate prisoners in their city with a
handful of soldiers to guard them.

The discovery on the young leader's body of the remarkable papers of
instructions to burn the city and murder the Confederate President and
his Cabinet produced a sharp discussion between Jefferson Davis and his
councilors.

Not only did the people of Richmond demand that such methods of warfare
be met by retaliation of the most drastic kind but the Cabinet now
joined in this demand. Hundreds of prisoners had been captured both from
Dahlgren's and Kilpatrick's division.

It was urged on Davis with the most dogged determination that these
prisoners--in view of the character of their instructions to burn a city
crowded with unarmed men, women and children and murder in cold blood
the civil officers of the Confederate Government--should be treated as
felons and executed by hanging.

The President had refused on every occasion to lend his power to brutal
measures of retaliation. This time his Cabinet was persistent and in
dead earnest in their purpose to force his hand.

Davis faced his angry council with unruffled spirit.

"I understand your feelings, gentlemen," he said evenly. "You have had
a narrow escape. The South does not use such methods of warfare. Nor
will I permit our Government to fall to such level by an act of
retaliation. The prisoners we hold are soldiers of the enemy's army.
Their business is to obey orders--not plan campaigns--"

"We have captured officers also," Benjamin interrupted.

"Subordinate officers are not morally responsible for the plans of their
superiors."

No argument could move the Confederate Chieftain. He was adamant to all
appeals for harsh treatment. Even Lee had at last found it impossible to
maintain discipline in his army unless he prevented the review of his
court martial by Davis. The President was never known to sign the death
warrant of a Confederate soldier. Lincoln was a man of equally tender
heart and yet the Northern President did sign the death warrants of more
than two hundred Union soldiers during his administration.

The only action Davis would permit was the removal of the fifteen
thousand prisoners further south to places of safety where such raids
would be impossible. The prisons of Richmond were emptied and the
stockades at Salisbury and Andersonville over-crowded with these men.

Davis renewed his urgent appeal to the Federal Government for the
exchange of these men. His request was treated with discourtesy and
steadily refused. When the hot climate of Georgia caused the high death
rate at Andersonville he released thousands of those men without
exchange and notified the Washington Government to send transportation
for them to Savannah.

Lincoln had given Grant a free hand in assuming the command of all the
armies of the Union. But he watched his cruel policy of refusal to
exchange prisoners with increasing anguish. In every way possible,
without directly opposing his commanding general, the big-hearted
President at Washington managed to smuggle Southern prisoners back into
the South unknown to Grant and take an equal number of Union soldiers
home.

A crowd of Southern boys from the prison at Elmira, New York, were
announced to arrive in Richmond on the morning train from
Fredericksburg. Among them Jennie expected her brother Jimmie who had
been captured in battle six months ago. She hurried to the station to
meet them.

A great crowd had gathered. A row of coffins was placed on the ground at
the end of the long platform awaiting the train going south. A dozen men
were sitting on those rude caskets smoking, talking, laughing, their
feet drawn up tailor-fashion to keep them out of the mud.

With a shiver the girl hurried to the other gate.

Her eager eyes searched in vain among the ragged wretches who shambled
from the cars. A man from Baton Rouge, whom she failed to recognize,
lifted his faded hat and handed her a letter.

She read it through her tears and hurried to the Confederate White House
to show it to the President. Davis scanned the scrawl with indignant
sympathy:


    "_Dear Little Sis_:

    "This is the last message I shall ever send. Before it can reach you
    I shall be dead--for which I'll thank God. I'm sorry now I didn't
    take my chances with the other fellows, bribe the guard and escape
    from Camp Douglas in Chicago. A lot of the boys did it. Somehow I
    couldn't stoop. Maybe the fear of the degrading punishment they gave
    McGoffin, the son of the Governor of Kentucky, when he failed,
    influenced me, weak and despondent as I was. They hung him by the
    thumbs to make him confess the name of his accomplices. He refused
    to speak and they left him hanging until the balls of his thumbs
    both burst open and he fainted.

    "The last month at Camp Douglas was noted for scant rations. Hunger
    was the prevailing epidemic. At one end of our barracks was the
    kitchen, and by the door stood a barrel into which was thrown beef
    bones and slops. I saw a starving boy fish out one of these bones
    and begin to gnaw it. A guard discovered him. He snatched the bone
    from the prisoner's hand, cocked his pistol, pressed it to his head
    and ordered him to his all-fours and made him bark for the bone he
    held above him--

    "We expected better treatment when transferred to Elmira. But I've
    lost hope. I'm too weak to ever pull up again. I've made friends
    with a guard who has given me the list of the men who have died here
    in the five months since we came. In the first four months out of
    five thousand and twenty-seven men held here, one thousand three
    hundred and eleven died--six and one-half per cent a month--"


Davis paused and shook his head--

"The highest rate we have ever known at Salisbury or Andersonville
during those spring months was three per cent!"

He finished the last line in quivering tones.


    "There's not a chance on earth that I'll live to see you again. See
    the President and beg him for God's sake to save as many of the boys
    as he can. With a heart full of love.

    "Jimmie."


The President took both of Jennie's hands in his.

"I need not tell you, my dear, that I have done and am doing my level
best. The policy of the new Federal Commander is to refuse all offers of
exchange. You understand my position?"

"Perfectly," was the sorrowful answer. "I only came as a duty to bear
his dying message--"

"Express to your father and mother my deepest sympathy."

With a gentle pressure of the Chieftain's hand the girl answered:

"I need not tell you I appreciate it--"

The President watched her go with a look of helpless anguish. His
troubles for the moment had only begun. The returned prisoners had
marched in a body to his office to thank their Chief for his sympathy
and help and asked him to say something to them.

Jennie paused and stared in a dazed way into the poor shrunken faces.
When the President appeared every ragged hat was in the air and they
cheered with all the might of the strength that was left in them. The
girl burst into tears. These men, so forlorn, so dried up with a
strange, half-animal, hunted look in their eyes--others restless and
wild-looking--others calmly vacant in their stare as if they had been
dead for years!

A poor mother was rushing in and out among them hunting for her son.

"He was coming with you boys, you know!" she cried.

She stopped suddenly and laughed at her own anxiety and confusion.

"He's here somewhere--I just can't find him--help me, men!"

She hadn't spoken his name, in her eager search for his loved face. She
kept lifting the cloth from a basket of provisions which she had cooked
that morning.

"I've got his breakfast here--poor boy--I expect he's hungry."

She had lost all consciousness of the crowd now.

She was talking to herself, trying to keep her courage up.

The President looked into the emaciated faces before him and lifted his
long arm in solemn salutation.


    "_Soldiers of the South_:

    "I thank you from the bottom of my heart for this tribute of your
    loyalty. You were offered your freedom in prison at any moment if
    you would take the oath and forswear your allegiance to the South.
    You deliberately chose the living death to the betrayal of your
    faith. I stand with uncovered head before you. I am proud to be the
    Chief Executive of such men!"


Again they cheered.

The old mother with her basket was searching again for her boy.

Jennie slipped an arm gently around her and led her away.

On the day Lee left Richmond for the front to meet Grant's invading
host, the Confederate President was in agony over a letter from General
Winder portraying the want and suffering among the prisoners confined at
Andersonville.

"If we could only get them across the Mississippi," Davis cried, "where
beef and supplies of all kind are abundant--but what can we do for them
here?"

"Our men are in the same fix," Lee answered quickly, "except that
they're free. These sufferings are the result of our necessity, not of
our policy. Do not distress yourself."

The South was entering now the darkest hours of her want. The market
price of food was beyond the reach of the poor or even the moderately
well-to-do. Turkeys sold for $60 each. Flour was $300 a barrel, corn
meal $50 a bushel. Boots were $200 a pair. A man's coat cost $350--his
trousers $100. He could get along without a vest. Wood was $50 a cord.
It took $1,800 to buy $100 in gold.

In the midst of this universal suffering the yellow journals of the
South, led by the Richmond _Examiner_, made the most bitter and
determined assaults on Davis to force him to a policy of retaliation on
Northern prisoners.

"Hoist the black flag!" shrieked the _Examiner_. "Retaliate on these
Yankee prisoners for the starvation and abuse of our men in the North--a
land teeming with plenty." The President was held up to the scorn and
curses of the Southern people because with quiet dignity he refused to
lower the standard of his Government to a policy of revenge on helpless
soldiers in his power.

To a Committee of the Confederate Congress who waited on him with these
insane demands he answered with scorn:

"You dare ask me to torture helpless prisoners of war! I will resign my
office at the call of my country. But no people have the right to demand
such deeds at my hands!"

In answer to this brave, humane stand of the Southern President the
_Examiner_ had the unspeakable effrontery to accuse him of clemency to
his captives that he might curry favor with the North and shield himself
if the South should fail.

No characteristic of Davis was more marked than his regard for the weak,
the helpless and the captive. His final answer to his assailants was to
repeat with emphasis his orders to General Winder to see to it that the
same rations issued to Confederate soldiers in the field should be given
to all prisoners of war, though taken from a starving army and people.

Enraged by the defeat of their mad schemes, the conspirators drew
together now to depose Davis and set up a military dictatorship.



CHAPTER XL

IN SIGHT OF VICTORY


When Grant crossed the Rapidan with his army of one hundred forty-one
thousand one hundred and sixty men Lee faced him with sixty-four
thousand. The problem of saving Richmond from the tremendous force under
the personal command of the most successful general of the North was not
the only danger which threatened the Confederate Capital. Butler was
pressing from the Peninsula with forty thousand men along the line of
McClellan's old march, supported again by the navy.

Jefferson Davis knew the task before Lee to be a gigantic one yet he did
not believe that Grant would succeed in reaching Richmond.

The moment the Federal general crossed the Rapidan and threw his army
into the tangled forest of the Wilderness, Lee sprang from the jungles
at his throat.

Battle followed battle in swift and terrible succession. At Cold Harbor
thirty days later the climax came. Grant lost ten thousand men in twenty
minutes. The Northern general had set out to hammer Lee to death by
steady, remorseless pounding. At the end of a month he had lost more
than sixty thousand men and Lee's army was as strong as when the fight
began.

Grant's campaign to take Richmond was the bloodiest and most tragic
failure in the history of war. The North in bitter anguish demanded his
removal from command. Lincoln stubbornly refused to interfere with his
bulldog fighter. He sent him word to hold on and chew and choke.

As Grant in his whirl of blood approached the old battle grounds of
McClellan, Davis rode out daily to confer with Lee. He was never more
cheerful--never surer of the safety of his Capital. His faith in God and
the certainty that he would in the end give victory to a cause so just
and holy grew in strength with the report from each glorious field. No
doubt of the right or justice of his cause ever entered his mind. Day
and night he repeated the lines of his favorite hymn:


  "I'll strengthen thee, help thee and cause thee to stand,
  Upheld by my righteous omnipotent hand."


Again and again he said to his wife half in soliloquy, half in exalted
prayer:

"We can conquer a peace against the world in arms and keep the rights of
freemen if we are worthy of the privilege!"

The spirit which animated the patriotic soldiers who followed their
commander in this bloody campaign was in every way as high as that which
inspired their President.

Jennie spent an hour each day ministering to the sick prisoners who had
returned from the North and were unable to go further than Richmond. It
was her service of love for Jimmie's friends and comrades.

A poor fellow was dying of the want he had endured in prison. He lifted
his dimmed eyes to hers:

"Will you write to my wife for me, Miss?"

"Yes--yes--I will."

"And give her my love--"

He paused for breath and fumbled in his pocket.

"I've a letter from her here--read it before you write. Our little girl
had malaria. She tried willow tea and everything she could think of for
the chills. The doctor said nothin' but quinine could save her. She
couldn't get it, the blockade was too tight, and so our baby died--and
now I'm dyin' and my poor starvin' girl will have nothin' to comfort
her--but--"

He gasped and lifted himself on his elbow.

"If our folks can just quit free men, it's all right. It's all right!"

The women and children of Richmond were suffering now for food. The
Thirteenth Virginia regiment sent Billy Barton into the city with a
contribution for their relief.

Billy delivered it to Jennie with more than a boy's pride. There was
something bigger in the quiet announcement he made.

"Here's one day's rations from the regiment, sis," he said--"all our
flour, pork, bacon and meal. The boys are fasting to-day. It's their
love offering to those we've left at home--"

Jennie kissed him.

"It's beautiful of you and your men, boy. Give my love to them all and
tell them I'm proud to be their countrywoman--"

"And they're proud of their country and their General, too--maybe you
wouldn't believe it--but every regiment in Lee's army has reënlisted for
the war."

She seized Billy's hand.

"Come with me--I want you to see the President and tell him what your
regiment has done. It'll help him."

As they approached the White House a long, piercing scream came through
the open windows.

"What on earth?" Jennie exclaimed.

"An accident of some kind," the boy answered, seizing her arm and
hurrying forward. Every window and door of the big lonely house set
apart on its hill swung wide open, the lights streaming through them,
the wind blowing the curtains through the windows. The lights blazed
even in the third story.

Mrs. Burton Harrison, the wife of the President's Secretary, met them at
the door, her eyes red with weeping.

She pressed Jennie's hand.

"Little Joe has been killed--"

"Mrs. Davis' beautiful boy--impossible!"

"He climbed over the bannisters and fell to the brick pavement and died
a few minutes after his mother reached his side--"

The girl could make no answer. She had come on a sudden impulse to cheer
the lonely leader of her people. Perhaps his need in this dark hour had
called her. She thought of Socola's story of his mother's vision and
wondered with a sudden pang of self-pity where the man she loved was
to-night.

This beautiful child, named in honor of his favorite brother, was the
greatest joy of the badgered soul of the Confederate leader.

Suddenly his white face appeared at the head of the stairs. A courier
had come from the battlefield with an important dispatch. Grant and Lee
were locked in their death grapple in the Wilderness. He would try even
in this solemn hour to do his whole duty.

He passed the sympathetic group murmuring a sentence whose pathos
brought the tears again to Jennie's eyes.

"Not my will, O Lord, but thine--thine--thine!"

He took the dispatch from the courier's hand and held it open for some
time, staring at it with fixed gaze.

He searched the courier's face and asked pathetically:

"Will you tell me, my friend, what is in it--I--I--cannot read--"

The courier read the message in low tones. A great battle was joined.
The fate of a nation hung on its issue. The stricken man drew from his
pocket a tiny gold pencil and tried to write an answer--stopped suddenly
and pressed his hand on his heart.

Billy sprang to his side and seized the dispatch:

"I'll take the message to General Cooper--Mr. President--"

The white face turned to the young soldier and looked at him pitifully:

"Thank you, my son--thank you--it is best--I must have this hour with
our little boy--leave me with my dead!"

Jennie stayed to help the stricken home.

She took little Jeff in her arms to rock him to sleep. He drew her head
down and whispered:

"Miss Jennie, I got to Joe first after he fell. I knelt down beside him
and said all the prayers I know--but God wouldn't wake him!"

The girl drew the child close and kissed the reddened eyes. Over her
head beat the steady tramp of the father's feet, back and forth, back
and forth, a wounded lion in his cage. The windows and doors were still
wide open, the curtains waving wan and ghost-like from their hangings.

Two days later she followed the funeral procession to the
cemetery--thousands of children, each child with a green bough or bunch
of flowers to pile on the red mound.

A beautiful girl pushed her way to Jennie's side and lifted a handful of
snowdrops.

"Please put these on little Joe," she said wistfully. "I knew him so
well."

With a sob the child turned and fled. Jennie never learned her name.
She turned to the grave again, her gaze fixed on the striking figure of
the grief-stricken father, bare-headed, straight as an arrow, his fine
face silhouetted against the shining Southern sky. The mother stood back
amid the shadows, in her somber wrappings, her tall figure drooped in
pitiful grief.

The leader turned quickly from his personal sorrows to those of his
country, his indomitable courage rising to greater heights as dangers
thickened.

Two weeks later General Sheridan attempted what Dahlgren tried and
failed to accomplish.

The President hurried from his office to his home, seized his pistols,
mounted his horse and rode out to join Generals Gracie and Ransom who
were placing their skeleton brigades to repulse the attack.

The crack of rifles could be distinctly heard from the Executive
Mansion.

The mother called her children to prayers. As little Jeff knelt he
raised his chubby face and said with solemn earnestness:

"You had better have my pony saddled, and let me go out and help
father--we can pray afterwards!"

In driving Sheridan's cavalry back from Richmond General Stuart fell at
Yellow Tavern mortally wounded--the bravest of the brave--a full Major
General who had won immortal fame at thirty-one years of age. His
beautiful wife, the daughter of a Union General, Philip St. George
Cooke, could not reach his bedside before he breathed his last.

The President reverently entered the death chamber and stood for fifteen
minutes holding the hand of his brilliant young commander.

They told him that he could not live to see his wife.

"I should have liked to have seen her," he said gently, "but God's will
be done."

The doctor felt his fast fading pulse.

"Doctor, I suppose I'm going fast now," Stuart said. "It will soon be
over. I hope I have fulfilled my duty to my country and my God--"

"Your end is near, General Stuart," the doctor responded softly.

"All right," was the even answer. "I'll end my little affairs down here.
To Mrs. Robert E. Lee I give my gold spurs, in eternal memory of the
love I bear my glorious Chief. To my staff, my horses--"

He paused and turned to the heavier officer who stood with bowed head.

"You take the larger one--he'll carry you better. To my son I leave my
sword--"

He was silent a moment and then said with an effort:

"Now I want you to sing for me the song I love best:


  "'Rock of ages cleft for me
  Let me hide myself in thee'"--


With his fast-failing breath he joined in the song, turned and murmured:

"I'm going fast now--God's will be done--"

So passed the greatest cavalry leader our country has produced--a man
whose joyous life was one long feast of good will toward his fellow men.

       *     *     *     *     *

In spite of all losses, in spite of four years of frightful carnage, in
spite of the loss of the Mississippi, the States of Louisiana and
Tennessee, the Confederacy was in sight of victory.

Lee had baffled Grant's great army at every turn and now held him
securely at bay before Petersburg. The North was mortally tired of the
bloody struggle. The party which demanded peace was greater than any
political division--it included thousands of the best men in the party
of Abraham Lincoln.

The nomination of General McClellan for President on a platform
declaring the war a failure and demanding that it end was a foregone
conclusion. Jefferson Davis knew this from inside information his
friends had sent from every section of the North.

The Confederacy had only to hold its lines intact until the first Monday
in November and the Northern voters would end the war.

The one point of mortal danger to the South lay in the mental structure
of Joseph E. Johnston, the man whom Davis had been persuaded, against
his better judgment, to appoint to the command of one of the greatest
armies the Confederacy had ever put into the field.

Johnston had been sent to Dalton, Georgia, and placed in command of
sixty-eight thousand picked Confederate soldiers with which to attack
and drive Sherman out of the lower South.

Lee with sixty-four thousand had defeated Grant's one hundred and forty
thousand. Richmond was safe, and the North was besieging Washington with
an army of heart-broken mothers and fathers who demanded Grant's
removal.

No effort was spared by Davis to enable Johnston to stay Sherman's
advance and assume the offensive. The whole military strength of the
South and West was pressed forward to him. His commissary and ordnance
departments were the best in the Confederacy. His troops were eager to
advance and retrieve the disaster at Missionary Ridge--the first and
only case of panic and cowardice that had marred the brilliant record of
the Confederacy.

The position of Johnston's army was one of commanding strength. Long
mountain ranges, with few and difficult passes, made it next to
impossible for Sherman to turn his flank or dislodge him by direct
attack. Sherman depended for his supplies on a single line of railroad
from Nashville.

Davis confidently believed that Johnston could crush Sherman in the
first pitched battle and render his position untenable.

And then began the most remarkable series of retreats recorded in the
history of war.

Without a blow and without waiting for an attack, Johnston suddenly
withdrew from his trenches at Dalton and ran eighteen miles into the
interior of Georgia. He stopped at Resaca in a strong position on a
peninsula formed by the junction of two rivers fortified by rifle pits
and earthworks.

He gave this up and ran thirteen miles further into Georgia to
Adairsville. Not liking the looks of Adairsville he struck camp and ran
to Cassville seventeen miles.

He then declared he would fight Sherman at Kingston. Sherman failing to
divide his army, as Johnston had supposed he would, he changed his mind
and ran beyond Etowah. He next retreated to Alatoona. Here Sherman
spread out his army, threatened Marietta and Johnston ran again.

On July fifth he ran from Kenesaw Mountain and took refuge behind the
Chattahoochee River.

From Dalton to Resaca, from Resaca to Adairsville, from Adairsville to
Alatoona (involving the loss of Kingston and Rome with their mills,
foundries and military stores), from Alatoona to Kenesaw, from Kenesaw
to the Chattahoochee and then tumbled into the trenches before Atlanta.

Retreat had followed retreat for two months and a half over one hundred
and fifty miles to the gates of Atlanta without a single pitched
battle!

Davis watched this tragedy unfold its appalling scenes with increasing
bitterness, disappointment and alarm.

The demand for Johnston's removal was overwhelming in the State of
Georgia whose gate city was now besieged by Sherman. The people of the
whole South had watched this retreat of a hundred and fifty miles into
their territory with sickening hearts.

Again Johnston began his nagging and complaining to the Richmond
authorities. His most important message was an accusation of disloyalty
against Joseph E. Brown. He telegraphed in blunt plain English:

"The Governor of Georgia refuses me provisions and the use of his
roads."

Brown answered:

"The roads are open to him and in capital condition. I have furnished
him abundantly with provisions."

The President of the Confederacy now faced the most dangerous and tragic
decision of his entire administration. The removal of Johnston from his
command before Sherman's victorious army in the heart of Georgia could
be justified only on the grounds of the sternest necessity. The
Commanding General not only had the backing of his powerful junta in
Richmond who were now busy with their conspiracy to establish a
dictatorship and oust the President from his office, but he was
immensely popular with his army. His care for his soldiers was fatherly.
His painful efforts to save their lives, even at the cost of the loss of
his country, were duly appreciated by the leaders of opinion in the
army. Johnston had the power to draw and hold the good will of the men
who surrounded him. He had the power, too, of infecting his men with his
likes and dislikes. His hatred of Davis had been for three years the
one mania of his sulking mind.

To remove him from command in such a crisis was to challenge a mutiny in
his army which might lead to serious results. Yet if he should continue
to retreat, and back out of Atlanta without a fight as he had backed out
of every position for the one hundred and fifty miles from Dalton, the
results would be still more appalling.

The loss of Atlanta at this moment meant the defeat of the peace party
of the North, and the reëlection of Lincoln. If Lincoln should be
elected it was inconceivable that the South could continue the unequal
struggle for four years more.

If Johnston would only hold his trenches and save Atlanta for a few days
the South would win. Lee could hold Grant indefinitely.

The thought which appalled Davis was the suspicion which now amounted to
a practical certainty that his retreating General would evacuate Atlanta
as he had threatened to abandon Richmond when confronted by McClellan,
and had abandoned Vicksburg without a blow.

He must know this with absolute certainty before yielding to the demand
for his removal. That no possible mistake could be made, he dispatched
his Chief of Staff, General Braxton Bragg, to Atlanta for conference
with Johnston and make a personal report.

Bragg reported that Johnston was arranging to abandon Atlanta without a
battle and the President promptly removed him from command and appointed
Hood in his place.

When Hood assumed command of the disgruntled army, it was too late to
save Atlanta. Had Johnston delivered battle with his full force at
Dalton, Sherman might have been crushed as Rosecrans was overwhelmed at
Chickamauga.

Hood's army was driven back into their trenches. Sherman threw his hosts
under cover of night on a wide flanking movement and Atlanta fell.

Under the mighty impulse of this news Lincoln was reëlected, the peace
party of the North defeated and the doom of the Confederacy sealed.



CHAPTER XLI

THE FALL OF RICHMOND


The conspirators who had complained most bitterly of Davis for the
appointment of Lee to the command of the army before Richmond when
McClellan was thundering at its gates, now succeeded in passing through
the Confederate Congress a bill to create a military dictatorship which
they offered to the man for whose promotion they had condemned the
President.

Lee treated this attempt to strike the Confederate Chieftain over his
head with the contempt it deserved. Davis laughed at his enemies by the
most complete acceptance of their plans.

His answer to Senator Barton's committee was explicit.

"I have absolute confidence in General Lee's patriotism and military
genius. I will gladly coöperate with Congress in any plan to place him
in supreme command."

Lee refused to accept the responsibility except with the advice and
direction of the President, and the conspiracy ended in a fiasco.

From the moment Sherman's army pierced the heart of the South the
Confederate President saw with clear vision that the cause of Southern
independence was lost. Lee's army must slowly starve. His one supreme
purpose now was to fight to the last ditch for better terms than
unconditional surrender which would mean the loss of billions in
property and the possible enfranchisement of a million slaves.

That Lincoln was intensely anxious to stop the shedding of blood he knew
from more than one authentic source. It was rumored that the Northern
President was willing to consider compensation for the slaves. An army
of a hundred thousand determined Southern soldiers led by an indomitable
general could fight indefinitely. That it was of the utmost importance
to the life of the South to secure a surrender which would forbid the
enfranchisement of the slaves and the degradation of an electorate to
their level, Davis saw with clear vision. From the North now came
overtures of peace. Francis P. Blair asked for permission to visit
Richmond.

Blair proposed to end the war by uniting the armies of the North and
South for an advance on Mexico to maintain the Monroe Doctrine against
the new Emperor whom Europe had set upon a throne in the Western
Hemisphere.

The Confederate President received his proposals with courtesy.

"I have tried in vain, Mr. Blair," he said gravely, "to open
negotiations with Washington. How can the first step be taken?"

"Mr. Lincoln, I am sure, will receive commissioners--though he would
give me no assurance on that point. We must stop this deluge of blood. I
cherish the hope that the pride and honor of the Southern States will
suffer no shock in the adjustment."

The result of this meeting was the appointment by Davis of three
Commissioners to meet the representatives of the United States.
Alexander H. Stephens, R. M. T. Hunter and Judge John A. Campbell were
sent to this important conference. For some unknown reason they were
halted at Fortress Monroe and not allowed to proceed to Washington. A
change had been suddenly produced in the attitude of the National
Government. Whether it was due to the talk of the men in Richmond who
were trying to depose Davis or whether it was due to the fall of Fort
Fisher and the closing of the port of Wilmington, the last artery which
connected the Confederacy with the outside world, could not be known.

The Confederate Commissioners were met by Abraham Lincoln himself and
his Secretary of State, William H. Seward, in Hampton Roads. The
National Government demanded in effect, unconditional surrender.

Davis used the indignant surprise with which this startling announcement
was received in Richmond and the South to rouse the people to a last
desperate effort to save the country from the deluge which the Radical
wing of the Northern Congress had now threatened--the confiscation of
the property of the whites and the enfranchisement of the negro race. In
his judgment this could only be done by forcing the National Government
through a prolongation of the war to pledge the South some measure of
protection before they should lay down their arms.

Mass meetings were held and the people called to defend their cause with
their last drop of blood. The President made a speech that night to a
crowd in the Metropolitan Hall on Franklin Street in Richmond which
swept them into a frenzy of patriotic passion. Even his bitterest enemy,
the editor of the _Examiner_, was spellbound by his eloquence.

When he first appeared on the speakers' stand and lifted his tall thin
figure, gazing over the crowd with glittering eye, a tremendous cheer
swept the assembly. In that moment, he was the incarnate Soul of the
South. The Chieftain of the men who wore the gray in this hour of solemn
trial, stood before them with countenance like the lightning. Cheer on
cheer rose and fell with throbbing passion.

A smile of strange prophetic sweetness lighted his pale haggard face.
The ovation he received was the sure promise to his tired soul that when
the passions and prejudices, the agony and madness of war had passed the
people would understand all he had tried to do in their service. In that
moment of divine illumination he saw his place in the hearts of his
countrymen and was content.

He spoke with even restrained flow of words, with a mastery of himself
and his audience that is the mark of the orator of the highest genius.
His gestures were few. His low, vibrant, musical voice found the heart
of his farthest listener. He swayed them with indescribable passion.

Into the faces of the foe who had demanded unconditional surrender he
hurled the defiance of an unconquered and unconquerable soul. He closed
with an historical illustration which lifted his audience to the highest
reach of emotion. Kossuth had abandoned Hungary with an army of thirty
thousand men in the field. The friends of liberty had never forgiven nor
could forgive this betrayal.

"What shall we say," he cried, "of the disgrace beneath which we should
be buried if we surrender with an army in the field more numerous than
that with which Napoleon achieved the glory of France, an army standing
among its homesteads, an army in which each individual is superior in
warlike quality to the individual who opposes him!"

When the tumult and applause had died away did he realize in the secret
places of his heart that the spirit of the South had been broken by the
terrible experiences of four years of blood and fire and death? His iron
will gave no sign. To him the manhood of the Southern soldier was
unconquerable, his courage dauntless forever.

Six months after Sherman's sword had pierced the heart of the South from
Atlanta, Lee's army in the trenches before Petersburg had reached the
end of their endurance. Lee wired Davis that his thin line could hold
back Grant's hosts but a few days and that Richmond must fall. His men
were living on parched corn.

The President hurried to the White House and slipped his arm around his
wife.

"You must leave the city, my dear."

"Please let me stay with you," she pleaded.

"Impossible," he answered firmly. "My headquarters must be in the
saddle. Your presence here could only grieve and distress me. You can
take care of our babies. I know you wish to help and comfort me. You can
do this in but one way--go and take the children to a place of safety--"

He paused, overcome with emotion.

"If I live," he continued slowly, "you can come to me when the struggle
is over, but I do not expect to survive the destruction of our
liberties."

He drew his small hoard of gold from his pocket, removed a five-dollar
piece for himself, and gave it all to his wife together with the
Confederate money he had on hand.

"You must take only your clothing," he said after a moment's silence.
"The flour and supplies in your pantry must be left. The people are in
want."

He had arranged for his family to settle in North Carolina. The day
before his wife left, he gave her a pistol and taught her trembling
hands to load, aim and fire it.

"The danger will be," he warned, "that you may full into the hands of
lawless bands of deserters from both armies who are even now pillaging
and burning. You can at least, if you must, force your assailants to
kill you. If you cannot remain undisturbed in your own land make for the
coast of Florida and take a ship for a foreign country."

Their hearts dumb with despair, his wife and children boarded the
train--or the thing that once had been a train--the roof of the cars
leaked and the engine wheezed and moved with great distress.

The stern face of the Southern leader was set in his hour of trial. He
felt that he might never again look on the faces of those he loved. His
little girl clung convulsively to his neck in agonizing prayer that she
might stay. The boy begged and pleaded with tears raining down his
chubby face.

Just outside of Richmond the engine broke down and the heartsick family
sat in the dismal day-coach all night. Sleepers had not been invented.
They were twelve hours getting to Danville--a week on the way to
Charlotte.

The reign of terror had already begun.

The President's wife avoided seeing people lest they should be
compromised when the invading army should sweep over the State.

They found everything packed up in the house that had been rented, but
Weill, the big-hearted Jew who was the agent, sent their meals from his
house for a week, refusing every suggestion of pay. He offered his own
purse or any other service he could render.

When Burton Harrison had seen them safely established in Charlotte he
returned at once to his duties with the President in Richmond.

On the beautiful Sunday morning of April 2, 1865, a messenger hurriedly
entered St. Paul's Church, walked to the President's pew and handed him
a slip of paper. He rose and quietly left.

Not a rumor had reached the city of Lee's broken lines. In fact a false
rumor had been published of a great victory which his starving army had
achieved the day before.

The report of the evacuation of Richmond fell on incredulous ears. The
streets were unusually quiet. Beyond the James the fresh green of the
spring clothed the fields in radiant beauty. The rumble of no artillery
disturbed the quiet. Scarcely a vehicle of any kind could be seen. The
church bells were still ringing their call to the house of God.

The straight military figure entered the Executive office. A wagon
dashed down Main Street and backed up in front of the Custom House door.
Boxes were hurried from the President's office and loaded into it.

A low hum and clatter began to rise from the streets. The news of
disaster and evacuation spread like lightning and disorder grew. The
streets were crowded with fugitives making their way to the depot--pale
women with disheveled hair and tear-stained faces leading barefooted
children who were crying in vague terror of something they could not
understand. Wagons were backed to the doors of every department of the
Confederate Government. As fast as they could be loaded they were driven
to the Danville depot.

All was confusion and turmoil. Important officers were not to be seen
and when they were found would answer no questions. Here and there
groups of mean-visaged loafers began to gather with ominous looks toward
the houses of the better class.

The halls of the silent Capitol building were deserted--a single
footfall echoed with hollow sound.

The Municipal Council gathered in a dingy little room to consider the
surrender of the city. Mayor Mayo dashed in and out with the latest
information he could get from the War Department. He was slightly
incoherent in his excitement, but he was full of pluck and chewed
tobacco defiantly. He announced that the last hope was gone and that he
would maintain order with two regiments of militia.

He gave orders to destroy every drop of liquor in the stores, saloons
and warehouses and establish a patrol.

The militia slipped through the fingers of their officers and in a few
hours the city was without a government. Disorder, pillage, shouts,
revelry and confusion were the order of the night. Black masses of men
swayed and surged through the dimly-lighted streets, smashing into
stores and warehouses at will. Some of them were carrying out the
Mayor's orders to destroy the liquor. Others decided that the best way
to destroy it was to drink it. The gutters ran with liquor and the fumes
filled the air.

To the rear guard of Lee's army under Ewell was left the task of blowing
up the vessels in the James, and destroying the bridges across the
river. The thunder of exploding mines and torpedoes now shook the earth.
The ships were blown to atoms and the wharves fired.

In vain the Mayor protested against the firing of the great warehouses.
Orders were orders, and the soldiers obeyed. The warehouses were fired,
the sparks leaped to the surrounding buildings and the city was in
flames.

As day dawned a black pall of smoke obscured the heavens. The sun's rays
lighted the banks of rolling smoke with lurid glare. The roar of the
conflagration now drowned all other sounds.

The upper part of Main Street was choked with pillagers--men with drays,
some with bags, some rolling their stolen barrels painfully up the
hills.

A small squadron of Federal cavalry rode calmly into the wild scene.
General Weitzel, in command of the two divisions of Grant's army on the
north side, had sent in forty Massachusetts troopers to investigate
conditions.

At the corner of Eleventh Street they broke into a trot for the Square
and planted their guidons on the Capitol of the Confederacy.

Long before this advance guard could be seen in the distance the old
flag of the Union had been flung from the top of the house on Church
Hill. Foreseeing the fall of the city Miss Van Lew had sent to the
Federal Commander for a flag. Through his scouts he had sent it. As
Weitzel's two grand divisions swung into Main Street this piece of
bunting eighteen feet long and nine feet wide waved from the Van Lew
mansion on the hill above them.

Stretching from the Exchange Hotel to the slopes of Church Hill, down
the hill, through the valley, and up the ascent swept this gorgeous
array of the triumphant army, its bayonets gleaming in the sunlight,
every standard, battle flag and guidon streaming in the sky, every band
playing, swords flashing, and shout after shout rolling from end to end
of the line.

To the roar of the flames, the throb of drum, the scream of fife, the
crash of martial music, and the shouts of marching hosts, was added now
the deep thunder of exploding shells in the burning arsenals.

A regiment of negro cavalry swept by the Exchange Hotel and as they
turned the corner drew their sabers with a savage shout.

An old Virginian with white locks standing in the doorway of the hotel
gazed on these negro troops a moment, threw his hands on high, and
solemnly cried:

"Blow, Gabriel! Blow your trumpet--for God's sake blow!"

For hours the fire raged unchecked--burned until the entire business
section of the city lay a smoldering heap of ashes. Crowds of men, women
and children crowded the Capitol Square fighting with smoke and flying
cinders for a breath of fresh air. Piles of furniture lay heaped on its
greensward. Terror-stricken, weeping women had dragged it from their
homes. In improvised tents made of broken tables and chairs covered with
sheets and bedding hundreds of homeless women and children huddled.

As night fell the pitiful reaction came from the turmoil and excitement
of the day. The quiet of a great desolation brooded over the smoking
ruins.

In the rich and powerful North millions were mad with joy. In New York
twenty thousand people gathered in Union Square and sang the Doxology.

Jennie Barton was in Richmond through it all and yet the tragedy made no
impression on her heart or mind. A greater event absorbed her.

Dick Welford had hurried to Lee's army on the day following Socola's
departure from Richmond. He wanted to fight once more. Through all the
whirlwind of death and blood from the first crash with Grant in the
Wilderness to his vain assaults on Petersburg he had fought without a
scratch. His life was charmed. And then in the first day of the final
struggle which broke the lines of Lee's starving army he fell, leading
his men in a glorious charge. He reached the hospital in Richmond the
day before the city's evacuation.

Jennie had watched by his bedside every hour since his arrival. But few
words passed between them. She let him hold her hand for hours in
silence, always looking, looking and smiling his deathless love.

He had not spoken Socola's name nor had she.

"It's funny, Jennie," he said at last, "I don't hate him any more--"

The girl's head drooped and the tears streamed down her checks.

"Please, Dick--don't--"

"Yes," he insisted, "I want to talk about it and you must hear me--won't
you?"

"Of course, if you wish it," she answered tenderly.

"You see I don't hate these Yankee soldiers any more--anyhow. I saw too
many of them die from the Wilderness to Petersburg--brave manly fellows.
The fire of battle has burned the hate out of me. Now I just want you to
be happy, Jennie dear, that's all--good-by--"

His hand slipped from hers and in a moment his spirit had passed.



CHAPTER XLII

THE CAPTURE


At midnight on the day of the evacuation the President and his Cabinet
left Richmond for Danville. He still believed that Lee might cut his way
through Grant's lines and join his army with Johnston's in North
Carolina. Lee had restored Johnston to command of the small army that
yet survived in opposition to Sherman. He had hopes that Johnston's
personal popularity with the soldiers might in a measure restore their
spirits.

The President established his temporary Capital at Danville. G. W.
Sutherlin placed his beautiful home at his disposal. Communications with
Lee had been cut and the wildest rumors were afloat. Davis wrote his
last proclamation urging his people to maintain their courage.

In this remarkable document he said:


    "I announce to you, my fellow countrymen, that it is my purpose
    to maintain your cause with my whole heart and soul. I will never
    consent to abandon to the enemy one foot of the soil of any of the
    States of the Confederacy.

    "If by stress of numbers, we should be compelled to a temporary
    withdrawal from the limits of Virginia or any other border State,
    we will return until the baffled and exhausted enemy shall abandon
    in despair his endless and impossible task of making slaves of a
    people resolved to be free.

    "Let us, then, not despair, my countrymen, but, relying on God, meet
    the foe with fresh defiance, and with unconquered and unconquerable
    hearts."


So Washington spoke to his starving, freezing little army at Valley
Forge in the darkest hour of our struggle for independence against Great
Britain. With the help of France Washington succeeded at last.

Davis was destined to fail. No friendly foreign power came to his aid.
His courage was none the less sublime for this reason.

Lee's skeleton army surrendered to Grant at Appomattox, and Davis
hurried to Greensboro where Johnston and Beauregard were encamped with
twenty-eight thousand men. Two hundred school girls marched to the house
in Danville and cheered him as he left.

Mrs. Sutherlin in the last hour of his stay asked for a moment of his
time.

He ushered her into his room with grave courtesy.

"Dear Madam," he began smilingly, "you have risked your home and the
safety of your husband to honor me and the South. I thank you for myself
and the people. Is there anything I can do to show how much I appreciate
it?"

"You have greatly honored us by accepting our hospitality," was the
quick cheerful answer. "We shall always be rich in its memory. I have
but one favor to ask of you--"

"Name it--"

She drew a bag from a basket and handed it to him.

"Accept this little gift we have saved. It will help you on your
journey. It's only a thousand dollars in gold--I wish it were more."

The President's eyes grew dim and he shook his head.

"No--no--dear, dear Mrs. Sutherlin. Your needs will be greater than
mine. Besides, I have asked all for the cause--nothing for
myself--nothing!"

He left Danville with heart warmed by the smiles and cheers of two
hundred beautiful girls and the offer of every dollar a patriotic woman
possessed.

He had need of its memory to cheer him at Greensboro. Here he felt for
the first time the results of the malignant campaign which Holden's
Raleigh _Standard_ had waged against him and his administration. So
great was the panic and so bitter the feeling which Holden's sheet had
roused that it was impossible for the President and his Cabinet to find
accommodations in any hotel or house. He was compelled to camp in a
freight car.

It remained for a brave Southern woman to resent this insult to the
Chieftain. When Mrs. C. A. L'Hommedieu learned that the President was in
town, housed in a freight car and shunned by the citizens, she sent him
a note and begged him to make her house his home and to honor her by
commanding anything in it and all that she possessed.

The leader was at this moment preparing to leave for Charlotte and had
to decline her generous and brave offer. But he was deeply moved. He
stopped his work to write her a beautiful letter of thanks.

His interview with Johnston and Beauregard was strained and formal.
Johnston's army in its present position in the hands of a resolute and
daring commander could have formed a light column of ten thousand
cavalry and cut its way through all opposition to the Mississippi River.
Knowing the character of his General so well he had small hopes.

After receiving the report of the condition of the army the President
called his Cabinet to consider what should be done.

Johnston sat at as great a distance from Davis as the room would permit.

The President reviewed briefly the situation and turned calmly to
Johnston:

"General, we should like now to hear your views."

The reply was given with brutal brevity and in tones of unconcealed
defiance and hatred.

"Sir," the great retreater blurted out, "my views are that our people
are tired of war, feel themselves whipped and will not fight."

A dead silence followed.

The President turned in quiet dignity to Beauregard:

"And what do you say, General Beauregard?"

"I agree with what General Johnston has said," he replied.

There was no appeal from the decision of these two commanders in such an
hour. The President dictated a letter to General Sherman suggesting
their surrender and outlining the advantageous terms which the Northern
Commander accepted.

And then the Confederate Chieftain received a message so amazing he
could not at first credit its authority.

A courier from Sherman conveyed the announcement to Johnston that Davis
might leave the country on a United States vessel and take whoever and
whatever he pleased with him.

The answer of Jefferson Davis was characteristic.

"Please thank General Sherman for his offer and say that I can do no act
which will put me under obligations to the Federal Government."

Sherman had asked Lincoln at their last interview whether he should
capture Davis or let him go.

A sunny smile overspread the rugged features of the National President:

"That reminds me," he said, "of a temperance lecturer in Illinois. Wet
and cold he stopped for the night at a wayside inn. The landlord, noting
his condition, asked if he would have a glass of brandy.

"'No--no--' came the quick reply. 'I am a temperance lecturer and do
not drink--' he paused and his voice dropped to a whisper--'I would like
some water however--and if you should of _your own_ accord, put a little
brandy in it _unbeknownst_ to me--why, it will be all right.'"

Sherman was trying to carry out the wishes of the man with the loving
heart.

At Charlotte Davis was handed a telegram announcing the assassination of
Abraham Lincoln. His thin fate went death white. Handing the telegram to
his Secretary, he quietly said:

"I am sorry. We have lost our noblest and best friend in the court of
the enemy."

He immediately telegraphed the news to his wife who had fled further
south to Abbeville, South Carolina. Mrs. Davis burst into tears on
reading the fatal message. Her woman's intuition saw the vision of
horror which the tragedy meant to her and to her stricken people.

The President left Charlotte with an escort of a thousand cavalrymen for
Abbeville. His journey was slow. The wagons were carrying all that
remained of the Confederate Treasury with the money in currency from the
Richmond banks which had been entrusted to the care of the Secretary of
the Treasury.

Davis stopped at a little cabin on the roadside and asked the lady who
stood in the doorway for a drink of water.

She turned to comply with his request.

While he was drinking a baby barely able to walk crawled down the steps
and toddled to him.

The mother smiled.

"Is this not President Davis?" she asked tremblingly.

"It is, Madam," he answered with a bow.

She pointed proudly to the child:

"He's named for you!"

The President drew a gold coin from his pocket and handed it to the
mother.

"Please keep it for my little namesake and tell him when he is old
enough to know."

As he rode away with Reagan, his faithful Postmaster General, he said:

"The last coin I had on earth, Reagan. I wouldn't have had that but for
the fact I'd never seen one like it and kept it for luck."

"I reckon the war's about finished us," the General replied.

"Yes," Davis cheerfully answered. "My home is a wreck. Benjamin's and
Breckinridge's are in Federal hands. Mallory's fine residence at
Pensacola has been burned by the enemy. Your home in Texas has been
wrecked and burned--"

He paused and drew from his pocketbook a few Confederate bills.

"That is my estate at the present moment."

He received next day a letter from his wife which greatly cheered him:


    "_Abbeville, S. C._, April 28, 1865.

    "_My dear old Husband_:

    "Your very sweet letter reached me safely by Mr. Harrison and was
    a great relief. I leave here in the morning at 6 o'clock for the
    wagon train going to Georgia. Washington will be the first place I
    shall unload at. From there we shall probably go on to Atlanta
    or thereabouts, and wait a little until we hear something of you.
    Let me beseech you not to calculate upon seeing me unless I happen
    to cross your shortest path toward your bourne, be that what it may.

    "It is surely not the fate to which you invited me in the _brighter_
    days. But you must remember that you did not invite me to a great
    hero's home but to that of a plain farmer. I have shared all your
    triumphs, been the only beneficiary of them, now I am claiming the
    privilege for the first time of being all to you, since these
    pleasures have passed for me.

    "My plans are these, subject to your approval. I think I shall be
    able to procure funds enough to enable me to put the two eldest to
    school. I shall go to Florida if possible and from thence go over
    to Bermuda or Nassau, from thence to England, unless a good school
    offers elsewhere, and put them to the best school I can find, and
    then with the two youngest join you in Texas--and that is the
    prospect which bears me up, to be once more with you if need be--but
    God loves those who obey Him and I know there is a future for you.

    "Here they are all your friends and have the most unbounded
    confidence in you. Mr. Burt and his wife have urged me to live with
    them--offered to take the chances of the Yankees with us--begged to
    have little Maggie--done everything in fact that relatives could do.
    I shall never forget all their generous devotion to you.

    "I have seen a great many men who have gone through--not one has
    talked fight. A stand cannot be made in this country! Do not be
    induced to try it. As to the trans-Mississippi, I doubt if at first
    things will be straight, but the spirit is there, and the daily
    accretions will be great when the deluded of this side are crushed
    between the upper and nether millstones. But you have not tried the
    'strict construction' fallacy. If we are to require a Constitution,
    it must be much stretched during our hours of outside pressure if
    it covers us at all.

    "Be careful how you go to Augusta. I get rumors that Brown is going
    to seize all Government property, and the people are averse and mean
    to resist with pistols. They are a set of wretches together, and I
    wish you were safe out of their land. God bless you, keep you. I
    have wrestled with Him for you. I believe He will restore us to
    happiness.

    "Devotedly,

    "Your Wife."

    "Kindest regards to Robert, and thanks for faithful conduct. Love
    to Johnson and John Wood. Maggie sends you her best love."


The President and his party reached Abbeville on May first, only to find
that his wife had left for Washington, Georgia.

At Abbeville, in the home of Armistead Burt, Davis called his last
Cabinet meeting and council of war.

There were present five brigade commanders, General Braxton Bragg, his
Chief-of-Staff, Breckinridge, Benjamin and Reagan of his Cabinet. The
indomitable spirit made the last appeal for courage and the continuance
of the fight until better terms could be made that might save the South
from utter ruin and the shame of possible negro rule.

He faced them with firm resolution, his piercing eye undimmed by
calamity.

"The South, gentlemen," he declared, "is in a panic for the moment. We
have resources to continue the war. Let those who remain with arms in
their hands set the example and others will rally. Let the brave men yet
with me renew their determination to fight. Around you reënforcements
will gather."

The replies of his discouraged commanders were given in voices that sank
to whispers. Each man was called on for his individual opinion.

Slowly and painfully each gave his answer in the negative. The war was
hopeless, but they would not disband their men until they had guarded
the President to a place of safety.

"No!" Davis answered passionately. "I will listen to no proposition for
my safety. I appeal to you for the cause of my country. Stand by it,
men--stand by it!"

His appeal was received in silence. His councilors could not agree with
him. The proud old man drew his slender body to its full height, lifted
his hands and cried pathetically:

"The friends of the South consent to her degradation!"

He attempted to pass from the meeting, his emaciated face white with
anger. His step tottered and his body swayed and would have sunk to the
floor had not General Breckinridge caught him in his arms and led him
from the room.

Benjamin parted from the President when they crossed the Savannah River
and he had dropped the Seal of the Confederate Government in the depths
of its still, beautiful waters.

"Where are you going?" Reagan asked.

"To the farthest place from the United States," was the quick reply, "if
it takes me to China."

He made his way successfully to England and won fame and fortune in the
old world.

On hearing that the Federal cavalry were scouring the country,
Breckinridge and Reagan proposed that Davis disguise himself in a
soldier's clothes, a wool hat and brogan shoes, take one man with him
and go to the coast of Florida, ship to Cuba.

His reply was firm:

"I shall not leave Southern soil while a Confederate regiment is on it.
Kirby Smith has an army of 25,000 men. He has not surrendered. General
Hampton will cut his way across the Mississippi. We can lead an army of
60,000 men on the plains of Texas and fight until we get better terms
than unconditional surrender."

Breckinridge was left at Washington to dispose of the small sum yet left
in the Treasury and turn over to their agent the money of the Richmond
banks.

Robert Toombs lived in Washington. General Reagan called on the
distinguished leader.

He invited his guest into his library and closed the door.

"You have money, Reagan?"

"Enough to take me west of the Mississippi--"

"You are well mounted?"

"One of the best horses in the country."

"I am at home," he added generously. "I can command what I want, and if
you need anything, I can supply you--"

"Thank you, General," Reagan responded heartily.

Toombs hesitated a moment, and then asked suddenly:

"Has President Davis money?"

"No, but I have enough to take us both across the Mississippi."

"Is Mr. Davis well mounted?"

"He has his fine bay, 'Kentucky,' and General Lee sent him at Greensboro
by his son Robert, his gray war horse 'Traveler,' as a present. He has
two first class horses."

Again Toombs was silent.

"Mr. Davis and I," he went on thoughtfully, "have had our quarrels. We
have none now. I want you to say to him that my men are around me here,
and if he desires it I will call them together and see him safely across
the Chattahoochee River at the risk of my life--"

"I'll tell him, General Toombs," Reagan cordially responded. "And I
appreciate your noble offer. It differs from others who have pretended
to be his best friends. They are getting away from him as fast as they
can. Some are base enough to malign him to curry favor with the enemy.
I've known Jefferson Davis intimately for ten years. The past four years
of war I've been with him daily under every condition of victory and
defeat, and I swear to you that he's the truest, gentlest, bravest,
tenderest, manliest man I have ever known--"

"Let me know," Toombs urged, "if I can serve him in any possible way."

When Reagan delivered the message to the President he responded warmly:

"That's like Toombs. He was always a whole souled man. If it were
necessary I should not hesitate to accept his offer."

He was slowly reading his wife's last letters which had been delivered
to him by scouts who were still faithful.

They were riding in a wagon with picked Mississippi teamsters twenty
miles below Washington:


    "All well, with Winnie sweet and smiling. Billy plenty of laughter
    and talk with the teamsters keeps quiet. Jeff is happy beyond
    expression. Maggie one and two quite well.

    "I have $2,500, something to sell, and have heart and a hopeful one,
    but above all, my precious only love, a heartful of prayer. May God
    keep you and have His sword and buckler over you. Do not try to make
    a stand on this side. It is not in the people. Leave your escort
    and take another road often. Alabama is full of cavalry, fresh and
    earnest in pursuit. May God keep you and bring you safe to the
    arms of

    "Your devoted,

    "Winnie."


He opened and read another:


    "_My own precious Banny_:

    "May God give us both patience against this heavy trial. The soldiers
    are very unruly and have taken almost all the mules and horses from
    the camp. Do not try to meet me. I dread the Yankees getting news
    of you so much. You are the country's only hope and the very best
    intentions do not advise a stand this side of the river. Why not cut
    loose from your escort? Go swiftly and alone with the exception of
    two or three.

    "Oh, may God in His goodness keep you safe, my own. Maggie says she
    has your prayer book safe. May God keep you, my old and only love,
    as ever, devotedly,

    "Your own,

    "Winnie."


He had not seen his wife and babies since they left Richmond. The
conduct of the soldiers determined his course. He turned to Reagan:

"This move will probably cause me to be captured or killed. You are not
bound to go with me--but I must protect my family."

"I go with you, sir--" was the prompt response.

The soldiers were dismissed and the money still remaining in the
Treasury divided among them. A picked guard of ten men rode with the
fallen Chieftain in search of his loved ones.

They joined Mrs. Davis after a hard ride and found her camp threatened
by marauders. He traveled with her two days and, apparently out of
danger, she begged him to leave her and make good his escape. He finally
agreed to do this and with Reagan, the members of his staff and Burton
Harrison, his Secretary, started for the Florida coast.

The day was one of dismal fog and rain and the party lost the way,
turning in a circle, and at sunset met Mrs. Davis and her company at the
fork of the road near the Ocmulgee River.

The President and staff traveled with his wife next day and made
twenty-eight miles. At Irwinsville their presence was betrayed to the
Federal cavalry, his camp surrounded by Colonel Pritchard, and the
Confederate President and party arrested.

The soldiers plundered his baggage, tore open his wife's trunks and
scattered her dresses. In one of these trunks they found a pair of new
hoopskirts which Mrs. Davis had bought but never worn. An enterprising
newspaper man immediately invented and sent broadcast the story that he
had been captured trying to escape in his wife's hoopskirts. His enemies
refused to hear any contradiction of this invention. It was too good not
to be true. They clung to it long after Colonel Pritchard and every man
present had given it the lie.

They had traveled a day's journey toward Macon, the headquarters of
General Wilson, when an excited man galloped into the camp waving over
his head a printed slip of paper.

"What is it?" Davis asked of his guard.

The guard seized and read the slip and turned to the Confederate
Chieftain and his wife.

"Andrew Johnson's proclamation offering a reward of $100,000 for the
capture of Jefferson Davis as the murderer of Abraham Lincoln!"

A cry of anguish came from the faithful wife.

The leader touched her shoulder gently.

"Hush, my dear. The miserable scoundrel who wrote that proclamation knew
that it is false. He is the one man in the United States who knows that
I preferred Abraham Lincoln in the White House to him or any other man
the North might elect. Such an accusation must fail--"

The wife was not comforted.

"These men may assassinate you!"

The soldiers crowded about their defenseless prisoner and heaped on him
the vilest curses and insults. He made no answer. The far-away look in
his eagle eye told them only too plainly that he did not hear.

Colonel Pritchard in his manly way made every effort to protect him from
insult. Within a short distance of Macon, the prisoners were halted and
their escort drawn up in line on either side of the road. Colonel
Pritchard had ridden into Macon for a brigade to escort his captives
through the streets of the city.

The soldiers again cursed and jeered. The children climbed into their
father's arms, kissed and hugged him tenderly and put their little hands
over his ears that he should not hear what they said.

He soothed their fears and comforted them with beautiful lines from the
Psalms which he quoted in tones of marvelous sweetness.

General Wilson received his distinguished prisoner with the deference
due his rank and character. His guard in silence opened their lines and
presented arms as Davis entered the building.



CHAPTER XLIII

THE VICTOR


Socola hurried into Richmond three days after its fall in the desperate
hope that he might be of service to Jennie.

He was two days finding her. She had offered her services to Mrs.
Hopkins in the Alabama hospital. He sent in his card and she refused to
see him. He asked an interview with Mrs. Hopkins and begged her to help.
Her motherly heart went out to him in sympathy. His utter misery was so
plainly written in his drawn face.

"You're so like my own mother, madame," he pleaded. "I'm an orphan
to-day. Our army has conquered, but I have lost. I find myself repeating
the old question, what shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world
and forfeit his life? She is my life--I can't--I won't give her up. Tell
her she must see me. I will not leave Richmond until I see her. If she
leaves, I'll follow her to the ends of the world. Tell her this."

The gentle hand pressed his.

"I'll tell her."

"And try to help me?" he begged.

"All the world loves a lover," the fine thin lips slowly repeated--"yes,
I'll try."

At the end of ten minutes she returned alone. Her face gave no hope.

"I'm afraid it's useless. She positively refuses."

"You gave her my message?"

"Yes."

"I'll wait a day and try again--"

"You knew of Captain Welford's death, I suppose?"

Socola started and turned pale.

"No--"

"He died and was buried two days ago near the spot where General Stuart
sleeps."

The lover was stunned for a moment. The hidden thought flashed through
his mind that she might have married Welford in the reaction over her
discovery of his deception. He opened his lips to ask the question and
held his peace. It was impossible. She couldn't have done such a thing.
He put the idea out of his heart.

"Thank you for the information, dear madame," he answered gravely,
turned and left the building.

He walked quickly to his hotel, hired a negro to get him a wreath of
roses and meet him at the cemetery gate. He had just placed them on
Welford's grave as Jennie suddenly appeared.

She stopped, transfixed in astonishment--her eyes wide with excitement.

He walked slowly to meet her and stood looking into her soul, searching
its depths.

"You here?" she gasped--

"Yes. I brought my tribute to a brave and generous foe. He hated me,
perhaps--but for your sake he gave me my life--I never hated him--"

"With his last breath he told me that he no longer hated you," she
answered dreamily.

"And you cannot forgive?"

"No. Our lives are far apart now. The gulf between us can never be
passed."

He smiled tenderly and spoke with vibrant passion.

"I'm going to show you that it can be passed. I'm going to love you
with such devotion I'll draw you at last with resistless power--"

"Never--"

She turned quickly and left him gazing wistfully at her slender figure
silhouetted against the glow of the sunset.



CHAPTER XLIV

PRISON BARS


The ship which bore the distinguished prisoner from Savannah did not
proceed to Washington, but anchored in Hampton Roads at Fortress Monroe.

A little tug puffed up and drew alongside the steamer. She took off
Alexander H. Stephens, General Joseph Wheeler and Burton Harrison.
Stephens and Wheeler were sent to Fort Warren in Boston Harbor.

The next, day the tug returned.

Little Jeff ran to his mother trembling and sobbing:

"They say they've come for father--beg them to let us go with him!"

Davis stepped quickly forward and returned with an officer.

"It's true," he whispered. "They have come for Clay and me. Try not to
weep. These people will gloat over your grief."

Mrs. Davis and Mrs. Clay stood close holding each other's hands in
silent sympathy and grim determination to control their emotions. They
parted with their husbands in dumb anguish.

As the tug bore the fallen Chieftain from the ship, he bared his head,
drew his tall figure to its full height, and, standing between the files
of soldiers, gazed on his wife and weeping children until the mists drew
their curtain over the solemn scene.

Mrs. Davis' stateroom was entered now by a raiding party headed by
Captain Hudson. Her trunks were again forced open and everything taken
which the Captain or his men desired--among them all her children's
clothes. Jeff seized his little soldier uniform of Confederate gray and
ran with it. He managed to hide and save it.

Captain Hudson then demanded the shawl which Davis had thrown over his
shoulders on the damp morning when he was captured.

"You have no right to steal my property," his wife replied indignantly.
"Peace has been declared. The war is over. This is plain robbery."

Hudson called in another file of soldiers.

"Hand out that shawl or I'll take the last rag you have on earth. I'll
pay you for it, if you wish. But I'm going to have it."

Mrs. Davis took the shawl from Mrs. Clay's shoulders and handed it to
the brute.

"At least I may get rid of your odious presence," she cried, "by
complying with your demand."

Hudson took the shawl with a grin and led his men away. Two of his
officers returned in a few minutes and thrust their heads in the
stateroom of Mrs. Davis' sister with whom Mrs. Clay was sitting.

"Gentlemen, this is a ladies' stateroom," said the Senator's wife.

One of them threw the door open violently and growled:

"There are no ladies here!"

"I am quite sure," was the sweet reply, "that there are no gentlemen
present!"

With an oath they passed on. Little tugs filled with vulgar sightseers
steamed around the ship and shouted a continuous stream of insults when
one of the Davis party could be seen.

General Nelson A. Miles, the young officer who had been appointed jailer
of Jefferson Davis and Clement C. Clay boarded the ship and proceeded
without ceremony to give his orders to their wives.

"Will you tell me, General," Mrs. Davis asked, "where my husband is
imprisoned and what his treatment is to be?"

"Not a word," was the short reply.

His manner was so abrupt and boorish she did not press for further news.

Miles ventured some on his own account.

"Jeff Davis announced the assassination of Abraham Lincoln the day
before it happened. I guess he knew all about it--"

The wife bit her lips and suppressed a sharp answer. Her husband's life
was now in this man's hands.

"You are forbidden to buy or read a newspaper," he added curtly, "and
your ship will leave this port under sealed orders."

In vain Davis pleaded that his wife and children might be allowed to go
to Washington or Richmond where they had acquaintances and friends.

"They will return to Savannah," Miles answered, "by the same ship in
which they came and remain in Savannah under military guard."

Jefferson Davis was imprisoned in a casemate of Fortress Monroe, the
embrasure of which was closed with a heavy iron grating. The two doors
which communicated with the gunner's room were closed with heavy double
shutters fastened with crossbars and padlocks. The side openings were
sealed with fresh masonry.

Two sentinels with loaded muskets paced the floor without a moment's
pause day or night. Two other sentinels and a commissioned officer
occupied the gunner's room, the door and window of which were securely
fastened. Sentinels were stationed on the parapet overhead whose steady
tramp day and night made sleep impossible.

The embrasure opened on the big ditch which surrounds the fort--sixty
feet wide and ten feet deep in salt water. Beyond the ditch, on the
glacis, was a double line of sentinels and in the casemate rooms on
either side of his prison were quartered that part of the guard which
was not on post.

To render rest or comfort impossible a lighted lamp was placed within
three feet of the prisoner's eyes and kept burning brightly all night.
His jailer knew he had but one eye whose sight remained and that he was
a chronic sufferer from neuralgia.

His escape from Fortress Monroe was a physical impossibility without one
of the extraordinary precautions taken. The purpose of these
arrangements could have only been to inflict pain, humiliation and
possibly to take his life. He had never been robust since the breakdown
of his health on the Western plains. Worn by privation and exposure,
approaching sixty years of age, he was in no condition physically to
resist disease.

The damp walls, the coarse food, the loss of sleep caused by the tramp
of sentinels inside his room, outside and on the roof over his head and
the steady blaze of a lamp in his eyes at night within forty-eight hours
had completed his prostration.

But his jailers were not content.

On May twenty-third, Captain Titlow entered his cell with two
blacksmiths bearing a pair of heavy leg irons coupled together by a
ponderous chain.

"I am sorry to inform you, sir," the polite young officer began, "that I
have been ordered to put you in irons."

"Has General Miles given that order?"

"He has."

"I wish to see him at once, please."

"General Miles has just left the fort, sir."

"You can postpone the execution of your order until I see him?"

"I have been warned against delay."

"No soldier ever gave such an order," was the stern reply; "no soldier
should receive or execute it--"

"His orders are from Washington--mine are from him."

"But he can telegraph--there must be some mistake--no such outrage is on
record in the history of nations--"

"My orders are peremptory."

"You shall not inflict on me and on my people through me this insult
worse than death. I will not submit to it!"

"I sincerely trust, sir," the Captain urged kindly, "that you will not
compel me to use force."

"I am a gentleman and a soldier, Captain Titlow," was the stern answer.
"I know how to die--" he paused and pointed to the sentinel who stood
ready. "Let your men shoot me at once--I will not submit to this
outrage!"

The prisoner backed away with his hand on a chair and stood waiting.

The Captain turned to his blacksmiths:

"Do your duty--put them on him!"

[Illustration: "'Do your duty--put them on him'"]

As the workman bent with his chain Davis hurled him to the other side of
the cell and lifted his chair.

The sentinel cocked and lowered his musket advancing on the prisoner who
met him defiantly with bared breast.

The Captain sprang between them:

"Put down your gun. I'll give you orders to fire when necessary."

He turned to the officer at the door:

"Bring in four of your strongest men--unarmed--you understand?"

"Yes, sir--"

The men entered, sprang on their helpless victim, bore him to the floor,
pinned him down with their heavy bodies and held him securely while the
blacksmiths riveted the chains on one leg and fastened the clasp on the
other with a heavy padlock.

He had resented this cowardly insult for himself and his people. He had
resisted with the hope that he might be killed before it was
accomplished. He saw now with clear vision that the purpose of his
jailer was to torture him to death. His proud spirit rose in fierce
rebellion. He would cheat them of their prey. They might take his life
but it should be done under the forms of law in open day. He would live.
His will would defy death. He would learn to sleep with the tramp of
three sets of sentinels in his ears. He would eat their coarse food at
whatever cost to his feelings. He would learn to bury his face in his
bedding to avoid the rays of the lamp with which they were trying to
blind him.

He had need of all his fierce resolution.

He had resolved to ask no favors, but his suffering had been so acute,
his determination melted at the doctor's kind expressions.

The physician found him stretched on his pallet, horribly emaciated and
breathing with difficulty, his whole body a mere fascine of raw and
tremulous nerves, his eyes restless and fevered, his head continually
shifting from side to side searching instinctively for a cool spot on
the hot coarse hair pillow.

"Tell me," Dr. Craven said kindly, "what I can do to add to your
comfort?"

The question was asked with such genuine sympathy it was impossible to
resist it.

A smile flickered about his thin mouth, "This camp mattress, Doctor," he
slowly replied, "I find a little thin. The slats beneath chafe my poor
bones. I've a frail body--though in my youth and young manhood, while
soldiering in the West, I have done some rough camping and campaigning.
There was flesh then to cover my nerves and bones."

The doctor called an attendant:

"Bring this prisoner another mattress and a softer pillow."

"Thank you," Davis responded cordially.

"You are a smoker?" the doctor asked.

"I have been all my life, until General Miles took my pipe and tobacco."

The doctor wrote to the Adjutant General and asked that his patient be
given the use of his pipe.

On his visit two days later the doctor said:

"You must spend as little time in bed as possible. Exercise will be your
best medicine."

The prisoner drew back the cover and showed the lacerated ankles.

"Impossible you see--the pain is so intense I can't stand erect. These
shackles are very heavy. If I stand, the weight of them cuts into my
flesh--they have already torn broad patches of skin from the places they
touch. If you can pad a cushion there, I will gladly try to drag them
about--"

Dr. Craven sought the jailer:

"General Miles," he began respectfully, "in my opinion the condition of
state-prisoner Davis requires the removal of those shackles until such
time as his health shall be established on a firmer basis. Exercise he
must have."

"You believe that is a medical necessity?"

"I do, most earnestly."

About the same time General Miles had heard from the country. The
incident had already aroused sharp criticism of the Government. Stanton
had come down to Fortress Monroe and peeped through the bars at the
victim he was torturing, and had extracted all the comfort possible from
the incident. The shackles were removed.

His jailer persisted in denying him the most innocent books to read. He
asked the doctor to get for him if possible the geology or the botany of
the South. General Miles thought them dangerous subjects. At least the
names sounded treasonable. He denied the request.

The prisoner asked for his trunk and clothes. Miles decided to keep them
in his own office and dole out the linen by his own standards of need.

Davis turned to his physician with a flash of anger.

"It's contemptible that they should thus dole out my clothes as if I
were a convict in some penitentiary. They mean to degrade me. It can't
be done. No man can be degraded by unmerited insult heaped upon the
helpless. Such acts can only degrade their perpetrators. The day will
come when the people will blush at the memory of such treatment--"

At last the loss of sleep proved beyond his endurance. He had tried to
fight it out but gave up in a burst of passionate protest to Dr. Craven.
The sight of his eye was failing. The horror of blindness chilled his
soul.

"My treatment here," he began with an effort at restraint, "is killing
me by inches. Let them make shorter work of it. I can't sleep. No man
can live without sleep. My jailers know this. I am never alone a
moment--always the eye of a guard staring at me day and night. If I doze
a feverish moment the noise of the relieving guard each two hours wakes
me and the blazing lamp pours its glare into my aching throbbing eyes.
There must be a change or I shall go mad or blind or both."

He paused a moment and lifted his hollow face to the physician
pathetically.

"Have you ever been conscious of being watched? Of having an eye fixed
on you every moment, scrutinizing your smallest act, the change of the
muscles of your face or the pose of your body? To have a human eye
riveted on you every moment, waking, sleeping, sitting, walking, is a
refinement of torture never dreamed of by a Comanche Indian--it is the
eye of a spy or an enemy gloating over the pain and humiliation which it
creates. The lamp burning in my eyes is a form of torment devised by
someone who knew my habit of life never to sleep except in total
darkness. When I took old Black Hawk the Indian Chief a captive to our
barracks at St. Louis I shielded him from the vulgar gaze of the
curious. I have lived too long in the woods to be frightened by an owl
and I've seen Death too often to flinch at any form of pain--but this
torture of being forever watched is beginning to prey on my reason."

The doctor's report that day was written in plain English:

"I find Mr. Davis in a very critical state, his nervous debility
extreme, his mind despondent, his appetite gone, complexion livid, and
pulse denoting deep prostration of all vital energies. I am alarmed and
anxious over the responsibility of my position. If he should die in
prison without trial, subject to such severities as have been inflicted
on his attenuated frame the world will form conclusions and with enough
color to pass them into history."

Dr. Craven was getting too troublesome. General Miles dismissed him, and
called in Dr. George Cooper, a physician whose political opinions were
supposed to be sounder.



CHAPTER XLV

THE MASTER MIND


Socola read the story of the chaining of the Confederate Chieftain with
indignation. His intimate association with Jefferson Davis had convinced
him of his singular purity of character and loftiness of soul. That he
was capable of conspiring to murder Abraham Lincoln was inconceivable.
That the charge should be made and pressed seriously by the National
Government was a disgrace to the country.

Charles O'Connor, the greatest lawyer in America, indignant at the
outrage, had offered his services to the prisoner. Socola hastened to a
conference with O'Connor and placed himself at his command.

The lawyer sent him to Washington to find out the master mind at the
bottom of these remarkable proceedings.

"Johnson the President," he warned, "is only a tool in the hands of a
_stronger_ man. Find that man. Stanton, the Secretary of War, is
vindictive enough, but he lacks the cunning. Stevens, the leader of the
House, is the real ruler of the Nation at this moment. Yet I have the
most positive information that Stevens sneers at the attempt to accuse
Davis of the assassination of Lincoln. Stevens hated Lincoln only a
degree less than he hates Davis. He is blunt, outspoken, brutal in his
views. There can be no question of the honesty of his position. Sumner,
the leader of the Senate, is incapable of such low intrigue. Find the
man and report to me."

Socola found him within six hours after his arrival in Washington. He
was morally sure of him from the moment he left O'Connor's office.

Immediately on his arrival at the Capital he sought an interview with
Joseph Holt, now the Judge Advocate General of the United States Army.
He was therefore in charge of the prosecution of the cases of Clay and
Davis.

For five minutes he watched the crooked poisonous mouth of the
ex-Secretary of War and knew the truth. This vindictive venomous old
man, ambitious, avaricious, implacable in his hatreds, had organized a
Board of Assassination, which he called "The Bureau of Military
Justice." This remarkable Bureau had already murdered Mrs. Surratt on
perjured testimony.

Socola had given his ex-Chief no intimation of his personal feelings and
no hint of his association with O'Connor.

"I've a little favor to ask of you, young man," Holt said suavely.

Socola bowed.

"At your service, Chief--"

"I need a man of intelligence and skill to convey a proposition to Wirz,
the keeper of Andersonville prison. He has been sentenced to death by
the Bureau of Military Justice. I'm going to offer him his life on one
condition--"

"And that is?"

"If he will confess under oath that Davis ordered the starving and
torturing of prisoners at Andersonville I'll commute his sentence--"

"I see--"

"I'll give you an order to interview Wirz. He has never seen you. Report
to me his answer."

When Socola explained to Wirz in sympathetic tones the offer of the
Government to spare his life for the implication of Davis in direct
orders from Richmond commanding cruelties at Andersonville, the
condemned man lifted his wounded body and stared at his visitor.

His answer closed the interview.

"Tell the scoundrel who sent you that I am a soldier. I was a soldier in
Germany before I cast my fortunes with the South. I bear in my body the
wounds of honorable warfare. If I hadn't time to learn the meaning of
honor from my friends in the South, my mother taught me in the old
world. You ask me to save my life from these assassins by swearing away
the life of another. Tell my executioner that I never saw the President
of the Confederacy. I never received an order of any kind from him. I
did the best I could for the men in my charge at Andersonville and tried
honestly to improve their conditions. I am not a perjurer, even to save
my own life. A soldier's business is to die. I am ready."

Socola extended his hand through the bars and grasped the prisoner's.

The deeper he dived into the seething mass of corruption and blind
passion which had engulfed Washington the more desperate he saw the
situation of Davis at Fortress Monroe. After two weeks of careful work
he hurried to New York and reported the situation to O'Connor.

"The master mind," he began slowly, "I found at once. His name is
Holt--"

"The Judge Advocate General?"

"Yes."

"That accounts for my inability to obtain a copy of the charges against
Davis. Holt drew those charges. They are in his hands and he has
determined to press his prisoner to trial before his Board of Assassins
without allowing me to know the substance of his accusations. It's
infamous."

"There are complications which may increase our dangers or suddenly lift
them--"

"Complications--what do you mean?"

"The President, who has been intensely hostile to Davis, realizes that
his own term of office and possibly his life are now at stake. He has
broken with the Radicals who control Congress, old Thaddeus Stevens's at
their head. Stevens lives in Washington in brazen defiance of
conventionalities with a negro woman whom he separated from her husband
thirty odd years ago. Under the influence of this negress he has
introduced a bill into the House of Representatives to confiscate the
remaining property of the white people of the South and give it to the
negroes--dividing the land into plots of forty acres each. He proposes
also to disfranchise the whites of the Southern States, enfranchise the
negroes, destroy the State lines and erect on their ruins territories
ruled by negroes whom his faction can control.

"Johnson the President, a Southern born white man, has already informed
the Radicals that he will fight this programme to the last ditch.
Stevens' answer was characteristic of the imperious old leader. 'Let him
dare! I'll impeach Andrew Johnson, remove him from office and hang him
from the balcony of the White House.'

"The President realizes that the Bureau of Military Justice which he
allowed Holt to create may be used as the engine of his own destruction.
They have already taken the first steps to impeach him--"

"Then he'll never dare allow another case to be tried before that
Bureau--" O'Connor interrupted.

"It remains to be seen. He is afraid of both Stanton and Holt. The
Bureau of Military Justice is their hobby."

O'Connor sprang to his feet.

"We must smash it by an appeal to the people. Their sense of justice is
yet the salt that will save the Nation. The key to the situation is in
the character of the remarkable witnesses whom Holt has produced before
this tribunal of assassination. In my judgment they are a gang of hired
perjurers. Their leader is a fellow named Conover. There are five men
associated with him. They used these witnesses against Mrs. Surratt.
They used them against Wirz. They are preparing to use them against
Davis. It is inconceivable that these plugs from the gutters of New York
could have really stumbled on the facts to which they have sworn. Find
who these men are. Get their records to the last hour of the day you
track them--and report to me."

Socola organized a force of detectives and set them to work. The task
was a difficult one. He found that Conover and his pals were protected
by the unlimited power of the National Government.



CHAPTER XLVI

THE TORTURE


While the prisoner fought to save his reason in the dungeon at Fortress
Monroe, his wife was denied the right to lift her hand in his defense.
No communication was allowed between them except through his jailer.

On arrival in Savannah Mrs. Davis and her children were compelled to
walk through the blazing heat the long distance from the wharf uptown,
the whole party trudging immigrant fashion through the streets. Her
sister carried the baby. Mrs. Davis and the two little boys and Maggie
followed with parcels, and Robert, her faithful black man, brought up
the rear with the baggage.

The people of Savannah, on learning of their arrival, treated their
prisoners with the utmost kindness. Every home in the city was thrown
open to them. Her children had been robbed of all their clothing except
what they wore. The neighbors hurried in with clothes.

The newspaper of Savannah of the new régime, _The Republican_, published
and republished with gleeful comments the most sensational accounts of
the brutal scene of the shackling of Davis. Maggie composed a prayer and
taught her little brothers to repeat it in concert for their grace at
the table morning, noon and night:

"Dear Lord, give our father something he can eat, and keep him strong,
and bring him back to us with eyes that can see and in his good senses,
to his little children, for Jesus' sake."

Nearly every day the child who composed the prayer was so moved by its
recital she would run from the table and dry her tears in the next room
before she could eat.

Hourly scenes of violence increased between the whites and the inflamed
blacks. A negro sentinel leveled his gun at little Jeff and threatened
to shoot him for calling him "Uncle." With prayers and tears the mother
sent her children away to the home of a friend in Montreal.

A year passed before President Johnson in answer to the wife's desperate
pleading permitted her to visit her husband in prison. She arrived from
Montreal on the cold raw morning of May 10, 1866, at four o'clock before
day. There was no hotel at the fort at that time and the mother was
compelled to sit in the desolate little waiting room with her baby
without a fire until ten o'clock.

General Miles called. His references to her husband were made in a
manner which brutally expressed his hatred and contempt. She had been
informed that his health was in so dangerous a condition that physicians
had despaired of his life.

Miles hastened to say:

"'Davis' is in good health--"

"I can see him at once?" she begged.

"Yes. You understand the terms of your parole that you are to take no
deadly weapons into the prison?"

Suppressing a smile at the unique use of the language which a man of the
rank of Miles could make she replied quickly:

"I understand. Please arrange that I can see him at once."

Without answering the jailer turned and left the room. In a few minutes
an officer appeared who conducted her to the room in Carroll Hall to
which Dr. Cooper had forced Miles to remove the prisoner. Dr. Cooper
proved as troublesome to the General as Dr. Craven. In fact a little
more so. He had a way of swearing when angered which made the General
nervous. American physicians don't make good politicians when the life
of a patient is involved.

They were challenged by three lines of sentries, each requiring a
password, ascended a stairway, turned to the right and entered a guard
room where three young officers were sitting. Through the bars of the
inner room the wife gazed at her husband with streaming eyes.

His body had shrunk to a skeleton, his eyes set and glassy, his cheek
bones pressing against the shining skin. He rose and tottered across the
room, his breath coming in short gasps, his voice scarcely audible.

Mrs. Davis was locked in with him. She sent the baby back to her
quarters by Frederick, another faithful negro servant who had followed
their fortunes through good report and evil.

His room had a horse bucket for water, a basin and pitcher on an old
chair whose back had been sawed off, a little iron bedstead with hard
mattress, one pillow, a wooden table, and a wooden chair with one leg
shorter than the others which might be used as an improvised rocker. His
bed was so thick with bugs the room was filled with their odor. He was
so innocent of such things he couldn't imagine what distressed him so at
night--insisting that he had contracted some sort of skin disease.

His dinner was brought slopped from one dish to another and covered by a
gray hospital towel sogged with the liquids. The man of fastidious taste
glanced at the platter and saw that the good doctor's wife had added
oysters to his menu that day and ate one. His vitality was so low even
this gave him intense pain.

He was not bitter, but expressed his quiet contempt for the systematic
petty insults which his jailer was now heaping on him daily. His
physician had demanded that he take exercise in the open air. Miles
always walked with him and never permitted an occasion of this kind to
pass without directing at his helpless prisoner personal insults so
offensive that Davis always cut his walks short to be rid of his
tormentor. On one occasion the general was so brutal in his conversation
after he had locked his prisoner in his room that he suddenly sprang at
the bars, grasped them with his trembling, skeleton hands and cried:

"But for these you should answer to me--here and now!"

A favorite pastime of his jailer was to admit crowds of vulgar
sightseers and permit them to gaze at his prisoner.

A woman inquired of Frederick, who was on his way to his room:

"Where's Jeff?"

The negro bowed gravely and drew his stalwart figure erect:

"I am sorry, madame, not to be able to tell you. I do not know any such
person."

"Yes, you do--aren't you his servant?"

"No, madame, you are mistaken. I have the honor to serve ex-President
Davis."

Only a great soul can command the love and respect of servants as did
this quiet grave statesman of the old régime.

Never during the long hours of these weeks and months of torture did he
lose his dignity or his lofty bearing quail before his tormentor. He was
too refined and dignified to be abusive, and too proud in General Miles'
delicate phraseology to "beg."

The loving wife began now her desperate fight to nurse him back into
life again.

The new Commandant of the fort, General Burton, who replaced Miles,
proved himself a gentleman and a soldier of the old school. He
immediately gave to the prisoner every courtesy possible and to his wife
sympathy and help.

The Bishop of Montreal sent him a case of green chartreuse from his own
stores. This powerful digestive stimulant helped his feeble appetite to
take the nourishment needed to sustain life and slowly build his
strength.

He could sleep only when read to, and many a day dawned on the worn
figure of his wife still droning her voice into his sensitive ears, with
one hand on his pulse praying God it might still beat. At times it
stopped, and then she roused the sleeper, gave him the stimulant and
made him eat something which she always kept ready. Dr. Cooper had
warned that the walls of his heart were so weak even a sound sleep might
prove his death if too long continued.



CHAPTER XLVII

VINDICATION


When Socola had finished his work developing the history and character
of Conover and his crew of professional perjurers there was a sudden
collapse in the machinery of the Bureau of Military Justice. Holt was
compelled not only to repudiate the wretches by whose hired testimony he
had committed more than one murder through the forms of military law,
but also to issue a long document defending himself as Judge Advocate
General of the United States from the charge of subornation of
perjury--the vilest accusation that can be brought against a sworn
officer of any court. His weak defense served its purpose for the
moment. He managed to cling to his office and his salary for a brief
season. With the advent of restored law he sank into merited oblivion.

The charge of murder having collapsed, the Government now pressed
against Davis an indictment for treason. Salmon P. Chase, the Chief
Justice of the United States, warned the President and his Cabinet that
no such charge could be sustained.

And still malice held the Confederate Chieftain a prisoner. Every other
leader of the South had long since been released. On the public exposure
of Holt and his perjurers the conscience of the North, led by Horace
Greeley and Gerrit Smith, demanded the speedy trial or release of Davis.

The Radical conspirators at Washington, under the leadership of Stevens
inspired by his dusky companion, were now pressing with feverish haste
their programme of revolution. They passed each measure over the veto of
the President amid jeers, groans and curses. They disfranchised
one-third of the whites of the South, gave the ballot to a million
ignorant negroes but yesterday taken from the jungles of Africa, blotted
out the civil governments of the Southern States, and sent the army back
to enforce their decrees. Stevens introduced his bill to confiscate the
property of the whites and give it to the negroes. This measure was his
pet. It was the only one of his schemes which would be defeated on a
two-thirds vote if Johnson should veto it. Stevens and Butler at once
drew their bill of indictment against the President and set in motion
the machinery to remove him from office--the grim old leader still
swearing that he would hang him.

In this auspicious moment Charles O'Connor marshaled his forces and
demanded the release of Davis on bail. Andrew Johnson had seen a new
light. He was now in a life and death struggle with the newly enthroned
mob to save the Republic from a Dictatorship. The conspirators had
already selected the man they proposed to set up on his removal from
office.

The President issued an order to General Burton at Fortress Monroe to
produce his prisoner in the United States District Court of Richmond.

On May fourth, 1867, the little steamer from the fort touched the wharf
at Richmond and Jefferson Davis and his wife once more appeared in the
Capital of the Confederacy.

The South had come to greet them.

All differences of opinion were stilled before the white face of the man
who had been put in irons for their sins. They came from the four
corners of the country for which he had tolled and suffered.

Senator Barton, his wife and daughter and all his surviving sons had
come from Fairview to do him honor. A vast crowd assembled at the wharf.
No king ever entered his palace with grander welcome. The road from the
wharf to the Spotswood Hotel was a living sea of humanity. His carriage
couldn't move until the way was forced open by the mounted police. The
windows and roofs of every house were crowded. Men and women everywhere
were in tears. As the carriage turned into Main Street a man shouted:

"Hats off, Virginians!"

Every head was bared in the vast throng which stretched a mile along the
thoroughfare. As he passed in triumph, the people for whom he had worked
and suffered crowded to his carriage, stretched out their hands in
silence and touched his garments while the tears rolled down their
cheeks.

They arraigned him for trial on a charge of high treason.

The indictment had also named Robert E. Lee as guilty of the same crime.
Grant lifted his mailed fist and told the Government he would fight if
necessary to protect the man who had surrendered in good faith to his
army. The peanut politicians dropped Lee's name.

When the tall, emaciated leader of the South stood erect before his
accusers in court he faced a scene which proclaimed the advent of the
new Democracy in America which must yet make good its right to live.

On the Judge's bench sat John C. Underwood, a crawling, shambling,
shuffling, ignorant demagogue who had set a new standard of judicial
honor and dignity. He had selected one of the handsomest homes in
Virginia, ordered it confiscated as a Federal judge, and made his wife
buy it in and convey it to him after warning other bidders to keep off
the scene. The thief was living in his stolen mansion on the day he sat
down beside the Chief Justice of the United States in this trial. When
Chase had warned the Government that no charge of treason could stand
against Davis, Underwood assured the Attorney General that he would fix
a negro jury in Richmond which could be relied on to give the verdict
necessary. He had impaneled the first grand jury ever assembled in
America composed of negroes and whites. A negro petit jury now sat in
the box grinning at the judge, their thick lips, flat noses and
omnipotent African odor proclaiming the dawn of a new era in the history
of America.

Salmon P. Chase with quiet dignity voted to quash the indictment.
Underwood with a vulgar stump speech to the crowd of negroes voted to
hold the indictment good. The case was sent to the Supreme Court on this
disagreement and the defendant admitted to bail.

Horace Greeley and Gerrit Smith, Cornelius Vanderbilt and Augustus
Schell, representing the noblest spirit in the North were among the men
who signed his bail bond.

When he was released and walked out of the court room cheer after cheer
swept the struggling crowd that greeted him. Senator Barton took the
driver's place on the box while thousands followed to the hotel shouting
themselves hoarse. For three hours he stood shaking the hands of weeping
men and women. No sublimer tribute was ever paid to human worth. It came
with healing to his wounded soul. The anguish of the past was as if it
had never been.

Jennie Barton gazed with astonishment when Socola grasped his
outstretched hand. She was standing near enough to hear his voice.

"I want to thank you, young man," he said gratefully, "for all you've
done for me and mine. Mr. O'Connor tells me that your services have been
invaluable. For myself, my wife and babies and my people, I thank you
again. I wish I might do something to repay you--"

"I've only done my duty," was the modest response. "But I think you
might help me a little--"

"If it's within my power--"

"You remember Miss Barton?"

"I've just shaken hands with her--she is here!"

"Would you mind putting in a word--"

"I'll do more, sir--I'm in command to-day. I'll issue positive orders--"

Jennie moved, he saw her and beckoned. She came, blushing.

"What's this, my little comrade?" he whispered, seizing her hands. "The
war is over. I've shaken hands with Horace Greeley and Gerrit Smith
to-day. There can be no stragglers in our camp, I owe my life to this
young man."

He took Jennie's hand, placed it on Socola's arm, and he led her silent
and blushing from the crowd to an alcove in the far corner of the hall.

She looked up into his face with tenderness.

"You've done a noble and beautiful thing in the gift of your life to our
Chief for these two miserable years--"

"They've been miserable to you?"

She smiled.

"But I knew you would come--"

"You'll not send me away again?"

She slowly slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

They stood on the balcony hand in hand and watched the crowds surging
about the carriage as the tall Chieftain left the hotel to take the
train to greet his children.

Socola uncovered his head and spoke reverently.

"He belongs to the race of giants who have made our Nation what it is
to-day. We owe a debt to the unflinching dignity and honesty of his
mind. He made hedging, trimming and compromise impossible--the issues
which divided us of Life and Death. A weaker man would have wavered and
we should have had to fight our battles over again. They have been
settled for all time."

Jennie lifted her eyes to his:

"What's your name, my sweetheart?"

He laughed softly.

"Does it matter now? Our country's one--my name is Love."





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Victim - A romance of the Real Jefferson Davis" ***

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