MR. MORDECAI had scarcely passed a square from his home, when suddenly he retraced his steps, and stood again before the lodge.
Mingo, he said sharply, "tell your mistress to send me that cursed letter. Be quick."
With a dash the nimble slave obeyed the command, and in a moment stood before his master, the letter in his hand, bowing and smiling with his usual politeness.
Taking the letter, Mr. Mordecai crushed it in his hand, then placed it in his breast pocket, as he again started forward toward his banking-house. If he passed man, woman, child, friend, acquaintance, or kinsman in that morning's walk, he knew it not; for the tumult of passion that stirred his soul obliterated for the time every recollection but that of the terrible sorrow that had befallen him. In due time he reached the dingy brown banking-house, and stood irresolutely for a moment upon the well-worn stone steps. He placed the ponderous key within the lock, but the hand seemed powerless to turn its massive bolt; and for a moment he stood with thoughtful, determined eye resting upon the pavement. A moment more, and then he quickly withdrew the key, dropped it into his pocket, and briskly retraced his steps for square after square, and then abruptly turned into the well-known street where stood the office of the distinguished Le Grande.
It happened that Mr. Mordecai approached the office from one direction, as Judge Le Grande himself approached it from another, riding in the light single phaeton in which he usually drove to and from his office.
Good-morning, Mr. Mordecai. How goes it with you, my friend, this fine morning? said the judge pleasantly, as he alighted and threw the lines to Cato, the driver.--"Tell your mistress she need not send for me till five o'clock. I shall be very busy to-day." Then turning to the banker he looked for a reply.
It's no good-morning to me, replied the banker fiercely. "The night has brought devilish work to my home."
What do you mean, my friend? was the judge's quiet reply. "What has the night done?"
Played the devil! Don't you try to trifle with my sorrow. That son of yours has already wrought me injury enough. Don't you attempt to mock me. I warn you, Le Grande, I warn you!
Astonished by these mysterious words of the Hebrew, Judge Le Grande gravely assured Mr. Mordecai that he knew nothing of the trouble that had befallen him, and repeatedly asked, "What has my son done?"
Done? Alas! he has done that which would to God I could undo! was the reply, uttered angrily and savagely. "But as I cannot undo it, I shall curse it-curse it from the depths of my soul! He has married my daughter? Stolen her-taken her away in secret from my house, and they have wisely fled from my presence!"
Married your daughter! ejaculated the judge, the truth faintly dawning on him. "Surely that's a mistake."
Indeed it is a wild mistake; I would to God it were otherwise.
By what authority do you make this assertion? continued Judge Le Grande, evidently aroused by the dawning truth.
By the confession of my daughter, left in her room, and written a short time before her flight.
Where is that confession? Let me see it.
Here, replied the banker, drawing the crumpled missive from his pocket. "There, read the mischief for yourself."
With trembling hand Judge Le Grande smoothed out the crushed paper, and eagerly, fearfully, scanned the contents that were to crush his hopes, as they had crushed those of the banker. Silently, carefully, he read it, read it till the story was told, and then, brushing away a tear from his eye he said, with emotion:
Mordecai, forgive her! Forgive her, as I shall forgive him; and now that it is done, let us make the best of it.
Forgive! hissed the banker; "forgive such an act of disobedience as that? Such disgrace to my name and people? Never, while there is a drop of Hebrew blood in Benjamin Mordecai's veins, will I forgive it!"
It's no more a disgrace to your name and people than it is to mine; but I consider that people are fools, who make disgrace of family troubles, by obstinately parading them before the world.
Then I shall delight in being a fool, if so you deem it, replied Mr. Mordecai, with kindling emotion.
Alas! I had great plans for Emile, said Judge Le Grande sadly, as he turned away from Mr. Mordecai; "and his mother too; she had fondly hoped he would marry Belle Upton. Now, all is disappointment. I do not know how she will bear it. As for myself, I shall make the best of it. I hope they may be happy.-I say, Mordecai," looking steadily at the banker, "they have my forgiveness and my blessing too. You may do as you please."
Well, I curse them, the banker answered bitterly; "and I swear they shall never see my face again, living or dying. Not one dollar from my purse shall they ever receive, even though want and beggary come upon them. Think not I can ever change, Judge Le Grande. As my people and my people's God, the Eternal Father, are unchangeable, so is my purpose concerning these disobedient children. Good morning." Mr. Mordecai then turned slowly from the office, and as the judge beheld the receding form, and remembered the fierce flash of his dark eye, he unhesitatingly exclaimed, "Poor old man! I pity you. And," he added after a moment's pause, "Heaven pity us both!"
As a bird floats safely upon the bosom of the blue sky and finds at last her leafy home, so the little vessel that bore the fugitive lovers, found safe and speedy anchorage in the quiet harbor of the sea-girt isle that was to be their future home. The young, ardent husband, and the fair, gentle wife, gazed with delight upon the cloudless skies and bright waters, and thought hopefully of the future. Only one shadow darkened their horizon. It was a fearful thought, to Leah, that her father's anathema might ever rest upon her. But the future was veiled, and the voice of Hope whispered, "his blessing may come by and by. Wait."
TWO years rolled away-two short, bright years of individual and national prosperity, and then came a change. To use the words of the immortal Dickens, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness; it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything before us, we had nothing before us; we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way." These utterances of inspiration so fittingly describing the period that ushered in the bloody French Revolution, may be applied with equal truth and force to the years that inaugurated the war between the States in fair America.
Did not prosperity bud and blossom in every vale and hamlet of this fair domain? And yet were a people ever more unmindful of, or more ungrateful for their blessings? Bickering and strife, dissension and hatred, grew fiercer with the growth of the nation's grandeur. Slavery, on one hand said, "I will," and Freedom, on the other, "You shall not." So the war-cloud, "the size of a man's hand" only at first, appeared upon the dim horizon of the future. Wisdom sought to devise plans for averting war, but Folly shook her locks tauntingly, and said mockingly, "Ha! ha! War is pleasant pastime." So the culmination was reached, and a misguided people, clamorous for war, sounded the tocsin that caused rivers of blood to flow from brothers' hearts, and enshrouded a grand and happy people in desolation and disgrace.
At the time when the war-cloud of fratricidal conflict was rolling dark and broad over the land, a treacherous enemy on the border were menacing and even destroying many of our country's peaceful citizens. Upon the broad frontier at the Far West it became the duty of the government to hold these wily foes in check by a strong and reliable armed force. To this north-western outpost of service Captain Marshall had been ordered by the voice of his country. Not ordered there as to a holiday excursion, but ordered into actual bloody conflict, and to an ordeal that would have tried the bravery and courage of a veteran. At the head of his command, Company A, 3d Regiment U. S. Regulars, Captain Marshall reached this post of danger in the hour of its most imminent peril. But for this timely arrival of troops, the peaceful little town of Minneopoli might have been laid waste, and its defenceless inhabitants cruelly butchered or carried away captive. But the premeditated destruction of the town was averted, the treacherous "red-skins" disappointed, and Captain Marshall's bravery demonstrated beyond a peradventure.
It was the night after the attack of the Indians, and the bloody repulse. All was quiet. The troops were reassembled in camp. The usual garrulity of the soldiers was checked by the recollection of their dead comrades, so recently laid to rest in soldiers' graves. All, too, remembered the danger through which they had passed, and many were moody and silent. At length a bright-faced, light-headed young recruit spoke out, seeing the silence and sadness around the camp-fire. "I say, captain, that was a wretched red-skin of a chief that you hauled in yesterday. He looked more like the Prince of Darkness than the chief of a tribe. I thought once, cap'n, he had you; and I was just ready to pick him off, when I saw you were safe."
Yes, Carlos, that was a close place, and but for a kind fate, I should be sleeping with those brave fellows who have left us. Peace to their resting-places.
I was sorry you did not kill him; he deserved death. But how quick he did surrender, when he saw you close in on him with your sword! Ha! ha!
Yes, Mico is a bad, bad Indian, and has caused more trouble to this settlement than all the other Indians combined. I guess he will enjoy his freedom, when he gets it again. Confinement and chains are worse than death to him.
I tell you, cap'n, they are cowardly devils. They can't stand gunpowder. At the very smell of it they run out from their hiding-places, like so many rats from a burning building. I hated to see one of them taken alive. It's not like fighting civilized people; is it, cap'n? I am in favor of the black flag in a fight with these red devils.
War is war, Carlos, and brutalizes the most intelligent people on earth, if they indulge in it. I trust our troubles are ended here, for a long time, if not forever, now that Mico is our prisoner. At any rate, I hope all will remain peaceful and tranquil till I go home and return. For a month I have a leave of absence, to visit my native State.
Going home, captain, to see your mother? spoke up a fair-haired young boy, scarcely eighteen, who had sat a silent listener to the conversation between Carlos and his commander.
Ah! Franco, I have no mother; she died long ago, replied the captain; "but I am going back to my native State. My father and a brother and sister live there."
It has been many a long day, said Franco, "since I saw my native hills, and heard my mother's gentle voice, as she went singing about our humble home. I often wonder how she could sing so, with so much poverty and care constantly about her. Maybe I shall never see her again ;" and a shade of sorrow crept over the fair young face of the French recruit.
The captain replied, "I trust that you may, Franco, though you are now so many leagues away. What brought you away from her, Franco?"
Poverty, captain, poverty; and unless I can lighten the burden of my mother's life by returning, I shall never go back!
Silence at length settled upon the camp, and one by one the groups of comrades disbanded. The campfires were extinguished, and at an early hour sleep tenderly enfolded these guardians of their country's peace and security.
THE spring had come again, and a little more than its first month had elapsed when, early one morning, as the sun was stealing up softly from the east, and before it had brought the hour for the slumbering troops to be aroused by another réveille, or had gilded the hills and valleys with its light, Captain Marshall, accompanied by his faithful orderly, Franco, entered the half-slumbering town of Minneopoli and turned toward the inn, whence the coach was soon to leave for the nearest railway station.
Lieutenant Styles will be in command, Franco, till I return, you know, and I fear he will form a dangerous substitute, with his affable nature, said the captain, as the hour of parting drew near.
Well, never mind that, captain; no matter how affable, we boys do not wish a new commander just now, returned the true-hearted boy.
Take care of your scalps, Franco. Don't let the 'red-skins' surprise you while I am gone. There, I see the coach is ready. I must soon bid you adieu.
If I remember the bravery of my captain, the red devils won't get my scalp, I'll wager. But I hope they are settled for a time. Come back as soon as you can, captain, and in your absence think occasionally of Franco, will you? There comes the coach. The horses are fine and gay.
Rest assured, Franco, I will think of you, and often too. How I would like to take you with me! But take care of yourself. A month's absence is not such a long time, after all. Good-by, my dear fellow, good-by; and seating himself in the waiting coach, Captain Marshall waved an adieu to his sorrowful young companion, and at the same moment the coach driver hallooed, "All ready!" and gave a sharp crack of the whip; the horses dashed forward, and recruit and captain were soon separated-separated forever. In less time than a fortnight, Captain Marshall had accomplished his long and troublesome journey, and was safe once more within his native State.
I tell you, Fred, said the captain, one day when he was visiting a friend in the Queen City, "the agitated, portentous state of affairs in this section distresses and alarms me. I had no dream of the warlike aspect of this quiet Queen City of the Sea. I fancied we had all the trouble with us, in the north-west, among those wretched savages. I came home for a month of recreation and pleasure, and--" he uttered with slight hesitation--"for the fulfilment of my plighted troth; for the realization of the bright dream of a love that has brightened my heart for nearly two years. Yes, Fred, and if it were not for the business that takes me to fair Melrose, I should regret that my coming home had been just at this time. I tell you, my good fellow, the future portends evil, if not bloodshed."
Well, Marshall, bloodshed is inevitable, unless as a section we are allowed our constitutional rights; and I, for one, say, if it must, let it come, even with the fury of a storm. I am for State rights, and the Palmetto State forever!
Not bloodshed, Fred, if we can avert it, replied the young officer to the enthusiastic outburst of the impetuous young Pinckney, the beloved friend of his boyhood. "I am just from the gory field, where I saw my brave men fall beneath the treacherous blows of the Indians. I have seen bloodshed, and desire to see no more of it. I have always loved military life, you know, Fred; but I tell you it tries the heart of a man to see his men shot down like dogs."
Oh, yes; you are for the Union, I see, replied young Pinckney with impatient gesture. "Your service in the regular army has weaned your heart from your native State, I fear."
Oh! yes; I am for the Union just now-the union of hearts, at least; and as you go with me to Melrose, you shall see that the union is maintained.
O bother! Marshall; you can think of nothing now but matrimony. I am for the union of hearts myself; but the union of States as it has existed, I detest. Peaceable secession, you see, we cannot have; and if it must come in bloodshed, why, in the name of mankind, let it come! I am ready for the issue of my State's action.
I pray your blood may never be required as the price of forcible secession, my dear Fred. But the condition of the country appals me! I-whom duty calls to one place, and whom ties of affection bind to another-I am placed in no enviable position. Yet I still hope the trouble will soon clear up, and all will yet be bright.
Your duty is plain before you, Marshall. It's for or against us now, and no equivocation.
Well, we'll not fall out about our country's troubles. They may be better and they may be worse than we anticipate. I'll hope for the best, though evil come. Let's talk of Melrose, and the fair flower that blooms there. Eh, Fred?
Fred replied smiling, "So we will, dear boy; here, take this cigar. Let's have a smoke, and if you like we'll stroll down to the Battery and see the encampment."
THE rosy month of May succeeded the chilly April in that memorable year when the war-cloud of civil contest overshadowed the land so darkly. It came with unwonted verdure, freshness, and beauty, filling the hearts of the despondent with hope, and the hopeful with rejoicing. It was scarcely a month from the time the coach dashed out of the half-aroused town of Minneopoli in the chilly April morning, when a similar vehicle, one evening, toiled slowly up the long hill whose summit was crowned by picturesque Melrose. Among the passengers were Captain Marshall and his friend Fred Pinckney. The former had come to Melrose to claim the hand of his affianced, Eliza Heartwell, and to take her away as his wife. In that sweet May-time, no heart was happier than George Marshall's, and no voice gladder, as it rang out in unrestrained laughter at the droll jokes and facetious comments of his witty friend Fred.
I say, George, this is undoubtedly the beautifulest country I ever saw. Do see. Such honeysuckles and such dog-wood blossoms never grew before. Maybe if the fates are propitious, I'll come back here to this picturesque country to get me a wife, after the war is over. Who knows? Then I'll be a laurel-crowned hero, having whaled out the Yankees to a frizzle, and all the fair ones will be sighing for my hand and heart! Umph! I am impatient for the conflict. George, you know the Yankees won't fight!
Well, we will see. At any rate, from my acquaintance with them, I shall not go to battle against them armed only with a broom-stick. But here we are in Melrose. Don't, for love's sake, talk of war. My heart's in a flutter. Cupid's conflict is worse than the Indians, Fred.
Yes, I see you have surrended unconditionally; yet your captivity is by no means galling, I observe. Well, you are a lucky fellow, George. Prosperity attend you.
Fatigued from the long journey, so much of it accomplished by tiresome, lumbering stage-coaches, these two travelling companions gladly alighted at the Melrose Tavern, and eagerly sought the refreshments its simple hospitality afforded.
IN the quiet little parlor of Widow Heartwell, in the early May morning, the tender breeze stole in and out of the window, fluttering the muslin curtain and filling the apartment with delicious perfume. In the same parlor a few chosen friends were assembled, to witness the solemn ceremony that was to deprive them of the pride and favorite of the village. As the dial upon the delicate face of the little bronze clock on the mantel marked the hour of eight, the flutter of robes and the rustling of footsteps ushered in the expectant pair, and at once all the guests arose.
Pale and trembling, Mrs. Heartwell took her place beside her daughter, as she stood before the venerable minister. For years the Rev. Mr. Pratt had been their pastor and spiritual adviser, and his heart was filled with deep emotion as he pronounced the solemn words that bound this child of his love and watchful care to her husband, to be "His servitor for aye." Amid smothered sobs, he invoked Heaven's benediction upon their wedded hearts, praying that, as love had directed this union, so love might attend them, even unto death.
Amid sighs and tears, the congratulations were received, and when at length Fred Pinckney found a moment to whisper in George Marshall's ear, he said, with characteristic drollery, "By Jupiter? I'll be glad when the coach comes. I can't stand so much crying; it's more like a funeral than a wedding. If they are obliged to blubber this way when a fellow marries, I think I shall back out."
Another hour and the bridal party had departed. The fair flower of Melrose was gone, changed from a lonely maiden to a happy, hopeful bride; gone to follow the footsteps of a true, brave-hearted husband,-gone from Melrose, leaving many aching hearts behind; leaving, too, a vacancy that no succession of years could ever quite fill.
A fortnight after the quiet wedding in Melrose, late one afternoon, George Marshall and his wife were walking slowly along the ever-thronged battery of the Queen City, whither they had come on a visit to Captain Marshall's uncle, Dr. Thornwell. A serious expression rested upon the young captain's face, as he surveyed the long lines of tents that dotted the open square and bordered the broad street-so serious indeed, that he scarcely heeded the passers-by who were bowing salutations to him and his fair bride.
George, you seem so abstracted; you scarcely noticed Frank Brewster as he passed just now in the brett with Florence Dale. What's the matter, dear?
I'm troubled, perplexed, pondering, my dear. Yet I did not mean to be so abstracted. I must beg your forgiveness, as well as that of my friends.
Oh! never mind me, George; only tell me what troubles you.
Nothing more than the perplexing question that has harassed me ever since I came home, and saw beyond a doubt that we should have war-the question that I must soon decide, whether I shall desert my State in time of peril, or my country. In either course of acting, I shall be branded as a traitor, or a rebel. It's a serious dilemma to be placed in, dear Eliza, and I must act wisely, and like a man. My heart is dreadfully divided: duty calls me to my country, and love calls me to my home. My forebodings, too, whisper that this war will be no trifling affair.
Well, for my part, George, and you already know it, I am opposed to secession. Fred Pinckney says it's on account of the Whig blood that flows in my veins. I told him that my father, and my grandfather before him, were uncompromising Whigs. It may be so; I don't know. I abhor the idea of bloodshed, and as yet, I think we have had little cause to declare war.
You are a sage little woman, and your argument sound, but these sentiments won't do to promulgate in the Queen City. Remember, I am still a commissioned officer in the United States army. Be careful.
Oh! I am not afraid of my sentiments, or of being deemed traitorous. Only this morning, Colonel Legare asked me if I would present the Palmetto Rifles with the new flag he had made for them. But to return. War is war, George, and should be entered into with caution.
Yes; you are right. I feel at times as though I could not fight against the flag of my country; and then, on the other hand, I would not fight against my home and kindred. There seems but one alternative left to me-to resign my commission in the army and not take up arms at all, replied the young officer sadly.
Well, cheer up. Don't grow despondent. I hope wisdom will direct your decision; and remember, if the thought will give you any comfort, that I have sworn to follow your footsteps and your fortune, wheresoever they may lead, be it from craggy Maine to wild Colorado, said the young wife with forced pleasantry.
Bravo! what a lucky fellow I am! Surely no evil will befall me. Your cheering words decide my choice; wisdom, you say, will direct the decision. It shall be made. We will once more make the charming round of this inviting boulevard, and then I'll tell you my decision. There goes Fred Pinckney on horseback. How handsome he looks in that uniform! He belongs to the Palmetto Rifles, I believe.
Yes, so he does. Fred's a gallant, handsome fellow, a little too hot-blooded, though, replied the young wife, thoughtfully.
Once again the gay promenade was traversed, and as the sun's last ray was faintly dying, the young wife stopped, and leaning gently on the railing with eye turned toward the sea, she said, "Now, George, tell me your decision." And he replied quickly, "I shall resign my commission in the army, and cast my lot with my people and my State. Alas! I may never see Franco again!"
I trust you have acted wisely, replied the young wife, thoughtfully. "But, oh, George, see Defiance. See how the dying sun gilds the flag, the new flag that has risen above the old one that floated there when I was here a school-girl. Somehow I love the old flag, the Stars and Stripes-'Whig blood,' I suppose; but Defiance always looked so grim and terrible to me, even when I was a school-girl, in peaceful days, and now it appears a terrible monster of horror!"
Oh! Defiance bears you no ill-will, my darling. It's a quiet old fort, that will protect us from our enemies. Long live the memory of the man who surrendered it only at the mouth of cannon! But come, let's be going. It's late; already pedestrians and vehicles are turning homeward.
How sad, that time so far has furnished no historian or biographer truthfully and charitably to chronicle the terrible struggle of many noble-souled men, who sacrificed the love of country for the love of State in that unhallowed civil war! Yet there is the truth that the great Searcher of human hearts has His record on high; and in the unfolding hereafter, many souls that here were branded as traitors, will there receive the rewards of patriots. Scores who were here despised for cowardice, will there receive the plaudits that await the brave. Legions who have perished in ignominious cells, will there be found crowned heroes. For who knows the yet unwritten record of the horrible war between the States, but the heroes who perished here and passed on beyond?
SIX months rolled by-six memorable months, that sadly blasted a nation's hopes, and overturned the plans and purposes of countless individuals. The war-cloud had darkened and deepened, till the sky of many a happy home was already obscured by its fearful gloom. At the first bugle-note of conflict, a peaceful, happy people was transformed, as if by magic, into a warlike host. The war-tide rushed on with an impetuosity that bore all things before it. Willing or unwilling, men must be soldiers. Cities, towns, and villages were astir with excitement. Forgetting the ordinary interests of life, people talked enthusiastically, madly, of war. Months ago had the accustomed serenity of the Queen City given place to noisy military life. Its by-ways and suburbs were dotted with tents, the phantom homes of soldiers. Men who yesterday were gentlemen, were to-day only vassals, whose existence was marked by the morning réveille and the evening tattoo. The drilling, drilling, drilling, still hourly went on; but not that peaceful exercise the inhabitants had been wont to observe in Citadel Square in days agone. Marching, guarding, countermarching, watching, were the order of the day. Some hearts were wild with enthusiasm, others dark with despair. Already the tide of brothers' blood had crimsoned the sod of more than one State. Blood, blood, was flowing-crimson blood, that might have been a libation to a nobler, holier cause.
Old Defiance, standing dark and warlike in the harbor of the Queen City, had now a new commander. The guns, as usual, turned their deadly mouths to the open sea, but the gunners and the commander did not wear the uniform of the old troops once garrisoned there. George Marshall, impelled by the love of State, and moved by the importunities of friends, had accepted the position of commander at Defiance, and was now Colonel instead of Captain Marshall. With regret, with tears even, he folded away the regimentals of the old army, and said with a sigh, as he laid them out of sight, "I shall never need them again." Blame him, if you dare, you who have never stood the test of such a trial. Censure him for a traitor, if you must, you that have only dallied on the outskirts of your country's danger. In that book on high, thank God, angels read his record aright.
George, said Eliza one morning to her husband, in a soft October day, as he was about leaving her for the fort, "I am sorry you ever took command of Defiance. I have always had a strange horror of that monster of the sea. I hate to think of your being there."
Well, you are foolish in that fear, my love. It's much better for you than if I were in the field. If I were at the head of a regiment, I should be ordered here and there, Fate only knows where, and maybe not see you for months, perhaps years. When you become more acquainted with the old fortress, my dear, you will cease to regard it with such terror.
Maybe I shall, George, but I fear not. It stands like some terrible apparition, ever before me, waking or sleeping, she replied, half sadly, half fearfully. "Oh! this terrible war! It has begun, but it is not yet ended," she added with a shudder.
You must be more hopeful; your words are not encouraging to a soldier-husband. Come, cheer up, and go with me over to the fortress this evening. What do you say? Go, and beard the lion in his den, as it were.
I shall be most happy to do so, if it will tend to dispel my prejudice, or rather, my dread of the place. At what hour?
At six P. M. precisely, the Sea-Foam leaves pier number three for the fort. I'll return in time for us to leave at that hour. Be ready. Adieu. I must hasten! He kissed her, and was gone.
When Eliza was once again alone in her quiet chamber, the skilful fingers were busy with her work, and the perplexed brain was busy with its thoughts. At length she said, half audibly, "I may be foolish. God only knows how dreadfully I feel about this wretched war."
At the appointed time George Marshall returned, to find his wife awaiting him; and without delay they sought the Sea-Foam's pier. As the young colonel walked beside his wife, so modestly yet becomingly attired in simple white muslin, with a blue scarf round her faultless figure, he thought her a paragon of beauty, and passed on in silent admiration, till the pier was reached.
What does this embarkation recall to your mind, George? said the young wife pleasantly, as her husband seated himself beside her on the deck of the Sea-Foam.
Nothing in particular, that I remember. What is it?
Oh, I was vain enough to suppose it might recall to you an occasion that has ever been memorable to me, she replied archly. But I see you have forgotten that sunny June evening, five years ago, when I embarked, from this very pier-embarked, leaving you behind, and thinking I should never see you again."
Oh, forgive my want of memory and sentimentality. The war has well-nigh crushed the latter out of my nature. I thank God though, that we have now embarked together on the ocean of life, with no fear of separation, and with the hope, too, that storms, if they come, may not wreck our bark. Isn't the sea lovely? And how delicious the breeze!
Yes, the flags float airily; but the fort, though seemingly so near, is yet quite far away. How deceptive is water! The boat sped on toward the fortress like a feather on the breeze.
Here we come, said the colonel, "nearer, nearer, nearer, to the huge pile of sea-washed brick and mortar; nearer to your dreaded enemy, my love; slower, slower, slower, to the land. Here we are!" And the Sea-Foam safely cast her anchor once again.
EVENT crowded upon event as the first two long years of the war glided by-years that seemed to calendar twenty-four, instead of twelve months each. The strife hadn't yet reached its climax, but blood was flowing fearfully. From Maine to the Gulf was one vast beleaguered sea-coast, for at every sea-port city, grim monsters of war stood guarding the entrance to the harbor. Already the central, though despised Queen City, was feeling the fire of a fierce and cruel bombardment. Refugees were flitting hither and thither about the country, seeking peace and security, but finding none. Want and privation were even now beginning to menace a once luxurious people, and gloom and despair to enshroud the hopes of those who had fondly dreamed of a successful dismemberment of the Union. Such was the record of the years preceding the memorable seven days' fighting at "Merry Oaks."
These battles form the half-way stone in the long period of our civil war. It was the day after the dreadful conflict. The forces had retired to re-gather their strength, and the wounded, dying, and dead, were left upon the field. Early in the morning, as the heat of the summer sun was streaming down, a horseman rode slowly and carefully about this field of death. Here and there, lying thickly, as they fell, were the dead of both forces, easily distinguished by the different colors they wore, while gathered in groups, under the grateful shade-trees, could be seen the wounded whose strength was sufficient to drag them thither. This field was a shocking spectacle. And as the horseman rode slowly along the desolate track, peering curiously and sadly into the upturned faces of the dead, a casual observer might have detected the melancholy expression on his face, and marked the glittering tear that bedewed his eyes. For brave, true, noble George Marshall, was never ashamed to weep over the woes of humanity! Imperative business had called him from his post of duty to the seat of war, just in time to be within ear-shot of that memorable seven days' carnage. And as he rode, on that quiet summer morning, strange, painful emotions filled his heart. Around and about him, before and behind, lay grim and ghastly faces cold in death-faces of soldiers who were brothers in country, and many of them brothers in name-brothers in actual consanguinity, brothers in destiny, brothers in everything, save love. There they were, peaceful now, side by side, the last conflict ended, the last spark of animosity extinguished; there, side by side-dead. No wonder George Marshall wept. The wonder is that there ever throbbed a human heart that could refrain from weeping over such a scene.
At length, George Marshall suddenly drew his rein, and lifting his hand to his forehead so as to shade his eyes, gazed curiously forward for a moment toward an object lying not very far distant. Then, quickly alighting, he stepped cautiously toward the object of his scrutiny. It was the dead body of a soldier. The dark blue uniform told to which army he belonged. The stocking, turned back from a slender ankle, fell carelessly over the heavy army shoe. The head was half-averted, and the open eyes, though sightless, were still bright with God's own azure.
Creeping gently through his slender hand, as though it loved the cold caress of death, was a wild vine whose tiny blossoms would have shrunk at the touch of a wild bee's foot. By the side of his face was the worn cap that had fallen from his head as he fell.
Fearfully, timidly, with an air of dread, Colonel Marshall approached the silent figure and bent over the recumbent form.
Great God! it is Franco! I thought I knew the poor fellow from afar! Poor, poor boy! Poor fair-haired Franco! he exclaimed in a breath. Then gently turning the soiled cap, he read "Third Regiment United States Regulars." "My old command, my old command," he murmured. "Alas! poor Franco! I thank God we did not meet in deadly conflict. Your true, kind heart wished no one ill, yet an unkind fate has brought you to a mournful end, and I, for one, shall mourn your hapless lot. Alas! poor boy, you'll never see your vine-clad France again, and your kind mother's peasant home will ever be darkened by your absence."
Then kneeling for a little time beside the dead boy, the kind-hearted colonel dropped a tear and bowed his head in deep reflection. Then, arising and looking eagerly about him, he said at length, "There, in the end of that entrenchment, by the side of that shattered tree, I can lay his body, in lieu of a better grave. There it will at least be safe from the vultures and the horrible fate that awaits the unburied dead of a defeated army."
Then tenderly and sadly he laid the young soldier away in his peaceful grave, covering his face with his smoke-stained cap, and folding his pulseless hands upon his bosom. At last, covering the mound upon which his tears had fallen, with some evergreen boughs, he patiently carved upon a rude board, that he set up to mark the grave, the words:
POOR FRANCO. Aged 20.
THE bombardment of the Queen City continued. With unprecedented stubbornness did she resist the enemy's fierce demands, and stand firm amid the death-dealing blows of shot and shell. Many of the inhabitants had fled from their homes at the first boom of the shelling guns, but many, too, had remained; and among the latter number was Mr. Mordecai's family. But now the moment had arrived when farther exposure to danger seemed to the banker a reckless disregard of life. So they were going-going, as many others had gone, leaving behind the palatial home, with its comforts and luxuries, for the privations, hardships, discomforts, of a refugee life. Articles of value were being removed to places of greater security, some to be sold, others given to remaining friends, who could not get away, and some left uncared for. It was the day before the proposed departure. The house wore the aspect of a dismantled castle. In the room formerly the library, but now well filled with trunks, boxes, bundles, and so on, Rebecca and her faithful attendant were busy with the packing, unpacking, and repacking of their household goods. "Here, Barbara," said Rebecca, turning to the woman nearest her, as she pushed aside an old worn portmanteau, "you can take this. It's an old valise that my husband sent up from the bank the other day, among his rubbish from there. Here, give me the papers out of it, and I'll lookover them, while I sit here to rest a moment. Here, pour them into my apron." Obeying this command, Barbara emptied the contents into the large apron that the mistress upheld to receive them, and she sat down to the examination. One by one the papers fell from her fingers to the floor as valueless trash, and she pushed them with her foot toward the open fire-place. Suddenly she descried upon the floor a dark brown paper, loosely folded, that had fallen from her lap unobserved. picking it up, she drew from it a small book, bound in Russia leather, the size of a man's hand. Upon the outer cover, in dim, well-worn, and mold-covered letters was the word "Journal." "What can this be?" she murmured curiously, holding it tightly in her hand. Slowly unfastening the slender clasp, she read with astonishment the words written upon the first page: "Emile Le Grande's Diary."
Amazed at what her eyes beheld, Rebecca hastily secreted the book in her dress pocket and retired from the room. Once securely out of sight, she eagerly began her scrutiny of the ill-fated little book that had fallen so mysteriously into her possession. Record after record was read with greedy eye. Soon her eye rested upon the name, "Leah Mordecai." No vulture ever devoured its unfortunate prey with more rapacity that did this wicked woman the contents that followed, day after day. Her eye gleamed with delight, and her jewelled hands trembled for joy, as she turned leaf after leaf of the unfortunate book. At length she stopped suddenly, and exclaimed half-wildly, "Aha! I know it now! At last the truth has come to light, the terrible mystery is revealed," as she read the unfortunate yet idle record of young Le Grande's, made on the night of Bertha Levy's tea- party, the foolish record: "If I knew that she loved Mark Abrams, I would kill him."
You are mistaken, my bird, Rebecca continued to soliloquize; "he did not love Leah Mordecai as fondly as you supposed, but you dared to kill him from jealous hatred when you well knew you were destroying the hopes and future of my child. Well, I'll see to it that revenge comes. My young eagle, you are not so far away, but justice can find you. Though the water of a dozen oceans rolled between us, I think my revenge could reach you. Rest on in your fancied security while you may, young villain; the storm is gathering for your destruction. Rest on. Rebecca Mordecai will never, never forget you. I will keep this secret to myself till my plans are matured; then I will act. Now, we must fly, and then-well, never mind what then, so I keep this treasure safe in my grasp." So saying, she stowed the journal away in her bosom, and with a cruel laugh, busied herself again with her preparations for departure. The removal was made. The mansion of the banker was vacated, and the Queen City left to the mercy of the spoiler. In all these days of agitation and confusion, the little journal lay safe in the bosom of its possessor. She intended to have the way clear, before unfolding her secret and her purpose. And so it was.