IN their quiet little sea-girt home, where the skies were bright and blue, and the breezes balmy and soft, Emile Le Grande and his young wife had dwelt in peace and happiness for nearly five years. Not a line had ever come, amid all Leah's hopeless longing and vain expectation, to assure her of her father's forgiveness and continued love. So, weary from this continued disappointment, she had settled down into the confident assurance, that his blessing now would never come, and she must find happiness alone in her husband's love. Long, long ago, Emile's parents had written, expressing kindest wishes for their welfare, and tendering to Leah a daughter's welcome. Mrs. Le Grande, although disappointed and chagrined that Belle Upton was not the choice of her son's love, soon quieted down, and accepted the alternative with astonishing and commendable resignation. So, despite Leah's bitter disappointment, she was happy; for, aside from Emile's love, she soon drew hope and happiness from the life of the dark-eyed little daughter that had come to bless her home. Emile had yielded to Leah's wishes, and, following the custom of her people, she had called her little daughter, Sarah, in memory of her mother, whose death she had so long and deeply mourned.
The event of this little grandchild's birth had never reached Mr. Mordecai's ears, for he had regarded Leah as dead, ever since that dreadful morning when he discovered that she had clandestinely married a "Christian dog." He desired to know naught of her welfare; he avoided knowing anything.
In the interior of the State, about two hundred miles distant from the Queen City, was a cosy, sequestered little settlement, called Inglewood. To this little shelter of peace and security, many refugees had found their way, and taken temporary homes. Many Hebrew families from the Queen City had fled thither, and among them those of Rabbi Abrams and Mr. Mordecai.
It was some weeks after Mr. Mordecai's removal to Inglewood, when one day Rebecca requested her husband to accompany her to the house of the rabbi. Mr. Mordecai gladly assented. They found the rabbi, as usual, engrossed with his books in the temporary library that was a necessary feature of his home. Mrs. Abrams still bore on her pale, calm face the marks of sorrow that had rested there since the terrible and mysterious death of her son. Without delay, and by dint of that skilful management which was characteristic of Rebecca, she approached the dreadful subject of Mark's death. Then, after a pause, looking straight at the rabbi, she said suddenly, with terrible emphasis, "I know the guilty man-the one who did the dreadful deed." The rabbi, his wife, and Mr. Mordecai looked aghast.
What do you mean, at length spoke out the rabbi, in fearful bewilderment.
I mean that I know who assassinated Mark, she replied, with flashing eye and ringing voice.
Know who killed my son! he ejaculated hoarsely, "for Heaven's sake, who was it?"
You know the dark villain, Rebecca, who did that bloody deed! By Israel, who was it? said her husband, almost in the same breath.
It was Emile-Le-Grande! she replied slowly. "He and none other."
That's a dreadful accusation, said the rabbi; "by what authority do you make such a statement?"
By the authority of his own words, she replied triumphantly. "Here, you can read the confession for yourself." She drew forth the little journal and pointed to the records.
There, read first: 'If I thought Mark Abrams loved her, I would kill him.
Great God! gasped the rabbi, looking again at the record as though he thought his eyes had deceived him.
Here again, see here, said Rebecca, pointing to one other record: "'Dead men tell no tales.' Was that not some deed of his foul doing that he did not wish discovered?" she continued, as she turned onward through the book.
He shall die! exclaimed Mr. Mordecai, quivering with rage and astonishment, while the stricken father turned and walked sadly across the floor, exclaiming, "Ah me! ah me! Alas! my poor boy?" while the mother's wounded heart bled afresh.
See here again, said Rebecca, pointing with her finger to another record that bore upon the mystery.
Enough! enough! exclaimed the father, averting his head and waving her to silence with his hand. "I have seen enough; the mystery is plain, the truth at last revealed. O God, the dreadful truth!"
Mr. Mordecai stamped his foot, clenched his hands, and muttering half audibly, "This villain has ruined you, has broken my heart, and destroyed the hopes of my child; and he shall die!"
But, poor Leah, my husband, said Rebecca, half timidly, and with a semblance of deep feeling.
Leah! he angrily repeated, "dare you even, now, speak that name to me? Would to God she were dead! Never insult me again with the utterance of that name?"
Forgive me, dear husband; in the excitement of this sad discovery I forgot your commands. I'll obey you in future. And turning again to the subject, in order to appease her husband's displeasure, she added, "By what means can you hope to reach Emile now, dear husband? You know he's far away, and the guns of a blockading fleet intervene."
Though the guns of a dozen fleets intervened, I should bring him to justice, he replied sharply.
Think what my dear Sarah has suffered-is suffering still, from the work of his bloody hand, dear husband, said Rebecca, affecting to weep, as she covered her face with her hand.
Well-nigh aroused to frenzy, Mr. Mordecai said fiercely, "Promise me, Rabbi Abrams, promise me, Rebecca, that you will lend me your aid in bringing this fugitive to justice; and I swear by Jerusalem, he shall be punished. I have gold, and that will insure me success. Yes, I have gold he coveted, but-aha! that he has never received. Pledge me, promise me, both of you, that good allies you will be!" And they pledged him.
But, tell me, Rebecca, said the rabbi, suddenly stopping in his agitated walk. "How did you come into possession of that book?"
Indeed, Rabbi Abrams, that is a mystery. In packing and unpacking, preparatory to leaving the Queen City, I accidentally found this Journal in an old portmanteau that my husband sent up from his bank one day, among a lot of rubbish. It had lain there a long time, I judge. Can you clear up the mystery, my husband? she said, turning to Mr. Mordecai.
Let me see it, he replied; and taking the Journal from her hands, he held it in his grasp as though it were a deadly thing, while he eyed it strangely from side to side.
I think, I think, he said slowly, as though abstracted and confused; "I think this is the book Mingo gave me the morning after--" Then he was silent. "Well, he found it in the lodge, I guess," he continued. "I remember his giving me a small book that morning, and I laid it away somewhere, to look at when my mind was less agitated. I had forgotten it."
A kind fate has preserved it, husband, so that we might be avenged, said Rebecca.
Keep it securely then, as it will be needed in the future. You are a wise, good woman, a wise little wife, added the husband, with all trace of displeasure toward her banished from his face.
Her mission accomplished, Rebecca, leaving the distressed family to find solace for their sorrow as best they could, returned home to gloat on the perfection of a scheme that would bring sorrow and desolation to the happy Cuban home.
THE war still raged. The whole world, one might dare to say, was more or less agitated by this conflict. Vigilance, tightening its grasp here, redoubling its blows there, watching the inlets and outlets everywhere, had taught a once happy people that war was no holiday sport. But the great end must be reached, the end of the "War of the Rebellion" with the government intact. To accomplish this, every means was deemed fair and honorable. Blockading, starvation, destruction of property, the torch-yea, any and every appliance that would tend to subdue a hostile people, was brought into requisition to maintain the Union.
So, before the third year of the memorable civil war had run its bloody course, want almost stalked abroad in this fair Southern land. But for the successful, though occasional ventures of some friendly vessel, that succeeded in running the blockade, bringing stores necessary for the comfort of a war-worn people, dire want might have reigned supreme in many a household, where wealth and luxury once dwelt. So much for the good accomplished by those bold adventurers of the sea. And yet there were blockade-runners-a few, a very few, thank Heaven-who were but a set of human vultures, preying upon their fellow-beings, and who, for a sum of gold, would lend their hand to any deed of darkness. To this latter class belonged Joe Haralson, the well-known captain of the Tigress, the most successful blockade-runner on all the southern coast. Haralson himself was a native of one of the fertile cotton islands off the coast of the Palmetto State, and, in an hour of danger, had deserted his country, and fled to the West Indies. There he equipped a vessel for blockade-running, and being familiar with much of the southern coast, he was always successful in eluding the guns of the blockading fleets, and entering safely with his cargo. The supplies of merchandise, and the munitions of war that he occasionally landed, were exchanged for cotton, which he sold for gold at a fabulous profit.
It was the summer after the removal of Mr. Mordecai's family to Inglewood. In the month of June, Joe Haralson anchored the Tigress safely within the port of Havana. New Providence was his usual harbor of refuge; but now, other business than the successful disposal of his cargo of cotton had brought him thither. One soft, sweet morning, in this land where spring and summer alternate, Leah had been out driving with her husband, enjoying the early morning breeze, and hoping that it would benefit the delicate little Sarah, then in her second summer. They drew near the Plaza de la Mar, and Emile remarked, as he surveyed the endless rows of shipping:
There, Leah, see the countless numbers of flags.
Yes, all but the flag of our struggling country, she replied. "I wonder if that will ever become a recognized flag among nations?"
I fear not, Emile replied gravely. "But there! our darling has fallen asleep! We must hasten home."
On reaching home, Emile kissed his wife, and softly kissed his sleeping baby too, before alighting from the light volante; and then, throwing the lines to Petro, the slave, who was awaiting their return, he said, "Take care of the pony, Petro;" and turning to his wife--"You take care of my wee lamb, Leah, till I come again," and left them.
An hour later, and a thick-set, rough-visaged man entered the banking-house of Gardner & Company, and asked, in faltering English, "Is Se¤or Le Grande in?"
Yes, replied Mr. Gardner. "Here, Mr. Le Grande, this man wants to see you." Emile approached, and looking curiously at the stranger, observed that he was clad partly in sailor's, partly in citizen's clothes. "What will you have, sir?" demanded Emile.
Se¤or, replied the strange man, whose broken English betrayed his Spanish tongue, "Dere is at da w'arf Blanco Plaza, a 'Merican vessel from da States. A seik frien' wish to see se¤or Le Grande, very quick, very quick, se¤or."
From what State does the vessel come? asked Emile in astonishment.
From da Soutern State, se¤or, da Pa'metto State.
In a moment Emile conjectured that it was some blockade-runner, and supposed some friend or relative had arrived, and, being unable to come on shore, had indeed sent for him. Without waiting to consider, and without further explanation, he accompanied the strange guide, who led the way to the wharf. The flags were floating free and gay, yet as this nameless cicerone pointed out the Tigress, that lay before them with flag staff bare, Emile Le Grande thought, "The captain is afraid to show his colors; well he may be."
Captain Haralson, Se¤or Le Grande, said the guide, in broken accents, as he entered the ship's cabin, where the captain awaited his return. "I told cap'n you I would bring him," he continued, with a savage grin upon his features.
Who is it would see me? demanded Emile. "Where is my sick friend?"
You are a prisoner, sir, replied the captain fiercely, "a fugitive from justice, and your State calls for your return."
By what authority do you utter those words, you scoundrel? replied Emile, in bewildered indignation.
By the authority of those you have injured, and who have sent me to bring you back.
Who, and where are my accusers? asked Emile angrily. "Let them dare confront me!"
Then follow me, said the captain, as he passed along to a small apartment, a kind of saloon, at the end of the vessel. He gave three sharp, quick raps at the door, then turned the bolt and entered. Emile followed. Seated before them upon a ship-lounge, with a book lying idly in her lap, was-Rebecca Mordecai!
Aha! and you have come at last, captain, she said. Arising from her seat and turning her eyes upon Emile, she continued, "Mr. Le Grande, we meet again, securely as you deemed yourself beyond the reach of justice. You see oceans and shell-guns are no barriers in the way of the accomplishment of my ends. You fled from your country, thinking your foul crime would never come to light; but 'murder will out,' and now, you are my prisoner. Justice will yet be avenged."
What do you mean, woman? your tongue contains the poison of asps. If I did not know your face, I would swear you were some escaped inmate of a madhouse. Tell me your meaning, lunatic, replied Emile, in wrathful astonishment.
Call me lunatic, if you dare, you miserable felon. Deny my words, if you please, but your own written confession is in my hands.
Confession of what? shouted Emile, stamping his foot in indignation. "Never, never, am I your prisoner! I'll leave this cursed place,--"
Not so fast, my friend, said Joe Haralson menacingly, as Emile made an attempt to leave the room. "Not so fast! I am promised much gold, if I bring you alive to your native State; and that gold, my friend, I shall have."
Release me! release me! shouted Emile, "I am an innocent man. This woman--"
Hush, my friend, or I'll stow you away where your cries will not reach any human ear. Be quiet, my lad.
Emile saw that resistance was useless; and he said calmly, turning again to Rebecca "Of what crime am I guilty, that you thus hunt me as you would a wild beast?"
Would you know? she replied, with a scornful, cruel laugh. "Would you know even half the crimes that are scored against you in your native State?"
You can tell me of none, he replied sullenly, regretting that he had again spoken to this merciless woman, into whose snare he had so unwarily fallen.
Perhaps you think we have not yet discovered who murdered Mark Abrams; but, sir, we have.
Who was it? indignantly inquired Emile.
It was-Emile-Le-Grande, she replied slowly, her fierce eye marking every emotion of his face.
Great Heavens. What an atrocity!
Deny it if you dare, I have the proof.
Prove it, if you can. I dare you to prove it. But I must leave this place. Such nonsense shall not detain me longer. I know that you are mad.-Captain, release me. Do not heed the ravings of that woman any longer.
I am pledged, sir, on the accusation of this woman, to convey you safely back to the State, and back you must go. I can allow you no opportunity to escape.
I must see my wife first. I cannot go without it.
The vessel is ready to start. It will be impossible for you to see her. If you are quiet and obedient, you shall not be manacled; if you resist, we shall stow you away in security. Be wise now, and be silent.
But my wife--
In an hour the Tigress will be out of port, sir, and you cannot see her.
Alas! alas! groaned Emile. "In Heaven's name, why has this evil befallen me?" and quickly sinking down upon a cabin stool, he said, "Keep me from the presence of this wretched lunatic, captain, if I must go. Yes, if I must be stolen in this cowardly way, from a peaceful home, and taken from a loving wife and innocent, helpless child, I can but submit; but keep that wretched woman out of my presence, I implore you."
My friend, you may stay in here, replied the relentless captain, "till we are out of port;" and opening the door of a small room that contained only a port-hole of a window, he locked Emile in, and then busied himself with preparations for a speedy departure. Once shut in, Emile drew from his pocket a slip of paper, and addressed a line to Gardner & Company, urging his friend to go for his wife, and come to him at once. From his diminutive window he spied a slave near by, and quickly summoning him, said, "Here's my watch, boy; take this note quick to Gardner & Company, and my watch shall be yours." Then he threw the slip of paper out of the window. Distressed and dismayed, he sank down again, nervous and miserable, for fear the Tigress would depart before his wife and Mr. Gardner should arrive.
RECEIVING Emile's mysterious note, Mr. Gardner went with all possible speed to the young man's home, and informed Leah of what had transpired. "I do not understand this note," he said; "there is certainly a mystery about this summons. The man who came for Le Grande had a strange, mean-looking face; but we must hasten."
Leah, so long accustomed to sorrow, evinced no unusual emotion at these apprehensive words of Mr. Gardner; but calmly asked:
Do you suppose any harm has come to my husband?
I cannot say, madam; I trust not.
What motive could that man have had for deceiving Emile?
Mercy knows, but it will not do to trust these treacherous Spaniards too far. Still his story may have been a truthful one. He was undoubtedly a sailor. We will at least go and see. The pony and chaise are ready.
Take care of my darling, Margarita, said Leah, as she kissed her sleeping child, and stepped out to the waiting volante.
Now drive fast, Mr. Gardner. My heart misgives me.
Without replying, Mr. Gardner urged forward the fleet pony, and they did not slacken their speed until street after street had been traversed, corner upon corner turned, and they were in sight of the Plaza de la Mar, with its myriads of ships' masts and flags in view. Then, driving more slowly, Mr. Gardner turned upon the dock of pier number three, and looked eagerly forward. There was no ship there. Alighting from the chaise, Leah and Mr. Gardner approached a party of ship-hands at work there, and asked:
Is not this pier number three, where an American vessel has been anchored?
Yes, se¤or, but the American vessel has been out of port an hour.
Out of port an hour! repeated Leah, in dismay. "Where is my husband, then?"
Mr. Gardner shook his head dubiously, and said, "He may have gone with them."
Gone with them? said Leah wildly. "Gone!" she uttered again, and then sank helpless upon the wharf.
Mr. Gardner, deeply moved, lifted her again into the chaise, with the assurance that her husband in all probability had returned to his place of business.
Once more at the bank, Mr. Gardner was disappointed to find that Emile had not returned, but instead, another scrap of paper was awaiting him, bearing these dreadfully significant words:
They have stolen me away, to take me back to my native State, to answer for a fiendish crime of which I am not guilty. Send my wife after me as soon as--
Here Emile had stopped for want of time. He had thrown the note into the hands of the same slave who had carried the first one.
Take that to Gardner & Company, and they will pay you, he said, as the Tigress pushed from shore.
The ship had started; and Emile, alone in darkness and despair, tried vainly to conjecture whence this mysterious trouble had come, and what would be its probable result.
The captain of the Tigress, as has been said, was a mercenary and rapacious man, caring no more for a bleeding country than does a bird of prey for a bleeding dove. So long as he obtained the gold of his impoverished countrymen, and eluded the grasp of the blockading fleet that so vigilantly guarded every important port, he was contented. To the care of this man, this iron-hearted captain, Rebecca Mordecai had committed herself, in her endeavor, as she said, "to recall Emile Le Grande to the bar of justice."
If you land me safely there, captain, I will give you gold. If you bring me safely back with the culprit, I will give you more.
Haralson, aware that the coffers in the Mordecai vault were well-filled with the coveted ore, pledged himself, and swore a terrible oath, that his ocean wanderer should accomplish this trip, even at the cost of the last drop of his heart's blood. How successful he was in landing and treacherously inveigling his victim into the ship, has been seen. Then, after two days of rather tempestuous sailing in a tropical sea, dodging here and there, for fear of being pounced upon by the maritime monsters he sought to elude, Haralson landed, at length, at an inlet, obscure but well- known to him, upon the low, sandy shore of the Palmetto State. With downcast heart, Emile once more set foot upon his native soil, and at the bidding of his captor followed sullenly in the way she led. Chagrined, stung, maddened almost, he trod the devious way that led him back once more-back, back, to the Queen City. Not back to his father's comfortable home, for that, alas! was unoccupied, and the family refugees in a foreign land. But back again, in a felon's manacles, to find lodgment in a felon's cell-back to solitude and despair, when at length, the grim old turnkey turned the grating bolt upon him, and he was left alone in prison.
THE war still raged. Everywhere in all the beleaguered land, the tide of brothers' blood flowed apace. Bitterness grew with every hour, and not one heaven-toned voice was heard above the din of carnage, saying, "Stay the madness, and let the blood stop flowing." The end was not yet reached, the great problem of this unnatural conflict not yet solved. The bombardment of the Queen City still continued, though with little hope of its surrender. But the shelling went on, as though this murderous rain of death were but a merry pastime, on those summer days. The fort was now deemed impregnable; and yet the hope of its surrender was one that could not die in the hearts of the beleaguerers. Day after day, they assaulted and reassaulted, and day by day were filled with disappointment.
At last, one bright June day was ushered in by a terrific boom, and then, as if summoning the last spark of hope and determination, the grim mouths of the cannon belched forth, for many hours, such a rain of shot and shell as will ever be remembered. The sky was blackened early with the cloud of smoke that rolled up from the sea-the sulphurous smoke that pervaded every nook of the city, and was borne away upon every hurrying breeze to the far-off hills and valleys. One might well imagine the scene a very inferno; so terrible was the conflict. Stern, dark, and resolute, Defiance stood for hours-not a gun dismounted, not a man dismayed. But the day grew late, and still the booming cannons roared. The heavens above were overcast, as though nature were ready with a flood of tears to weep over the deeds of humanity. The lightning flashed, and the guns flashed, and here and there and everywhere the dreadful shells fell thick and fast.
At length one fell upon the ramparts of Defiance and exploded-exploded with a crash of fury that said to every listening ear, "Some dreadful deed is done."
Alas! alas! The wild crash sounded the death-knell of one brave, noble heart, and crushed countless hopes as George Marshall's soul went out. The murderous fragment of a shell penetrated his brain, and his life was ended in a flash.
Let nothing more be told of the sad story; nothing but simply this: he was killed, and the troops left in dismay and disorder-killed and borne to the last embrace of the wounded heart that knew no after years of healing-killed at Defiance, the place of weird, mysterious terror to the widowed heart from the days of her sunny girlhood-killed and buried away under the magnolia shade, among the hundreds of brave hearts that perished in the same unhappy cause.
TIME stole along. Many months had slipped into the past since the day of the lamented Colonel Marshall's death-months of which this narrative has little to record, save that they were months of blood.
Returning to the desolate wife, left by an adverse fate alone in her Cuban home, we find her sadly changed. As sudden and unexpected as had been the separation of Emile from his family, so shocking and violent had been the affect of this trouble upon Leah's delicate nature. From the hour when Mr. Gardner informed her of her husband's mysterious disappearance, Leah sank down, overwhelmed with grief. Then for many weeks she lingered through an almost hopeless illness, to recover at length and find herself still alone.
The hope of gaining strength to follow her husband was the one hope that cheered her hours of convalescence, and stimulated the efforts of nature in the work of recovery. At last, time brought relief, and after many months of weary waiting, hoping, watching, the opportunity was at hand for Leah to start in pursuit of her husband. Committed to the care of a kind-hearted man, himself the captain of a blockade-runner, the anxious wife hoped to reach the shores of her native State in safety. Unlike the treacherous Joe Haralson, the captain of the Cotton States, the vessel upon which Leah embarked, was not familiar with the sea-coast of many of the blockaded States; but, urged by her importunities, the kind captain determined, if possible, to land her in safety upon the coast of her native State. In this attempt, however, he was disappointed. It was late one afternoon as the Cotton States was about to anchor safely in an obscure harbor of a small island near the main-land, when the captain discovered, far off on the sea, the dark form of a pursuing gun-boat. Immediately he put to sea, and fortunately, the gathering shades of night obscured the pursued vessel in time to prevent capture. The next day, the Cotton States ran ashore on a lone, sparsely inhabited coast, and, anchored at Sandy Bar, a place known to but few as a possible port of entry.
In this obscure port of entry, the Cotton States was the only vessel that had ever cast anchor. Here, erected on the shore, was a rude, commodious warehouse, built by the speculators who owned this adventurous craft, and designed for the reception of the cotton that was taken out and the cargoes that were brought in by it. The care of this depot of supplies and unlawful merchandise was committed to a rather decrepit, but trustworthy old man, called familiarly "Uncle Jack Marner." In a rude hut, near by this cache above ground, lived old Uncle Jack and his wife. Scipio, a trusty negro, was also employed by the company to assist Uncle Jack in watching the depot, and was usually detailed to inform the owners of the vessel as soon as a cargo was landed. In this obscure harbor-the White Sandy Bar, as it was known to Uncle Jack, the captain, and the company-the Cotton States was anchored and ready to deposit her cargo.
Madam, said the captain to Leah, "I have done the best I could. I tried to land you nearer your home, but could not; I trust you will bear me no ill-will."
I can never forget your kindness, sir; once on land, no matter how far from the Queen City, I know I can find my way there. I feel assured my husband is there, if living, and thither I shall go at once.
Not alone?
Oh, yes; alone, if necessary.
Don't you fear the scouts and straggling soldiers that so infest the land?
I fear nothing, captain. I am in search of my husband, and I shall seek him, though I perish in the effort.
Well, madam, I shall intrust you to the care of Uncle Jack Marner, and go away again knowing that you will be well cared for. There's the old man, and Scipio, at work with the hands unloading. I'll take you to his hut.
Leah thanked him kindly, and taking her child in his arms, the captain led the way to the humble home of Uncle Jack, and introduced Leah to his wife.
Without delay the Cotton States unloaded; loaded again; and was soon once more out at sea in safety.
It's a mighty weakly lookin' child, madam, said kind Uncle Jack, when he returned to the hut, after the work on the ship was ended. "Is the little creetur sick?"
No; but she is not very strong, Uncle Jack, was Leah's reply.
Teethin', maybe? Teethin' ginerally goes hard with the little ones.
Yes, Leah answered, "teething has made her delicate."
La, chile, the cap'n tells me you are bound for the Queen City; ain't you afeerd to go thar now, sich a power of shellin' goin' on thar? And without waiting for a response, he continued, "I think, though, the war-dogs are gittin' tired, and will soon haul off. It's no use tryin' to shell and batter down that fine old city. She never was made to surrender to any furrin' power; and surrender she never will. I'll bet on that. But, my chile, I should be afeerd to go thar now, strong and supple a man as I am, much less a poor, weakly lookin' woman like yerself."
No, Uncle Jack, I am not afraid. The soldiers would not molest me, and the shells cannot strike me, so I go undaunted. I am seeking my husband, and must find him. How far is it, Uncle Jack, to the Queen City?
More'n a hundred mile, chile.
Can I obtain any conveyance about here to take me part of the way, at least?
Chile, thar's not a critter in twenty miles of this place, as I knows on. Nobody lives hereabouts, but me an' the old woman, and Scipio and Toby-that's the company's mule, you know; and Scipio rides Toby to --, when the vessel gits in safe, to tell the company. Scipio must start to-morrow to let the company know the boat is in agin, and when he gits back I'll take you part of the way to the Queen City. You kin ride Toby and I kin walk. I tole the cap'n I'd see you on your way as far as I could.
When will Scipio return? inquired Leah timidly.
Mebbe in a week, mebbe sooner.
Oh! I cannot stay here a week. I cannot stay a day. I am so impatient to get on. If my husband is living, I must reach him.
But how can you go, chile?
Go alone, Uncle Jack. I assure you I am not afraid.
By Jupiter! Jack Marner let a weakly lookin' woman like you start alone from his house, with no strong arm to pertect you? Never, never, never!" exclaimed the kind old man with emphasis, as he shook his gray locks.
But there is no one to go with me, Uncle Jack; and as I cannot tarry, I must go alone. I assure you I fear nothing.
The old man continued to shake his head, though he made no reply; and then, handing little Sarah to her mother, he went out of the cabin for some wood, that was needed to prepare the evening meal.
Night passed, and morning came soft and bright; and Leah, refreshed from her slumber, expressed the determination to pursue her journey at once.
If you will go, the Lord go with you, chile; but I fears you will never git thar. Twenty miles from here, you may find lodgings, and you may not; what then?
Oh, I can take care of that; only give me the proper directions, if you can.
Keep nigh the coast as possible, an' if nothin' devours you, you'll find the Queen City after awhile; but it's more'n a hundred mile, remember. I hate to see you go, I do.
Do not detain me, Uncle Jack. I cannot, must not stay.
Well, if go you must and will, I'll go with you till we reach the open road; but I say again, you are welcome to stay here in my cabin, if you will. It's humble, I know, but old Jack Marner has had a sight better home than this, in his day. Yet I thank the Lord I have this one left; and the old man brushed away a tear with his trembling hand, as he assisted the old woman in preparing some food for Leah's lonely journey. At an early hour they were ready to start. Uncle Jack took little Sarah in his arms, and Leah bade adieu to the kind old wife, and following Uncle Jack, stepped out upon the sandy beach and turned her face toward the far-off, hidden road.
For an hour or more, the pedestrians trudged slowly along, Uncle Jack endeavoring the while to amuse the child in his arms, who would ever and anon stretch out its little arms and cry, "Mamma." With downcast eye and heart, Leah moved steadily forward, heeding nothing, save the occasional cry of her child. Uncle Jack, as he walked along, had broken a green bough from a swamp-myrtle, and gathered a spray of blue winter berries, which he bound together as a nosegay for the child. With these he charmed its baby fancy, and foiled every endeavor to reach its mother's arms. At length the trail was ended, and the open road reached.
Now, said Uncle Jack, "we are here at last. This is the road that leads to Sheltonville, the only place that lies in your way to the Queen City. Keep it straight, chile, an' mebbe you'll reach thar at last; mebbe not; I don't know. Here, let's rest a minit under this water-oak. Sit down on the log; I'll warrant there's no snakes under it."
Leah slightly smiled as she obeyed this command, and sat down on the crumbling, moss-grown wood, saying:
Uncle Jack, are there any rivers in my way to the Queen City?
None, chile, but the Little Black, and you kin cross that at Sheltonville. It's a wonder those dev'lish soldiers hain't destroyed the bridge, 'fore this; but they hadn't, the last I heered from Sheltonville.
Oh, I can get across, I guess, replied Leah cheerfully. "Rivers, nor mountains either, can keep me from my husband now. If he is in the city, I shall find him." Here little Sarah began to cry, and show signs of weariness. In vain Uncle Jack flourished the wild nosegay, whistled, sang, chirruped; the little creature would find lodgment in its mother's arms, and sleep on her faithful bosom.
The sun was getting toward the half-way morning hour, when the little child awoke, and clinging around her mother's neck she cunningly averted her face from Uncle Jack, as if to say, "You shall not have me again. I am tired of your wild nosegay."
Well now, said Uncle Jack, "the little creetur is awake agin, and as spry as a cricket. Come to Uncle Jack, won't ye?"
I must be going, said Leah. "It's getting late." And rising with the child in her arms, she drew the small bundle of food and clothing that she carried closer to her, and said, "I am ready. Good-by. Keep straight ahead, must I?"
Yes, chile, replied Uncle Jack in a tremulous voice, "straight ahead, and the good Lord be with ye."
Leah was gone. She followed the sandy road pointed out by Uncle Jack's trembling finger, followed it till a small morass, thick with swamp-growth, hid her from his view; and then the old man said, as he turned sorrowfully back toward his cabin, "Poor chile, she seems to have a lot o' trouble in this troublesome world. And she's so young and purty, too. I thank the Lord there's a world up yonder"--and he cast his tear-dimmed eyes above--"where no more trouble will never come; an' may ole Jack Marner be lucky enough to git thar."
For ten long, weary days, Leah pursued the way that lay straight and unobstructed before her, every step bringing her nearer and nearer to the city of her childhood. Scarcely able, much of the time, to obtain food by day, or lodging by night, still she undauntedly pursued her way, and kept her eyes straight forward toward the end. Foraging parties, and straggling soldiers, passed occasionally, yet not one syllable of disrespect or insult was offered to the lonely woman as she passed along, the living impersonation of unfriended helplessness.
At length, in pain, in weariness, in tears, the journey was almost accomplished, and the evening of the tenth day was closing in. The stars were stealing, one by one, into the blue heavens above, and the bright lights of a hundred camp-fires, far and near, announced the welcome fact that the Queen City was near at hand. The stray shot, too, of some vigilant sentinel, reminded her that, without passports, one could not easily find ingress to the once peaceful, hospitable city. As this thought came, Leah trembled; but she passed forward undaunted to the dreaded sentry line that stretched itself across her pathway. She was too weary to weep, too bewildered to think, too anxious to do aught but look forward toward the advancing city, with its myriad lights, and then down again at the innocent child asleep on her bosom. Upon the breeze that came to greet her, as if in kindly welcome, she caught the note of the old familiar music of the chimes of St. Angelo. "Home, Sweet Home" rang out upon her weary ear with all the sweetness and familiarity of by-gone days.
How changed is everything here; and, alas! how changed am I, said she; and tottering beneath the burden of her child and the awakened weight of memories, she would have fallen exhausted to the earth, but for a sharp, ringing voice, that said:
Halt! Who comes there?
Recalled to a sense of her true situation by this unexpected inquiry, Leah summoned the remnant of her strength and courage, and replied, "Only a woman, weak and tired. In heaven's name let me pass."
Advance, and give the countersign.
I cannot! indeed I cannot! But in mercy's name, give me rest and food within the City this night, she replied with a despairing voice.
Whence do you come?
From Sandy Bar, some hundred miles away, and I have walked the whole distance. I bring you no ill, or good news. I am nothing but a poor, helpless woman, faint and famishing. I pray you, in the name of pity, let me pass, kind sentinel.
Touched by these imploring words, the sentry looked furtively around him, and replied softly, "Woman, be quick. Go on; and mind, if you say that I passed you without the countersign, my head will pay the forfeit. Go on, for Tom Marbray hasn't the heart to say no to such a looking woman as you are."
God bless you! murmured Leah; "bless you a thousand-fold;" and she hurried forward, and was soon lost in the winding streets of the city, that was now overshadowed by the darkness of night.
Once more within the familiar limits of the old city, she paused, and leaning against the angle of a shop, looked curiously about her, as if endeavoring to define certain localities. At length she said softly:
Yes, I see the Citadel, and Christ Church spire. But I must rest. I'll enter yonder inn. She stepped forward toward a shabby looking tavern a few doors off, where a crowd of garrulous soldiers were grouped about the door. Too weary to observe any one, Leah staggered into the forlorn, miserably furnished reception-room of the Good Cheer House, and called for food and lodging for herself and child for the night.
THE ruddy beams of an October sun shone through the one window of the little rudely furnished room that Leah occupied in the inn. Weary from her long, toilsome journey, she still slept. Though tired nature for a time resisted the intrusion of the garish sunlight, the chirruping of her little child at length aroused Leah to consciousness. The tiny, dimpled hands were tangled in the long black hair that hung about the mother's shoulders in dishevelled grace, and the merry child laughed gleefully as the mother awoke.
Is my bird always ready to sing? said Leah tenderly, as she beheld the innocent, happy child by her side. "May you never know a note of sadness, my love; sing on, while you may." Then Leah sadly turned her eyes upward to the cracked, stained wall overhead, and faintly murmured, "Here I am at last, alone-alone in the Queen City, friendless and penniless-alone in the place where I once possessed thousands-alone in my search for the only being who loves me, in this wide world-alone, with nothing to cheer me but my own faithful, resolute heart. When that fails me I shall find rest. Poor, beloved Emile!"
Overcome by weariness, anxiety, and fear, Leah covered her face with the coarse brown coverlet of her bed, and wept and sobbed in very bitterness of heart. At length, astonished at the withdrawal of its mother's smile, the child cried; and ceasing to weep, Leah clasped the helpless creature to her bosom in a fond, impassioned embrace. "God keep you, blessed one!" she said with deepest pathos. "Heaven shield you, my angel, from such sorrow as now fills your mother's heart! But I must be up and doing. Weeping will not accomplish the end and object of my coming."
Arising resolutely, she hastily performed their simple toilets, and descended the narrow stairway to the breakfast-room.
The plain repast was soon over, the coarse, garrulous inmates of the inn departed, and Leah with her child sat alone in the ill-furnished reception-room. She had sent a wiry-looking little negro boy for the proprietor, and was awaiting his appearance. Suddenly a thump, thump, thump, sounded along the narrow entry, and a short, red-faced, bald-headed, pompous looking old man, with a wooden leg, stood before her.
Madam, he said, bowing obsequiously, "is it yourself that desired my presence? Cricket told me-we call that limber-looking little nigger Cricket-that a lady desired to see me in the drawing-room."
Whom have I the honor of addressing? said Leah, with difficulty repressing a smile excited by the grotesque appearance of the man. "I desired to see the proprietor."
Exactly so, madam, and my name is Michael Moran, the proprietor of the Good Cheer House these twenty years.
And have you remained in the Queen City during all these dreadful months of shelling? said Leah, whose heart was at once brightened by the hope that she might gather some desired information from him.
Oh, yes, child-beg pardon, madam, but, really, you look like a child. Michael Moran is not the man to desert the post of duty in times of danger. You see, madam--and he pointed to the wooden stump--"you see, I had the misfortune to lose a member in the Mexican war. That wooden stump speaks yet of Michael Moran's bravery, and I am the same brave man to-day that I was in 'forty-seven, always ready to serve my country."
Yes, replied Leah, "but you are too old to do much for your country now."
Yes; that is to say, I am not able to take up arms, but then I have done valiant service by furnishing a very comfortable, thoroughly respectable wayside home for my country's unfortunate children. You see, madam, the Good Cheer House is known far and near as the place to find good food and lodging, at very reasonable prices. The soldiers-alas! I know what a soldier's life is, and the old man laid his fat, plump hand on his heart, "the soldiers, I say, find out the house of Michael Moran, and enjoy the good cheer he dispenses."
The old man, once started, would have continued his remarks ad infinitum, had not Leah bravely interrupted him by asking:
Can you tell me, sir, if any of the refugees have yet returned?
A good many, madam. You see this infernal old shelling, although it's pretty pesky business, hasn't done much harm, after all. It battered down a few fine houses, and killed some men, but then I don't believe the Queen City will never surrender; and by Erin I hope it never will. If the soldiers, to a man, possessed the heart of Michael Moran, they would stand out till--
Can you tell me anything of the Le Grande family-Judge Le Grande, I mean? again interrupted Leah bravely.
The judge? Oh, yes; I think they went to France some months ago, replied Michael, with an air of profound satisfaction at possessing some slight acquaintance with so distinguished a man as the judge; and patting his knee with his plump hand, he continued, "You see the judge was not particularly a war man, and--"
Do you know anything of the Levys? again cut short the old inn-keeper's volubility.
The Levys? Oh, yes; they fled long ago, and are now roving the face of the earth. The bombs well-nigh tore down old Levy's house, and I guess that will about kill him, as he is as stingy as a man well can be. If he had stayed by his suffering city, as Michael Moran has--
But Mrs. Levy was a widow, interrupted Leah, seeing that the old man was coining his information as he went, for the purpose of his own exaltation. "Her husband has been dead these many years."
Determined not to be baffled in this quiet way, Michael replied, "Well, this was another man, madam," and fearing Leah might discredit his fabricated story, he added, "I swear by Erin it was another man."
Well, sir, can you tell me anything of the Mordecai family-Mr. Benjamin Mordecai? said Leah, with a slightly tremulous voice.
The old man's eye brightened up, and he slapped his fat hand upon his knee with renewed force and rapidity, and replied, with an inquisitive squint in his face, "Are you a Jew?"
I am a Jewess, sir, she said softly. "I feel an interest in my people. What can you tell me of the Mordecais."
Well, child, then listen to me again. I say emphatically madam, now. Well, old Ben Mordecai he was a mighty rich man, had a bank many, many years, and lots and piles of gold. In fact, he was my banker at one time in my life, and to-day he can testify as to whether Michael Moran was or wasn't a thrifty man and the Good Cheer House a paying institution. Some years ago though, I moved my business to another bank, ahem! Here the old man eyed Leah sharply, to see if these hints respecting his pecuniary status did not impress her profoundly. Then he continued, "Well, I was about stating-Well, where was I?" he said, with a puzzled look of regret, as though he had lost, or was about to lose, some cherished remark, so bewildering had been the thought in reference to his money matters, "where was I?"
You were speaking of Mr. Mordecai's having left the Queen City, kindly suggested Leah, seeing the old man's embarrassment.
Oh yes; my head gets a little muddy sometimes, said the inn-keeper apologetically, as he rubbed his rosy hand, this time briskly across the bald, sleek surface of his head. "Well, the Mordecais went away, and I am told a poor family moved into the old man's house to protect it. But the other week, a shell came whizzing into the city and tore off one corner of his fine house. I tell you, madam, the old man had a fine house, sure. And, madam, old Mordecai had a fine guirl once, and a few years ago she ran away and married some fellow, and it well-nigh broke the old man's heart. They ran away, and went somewhere; I think it was to the Island of Cuby. My banker told me this. You see, madam, my resources are yet such, that my banking business is quite burdensome to me. The Good Cheer House is a fine paying institution, sure, and--"
But what of the unfortunate daughter? inquired Leah faintly.
Well, as I was about remarking, they went away to Cuby, and some months ago, perhaps a year or so, they caught the scamp out there, and smuggled him to this country, to be punished for a murder he committed some years ago, long before he was married.
Leah's heart throbbed wildly in her bosom, and every limb trembled like an aspen; but the old man did not detect her emotion, and continued:
He will soon be tried here. I hear the friends of the dead man and the Mordecais are pushing up the trial. When the trial comes off, I guess the banker's family will come back.
Is the unfortunate man confined in the old city prison here? inquired Leah, with a faltering voice.
Yes, madam. At one time a shell struck the old prison, and some of the inmates came nigh escaping, but they have had it repaired, and now it's pretty full, sure. If a bomb could strike it, and finish all the inmates at once, I guess that would suit them. I don't know why else they keep that jail full of thieves and murderers. I am too busy with my wayside house, giving cheer and comfort to my unfortunate countrymen, to bother much about the jail-birds. Yes, Michael Moran is too busy for that.
What is my bill, sir? said Leah faintly, oblivious of the wordy Michael's harangue, and thinking only of the prison-the dim, dark prison, where her husband was languishing. "I have no money but gold," she continued; "how much do I owe you for my food and lodging?"
Gold! repeated Michael with eager emphasis; and then, as if fearing to betray his characteristic love of the shining ore, he added with an air of indifference, "well, I guess, as you have nothing else, gold will do. you owe me--" and he named a certain sum. "Remarkable low price. Michael Moran hasn't the heart to be hard on a woman; and I know you'll be sorry, to your dyin' day, that you had to quit the Good Cheer House so soon."
Leah made no reply and evinced no regret, as she handed out, from her low supply of money, the amount demanded. Hurrying away from the inn, with the child in her arms, she hastened forward toward the dismal jail that, as she well remembered, was many streets away.
On the same bright October morning that opened the eyes of Leah in the Queen City, Emile Le Grande was pacing to and fro in his prison cell at an early hour. The confinement of so many long, weary months had left its impress on every feature; and pale and emaciated he scarcely resembled his former self. Before him, on a tin platter, was the coarse prison breakfast, as yet untasted. Restless and miserable, he trod backward and forward within the narrow limits of his cell, now glancing up at the sunlight that streamed through the narrow window so far above his head, then turning his ready ear to catch the sound of every human footstep that trod the corridors, or moved in the adjoining cells of this wretched place.
Despair had settled upon him, and death was a coveted visitor. "Is it myself," he muttered, as he convulsively ran his fingers through his hair, grown long from neglect, "or is it some other unfortunate wretch? Have I a wife and child on a far-off foreign shore, or is this thought a horrid, hideous nightmare, that comes to harrow my brain? O birds of the air, I envy you! O breezes that wander, I envy you! O sunlight, that streams through my window, give me my freedom, my freedom, I pray!"
Overpowered by these thoughts, the wretched man, enfeebled in mind as well as body, sank down upon the hard pallet, when the sound of footsteps was again heard along the corridor, coming nearer, nearer, nearer to his cell door. Startled, Emile heard the bolt draw back once more and the door open, and the jailer stood before him.
Le Grande, he said, "there's a woman below says she must see you-a beggar; shall I bring her up?"
Yes, man, in the name of mercy, bring her up. I'd see a dog that would come to me in this lonely place. Bring her up, beggar or not, though I have nothing to give her.
The jailer withdrew, and Emile's heart beat wildly from the strange announcement that even a beggar wished to see him in his wretchedness now.
Again the footsteps resounded in the corridor, coming nearer, nearer, nearer, to the cell.
Emile had risen from his pallet, and searching in his pocket said, "I haven't even so much as a fourpence for the poor old soul."
The cell door opened. Emile saw the jailer, and a woman with a child. His eye flashed bright, his heart leaped to his throat. The woman's face grew paler, and tottering forward she fell upon the prisoner's bosom, and gasped, "My husband!"
He said, "Thank God. My wife! my wife! my child!"
IT were impossible to chronicle the half that transpired in the eventful days of those eventful years. Days seemed months, and months seemed years, in their sad, slow progress. When the heart is happy, Time's wing is light, but as every soul was sorrowful in those dark days, so the progress of the years was slow and dreary.
To none was the time so dark, and hopeless, as to Emile while he languished in prison, and to Leah, as she waited for an uncertain reunion. But the hopeless days had passed, and in unutterable joy the husband and wife clasped each other again. Now, she was never to leave him till the stern fiat of the law should decide his guilt or innocence. In an obscure abode, within the very shadow of the jail, Leah obtained a temporary home. The inadequacy of her means would have forbidden her more comfortable accommodations. But she desired only to dwell in obscurity, and be near, and with her husband, in his loneliness and misfortune. Without comment or observation, she passed in and out of the jail as frequently as the stern prison-law would allow. The jailer was a man who had occupied a higher position in life, and had sought this place to evade the merciless grasp of conscription. Often had he wondered at the pale, lovely face of this unhappy wife, and marked her tenderness toward the child that never seemed to weary the faithful arms that bore it so constantly about. "That woman has a history," the jailer often said to himself.
But the days passed, and ere Leah had been a month within the Queen City, the trial was at hand. Pressing measures in these awfully chaotic times, Mr. Mordecai was about to bring his culprit to justice, from fear that delay would prove dangerous, if not disastrous, to his purposes.
My darling, said Emile to his wife, the day before the proposed trial, "I desire that you shall not be present during the investigation of to-morrow. I fear you may be subjected to insult and indignity which I cannot resent, being in bonds. Besides, dear, you can do me no good."
Will my father be there, Emile?
I suppose that he will.
Then I cannot be present. I feel that I could never meet my father's eye, unless I knew I had his forgiveness and his love still. But how can I leave you?
Remain quietly, dear, at your boarding-place, and await, hopefully, the end. I trust it will all be right. I know I am innocent, said Emile, with a forced effort at cheerfulness.
Heaven grant they may find you guiltless! But oh! Emile, I fear, I fear, I fear something-I cannot tell you how it is, but from the day you were taken from our happy Cuban home, not a ray of hope has illuminated my heart.
You must be brave, Leah, your sadness will weigh me down, and I cannot, must not go into the presence of my accusers with aught but a look of defiant innocence. Be brave, be cheerful, for my sake, and the sake of our innocent child.
Can I see you during the trial?
I suppose not; but as it will consume but a few days at most, you can remain quietly at your lodgings till the end.
The twilight is gathering in your window, Emile, said Leah, after a thoughtful silence. "I should have gone an hour ago; your supper will be late to-night, dear; but oh! I fear to leave you! It seems as though you were going to your burial, to-morrow. What will become of me? What will become of our helpless darling?"
Distracted by the plaintive words and agonized look of his wife, Emile said:
Would you madden me, Leah? Have I not asked you to be brave, even unto the end? If you falter now, I am lost. My health and my strength are already gone. Only the consciousness of innocence sustains me. Leave me now. Sheer me with the hope of acquittal, and be brave as only a woman can be.
Forgive me, Emile; forgive my weakness; and when we meet again, may the sunshine of a brighter, happier day, dawn over us. Good-by, my own Emile, my own beloved husband, and the wretched wife laid her head upon the true, innocent heart of Emile, and wept her last burning tears of sorrow.
FROM the day that Leah first found her husband in the prison, and observed the coarse, uninviting fare that was served to the prisoners, she had daily prepared his food herself, and supplied it, too, from her scanty purse. By the permission of the jailer, this food was received twice a day from the hands of a trusty negro woman, known to many of the prison inmates as Aunt Dinah.
On this same evening when Leah parted so sadly from her husband, she went at once to her lodging place, and quickly prepared the tempting evening meal. After she had gone, Emile, once more alone, crouched down in a corner of his shadowy cell, and was lost in sorrowful revery, till the jailer, unheeded, opened the cell-door and handed in a basket, saying:
Le Grande, here's a supper for a king. Cheer up, man, and eat it. Old Dinah brought it from your wife, and she says the bread is 'perticklar fine.'
I want no supper to-night, jailer. But I'll keep it, for my wife's sake.
Old Dinah said you must eat, whether you craved food or not; said you must eat to be strong. The jailer deposited the small basket that contained the tempting brown buns and some cold slices of ham, and departed.
For a moment Emile still remained crouched in his corner, and listened to the dying footsteps of the retreating jailer; then rousing himself, he moved forward, and lifting up the basket, said:
For love's sake, I'll taste the bread, not from hunger. Heaven knows when I shall feel hunger again. The daylight was nearly gone, but enough light penetrated the dismal cell to reveal the contents of the basket. Taking up a soft brown loaf, he turned it in his hand, then laid it down. Again he picked it up, and said, "It is so nice, for love's sake I'll taste it." Then he broke it gently, and there fell into his hand from it a small piece of brown paper. Astonished, he opened it, and read these words:
An unknown friend wishes to help you. Meet me at midnight at the prison gate. I'll save you. Skeleton keys and wires will enable you to escape, Find them in the buns. As you value your life and liberty meet me.
What means this? said the terrified prisoner. "Is Heaven kind at last?" and then he curiously and cautiously opened the bread that, sure enough, yielded up the secreted appliances for effecting his escape. In astonishment, even terror, Emile held these unlawful little contrivances in his hand for a time, eyeing them curiously, and then half-fearfully tucked them away in his bosom.
Who is this unknown friend, I wonder, that so desires my escape? pondered Emile, as he watched the darkening twilight as it withdrew the last vestige of daylight from his cell. "Can it be Leah who has done this, my own desolate Leah? Can she save me at last? She upon whose heart I have innocently brought such sorrow and disappointment? Alas! alas! dear heart! But should it prove some one else, how can I leave my wife and child? What if it should prove to be an enemy trying to betray me into further trouble? And yet I do not fear. This dreary cell has made me tired of life, and death were welcome if it comes in the struggle for freedom! No, I cannot stay; I'll leave this cursed place, though I be betrayed again-leave it, though my escape may take me heaven knows where-leave it, and hope a brighter future is bringing me prosperity and a peaceful reunion with those who are so dear to me. Stay I cannot, I dare not. My tormentors are insatiable, my innocence disbelieved, my friends gone; money I have none. I shrink from the coming ordeal. The promise of freedom is offered me. I accept it.
The clock is striking midnight. It is dark, very dark, little keys; but perhaps you will not fail me. Now I leave this cursed place; yes, leave it, I hope, to walk the earth again in freedom. Blast my accusers! whispered the excited prisoner as he softly applied the mysterious, slender-looking key to the heavy lock. "Ha! how the lock yields to this delicate spring! Softly! softly! or I may disturb some sleeping inmate! God knows how many weary vigils are kept in this wretched abode. I'll tread this narrow corridor no more, I hope. Heavens! The outer bolt, too, withdraws, and God's blue dome and bright stars are above me! I am free from these cursed walls! Now the gate yields, too! I am free! free! Thank God, free once more!"
As Emile emerged from the prison-gate, and it swung noiselessly back to its place, he gazed anxiously about, and at once descried a dark, half-bent figure of a man approaching him. His heart trembled.
Mars' Emile, said a low voice, as the unknown figure approached close to him, "Mars' Emile Le Grande, don't you know me? I am here as I promised."
Affrighted at this seeming apparition, Emile shrank back, saying, "Stand back, man or devil, whatever you may be! Who are you? What do you want?" he continued, as the unknown figure essayed to lay hold of his arm.
Hush! hush! We may be overheard. Don't be afraid. I come to befriend you. Mars' Emile, don't you know me? said the little old man, as he pushed back the slouched hat from his face, and peered into Emile's eyes. "Don't you know old Peter Martinet?"
What! old Uncle Peter, who carried the 'Courier' so long ago? said Emile in astonishment.
De very same, Mars' Emile. I'se de same old darkey now dat I was years ago, only not quite so spry. You see I'se crippled wid de rheumatiz a little. But come along wid me, man; don't wait here any longer; we may be found out.
Is my wife with you? whispered Emile eagerly.
La, no, man; your wife knows nuffin ob dis plot. We must hurry.
And can I not see her, Peter?"
No, man, if you wish to escape de bloodhounds dat are on your track. You had better be quick, too.
I must see my wife.
Be brave, man; be brave. Why did you leave de jail, if you didn't wish to 'scape? Come along faster.
But where are you going? replied Emile, as he mechanically followed the hobbling guide.
Here, this way, follow me. I'll tell you by'mby; and then halting within the shadow of a protecting building, the old man stooped to rub the afflicted limbs, and said softly, "You see, Mars' Emile, I'se kept my eye on you, eber since dey brought you here to jail. I'se nebber left the Queen City, and nebber will, an' I 'tended all de w'ile, dat you should git away, if you wanted to. I'se made plan after plan, and dey would not work, but at last I got help from inside, an' den I got de keys; den I knew you was safe, if you could only git 'em. So I hired ole Dinah to make some extry bread and slip into your basket after your wife had fixed your supper. Dat was all I could do. I heard de trial was to come off to-morrow, and but for de rheumatiz, de keys would have been ready a week ago. You know, Mars' Emile, old Peter part Affikin, and what he can't do, no udder nigger need try. He, he, he!"
But where are you going? interrupted Emile.
Well, Mars' Emile, der's a blockader lying off de Bar. I'se gwine to take you to it. Emile shuddered.
Nebber fear. If you stays on land, dey'll git you, shure, an' I knows ebry foot ob de harbor as well as I do de city. Ain't Peter Martinet been here eber since the Revolution War? No man here knows de harbor better dan me, tripedoes or no tripedoes. Dey can't blow me up, dat's shure. Come, let's go, be quick, and be sly too.
Emile followed as one in a dream. Not daring, or caring, to question his guide, until they were safely on the edge of a pier that was several feet above the sea.
What now? he said.
All right. I have a bateau tied down da, waitin' for us. Her's de rope to slide down. But as you'se afeerd, mebbe I'd better go down fust. Here goes! I'se afeerd of nuffin, 'specially in de harbor. Emile peered over the edge of the pier, and shuddered, as he saw the dark figure disappear below.
All right agin, safe and sound. Come on. Mind yer hold. Be brave, man, don't lose yer courage now, or you may be a jail-bird de rest of yer days. He, he, he!
Stimulated to action by this stinging remark of old Peter, Emile seized the rope, glided slowly down the wall, and landed safely in the boat below.
Now I guess we's safe; no one can git us now, chuckled old Peter, as he grasped the oars and rowed away.
Emile made no reply, and for a time the plash of the oars was the only sound that broke the stillness.
Do you know that they'll receive me? at length said Emile, as he saw the shore receding.
Oh, yes; more'n once have I carried men to the blockaders-some who didn't want to fight, and some who had friends on the udder side. Dey allus paid ole Peter well, and he nebber fail to git 'em away safe. He, he, he.
Why did you do this for me, Peter? For me who had scarcely a friend in the world; for me, who can repay you in nothing but gratitude? asked Emile with emotion.
Oh, old Peter don't always work for money; sometime he do for love. It's for love this time, Mars' Emile.
How far is the vessel away, Peter?
Five mile from de pier; you see de lights ob de vessel yonder, sir.
Emile was silent, thinking of the desolate wife and unfortunate child whom he was leaving farther behind at every stroke of the oars.
I must send a letter back by you, Peter; promise me that my wife shall get it.
I promise, Mars' Emile. But be brave, man, be brave; remember you'se a free man now; freedom mighty sweet, Mars' Emile. I'se ben free dese twenty years, eber sence old Marster Martinet died. He gin me freedom. Ship ahoy, here we are, said the old negro, as he came alongside of the grim iron-clad, that stood like a huge rock in mid-ocean. Then the old man blew a shrill whistle through his hands that penetrated to the inmost recess of the man-of-war.
Halloo! Is it you, Peter? screamed back the mate, as he swung a huge lantern over the side of the vessel and looked down into the water below. "What brings you now, old humpback?"
A friend, a man, a recruit to your sarvice, if ye wish. Take him, an' do as you please.
Won't you come aboard, old Peter? added the jolly tar, aroused to receive the escaping prisoner. "It's been so long since we saw you, we did not know but a shell had picked you up. Come aboard, General, we'll show you some more bombs."
Not this time, cap'n, my rheumatiz is rather bad for so much climbin.' I'll jes' wait down here for a letter. Ole Peter Martinet ain't feered of fishes. He, he, he!
Emile's letter was written and handed to old Peter, who was soon again steering landward. When the sun shone again in the Queen City, old Peter was hobbling along his daily round of duty, singing occasionally in his own peculiar way, and wearing an expression as innocent as though the night-time had been an undisturbed season of peaceful repose and beautiful dreams.
A letter found upon the door-way of Leah's lodgings, addressed to her, was picked up and handed to her about the hour that the jail was thrown into a tumult of consternation over the discovery that Emile Le Grande had escaped.
How and whence this letter came was ever a mystery. "U. S. BLOCKADER "THUNDERBOLT." "Two o'clock A. M.
"BELOVED LEAH: The die is cast, that divides us again. Fate, that has so long seemed cruel, has again been kind. Unlooked-for, unhoped-for aid reached me in my prison-cell, and enabled me to escape. I know I am innocent of crime; Heaven knows it; but I feared my tormentors. Those who sought me on a foreign shore, would certainly move earth and sky to prove my guilt. I hope for a brighter day, when we shall be reunited in peace and happiness. I could do nothing for you, were I to stay and brave the storm that awaits me. It might engulf me. I go, with the hope of a bright future yet. Whither I shall go I know not. Maybe to France, where my father has gone. I have nothing to remain in this country for but yourself; and I cannot, and dare not stay near you. Heaven shield and keep you and my child till I can send you succor! If I live, it will come, though it cost my life to obtain it. I dare not look ahead; but be hopeful and brave, faithful, loving Leah, and patiently await a brighter day. When this wretched war is ended, if I cannot come to you, you shall come to me. Living, longing, hoping, for that coming time, with a thousand embraces I am, and shall ever be, Your devoted EMILE.
"My time is short, I can write no more.
Bravely, calmly, Leah read this fatal letter; and then, with a fortitude and heroism peculiar to her own glorious people, she folded it, and placed it upon her heart, so torn by sorrow and suspense. After the first shock of disappointment was over, she turned her thoughts to the formidable question, how she should earn bread for herself and her child; and when once her plans were made, she carried them out resolutely, in poverty, weakness, and obscurity. Of the days, months, and years that passed over her heroic head, with their trials, struggles, disappointments, tears, heart-aches, and agonies, before death brought relief, this record, in pity, is silent.