CHAPTER XIV.
“Sorrow an’ Trouble.”
The two who had lately been companions in misery met each other, at the supper table, for the first time since the evening of their perilous experience. “This is but our third meeting,” said Mr. Baldwin, “and how various the circumstances.”
“There is a mighty big difference between a ball-room, Aunt Hagar’s cabin, and our present surroundings,” Lettice returned. “We cannot complain of monotony. How are you, Mr. Baldwin? Mammy tells me your fever ran high, and no wonder; I have felt like a rag, myself.”
“Thanks to good nursing I am much better, and shall be able to proceed to Washington to-morrow, I trust.”
“You are not well enough,” Mrs. Betty protested. “We cannot let you go when you are but half mended.”
“Ah, but there is no word but duty to those who have promised to serve their country,” replied the young man.
“Yes, but one owes a duty to one’s self as well as to one’s country,” Betty returned.
“Every man is needed. With so little success on the frontier, reverses at sea, and this vandal, Cockburn, ready to destroy and pillage along these shores, it is every man’s duty to be at his post, if he is able to get there.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Betty sighed. “That is what William says. With his father and uncle on the frontier, his brother gone to join Barney, and with the plantations running to waste down here, they all have no word but duty.”
“And that is right,” Lettice spoke up. “It is to protect their women and their homes that they go.”
Mr. Baldwin nodded with a pleased smile. “After all that you have suffered, to hear you say that, Miss Lettice, proves that you are very loyal.”
“I am the more so that I have suffered. The worse we are treated the more eager we are for the war to go on.”
“That is beginning to be the prevailing spirit. But I wish I could know you safe in Baltimore. I think it is very unsafe for ladies to be left unprotectedwhen the enemy is so near.”
“And such an enemy!” cried Betty. “Then don’t you think you ought to stay and protect us, Mr. Baldwin?”
He laughed. “You make me choose my words, and put me in the position of seeming very ungallant. I must go. I cannot do otherwise.”
“Yes, I agree with you,” Lettice gave her opinion, “and if I were a man I would go too.” And Betty arising from the table, they adjourned to another room, Lettice being carefully assisted by the young man.
“Each moment I remain is dangerous,” he whispered, “for each moment it becomes less my desire to leave.” Lettice blushed, and while Betty went to her baby, they two sat in a corner of the wide hall and had a long talk. They had not many friends in common, but they loved their country, and they had struggled with a common foe; then no wonder they were not long strangers.
“I have never asked you where your home is,” said Lettice, to her companion. “You do not talk like a Southerner, and yet you are Tyler’s cousin. I do not seem to distinguish your native place by your speech.”
“I am from Massachusetts,” he told her, “but I am something of a cosmopolitan, as every one who follows the sea must be.”
“From Massachusetts? I thought every one in that state was dead set against the war.”
“Oh, no, not every one. To be sure, New Englanders, as a rule, are against it; but if you should investigate, you would find many gallant soldiers and sailors hailing from our part of the country.”
“Have you always lived there?”
“Always. My father lived there all his life, and my grandfather before him, and I am very proud of my native city. Tyler Baldwin and I are second cousins; his grandfather and mine were brothers, and as I was for some time in Annapolis, near my father’s kin, I came to know them quite well.”
“I am very glad to find one New Englander so fierce a fighter in this war. It doesn’t seem right that when she did so much in the Revolution—not that it was more than we did—but when she did so much then, that she should be so dreadfully indifferent now, when it is just as much a war for freedom. I am afraid that, like our old cat there, New England has grown fat and lazy in prosperity. I think I’ll name that cat New England, for she has no special name; Puss seems to be sufficient for her own uses.”
Mr. Baldwin laughed, and they chatted on contentedlytill the big clock in the hall warned them of the lateness of the hour, and, beyond that, Mammy had been hovering around for some time, with uneasy glances at her patient.
“I feel as if I had known you for years,” Lettice said, as she bade the young man good night.
“If length of time be counted by the amount of pleasure it brings, I have known you for years,” he returned gallantly.
The next morning he took his leave, and the two women, left alone with the servants, looked forward with dread to what the days might bring them. But before long their hearts were cheered by news from the North; that news which, in the never-to-be-forgotten words, “We have met the enemy and they are ours,” announced Perry’s victory to a grateful people. Report after report of victories at sea had come, but none that matched in importance that which was won by Perry on Lake Erie. All over the country bells were set ringing, cities were illuminated, toasts were drunk to the young hero, and odes were addressed to him; and those who before had felt very dubious, now began to place unlimited faith in the success of the American side.
Even Aunt Martha and Rhoda rejoiced openly, for the former still obstinately refused to leave theplantation, and the latter felt it her “dooty” to remain likewise. She was a very sweet and gentle Rhoda these days, and Lettice grew more and more fond of her.
Lettice, it may be said, was not long in recovering her usual health and spirits. One of the first visits she made was to Aunt Hagar. She bore her a gift from Mr. Baldwin, and the old woman was greatly puffed up by the possession of a five dollar gold piece. She made mysterious incantations, and consulted teacups and cards, and used other means of reading Lettice’s fortune. The fair man and the dark man, and the fair woman that came between, and the surprise that was partly agreeable and partly disagreeable, were all there, but the most impressive of all was a prophecy which seemed greatly to disturb the old woman herself.
“Sorrow an’ trouble,” she said, “to you an’ yo’ house. Law, honey, law, honey, I is sholy distu’bed to see dat. From across water comes black death, an’ here is weepin’ an’ wailin’ an’ gnashin’ of teef. Dey is meetin’ an’ partin’, an’ ’live is daid, an’ daid is ’live. Dat is de mos’ cur’os fortune I has fo’ many a day. I wisht I ain’ seen it, I sholy is. I dat hu’t in mah min’ I can’t sleep dis night. What dis? I lak to know who dat. Go long home, honey.I so ’stracted I dunno what I sayin’.” And after Lettice left, until late in the night, the old woman pored over her pack of cards, shaking her head and muttering, “Sorrow an’ trouble.”
The next day came a messenger in the person of a small, kinkey-headed darkey. “Mammy Hagar say will Miss Letty come see her. She turr’ble sorry to trouble her, an’ she ain’ meanin’ no disrespec’, but she got sumpin’ to tell her, an’ please, miss, come by yo’sef.”
Lettice donned her cloak and hat and set off, wondering what was meant by this. It was early afternoon, and the scene was fair and peaceful. One could scarce realize that war ravaged the land. She sauntered along through the woods, stopping every now and then to pick a leaf which had reddened early, or to watch a partridge hurry to cover. At Aunt Hagar’s door she knocked. The latch was lifted, and the wrinkled face of the old woman appeared. She whispered mysteriously, “Come in, honey,” and shutting the door carefully, she beckoned her visitor to one corner of the room which was screened off by an old quilt. Here, on a rude pallet, lay a man.
Lettice started back. “Who is it?” she cried.
“Dat what I say.”
“Where did he come from?”
“He layin’ out in de holler o’ de ole house what got burnted, an’ I gits him here, an’ he cl’ar outen his haid an’ stupefy. He one o’ dem Britishers, yuh reckon?”
Lettice observed him more closely; then she gave an exclamation of surprise. “Why Aunt Hagar, it is Pat—poor Patrick Flynn!”
“Is dat so? I says, ‘whar I see him befo?’ Dat jes’ who.”
“But how did he get here?”
“I jes’ drug him along. I right spry yit, an’ I git him a little way an’ den drap him an’ git mah bref twel I gits him to de boat. I say ef he a fren’, I boun’ to cyo’ him up, an’ ef he a Britisher—what yuh reckon I do, Miss Letty?”
“I don’t know. Don’t let us talk of that. It would be hard to decide. As it is, I am very glad it is poor Patrick. He should be taken at once to Aunt Martha’s—but no, he probably escaped from some British ship, and was shot while trying to get away. We shall have to keep him in hiding till he gets well.”
“Das what I say, an’ dat why I ast yuh come look at him. I say Miss Letty so sma’t she knowef he a Britisher, fo’ all dem clo’es he w’ars.”
“I hope he will get well,” said Lettice. “What a joy it will be to his mother if he does. It is just as well that she should not know that he is here, for if he should not recover, she would have the double grief of losing him. Take good care of him, Aunt Hagar, and I will send over some things for him from the house. I will tell Sister Betty. Perhaps she will insist on having him removed to our house, although I really think he is much safer here;” a wise decision, as was proved true before the week was out.
It was late one rainy evening that Rhoda and Lettice were sitting in the open doorway, listening to the patter of the rain on the leaves. “I feel very dreary, and full of forebodings,” said Lettice. “I suppose it is because the autumn is so near. I always hate to see the summer go, and I believe that somehow Aunt Hagar has scared me into thinking something dreadful is going to happen.”
“Something dreadful is happening all the time,” Rhoda answered. “I certainly think that an ignorant old woman’s vagaries have nothing to do with it. I am not so superstitious.”
“Then you are not a descendant of a Salemwitch,” returned Lettice, laughing.
“Yes, I am, and that perhaps is why I abhor superstition,” Rhoda spoke in all seriousness. “One of my ancestors was accused of witchcraft, but fortunately the delusion ended before she was executed by the fanatics who hounded the poor innocent creatures to their death. Hark! What is that?”
There was a sound of running feet; of shots fired; of sudden cries. The two girls clung close together, and Betty hurried to the door, while the house servants gathered around, quaking with fear.
Presently from out of the gloom a dark figure staggered toward them and, stumbling, fell at their feet; then another rushed past them into the house. He blew out the candle Betty held and disappeared. Outside was a clatter and a clamor. A swearing, threatening band of redcoats surrounded the house.
For a moment the three women stood transfixed with horror: then Lettice sprang indoors and blew a shrill whistle which brought from the quarters those negroes who had not gone into hiding at the approach of the soldiers. Their appearance added to the rage of the enemy. The leader struck a light, and taking the candle from Betty’s nerveless hand he relighted it. “Aha, some prettygirls!” cried out one of the men behind him. “We’ll find the vile deserter, and then we’ll have some sport with the ladies, eh, boys? Here’s my choice.” And he seized Rhoda, who shrank back with a faint moan. This but added to the man’s delight and drew her nearer. But at this moment the prostrate man on the porch, who by painful effort had dragged himself to the sill of the door, feebly raised the pistol he held, fired, and Rhoda was free to rush out of the open door into the darkness.
Those inside were sobered down. “Here, men, search the house,” said the leader, sternly. “Fire on any one who dares to stand in the way.”
“What shall we do! What shall we do!” Lettice moaned in despair. But Betty had rushed upstairs to her baby, and Rhoda was not in sight. The figure by the door had crawled out into the gloom again. How many of the enemy might be outside Lettice could not determine, and she stood trembling, daring neither to leave the house nor to follow the men who had gone to the upper rooms.
Finally she ventured out upon the porch. Near the door Rhoda crouched, and in her lap rested the head of the wounded man whose shot had felled her assailant. She was murmuring incoherentwords. Lettice drew near. “Rhoda, Rhoda,” she whispered, “who is it?”
“Oh, Lettice! Oh, Lettice, he is dying!” she cried in a shaken voice. “It is Jamie! Jamie!”
Lettice dropped on her knees by the side of the dear lad who lay very still. Lettice lifted his hand and held it between her own, her tears falling fast. She did not heed the tread of the men who returned from their fruitless search. “The miserable wretch has escaped us somehow,” as in a dream she heard one say. “This is the second we have lost this week.” He leaned over and touched Lettice’s cheek. “Get up here, girl. I want to look at you,” he said.
Lettice, with streaming eyes arose and with clasped hands approached the leader of the band. “Sir, yonder dying man is my dearly loved brother,” she said. “Will you not leave us alone with our great sorrow? We would be but triste companions for your men. Take what you will, but leave us these last few moments sacred from intrusion.”
The man stood looking at her a moment; then turned on his heel. “The presence of a lovely female in distress was always too much for me,”he muttered. “We will pursue our search further, and perhaps will pay you a visit later. We will respect your desire to be alone. We, too, have lost a friend.” He nodded toward the hall where his comrade lay.
“He has gone beyond our resentment,” said Lettice, gently. “We will bury him in our own graveyard, unless you wish to bear him away with you.”
“No, he will rest as well in one spot as in another,” returned the man. “We will continue our duty and leave him to your kind offices.”
He then gathered his men about him and strode away.
Betty had followed the searching party downstairs, and now appeared with the candle. She held it so its rays fell on Jamie’s white face. “Jamie!” she cried. “Our Jamie! Oh, what terrible thing is this?”
He opened his eyes and smiled to see Rhoda bending over him. “I saved you, dear, didn’t I?” he whispered.
“Yes, you saved me,” she controlled her voice sufficiently to answer.
He let his gaze rest a moment upon her, and then he looked at Lettice. “Kiss me, little sister,” he said. She leaned over and kissed his pale lips.One of his hands stirred as if seeking something, and Rhoda slipped her fingers in his. He gave them a slightly perceptible pressure. His eyes, large and imploring, searched her face. She understood what he would ask, and she, too, leaned over and kissed him solemnly, and into the searching eyes crept a satisfied look.
“Can we not get him into the house?” said Betty, in distress. “Is there nothing we can do?” For answer there was a quiver of the lad’s eyelids, one sigh, and then his young heart had ceased to beat.
Down the road the British soldiers were disappearing. The three women sat sobbing convulsively. They had no thought for past or present danger, nor for anything but the presence of this great sorrow.
After a while one of the colored men stole up. “Dey all gone, Miss Betty,” he said. As he spoke from the house appeared before them another figure, and some one dropped upon his knees and covered his face with his hands. “Jamie, Jamie, little brother!” he groaned. “Would to God I had been the one!”
The startled women lifted their heads. “BrotherTom!” cried Lettice. “Oh, Brother Tom!” Then Aunt Hagar’s words returned to her, and she repeated: “‘The dead shall be alive, and the alive shall be dead.’ Oh, Brother Tom, it is Jamie, our Jamie!”
“Who lost his life in saving mine,” said the young man. “Let us bear him indoors.” And tenderly lifting their burden, they laid him in the great hall.
Lettice felt that it was good to have this lost brother to soothe and comfort her, albeit his return brought no joy, for the shadow was too great. She was confused and heart-broken, so that no explanations were offered that night. Lettice had but asked, “Are you safe here, Brother Tom?” and he had replied: “Safer than elsewhere. They have searched here once and have not found me; they will not come again at once, and we shall be gone before another day. I cannot leave you here to be exposed to these dangers, little sister, and we must get off to Baltimore as soon as ever we can.”
Even the next day they asked no questions, for in the evening, at sunset, they laid Jamie to rest in the old graveyard, and in one corner they buried, too, the British soldier who had met his deaththrough Jamie’s last effort for Rhoda. Friend and foe, the service was read over them, and they were left asleep, with all differences forever stilled.
Rhoda, in her self-control and reticence, gave little evidence of what she felt, and it was only when Lettice saw the anguish in her eyes that she realized that Rhoda’s best love was buried with Jamie; and when she returned to the house she remembered the packet which Jamie had given her. She followed Rhoda to her room to give it to her. The girl was lying, face down, upon the floor, in tearless grief. She did not hear Lettice’s light tap at the door, nor did she heed her entrance. “Jamie, oh, my darling!” she moaned. And Lettice, with eyes overflowing, put her arms around her. “Dear Rhoda,” she said, “he left something for you.” And into her hand she gave the little packet.
Rhoda’s cold fingers closed over it, and in a minute she sat up. “Stay with me, Lettice,” she begged. “We will open this together.” She reverently undid the little box. On top lay a paper on which was written: “For Rhoda, from one who loved her with all his heart. God bless you and keep you and make you happy, my darling. From Jamie.” There was a case underneath. Rhoda lifted it out and touched the spring, to disclose alock of curly auburn hair and a miniature of Jamie. As his bonny face smiled up at her, Rhoda gave a great cry and shed the first tears her eyes had known since that moment when his spirit passed.
“It is so like, so like,” she murmured. “How I shall treasure it, Lettice. My bonny Jamie, how shall I live through the long years? And you will never know how much I loved you.”
“He knows now,” said Lettice, softly. And she went out, leaving Rhoda more comforted by this than by anything that could have come to her.