A DESPERATE MAN.
The army to which Ernest belonged was encamped on the banks of the historical river ——. The year was drawing to a close. To Ernest the days dragged heavily by, as there are few amusements in military camps that are sufficient to divert one’s mind from introspectional processes. It was this prolonged subjectivity—this constant brooding over one’s own thoughts, inseparable from camp life, that producedennui, or more frequently, that exquisitenostalgia, which often terminated in death. Ernest had kept up a regular correspondence with Mildred, which occupied much of his time, and made his own thoughts pleasant companions. She had not written a word in regard to her visits to Washington, and he, of course, supposed that she was at home.
One morning a letter was delivered to him, post-marked from Mildred’s office, but directedin a chirography which was not hers. This circumstance at once aroused, in his mind, the most fearful apprehensions. He thought of a hundred calamities, in a few moments, that might have overtaken her—probably she had suddenly died—she might be sick—she had married someone—the enemy had made a raid and carried off the whole family, and this thought made him clench his hand and grind his teeth. Why did he not open the epistle at once, and end his suspense? Because he was endeavoring to prepare his mind for the reception of distressing news, like a man who sees the avalanche coming, and braces himself against the nearest rock that promises to offer successful resistance against the coming shock. The first Lieutenant of his company was in the tent, to whom Ernest, holding up the letter, said:
“I fear this will put an end to all my fondly cherished hopes.”
“Is it fromher?” inquired the Lieutenant.
“No, not from her,” said Ernest, “but it bears the post-mark of her office.”
“Well, why don’t you open it?”
“Because it appears to me like a Pandora’s box, and I dread the evils it contains.”
“Hope was left behind, you know.”
“Yes; but I fear that hope, in this instance, will be the first to wing her flight away from me,” said Ernest.
“Never climb the hill till you get to it,” said the Lieutenant. “Why allow yourself to suffer the pangs of imaginary evils?”
“It is foolish, Lieutenant.”
Ernest slowly opened the envelope, took out the folded sheet, and glanced at the subscriber’s signature. It was from Dr. Arrington. The Lieutenant noticed that a deathly pallor spread over his face, and his hands trembled violently, but he said nothing till Ernest had finished the letter. He was transformed into the very embodiment of despair.
“What is the matter?” kindly and anxiously asked the Lieutenant, his personal friend.
“I cannot tell,” Ernest almost groaned out. “There, read for yourself.”
The Lieutenant carefully read Dr. Arrington’s account of the arrest and imprisonment of his daughter.
“It is terrible news,” said the Lieutenant, “and there is no use disguising it. Yet as long as there is life, there is hope.”
“Oh! Great Heavens!” exclaimed Ernest,springing to his feet, “the villains may have already executed her! You know how hurriedly they do these things. If they have—,” shaking his head and grinding his teeth—“If they have, I will be avenged. Yes, they shall pay for her blood. I shall have only one object to live for—to avenge her death. In the next battle, Lieutenant, I desire you to command the company. I want a gun—I must have a gun. I cannot stand still while there will be such opportunities for spilling their blood. Yes, sir, I will make them pay dearly for such shameful, diabolical murder.”
“Now, come, my friend,” said the Lieutenant, “you will try to ascend the mountain before you reach it. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. You have no proof whatever that the execution has taken place, and your surmises may be without the shadow of foundation. Besides, you are a Christian—a follower of the meek and lowly Lamb, who when He was reviled, reviled not again. Does it become you to be talking of revenge? ‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord. You must not murmur at the dispensations of divine providence.”
“What!” interrupted Ernest, “do you callthis a dispensation of providence? Do you believe that God would deliberately bring about such a dreadful event as that?”
“Why not that as well as any other event? Don’t you believe that God has something to do with this war?”
“Yes, I suppose He has, in a sort of general way.”
“General way?” exclaimed the Lieutenant. “Why, generalities are made up of particulars. How can there be a general providence, as some people call it, without special acts? Well, this misfortune of yours, as you regard it, is one of the events of the war. It is not a mere accident.”
“Do you pretend to say,” asked Ernest in an agitated manner, “that God selected my loved one especially for the purpose of being sacrificed? Do you say that?”
“Why not her as well as anybody else, granting your premises? But you are a little too fast, my friend. You have no reliable information that she has been sacrificed. You’re assuming too much.”
“She will be treated as a spy,” said Ernest, “and you know what that means. I can never forgive Gen. A. for inveigling her into such anaffair. Why did he not get me, or some other man to go?”
“You do not know what Gen. A.’s reasons were,” said the Lieutenant. “Captain, you need to be taught a lesson of humility, if you will pardon me for saying it. God says, ‘love your enemies,’ and here you are, wishing to murder yours, and are manifesting an unforgiving spirit even toward your friends. I believe you are a Christian, but I fear you will have to be chastened by sorrow and suffering. You would better ask God to give you meekness of spirit and resignation to His will, before you are made to bow by calamities. Your rebellion will be punished. The Scripture says, ‘Whom the Lord loveth, He chasteneth.’ Submit, before a ‘worse thing happen unto thee.’”
“It is difficult for me to believe just as you do,” answered Ernest in a gentler tone. “You belong to the Presbyterian Church that holds to the doctrine that God ordains whatsoever comes to pass. I confess that I am disposed to believe the theory, but somehow I cannot bring it into the practical affairs of life.”
“You remember what Nebuchadnezzar was punished for?” asked the Lieutenant. “Itwas for denying the Divine Sovereignty. God punishes men for the same offence now. He tells us He is a jealous God; He demands that we shall recognize His hand in all our affairs.”
“I wish I could fully and firmly believe as you do,” said Ernest thoughtfully. “I can see that the doctrines of the Presbyterian Church are better adapted to the necessities of man’s nature than those of any other Church. I notice too, that Presbyterians seem to bear up under misfortunes better than other people. And this I must attribute to the comfort they find in their doctrines.”
“There is much truth in what you say,” replied the Lieutenant. “I was not reared a Presbyterian, but after I was grown, I was particularly struck with their quiet way of doing things—a way destitute of boisterous zeal and ostentatious fussiness. Then when I investigated their doctrines, I found them Scriptural. I confess I do not see how any man can fail to believe these doctrines, with the Bible in his hands. Do you not think that the doctrine of the Divine Sovereignty is taught in the Bible?”
“It does seem to be,” said Ernest; “but this doctrine of election does not, at times, appear to be consistent with justice.”
“Where is the inconsistency?”
“Why, that Jesus died for some men, and left the rest of mankind to perish in their sins, and then to hold these men responsible for what they could not help.”
“Who advocates such a view as that?” asked the Lieutenant, who was a pious and intelligent member of the Presbyterian Church.
“Why, do not you Presbyterians believe that?”
“No, sir; we believe that Christ tasted death for every man, as the Scriptures declare. He made an atonement sufficient to save every son and daughter of Adam. No man is lost on account of any limitation or defect in the atonement, nor on account of an eternal decree. All could be saved, if they only had the will. It is nothing but the perverse will in men that prevents their salvation. But I should like to ask what you believe in regard to the atonement? You may as well be thinking about this as brooding over your troubles.”
“Yes; let us have a discussion—anything to keep my mind off this misfortune till I am prepared to think calmly about it. In reply, then, to your inquiry, I say I scarcely know what to think. It would seem reasonable tome, though, that Christ died for all precisely alike—for one just as much as another. All were on the same level. By His death He removed the obstacles placed in the way by original sin or Adam’s transgression. He thus made salvation possible to all men. Christ provided the means, and left it to man’s choice whether he would use the means or not. That would seem just and right.”
“So it might at the first glance,” answered the Lieutenant, “and it is the way men would like to have it. Nothing could be more agreeable to the carnal heart. But let us calmly examine your position. You think then that Jesus died for no individual in particular, but for the whole race of men in general?”
“That seems to be reasonable,” replied Ernest, “and no one could complain.”
“Yes, reasonable according to man’s notions,” rejoined the Lieutenant, “and according to the principles of mere human philosophy. But the main objection to it, is that it is in diametrical opposition to the Scriptures. For they emphatically declare that Christ gave Himself for the Church. All through the New Testament we find such expressions as ‘died for His people.’ Jesus, Himself repeatedlyspoke of ‘His people’ for whom He would give His life.”
“But does not the Bible say ‘He was made a propitiation not only for our sins, but for the sins of the whole world?’ What does that mean?”
“Well, suppose Christ had not died at all, how many would have been saved?”
“None at all,” said Ernest.
“Then the answer is that Jesus diedsufficientlyfor all the world, but effectually for His own people. He made such an atonement that every one could be saved who wanted to be. And this is the meaning of every passage of Scripture which is similar to the one cited by you.”
“But,” asked Ernest, “what was the use of dyingsufficientlyfor all, when it was known that all would not be saved?”
“Christ had to die for the elect,” replied the Lieutenant, “and in so doing He died sufficiently to save the entire world. If the atonement is sufficient to save all, that throws the responsibility of the damnation of those who are lost upon themselves. But how much broader do you want the atonement, if it takes in all who want to be saved? Why shouldyou want Christ to make an effectual atonement for those who do not want to be saved?”
“I confess that is a puzzling question,” answered Ernest.
“Besides,” continued the Lieutenant, “your position is contrary to sound philosophy.”
“How is that?”
“You say it is left to men to choose their own destinies. Now suppose that not one of the human race had accepted Christ, would not the atonement have been a failure? Would not Jesus have died in vain?”
“It does seem so,” said Ernest.
“Do you suppose,” continued the Lieutenant, “that the Lord was trying experiments?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean this,” answered the Lieutenant. “if God was experimenting, He virtually said: ‘Son, go into the world, and make an atonement for the sins of all mankind; perhaps, some may avail themselves of the provisions of this scheme which we have adopted, but we do not know that a single individual will be saved.’ Do you not suppose that God had some definite purpose to accomplish in the atonement? If not, He was less wise than men are. Even we, weak human beings, never go to work without some plan and some object.”
“Of course,” said Ernest, “I admit that God had a definite purpose in view.”
“Do you not believe that God’s purpose will be achieved?” asked the Lieutenant.
“Certainly, it will.”
“Then,” said the Lieutenant, “if the Lord intended to save all men, why are they not saved?”
“Because they will not be.”
“You are then driven to the conclusion,” replied the Lieutenant, “that men are more powerful than God. He wants to save them, and intends to save them, but they will not allow Him. They defeat God’s intentions.”
“No; I do not mean that exactly,” said Ernest.
“Well, what do you mean?”
“Why,” answered Ernest, “I mean that God made equal provisions for all, and determined to treat all alike.”
“Then all the plan you admit was, that Christ made a sort of general atonement, but determined nothing in regard to the salvation of any particular individual? It was not certain that any would be saved?”
“O, of course, He knew that some would be saved, and some lost.”
“Yes,” replied the Lieutenant, “He knew that some would be saved, and some lost—just put it on that ground; now, Christ diedeffectuallyfor those who He knew would be saved, and yet sufficiently to save those who He knew would be lost; and this is the election which my Church advocates, that is, leaving out fore-knowledge as the ground upon which the scheme of redemption is based; for God’s choice of the elect does not depend upon anything in the creature. But I am showing that your own position leads to a kind of predestination. Do you not see that your position also runs into the broadest universalism?”
“How does it?” asked Ernest.
“Why, your idea is, that God, to be impartial, must treat all alike—give all the same opportunities, and bring the same influences to bear upon all. Now let us see how that will work. Mr. A. is convinced by the Holy Spirit, and is converted, as we may say: he is saved; Mr. B. his neighbor, must be treated in the same way, or God would be partial.”
“God gives both the same opportunities,” said Ernest, “but one resists and the other yields.”
“Then,” said the Lieutenant, “you havemankind divided into two classes—one resists, and is certain to be lost, and the other yields, and is certain to be saved. What is that but predestination?”
“I mean,” said Ernest, “that God gives each class sufficient grace to save them, if they would use it.”
“It is well,” replied the Lieutenant, “that you brought in that ‘if.’ Certainly, ‘if’ they would use it. The grace is sufficient, do you not see, to save one class, but not the other? So here is predestination again. The line is drawn between the two classes, and one class can never be saved, because the grace given is not sufficient to induce them to make an effort to secure salvation.”
“Well,” said Ernest, “do you not make God unjust in not giving them sufficient grace?”
“If He did give every man sufficient grace to save him,” said the Lieutenant, “then every man would be saved. What is that but the broadest universalism?”
Ernest made no reply.
“But you are not a universalist,” continued the Lieutenant. “If not, you must believe the doctrine of election; there is no otheralternative. The difference between us is this: I affirm that God elects His people upon a principle with which He has not acquainted us; you say that the election depends upon men themselves; and you divide men into two classes, and the individuals of one class are so constituted that it is certain they will resist all sacred influences, and consequently will inevitably be lost. This is as rigid predestination as ever John Calvin advocated.”
“You have a way of making me say things I do not mean, Lieutenant.”
“No,” answered the Lieutenant, “I merely followed out the proposition you laid down to its legitimate consequences. I do not see how you can escape these consequences, and I would be glad if you would show me how to avoid them. For, I confess that there is something about it which sorely puzzles me, and troubles me.”
“I thought you professed to fully understand it,” said Ernest.
“On the contrary, I do not understand it. I merely take the Bible at what it says. But I never pretended to reconcile election with human free agency. We can go to a certain point, and there we must stop.”
“What is it that perplexes you so?”
“Well,” answered the Lieutenant, “some people assert that God desires and wills every human being to be saved. Now, if He does, why does He not save them? Why does He not accomplish His own will? He, undoubtedly, has the power.”
“We might answer,” replied Ernest, “that God will not destroy their free agency.”
“Is it so important and necessary to preserve free agency that men must suffer eternal torment for it?” asked the Lieutenant. “Would it not be better to destroy their free agency than to permit men to use it to their own destruction? We cannot deny that God could save every man if He really desired and willed to do so. He could speak to them with an audible voice or show them a great light, as He did Paul, and in this way bring the entire human race into the fold of the Lord Jesus Christ. But it is as clear as anything can be, that God never intended to save all men. If He did, what was there to defeat the divine intention? If you say that men will not let Him save them, then men have more power than God. In fact, any position you may take that is not in harmony with the WestminsterConfession of Faith will end in confusion and darkness. Why not, then, take the plain Scriptures on the subject? All through God’s word the two classes, the lost and the saved, are spoken of. You may account for the damnation of sinners on any principle you please; you may say that God has nothing to do with it, if you will; you may say that men are perfectly free agents; that there is no such doctrine as election in the Scriptures; you may blot out predestination, but nevertheless the fact stares you in the face that there are the Saved and the Lost. We must judge of God’s purpose by what takes place. Men are saved every day. Men are lost every day. Now, all this is in accordance with the divine will or opposed to it; one or the other. If it is in accordance with God’s will, this is the election for which we contend. But if it is opposed to the divine will, we are forced to the conclusion that God has not sufficient power to accomplish what He wants.”
“As I told you, Lieutenant,” said Ernest, “I am inclined to the doctrine of the Presbyterian Church. I can see that there is more comfort in it than the opposite, and it is certainly more Scriptural.”
“The opposite is too vague and loose,” answered the Lieutenant. “The believer has too little security. According to the view of some people, the Christian may be in a state of grace to-day, and to-morrow in a state of condemnation. If I believed that, I should be miserable, for I should never know whether I was safe or not. I prefer to believe God’s own declaration, which is that He will complete the good work He has begun, and that His people shall never perish.”
“I believe that, myself,” said Ernest. “I have been talking on this subject more to keep my mind off my misfortune than for anything else, but it is in vain. How can I help thinking of it? My mind is now like a volcano in a state of activity. I cannot stand this. I cannot lie here in camp doing nothing, while she is languishing in prison. Good heavens! it is enough to drive me mad.”
“Let us pray to God for direction.”
“With all my heart,” answered Ernest. “Please pray for me.”
They both knelt down, and the Lieutenant in a low voice prayed earnestly for his friend, that God would sustain him and bring him in triumph out of all his troubles. When they arose, the Lieutenant said:
“Now let us have faith in God, but that does not mean that we are not to be active ourselves. What course do you intend to pursue?”
“I must go into Washington City,” said Ernest.
“How can you do that?” inquired the Lieutenant.
“I do not know, but I must go. Perhaps Gen. A. can assist me. He ought to do so, since he is the cause of the calamity. I shall go to him at once. The train will be here in two hours. I cannot stay here; I will desert first.”
And Ernest dashed out of the tent and rushed off like a mad man.
DARK HOURS.
The rapid pace of Ernest soon brought him to the quarters of his Brigadier General, a man whose name is inseparably connected with the battle of Bull Run. After the Brigadier had heard the touching story of Mildred’s arrest and incarceration, he gave, without hesitation, the distressed young man a permit to visit Gen. A.
In less than two hours after this, Ernest was thundering along toward Gen. A.’s headquarters, which he reached about four o’clock in the evening. After the ceremony necessary to secure access to a General, he entered the little farm house to which allusion has already been made, and introduced himself. There is never much social intercourse between the higher and subordinate officers of an army. There is a great gulf between them which is rarely crossed. In visiting a high officer, it is not expected that the subaltern shall makefamiliar remarks about the weather or any other ordinary topic. He must come to businessin medias res.
“Well, sir, what can I do for you?” asked Gen. A. in that impatient military tone which indicates that the applicant must talk fast and to the point.
“Some days ago, sir,” said Ernest, stung by his frigid reception, “you sent a young lady of this neighborhood into Washington, where she was arrested and will probably be doomed to death, if she has not already been.”
“Well?”
“Well!” exclaimed Ernest, vexed at the General’s coolness and seeming indifference, “she is my affianced.”
“Well, go on.”
“Are you not going to make some effort for her relief,” cried Ernest, warming into boldness, “or do you propose to let her perish?”
“I should like to know what I can do?” quoth Gen. A.
“I do not know what you can do,” cried Ernest in desperation, “but you ought to do something, since you are the cause of her misfortune.”
“Am I to be held responsible for all thecalamities which the war may bring upon citizens and soldiers?” broke out the General. “If so, I shall resign my position at once. The young lady herself will not hold me to such responsibility. She went with a full knowledge of what she would have to encounter.”
“Suppose she did, sir, does that make it any the less necessary that efforts should be made to save her?”
“I would save her, if I could,” said the officer.
“General,” cried Ernest, overcome by his conflicting emotions, “something must be done for her relief. It seems to me that you are too indifferent about it.”
The General looked at him in surprise and with an expression of sternness, but Ernest was now deeply agitated, and he met the officialcoup d’ oeilwithout the slightest indication of servility.
“I cannot stay here in camp,” continued Ernest, “when the being who is dearer to me than life is in such imminent danger. You cannot expect me to be a good soldier under such circumstances.”
“Well, what do you want?” asked Gen. A.
“I must do something,” replied Ernest. “Can you aid me in getting into Washington?”
“If you were there, what could you do?”
“I do not know what, General, but I am willing to risk my life in the attempt to save her.”
“I cannot see,” said the General, whose feelings were beginning to soften at the sight of the young man’s distress, “what you could do if you were in the city.”
“General, I must go.”
“If you do go, you are liable to be arrested as a spy yourself.”
“I will have to take that risk. General. How did you enable her to go into the city?”
“O, that is managed easily enough.”
“Then, General, in heaven’s name, let me go,” exclaimed Ernest, “let me go. If I do not save her, I will return and devote my life to avenging her death. I will be the bravest soldier in your army.”
“Very well, sir, you can try it.”
“Thanks, General, ten thousand thanks. I shall never forget your kindness as long as I live. When can I start?”
“Whenever you please,” said Gen. A.
“Then I will go at once,” said Ernest, “I do not want to lose a moment.”
Gen. A. immediately gave Ernest the necessary directions. It is no part of our story to explain how Gen. A. enabled people to go in and out of Washington. It is sufficient to say that he did it. As we have already remarked, the real history of the war has never been written, and never will be. The most thrilling portions of it will remain in eternal obscurity. Many stirring incidents will linger for a while in individual memories, and will enliven the fire-sides of families for a few years, and then perish forever. Not many ever knew how Ernest made his way into Washington, but the next day he saw the capitol of the United States. This, however, was the least of his difficulties. How could he find Mildred? And what could he do after finding her? But he determined to make every effort in his power, trusting to chance to furnish opportunities. Fortune soon seemed to favor him. For the next day after his arrival, he was standing on a certain street, which it is not necessary to name, gazing about in a vacant way, while thoughts were revolving in his mind, connected with the object of his visit. He was opposite the hotel at which he was stopping. Accidentally, it seemed, casting his eye upward,he beheld a lady at the window of the corner room of the fourth story. She was looking down on the crowds below as they went hurrying along the street. Ernest, after a moment’s examination, recognized her. He waved his hand till, at last, he attracted her attention. Mildred gazed at him earnestly for a moment, and waved responsively in token of recognition. Ernest placed his fingers upon his mouth in a significant manner, which she understood. He stood for a brief space in profound study, but suddenly disappearing, crossed the street, and entered the hotel. He ascended to the fourth story where his own room was located. Mildred was on the same floor in the corner room. He had noticed the guard at the door, but till now, knew not who the prisoner was. Approaching the sentinel, he spoke in a tone sufficiently loud for Mildred to hear:
“Whom are you guarding?”
“It seems to be a leddy,” replied an Irishman, “but how shud I know who she be?”
“What are your instructions?” asked Ernest.
“Why, to let no one in nor out, to be shure.”
“Is the door locked?” asked Ernest.
“Faith is it, and the kay is gone.”
“Who has it?”
“The Capting, I guess.”
“What is the lady confined for?”
“Narry bit do I know.”
“Will you not let me speak to this lady through the keyhole?” asked Ernest.
“Och! what would ye be afther doin’? Do ye want me to be a traitor to my counthry?”
“No, no; I do not want you to be a traitor,” said Ernest in a low tone. “Are you a married man or not?”
“Faith no, but I expect to be, as soon as this whar is over, which I hope wont be a ghreat toime; an’ then I’ll be marrhid to one of the moust beautiful geerls in the whoul city.”
“Then listen to me, my friend. You are engaged to be married, and so am I. Now suppose your girl were confined in that room, and I should be standing guard in your place, and you should come up, and ask me to let you speak one little word to her through the keyhole, and I should refuse, what would you think of me?”
“Faith, I’d take you to be a mane rascal.”
“Well,” said Ernest eagerly, “the girl youhave in that room has promised to marry me. I have not spoken to her for several months. Now, will you drive me away without letting me speak to her?”
“Och; that’s it, is it? By the houly St. Pathrick, I cud niver find it in me heart to deny a feller that small a favor. Biddy would call me a mane dog, ef I was to do as dhirty a trick as that. It’s spaking to her, is it? Well spake, but be as quick as you ken.”
“Thank you, thank you, my good friend,” said Ernest, as tremblingly he applied his mouth to the key-hole.
“Mildred? Mildred!” he called.
“O, Ernest, is it you?” she asked, drawing her chair to the door.
“Yes; are you well?”
“I am, except heart-sickness.”
“I do not know how you have stood it.” replied Ernest. “But what are your prospects?”
“O! they are dark, Ernest, so dark at times. But how came you here?”
“I came to find out about you.”
“Are you not in danger?” she asked.
“I do not know. I never thought of any personal danger. O, Mildred, you cannotimagine what I have endured. But the worst has not come.”
“Try to be brave,” she said. “There is a God who rules in the affairs of men. I have not lost faith in Him. I am in His hands, and I know He can raise up friends to aid me in the darkest hours of misfortune. I spend the most of my time in prayer, and were it not for my belief, I fear I should lose my mind. I try so hard to be reconciled to God’s will, but sometimes, when I think of my parents and sisters, it is hard to keep down the spirit of rebellion.”
“If anything worse than imprisonment happens to you,” said Ernest, “I shall be tempted to doubt the goodness and justice of God.”
“Do not talk that way,” she said, as if horrified. “I would rather die a thousand times than have one harsh thought of my God. Our times are in His hands, and He has determined when and how we shall die, and He will do right. I am distressed not so much on account of myself as of my family.”
“You have no thought for me?” asked Ernest.
“Yes, I include you with the family.”
“O, Mildred!” he exclaimed in tones ofanguish, “I love you better than my own life. God knows if I could take your place, and restore you to freedom, I would willingly and cheerfully do it.”
“I believe you, Ernest, but I could not ask you to make such a sacrifice, even if it were possible. But the good Lord knows what is best. I have no fears.”
“Do you have any hope of escape?”
“I cannot say that I have any particular hope. I have no plans at all. I leave the matter in God’s hands. He has appointed the time, place and manner of my death, and I cannot die till God’s time arrives. You know in what faith my father has trained me. I will trust my God though He slay me.”
“O, Mildred, I do wish I had such a firm faith as yours. It seems to sustain you under the most fearful circumstances.”
“So it does. Sometimes,” she continued with tears of joy in her eyes, “I feel happy at the thought of so soon going to the blessed mansions which Jesus is preparing for them that love Him.”
“And, sometimes, Mildred, I hate myself for my spiritual infirmities. While you can look upon death as a blessing, I cannot butsee in it a calamity—I cannot regard it as anything else—that you should be taken from me and your family in the prime of life, especially—. I cannot finish the sentence.”
“You were going to say,” replied Mildred with perfect calmness, “especially if I should die such a violent death as makes you shudder to contemplate.”
“Yes, yes,” said Ernest in an agitated manner, “it maddens me to think about it. I can never forgive Gen. A. for bringing you into this awful situation.”
“But you must do it, Ernest. God requires it at your hands.”
“O, Mildred, I cannot see the hand of a merciful providence in this misfortune,” suddenly cried Ernest. “It appears cruel.”
“You are very rebellious,” rejoined Mildred gently, “and I am sorry to see it. You will have to learn to guard your tongue and thoughts, or God will mercifully subdue your proud spirit by a worse misfortune.”
“What can be worse than this?” cried Ernest bitterly. “I would be better reconciled if I were in your place.”
“Then, perhaps, God is now causing you to pass under the chastening rod by allowingthe misfortune, as you call it, to befall me. The loss of my life, at this time, may be necessary to the accomplishment of some good purpose. Suppose I should die, the separation from my loved ones will not be long. Thank God! We will all soon meet under brighter skies, where no cannon roars, no tear is shed, no sickness comes, no death invades, but where there is universal peace, joy and love.”
“O, Mildred,” exclaimed Ernest, “you are so much better than I am. You are as pure as the angels, and I am not worthy of you. I I wish I could believe this Presbyterian doctrine as you do. I can see that it is this which enables you to bear up under the darkest trials, and in the face of death.”
“I am not so good and pure as you seem to believe,” answered Mildred, “but I am glad to say I fully endorse the doctrines of the Presbyterian Church. Yet there are moments when the spirit of rebellion rises up in me. Frequently I find myself shedding tears.”
“I do not see how you can help it,” said Ernest in surprise. “Surely there is no rebellion in that.”
“I fear there is,” replied Mildred. “Itseems like anticipating God’s purposes. What is the use of grieving over a misfortune that may never come? God may send deliverance in some very unexpected way. Nothing is too hard for Him.”
“O, Mildred, I feel as helpless as a child. I have worked my way into this city, and now, having found you, I can do nothing. You have had no trial, I infer.”
“No, not yet.”
“You may have to languish here for months before they reach your case. I know something about the military courts.”
“Probably you will put your own life in jeopardy by remaining here,” said Mildred. “You can be of no advantage to me and you would better return.”
“I would not be worthy of you, if I could not cheerfully risk my life for you. Have you heard nothing from Gen. A.?”
“Not a word.”
“I feel as if I never can forgive him.”
“You are very wrong,” answered Mildred mildly. “Gen. A. could never have persuaded me to undertake such a business if I had not wanted to serve my country. My life is of no more value than the lives of thousands of soldiers who fall upon every field.”
At this juncture the Irishman who had moved off several paces from the door approached and said:
“Haven’t you talked long enough?”
“Do you ever become tired of talking to your girl?” asked Ernest.
“No, i’ faith,” replied the guard. “Biddy is a rose, she is, an’ she don’t give me much chance to talk—she has such a lively tongue herself. But I’m afeerd for ye to stay here iny longer.”
“I will not impose upon you,” replied Ernest, “nor take advantage of your kindness. I am so much obliged to you.”
“I hope ye’v hed a pleasint chat with the leddy,” said the Irishman.
“Yes, but let me bid her adieu.”
“Certainly ye may, an’ I’ll move mesilf off so’s I may’nt hear your swate words. I know how ’tis with Biddy, mesilf.”
“Mildred,” said Ernest, “the sentinel will not permit us to converse longer. I must leave you and I know not when I can see you again. The next guard may not be as kind as this one.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Not far. My room is on this floor. I shallwatch for any chance for saving you that may arise. God bless you. Good-by.”
“Good-by. Pray for me.”
“I need to ask your prayers,” replied Ernest. The young man turned sorrowfully away, went to his room, fell upon his knees, and cried to God in anguish of spirit. He prayed that he might have the sublime faith of Mildred. He felt humbled under a sense of his helplessness.
It seems to be natural to us to cry to the Supreme Being in the hours of distress. The most immoral men will pray to God when misfortunes come upon them. They have no faith in it, but the inner soul becomes frightened; it almost proclaims its independence of its physical environments, and expresses its wants through the reluctant organs of the body. Therefore, wicked men pray in times of danger.
A REMARKABLE EVENT.
It was night. The stars looked down from their blue dome upon the lamp-lit streets of Washington. Busy feet went hurrying along this way and that. Small groups could be seen standing at different places, discussing some question of an exciting character. If we draw near to any of these groups, we will hear such expressions as “great victory,” “hard fight,” “four hundred rebels killed.” But we are not now specially concerned with this “glorious news,” which had come on the telegraph wires.
Let us pause before that large hotel, standing on a certain street, which shall be nameless. Then let us enter, and ascend to the corner room of the fourth story. The door is locked, and on the outside stands a sentinel with musket in hand. Inside there is a lady on her knees. She has been informed that her trial will take place on the ensuing day. Threedays have passed since her interview with Ernest. Gen. A. had told her what would be the consequence of detection with that handkerchief in her possession. The result of the trial may, therefore, be easily anticipated. The fate of a spy is “death by hanging.”
Mildred well knew what she had to expect, but strange to say, the dark prospect excited no alarm. Probably she could not make a reality of the impending danger. This is what the world would say. We are creatures of hope, and we do not yield to despair till the last chance is gone. But the Christian is sustained in the most awful calamities by something higher than any human hope of deliverance. In the darkest hours of trial, a mysterious influence pervades the Christian’s breast, produces a holy calm, a sacred joy, and elevates the soul in triumph above earthly sufferings and sorrows. Unbelievers may pronounce it a delusion, but, nevertheless, it is a delusion which brings happiness; and if this be so, the delusion is just as useful and comforting as though death should put an end to the entire man—both body and soul.
After arising from her knees, Mildred seated herself at the window, and gazed down uponthe scenes below. At that moment she felt not a particle of fear or mistrust. She was perfectly resigned to the will of the Heavenly Father, let it be expressed in what aspect it might. She gave herself up to this ecstatic sense of security, feeling as if she were nestling, like a timid bird in the Omnipotent Hand. Were “coming events casting their shadows before?”
While in this strange state of feeling, she was startled by a gentle rap on her door. This was so unusual that she waited for a repetition of the signal. There was a louder tap.
“What is wanted?” she asked.
She heard the click of a key, and the door stood open. Her lamp threw its rays upon the form of a young man dressed in the Federal uniform. He took off his cap, bowed, and looked straight at Mildred. She glanced at his face, and with a little cry of joy sprang toward him.
“O, Will, can it be you?” she exclaimed.
“It is I, cousin Mildred.”
Without another word, she threw her arms around his neck, and pent-up tears flowed without restraint. The officer brushed the drops from his own eyes, and said:
“Come, cousin, you’ll make me ashamed of myself. It is weakness in a soldier to cry. Sit down and let me look at you. I have not seen you for five years. Upon my word, you’ve got to be right good-looking.”
“Why have you not called to see me before?”
“Now don’t begin to scold before I’ve had time to say ‘howdy’;” said the officer gaily. “I didn’t know you were here. My company has been guarding you too, but I did not see you, nor hear your name called. To-day I happened to be in the room where they are holding court, and I heard one of the officers say that the case of Mildred Arrington would come first to-morrow morning. I ascertained the charges against you, and I’ve come to see whether it was my cousin Mildred; and sure enough it is. But I never expected to find you in such a place—at least, in such a predicament. It seems you are a spy.”
“That I deny, cousin Will, if I know what it is to be a spy.”
“Well, it amounts to the same thing. Your accomplice was tried to-day.”
“Who.”
“You know—one Capt. Beall.”
“And what?” asked Mildred.
“Why, he will hang next Friday—that’s all.”
We may here remark that it is a matter of history that Capt. Beall was executed as a spy, and met his dismal fate with an undaunted courage that excited the admiration, and pity of his enemies—I say pity, because we all dislike to see a brave, noble man put to an ignominious death.
“I am very sorry,” said Mildred.
“No doubt, you are; but what is to become of yourself, my pretty cousin?”
“Why, has not God sent you to release me?” asked Mildred with the simple faith of a child.
“O, you old blue-stocking Presbyterian!” cried Capt. Benner, breaking into a laugh. “That is so like you. You get into an ugly scrape, and ask God to help you out of it, and a kind-hearted young fellow calls to see you, and you forthwith jump to the conclusion that the Lord sent him to save you. What a faith you do have. But don’t be too fast,” continued the officer, with a merry twinkle, “you are a rebel, and I am a union man. I don’t know whether I ought to have called atall or not. But how do you expect me to save you? Do you want me to be a traitor? Do you want me to release a dangerous spy? Say, now?”
“No, cousin. If it endangers you, let me be. I am ready to be sacrificed on the altar of my country,” said Mildred.
“O, ho! you want to be a martyr, do you?”
“No; I have no ambition in that way,” replied Mildred. “I would prefer to go home to my family; but I do not want you to take any risks to save me.”
“Do you suppose I could release a prisoner without taking risks? To be sure, my fair cousin, I will have to take risks.”
“Then, leave me alone,” said Mildred.
“Leave you to be hanged, you mean?”
“Yes, if that is the penalty.”
“And after that deplorable event,” said the officer, “could I ever look my mother in the face? Could I see Uncle Arrington again, and good Aunt Jennie? After the war, when I go down South again, and call at uncle’s, and I should hold out my hand, he would start back and say, ‘No, I cannot touch that hand; it is stained with poor Mildred’s blood.’ And aunt would say, ‘Leave me, Will, Icannot bear to look at you.’ How do you suppose I would feel, eh? I guess I should go off like Judas did, and hang myself—I think I would.”
“Well, let us be serious, Will. I am in no humor for sport now. Do not keep me in suspense. What have you come for?”
“Didn’t you say, just now, that God sent me? I wish I could think it. It would be a great relief to my conscience.”
“How is that?”
“Why, don’t you see, I’ve got to play false to my government and my country, if I give you freedom?”
“Is that painful to your conscience?”
“If I say yes, then you will become stubborn, and refuse to accept the boon of freedom. So, that you may have no scruples, I will tell you that I have a convenient conscience—one that will stretch. I never was raised, like you, a regular, old blue-stocking Presbyterian. Sometimes, though, I wish I had been. For there is no doubt in my mind that the Presbyterian is the most solid and substantial Church on earth.[2]My mother, you know, is a Presbyterian, and my father belongs to the—— Church. I notice that she is the firmer character, and I can say with truth, more consistent, religiously. I take after my father; and that, I guess, is a good thing for you.”
“Why is it?” asked Mildred.
“Why, don’t you see, if I were a rigid Presbyterian, I should hesitate about giving you liberty? I should be afraid of doing violence to my conscience. Waiving that, however, I think I have been a faithful servant of my government, and they might allow me to release one wretched prisoner.”
“Why could you not get a pardon for me, and thus save your conscience?” asked Mildred.
“How green you women are! Don’t you know there is no pardon for a spy? Don’t you remember Maj. Andre, of the Revolutionary war? Washington would not even let the poor fellow select his own mode of quitting ‘these low grounds of sorrow.’ The punishment for this great sin of espionage is death, and death by hanging.”
“Can you free me,” asked Mildred, “without compromising your own safety?”
“I will have to take some risks, of course, but you needn’t give yourself any uneasinesson my account, my fair cousin. Can you make your way home, if you were out of this building? Can you go alone?”
“Certainly, but it will not be necessary.”
“What! you’ve got another accomplice?”
“I shall not conceal anything from you, Will, since you are so kind,” replied Mildred, while a deep blush spread over her features. “I am engaged to be married to a young man who is here. His room is on this floor.”
“Indeed! what a pretty, romantic scrape you have got into! It would do to go into a novel. But you have made such an honest confession, though, that I can’t have the pleasure of teasing you. Is he a Rebel too?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Wouldn’t it be patriotic, if I were to have him arrested, and tried as a spy? Two romantic lovers hanged on a sour apple tree!”
“You might call it patriotic,” said Mildred, “but what would I call it?”
“O, treacherous, mean, diabolical, and the like. But we’ve got to act now,” taking out his watch. “What do you want me to do? Can you and the young man who is so interesting, manage the matter if you can get out of the city?”
“Certainly.”
“When can you see him?”
“I suppose he is in his room,” replied Mildred.
“What number?”
“No. 18.”
“I’ll go see him at once.”
Accordingly, the officer went to the designated number, and tapped on the door. A footstep was heard inside, and the door was opened by Ernest. Seeing a Federal officer standing before him, he was disagreeably surprised. The first thought that entered his mind was that he had been watched, and this man had come to arrest him. The prospect was enough to make him turn pale. Benner observed his alarm, and said with a smile:
“Is your name Edgefield?”
“Who told you that I bore such a name?” asked Ernest, in ill-concealed surprise.
“It does not matter who told me, is the information correct?”
“I do not like to answer questions in regard to myself till I understand your object.”
“My object is, to establish your identity.”
“For what purpose?” asked Ernest.
“If you know what is for your own good,” replied Benner, “you will answer candidly.”
“Supposing that to be my name, what then?”
“If that’s your name, come with me.”
“Where,” asked Ernest.
“To that lady in the corner room.”
Ernest looked more astonished than ever, on hearing this, but thought it best to obey in silence. Both entered the room, and Mildred said:
“Allow me to introduce, Capt. Edgefield, my cousin, Capt. Benner.”
Ernest, at first, appeared puzzled and bewildered, but he soon took in the situation, and his feelings vibrated to the opposite extreme. He was elevated from the depths of darkness to the pinnacle of light. Of course, he thought the young man had come to bring deliverance to his kinswoman. At that moment, too, a sense of his ingratitude toward God flashed into his mind. In a subdued tone he inquired how Capt. Benner had discovered his cousin. He was told in a very few words what the reader knows concerning the affair. Ernest relapsed into silence, and bitterly reproached himself for his lack of confidence in the kind Heavenly Father. Here God was bringing the blind by a way they knew not,and was preparing deliverance, while he had been indulging in harsh reflections toward the Giver of all good. It was a lesson which he never forgot. From that moment he became a firm believer in the doctrines of grace as held by the Presbyterian Church.
We hope we are not taking undue advantage of any interest that may be excited by the present story to give undeserved prominence to the Presbyterian Church. The effect which her doctrines have upon individual and national character is admitted by thoughtful historians. Buckle, in his History of Civilization, does justice to them. According to him, they are better adapted to democratic institutions than any other published creeds. It will be found that those who have believed in these doctrines, which some people call “horrible,” have ever been the most stubborn, uncompromising advocates of human rights. They have been foremost in all the great conflicts for freedom. These same doctrines underlaid the Reformation of the 16th century, as is evident to the most cursory reader. We are, by no means, attempting to disparage other Churches, but our present undertaking will not allow us to point out their excellences.We will now proceed with the story. We need not detail the conversation which took place among the trio, nor attempt to describe the happiness of the two who were in the greatest danger. Ernest was so overwhelmed by this evident demonstration of divine providence that he did not have much to say. He was thinking. Mildred acted as though she were not greatly surprised. She had sent up many earnest prayers to the Throne of Grace and she was not astounded that her petitions were answered.
“Well,” said Benner, presently, when it was time to bring the interview to an end, “you must leave about 12 o’clock, when most honest people are asleep. I will see that the way is clear in the hotel. You must both be dressed as union soldiers, at least till you get to the forests. I will have the clothing here in time.”
Capt. Benner then left, but returned at 30 minutes past 11 o’clock. Mildred and Ernest were soon transformed into Federal soldiers, at least, in appearance. Each was armed with a musket, and no one, without an unusually close inspection, would have supposed they were other than they appeared to be. And now all was ready.
As the clock struck 12, two Federal soldiers issued from —— hotel, and walked leisurely along the streets. In a short time they left the lamps glimmering in the distance, and plunged into the darkness of the forest. Two miles from the city they mounted their horses which had been left in the care of a friend.
Early the next day, they suddenly ran upon a union soldier, who was a vidette. This route had not been occupied by Federal soldiers before, as it was scarcely anything more than a path. The young people were very much surprised, but Ernest in an instant recovered his self-possession, and decided upon his plan of action. He was still dressed in the Federal uniform, and had his musket, besides his own pistol. They came upon the soldier in a sudden turn of the path, and were within a few paces of him before they discovered him. The vidette, taking Ernest to be what this garb indicated, without raising his gun, called out:
“Halt! who goes there?”
He had barely uttered the words before Ernest leveled his gun, and exclaimed:
“Surrender!”
“Who are you?” cried the astounded soldier.
“Drop your gun,” exclaimed Ernest sternly, “or I shall kill you.”
The amazed vidette, perceiving that resistance would be in vain, let his gun drop to the earth.
“Now,” said Ernest, “I have no disposition to harm you. All we want is to pass you. Are you willing to let us go?”
“How can I hinder you,” asked the soldier “when I am disarmed?”
“But you must promise not to pursue us.”
“Where are you going?” asked the soldier.
“That is my business,” replied Ernest.
“Certainly. I promise then.”
“Promise,” said Ernest, “that you will remain on your horse for fifteen minutes, and not touch that gun, and will give no alarm after we are gone.”
“I promise,” answered the soldier.
“To make assurance doubly sure,” continued Ernest, “I will take your cartridges.”
“O, don’t do that,” begged the vidette. “I will promise just as you want me to.”
“Why are you so opposed to giving up your cartridges?”
“Because I am accountable for them. I don’t intend to say anything about thisaffair, because the boys would laugh at me, and I might be punished too. Just go, and get out of the way as quick as you can, and I give you my word of honor that you shall not hear another word from me. But how am I to account for the loss of my cartridges?”
“You seem to be honest,” said Ernest, “and I believe I will try you.”
The two immediately rode on, and the soldier kept his word, so far as Ernest knew.
That morning, while Mildred and Ernest were making their escape, the first passers-by saw a long rope, reaching from the corner room of the fourth story of —— hotel, down to the pavement below. They knew not what it meant. About 9 o’clock though, when the Court-Martial sent for the female prisoner, it was discovered that the “bird had flown.” The sentinel, who had been stationed at the door about twelve o’clock, could give no account of the escape. The door was locked, and he heard nothing. It was presently noised abroad that the lady spy had escaped, and soon hundreds of people gathered in the streets, looked up at the dangling rope, and wondered how a lady could have climbed down such a fearful distance. The generalopinion was that she was a brave, daring woman, who was confined to this one mode of escape. “Of course,” they said, “she had friends in the city, who assisted her in the perilous undertaking.” At any rate, she was gone. The chief clerk at the hotel, who had been instrumental in her arrest, was not of the rabid class who regretted her timely flight. “I don’t care,” he said with a smile. “I don’t believe she was a spy anyhow. Even if she was, and they had hanged her, I believe I should have felt guilty of murder.”
Nothing more was ever found out about it, and Capt. Benner bore the character of a true and loyal soldier till the horrid war came to an end. Some years afterwards he met Mildred, and laughingly explained his scheme, remarking that, “people might have had sense enough to know that she could not have escaped in that way.”
“Possibly I might, though,” she said. “There is no telling what one can do, when life depends upon it.” And she laughed as she thought of how she would have appeared, dangling by her hands on a rope between heaven and earth.
[2]An intelligent member of the Methodist denomination once spoke these very words to the author of this story.