"October 3.
"I HAVE been in such a maze of suspense and bewilderment for a month, dear Journal, that I have neglected you; to-night I'll recall, if I can, some of my lost days. No, I can't. It makes no diference; they were only days of trouble. I am perplexed to death to know the result of the baron's letter. He wrote, of course, and urged that Mr. Mordecai send Leah at once to him. And the preparations are going rapidly forward for her departure. Every day I say, 'Darling, stay with me,' and her father says, 'Daughter, you must go.' 'We shall see, in the end, what the end will be.'
"October 15.-To-night, dear Journal, I make the most triumphant record of my life. Tell it not, breathe it not, to a mortal soul! Leah, my darling, has promised to marry me, and not go to Europe, as her father had determined. She told me last night, when I met her in the park, that her mind was made up. She would not go. She did not wish to go, and to marry me was her only alternative. She loves me, though, and we shall be happy, I am sure. My parents are bitterly opposed, and hers will be, to such a union, but we will be married, for all that. Helen alone is in my confidence; she has none of that pride that revolts at Leah's being a Jewess. To-morrow I leave for Havana, where I go with papers from our banking house to a branch house in that city. If I am successful in making my business arrangements, as I feel assured I shall be, then all will be well. I can only remain two days, as the day for Leah's embarkation is not a fortnight off. My mother and father know nothing of the business that takes me away, yet I have not deceived them. But, Journal, good night.
"October 28.-Home again from Havana-home with bounding heart and glowing hopes. I admire that fine City of the Antilles almost as much as I do my beloved, native Queen City. I shall enjoy my new home, I know. How could I do else than enjoy it? With a satisfactory salary in our branch house, and a lovely young wife, a heathen might well be happy. Now, old Mordecai can keep his gold, if he likes, and ny father can do the same. The opposition has driven me to rely more implicitly upon myself, thank the fates. I shall be able to 'paddle my own canoe.' Leah looks something like those Spanish beauties, only she's a trifle sadder in expression. I trust she'll be happy in her new home, amid Cuban bloom and under azure skies. Heaven grant her an unclouded life. I am delirious with joy; and for fear of committing too much to your keeping, Journal, I'll stop writing. Adieu."
"AUNT BARBARA," said Leah, the day before the proposed departure of the vessel that was to bear her away, "will you tell Mingo to leave the key of the lodge hanging just inside the inner door to-night. I may be coming in, or going out late, and he need not be disturbed, if he will do that." These words were addressed to a middle-aged colored woman, who, with high-turbaned head, moved busily about Leah's apartment, folding garments and packing trunks, and sighing, ever and anon, as though enduring heart-felt grief at the prospect of the approaching parting.
"Yes, dear chile, I'll tell him, if you wish. Dere is not many more times for your dear feet to pass in and out of de lodge;" and accompanying these simple, pathetic words was an outburst of honest tears, that fell upon the tidy white apron which the kind soul held to her eyes.
"Will you miss me, Aunt Barbara, when I am gone?" said Leah, deeply moved by the old colored woman's manifestation of sorrow.
"Law, chile, God only knows how ole Aunt Barbara will miss you. But I'll pray de good Lord to keep you safe from harm, when you are so far away, and bring you back to us again, one day."
"Suppose I never come back, Aunt Barbara; will you ever forget me?"
The old woman made no reply, but her ponderous frame shook convulsively, with excessive emotion. Leah then approached this faithful friend, and laying her arm around her neck, said tenderly, "Don't cry so, Aunt Barbara, but cheer me with the hope that some day I'll come back to you." The sound of approaching footsteps in the hall dried Aunt Barbara's tears, and when she opened the door in response to a gentle tap, her face was as placid as a summer lake.
"Is it you, father? Come in," said Leah, looking up to meet her father's eye.
"Yes, my daughter. Are you ready? Are the trunks packed? Can I do anything more for you?" replied Mr. Mordecai, almost in one breath.
"Nearly ready, father. Aunt Barbara has about finished the last one, and I am ready to leave you."
These words, so full of feeling, so sorrowfully spoken, too, struck deep into the father's heart, and filled him with unspeakable regret.
"Ready to leave me, daughter," he reiterated, half petulantly, "I fear that you do not appreciate, or rather that you misinterpret my motive in sending you on so grand a journey. How many girls there are who vainly wish, from day to day, for such advantages as I am offering you!"
To these words Leah made no reply. And Mr. Mordecai, walking backward and forward with restless step across his daughter's bed-chamber, secretly regretted that he had ever considered the project for a moment. Then he said, half apologetically, "You shall only stay a year, my daughter; that is not such a very long time."
"Maybe I shall never come back, father. But you will love me always, won't you?"
"Hush! hush! child. I do not like your words. They distress me! A year is a short time, you know; so don't be foolish. Come, braid up your hair, arrange your dress, and come down at once into the drawing-room. I must have some music to-night."
"With pleasure, dear father," answered Leah, as cheerfully as the swelling emotion at her heart would allow. Then, in an undertone to herself, she added, "It may be the last time I shall have the privilege of playing for him in my life. If I were to go to Europe, that wretched woman would devise some plan to keep me there, and so I'll stay with—" the last word she uttered was spoken in a whisper, and scarce escaped her lips. Hastily obeying her father's summous, after arranging a becoming toilet, Leah descended to the drawing-room, where Mr. Mordecai awaited her. "Father," said Leah abruptly, as she was turning to her music, "to-day, in looking over a package of papers, I came across the cards of cousin Hannah Stuyvesant; I had not thought of her for ever so long. Who was it she married?"
"Oh! A Christian dog! A renegade. Somebody named Bliss, I believe."
"Did they prosper, father?"
"I'll venture to say not, but I do not know positively. I've known nothing of her since she so far renounced her people as to marry a Christian. Neither have I desired to know anything of her."
At these words of Mr. Mordecai-significant words-Leah stationed herself at the instrument, and, with mind absorbed, and thoughts far away from the music, she performed mechanically piece after piece, as her father would request. The tea-bell at last summoned the family to the evening meal, and encircling his daughter with his arm, Mr. Mordecai led the way to the waiting repast. This was the last evening meal of the banker's family, unbroken. Yet who could have said so on that memorable evening in the long ago?
NIGHT gathered around the Queen City with dark and sombre fold, after the chilly October day previous to the one appointed for Leah Mordecai's departure for Europe-a night whose ominous gloom seemed to pervade the innermost apartment of the banker's home. It was late before Mr. Mordecai could spare his daughter from his presence, and give the good-night kiss, his usual benediction before they separated for slumber. Even the wily Rebecca said good night now in a tender tone, and gave Leah a gracious smile as she ascended the stairs for the last time. "It is the last," thought she, "for many a long day, maybe forever, and I can smile in sincerity. Once gone, I'll see to it that she never comes again. Aha! I am happy now, and can smile in joy and truth."
Once more within her quiet chamber, Leah locked the door and stood a moment with frightened face gazing furtively around the room. All was silent. The beating of her own wild heart was all the sound she heard. Then sinking down from actual weakness, she sat a moment as if summoning the last spark of courage in her timid, fearful soul and said, "Yes, it is a dreadful alternative, but I am driven to it. If I obey my father, and go to Europe, I know I shall not return for many years, if ever. If I am to be separated from my father, it shall not be by that woman's scheming. She has devised this plan to send me from my home, and she shall be disappointed. I am assured that Emile loves me, yet I should never have married him had I not been forced to do so-simply because he is not a Jew. But as it is, I take the step deliberately, firmly resolved to abide the consequences, be they good or evil. Yes, I am resolved to take this first step in disobedience to my father's wishes. I cannot help it. It has caused me terrible suffering to reach this decision, but circumstances press me to it. Now, it is irrevocable. God forgive me, if I cause my father sorrow! He knows how I love and serve him, and Heaven knows how cruelly I have been dealt with. But time is passing. I must write a last, fond letter to my dear Lizzie; tell her of this final, desperate step in my life, and beg that her love, so long tried, may follow me still through the untried life that lies before me, be it a life of sunshine or of shadow.
"Oh! the thought is dreadful. Let me see. Now the hour is eleven. Emile will come at twelve. I must hasten;" and rising from her recumbent posture, Leah replaced the watch within her bosom, and seating herself at the escritoire, wrote a last, loving letter to the friend of her school-days. This she dropped into her pocket, that she might post it at the lodge. Then she wrote, with trembling hand and faltering heart, a farewell message to her beloved father; and she was done. In a small portmanteau she had carefully packed the few things requisite for her clandestine journey. The well-filled trunks were safely locked, and the keys hanging idly upon the ring in her work-basket. "These trunks," she murmured to herself, as she glanced around the room preparatory to leaving it, "will descend to my sister, or go to Europe, or, maybe, will be destroyed. I shall never use their contents. Dear Aunt Barbara's careful packing was all to no purpose, had she only known it. Kind Aunt Barbara! Now, one thing more remains to be done. I must have my mother's miniature before I quit my father's house, perhaps forever. Aunt Barbara has secured the key of the cabinet for me, and it lies secreted in one of the drawers. Yes, Rebecca has kept it from me for nearly five years. How I burn with anger yet, to think of the cruel lie that took from me the only gift I ever valued in my life! That perfidious bosom shall never feel the pressure of that precious, jewelled face again. No, in heaven's name, I will not leave without it!"
"Hush! the citadel clock strikes the quarter to twelve! Dear old room! Chair, bed, books, pictures-all, farewell!"
The house below was silent. The lights had been darkened for an hour. With stealthy step along the upper hall, and silent footfall on the stairway, the cloaked and hooded figure of Leah approached the sleeping apartment of her father and his wife. The sound of heavy breathing betokened heavy slumber, as she silently turned the door-knob and stood within the chamber. Reassured by this sound, she glided toward the cabinet, and noiselessly adjusting the key, turned it gently in the lock. The white, delicate finger stole softly about the first smoothly polished drawer, to find it empty. Then one and another underwent, in quick succession, the same noiseless inspection, till the fourth and last drawer was reached; and that one yielded up the coveted treasure. Hastily placing it in her bosom, she closed the drawer, and then glided out as softly as she had glided into the room. On the threshold she cast back one fond, lingering look at the dimly outlined figure of her father, as he lay before her in unconscious slumber. "Heaven ever shield him," she whispered softly; and passed on-on and out beyond the heavily-bolted front door-out forever! In the starlight, chill and faint, she found herself, with trembling limbs and trembling heart, and for a moment sat down on the cold stone step to rally her failing strength and courage before she sought the lodge. At the sound of approaching wheels she arose, and walked with rapid step to the lodge, reaching it just as a coach drew up before it.
"Is it you, Emile?" said Leah softly, as the lodge door opened and a manly form appeared.
"Yes, darling. Thank fortune, your courage has not failed you. I have been feverish with anxiety and impatience for hours. Are you ready, dear?"
At these words Leah trembled, and faltered "Yes."
"Well, I thought it best to bring the minister with me, and so my friend Bishop Leveret is in the carriage. Suppose we have the ceremony performed here; then there can be no possible disappointment or danger. Are you afraid?"
"What have I to fear now, when I have gone so far? I abide now by your wishes in all matters, henceforth and forever. I am ready."
In a moment the bishop was summoned. By the light of a dimly burning lantern, he drew forth the Prayer Book, and read the impressive marriage ceremony of his church. The responses were solemnly uttered, the benediction invoked, and at that midnight hour, in the stillness of the porter's lodge, Emile Le Grande and the young Jewess were pronounced "man and wife." Driving quickly to the vessel that was ready to depart for the tropical port with the first appearance of the morning sun, Emile soon safely ensconced his bride in the comfortable cabin, and with a feeling of joy, tinged only with a shadowy apprehension, he bade adieu to the kind bishop, who had accompanied them thither.
As the morning sun rose, bright and ruddy, from its eastern bed, the vessel's gun, giving the signal for departing, sounded beyond the foaming bar, and the newly wedded lovers were adrift, alike upon the ocean of life and upon the blue expanse that surrounded them-adrift to suffer a dismal shipwreck, or to anchor safely within some remote harbor of love and security.
ANXIOUS and nervous from the expected sorrow of the coming day, Mr. Mordecai rose early from his couch of restless slumber. Restlessly he walked the library floor backward and forward, awaiting the appearance of his daughter Leah. At length he said to his wife, as she summoned him to the morning meal, "It's very late. I wonder why Leah does not come down. I'll just step to her room, and see if she is ready; fatigue and anxiety may have caused her to sleep later than usual this morning. I'll join you in the breakfast-room in a moment."
After a moment had elapsed, Mr. Mordecai stood gently tapping at his daughter's chamber door. There was no response. He gently opened it. The room was vacant. Not a sound or a voice greeted his entrance. Stiff and well-arranged, the elegant furniture stood mutely against the cold, cheerless walls. The ominous tidiness of the deserted bed-chamber bespoke a fearful story. The father stood for a moment in amazement, silently surveying the apartment, his heart half trembling with a vague fear; then he said, in a hoarse, frightened tone, "Leah, my daughter, where are you?" There came no reply, but the faint echo of his whispered words, "Where are you?"
Stepping forward softly into the room, he paused again, and then with slow, uncertain step approached the casement that looked out upon the front garden. There was nothing without but the sunshine and the breeze, and the passing crowd already beginning to throng the streets. Again he turned, with anxious heart, away from the crowd without, to the deserted room within. "Where's my daughter? Leah, dear Leah, where are you?" A folded scrap of paper upon the escritoire caught his eye, and springing forward he seized it, half hopefully, half fearfully, and tremblingly unfolded it. These are the words it contained:
"OWN DEAREST FATHER: Can you, will you ever forgive your disobedient Leah? I shudder when I think of you, reading these lines in the morning, when I shall be far away from your loving embrace! But, dear father, you know I did not desire to go to Saxony, so far away from you; fearing, yes, even knowing that circumstances would arise to prevent my return. I cannot explain my meaning, dear father, for fear of imperilling your happiness. I prefer to live on, as I have done for years, with the secret of my sorrow-the secret that impels me to this act of disobedience-hidden in my heart. I fear your wrath, and yet, dear father, I cannot go. I prefer to remain and marry the one whom, next to yourself, I love above all mankind-Emile Le Grande. Yes, dear father, when your eyes peruse these lines, I shall be his wife, and far away on my journey to our distant home. He loves me, and I love him, yet more than once have I refused his love, in deference to your teachings, that 'to deny my people and my faith, by marriage with a Christian, was worse than death, and an everlasting disgrace.' Can I hope, then, for your forgiveness, even though I seek it on bended knees, dear father? Had I been allowed to remain at home, I never should have married him, certainly not in the clandestine manner I propose. I flee to the love and protection of Emile, as an alternative to a dreadful fate. Oh! pity and forgive me, father; love me, even though I bring sorrow to your tender, loving heart. In my new home, I shall watch and wait for some tidings, some missive like a white-winged dove, bearing me a single word of love and remembrance from my beloved father. If it comes not, alas! ah me! you may always know there's a sorrow in my heart that no amount of happiness or prosperity can ever eradicate-a darkness that no sunshine can ever dispel.
"And now again, and lastly, my father, I pray that the blessing of the great God of Israel may ever rest upon your venerable head; and will you not, too, invoke His blessing to descend upon the head of your unworthy and unhappy child? Dear, dear, precious father, now adieu, a long tearful adieu, till I receive your blessing. "Sorrowfully, your own "LEAH."
Stupefied and amazed, Mr. Mordecai scarcely realized the import of the words that his flashing eye devoured, till the familiar signature was reached. Then, as if a flood of light had burst upon his blinded vision, came the dreadful revelation; involuntarily he exclaimed, "Eternal God! It cannot be! It is not possible, that my child has fled from me! Gone with a Christian dog, to become his wife; seduced by his honeyed words from the embrace of my love to that of his faithless heart! Torn from my home to follow the wanderings of a villain! Oh, God! Oh, heaven! It cannot be! It must not be! I swear, by Israel, it shall not be! Oh my child! my daughter, my own precious Leah? Where art thou? Where hast thou fled, my daughter?"
In frenzy Mr. Mordecai smote his breast, tore his silvery locks, and bowed in grief as the fatal letter fell from his trembling hand. The depths of his sorrow were stirred, and the tears that flowed from his burning heart left the fountain dry and shrivelled. Then, as the calm succeeds the storm, so, when this fierce tempest of emotion was passed, Mr. Mordecai regathered his strength, summoned the forces of his pride, revenge, and hatred, dispelled all traces of his sorrow, steeled himself for the duty before him, and with a heart of stone in a bosom of adamant, took up the letter and descended the stairs to the waiting family below. Untasted before them was the morning meal. With wild look and emphatic step Mr. Mordecai entered the breakfast-room, and stood before the family holding the letter aloft in his trembling hand. "See here," said he, with a ringing voice, "read here the story of a child, that sought to break an aged father's heart. But hear me first. Hear this my oath. This heart shall not break, I swear it shall not! Leah has gone-fled with a Christian dog, to become his wife. Read it for yourselves when I am gone; but hear me, you that remain. Sarah and Frederick. My blessing shall never rest upon her, living or dying. As she has chosen to bring sorrow upon the gray hairs of her father, so may God rain trouble upon her disobedient head. May her children wander, uncircumcised dogs, friendless, and neglected-as she has neglected me-upon the face of the earth, ever seeking bread, yet feeling constant hunger! Despised of her people, and rejected of her people's God, may she ever feel the need of a friend, and yet find none! Her disobedience is cursed forever, so I swear it by the God of Israel! Mark my words, and remember my wrath!" he concluded, looking fiercely into the eyes of the two children who sat silent before him. "Read this for yourselves; and then burn it, and scatter the ashes to the winds." No one made reply to that outburst of implacable, burning rage, that so consumed the father's heart. They had never seen him in such a frenzy before. Mr. Mordecai then hurriedly left the house, and passing Mingo, at the porter's lodge, went out without a nod of recognition. Urbanely bowing and smiling, Mingo let his master pass, wondering at this singular breach of his accustomed politeness.
As the lodge door closed after Mr. Mordecai had passed out, Mingo bethought him of something, and hastily pursuing his master, said:
"Here, master, is this your yourn?"
"What?" asked the master morosely.
"This book, sir; I found it in the lodge."
Mechanically, Mr. Mordecai took it from the servant, and placed it in the inner pocket of his coat, and then passed on without a word. In the house, all were startled, all dismayed, at the disclosure in the letter; all, save Rebecca, were filled with sadness. She felt no regret. The brother and sister moved silently and sorrowfully about the house, and in and out of the vacated chamber, hardly realizing that their gentle sister had indeed gone.
MR. MORDECAI had scarcely passed a square from his home, when suddenly he retraced his steps, and stood again before the lodge.
"Mingo," he said sharply, "tell your mistress to send me that cursed letter. Be quick."
With a dash the nimble slave obeyed the command, and in a moment stood before his master, the letter in his hand, bowing and smiling with his usual politeness.
Taking the letter, Mr. Mordecai crushed it in his hand, then placed it in his breast pocket, as he again started forward toward his banking-house. If he passed man, woman, child, friend, acquaintance, or kinsman in that morning's walk, he knew it not; for the tumult of passion that stirred his soul obliterated for the time every recollection but that of the terrible sorrow that had befallen him. In due time he reached the dingy brown banking-house, and stood irresolutely for a moment upon the well-worn stone steps. He placed the ponderous key within the lock, but the hand seemed powerless to turn its massive bolt; and for a moment he stood with thoughtful, determined eye resting upon the pavement. A moment more, and then he quickly withdrew the key, dropped it into his pocket, and briskly retraced his steps for square after square, and then abruptly turned into the well-known street where stood the office of the distinguished Le Grande.
It happened that Mr. Mordecai approached the office from one direction, as Judge Le Grande himself approached it from another, riding in the light single phaeton in which he usually drove to and from his office.
"Good-morning, Mr. Mordecai. How goes it with you, my friend, this fine morning?" said the judge pleasantly, as he alighted and threw the lines to Cato, the driver.—"Tell your mistress she need not send for me till five o'clock. I shall be very busy to-day." Then turning to the banker he looked for a reply.
"It's no good-morning to me," replied the banker fiercely. "The night has brought devilish work to my home."
"What do you mean, my friend?" was the judge's quiet reply. "What has the night done?"
"Played the devil! Don't you try to trifle with my sorrow. That son of yours has already wrought me injury enough. Don't you attempt to mock me. I warn you, Le Grande, I warn you!"
Astonished by these mysterious words of the Hebrew, Judge Le Grande gravely assured Mr. Mordecai that he knew nothing of the trouble that had befallen him, and repeatedly asked, "What has my son done?"
"Done? Alas! he has done that which would to God I could undo!" was the reply, uttered angrily and savagely. "But as I cannot undo it, I shall curse it-curse it from the depths of my soul! He has married my daughter? Stolen her-taken her away in secret from my house, and they have wisely fled from my presence!"
"Married your daughter!" ejaculated the judge, the truth faintly dawning on him. "Surely that's a mistake."
"Indeed it is a wild mistake; I would to God it were otherwise."
"By what authority do you make this assertion?" continued Judge LeGrande, evidently aroused by the dawning truth.
"By the confession of my daughter, left in her room, and written a short time before her flight."
"Where is that confession? Let me see it."
"Here," replied the banker, drawing the crumpled missive from his pocket. "There, read the mischief for yourself."
With trembling hand Judge Le Grande smoothed out the crushed paper, and eagerly, fearfully, scanned the contents that were to crush his hopes, as they had crushed those of the banker. Silently, carefully, he read it, read it till the story was told, and then, brushing away a tear from his eye he said, with emotion:
"Mordecai, forgive her! Forgive her, as I shall forgive him; and now that it is done, let us make the best of it."
"Forgive!" hissed the banker; "forgive such an act of disobedience as that? Such disgrace to my name and people? Never, while there is a drop of Hebrew blood in Benjamin Mordecai's veins, will I forgive it!"
"It's no more a disgrace to your name and people than it is to mine; but I consider that people are fools, who make disgrace of family troubles, by obstinately parading them before the world."
"Then I shall delight in being a fool, if so you deem it," repliedMr. Mordecai, with kindling emotion.
"Alas! I had great plans for Emile," said Judge Le Grande sadly, as he turned away from Mr. Mordecai; "and his mother too; she had fondly hoped he would marry Belle Upton. Now, all is disappointment. I do not know how she will bear it. As for myself, I shall make the best of it. I hope they may be happy.-I say, Mordecai," looking steadily at the banker, "they have my forgiveness and my blessing too. You may do as you please."
"Well, I curse them," the banker answered bitterly; "and I swear they shall never see my face again, living or dying. Not one dollar from my purse shall they ever receive, even though want and beggary come upon them. Think not I can ever change, Judge Le Grande. As my people and my people's God, the Eternal Father, are unchangeable, so is my purpose concerning these disobedient children. Good morning." Mr. Mordecai then turned slowly from the office, and as the judge beheld the receding form, and remembered the fierce flash of his dark eye, he unhesitatingly exclaimed, "Poor old man! I pity you. And," he added after a moment's pause, "Heaven pity us both!"
As a bird floats safely upon the bosom of the blue sky and finds at last her leafy home, so the little vessel that bore the fugitive lovers, found safe and speedy anchorage in the quiet harbor of the sea-girt isle that was to be their future home. The young, ardent husband, and the fair, gentle wife, gazed with delight upon the cloudless skies and bright waters, and thought hopefully of the future. Only one shadow darkened their horizon. It was a fearful thought, to Leah, that her father's anathema might ever rest upon her. But the future was veiled, and the voice of Hope whispered, "his blessing may come by and by. Wait."
TWO years rolled away-two short, bright years of individual and national prosperity, and then came a change. To use the words of the immortal Dickens, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness; it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair; we had everything before us, we had nothing before us; we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way." These utterances of inspiration so fittingly describing the period that ushered in the bloody French Revolution, may be applied with equal truth and force to the years that inaugurated the war between the States in fair America.
Did not prosperity bud and blossom in every vale and hamlet of this fair domain? And yet were a people ever more unmindful of, or more ungrateful for their blessings? Bickering and strife, dissension and hatred, grew fiercer with the growth of the nation's grandeur. Slavery, on one hand said, "I will," and Freedom, on the other, "You shall not." So the war-cloud, "the size of a man's hand" only at first, appeared upon the dim horizon of the future. Wisdom sought to devise plans for averting war, but Folly shook her locks tauntingly, and said mockingly, "Ha! ha! War is pleasant pastime." So the culmination was reached, and a misguided people, clamorous for war, sounded the tocsin that caused rivers of blood to flow from brothers' hearts, and enshrouded a grand and happy people in desolation and disgrace.
At the time when the war-cloud of fratricidal conflict was rolling dark and broad over the land, a treacherous enemy on the border were menacing and even destroying many of our country's peaceful citizens. Upon the broad frontier at the Far West it became the duty of the government to hold these wily foes in check by a strong and reliable armed force. To this north-western outpost of service Captain Marshall had been ordered by the voice of his country. Not ordered there as to a holiday excursion, but ordered into actual bloody conflict, and to an ordeal that would have tried the bravery and courage of a veteran. At the head of his command, Company A, 3d Regiment U. S. Regulars, Captain Marshall reached this post of danger in the hour of its most imminent peril. But for this timely arrival of troops, the peaceful little town of Minneopoli might have been laid waste, and its defenceless inhabitants cruelly butchered or carried away captive. But the premeditated destruction of the town was averted, the treacherous "red-skins" disappointed, and Captain Marshall's bravery demonstrated beyond a peradventure.
It was the night after the attack of the Indians, and the bloody repulse. All was quiet. The troops were reassembled in camp. The usual garrulity of the soldiers was checked by the recollection of their dead comrades, so recently laid to rest in soldiers' graves. All, too, remembered the danger through which they had passed, and many were moody and silent. At length a bright-faced, light-headed young recruit spoke out, seeing the silence and sadness around the camp-fire. "I say, captain, that was a wretched red-skin of a chief that you hauled in yesterday. He looked more like the Prince of Darkness than the chief of a tribe. I thought once, cap'n, he had you; and I was just ready to pick him off, when I saw you were safe."
"Yes, Carlos, that was a close place, and but for a kind fate, I should be sleeping with those brave fellows who have left us. Peace to their resting-places."
"I was sorry you did not kill him; he deserved death. But how quick he did surrender, when he saw you close in on him with your sword! Ha! ha!"
"Yes, Mico is a bad, bad Indian, and has caused more trouble to this settlement than all the other Indians combined. I guess he will enjoy his freedom, when he gets it again. Confinement and chains are worse than death to him."
"I tell you, cap'n, they are cowardly devils. They can't stand gunpowder. At the very smell of it they run out from their hiding-places, like so many rats from a burning building. I hated to see one of them taken alive. It's not like fighting civilized people; is it, cap'n? I am in favor of the black flag in a fight with these red devils."
"War is war, Carlos, and brutalizes the most intelligent people on earth, if they indulge in it. I trust our troubles are ended here, for a long time, if not forever, now that Mico is our prisoner. At any rate, I hope all will remain peaceful and tranquil till I go home and return. For a month I have a leave of absence, to visit my native State."
"Going home, captain, to see your mother?" spoke up a fair-haired young boy, scarcely eighteen, who had sat a silent listener to the conversation between Carlos and his commander.
"Ah! Franco, I have no mother; she died long ago," replied the captain; "but I am going back to my native State. My father and a brother and sister live there."
"It has been many a long day," said Franco, "since I saw my native hills, and heard my mother's gentle voice, as she went singing about our humble home. I often wonder how she could sing so, with so much poverty and care constantly about her. Maybe I shall never see her again ;" and a shade of sorrow crept over the fair young face of the French recruit.
The captain replied, "I trust that you may, Franco, though you are now so many leagues away. What brought you away from her, Franco?"
"Poverty, captain, poverty; and unless I can lighten the burden of my mother's life by returning, I shall never go back!"
Silence at length settled upon the camp, and one by one the groups of comrades disbanded. The campfires were extinguished, and at an early hour sleep tenderly enfolded these guardians of their country's peace and security.
THE spring had come again, and a little more than its first month had elapsed when, early one morning, as the sun was stealing up softly from the east, and before it had brought the hour for the slumbering troops to be aroused by another r‚veille, or had gilded the hills and valleys with its light, Captain Marshall, accompanied by his faithful orderly, Franco, entered the half-slumbering town of Minneopoli and turned toward the inn, whence the coach was soon to leave for the nearest railway station.
"Lieutenant Styles will be in command, Franco, till I return, you know, and I fear he will form a dangerous substitute, with his affable nature," said the captain, as the hour of parting drew near.
"Well, never mind that, captain; no matter how affable, we boys do not wish a new commander just now," returned the true-hearted boy.
"Take care of your scalps, Franco. Don't let the 'red-skins' surprise you while I am gone. There, I see the coach is ready. I must soon bid you adieu."
"If I remember the bravery of my captain, the red devils won't get my scalp, I'll wager. But I hope they are settled for a time. Come back as soon as you can, captain, and in your absence think occasionally of Franco, will you? There comes the coach. The horses are fine and gay."
"Rest assured, Franco, I will think of you, and often too. How I would like to take you with me! But take care of yourself. A month's absence is not such a long time, after all. Good-by, my dear fellow, good-by;" and seating himself in the waiting coach, Captain Marshall waved an adieu to his sorrowful young companion, and at the same moment the coach driver hallooed, "All ready!" and gave a sharp crack of the whip; the horses dashed forward, and recruit and captain were soon separated-separated forever. In less time than a fortnight, Captain Marshall had accomplished his long and troublesome journey, and was safe once more within his native State.
"I tell you, Fred," said the captain, one day when he was visiting a friend in the Queen City, "the agitated, portentous state of affairs in this section distresses and alarms me. I had no dream of the warlike aspect of this quiet Queen City of the Sea. I fancied we had all the trouble with us, in the north-west, among those wretched savages. I came home for a month of recreation and pleasure, and—" he uttered with slight hesitation—"for the fulfilment of my plighted troth; for the realization of the bright dream of a love that has brightened my heart for nearly two years. Yes, Fred, and if it were not for the business that takes me to fair Melrose, I should regret that my coming home had been just at this time. I tell you, my good fellow, the future portends evil, if not bloodshed."
"Well, Marshall, bloodshed is inevitable, unless as a section we are allowed our constitutional rights; and I, for one, say, if it must, let it come, even with the fury of a storm. I am for State rights, and the Palmetto State forever!"
"Not bloodshed, Fred, if we can avert it," replied the young officer to the enthusiastic outburst of the impetuous young Pinckney, the beloved friend of his boyhood. "I am just from the gory field, where I saw my brave men fall beneath the treacherous blows of the Indians. I have seen bloodshed, and desire to see no more of it. I have always loved military life, you know, Fred; but I tell you it tries the heart of a man to see his men shot down like dogs."
"Oh, yes; you are for the Union, I see," replied young Pinckney with impatient gesture. "Your service in the regular army has weaned your heart from your native State, I fear."
"Oh! yes; I am for the Union just now-the union of hearts, at least; and as you go with me to Melrose, you shall see that the union is maintained."
"O bother! Marshall; you can think of nothing now but matrimony. I am for the union of hearts myself; but the union of States as it has existed, I detest. Peaceable secession, you see, we cannot have; and if it must come in bloodshed, why, in the name of mankind, let it come! I am ready for the issue of my State's action."
"I pray your blood may never be required as the price of forcible secession, my dear Fred. But the condition of the country appals me! I-whom duty calls to one place, and whom ties of affection bind to another-I am placed in no enviable position. Yet I still hope the trouble will soon clear up, and all will yet be bright."
"Your duty is plain before you, Marshall. It's for or against us now, and no equivocation."
"Well, we'll not fall out about our country's troubles. They may be better and they may be worse than we anticipate. I'll hope for the best, though evil come. Let's talk of Melrose, and the fair flower that blooms there. Eh, Fred?"
Fred replied smiling, "So we will, dear boy; here, take this cigar. Let's have a smoke, and if you like we'll stroll down to the Battery and see the encampment."
THE rosy month of May succeeded the chilly April in that memorable year when the war-cloud of civil contest overshadowed the land so darkly. It came with unwonted verdure, freshness, and beauty, filling the hearts of the despondent with hope, and the hopeful with rejoicing. It was scarcely a month from the time the coach dashed out of the half-aroused town of Minneopoli in the chilly April morning, when a similar vehicle, one evening, toiled slowly up the long hill whose summit was crowned by picturesque Melrose. Among the passengers were Captain Marshall and his friend Fred Pinckney. The former had come to Melrose to claim the hand of his affianced, Eliza Heartwell, and to take her away as his wife. In that sweet May-time, no heart was happier than George Marshall's, and no voice gladder, as it rang out in unrestrained laughter at the droll jokes and facetious comments of his witty friend Fred.
"I say, George, this is undoubtedly the beautifulest country I ever saw. Do see. Such honeysuckles and such dog-wood blossoms never grew before. Maybe if the fates are propitious, I'll come back here to this picturesque country to get me a wife, after the war is over. Who knows? Then I'll be a laurel-crowned hero, having whaled out the Yankees to a frizzle, and all the fair ones will be sighing for my hand and heart! Umph! I am impatient for the conflict. George, you know the Yankees won't fight!"
"Well, we will see. At any rate, from my acquaintance with them, I shall not go to battle against them armed only with a broom-stick. But here we are in Melrose. Don't, for love's sake, talk of war. My heart's in a flutter. Cupid's conflict is worse than the Indians, Fred."
"Yes, I see you have surrended unconditionally; yet your captivity is by no means galling, I observe. Well, you are a lucky fellow, George. Prosperity attend you."
Fatigued from the long journey, so much of it accomplished by tiresome, lumbering stage-coaches, these two travelling companions gladly alighted at the Melrose Tavern, and eagerly sought the refreshments its simple hospitality afforded.
IN the quiet little parlor of Widow Heartwell, in the early May morning, the tender breeze stole in and out of the window, fluttering the muslin curtain and filling the apartment with delicious perfume. In the same parlor a few chosen friends were assembled, to witness the solemn ceremony that was to deprive them of the pride and favorite of the village. As the dial upon the delicate face of the little bronze clock on the mantel marked the hour of eight, the flutter of robes and the rustling of footsteps ushered in the expectant pair, and at once all the guests arose.
Pale and trembling, Mrs. Heartwell took her place beside her daughter, as she stood before the venerable minister. For years the Rev. Mr. Pratt had been their pastor and spiritual adviser, and his heart was filled with deep emotion as he pronounced the solemn words that bound this child of his love and watchful care to her husband, to be "His servitor for aye." Amid smothered sobs, he invoked Heaven's benediction upon their wedded hearts, praying that, as love had directed this union, so love might attend them, even unto death.
Amid sighs and tears, the congratulations were received, and when at length Fred Pinckney found a moment to whisper in George Marshall's ear, he said, with characteristic drollery, "By Jupiter? I'll be glad when the coach comes. I can't stand so much crying; it's more like a funeral than a wedding. If they are obliged to blubber this way when a fellow marries, I think I shall back out."
Another hour and the bridal party had departed. The fair flower of Melrose was gone, changed from a lonely maiden to a happy, hopeful bride; gone to follow the footsteps of a true, brave-hearted husband,-gone from Melrose, leaving many aching hearts behind; leaving, too, a vacancy that no succession of years could ever quite fill.
A fortnight after the quiet wedding in Melrose, late one afternoon, George Marshall and his wife were walking slowly along the ever-thronged battery of the Queen City, whither they had come on a visit to Captain Marshall's uncle, Dr. Thornwell. A serious expression rested upon the young captain's face, as he surveyed the long lines of tents that dotted the open square and bordered the broad street-so serious indeed, that he scarcely heeded the passers-by who were bowing salutations to him and his fair bride.
"George, you seem so abstracted; you scarcely noticed Frank Brewster as he passed just now in the brett with Florence Dale. What's the matter, dear?"
"I'm troubled, perplexed, pondering, my dear. Yet I did not mean to be so abstracted. I must beg your forgiveness, as well as that of my friends."
"Oh! never mind me, George; only tell me what troubles you."
"Nothing more than the perplexing question that has harassed me ever since I came home, and saw beyond a doubt that we should have war-the question that I must soon decide, whether I shall desert my State in time of peril, or my country. In either course of acting, I shall be branded as a traitor, or a rebel. It's a serious dilemma to be placed in, dear Eliza, and I must act wisely, and like a man. My heart is dreadfully divided: duty calls me to my country, and love calls me to my home. My forebodings, too, whisper that this war will be no trifling affair."
"Well, for my part, George, and you already know it, I am opposed to secession. Fred Pinckney says it's on account of the Whig blood that flows in my veins. I told him that my father, and my grandfather before him, were uncompromising Whigs. It may be so; I don't know. I abhor the idea of bloodshed, and as yet, I think we have had little cause to declare war."
"You are a sage little woman, and your argument sound, but these sentiments won't do to promulgate in the Queen City. Remember, I am still a commissioned officer in the United States army. Be careful."
"Oh! I am not afraid of my sentiments, or of being deemed traitorous. Only this morning, Colonel Legare asked me if I would present the Palmetto Rifles with the new flag he had made for them. But to return. War is war, George, and should be entered into with caution."
"Yes; you are right. I feel at times as though I could not fight against the flag of my country; and then, on the other hand, I would not fight against my home and kindred. There seems but one alternative left to me-to resign my commission in the army and not take up arms at all," replied the young officer sadly.
"Well, cheer up. Don't grow despondent. I hope wisdom will direct your decision; and remember, if the thought will give you any comfort, that I have sworn to follow your footsteps and your fortune, wheresoever they may lead, be it from craggy Maine to wild Colorado," said the young wife with forced pleasantry.
"Bravo! what a lucky fellow I am! Surely no evil will befall me. Your cheering words decide my choice; wisdom, you say, will direct the decision. It shall be made. We will once more make the charming round of this inviting boulevard, and then I'll tell you my decision. There goes Fred Pinckney on horseback. How handsome he looks in that uniform! He belongs to the Palmetto Rifles, I believe."
"Yes, so he does. Fred's a gallant, handsome fellow, a little too hot-blooded, though," replied the young wife, thoughtfully.
Once again the gay promenade was traversed, and as the sun's last ray was faintly dying, the young wife stopped, and leaning gently on the railing with eye turned toward the sea, she said, "Now, George, tell me your decision." And he replied quickly, "I shall resign my commission in the army, and cast my lot with my people and my State. Alas! I may never see Franco again!"
"I trust you have acted wisely," replied the young wife, thoughtfully. "But, oh, George, see Defiance. See how the dying sun gilds the flag, the new flag that has risen above the old one that floated there when I was here a school-girl. Somehow I love the old flag, the Stars and Stripes-'Whig blood,' I suppose; but Defiance always looked so grim and terrible to me, even when I was a school-girl, in peaceful days, and now it appears a terrible monster of horror!"
"Oh! Defiance bears you no ill-will, my darling. It's a quiet old fort, that will protect us from our enemies. Long live the memory of the man who surrendered it only at the mouth of cannon! But come, let's be going. It's late; already pedestrians and vehicles are turning homeward."
How sad, that time so far has furnished no historian or biographer truthfully and charitably to chronicle the terrible struggle of many noble-souled men, who sacrificed the love of country for the love of State in that unhallowed civil war! Yet there is the truth that the great Searcher of human hearts has His record on high; and in the unfolding hereafter, many souls that here were branded as traitors, will there receive the rewards of patriots. Scores who were here despised for cowardice, will there receive the plaudits that await the brave. Legions who have perished in ignominious cells, will there be found crowned heroes. For who knows the yet unwritten record of the horrible war between the States, but the heroes who perished here and passed on beyond?