Jennie insisted on stopping at Senator Davis' home to tell his wife of the wonderful power with which his speech had swept the galleries.
The house was still, the library door open. The girl paused on the threshold in awe. The Senator's tall figure was lying prostrate across his desk, his thin hands clasped in prayer, his face buried in his arms. His lips were murmuring words too low to be heard until at last they swelled in sorrowful repetition:
"May God have us in his holy keeping and grant that before it is too late peaceful councils may prevail!"
The girl turned softly and left without a word.
The Secretary of War invited Socola to join him at the White House after the Cabinet meeting which President Buchanan had called at the unusual hour of ten at night. He had waited for more than two hours in the anteroom and still the Cabinet was in session. Without show of impatience he smoked cigar after cigar, flicked their ashes into the fireplace and listened with an expression of quiet amusement to the storm raging within while the sleet of a January blizzard rattled against the windows with increasing fury.
Once more the question of the little fort in the harbor of Charleston had plunged the discordant Cabinet of the dying administration into the convulsions of a miniature war.
The feeble old President, overwhelmed by the gathering storm, crouched in the corner by the fire. His emaciated figure was shrouded in a ridiculous old dressing-gown. Mentally and physically prostrate he sat shivering while his ministers wrangled.
He rose at last, shambled to the Cabinet table, and leaned his trembling hands on it for support.
"What can I do, gentlemen—what can I do? If Anderson hadn't gone into that fort at night, the State of South Carolina might not have seceded—"
Stanton shook his massive head with an expression of uncontrollable rage.
"Great God!"
The President continued in feeble, pleading tones:
"Now they tell me that unless Anderson withdraws his troops their presence will provoke bloodshed—"
"Let them fire on him if they dare!" shouted Stanton.
"I cannot plunge my country into fratricidal war. My sands are nearly run. I only ask of God that my sun may not set in a sea of blood—"
He paused and lifted his thin hands, trembling like two withered leaves of aspen in the winter's blast.
"What can I do?"
Stanton suddenly sprang from his seat and confronted the shivering old man.
"I'll tell you what you cannotdo!"
The President gasped for breath and listened helplessly.
"You can't yield that fort to the conspirators who demand it. Dare to do it, and I tell you, as the Attorney General of the United States, you are guilty of high treason—and by the living God you should be hung!"
The venerable Secretary of the Navy, Isaac Toucey, lifted his hand in protest. Stanton merely threw him a look of scorn, and shouted into the President's face:
"Your act could no more be defended than Benedict Arnold's!"
"And what say you, Holt?" the President asked, turning to his heavy-jawed Secretary of War.
"Send a ship to the relief of Sumter within twenty-four hours, and let South Carolina take the consequences—"
"Good!" Stanton cried.
Holt's crooked mouth was drawn in grim lines, and the left-hand corner was twisted into a still lower knot of ugly muscles. His furtive eyes beneath their shaggy brows glanced quickly around the table to see the effect of his patriotic stand.
The President turned to the white-haired Secretary of the Navy:
"And you, General Toucey?"
The venerable statesman from Connecticut bowed gravely to his Chief and spoke with quiet dignity.
"I would order Anderson to return at once to Fort Moultrie—"
Stanton smashed the table with his big fist.
"And you know that the State of South Carolina has dismantled Fort Moultrie?"
Toucey answered Stanton's bluster with quiet emphasis.
"I'm aware of that fact, sir!"
"And it makes no difference?"
"None whatever. Anderson left Fort Moultrie and moved into Fort Sumter without orders—"
A faint smile flickered about the drooping corners of Holt's mouth—
The speaker turned to Holt:
"As a matter of fact, he moved into that fort against the positive orders of your predecessor, James B. Floyd, the Secretary of War. As he went there without orders, and against orders, he should be ordered back forthwith—"
"With the look of a maddened tiger Stanton flew at him.
"And you expect to go back to Connecticut after making that statement?"
"I do, sir—"
"I couldn't believe it."
"And why, pray?"
"I asked the question in good faith, that I might know the character of the people of Connecticut, or your estimate of them."
The old man drew himself up with cold dignity.
"I have served the people of my State for over forty years—their Congressman, their Attorney General, their Governor,their Senator. I consult no upstart of your feeble record, sir, on any question of principle or policy!"
Stanton quailed a moment beneath the cold scorn of his antagonist, surprised that another man should dare to use his methods of invective.
He lifted his hands with a gesture of contempt.
"All I can say is, that if I should dare take that position and return to the State of Pennsylvania, I should expect to be stoned the moment I set foot on her soil, stoned through the State and flung into the river at Pittsburg with a stone around my neck—"
Toucey stared at his opponent.
"And in my opinion they would deserve well of their country for the performance!"
While his Cabinet wrangled, the feeble, old man in the faded wrapper shambled to the window and gazed with watery eyes on the swaying trees of the White House grounds. The sleet had frozen in shining crystals and every limb was hung in diamonds. The wind had risen to hurricane force, howling and shrieking its requiem through the chill darkness. A huge bough broke and fell to the ground with a crash that sent a shiver through his distracted soul.
He turned back to the table to hear their decision. It came with but one dissenting voice, Toucey, Secretary of the Navy.
"A ship be sent at once to the relief of Sumter."
With stubborn terror the President refused to sign the order for an armed vessel. At one o'clock they compromised on the little steamer,Star of the West, and Buchanan agreed that she should attempt to land provisions for Anderson's fifty-odd men.
Holt hurried from the council chamber at one o'clock with a smile of triumph playing about his sinister mouth. His plan had succeeded. He had worked Stanton as the legal adviser of the President exactly as he had foreseen. The little steamer would test the mettle of the men of South Carolina who were training their batteries on Fort Sumter. If they dared to fire on her—all right—the lines of battle would be drawn.
He seized Socola's arm.
"Come with me to the War Office."
Inside, he closed the door, inspected the room in every nook and corner for a possible eavesdropper, seated himself and leaned close to his attentive listener.
"I have established your character now through your connection with the Minister from Sardinia beyond the possibility of any doubt. Your position will not be called in question. You will appear in the South as the representative, unofficial and yet duly accredited, for King Victor Emmanuel. Your purpose will be, of course, the cultivation of friendly relations with the officials of the new Government looking to the day of its coming recognition—you understand?"
"Perfectly—"
"You have absolutely consecrated your life, and every talent, to your country?"
"Body and soul—"
The dark eyes flashed with the light of a religious fanatic.
"Good." The Secretary paused and studied his man a moment.
"I introduced you to the girl not merely to obtain an invaluable witness to your credentials should they be questioned—but for a double purpose."
Socola nodded.
"I guessed as much."
"She's bright, young, pretty, and you can pass the time pleasantly in her company. The association will place you in a strong position. Her father is a fool—the storm petrel of Secession. He has the biggest mouth in America, barring none. His mouth is so huge, they'll never find a muzzle big enough if they could get men enough around him to put it on. He's bound to land somewhere high in the councils of the coming Confederacy—"
"There'll be one?"
Holt smiled.
"You doubt it?"
"It may be bluster after all."
"Men of the Davis type don't bluster, my boy. They are to meet at Montgomery, Alabama, on February fourth. They'll organize the Cotton States into a Southern Confederacy. If they can win Virginia, North Carolina, Tennessee and Arkansas, they may gobble Maryland, Kentucky, and Missouri—all Slave States. If they get them all—they'll win without a fight, and reconstruct the Union on their own terms; if they don't—well, we'll see what we'll see—"
"And you wish?"
"That you get for me—and get quickly—inside information of what is done and what is proposed to be done at Montgomery. I want the names of every man discussed for high office among them, his chances of appointment, his friends, his enemies—why they are his friends, why they are his enemies. I want their plans, their prospects, their hopes, their fears, and I want this information quickly. You will be supplied with ample funds, and your report must be made to me in person. My tenure of this office will be but a few weeks longer—but you are my personal representative, you understand?"
"Quite."
"Your report must be in person to me, and to me alone."
"I understand, sir."
Socola rose, extended his hand, drew his cloak about his slender shoulders and passed out into the storm, his dark face lighted by a smile as he recalled the winsome face of Jennie Barton.
The withdrawal of the Southern Senators and Representatives from Congress produced in Washington the upheaval of a social earthquake.
An atmosphere of tears and ominous foreboding hung pall-like over the city's social life. Each step in the departure of wives and daughters was a pang.
Carriages drawn by sleek, high-bred horses dashed through the broad streets with excited haste. The black coachman on the box held his reins with a nervous grip that communicated itself to the horses. He had caught the excitement in the quivering social structure of which he was part. What he was really thinking down in the depths of his African soul only God could see. His dark face merely grinned in quick obedience to command.
From every house where these farewells were being said, a weeping woman emerged and waved a last adieu to the tear-stained faces at the window.
Wagons and carts lumbered through the streets on their way to the wharf or station, piled high with baggage.
Hotel-keepers stood in the doorway of their establishments with darkened brows. The glory of the past was departing. The future was a blank.
On the morning after his farewell address to the Senate, a messenger, who refused to give his name, was ushered into the library of Senator Davis.
The stately black butler bowed again with quiet dignity.
"Yo' name, sah? I—failed to catch it?"
The messenger lifted his hand:
"No name. Please say to the Senator that I came from an important official with a message of the gravest importance—I wish to see him alone at once—"
The faithful servant eyed his visitor with an ominous look. There was no question of his loyalty to the man he served.
"It's all right, Robert, I'm a friend of Senator Davis."
A moment's hesitation and the black man bowed with deference.
"Yassah—yassah—I tell him right away, sah. You sho' knows me anyhow, sah—"
The Senator was in bed suffering again from facial neuralgia. He rose promptly, dressed hastily but completely and carefully and extended both hands to his visitor.
"You have come to see me at an unusual hour, sir. It must be important—"
"Of the utmost importance, Senator. A high official in the confidence of the President sent me to inform you that Stanton, the Attorney General, is planning to issue a warrant for your arrest for high treason."
"Indeed?"
"You are advised to leave Washington on the first train."
A dry smile flickered about the corners of the Senator's strong mouth.
"Thank you. Please say to my friend that I appreciate the spirit that prompted his message. Ask him to say to Mr. Stanton that I have decided to remain in Washington a week. Nothing would please me better than to submit this issue to the courts for adjustment. He will find me at home every day and at all hours."
From the moment Dick Welford had seen Socola bowing and smiling before Jennie Barton he had hated the man. He hated foreigners on general principles, anyhow. This kind of foreigner he particularly loathed—the slender, nervous type which suggested over-refinement to the point of effeminacy. He had always hated slender, effeminate-looking men of the native breed. This one was doubly offensive because he was an Italian. How any woman with true womanly instincts could tolerate such a spider was more than he could understand.
Jennie Barton had always frankly said that she admired men of his own type. He was six feet one, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and weighed a hundred and ninety-six pounds at twenty-one years of age. He had always felt instinctively that he was exactly the man for Jennie's mate. She was nineteen, dark and slender, a bundle of quick, sensitive, nervous intelligence. Her brown eyes were almost black and her luxuriant hair seemed raven-hued beside his. He had always imagined it nestling beside his big blond head in perfect contentment since the first summer he had spent with Tom Barton at their cottage at the White Sulphur Springs.
He had taken it for granted that she would say yes when he could screw up his courage to speak. She had treated him as if he were already in the family.
"Confound it," he muttered, clenching his big fist, "that's what worries me! Maybe she just thinks of me as one of her brothers!"
It hadn't occurred to him until he saw the light kindle in her eyes at the sight of that smooth-tongued reptilian foreigner. He was on his way now to her house, to put the thing to the test before she could leave Washington. Thank God, the spider was tied down here at the Sardinian Ministry. He hoped Victor Emmanuel would send him as Consul to Shanghai.
Mrs. Barton met him at the door with a motherly smile.
"Walk right in the parlor, Dick. It's sweet of you to come so early to-day. We're all in tears, packing to go. Jennie'll be delighted to see you. Poor child—she's sick over it all."
Mrs. Barton pressed Dick's hand with the softest touch that reassured his fears. The only trouble about Mrs. Barton was she was gentle and friendly to everybody, black and white, old and young, Yankee or Southerner. She was even sorry for old John Brown when they hung him.
"Poor thing, he was crazy," she said tenderly. "They ought to have sent him to the asylum."
Try as he might, he couldn't fling off the impression of tragedy the meeting of Socola with Jennie had produced. He was in a nervous fit to see and tell her of his love. Why the devil hadn't he done so before anyhow? They might have been engaged and ready to be married by this time. They had met when she was sixteen.
Why on earth couldn't he throw off the fool idea that he was going to lose her? His big fist suddenly closed with resolution.
"I'll not lose her! I'll wring that viper's neck—I'll wade through blood and death and the fires of h—"
Just as he was plunging waist deep through the flames of the Pit, she appeared in the door, the picture of wistful, tender beauty.
He rose awkwardly and extended his hand.
"Good morning, Dick!"
"Good morning, Jennie—"
Her hand was hot, her eyes heavy with tears.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"As if you didn't know—I've been saying good-by to some of the dearest friends I've ever known. It's terrible. I just feel it's the end of the world—"
He started to say: "Don't worry, Jennie darling, you have me. I love you!" The thought of it made the cold beads of perspiration suddenly stand out on his forehead. It was one thing to think such things—another to say it aloud to a girl with Jennie's serious brown eyes.
She seemed terribly serious this morning and far away somehow. Never had he seen her so utterly lovely. The mood of tender seriousness made her more beautiful than ever. If he only dared to crush her in his arms and laugh the smiles back into her eyes.
When he spoke it was only a commonplace he managed to blurt out:
"So you're really going to-morrow?"
"Yes—we've telegraphed the boys to come home from school at once and join us in Montgomery."
He tried to say it again, but the speech turned out to be political, not personal.
"Of course Virginia'll stand by her Southern sisters, Jennie—"
"Yes—"
"It's just a few old moss-backs holding her. No army will ever march across her soil to fight a Southern State—"
"I hope not."
"Of course not. I'll meet them on the border with one musket anyhow—"
The girl was looking out the window at the slowly drizzling rain and made no answer. He flushed at her apparent indifference to his heroic stand.
"Don't you believe I would?"
"Would what, Dick?" she smiled, recovering herself from her reverie.
It was no use beating about the bush, trying to talk politics. He had to make the plunge.
He suddenly took her hand in his.
She threw him a startled look, sat bolt upright, made the faintest effort to draw her hand away, and blushed furiously.
He was in for it now. There was no retreat. He gripped with desperate earnestness, tried to speak, and choked.
He drew a deep breath, tried again and only squeezed her hand harder.
The girl began to smile in a sweet, triumphant way. It was nice, this conscious power over a big, stunning six-footer who grasped her hand as a drowning man a straw. The sense of her strength was thrilling.
She looked at him with demure reproach.
"Dick!"
He grinned sheepishly and clung to her hand.
"Yes—Jennie—"
"Do you know what you are doing?"
"No—but—I know—what—I'm—trying—to—do—and—I'm—going—to—do—it—"
Again his big hand crushed hers.
"You're trying to break every bone in my hand as near as I can make out—I'd like it back when you're through with it—"
He found his tongue at last:
"I—I—can't let you have it back, Jennie, I'm going to keep it forever—"
"Really?"
"Yes—I am. I—I love you—Jennie—don't you love me—just—a—little bit?"
The girl laughed.
"No!"
"Not the least—little—tiny—bit?"
"I don't think so—"
The hand slipped through his limp fingers and he stared at her in a hopeless, pitiful way.
Her heart went out in a wave of tender sympathy. She put her hand back in his in a wistful touch.
"I'm sorry, Dick dear, I didn't think you loved me in that way—"
"What did you think I was hanging round you so much for?"
"I knew you liked me, of course. And I like you—but I've never thought seriously about love."
"There's no other fellow?"
"Of course, not—"
"You liked that Socola, didn't you?"
"I liked him—yes—"
"I thought so."
"He's cultured, handsome, interesting—"
"He's a sissy!"
"Dick!"
"A little wizened-faced rat—the spider-snake! I could break his long neck. Yes—you do like him! I saw it when you met him. You're throwing me down because you met him!"
"Dick!"
"But he shan't have you, I tell you—I'll show him I could lick a thousand such sissies with one hand tied behind me."
The girl rose with dignity.
"Don't you dare to speak to me like that, sir—"
"You're going to see that fellow again—I'll bet you've got an engagement with him now—to-night—to-day!"
The slender figure rose.
"I'll see him if I please—when I please and where I please and I'll not consult you about it, Dick Welford—Good day!"
Trembling with anger the big, awkward boy turned and stumbled out of the house.
Dick Welford had played directly into the hands of his enemy. When Socola called at the Barton home to pay his respects to Miss Jennie and wish them health and happiness and success in their new and dangerous enterprise, he found the girl in a receptive mood. The accusation of interest had stimulated her to her first effort to entertain the self-poised and gentlemanly foreigner.
He turned to Jennie with a winning appeal in his modulated voice:
"Will you do me a very great favor, Miss Barton?"
"If I can—certainly," was the quick answer.
"I wish to meet your distinguished father. He is a great Southern leader. I have been commissioned by the Sardinian Ministry to cultivate the acquaintance of the leaders of the Confederacy. I am to make a report direct to the Court of King Emmanuel on the prospects of the South."
Jennie rose with a smile.
"With pleasure. I'll call father at once."
Barton was delighted at the announcement.
"Invite him to spend a week with us at Fairview," Jennie suggested.
"Good idea—we'll show him what Southern hospitality means!"
Burton grasped Socola's outstretched hand with enthusiasm.
"Permit me," he began in his grand way, "to extend you a welcome to the South. Your King is interested in our movement. It's natural. Europe must reckon with us from the first. Cotton is the real King. We are going to build on this staple an industrial empire whose influence will dominate the world. The sooner the political rulers realize this the better."
Socola bowed.
"I quite agree with you, Senator Barton. His Majesty King Victor Emmanuel has great plans for the future. He is profoundly interested in your movement. He does not believe that the map of Italy has yet been fixed. It will be quite easy to convince his brilliant, open mind that the boundaries of this country may be readjusted—"
"I shall be delighted to show you every courtesy within my power, sir," Barton responded. "You must go South with us to-morrow and spend a week at Fairview, our country estate. You must meet my grand old father and my mother and see the curse of slavery at its worst!"
Barton laughed heartily and slipped his arm persuasively about the graceful shoulders of his guest.
"I hadn't thought of being so honored, I assure you—"
He paused and looked at Jennie with a timid sort of appeal.
"Come with us—we'll be delighted to have you—"
"I'll enjoy it, I'm sure," he said hesitatingly. "We will reach Montgomery in time for the meeting of the Convention of Seceding States?"
"Certainly," Barton replied. "I'm already elected a delegate from my State. Her secession is but a question of days."
Socola's white, even teeth gleamed in a happy smile.
"I'll go with pleasure, Senator. You leave to-morrow?"
"The ten-twenty train for the South. You'll join our party, of course?"
"Of course."
With a graceful bow he hurried home to complete the final preparations for his departure. He walked with quick, strong step. And yet as he approached the door of the little house in the humbler quarter of the city his gait unconsciously slowed down.
He dreaded this last struggle with his mother. But it must come. He entered the modestly furnished sitting room and looked at her calm, sweet face with a sudden sinking. She would be absolutely alone in the world. And yet no harm could befall her. She was the friend of every human being who knew her. It was the agony of this parting he dreaded and the loneliness that would torture her in his absence.
He spoke with forced cheerfulness.
"Well, mater, it's all settled. I leave at ten-twenty to-morrow morning."
She rose and placed her hands on his shoulders. The tears blinded her.
"How little I thought when I taught your boyish lips to speak the musical tongue of Italy I was preparing this bitter hour for my soul! I begged your father to resign his consulship at Genoa and brought you home to teach you the great lesson—to love your country and reverence your country's God. And since your father's death the dream of my heart has been to see you a minister, teaching and uplifting the people into a higher and nobler life—"
"That is my aim, mater dear. I am consecrating body, mind and soul to the task now of saving the Union, an inheritance priceless and glorious to millions yet unborn. I'm going to break the chains that bind slaves. I'm going to break the brutal and cruel power of the Southern Tyranny that has been strangling the nation for fortyyears!"
His eyes flashed with the fire of fanatical enthusiasm.
He slipped his arm about his mother's slender waist, drew her to the window and pointed to the unfinished dome of the white, majestic capitol.
"See, mater dear, the sun is bursting through the clouds now and lighting with splendor the marble columns. Last night when the speeches were done and the crowds gone I stood an hour and studied the flawless symmetry of those magnificent wings and over it all the great solemn dome with its myriad gleaming eyes far up in the sky—and I wondered if God meant nothing big or significant to humanity when he breathed the dream of that poem in marble into the souls of our people! I can't believe it, dear. I stood and prayed while I dreamed. I saw in the ragged scaffolding and the big ugly crane swinging from its place in the sky the symbol of our crude beginnings—our ragged past. And then the snow-white vision of the finished building, the most majestic monument ever reared on earth to Freedom and her cause—and I saw the glory of a new Democracy rising from the blood and agony of the past to be the hope and inspiration of the world!
"You hate this masquerade—this battle name I've chosen. Forget this, dear, and see the vision your God has given to me. You've prayed that I might be His minister. And so I am—and so I shall be when danger calls; you dislike this repulsive mission on which I'm entering. Just now it's theoneand only thing a brave man can do for his country. Forget that I'm a spy and remember that I'm fitted for a divine service. I speak two languages beside my own. Our people don't study languages. Few men of my culture and endowment will do this dangerous and disagreeable work. I rise on wings at the thought of it!"
The mother's spirit caught at last the divine spark from the soul of the young enthusiast. Her eyes were wide and shining without tears when she slipped both arms about his neck and spoke with deep tenderness.
"You have fully counted the cost, my son?"
"Yes."
"The lying, the cheating, the false pretenses, the assumed name, the trusting hearts you must betray, the men you must kill alone, sometimes to save your own life and serve your country's?"
"It's war, mater dear. I hate its cruelty and its wrongs. I'll do my best in these early days to make it impossible. But if it comes, I'll play the game with my life in my hands, and if I had a hundred lives I'd give them all to my country—my only regret is that I have but one—"
"How strange the ways of God!" the mother broke in. "He planted this love in your soul. He taught it to me and I to you and now it ends in darkness and blood and death—"
"But out of it, dear, must come the greater plan. You believe in God—you must believe this, or else the Devil rules the universe, and there is no God."
The mother drew the young lips down and kissed them tenderly.
"God's will be done, my Boy—it's the bitterness of death to me—but I say it!"
Before Socola could purchase his ticket for the South, Senator Barton laid his heavy hand on his shoulder.
"I just ran down, sir, to ask you to wait and go in Senator Davis' party. He has been threatened with arrest by the cowards who are at the present moment in charge of the Government. He can't afford to leave town while there's a chance that so fortunate an event may be pulled off. I have decided to stay until Lincoln's inauguration. My wife and daughter will make you welcome at Fairview. And you'll meet my three boys. I'm sorry I can't be with you."
Socola's masked face showed no trace of disappointment. He merely asked politely:
"And the party of Senator Davis will start?"
"A week from to-day, sir—and my wife and daughter will accompany them—unless—of course—"
He laughed heartily.
"Unless the great Attorney General, Edwin M. Stanton, decides to arrest him—if he'll only do it!"
Socola nodded carelessly.
"I understand, Senator. A week from to-day. The same hour—the same train."
In a moment he had disappeared in the crowd and hurried to the office of the Secretary of War.
Holt received his announcement with a smile about the corners of his strong, crooked mouth.
"That's lucky. I'd rather you were with Davis ten to one. Amuse yourself for the week by getting all the information possible of their junta here—"
"Barton will stay until the inauguration—"
"Of course—a spy in the camp of the enemy. He could be arrested, but it's not wise under the circumstances—"
"You will not arrest Senator Davis?"
"Nonsense. Stanton's a fool. Nothing would please them better. I've convinced him of that. A wrangle in the courts now over such an issue would postpone its settlement indefinitely. The Supreme Court of the United States has sustained the South on every issue that has been raised. The North is leading a revolution. The South is entrenched behind the law. They can't be ousted by law. It can only be done by the bayonet—"
Holt paused and looked thoughtfully across the Potomac.
"Report to me daily—"
Socola silently saluted and left the office with his first feeling of suspicion and repulsion for his Chief. He didn't like the blunt, brutal way this Southern Democrat talked. He couldn't believe in his honesty. Beneath those bushy eyebrows burned a wolf's hunger for office and power. On the surface he was loyal to the Union. He wondered if he were not in reality playing a desperate waiting game, ready at the moment of the crisis to throw his information to either side? The air of Washington reeked with suspicion and double dealing.
"Oh, my Country," he murmured bitterly, "if ever true men were needed!"
He strolled through the street on which Senator Davis and Barton lived directly opposite each other. He would call on Jennie and express his regret that their party had been postponed. At the door he changed his mind. Too much attention at this stage of the game would not be wise. He passed on, glancing at the distinguished-looking group of men who were emerging from the Davis door.
He wondered what was going on in that home? It seemed impossible that Davis should be the leader of a Southern rebellion. Clay or Toombs, yes—but this man with his blood-marked history of devotion to the Union—this man with his proud record of constructive statesmanship as Senator and Secretary of War—it seemed preposterous!
Could he have heard the counsel Davis was giving at that moment to the excited men who made his unpretentious house their Mecca, he would have been still more astonished. For six days and nights with but a few hours snatched for sleep, he implored the excited leaders of Southern opinion to avoid violence, and be patient. The one note of hopefulness in his voice came with the mention of the new President-elect, Abraham Lincoln.
"Mr. Lincoln is a man of friendly, moderate opinions personally," he persistently advised. "He may be able to surround himself with a council of conservative men who will use their power to hold the radical wing of his party in check until by delay we can call a convention of all the States and in this national assembly find a solution short of bloodshed. We must try. We must exhaust every resource before we dream of war. We must accept war only when it is forced upon us by our enemies."
By telegrams and letters to every Southern leader he knew he urged delay, moderation, postponement of all action.
The week passed and the Cabinet of Buchanan had not dared accept the Southern leader's challenge to arrest and trial.
The Davis party had found their seats in the train for the South. Socola strolled the platform alone, waiting without sign of interest for the hour of departure.
Dick Welford arrived five minutes before the train left and extended his hand to Jennie.
"Forgive me, Jennie!"
With a bright smile she clasped his hand.
"Of course, Dick—I took your silly ravings too seriously."
"No—I was a fool. I'll make up for it. I'll go over now and shake hands with the reptile if you say so—"
"Nonsense—you'll not do anything of the sort. He's nothing to me. He's the guest of the South—that's all."
"Honest now, Jennie—you don't care for any other fellow?"
"Nor for you, either!" she laughed.
"Of course, I know that—but I can keep on trying, can't I?"
"I don't see how I can prevent it!"
Dick grinned good-naturedly and Jennie laughed again.
"You're in for a siege with me, I'll tell you right now."
"It's a free fight, Dick. I'm indifferent to the results."
"Then you don'tmindif I win?"
"Not in the least. At the present moment I'm a curious spectator—that's all."
"Lord, I wish I were going with you—"
"I wish so, too—"
"Honest, Jennie?"
"Cross my heart—"
Dick laughed aloud.
"Say—I tell you what I'm going to do!"
"Yes?"
"If Virginia don't secede in ten days—I will. I'll resign my job here with old Hunter and join the Confederacy. I don't like this new clerkship business anyhow—expect me in ten days—"
Before Jennie could answer he turned suddenly and left the car.
At the end of the platform he ran squarely into Socola. He was about to pass without recognition, stopped on an impulse, and extended his hand:
"Fine day, Signor!"
"Beautiful, M'sieur," was the smooth answer.
Dick hesitated.
"I'm afraid I was a little rude the other day?"
"No offense, I'm sure, Mr. Welford—"
"Of course, you can guess I'm in love with Miss Barton—"
"I hadn't speculated on that point!" Socola laughed.
"Well, I've been speculating about you—"
"Indeed?"
"Yes—and I'm going to be honest with you—I don't like you—we're enemies from to-day. But I'll play the game fair and the best man wins—"
The two held each other's eye steadily for a moment and Socola's white teeth flashed.
"The best man wins, M'sieur!"
Socola hastened, through Jennie, to cultivate the acquaintance of Senator Davis.
"You'll be delighted with Mrs. Davis, too," the girl informed him with enthusiasm. "His second love affair you know—this time, late in life, he married the young accomplished granddaughter of Governor Howell of New Jersey. Their devotion is beautiful—"
The train had barely pulled out of the station before Socola found himself in a delightful conversation with the Senator. To his amazement he discovered that the Southerner was a close student of European statesmanship and well informed on the conditions of modern Italy.
"I am delighted beyond measure, Signor," he said earnestly, "to learn of the interest of your King in the South. I have long felt that Cavour was one of the greatest statesmen and diplomats of the world. His achievement in establishing the Kingdom of Sardinia in the face of the bitter rivalries and ambitions of Europe, to say nothing of the power of Rome, was in itself enough to mark him as the foremost man of his age."
"The King has great ambitions, Senator. Very shortly his title will be King of Italy. He dreams of uniting all Italians."
"And if it is possible, the Piedmontese are the people ordained for leadership in that sublime work—"
He looked thoughtfully out of the window at the Virginia hills and Socola determined to change the conversation. He was fairly well informed of the affairs in the little Kingdom on whose throne young Victor Emmanuel sat, but this man evidently knew the philosophy of its history as well as the facts. A question or two with his keen eye boring through him might lead to an unpleasant situation.
"Your family are all with you, Senator?" he asked pleasantly.
Instantly the clouds lifted from the pale, thoughtful face.
"Yes—I've three darling babies. I wish you to meet Mrs. Davis—come, they are in the next car."
In a moment the statesman had forgotten the storm of revolution. He was laughing and playing with his children. However stern and high his uncompromising opinions might be on public questions, he was wax in the hands of the two lovely boys who climbed over him and the vivacious little girl who slipped her arms about his neck. His respite from care was brief. At the first important stop in Virginia a dense crowd had packed the platforms. Their cries throbbed with anything but the spirit of delay and compromise.
"Davis!"
"Hurrah for Jefferson Davis!"
"Speech—speech!"
"Davis!"
"Speech!"
There was something tense and compelling in the tones of these cries. They rang as bugle calls to battle. In their hum and murmur there was more than curiosity—more than the tribute of a people to their leader. There was in the very sound the electric rush of the first crash of the approaching storm. The man inside who had led soldiers to death on battle fields felt it instantly and the smile died on his thin lips. The roar outside his car window was not the cry of a mob echoing the sentiments of a leader. It was the shrill imperial cry of a rising people creating their leaders.
From the moment he bowed his head and lifted his hand over the crowd that greeted him, hopeless sorrow filled his soul.
War was inevitable.
These people did not realize it. But he saw it now in all its tragic import. He had intended to counsel patience, moderation and delay. Before the hot breath of the storm he felt already in his face such advice was a waste of words. He would tell them the simple truth. He could do most good in that way. These fiery, impulsive Southern people were tired of argument, tired of compromise, tired of delay. They were reared in the faith that their States were sovereign. And these Virginians had good reason for their faith. The bankers of Europe had but yesterday refused to buy the bonds of the United States Government unless countersigned by the State of Virginia!
These people not only believed in the sovereignty of their States and their right to withdraw from the Union when they saw fit, but they could not conceive the madness of the remaining States attempting to use force to hold them. They knew, too, that millions of Northern voters were as clear on that point as the people of the South.
Their spokesman, Horace Greeley, inThe Tribunehad said again and again:
"If the Southern States are mad enough to withdraw from the Union, they must go. We cannot prevent it. Let our erring sisters go in peace."
The people before him believed that Horace Greeley's paper represented the North in this utterance. Davis knew that it was not true.
In a flash of clear soul vision he saw the inevitable horror of the coming struggle and determined to tell the people so.
The message he delivered was a distinct shock. He not only told them in tones of deep and tender emotion that war was inevitable, but that it would be long and bloody.
"We'll lick 'em in two months!" a voice yelled in protest and the crowd cheered.
The leader shook his fine head.
"Don't deceive yourselves, my friends. War once begun, no man can predict its end—"
"It won't begin!" another cried.
"You have convinced me to-day that it is now inevitable."
"The Yankees won't fight!" shouted a big fellow in front.
The speaker bent his gaze on the stalwart figure in remonstrance.
"You never made a worse mistake in your life, my friend. I warn you—I know these Yankees. Once in it they'll fight with grim, dogged, sullen, unyielding courage. We're men of the same blood. They live North, you South—that's all the difference."
At every station the same scene was enacted. The crowd rushed around his car with the sudden sweep of a whirlwind, and left for their homes with grave, thoughtful faces.
By three o'clock in the afternoon he was thoroughly exhausted by the strain. The eager crowds had sapped his last ounce of vitality.
The conductor of the train looked at him with pity and whispered:
"I'll save you at the next station."
The leader smiled his gratitude for the sympathy but wondered how it could be done.
At the next stop, the Senator had just taken his position on the rear platform, lifted his hand for silence and said:
"Friends and fellow citizens—"
The engine suddenly blew off steam with hiss and roar and when it ceased the train pulled out with a jerk amid the shouts and protests of the crowd. The grateful speaker waved his hand in regretful but happy farewell.
The conductor repeated the trick for three stations until the exhausted speaker had recovered his strength and then allowed him a few brief remarks at each stop.
From the moment the train entered the State of Mississippi, grim, earnest men in groups of two, three, four and a dozen stepped on board, saluted their Chief and took their seats.
When the engine pulled into the station at Jackson a full brigade of volunteer soldiers had taken their places in the ranks.
The Governor and state officials met their leader and grasped his hand.
"You have been commissioned, Senator," the Governor began eagerly, "as Major-General in command of the forces of the State of Mississippi. Four Brigadier-Generals have been appointed and await your assignment for duty."
The tall figure of the hero of Buena Vista suddenly stiffened.
"I thank you. Governor, for the high honor conferred on me. No service could be more congenial to my feelings at this moment."
The Governor waved his hand at the crowd of silent waiting men. "Your men are ready—the first question is the purchase of arms. I think a stand of 75,000 will be sufficient for all contingencies?"
The Senator spoke with emphasis:
"The limit of your purchases should be our power to pay—"
"You can't mean it!" the Governor exclaimed.
"I repeat it—the limit of your purchase of arms should be the power to pay. I say this to every State in the South. We shall need all we can get and many more I fear."
The Governor laughed.
"General, you overrate our risks!"
"On the other hand," Davis continued earnestly, "we are sure to underestimate them at every turn."
He paused, overcome with emotion.
"A great war is impending, Governor, whose end no man can foresee. We are not prepared for it. We have no arms, we have no ammunition and we have no establishments to manufacture them. The South has never realized and does not now believe that the North will fight her on the issue of secession. They do not understand the silent growth of the power of centralization which has changed the opinions of the North under the teaching of Abolition fanatics—"
Again he paused, overcome.
"God help us!" he continued. "War is a terrible calamity even when waged against aliens and strangers—our people are mad. They know not what they do!"
The new Commander hurried to Briarfield, his plantation home, to complete his preparations for a long absence.
Socola on a sudden impulse asked the honor of accompanying him. It was granted without question and with cordial hospitality.
It was an opportunity not to be lost. An intimate view of this man in his home might be of the utmost importance. He promised Jennie to hasten to Fairview when he had spent two days at Briarfield. Mrs. Barton was glad of the opportunity to set her house in order for her charming and interesting guest.
The Davis plantation was a distinct shock to his fixed New England ideas of the hellish institution of Slavery.
The devotion of these simple black men and women to their master was not only genuine, it was pathetic. He had never before conceived the abject depths to which a human being might sink in contentment with chains.
And he had come to break chains! These poor ignorant blacks kissed the hand that bound them and called him their best friend.
The man they called master actually moved among them, a minister of love and mercy. He advised the negroes about the care of their families in his long absence. He talked as a Hebrew Patriarch to his children. He urged the younger men and women to look after the old and helpless.
He was particularly solicitous about Bob, the oldest man on the place. Over and over again he enumerated the comforts he thought he might need and made provision to supply them. He sent him enough cochineal flannel for his rheumatism to wrap him four-ply deep. For Rhinah, his wife, he ordered enough flannel blankets for two families.
"Is there anything else you can think of, Uncle Bob?" he asked kindly.
The old man scratched his gray head and hesitated, looked into his master's face, smiled and said:
"Iwouldlike one er dem rockin' cheers outen de big house, Marse Jeff.—yassah!"
"Of course, you shall have it. Come right up, you and Rhinah, and pick out the two you like best."
With suppressed laughter Socola watched the old negroes try each chair in the hallway and finally select the two best rockers in the house.
The Southern leader was obviously careworn and unhappy. Socola found his heart unconsciously going out to him in sympathy.
Assuming carefully his attitude of foreign detached interest, the young man sought to draw him out.
"You have given up all hope of adjustment and reunion with the North?" he asked.
"No," was the thoughtful reply, "not until the first blood is spilled."
"Your people must see, Senator, that secession will imperil the existence of their three thousand millions of dollars invested in slaves?"
"Certainly they see it," was the quick answer. "Slavery can never survive the first shot of war, no matter which side wins. If the North wins, we must free them, or else maintain a standing army on our borders for all time. It would be unthinkable. Rivers are bad boundaries. We could have no others. Fools have said and will continue to say that we are fighting to establish a slave empire. Nothing could be further from the truth. We are seeking to find that peace and tranquillity outside the Union we have not been able to enjoy for the past forty years inside. If the Southern States enact a Constitution of their own, they will merely reaffirm the Constitution of their fathers with no essential change. The North is leading a revolution, not the South.
"Not one man in twenty down here owns a slave. The South would never fight to maintain Slavery. We know that it is doomed. We simply demand as the sons of the men who created this Republic, equal rights under its laws. If we fight, it will be for our independence as freemen that we may maintain those rights."
"I must confess, sir," Socola replied with carefully modulated voice, "that I fail to see as a student from without, why, if Slavery is doomed and your leaders realize that fact, a compromise without bloodshed would not be possible?"
"If Slavery were the only issue, it would be possible—although as a proud and sensitive people we propose to be the judge of the time when we see fit to emancipate our slaves. Abolition fanatics, whose fathers sold their slaves to us, can't dictate to the South on such amoralissue."
"I see—your pride is involved."
"Not merely pride—our self-respect. In 1831 before the Northern Abolitionists began their crusade of violence there were one hundred four abolition societies in America—ninety-eight of them in the South and only six in the entire North. But the South grew rich. At the bottom of our whole trouble lies the issue of sectional power. New England threatened to secede from the Union when we added the Territory of Louisiana to our domain, out of which we have carved seven great States. Slavery at that time was not an issue. Sectional rivalry and sectional hatred antedates even our fight against England for our freedom. Washington was compelled to warn his soldiers when they entered New England to avoid the appearance of offense. The Governor of Massachusetts refused to call on George Washington, the first President of the Union, when he visited Boston.
"And mark you, back of the sectional issue looms a vastly bigger one—whether the Union is a Republic of republics or a Centralized Empire. The millions of foreigners who have poured into the North from Europe during the past thirty years, until their white population outnumbers ours four to one, know nothing and care nothing about the Constitution of our fathers. They know nothing and care nothing for the principles on which the Federal Union was founded. They came from empires. They think as their fathers thought in Europe. And they are driving the sons of the old Revolution in the North into the acceptance of the ideas of centralized power. If this tendency continues the President of the United States will become the most autocratic ruler of the world. The South stands for the sovereignty of the States as the only bulwark against the growth of this irresponsible centralized despotism. The Democratic party of the North, thank God, yet stands with us on that issue. Our only possible hope of success in case of war lies in this fact—"
Socola suddenly started.
"Quite so—I see—The North may be divided, the South will be a unit."
"Exactly; they'll fight as one man if they must."
The longer Socola talked with this pale, earnest, self-poised man, the deeper grew the conviction of his utter sincerity, his singleness of purpose, his pure and lofty patriotism. His conception of the man and his aims had completely changed and with this change of estimate came the deeper conviction of the vastness of the tragedy toward which the Nation was being hurled by some hidden, resistless power. He had come into the South with a sense of moral superiority and the consciousness not only of the righteousness of his cause but the certainty that God would swiftly confound the enemies of the Union. He had waked with a shock to the certainty that they were entering the arena of the mightiest conflict of the century.
He girded his soul anew for the rôle he had chosen to play. The character of this Southern leader held for him an endless fascination. It was part of his mission to study him and he lost no opportunity. The greatest surprise he received during his stay was the day of the election of President at Montgomery. He had expected to be present at this meeting of the Southern Convention but, hearing that it would be held behind closed doors,had decided on his visit to Briarfield.
A messenger dashed up to the gate, sprang from his horse, hurried into the garden, thrust a telegram into the Senator's hand.
He opened it without haste, and read it slowly. His face went white and he crushed the piece of paper with a sudden gesture of despair. For a moment he forgot his guest, his head was raised as if in prayer and from the depths came the agonizing cry of a soul in mortal anguish:
"Lord, God, if it be possible let this cup pass from me!"
A moment of dazed silence and he turned to Socola. He spoke as a judge pronouncing his own sentence of death. His voice trembled with despair and his lips twitched with pitiful suffering.
"I have been elected President of the Southern Confederacy!"
He handed the telegram to Socola, who scanned it with thrilling interest. He had half expected this announcement from the first. What he could not dream was the remarkable way in which the Southern leader would receive it.
"You are a foreigner, Signor. I may be permitted to speak freely to you. You are a man of culture and sympathy and you can understand me. As God is my judge, I have neither desired nor expected this position. I took particular pains to forestall and make it impossible. But it has come. I am not a politician. I have never stooped to their tricks. I cannot lie and smile and bend to low chicanery. I hate a fool and I cannot hedge and trim and be all things to all men. I have never been a demagogue. I'm too old to begin. Other men are better suited to this position than I—" He paused, overcome. Socola studied him with surprise.
"Permit me to say, sir," he ventured disinterestedly, "that such a spirit is evidence that your people have risen to the occasion and that their choice may be an inspiration."
The leader's eye suddenly pierced his guest's.
"God knows what is best. It may be His hand. It may be that I must bow to His will—"
Again he paused and looked wistfully at Socola's youthful face.
"You are young, Signor—you do not know what it is to yield the last ambition of life! I have given all to my country for the past years. I have sacrificed health and wealth and every desire of my soul—peace and contentment here with those I love! When I saw this mighty struggle coming, I feared a tragic end for my people. I fear it now. The man who leads her armies will win immortality no matter what the fate of her cause—I've dreamed of this, Signor—but they've nailed me to the cross!"
He called his negroes together and made them an affectionate speech. They responded with deep expressions of their devotion and their faith. With the greatest sorrow of life darkening his soul he left next day for his inauguration at Montgomery.