CHAPTER XXIX.
FIVE MINUTES WITH THE MOONLIGHT--THE LAST SCENE AT JUDGE OWEN'S--CAPT.SLIVERS, OF THE SICKLES BRIGADE--TWO RIVALS DISGUISED, AND THE RESULT OFTHEIR RENCONTRE.
There was no terrible portent in the air, hanging over the city of NewYork on that Thursday evening the Tenth of July, to which allusion hasbefore been made as the same on which Richard Crawford and hiscompanions reached Niagara. On the contrary, as some of the summertourists may remember, that evening was remarkably and even wondrouslybeautiful. Not a clearer full moon ever rose than that which beamed overnearly the whole of the Northern States that night; and those,especially, who had the privilege of seeing that moon rise over the browof Eagle Cliff at the Franconia Notch of the White Mountains, standingon the plateau in front of the Profile House and seeing the disk ofglittering silver heaving slowly up beyond the crest, with the greattrees on the summits defined against it so sharply, with the darkmountain brows frowning and the upturned human faces radiant in thesilver light, and with every aspect and influence of the scene somethingwildly and weirdly beautiful--those who enjoyed that privilege will notbe likely soon to lose the memory of one of the loveliest nights thatever dropped down out of heaven. How many souls, in one place andanother, and under influences akin to those we have named, may havebowed down that night in worship before denied to the Almighty Handthat, not content with making a world instinct with life and usefulness,endowed it with such marvellous beauty! And how many young hearts,before that hour partial strangers to each other or divided by prudenceor by ignorance, standing under that silver sheen may have acknowledgedthe influence of the time, melted into tenderness, and flowed togetherto be no more separated forever!
Moonlight is an enchanter as well as a beautifier, and the old fancy ofpartial madness when the moon was at the full (from which the word"lunacy") was not altogether unwarranted by reality. At sea, in thetropics, a night on deck under the broad full moon stiffens and entirelymaddens, if it does not kill; here the madness is only partial and ithas a general reference to mischief and the opposite sex; but theinfluence is the same, under different degrees of development.
On how many lands and waters is such a broad full moon shining, and whatvaried scenes it throws into flickering light and shadow--the verythought being a part of the permitted madness of the time! Think of thatstrange variety for a moment. Far out on the ocean tired sailors throwthemselves under the lee of the bulwarks and gaze up into its face,while the light plays fantastic tricks among the masts and cordage. Outof pleasant groves in the country light-robed figures are flitting, andunder that marvellous sheen words are spoken that would long have beenfrightened back in the brighter glare of day--words that may make thehappiness or misery of a life-time. Ringing laughter breaks from merrygroups that glance in and out under the shade-trees and the vine-arborsthat surround stately old mansions in the valleys of wheat and corn.Rough shouts and loud peals of laughter break from the rough throats ofthe raccoon and opossum hunters in the wild back-woods. A broken-heartedwoman sits at her chamber-window and gazes out into the weirdatmosphere, thinking of falsehood and sorrow and the inconstancy of oneyear. Half in the sheen and half in the shadow lies a little grave, itslight and shade fit type of the love and grief of two who sit on avine-covered porch and think of the day when they buried the dear littlesleeper. In the dark passes of the Apennines lurks a bandit, poniard inhand, ready to spring on the unwary traveller as he emerges from theshadow. On the gardens and jalousies of fair Granada falls the silverbeam, and guitars tinkle and white arms wave in recognition. Under thegloom of the palazzo of St. Mark, at Venice, a gondola is shooting,while the boatman hums a drowsy air and the lover anxiously watches forthe waving of the white scarf of his mistress. Cascades leap down themountain gorges, unheard of mortal ear and unseen by mortal eye, butscattering their diamond drops in air as a full libation to the glory ofnight. Far away at sea, on a drifting raft, a sailor eats his lastbiscuit and smiles sorrowfully back to the placid face that will lookdown next night upon his corpse!
All which may have very little to do with this story, and yet it may befully warranted by the occasion. And at least it is justifiable to saythat the full of the moon may have made Joe Harris madder than usual andreadier than ever to indulge in frolics of the most reprehensiblecharacter. What we began to indicate, especially, was that no portentloomed in the heavens above the doomed city or even above the house ofJudge Owen, and that still an earthquake was muttering and rumblingunder it, destined to tumble it into the most fatal confusion.
At about half-past eight that evening, a ring at the door announcedvisitors. Judge Owen had not yet returned, but all the other members ofthe family, and one who expected to _become_ a member of the family--ofcourse, Colonel John Boadley Bancker,--were sitting at that moment inthe front parlor. For some reason or other, not necessary to be hereexplained, Emily went herself to the door and admitted the visitors.They proved to be Miss Josephine Harris, who had just alighted from acarriage at the door, and a male companion in uniform. Some time elapsedbefore the military gentleman, who was introduced to the young hostessas "Captain Robert Slivers," managed to get over the door-step, so verylame was he. But he managed to spare a hand for one moment from one ofhis crutches, the instant after; for Emily, who was half frightened outof her wits and half inclined to burst into uncontrollable laughter,felt a "pinch" on her arm which nearly made her scream aloud.
The military gentleman hobbled along into the room after them, and wasintroduced to the others there assembled. One of the burners of thechandelier only had been lit, but it quite sufficed to reveal anextraordinary figure. Captain Robert Slivers seemed to be about fifty tofifty-five, to judge by his gray hair and moustache; but any idea of theprecise looks of his face was rendered impossible, by an immense greenpatch which concealed not only the right eye, but all that side of thenose and the temple, while the string running around his forehead tookaway any expression from that important part of the human countenance,and an oblong strip of black court-plaster extended diagonally from theleft eye nearly to the corner of the mouth, creating an impression ofvery severe tattooing. A pair of green spectacles were mounted on thebridge of the nose, and the left glass did duty over the correspondingeye, while the other was unseen as relieved against the shade. So muchfor the facial appearance and adornments of this hero, and his otherclaims to notice were not less extraordinary. Sartorially, he wore anundress military cap, with the "U.S." on the front, and a dingy blueuniform with the shoulder-straps of a Captain of infantry. Physically heseemed nearly as much out of order as facially. He carried a heavy canein his right hand, and the right foot was enclosed in a sort of moccasinor spatterdash which might have belonged to one of the conductors on anavenue railroad, for use in very severe weather. In shoe-makers'measurement this foot-gear would probably have been rated about numbersixteen. Under the left arm, which was swathed below the elbow, hecarried a crutch, and though the foot on that side seemed to beuninjured, the leg had not escaped so fortunately. It was stiffened anddrawn up so that the toe merely touched the ground and the principaldependence was made upon the crutch. According to this arrangement, theleft leg limped and the right foot shuffled, and the style of locomotionmay be imagined.
But for the "pinch," which was a little characteristic, Emily Owen mighthave had grave doubts, even after the warning of the day before, whetherthis could be the sprightly young man whom she had known so well; andthe very mother who bore him, if she could have seen him in thatsituation, would have been almost as excusable for not recognizing heroffspring, as that traditional matron who defeated all the theoriesabout "intuition" by not recognizing her son when "done up with pepperand onions, in a stew."
This interesting person was finally ushered into the parlor andintroduced to the trio sitting there, as well as manoeuvered into achair. Aunt Martha, behind the curtain, was not prevented by her frightat the possible consequences, from nearly smothering with concealedlaughter at the wonderful metamorphosis which had been ac
complished.Mrs. Owen, a weak woman with a soft heart, was dreadfully affected bythe "reality of war" thus brought home to her, and uttered manyejaculations of pity, carefully under her breath for fear the "poorfellow" should hear her and be pained.
Colonel Bancker--there is no use disguising the fact--was literallyhorrified at the spectacle. A miserable old beau, with unlimited vanityand a desire to appear everything that other people admired, but withoutany other positive personal vices--he was, as Frank Wallace had alwaysbelieved, an incarnate, unmitigated poltroon--a coward of the firstwater. He never had fought for anything, with hand or weapon--he neverintended to fight for anything--he never _could_ fight for anything. Hecould not bear to think of being hurt himself, and he was pained beyondmeasure at the thought of seeing any one else injured or in suffering.One hour of the battle-field, with its sights and sounds of horror,would have killed him without any aid from sword or bullet. He couldhave been robbed in a dark street by a boy of ten years, who presented aknife or a pistol; and in any time of danger to himself or others (asmay have been indicated by the adventure of the carriage beforerecorded) he could be of no more use than a baby in arms. Such men arenot very common, but they do exist; and under any ordinarycircumstances, as they cannot help the infirmities with which they areborn, they should be pitied and not ridiculed. It is only when theyattempt to disguise themselves in the characters of bolder and bettermen, that they deserve lashing without mercy.
Colonel Bancker had never had the least intention of going to the war,nor had he ever connected himself, except in the most vague descriptionof talk, with any organization. He had never come nearer to a commissionthan to think about one--that is, think that he did not want one. He sawhundreds of others wearing uniforms and the insignia of rank without anyintention of fighting, and thought that he could do as they did, sportborrowed plumes without too much enquiry being made into the sourcewhence they were derived, and throw them off when he pleased, under anyexcuse which he might choose to invent--sickness, business engagements,or _dissatisfaction with the mode in which the war was being conducted_.
With the before-named dislike to being pained, Colonel Bancker had sofar avoided all the painful sights of the war. He had not visited thewounded at the Park Barracks or in any of the hospitals--he had managedto see none of the maimed living and none of the glorious dead--he hadeven escaped the hungry wives of the soldiers, clamoring for theirhusbands' pay and the means to buy bread, along the crosswalks of thePark and at the entrances of the City Hall. So far he had escaped easilyfrom what he most dreaded.
But within the last day or two a terrible disquiet had sprung up. Thearmy was to be reinforced and a stringent conscription was talked of.Among the unpleasant rumors in circulation, was one that theProvost-Marshals were to be directed to arrest every man in officer'suniform found in the streets, and if he could exhibit no commission,force him to immediate service in the ranks! Here was a dilemma--adilemma none the less for having two well-defined horns. His uniform wasbecoming dangerous, but how give it up? He was determined to win EmilyOwen, and he had discovered that one of his strongest claims to thefavor of her pig-headed father lay in the wearing of that very uniformand pretending to be a soldier. To give it up was to acknowledge that hehad no intention of joining the army, and perhaps to lose all. No--he_must_ stick to those dangerous insignia of war, at least until he hadaccomplished his grand purpose, and then--. But they made himuncomfortable--very uncomfortable.
It was under such circumstances that Captain Robert Slivers, of theSickles Brigade, came under his notice that evening, and he washorrified to see what wrecks war really made of men. One eye gone--aface cut to pieces--crippled in one leg, one arm and one foot--goodheavens! For the moment the fright of such a spectacle almost overcameevery other consideration, and Emily Owen and all her material charmsbecame secondary to the thought of being placed beyond the danger ofbecoming a thing like _that_!
To add to the Colonel's horror, Captain Slivers seemed to take a decidedfancy to him, and edged along his chair, the best he could do in hiscrippled condition, until he had brought it into very closejuxtaposition to that of the Colonel; while the four ladies, conversingtogether, formed a circle of their own a little in the background. Itmay be said, here, that Frank Wallace, even through his one greenspectacle-glass, had seen and recognized the disgust and terror on theface of the Colonel, and that he had determined to dose him thoroughlywith such flippant horrors as his fertile imagination could readilymanufacture for the occasion, but such as no battle-field on earth hasever had much chance of witnessing.
Near as they had been brought together, and inviting as was the chancefor conversation between two members of the same profession, the gallantColonel did not seem disposed to enter upon it with so fearful an objectas the Captain. The latter was obliged to commence the attack, afterall.
"Very glad to meet a brother in arms," said the pseudo-Captain, in anassumed bass, taking up his cane and giving a slight punch to theColonel, who seemed pre-occupied.
"Oh! ah! yes, very glad, to be sure," answered the Colonel, who scarcelyknew whether he was talking English or Choctaw at that moment. Thenpartially recovering himself and remembering that something in the shapeof conversation must be carried on, he said: "Very pretty girlthat--cousin of yours, didn't they say, Captain? _What_ is her name?"
"Eh?" said the Captain. "Oh, my cousin yonder? yes, Miss Harris, MissJoe Harris--daughter of Mrs. Harris." It is supposed that in the lattername he alluded to a somewhat doubtful character of Charles Dickens."Devil of a girl, Colonel, _I_ tell you!"
"Ah, what do you mean?" asked the Colonel.
"Mean? why I mean that when I came home two or three days ago, sheseemed rather glad than otherwise to see that I had been cut up. Stuckher finger in my eye, or rather in the place where my eye had been, tosee whether they had made a clean operation of it, and nearly broke thatbone of my left arm again, trying to discover whether they had set itentirely straight. Said I must have been a splendid subject in thehospital. Devil of a girl--going into one of the hospitals to nurse,directly. Says that she is never happy except she has a few brokenlimbs, and smashed heads, and gunshot wounds through the body, and holesmade by Minie bullets, under her especial care."
"Horrible!" gasped the Colonel, who could no longer sit silent undersuch a revelation of female character.
"Yes, it _is_ a little horrible, but a fact, though!" said the Captain."Devil of a girl, I tell you! I believe that she would just as lieve seemy head amputated as not, provided she could stand by and witness a'beautiful operation.'"
"I say this is dreadful!" said the Colonel.
"Dreadful, of course," said the Captain. "Still, nothing when you onceget used to it. Plenty of women just like her--all female devils, thoughthey manage to conceal the fact, sometimes, until they get a man undertheir thumbs, especially for the purpose of practising on him. But we_want_ women who have some nerve, for these bloody times. Don't youthink so, Colonel?"
"Yes--I can't say--that is, really I don't know!" answered the Colonel,who did not at that particular moment, know much else than that he was alittle sick at the stomach and that the whole world seemed to be a kindof hideous mockery.
"Oh yes, fact!" continued the Captain, who saw the white face and didnot intend that it should regain any fresher color, in a hurry. "Bloodytimes, I tell you, Colonel! Make me think, sometimes, when the dead arelying in heaps around me and the blood running like small brooks, ofthat time prophesied for the Valley of Armageddon, when the blood is torun deep enough to reach to the horse-bridles."
"Captain," said the Colonel, "really I would rather--"
"Rather that I should talk about the present war, than anything inScripture? of course--very natural and quite correct. Let me see--youwere not at Fair Oaks, were you?"
"No," said the Colonel, emphatically.
"No, I suppose not," continued the pseudo-Captain. "Well, you ought tohave been there--that is all! Highest old fight that any man ever heardof. When w
e went into battle we had not had a wink of sleep for tennights, but I tell you that it kept us wide awake while it lasted! Inthe middle of the day the air was so thick with bullets and shells thatit seemed to be as dark as twilight, and the blood at one time made sucha river down one of the gulleys that dozens of men and horses weredrowned in it!"
"Oh, this is too much!" gasped the Colonel, who thought of getting upand running away, anywhere beyond the sound of the voice of thissanguinary madman.
"Too much? of course it was too much!" echoed the veracious narrator."But who could help it? Couldn't have so many dead men, you know,without plenty of blood! At one time there were so many of our fellowslying in a long win-row near the top of the hill, that when the rebelsmade an advance we punched holes through the wall of corpses and usedthem for breast-works."
The Colonel made an effort to stagger to his feet, but his nerves weretoo terribly unstrung to allow him that escape. He sunk back upon hischair in a state of partial syncope, aware that the terrible fellow wastalking, and that he must be _lying_, but that there might be truthenough at the base of his stories to make them a fearful warning to allwho had ever thought of tempting the field.
"Talk about the _chances_ of war!" the incorrigible romancer wenton--"there was no chance about it, in such a fight as that at Fair Oaksor at Gaines' Mills! We went into Fair Oaks nine hundred and eighty-fourstrong, and came out _four_--three men and one officer! _I_ was theofficer. I only had one Minie bullet through the left breast, too highto do much harm, two bullets in the left leg and right foot, my left armbroken by a fragment of shell and my right eye punched out by another.That was all that ailed _me_!"
"Heavens! heavens!" was all that the stupified Colonel could articulate.
"Yes," continued the Captain, "think of being obliged to fight like thaton two meals a week, the meals consisting of boiled horse and mouldycrackers, drinking the same swamp water you have been standing in allday! And I suppose you think that our regiment lost heavily, Colonel?Eh? Well, you are mistaken! We had the crack regiment and scarcelysuffered at all, in comparison with some of the others. They took atally the day before I left, and found eight sound eyes, twelve legsthat were good for anything, and six usable arms, in the wholedivision."
"Oh good Lord! he will kill me!" cried the Colonel, starting at last tohis feet and utterly unable to endure such torture one moment longer.
By this time Frank Wallace, carried away by the excitement of the lieshe had already vented, and observing how horrified he had succeeded inmaking his auditor, began to get a little reckless, and concluded thatit was time to play the indignant. The ladies had been in conversationon the opposite side of the room, the elder members delighted with thenew acquaintance to whom Emily had introduced them in Josephine; andthough it may be supposed that at least two of them kept their regardspretty closely directed to the "military" corner of the room, much ofthe past conversation had been carried on in so subdued a tone as to bedrowned by their own. What followed, however, they could not very wellavoid hearing.
As the Colonel staggered to his feet and attempted to get away, thepseudo-Captain managed to crutch-and-cane himself to a standing positionand confronted his superior.
"That last remark was offensive!" he said, speaking so that all in theroom could hear him.
"What is offensive? What do you mean, sir?" asked the poor Colonel, nowhaving thorough surprise added to his other emotions.
"Why this, sir?" cried the Captain, letting his big cane come down onthe floor with such a thump as he had observed at the hands of enragedEast Indian uncles and heavy fathers in old comedies. "You said in somany words, sir, that I was a bore and a humbug, and I do not take thatfrom any man, sir!"
"I said nothing of the kind!" disclaimed the Colonel, who certainly hadnot used any such expression.
"What did you mean, then, sir, by the offensive expression: 'Good Lord!he will kill me!' I have not fought for nothing, sir! _I_ know whatsuch words mean, and I would fight any man who used them, if I had onlyone arm and no leg to stand on!"
"Captain Slivers," said the Colonel, "you are unreasonable!"
"There he goes! another insult!" cried the disabled soldier, partiallyappealing to the ladies. Under any other circumstances than those justthen existing, either or all the four would have made some attempt toprevent what they believed would eventuate in an outright quarrel; butMrs. Owen, as the hostess, did not like to interfere with the right of aguest to quarrel or even to fight, if he thought proper to do so, andneither of the others dared say a word for fear of forcing a betrayal ofthe disguise.
"Well, then," said the Colonel, who had spirit enough, sometimes, as wehave before seen, to grow angry and be even threatening when he saw nopersonal danger before him. "If you do not like that, I will saysomething more. You are either crazy or drunk, Captain Slivers, and I donot know or care which!"
"I will fight you to-morrow, cripple as I am!" cried the Captain, whilethe ladies had now all risen to their feet in real alarm. Then, as ifsuddenly recollecting: "Stop! no, I will punish you in another way. Youwear a Colonel's uniform--where is your regiment, sir? I will make youjoin it to-morrow and march within the week. Every regiment in the cityis to be ordered off at once. See if I have not influence enough with myuncle, the Governor, to send _you_ packing!"
"_Find_ my regiment first--_find_ it, sir!" said the Colonel, now fairly(and reasonably) exasperated beyond any recollection of what he wassaying.
"Ah!--h!--h!" cried the Captain with one of those tones of stageexultation which he had so often heard proclaiming the final triumph ofthe villain or the discovery of that lost will which was to restore theflagging fortunes of persecuted virtue. "Ah!--h!--h! now I _have_ gotyou! You have no commission, you do not belong to any regiment, and youare subject to the draft that is already ordered! Do you hear me?--the_draft_! the _draft_!" and he howled it out towards the Colonel as if hesuspected him of a very material failure in his sense of hearing.
Achilles had his vulnerable heel, and there are times in the lives ofeach of us when the arrow of accident, harmless at all other periods,can enter and ruin. Colonel Bancker had kept his secret, or believedthat he had kept it, inviolate; but his fatal moment had come. Whetherreally frightened out of all recollection at the thought of thatterrible "draft" which has already twice re-peopled Canada[17] at theexpense of the population of the United States, or whether exultantbeyond bounds at the knowledge that he could escape it, by his age, inspite of them all,--he uttered the fatal word, oblivious that Judge Owenstood angry and astonished at the parlor door, and that others to whomhe had so roundly sworn that he was only thirty-two, were withinhearing.
[Footnote 17: March 20th, 1863.]
"You meddling fool!--what can that draft do to _me_? I am exempt byage!"
"It is false! it is false!" cried the pseudo-Captain, driving the victimto the wall more closely than even _he_ knew. "You are not an exempt,and the Governor shall take care of _you_."
"It is a lie!" yelled the Colonel, now incensed beyond all recollectionof time, place or auditors. "I am fifty-four!"
"Fifty-four!" There seemed to be a chorus of that compound word comingfrom the group of ladies; and even Judge Owen, who had been so solemnlyassured that his intended son-in-law was more than twenty years younger,could not avoid joining in the astonished exclamation: "Fifty-four!"
But the climax had not yet been reached. There had long been a suspicionwhich almost amounted to a certainty, in the mind of Frank Wallace, withreference to one point of the gallant Colonel's personal adornment; andhe was now quite enough carried away by the reckless mischief of hisnature, to determine that that suspicion should be verified ordisproved.
"Fifty-four?" echoed the scapegrace. "Impossible! No Commissioner willbelieve any such story! Look at your hair--not a thread of gray in it!Bah!" and before the Colonel could make any effectual attempt to preventthe movement, the Captain had allowed his cane to fall to the floor andmade a sudden and determined grab at the head-coverin
g of the man ofexempt years. Any _effectual_ attempt to prevent the movement, it hasbeen said: he did make an attempt to prevent it, however, as with anewly-awakened consciousness of danger. The only result of this suddenthrowing out of his hands and scrambling with them, was that they camein sudden and violent contact with the head-covering and facialadornments of the pseudo-Captain, and that before any one else in theroom could become fully aware of what had happened, the green patch, thegreen spectacles and gray wig which had metamorphosed the young man wereall cleared away, and the curly head and bright face of Frank Wallace,printer and mischief-maker, stood fully revealed.
But it must be recorded that at that moment no one saw him. All eyeswere turned in another direction, and yet one not very far removed. Thesudden and vigorous jerk of the young man, which had been sodeterminedly guarded against, had yet produced its effect. In his handhe held a dark mass of hair, at the moment that his own pushed-offincumbrances tumbled to the floor; and a state of affairs was revealedon the cranium of the Colonel, for which not more than one of thecompany, or possibly two, could have been in the least degree prepared.What Virginia would have been, if cleared of all its woods and swampsand made into fair fighting-ground, and what Virginia is, with all itswoods and swamps, while the Union soldiers fight over it at so terriblea disadvantage--may fitly present the contrast between Colonel JohnBoadley Bancker's head as it was and as it had been supposed. Not aspear of hair on it, from forehead to spine, so far as the eye could seeby gas-light; and the head one of those fearful botches of nature whennot over-well instructed in her work,--with the forehead retreating likethe roof of a house, and the skull coming to a dull point at the top,like the end of a gigantic cucumber, and glossy and yellow like thatcucumber ripening for seed! The total baldness of the head was badenough, under the circumstances (especially for thirty-two!) but the_shape_ of that head!--oh father of that man, what right had you tovisit your own sins upon a succeeding generation in such a manner?
The reception of this revelation was as varied, at first, as thecharacters of those who received it. Frank Wallace was so astounded atthe extraordinary success of his manoeuvre, and at the same time at hisown detection, that he dropped crutch and cane, allowed his sham woundedleg to straighten, and stood holding the wig in his hand as if he had nopower to lay it down. Mrs. Owen screamed, that seeming to be the duty ofhospitality when such a breach of good manners had been committed in herparlor. Josephine Harris paled, flushed, and finally fell back into achair in such convulsions of laughter that she cried like a child. EmilyOwen tried to look grave, but looked at Joe and soon followed her lead.Aunt Martha happened to have her handkerchief in her hand, and stuffedit into her mouth so tightly that she came near suffocating. Judge Owenstill stood in the doorway, his face judicially severe and portentous,as if he felt that some awful desecration had been committed, for whichthe full severity of the criminal law could scarcely be an adequatepunishment.
Not an instant, however, before the two young girls found recruits fortheir "forward movement." Aunt Martha's handkerchief flew from hermouth, and she laughed from cap to slipper. Mrs. Owen, thus deserted byher reserve, caught the infection and laughed still louder than AuntMartha. Frank Wallace directly came in with a baritone which chimed wellwith the soprano of the young girls and the contralto of the middle-agedladies. And Judge Owen, at last, having satisfied his judicial dignityby keeping his gravity longer than any one else, rung in with a gruffheavy bass that might have been contracted for in the damp vault of hisown court-room.
There are said to be some occasions in which the highest order ofeloquence is shown in total silence, and others in which the mostindomitable bravery is shown by immediately running away. Certainly thiswas an opportunity for the display of the latter quality. Just when thelaugh had fairly burst, Colonel John Boadley Bancker clapped his handto his head, satisfied himself that the catastrophe had really occurred,then made a grab at the wig and caught it out of the hands of histormentor, took three steps out of the room to the hat-rack in the hall,and a few more out into the bright moonlight. Napoleon had leftWaterloo!
CHAPTER XXX.
THE LAST TIT-BITS OF THE BANQUET--SUBSEQUENT EVENTS IN THE HISTORIES OFDIFFERENT CHARACTERS--A CAVALRY CHARGE AT ANTIETAM--AND THE END.
When the banquet is over, whether the guests have been fully satisfiedor the opposite, there may still remain a few trifles which must bediscussed, if the proper respect is to be shown to each other and theentertainer. When a story is almost ended, there may still remain afragmentary portion, perhaps not altogether worthy of attention fromthose who have so far followed the fortunes of the different personagesinvolved, and yet impossible to ignore without manifesting a disregardof the whole entertainment. To that stage this narrative has reached,and all that remains is a hasty grouping together of those closingevents for which all that have preceded them would seem to have beenintended by the fates that overruled them.
* * * * *
It will be remembered that Josephine Harris, when first recovered fromthe disappointment of Richard Crawford's absence from the city, penned aletter and mailed it to Niagara, giving him a rapid detail of all thatshe had been doing in his behalf--of events at West Falls--and of theabsolute necessity that he should at once apply some of his marvellouslyrecovered strength to the purposes of a journey thither. That letter,which should have reached Niagara as soon as the travellers themselves,suffered the fate of many-letters that are sent upon matters of life anddeath with the magic word "haste" in the lower left-hand corner; and wasnot delivered at the Cataract House until Saturday morning. Perhaps itwas quite as well that the detention had occurred on the road, for bythat means the partially-recovered invalid was spared two excitements inone day, which might have seriously prostrated him.
Even as it was, the shock was a sudden and hazardous one, to a system nomore thoroughly restored than Richard Crawford's. He received thatletter on Saturday morning, with several others from the city, and wentup to his own room to read them. From prudential reasons, Bell, on thedisappearance of Marion Hobart, had taken the vacated room, adjoiningthat of her brother; and when he had been for a few moments alone afterhis return from the hotel "post-office," she was startled by what seemedto be a groan issuing from his room. Instantly running to the door andtapping, when she entered she found him sitting on the side of the bed,white as the counterpane that covered it, and breathing heavily. Sheflew at once to his side, applied the restoratives at hand, and had thejoy of seeing him almost instantly recover breath and voice. Then it wasthat she observed that he held a letter in his hand, and that letter hetendered her. She read, and her own excitement was scarcely less thanthat of her brother. Now for the first time she understood the strangewords with reference to the destinies of her family, which had beenuttered by the sybil, and which had done so much to change the verynature of, her womanhood. And what a revelation was here to her, of themental torture which Richard must have experienced through all his longhopeless illness--of the uncomplaining patience with which he had bornewhat must have seemed to him the crushing out of all the best hopes ofhis life--of the murderous depravity which could exist in the heart ofone connected with her by the dear ties of blood, and daily taken by thehand and trusted--and of the singular character of that young girl whomshe had observed so much and known so little, and to whose effortsseemed to be owing all this happiness budding and blossoming out of theashes of past misery.
An hour restored the equanimity of Richard Crawford, though severalwould be needed before he could recover all the strength of which he hadbeen temporarily deprived by the shock. But joy does not kill, likegrief; nor does it even enervate for any long period. Only a little timeelapsed before the steadfast lover, to whom the promise of joy was againopen after so long an obscuration, decided that he must and would bestrong enough to ride to Utica that night and to West Falls on Sundaymorning. He could not be allowed to go alone, and of course Bell, whowould not dissuade him, had no alternative but to
accompany him With afew words of apology to Walter Harding, for thus making a last breakinto what would otherwise have been a pleasant sojourn of some days atthe Falls, and leaving him entirely alone,--but with the explanationthat family affairs of the gravest importance demanded their presence inthe neighborhood of Utica,--they left Niagara on Saturday afternoon,slept a portion of the night at Utica, and reached West Falls on Sundaymorning, the Twelfth--a week from that eventful Sunday on which thedestinies of the whole Crawford family seemed to have been played for,lost and won, in the little parlor of Aunt Betsey Halstead.
It is an old story which can never be told over half so well as it canbe acted--that of the meeting of lovers who have been once estranged bywrong or misunderstanding. It was a trying moment when Mary Crawford,altogether ignorant of the time of his coming, even if he would everagain come at all,--was called to meet the man whom she had so wrongedand misunderstood. But how to perform the rites of reconciliation, isone of the sublime mysteries which Nature teaches when she gives us theother holy lessons of love; and who doubts that the cousin-loversclasped each other more fondly, and with a better knowledge of what eachwas worth to the other, in the meeting embrace of that Sunday morning,than they might ever have done during their whole lives if the tongue ofslander and the hand of injustice had not come temporarily betweenthem?
Their connection with this narration closes here. Poor old John Crawfordis yet living, though dying daily with weakness and the gradual wearingaway of the very power of life. Mary Crawford is a wife, and has beensince Wednesday, the twenty-sixth of November, 1862, on which day--theday preceding the annual Thanksgiving--Richard Crawford religiouslybelieves that he repaid himself for all by-gone wrongs andmisunderstandings. For some cause, with which his past sufferings andhis changed domestic relations may have had more or less to do, he hasnever yet joined the army of which he has always been thinking with alonging desire. His pen has not been idle, even in his happiness--maynot that have done _his_ appointed work? It need scarcely be said thatthe friendship between the people of the big house on the hill, andthose of the little Halstead house in the village, though for a timeinterrupted by pride and neglect, has since been more warmly cementedthan ever before,--and that when little Susy marries the engineer, asshe will probably do before the summer closes, there will be no warmerprayers put up for their happiness, than those uttered by two who havetrodden the same path but a little while before them.
* * * * *
We have not chosen to depict the storm which followed the suddendeparture of Colonel John Boadley Bancker from the house of Judge Owen,near the Harlem River. That there _was_ a storm, is undeniable--such astorm as the burly Judge had (and still retains) the faculty of gettingup at the shortest notice. One of those blind, indiscriminate storms,which having no justice have no direction, and which consequently hurtno one, though they offend all. Frank Wallace, for daring to play such amasquerade in his house and offend a guest--Josephine Harris, for beingan accessory before or after the fact, to the plot (the pompous mannever knew which)--Emily for having been always a disobedient daughterand a disgrace to the family, this event being another of the abundantproofs thereof--Mrs. Owen and Aunt Martha for daring to live in the samehouse where such things were about to occur, without preventing them,whether they knew of the arrangement or not,--all received their sharein this blast of denunciation; and yet, strangely enough, all survivedit, and not one even quitted the house in disgust.
Colonel John Boadley Bancker has never since entered the house or heldany intercourse with its inmates. He would quite as soon, we suspect,change places with Driesbach and tame a few tigers and hyenas forexhibition, as trust himself once more to the tender mercies of peoplewho _detected and laughed at him_. If he prays (which is doubtful) heprays first to be delivered from the wiles and machinations of a demonin petticoats named Joe Harris. He does not wear shoulder-straps or ablue uniform. He has not been drafted, and probably will not be, even inthe new eight-hundred-thousand levy. He is said to be still speculating,and making money; and there have been rumors that he is looking for a"job" in the operations of the Harbor-Defence Commissioners of the Cityof New York.[18] But as those Commissioners are well known to be beyondthe reach of those evil influences which have made other operations ofthe war a little costly beyond their return,--he cannot do otherwisethan fail in this instance.
[Footnote 18: March 21, 1863.]
Frank Wallace has not been banished the house of Judge Owen, since thatmemorable night of July. He visits it, even takes Emily to the theatres,and is neither insulted nor interrupted. It is supposed that the Judgedid not rule him out of the house, because he believed it to be of nouse, holding that a man who had begun to come in disguise might continuethe game if not allowed to come openly, and that to keep him out hewould be obliged to remain at home all the time himself, and keep asharp eye on the supposed milkman, the baker, the butcher, and even theman who carried in the coal.
It may be that after this lapse of time, the Judge even tolerates thescapegrace. Emily does, it is very evident, and as she has never sinceswerved in her warm friendship with the wild girl who arranged themasquerade, she is not at all likely to recede from her old position orto marry otherwise than as she pleases. The Judge had better reconsiderhis old decision, gracefully, for he is certainly overruled by that"full bench" consisting of Emily herself (Mrs. Owen reserving heropinion), Josephine Harris and Aunt Martha; and Frank Wallace will "takejudgment" some day before he is aware of it, in the shape of prettyEmily Owen!
* * * * *
This is not a clergyman's or a county clerk's record of marriages, andit is a matter of regret that we cannot carry out the system inauguratedby Southworth and followed by Wood, of marrying off all the couples atthe close of the relation, even down to the footman and thekitchen-girl. If we put them _en train_ for that pleasant consummation,shall it not be held sufficient?
It would have been one of the pleasantest tasks of this narration tomarry Walter Lane Harding, merchant and good fellow, to Bell Crawford,much more worthy to be his wife than when she was leaving the couch ofher sick brother, with the gallant Colonel of the Two Hundredth as herattendant, in search of a peculiar shade of red ribbon. But Harding is aman of mercantile regularity of idea, and not even a novelist can movehim more rapidly than _he_ chooses. He left Niagara on the Mondayfollowing the departure of Bell Crawford and her brother on Saturday,but business may have had more to do with his return to this city thanany outsider can know. He has since been very much in her society, andfriends believe that they are sincerely attached to each other. It ishighly probable that they will be at Kittatinny or the White Mountainstogether, during the summer; and a marriage between them, which is oneof the eventual certainties, may take place at a moment when it is leastexpected by others, but when they (the parties most deeply interested,after all) happen to fancy that the time has come for such a culminationof the pleasant acquaintance. Walter Harding, meanwhile, has forsakennone of his old ways, and finds the same pleasure as of old, in thestreet, in the country or at places of intellectual amusement, in thecompany (when he can manage to light upon that ever-busy person) of hisfriend and companion Tom Leslie.
* * * * *
It has already been said, in a previous chapter, that Tom Leslie andJohn Crawford left the Cataract House within an hour after the discoveryof the abduction of Marion Hobart, taking carriage into Canada. Perhapsneither of the two knew precisely what was his motive in the pursuit,except the one before named--curiosity. If Crawford felt that he had aduty to the young Virginian girl, and some claim upon her, under thebequest of her dying grandfather, he was yet fully satisfied that shehad left with her own consent, and that she was now where he could takeno legal steps to reclaim her from any false position in which she mighthave placed herself. Leslie had, and knew that he had, no right whateverto meddle with the movements of the suspicious parties, except that hemight have ob
tained some description of Columbus' right by _discovery_.However, the reasons being what they might, the fact was patent--theywere now in full chase of a will-of-the-wisp of most magnificentdimensions.
There was not much difficulty, on enquiry, to find that the carriagethey were following (Leslie remembered that this was the _second_carriage _he_ had followed, in that connection) had taken the road toSt. Catharine's; and thither the pursuers posted. Parties who bore thedescription of those they named--one large, dark man and one very smalllady--had taken refreshments at the principal hotel there, two hoursbefore; and then they had apparently gone on to Toronto. They followedto Toronto. Some hours were spent at Toronto, in discovering that theyhad taken the rail to Montreal. The pursuers followed to Montreal, andlate at night, on the day following the departure from Niagara, were atDonnegana's Hotel. No concealment had here been considered necessary bythe fugitives, whatever they might have practised before; and on theregister of Donnegana's, Leslie found an entry of the names of "DexterRalston _and wife_!"
"Phew!" he said, calling the attention of Crawford to the book, "theyhave been rapid. All my suspicious were correct, as usual. There neverwas such a match; but they have now acquired a legal right to remaintogether, even if there was power to separate them otherwise. They aremarried!"
"The d--l they are!" said John Crawford, leaning over to examine theregister. "True enough! Then my guardianship is ended, with a witness.But is _she_ his wife? Is it Marion Hobart, or may he not have beenmarried before?"
"No, said Leslie," remembering the picture, "she and no other."
They had not been aware that they were speaking loudly enough to beeasily overheard; but as the last words were spoken a well-known voicesounded behind them, and Tom Leslie, as he turned, saw Dexter Ralston,cigar in mouth, coming up from the door.
"You were speaking of my wife, gentlemen," he said, as he bowed toLeslie. "Well, what of her?"
"If your wife is Marion Hobart," said John Crawford, turning, "we werespeaking of _my ward_, entrusted to my guardianship by her grandfather,her last surviving relative, on his death-bed, and stolen away by youfrom the Cataract House yesterday."
The words of Crawford were somewhat loud, and the face of the Virginianflushed, though the office of the hotel was almost deserted and probablyno one but themselves understood what was being uttered. "_Stolen_ is ahard word," he said, after a moment, "but if you are John Crawford, whobrought Marion Hobart safely away from Glendale, in Virginia, you arelicensed to say almost anything."
Tom Leslie spoke.
"Where shall I meet you next, Ralston?"
"That depends upon where you follow me," said the Virginian, in a toneof dignified pleasantry which came near bringing the blood to Leslie'scheek as it had lately been brought to that of the Virginian. Thejournalist shook off the feeling, however, and laughed.
"Well, we _have_ followed you, of course," he said--"perhaps played_spy_ upon you. But if I am not mistaken, I saw you playing very nearlythe same game on Goat Island and at the Cataract."
The Virginian echoed the laugh.
"Fairly hit back," he said. "I _have_ played the spy, more than once.Who has not, I wonder?"
"What are you to-night?" asked Leslie, with a marked banter in his tone."It is none of my business, of course, here on Canadian ground, but theother day, on Goat Island, you were--"
"A loyal American," answered Ralston, interrupting him. "To-night, andon Canadian ground, I am a loyal _Virginian_, true to my own State,first, last and forever."
"By George! I thought so all the while!" said Leslie, though there wascertainly no anger in his tone. (It is a matter of doubt whether withinthe preceding few days that young man had not found himself sopleasantly situated in some regards, as to be incapable of becoming veryeasily vexed, even for the sake of _patriotism_).
"We differ on the national question, and I suppose conscientiously,"said Ralston. "I hold the extreme doctrine of State Rights, and you thatof centralization. I am a rebel--you are a loyalist. All right--don'tlet us quarrel, especially as we have been friends and as you arecertainly a jolly good fellow and I _ought_ to be."
"I ought to hate you and wish for your extermination," said Leslie, inthe same frank tone; "and if I heard you professing the same sentimentsat the St. Nicholas I should certainly help send you to Fort Lafayette.And yet I rather like you, in spite of the fact that I believe you havebeen concerned in some of the nests of secession in New York, throughwhich the enemy--that's your friends!--obtained knowledge of all thatwas going on at the North."
"Never nearer right in your life!" said the Virginian. "In fact you aremore nearly correct than even you imagine. One of the reasons why theUnion cause can never succeed, is that the 'rebellion,' as you call it,has emissaries among you in every class of society, from the club-houseto the brothel. You will scarcely believe, even with your experience,how society is getting mixed up! I found Kate F----, the daughter of oneof my rich old neighbors, seduced and lured away from home, the inmateof one of those houses I have just named; and as I could do nothingbetter to relieve her just then, I employed her for _the cause_.To-night she is asleep in this house, my wife's servant. You wouldn'ttrust her, would you?--I would. But you need not suppose that themachinery is all worked among the lower classes. Don't trust thebrown-stone houses too far! We had a brown-stone house up-town, untilnot many days ago--"
"Yes, on East 5-- Street, not far from the Eastern Dispensary," saidLeslie, breaking in upon the Virginian in turn; "and another on PrinceStreet, and--"
"Oh, you seem to know a good deal about it," said Ralston, trying tokeep up his tone of banter, but his voice showing that he was really alittle surprised. "And yet I do not think that you can be altogetherbehind the curtain after all. The worst foes of what you call the 'Unioncause' have not been those who declared themselves secessionists. Someof your leading officials, it may be pleasant to you to know, are asarrant 'rebels' as even Virginia can furnish; and with them and thecorrespondence carried on through their offices, we have worked moreeffectively than in almost any other way."
"Yes," said Leslie, looking steadily at Ralston, and with a wicked smilepeeping out from under his moustache. "Yes--not only local officials,but Congressmen, judging by the conversation that you held with theHonorable ---- ----, under the arches of the Capitol, the night beforeLincoln's inauguration."
"What!" cried the Virginian, for once surprised out of his equanimity."The d--l! You know that?" Then he laughed and grew placid again. Theinstant after he held out his hand to Leslie. "Leslie, you are keenerthan I thought, and perhaps it is just as well that we are not to playagainst each other any more. I am going to Europe by the next steamerfrom Quebec. It is late--I must go to bed. Let me say good-bye."
"To Europe?" asked Leslie. "Eh? oh! more ships, cotton and tobaccoloans, I suppose."
"No!" said Ralston, and his voice sunk into a low tone of concentratedbitterness, very different from the manner he had recently displayed."No! I am going to Europe to reside. I am done with the Confederatecause, though I hate the Federal as much as ever. It was _Virginia_ Iwas striving for, not to change the despotism of Lincoln to another anda worse under Jeff Davis. That is enough--once more good night andgood-bye!"
"Stop!" said John Crawford, who had stood very near during all thisconversation, but taken no part in it. "You have yet a word or two toanswer to _me_. I charged you, a few moments ago, with the abduction ofa lady left to my care and under my solemn oath to protect her, by herlast living relative. I know there is no law here in my behalf; but as a_man_ answering to a _man_, what have you to say to this?"
"Her last living relative?" said the Virginian, as if he had heardnothing else of the words addressed to him. "Humph! as I said before, ifyou are John Crawford, my wife and myself both owe you much, and perhapsyou are entitled to be satisfied before you go. Come up-stairs with me amoment, and you shall see what foundation there is for your words."
He led the way from the office of the hotel, through the
hall and up abroad flight of steps to the next floor, the two friends following.Turning to the left he tapped with his knuckles on the door of one ofthe private parlors. There was no answer from within. He tapped again,and still there was no answer. He turned the knob of the door and peepedwithin, then opened the door a little wider and beckoned to Leslie andCrawford.
"Look!"
The two companions looked within. Two of the burners of the chandelierdependent from the ceiling were lit, and a flood of softened light fromthe ground-shades filled the apartment. On a sofa at the left sat thered woman of the Rue la Reynie Ogniard, red no longer now, but with thematchless beauty of her face displayed as it had been for a moment whenTom Leslie saw her unmasked at the house on Prince Street. But her darkhair lay all dishevelled; and in the eyes, that seemed to be lookingdown with a fixed and almost _hungry_ expression of love that couldnever gaze enough, there were traces of late weeping. At her feet, on alow ottoman, half sat and half knelt Marion Hobart--or she who had solately borne that name--her blonde hair thrown back from her brow, andher eyes looking up with an answering expression of yearning affectionthat would need years to satisfy. She was in white, and around her waistwere thrown the arms of the other, holding her in a clasp of agonizedforce and intensity. Neither seemed to be aware that others werenear--apparently neither had heard the knock or the opening of thedoor--for the time they seemed to be alone upon earth. A moment Leslieand Crawford gazed upon this picture: then Ralston closed the dooragain.
Leslie, who had for an instant started and trembled when the picture methis view, as he had never failed to do in the presence of thatmarvellous woman, uttered no word as the door closed.
"Well?" asked John Crawford, to whom nothing had as yet been revealed.
"You do not understand," said the Virginian. "I think that your friendsees farther. I married Marion Hobart yesterday, at Toronto. You saidthat you held a right over her by the bequest of her last livingrelative--her grandfather: I tell you that I have to-night restored herto a dearer relative, in whose arms she lies----"
"Her _mother_," said Leslie, the two words breaking from his lips as ifinvoluntarily.
"Her mother? Oh Lord!" broke out John Crawford, surprise completelyovermastering him.
"Her mother--a French lady by birth, and something of whose characteryou know, Leslie. Her mother, the repudiated wife of Charles HampdenHobart, from whom Marion has been separated since childhood, and to whomyou unwittingly, and I of my own will, have just given her back. Have Ia right to her, now? Are you satisfied?"
"Yes," said John Crawford. "My duty is done, though I should rather haveseen it end differently. Good-night!"
"Good-night and good-bye!" said Tom Leslie, holding out his hand. DexterRalston shook it, bowed to Crawford, and entered the parlor, closing thedoor behind him, The two companions descended the stairs; and so closedTom Leslie's long adventure, which it must be confessed that he had notbrought to quite so practical an end as that reached by his femalecounterpart in another direction. But then who ever heard of a manmanaging a mystery or an intrigue with the same effective dexterity as awoman, or making as much good or evil out of it in the end?
* * * * *
Tom Leslie left Montreal almost as suddenly as he had arrived there, incompany with John Crawford. He reached New York still in company withthe Zouave. His re-union with Joe Harris took place at that auspicioustime when the comedy at Judge Owen's had just come to a conclusion; andone can very well imagine what a clatter of tongues and a ringing ofmerry laughter there must have been in the parlor of Mrs. Harris's cozylittle house, as the two compared notes since their separation at Utica,and as each revealed what had yet been necessarily kept hidden from theother. Mrs. Harris, good soul, listened to the two rattle-pates on thatfirst evening, and laughed as merrily as either; but after a time thegood lady stole away, perhaps to her early bed; and then, strangelyenough, the merriment soon ceased, and they were silent. Were theirvoices only for others, and did eye speak to eye, lip to lip, and heartto heart, when they were alone together? One who knew both passed themclosely by without being observed, and arrived at that impression, whenthey had stolen away from Mrs. Harris and the Ocean House at Newport, amonth later, on the night of the full moon of August, and were sittingsilent together, on the almost deserted piazza of the Stone BridgeHouse, at the extreme north end of Rhode Island, and under the shadow ofMount Hope, looking at the moon shining in placid beauty on the stillwaters of the East River, and thinking of Indian canoes and the romanceof old history, as the little boats of the pleasure-seekers glided inand out among the wooded islands, and the shouts of merriment rung outever and anon on the night air from lips that were bubbling over withenjoyment.
And this brings us to a matter of no slight embarrassment. If thisnarration has a heroine (which may be held as a matter of doubt) thatheroine is Josephine Harris, the wild, impulsive, loving girl, everready for help or mischief, whose madcap pranks have played so importanta part in the fortunes of all. And if we have not been all the whileentirely without a hero, Tom Leslie, the journalist, cosmopolitan, loverof nature, and strange mixture of boyish gayety and manly experience,must supply that important place. The meeting of these two oddities hasbeen narrated, and their lives have seemed to blend together from thatmoment; and yet the strange spectacle has been presented, of two who aretalking always and on all subjects, saying no word of love to each otherthat reaches the pen of the narrator. There is one long pressure of thehand on the first day of their meeting--one long, confiding pressure, inwhich the two palms might almost grow together; and that is all.Thenceforth they belong to each other, and yet without a single questionopenly asked or answered. If the narrator should be asked, Why thisreticence?--he might not be able to explain the restraint which holdshis hand. They love each other dearly--so dearly that the blotting outof one from existence would be leaving that existence a blank to theother, for so many weary months and years that the very heart would growsick at contemplating the long expanse of bereavement yet to betravelled over.
But they are not married? No. Months have passed over them, since eachknew each so thoroughly that often the one speaks the unbreathed thoughtof the other; and yet they are not married. When will that marriage vowbe spoken? To-morrow? Next year? Never? Who knows, except God in heaven?Perhaps there is something in this strange, wild, wayward love, betweentwo who may not dream of any reward beyond its existence, too sacredeven for its words to be recorded if they should fall upon the ear orenter the mind of the romancer. Neither of them, perhaps, could attracta love beside: neither of them might value another love, if it shouldcome at any call. Both of them will be Pariahs from the caste of hardpropriety, while the world lives or they exist. Both will chatter,laugh, weep at times, fill unacknowledged places in the world, and weaveunreal romances of loving mischief in real life. And yet, married orunmarried, they rest in each other--_rest_, in the truest and holiestsense of that sacred word which almost encompasses heaven. Absent, theywill wish for each other: together, they will sometimes forget theblessing that has been conferred, to remember it again some time throughsobs and kisses. And here let the record close.
No--let the record bear one more important suggestion. If they do marry,for the protection of society let conspicuous labels be pinned on thebacks of their children: "Don't let these little people get into anychance for mischief."
* * * * *
John Crawford, the Zouave, returned to New York within the succeedingthree days. Among the first of his researches in the city, was one as tothe state of the bank-account of Marion Hobart. The account wasclosed--every dollar had been drawn, by check under her own hand, andthe fact gave only another proof that her abduction had beenaccomplished without much violence, if not indeed with her ownconnivance.
John Crawford rejoined the Advance Guard in October, and has sinceshared in all the perils and glories of that gallant corps. He is stilla private--it may be because no commissi
on has offered on such terms asa true man could accept; and it may be because he believes the trueromance and glory of war to lie with the _soldier_, and not the_officer_--the danger of the lonely picket-guard and the song and storyof camp and bivouac, supplying a fresh and glorious excitement to whichthe superior must always remain a stranger.
* * * * *
From the moment when Colonel Egbert Crawford left West Falls sosuddenly, and took his way Southward by the cars of the New York Centralroad on that Sunday evening of July, he seems to have passed awayentirely from the course of this narration. Let it not be supposed thathe has passed away from memory or that these closing words can becomplete without a knowledge of his subsequent movements.
It has been seen how calmly, to all outward appearance, the baffled anddetected man bore the knowledge of his ruin. _Ruin_, because nothingless was involved in the failure of his plans. He had long beenembarrassed in money affairs, and for months before his business as aTombs lawyer had been falling away under that worst of allcankers--neglect. The hand of Mary Crawford would have satisfied hisheart, and her fortune would have repaired the weakness of his own.Failing both, he was hopelessly bankrupt. The Two Hundredth Regiment wasa failure, and he had known the fact for weeks. Perhaps he had neverbelieved that it would be otherwise. At all events, as may have beensuspected from his forced submission to the unpardonable insolence ofthe Adjutant, he had been deceiving the authorities as to the number andcondition of the regiment, and applying to his own use sums that mightneed to be some day strictly accounted for. The previous word will bearrepetition--this event in his life was absolute ruin.
Some men commit suicide under such circumstances. Others make one moreand a still greater departure from the path of honesty, and victimizingall whom they can influence by the holiest of pleas and the most sacredclaims of friendship, flee away to bury their shame among strangers. Afew find such positions the turning-points in their lives, andthenceforward develope some startling virtues which almost redeem thelamentable past.
Egbert Crawford had proved himself a villain, even as the world goes. Hehad trampled upon the dearest ties of blood, and been a constructivemurderer, only withheld from the actual crime by circumstances overwhich he had no control. He had murdered character, and would havemurdered the happiness of a poor, weak, unoffending woman, who had thedouble claim of youth and of kindred blood, demanding consideration athis hands. He had trifled with the public service and defrauded thegovernment, as too many others were and have since been doing on everyhand--draining his Mother Country of her life-blood in her very hour ofneed, and so aiding to commit that most deadly and horrible ofcrimes--_matricide_. Could this man still have one virtue remaining? Letthis be seen.
He reached New York on Monday night, after a stay of a few hours atAlbany. What he did at the latter place has never been known and perhapswill never be. On Tuesday, for an hour, he was at Camp Lyon, and some ofthe other officers saw him walking backward and forward, on the piazzaof the hotel, in conversation with the Adjutant. Once or twice theirvoices were heard to rise louder than good-feeling would have allowed,though the words they uttered were not caught by any listener. Were theyhaggling, as robbers have been known to do after successful operationsin plundering, over the division of the spoils? At nightfall the Colonelreturned to the city, and Camp Lyon and the Two Hundredth Regiment sawhim no more.
The morning papers of a day or two after announced that the TwoHundredth Regiment, which seemed to have been lagging in the way ofrecruits, for a few days before, had been abandoned as a separateorganization and would be consolidated with the One Hundred andNinety-ninth, then in the course of successful formation at a campwithin half a mile of its disbanded rival. With this addition, the OneHundred and Ninety-ninth would be full and able to leave within a week.The Colonel of the Two Hundredth, it was added, had accepted acommission on staff-service, and had already left for the seat of war.
All this Was true, except so much of it as was mere speculation for thefuture. Whether the One Hundred and Ninety-ninth did profit by theconsolidation and move within the week--whether any money, and if so howmuch, was received by those who "sold out" the Two Hundredth--andwhether the One Hundred and Ninety-ninth (_not_ including Lieut.Woodruff, who threw up his commission in disgust) entered and honoredthe service, or was yet frittered away by the gross mismanagement ofthose in command,--all these are matters that have no connectionwhatever with the present relation. The gist of the newspaper paragraphwas true--the consolidation of the two regiments had been effected, andColonel Egbert Crawford had left Now York for Washington, onstaff-service.
When he left his legal office on the day of his departure forWashington, he carried with him a package the shape of which none couldmistake. It contained a sword. So much any eye could see. But no eyecould see what lay beneath. It has been more than once indicated that sofar as an evil man could love purely, Egbert Crawford really loved thelittle cousin for whom he was playing so unfairly. Sword-factories hadsprung up, since the breaking out of the war, along the little streamswhich emptied into the Mohawk, through the Oneida Valley; and some ofthem kept up the clink of the trip-hammers and the whirr of theemory-wheels that shaped and polished sword-blades, not far from WestFalls. One day, in June, while his star seemed to be so certainly in theascendant in the family of John Crawford, Mary and himself had visitedone of those factories. Impressed by the intelligence of his remarks onthe manufacture, and perhaps willing to curry favor with the commanderof a regiment just going into the field, the superintendent of thesword-factory had presented the officer with a splendid plainlight-cavalry sabre with its brazen hilt and heavy steel scabbard--amost deadly and effective weapon, upon which one could depend in battlealmost as well as upon the best blade forged in Damascus. That swordMary had carried home in her own hands, presenting it to him afterwards,in a moment of good feeling, with a playful word of confidence in hisvalor, which he had never forgotten. That blade, hallowed by the littlehand of Mary Crawford which had once pressed its hilt, was the one whichhe carried with him that day as he left his office for no imaginary"field," but one of bloody reality.
Would he have been superstitious enough to connect the fact with his ownpast or future fate, had he known that Aunt Synchy, the old Obi woman ofThomas Street, was that very day lying dead on the floor of hermiserable room, having had a dose of one of her own insidious poisonsadministered in her tea by Master Jeffy, who had become almost too muchof an expert in the art,--because she would not allow him theextravagance of a whole penny to buy a top?
Josephine Harris, painfully correct in her general estimation of thecharacter of Egbert Crawford, had pronounced him, in addition to hisother vices, "a coward," and "amounting to nothing, as a soldier, excepthis shoulder-straps and sword-belts." She "did not believe that he wouldever go to the war." How very easily, seeing one half the truth, we canoverleap too much intervening space and falsify the remaining half!Egbert Crawford _did_ "go to the war," and under such circumstances thathis "shoulder-straps" and "sword-belts" counted for very little incomparison with himself. Three days after he left New York, he joinedthe army at Harrison's Landing, as a volunteer aid-de-camp to anyofficer who needed rough-riding and sharp fighting. He was a dashingrider--thanks to the education received many years before in thecountry, and the steadiness with which he had since kept up the habit ofriding, at an expenditure of time and money which he could ill afford.He bore excellent endorsements from Albany and New York, and he hadlately held a commission as Colonel. Besides these advantages, Hookersaw something in the dark face of the lawyer--something in the set lipsand clouded brow, which while it might not have commanded confidence inthe selection of an agent to be specially trusted in matters of delicateissue, told that there was desperation and _fight_. He joined the staffof that General, with the honorary rank of Captain.
Then followed that terrible blunder which removed the Army of thePotomac from the James River, unloosed the grasp of the Federals fromthe
very throat of the rebel power, and re-opened the Pandora's Box ofincursion which had been almost closed by the investiture of Richmond.Then followed the still more terrible blunder of the appointment of Popeto the leading command, and the commencement of that chain of disasterswhich culminated in the disgraceful retreat of the Union forces towardsWashington, after the second battle of Bull Run, on the twenty-ninth ofAugust--a retreat which was only checked by the momentary return of the"young Napoleon" from his temporary Elba, and a demoralization which wasonly forgotten when the Potomac army, once more re-organized under theold commander, moved up into Maryland to break the threatened invasionof the Middle States.
The young aid-de-camp proved himself a man and a soldier, however rawand unaccustomed, in the removal from Harrison's Landing and thedisastrous fights of Pope's campaign; but there was little opportunity,indeed, for dash amid demoralization. And so matters passed rapidly onuntil the morning of Antietam. One of the captains of GeneralPleasanton's cavalry fell at Sharpsburg, leaving a vacancy which thatgallant officer filled, by General Hooker's consent, with his volunteeraid-de-camp. Mary Crawford's cavalry sabre had at last found its truefield, though he had worn it through all, instead of the more showyregulation blade, when on staff duty.
Antietam had begun to thunder, though the height of that terriblebattle, which up to this time[19] divides with Malvern Hill and Shilohthe fearful honor of being the most destructive of any fought on theAmerican continent, had not yet been reached. One hundred and twentythousand of the Union troops held the eastern bank of Antietam Creek,ready to cross and complete the expulsion of the rebels from Maryland,while it was believed that not less than two hundred thousand of therebels held the high lands opposite. The slaughter of the day was fairlycommencing. Pleasanton held the upper of the three bridges over theCreek, that at the Hagerstown road, over which Hooker was sweepingforward to make his crossing. He had been ordered by Hooker to hold hisposition without fail and at all hazards. The rebels seemed to be inheavy force on the heights behind and farther up the creek, andevidently they were prepared to make a desperate resistance to thecrossing of Hooker. The position of the cavalry was a painful one.Hooker seemed slow in coming, and shot and shell kept continuallydropping among them, knocking from their saddles one and another of thebrave fellows who were so chafing with impatience and inaction. Atlength, and just at the moment when the head of Hooker's column appearedfrom behind the woods on the other side, a squadron of rebel horse, twoor three hundred strong, came into view, down the creek and a littlebehind, on a low plateau which stretched from it towards the hills. Theadvance guard came pricking in at the same moment. Pleasanton, who hadbeen anxiously observing the advance of Hooker, caught a word behind himand turned. As he did so, and saw the rebel cavalry, he caught the wordrepeated.
"Damnation!"
"Who spoke?" asked the General.
"I!" answered Captain Crawford, commanding the right company, andconsequently very near the commander.
"And what did you mean?" asked Pleasanton.
"My word was not for your ear, General, of course," said the youngofficer. "What I meant was that it was a shame that Hooker was comingjust at this moment, and that we could not have a brush with thoserebels on horseback, yonder."
"Eh?" said the General. "What consequence?"
"This," answered Crawford. "They brag of the rebel cavalry--they saythat we have _none_. I should like to try them, if not more than two toone."
"Good!" said Pleasanton. "The right feeling, though a little imprudent.You are a young officer, Captain Crawford, but they tell me you havedash, and that sounds like it. Dash is what we want, if we can only havesteadiness with it. Your eyes are younger than mine--how many of thoserebels are there?"
[Footnote 19: March 22d, 1863.]
The rebel cavalry were now within four hundred yards, and stilladvancing, though at moderate speed. Crawford looked at them closely amoment.
"From two to three hundred, I should think," was the answer.
"By the Lord you shall have a chance!" said the veteran. "You think youcan scatter them with less than two hundred. Try it, steel againststeel. Take two squadrons, and away with you!"
"Squadrons on the right--attention!" rung out the sharp voice of theCaptain, no despondency or vexation in it now! "Draw sabres! Squadronsforward! Column to the left--march" and rapidly as the words wereuttered the movement was executed. Other words of command followed andwere executed with equal rapidity, as the squadrons moved down to theleft, then formed on the right into line facing the foe; and it seemedbut an instant after, when the concluding words rung out: "Squadronsforward! trot--march! Gallop--march! Charge!" and the two squadrons ofthe light dragoons, headed by the new Captain, were sweeping across theplateau to meet the advancing rebels. Their long line of white steelglittered ominously, and the solid earth of the plateau shook under thehoofs of their galloping horses, few in number as they were. As theyswept on, coming nearer they discovered that their scant one hundred andfifty were even more fearfully outnumbered than they had at firstbelieved; but no man drew rein and every one grasped the hilt of hisblade with a fiercer determination, as he drove the cruel spurs stilldeeper into the flanks of his flying horse--lacerating the animal inhaste perhaps to impale himself!
In the more important details of the main battle of Antietam, thiscavalry charge has been almost overlooked by the newspaper chroniclers;and yet it is doubtful whether even the Galloping Second when theydashed into Fairfax Court-House, or Zagonyi's "Body-Guard" and FrankWhite's "Prairie Scouts," at Springfield, displayed more of the truedash of this undervalued arm of the American service, than those twosquadrons of Pleasanton on the little plateau over Antietam Creek. Therebels met them with fierce determination and the inspiringconsciousness of superior numbers, but nothing could break that headlongcharge. Scarcely a pistol-shot was fired, until the rebel ranks werecompletely broken. Like tongues of white flame those fierce blades roseand fell, lopping arms, crashing through brains and emptying saddles;and scarce once that they rose without some new stain caught from thereeking life-blood. Poor little Mary Crawford's sword, before so brightand spotless, caught terrible flames of red in its course, as theCaptain sped onward at the head of his destroying angels; and it wasonly when the rebels wore completely broken and in full flight, and theUnion cavalry wheeling to rejoin the main body with their sadlydiminished number, that the blade so bloodily baptized grew still.
Crawford, at the very head of the charge, had passed beyond many of therebel horsemen, now flying fugitives; and as he turned to ride back,drawing a long breath of exhaustion and relief, two or three of theescaping rebels dashed towards him. He raised his sword and spurredforward, for the moment unconscious of personal danger at the moment ofvictory. But at that instant the hand of one of the rebel horsemendropped to his holster--before the Union officer could meet the motionthere was a quick flash, a report, and the bullet struck him full in thethroat. One gasp, one convulsive spouting of blood from the greatarteries, in which the whole flood of life seemed to be dischargingitself--and he reeled in his saddle and fell headlong from the stirrup,his eyes already glazing in death, and the stained sword of the OneidaValley falling useless from his stiffening right hand.
Let the Koran be true, for him at least. Let the death of a patriotsoldier on the battle-field, when striking for the perilled land at itssorest need, be held to atone for much of wrong and error, and evensomething of crime, in the past. And let us say of him, as themaster-dramatist says of the perished Cawdor, and as some tired readermay be disposed to say of this long and desultory narration--that"nothing in his life became him like the leaving it."
THE END.
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Shoulder-Straps: A Novel of New York and the Army, 1862 Page 30