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Title: The Man in Gray

Author: Thomas Dixon

Release Date: July, 2005 [EBook #8462]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on July 13, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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[ILLUSTRATION: "YOU'D LIKE YOUR PAPA TO COME BACK HOME FROM THE WAR?"]


THE MAN IN GRAY

_A ROMANCE OF NORTH AND SOUTH_

BY

THOMAS DIXON

AUTHOR OF "THE SOUTHERNER," "THE LEOPARD'S SPOTS," "THE BIRTH OF A
NATION," "THE CLANSMAN," ETC.


DEDICATED TO MY FELLOW MEMBERS OF THE KAPPA ALPHA FRATERNITY FOUNDED
UNDER THE INSPIRATION OF ROBERT E. LEE 1868



TO THE READER

Now that my story is done I see that it is the strangest fiction that I
have ever written.

Because it is true. It actually happened. Every character in it is
historic. I have not changed even a name. Every event took place.
Therefore it is incredible. Yet I have in my possession the proofs
establishing each character and each event as set forth. They are true
beyond question.

THOMAS DIXON CURRITUCK LODGE _Munden, Va._



LEADING CHARACTERS OF THE STORY

ROBERT E. LEE _The Southern Commander._

MRS. LEE _His Wife._

CUSTIS _His older Son._

MARY _His Daughter._

MRS. MARSHALL _Lee's Sister._

UNCLE BEN _The Butler._

SAM _A Slave._

J.E.B. STUART _"The Flower of Cavaliers."_

FLORA COOKE _His Sweetheart._

PHIL SHERIDAN _His Schoolmate._

FRANCIS PRESTON BLAIR _Lincoln's Messenger._

SENATOR ROBERT TOOMBS _of Georgia._

JOHN BROWN _of Osawatomie._

JOHN E. COOK _His Spy._

VIRGINIA KENNEDY _Cook's Victim._

GERRIT SMITH _A Philanthropist._

GEORGE EVANS _A Labor Leader._

F. B. SANBORN _Brown's Organizer._

REV. THOMAS W. HIGGINSON _A Revolutionist._

WM. C. RIVES _Confederate Senator_

GEN. E. P. ALEXANDER _of Lee's Artillery._

JOHN DOYLE _A Poor White._

MAHALA DOYLE _His Wife._

EDMOND RUFFIN _A Virginia Planter._




THE MAN IN GRAY


CHAPTER I

The fireflies on the Virginia hills were blinking in the dark places
beneath the trees and a katydid was singing in the rosebush beside the
portico at Arlington. The stars began to twinkle in the serene sky. The
lights of Washington flickered across the river. The Capitol building
gleamed, argus-eyed on the hill. Congress was in session, still
wrangling over the question of Slavery and its extension into the
territories of the West.

The laughter of youth and beauty sifted down from open windows.
Preparations were being hurried for the ball in honor of the departing
cadets--Custis Lee, his classmate, Jeb Stuart, and little Phil Sheridan
of Ohio whom they had invited in from Washington.

The fact that the whole family was going to West Point with the boys and
Colonel Robert E. Lee, the new Superintendent, made no difference. One
excuse for an old-fashioned dance in a Southern home was as good as
another. The main thing was to bring friends and neighbors, sisters and
cousins and aunts together for an evening of joy.

A whippo'will cried his weird call from a rendezvous in the shadows of
the lawn, as Sam entered the great hall and began to light the hundreds
of wax tapers in the chandeliers.

"Move dat furniture back now!" he cried to his assistants. "And mind yo'
p's and q's. Doan yer break nuttin."

His sable helpers quietly removed the slender mahogany and rosewood
pieces to the adjoining rooms. They laughed at Sam's new-found note of
dignity and authority.

He was acting butler to-night in Uncle Ben's place. No servant was
allowed to work when ill--no matter how light the tasks to which he was
assigned. Sam was but twenty years old and he had been given the honor
of superintending the arrangements for the dance. And, climax of all,
he had been made leader of the music with the sole right to call the
dances, although he played only the triangle in the orchestra. He was in
high fettle.

When the first carriage entered the grounds his keen ear caught the
crunch of wheels on the gravel. He hurried to call the mistress and
young misses to their places at the door. He also summoned the boys from
their rooms upstairs. He had seen the flash of spotless white in the
carriage. It meant beauty calling to youth on the hill. Sam knew.

Phil came downstairs with Custis. The spacious sweep of the hall, its
waxed floor clear of furniture, with hundreds of blinking candles
flashing on its polished surface, caught his imagination. It _was_ a
fairy world--this generous Southern home. In spite of its wide spaces,
and its dignity, it was friendly. It caught his boy's heart.

Mrs. Lee was just entering. Custis' eyes danced at the sight of his
mother in full dress. He grasped Phil's arm and whispered:

"Isn't my mother the most beautiful woman you ever saw?"

He spoke the words half to himself. It was the instinctive worship of
the true Southern boy, breathed in genuine reverence, with an awe that
was the expression of a religion.

"I was just thinking the same thing, Custis," was the sober reply.

"I beg your pardon, Phil," he hastened to apologize. "I didn't mean to
brag about my mother to you. It just slipped out. I couldn't help it. I
was talking to myself."

"You needn't apologize. I know how you feel. She's already made me think
I'm one of you--"

He paused and watched Mary Lee enter from the lawn leaning on Stuart's
arm. Stuart's boyish banter was still ringing in her ears as she smiled
at him indulgently. She hurried to her mother with an easy, graceful
step and took her place beside her. She was fine, exquisite, bewitching.
She had never come out in Society. She had been born in it. She had her
sweethearts before thirteen and not one had left a shadow on her quiet,
beautiful face. She demanded, by her right of birth as a Southern girl,
years of devotion. And the Southern boy of the old regime was willing to
serve.

Phil stood with Stuart and watched Custis kiss a dozen pretty girls as
they arrived and call each one cousin.

"Is it a joke?" he asked Stuart curiously.

"What?"

"This cousin business."

"Not much. You don't think I'd let him be such a pig if I could help
him, do you?"

"Are they all kin?"

"Yes--" Stuart laughed. "Some of it gets pretty thin in the second and
third cousin lines. But it's thick enough for him to get a kiss from
every one--confound him!"

The hall was crowding rapidly. The rustle of silk, the flash of pearls
and diamonds, the hum of soft drawling voices filled the perfumed air.

Phil's eyes were dazzled with the bevies of the younger set, from
sixteen to eighteen, dressed in soft tulle and organdy; slow of speech;
their voices low, musical, delicious. He was introduced to so many his
head began to swim. To save his soul he couldn't pick out one more
entrancing than another. The moment they spied his West Point uniform he
was fair game. They made eyes at him. They languished and pretended to
be smitten at first sight. Twice he caught himself about to believe one
of them. They seemed so sincere, so dreadfully in earnest. And then he
caught the faintest twinkle in the corner of a dark eye and blushed to
think himself such a fool.

But the sensation of being lionized was delightful. He was in a whirl
of foolish joy when he suddenly realized that Stuart had deserted him,
slipped through the crowd and found his way to Mary Lee. He threw a
quick glance at the pair and one of the four beauties hovering around
him began to whisper:

"Jeb Stuart's just crazy about Mary--"

"Did you ever see anything like it!"

"He couldn't stop even to say how-d'y-do."

"And she's utterly indifferent--"

Sam's voice suddenly rang out with unusual unction and deliberation. He
was imitating Uncle Ben's most eloquent methods.

"Congress-man and Mrs. Rog-er A. Pry-or!"

Mrs. Lee hastened to greet the young editor who had taken high rank in
Congress from the day of his entrance.

Mrs. Pryor was evidently as proud of her young Congressman as he was of
her regal beauty.

Colonel Lee joined the group and led the lawmaker into the library for a
chat on politics.

The first notes of a violin swept the crowd. The hum of conversation and
the ripple of laughter softened into silence. The dusky orchestra is in
place on the little platform. Sam, in all his glory, rises and faces the
eager youth.

He was dressed in his young master's last year's suit, immaculate blue
broadcloth and brass buttons, ruffled shirt and black-braided watch
guard hanging from his neck. His eyes sparkled with pride and his rich,
sonorous voice rang over the crowd like the deep notes of a flute:

"Choose yo' pardners fur de fust cowtillun!"

Again the quick rustle of silk and tulle, the low hum of excited, young
voices and the couples are in place.

A boy cries to the leader:

"We're all ready, Sam."

The young caller of the set knew his business better. He lifted his hand
in a gesture of reverence and silence, as he glanced toward the library
door.

"Jes' a minute la-dees, an' gem-mens," he softly drawled. "Marse Robert
E. Lee and Missis will lead dis set!"

The Colonel briskly entered from the library with his wife on his arm. A
ripple of applause swept the room as they took their places with the gay
youngsters.

Sam lifted his hand; the music began--sweet and low, vibrating with the
sensuous touch of the negro slave whose soul was free in its joyous
melody.

At the first note of his triangle, loud above the music rang Sam's
voice:

"Honors to yo' pardners!"

With graceful courtesies and stately bows the dance began. And over all
a glad negro called the numbers:

"Forward Fours!"

The caller's eyes rolled and his body swayed with the rhythm of
the dance as he watched each set with growing pride. They danced a
quadrille, a mazurka, another quadrille, a schottische, the lancers,
another quadrille, and another and another. They paused for supper at
midnight and then danced them over again.

While the fine young forms swayed to exquisite rhythm and the music
floated over all, the earnest young Congressman bent close to his host
in a corner of the library.

"I sincerely hope, Colonel Lee, that you can see your way clear to make
a reply to this book of Mrs. Stowe which Ruffin has sent you."

"I can't see it yet, Mr. Pryor--"

"Ruffin is a terrible old fire-eater, I know," the Congressman admitted.
"But _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ is the most serious blow the South has received
from the Abolitionists. And what makes it so difficult is that its
appeal is not to reason. It is to sentiment. To the elemental emotions
of the mob. No matter whether its picture is true or false, the result
will be the same unless the minds who read it can be cured of its
poison. It has become a sensation. Every Northern Congressman has read
it. A half million copies have been printed and the presses can't keep
up with the demands. This book is storing powder in the souls of the
masses who don't know how to think, because they've never been trained
to think. This explosive emotion is the preparation for fanaticism. We
only wait the coming of the fanatic--the madman who may lift a torch
and hurl it into this magazine. The South is asleep. And when we don't
sleep, we dance. There's no use fooling ourselves. We're dancing on the
crust of a volcano."

Pryor rose.

"I've a number with Mrs. Pryor. I wish you'd think it over, Colonel.
This message is my big reason for missing a night session to be here."

Lee nodded and strolled out on the lawn before the white pillars of the
portico to consider the annoying request. He hated controversy.

Yet he was not the type of man to run from danger. The breed of men from
which he sprang had always faced the enemy when the challenge came.
In the carriage of his body there was a quiet pride--a feeling not of
vanity, but of instinctive power. It was born in him through generations
of men who had done the creative thinking of a nation in the building.
His face might have been described as a little too regular--a little too
handsome perhaps for true greatness, but for the look of deep thought in
his piercing eyes. And the finely chiseled lines of character, positive,
clean-cut, vigorous. He had backbone.

And yet he was not a bitter partisan. He used his brain. He reasoned. He
looked at the world through kindly, conservative eyes. He feared God,
only. He believed in his wife, his children, his blood. And he loved
Virginia, counting it the highest honor to be--not seem to be--an
old-fashioned Virginia gentleman.

He believed in democracy guided by true leaders. This reservation was
not a compromise. It was a cardinal principle. He could conceive of
no democracy worth creating or preserving which did not produce the
superman to lead, shape, inspire and direct its life. The man called of
God to this work was fulfilling a divine mission. He must be of the very
necessity of his calling a nobleman.

Without vanity he lived daily in the consciousness of his own call to
this exalted ideal. It made his face, in repose, grave. His gravity came
from the sense of duty and the consciousness of problems to be met and
solved as his fathers before him had met and solved great issues.

His conservatism had its roots in historic achievements and the chill
that crept into his heart as he thought of this book came, not from the
fear of the possible clash of forces in the future, but from the dread
of changes which might mean the loss of priceless things in a nation's
life. He believed in every fiber of his being that, in spite of slavery,
the old South in her ideals, her love of home, her worship of God, her
patriotism, her joy of living and her passion for beauty stood for
things that are eternal.

And great changes _were_ sweeping over the Republic. He felt this to-day
as never before. The Washington on whose lights he stood gazing was
rapidly approaching the end of the era in which the Nation had evolved a
soul. His people had breathed that soul into the Republic. To this
hour the mob had never ruled America. Its spirit had never dominated a
crisis. The nation had been shaped from its birth through the heart and
brain of its leaders.

But he recalled with a pang that the race of Supermen was passing.
Calhoun had died two years ago. Henry Clay had died within the past two
months. Daniel Webster lay on his death bed at Mansfield. And there
were none in sight to take their places. We had begun the process of
leveling. We had begun to degrade power, to scatter talent, to pull down
our leaders to the level of the mob, in the name of democracy.

He faced this fact with grave misgivings. He believed that the first
requirement of human society, if it shall live, is the discovery of men
fit to command--to lead.

With the passing of Clay, Calhoun and Webster the Washington on which
he gazed, the Washington of 1852, had ceased to be a forum of great
thought, of high thinking and simple living. It had become the scene of
luxury and extravagance. The two important establishments of the city
were Gautier's, the restaurateur and caterer--the French genius who
prepared the feasts for jeweled youth; and Gait, the jeweler who sold
the precious stones to adorn the visions of beauty at these banquets.

The two political parties had fallen to the lowest depths of groveling
to vote getting by nominating the smallest men ever named for
Presidential honors. The Democrats had passed all their real leaders and
named as standard-bearer an obscure little politician of New Hampshire,
Mr. Franklin Pierce. His sole recommendation for the exalted office was
that he would carry one or two doubtful Northern states and with the
solid South could thus be elected. The Whig convention in Baltimore
had cast but thirty-two votes for Daniel Webster and had nominated a
military figurehead, General Winfield Scott.

The Nation was without a leader. And the low rumble of the crowd--the
growl of the primal beast--could be heard in the distance with
increasing distinctness.

The watcher turned from the White City across the Potomac and slowly
walked into his rose garden. Even in September the riot of color was
beyond description. In the splendor of the full Southern moon could be
seen all shades from deep blood red to pale pink. All sizes from the
tiniest four-leaf wild flowers to the gorgeous white and yellow masses
that reared their forms like waves of the surf. He breathed the perfume
and smiled again. A mocking bird, dropping from the bough of a holly,
was singing the glory of a second blooming.

The scene of entrancing beauty drove the thought of strife from his
heart. He turned back toward the house and its joys of youth.

Sam's sonorous voice was ringing in deliberation the grand call of the
evening's festivities:

"Choose-yo-pardners-fer-de-ol-Virginy-Reel!"

And then the stir, the rush, the commotion for place in the final dance.
The reel reaches the whole length of the hall with every foot of space
crowded. There are thirty couples in line when the musicians pause, tune
their instruments and with a sudden burst play "The Gray Eagle." The
Virginia Reel stirs the blood of these Southern boys and girls. Its
swift, graceful action and the inspiration of the old music seem part of
the heart beat of the youth and beauty that sway to its cadences.

The master of Arlington smiled at the memory of the young Congressman's
eloquence. Surely it was only a flight of rhetoric.



CHAPTER II


Phil had finally reached the boys' room after the dance, his head in a
whirl of excitement. Sleep was the last thing he wished. His imagination
was on fire. He had heard of Southern hospitality. He had never dreamed
of such waste of good things, such joy in living, such genuine pleasure
in the meeting of friends and kinfolks. Custis had insisted on every boy
staying all night. A lot of them had stayed. The wide rooms bulged with
them. There were cots and pallets everywhere. He had seen the housemaids
and the menservants carrying them in after the dance. Their own room
contained four beds and as many pallets, and they were all full.

He tried to sleep and couldn't. He dozed an hour, waked at dawn and
began day-dreaming. There was no sense of weariness. His mind was too
alert. The great house, in which he was made to feel as much at home
as in the quiet cottage of his mother in Ohio, fascinated him with its
endless menservants, housemaids, serving boys, cooks, coachmen and
hostlers.

He thought of the contrast with the quiet efficiency and simplicity of
his mother's house. He could see her seated at the little table in the
center of the room, a snow-white cap on her head. The work of the house
had been done without a servant. It had been done so simply and quietly,
he had never been conscious of the fact that it was work at all. It had
seemed a ministry of love for her children. Their help had been given
with equal joy, unconscious of toil, her kitchen floor was always
spotless, with every pot and pan and shining dish in its place as if by
magic.

He wondered how Custis' mother could bear the strain of all these
people. He wondered how she could manage the army of black servants who
hung on her word as the deliverance of an oracle. He could hear the hum
of the life of the place already awake with the rising sun. Down in the
ravine behind the house he caught the ring of a hammer on an anvil and
closer in the sweep of a carpenter's plane over a board. A colt was
calling to his mother at the stables and he could hear the chatter and
cries of the stable boys busy with the morning feed.

He rose, stepped gingerly beside the sleepers on the floor and stood by
an open window. His mind was stirring with a curious desire to see the
ghost that haunted this house, its spacious grounds and fields. He,
too, had read _Uncle Tom's Cabin_, and wondered. The ghost must be here
hiding in some dark corner of cabin or field--the ghost of deathless
longing for freedom--the ghost of cruelty--the ghost of the bloodhound,
the lash and the auction block.

Somehow he couldn't realize that such things could be, now that he was
a guest in a Southern home and saw the bright side of their life. Never
had he seen anything brighter than the smiles of those negro musicians
as they proudly touched their instruments: the violin, the banjo, the
flute, the triangle and castanets, and watched the dancers swing through
each number. There could be no mistake about the ring of joy in Sam's
voice. It throbbed with unction. It pulsed with pride. Its joy was
contagious. He caught himself glancing at his rolling eyes and swaying
body. Once he muttered aloud:

"Just look at that fool nigger!"

But somewhere in this paradise of flowers and song birds, of music and
dance, of rustling silk, of youth and beauty, the Ghost of Slavery
crouched.

In a quiet way he would watch for it to walk. He had to summon all his
pride of Section and training in the catch words of the North to keep
from falling under the charm of the beautiful life he felt enfolding
him.

He no longer wondered why every Northern man who moved South forgot
the philosophy of the Snows and became a child of the Sun. He felt the
subtle charm of it stealing into his heart and threw off the spell with
an effort.

A sparrow chirped under the window. A redbird flashed from a rosebush
and a mocking bird from a huge magnolia began to softly sing his morning
love song to his mate.

He heard a yawn, turned and saw Custis rubbing his eyes.

"For heaven's sake, Phil, why don't you sleep?"

"Tried and can't."

"Don't like your bed?"

"Too much excited."

"One of those girls hooked you?"

"No. I couldn't make up my mind. So many beauties they rattled me."

"All right," Custis said briskly. "Let's get up and look around the old
plantation."

"Good," Phil cried.

Custis called Jeb Stuart in vain. He refused to answer or to budge.

Phil found his shoes at the door neatly blacked and the moment he began
to stir a grinning black boy was at his heels to take his slightest
order.

"I don't want _any_thing!" he said at last to his dusky tormentor.

"Nuttin tall, sah?"

"Nuttin tall!"

Phil smiled at the eager, rolling eyes.

"Get out--you make me laugh--"

The boy ducked.

"Yassah--des call me if ye wants me--I'se right outside de do'."

The two cadets ate breakfast alone. The house was yet asleep--except the
children. Their voices could be heard on the lawn at play. They had been
put to bed early, at eleven o'clock. They were up with the birds
as usual. The sun was an hour high, shining the glory of a perfect
September morning. The boys strolled on the lawn. The children were
everywhere, playing in groups. Little black and white boys mixed
indiscriminately. Robbie Lee was playing rooster fight with Sid, his
boon companion. The little black boy born nearest his birthday was
dedicated to be his friend, companion and body servant for life.

Phil paused to see the rooster fight.

The boys folded their arms and flew at each other sideways, using their
elbows as a rooster uses his spurs.

Robbie was pressing Sid against the fence of the rose garden. Sid's
return blows lacked strength.

Robbie stamped his foot angrily.

"Come on now--no foolin'--fight! There's no fun in a fight, if you don't
fight!"

Sid bucked up and flew at his enemy.

Robbie saw the two older boys watching and gave a star performance. As
Sid lunged at him with uplifted arms, and drew back to strike a stunning
blow, Robbie suddenly stooped, hurled his elbow under Sid's arm, lifted
him clear of the ground and he fell sprawling.

Robbie stood in triumph over the prostrate figure.

Phil laughed.

"You got him that time, Robbie!"

Robbie squared himself, raised his spurs and waited for Sid to rise.

Sid was in no hurry. He had enough. He hadn't cried. But he was close to
it.

"Ye needn't put up dem spurs at me no mo'."

"Come on again!" Robbie challenged.

"Na, sah. I'se done dead. Ye stick dat spur clean froo me. Hit mighty
nigh come out on de odder side!"

"Got enough?"

The game was suddenly ended by a barefoot white boy approaching Robbie.
Johnny Doyle carried a dozen teal ducks, six in each hand. They were so
heavy for his hands that their heads dragged the ground.

Robbie rushed to meet his friend.

"Oh, John, where'd you get the ducks?"

"Me and daddy killed 'em this mornin' at sun-up on the river."

"Why, the duck season isn't on yet, is it?" Custis asked the boy.

"No, sir, but daddy saw a big raft of teal swingin' into the bend of the
river yesterday and we got up before daylight and got a mess."

"You brought 'em to me, John?" Robbie asked eagerly.

"Jes the same, Robbie. Dad sent 'em to Colonel Lee."

"That's fine of your daddy, John," Custis said, placing his hand on the
little bare sunburnt head.

"Yessir, my daddy says Colonel Lee's the greatest man in this county and
he's mighty proud to be his neighbor."

"Tell him my father will thank him personally before we leave and say
for all that he has given us a treat."

Custis handed the ducks to Sid.

"Take them to the kitchen and tell Aunt Hannah to have them for dinner,
sure."

Sid started for the kitchen and Robbie called after him:

"Hurry back, Sid--"

"Yassah--right away, sah!"

Robbie seized John's hand.

"You'll stay all day?"

"I can't."

"We're goin' fishin'--"

"Honest?"

"Sure. Uncle Ben's sick. But after dinner he's promised to take us. He's
not too sick to fish."

"I can't stay," the barefoot boy sighed.

"Come on. There's three bird's nests in the orchard. The second layin'.
It ain't no harm to break up the second nest. Birds've no business
layin' twice in one season. We _ought_ to break 'em up."

"I'm afraid I can't."

His tone grew weaker and Robbie pressed him.

"Come on. We'll get the bird's eggs and chase the calves and colts till
the dinner bell rings, ride the horses home from the fields, and go
fishin' after dinner and stay till dark."

"No--"

"Come on!"

John glanced up the road toward the big gate beyond which his mother was
waiting his return. The temptation was more than his boy's soul could
resist. He shook his head--paused--and grinned.

"Come on, Sid, John's goin' with us," Robbie called to his young
henchman as he approached.

"All right," John consented, finally throwing every scruple to the
winds. "Ma'll whip me shore, but, by granny, it'll be worth it!"

The aristocrat slipped his arm around his chum and led him to the
orchard in triumph.

Custis laughed.

"He'd rather play with that little, poor white rascal than any boy in
the country."

"Don't blame him," Phil replied. "He may be dirty and ragged but he's a
real boy after a real boy's heart. And the handsomest little beggar I
ever saw--who is he?"

"The boy of a poor white family, the Doyles. They live just outside our
gate on a ten-acre farm. His mother's trying to make him go to school.
His father laughs and lets him go hunting and fishing."

They were strolling past the first neat row of houses in the servants'
quarters. Phil thought of them as the slave quarters. Yet he had not
heard the word slave spoken since his arrival. These black people were
"servants" and some of them were the friends and confidants of their
master and his household. Phil paused in front of a cottage. The yard
flamed with autumn flowers. Through the open door and windows came the
hum of spinning wheels and the low, sweet singing of the dark spinners,
spinning wool for the winter clothing of the estate. From the next door
came the click and crash of the looms weaving the warm cloth.

"You make your own cloth?" the Westerner asked in surprise.

"Of course, for the servants. It takes six spinners and three weavers
working steadily all year to keep up with it, too."

"Isn't it expensive?"

"Maybe. We never thought of it. We just make it. Always have in our
family for a hundred years."

They passed the blacksmith's shop and saw him shoeing a blooded colt.
Phil touched the horse's nostrils with a gentle hand and the colt nudged
him.

"It's funny how a horse knows a horseman instinctively--isn't it, Phil?"

"Yes. He knows I'm going to join the cavalry."

They moved down the long row of whitewashed cottages, each with its yard
of flowers and each with a huge pile of wood in the rear--wood enough
to keep a sparkling fire through the winter. Chubby-faced babies were
playing in the sanded walks and smiling young mothers watched them from
the doors.

Phil started to put a question, stammered and was silent.

"What is it?" Custis asked.

"You'll pardon my asking it, old boy, but are these black folks
married?"

The Southern boy laughed heartily.

"I should say so. A negro wedding is one of the joys of a plantation
boy's life."

"But isn't it awful when they're separated?"

"They're not separated."

"Never?"

"Not on this plantation. Nor on any estate whose master and mistress are
our friends. It's not done in our set."

"You keep them when they're old, lazy and worthless?"

"If they're married, yes. It's a luxury we never deny ourselves, this
softening of the rigor of the slave regime. It's not business. But
it's the custom of the country. To separate a husband and wife is an
unheard-of thing among our people."

The thing that impressed the Westerner in those white rows of little
homes was the order and quiet of it all. Every yard was swept clean.
There was nowhere a trace of filth or disease-breeding refuse. And birds
were singing in the bushes beside these slave cottages as sweetly as
they sang for the master and mistress in the pillared mansion on the
hill. They passed the stables and paused to watch a dozen colts playing
in the inclosure. Beyond the stable under the shadows of great oaks
was the dog kennel. A pack of fox hounds rushed to the gate with loud
welcome to their young master. He stooped to stroke each head and call
each dog's name. A wagging tail responded briskly to every greeting. In
another division of the kennel romped a dozen bird-dogs, pointers and
setters. The puppies were nearly grown and eager for the fields. They
climbed over Custis in yelping puppy joy that refused all rebuffs.

Phil looked in vain for the bloodhounds. He was afraid to ask about them
lest he offend his host. Custis had never seen a bloodhound and could
not guess the question back of his schoolmate's silence.

Sam entered the inclosure with breakfast for the dogs.

Phil couldn't keep his eyes off the sunlit, ebony face. His smile was
contagious. His voice was music.

The Westerner couldn't resist the temptation to draw him out.

"You were certainly dressed up last night, Sam!"

"Yer lak dat suit I had on, sah?"

"It was a great combination."

"Yassah, dat's me, sah," the negro laughed. "I'se a great
combination--yassah!"

He paused and threw his head back as if to recall the words. Then in a
voice rich and vibrant with care-free joy he burst into song:

"Yassah!"

  "When I goes out ter promenade
  I dress so fine and gay
  I'm bleeged to take my dog along
  Ter keep de gals away."

Again his laughter rang in peals of sonorous fun. They joined in his
laugh.

A stable boy climbed the fence and called:

"Don't ye want yer hosses, Marse Custis?" He was jealous of Sam's
popularity.

Custis glanced at Phil.

"Sure. Let's ride."

"All right, Ned--saddle them."

The boy leaped to the ground and in five minutes led two horses to the
gate. As they galloped past the house for the long stretch of white
roadway that led across the river to the city, Phil smiled as he saw Jeb
Stuart emerge from the rose garden with Mary Lee. Custis ignored the
unimportant incident.



CHAPTER III


Stuart led Mary to a seat beneath an oak, brushed the dust away with his
cap and asked her to honor him. He bowed low over her hand and dared to
kiss it.

She passed the gallant act as a matter of course and sat down beside him
with quiet humor. She knew the symptoms. A born flirt, as every true
Southern girl has always been, she eyed his embarrassment with surprise.
She knew that he was going to speak under the resistless impulse of
youth and romance, and that no hearts would be broken on either side no
matter what the outcome.

She watched him indulgently. She had to like him. He was the kind of boy
a girl couldn't help liking. He was vital, magnetic and exceptionally
good looking. He sang and danced and flirted, but beneath the fun and
foolishness slumbered a fine spirit, tender, reverent, deeply religious.
It was this undercurrent of strength that drew the girl. He was always
humming a song, his heart bubbling over with joy. He had never uttered
an oath or touched a drop of liquor amid all the gaiety of the times in
which he lived.

"Miss Mary," he began slowly.

"Now Jeb," she interrupted. "You don't _have_ to, you know--"

Stuart threw his head back, laughed, and sang a stanza from "Annie
Laurie" in a low, tender voice. He paused and faced his fair tormentor.

"Miss Mary, I've got to!"

"You don't have to make love to me just because you're my brother's
classmate--"

"You know I'm not!" he protested.

"You're about to begin."

"But not for that reason, Miss Mary--"

He held her gaze so seriously that she blushed before she could recover
her poise. He saw his advantage and pressed it.

"I'm telling you that I love you because you're the most adorable girl
I've ever known."

His boyish, conventional words broke the spell.

"I appreciate the tribute which you so gallantly pay me, Sir Knight. But
I happen to know that the moonlight, the music of a dance, the song of
birds this morning and the beauty of the landscape move you, as they
should. You're young. You're too good looking. You're fine and unspoiled
and I like you, Jeb. But you don't know yet what love means."

"I do, Miss Mary, I do."

"You don't and neither do I. You're in love with love. And so am I. It's
the morning of life and why shouldn't we be like this?"

"There's no hope?" he asked dolefully.

"Of course, there's hope. There's something fine in you, and you'll find
yourself in the world when you ride forth to play your part. And I'll
follow you with tender pride."

"But not with love," he sighed.

"Maybe--who knows?" she smiled.

"Is that all the hope you can give me?"

"Isn't it enough?"

He gazed into her serious eyes a moment and laughed with boyish
enthusiasm.

"Yes, it is, Miss Mary! You're glorious. You're wonderful. You make me
ashamed of my foolishness. You inspire me to do things. And I'm going to
do them for your sake."

"For your own sake, because God has put the spark in your soul. Your
declaration of love has made me very happy. We're too young yet to take
it seriously. We must both live our life in its morning before we settle
down to the final things. They'll come too soon."

"I'm going to love you always, Miss Mary," he protested.

"I want you to. But you'll probably marry another girl."

"Never!"

"And I know you'll be her loyal knight, her devoted slave. It's a way
our Southern boys have. And it's beautiful."

Stuart studied the finely chiseled face with a new reverence.

"Miss Mary, you've let me down so gently. I don't feel hurt at all."

A sweet silence fell between them. A breeze blew the ringlets of the
girl's hair across the pink of her cheek. A breeze from the garden laden
with the mingled perfume of roses. A flock of wild ducks swung across
the lawn high in the clear sky and dipped toward the river. Across the
fields came a song of slaves at work in the cornfield, harvesting the
first crop of peas planted between the rows.

Stuart caught her hand, pressed it tenderly and kissed it.

"You're an angel, Miss Mary. And I'm going to worship you, if you won't
let me love you."

The girl returned his earnest look with a smile and slowly answered:

"All right, Beauty Stuart, we'll see--"



CHAPTER IV


The dinner at night was informal. Colonel Lee had invited three personal
friends from Washington. He hoped in the touch of the minds of these
leaders to find some relief from the uneasiness with which the reading
of Mrs. Stowe's book had shadowed his imagination.

The man about whom he was curious was Stephen A. Douglas of Illinois,
the most brilliant figure in the Senate. In the best sense he
represented the national ideal. A Northern man, he had always viewed the
opinions and principles of the South with broad sympathy.

The new Senator from Georgia, on the other hand, had made a sensation in
the house as the radical leader of the South. Lee wondered if he were as
dangerous a man as the conservative members of the Whig party thought.
Toombs had voted the Whig ticket, but his speeches on the rights of the
South on the Slavery issues had set him in a class by himself.

Mr. and Mrs. Pryor had spent the night of the dance at Arlington and had
consented to stay for dinner.

Douglas had captured the young Virginia congressman. And Mrs. Douglas
had become an intimate friend of Mrs. Pryor.

When Douglas entered the library and pressed Lee's hand, the master
of Arlington studied him with keen interest. He was easily the most
impressive figure in American politics. The death of Calhoun and Clay
and the sudden passing of Webster had left but one giant on the floor of
the Senate. They called him the "Little Giant." He was still a giant.
He had sensed the approaching storm of crowd madness and had sought the
age-old method of compromise as the safety valve of the nation.

He had not read history in vain. He knew that all statesmanship is the
record of compromise--that compromise is another name for reason. The
Declaration of Independence was a compromise between the radicalism of
Thomas Jefferson and the conservatism of the colonies. In the original
draft of the Declaration, Jefferson had written a paragraph arraigning
slavery which had been omitted:

"He (the King of Great Britain) has waged cruel war against human nature
itself, violating its most sacred rights of life and liberty in the
persons of a distant people who never offended him; capturing and
carrying them into slavery in another hemisphere, or to incur miserable
death in their transportation thither. This piratical warfare, the
opprobrium of infidel powers, is the warfare of the _Christian_ King
of Great Britain. Determined to keep open a market where men should
be bought and sold, he prostituted his negative for suppressing every
legislative attempt to prohibit or restrain this execrable commerce. And
that this assemblage of horrors might want no fact of distinguished dye,
he is now exciting these very people to rise in arms among us, and to
purchase that liberty of which he has deprived them, by murdering the
people on whom he also obtruded them; thus paying off former crimes
committed against the liberties of one people with crimes which he urges
them to commit against the lives of another."

This indictment of Slavery and the Slave trade was stricken from the
Declaration of Independence in deference to the opposition of both
Northern and Southern slave owners who held that the struggling young
colonies must have labor at all hazards.

Lee knew that the Constitution also was a compromise of conflicting
interests. But for the spirit of compromise--of reason--this instrument
of human progress could never have been created. The word "Slave" or
"Slavery" does not occur within it, and yet three of its most important
provisions established the institution of chattel slavery as the basis
of industrial life. The statesmen who wrote the Constitution did not
wish these clauses embodied in it. Yet the Union could not have been
established without them. Our leaders reasoned, and reasoned wisely,
that Slavery must perish in the progress of human society, and,
therefore, they accepted the compromise.

There has never been a statesman in the history of the world who has
not used this method of constructive progress. There will never be a
statesman who succeeds who can use any other method in dealing with
masses of his fellow men.

Douglas was the coming constructive statesman of the republic and all
eyes were being focused on him. His life at the moment was the fevered
center of the nation's thought. That his ambitions were boundless no
one who knew the man doubted. That his patriotism was as genuine and as
great all knew at last.

Lee studied every feature of his fine face. No eye could miss him in
an assemblage of people, no matter how great the numbers. His compact
figure was erect, aggressive, dominant. A personage, whose sense of
power came from within, not without. He was master of himself and of
others. He looked the lion and he was one. The lines of his face were
handsome in the big sense, strong, regular, masculine. He drew young
men as a magnet. His vitality inspired them. His stature was small in
height, measured by inches, but of such dignity, power and magnetism
that he suggested Napoleon.

He smiled into Colonel Lee's face and his smile lighted the room. Every
man and woman present was warmed by it.

Douglas had scarcely greeted Mrs. Lee and passed into an earnest
conversation with the young Congressman when Robert Toombs of Georgia
entered.

Toombs had become within two years the successor of John C. Calhoun. He
had the genius of Calhoun, eloquence as passionate, as resistless;
and he had all of Calhoun's weaknesses. He called a spade a spade.
He loathed compromise. Three years before he had swept the floor and
galleries of the House with a burst of impassioned eloquence that had
made him a national figure.

Lifting his magnificent head he had cried:

"I do not hesitate to avow before this House and the Country, and in
the presence of the living God, that if by your legislation you seek to
drive us from the Territory of California and New Mexico, purchased
by the blood of Southern white people, and to abolish Slavery in the
District of Columbia, thereby attempting to fix a national degradation
upon half the States of this Confederacy, _I am for disunion_. The
Territories are the common property of the United States. You are their
common agents; it is your duty while they are in the Territorial state
to remove all impediments to their free enjoyment by both sections--the
slave holder and the non-slave holder!"

He was the man of iron will, of passionate convictions. He might lead a
revolution. He could not compromise.

His rapidly growing power was an ominous thing in the history of the
South. Lee studied his face with increasing fascination.

In this gathering no man or woman thought of wealth as the source of
power or end of life. No one spoke of it. Office, rank, position,
talent, beauty, charm, personality--these things alone could count.
These men and women _lived_. They did not merely exist. They were making
the history of the world and yet they refused to rush through life.
Their souls demanded hours of repose, of thought, of joy and they took
them.

Toombs' pocket was stuffed with a paper-backed edition of a French play.
It was his habit to read them in the original with keen enjoyment in
moments of leisure. The hum of social life filled the room and strife
was forgotten. Douglas and Toombs were boys again and Lee was their
companion.

Mary Lee managed to avoid Stuart and took her seat beside Phil
Sheridan--not to tease her admirer but to give to her Western guest
the warmest welcome of the old South. She knew the dinner would be a
revelation to Phil and she would enjoy his appreciation.

The long table groaned under the luxuries of the season. Course
succeeded course, cooked with a delicate skill unknown to the world of
to-day. The oysters, fresh, fat, luscious, were followed by diamond-back
terrapin stew as a soup.

Phil tasted it and whispered to his fair young hostess.

"Miss Mary, what is this I'm eating?"

"Don't you like it?"

"I never expected to taste it on earth. I've only dreamed about it on
high."

"It's only terrapin stew. We serve it as a soup."

"The angels made it."

"No, Aunt Hannah."

"I won't take it back. Angels only could brew this soup."

The terrapin was followed by old Virginia ham and turnip greens. And
then came the turkey with chestnut stuffing and jellies. The long table,
flashing with old china and silver, held the staples of ham and turkey
as ornaments as well as dainties for the palate. The real delicacies
were served later, the ducks which Doyle had sent the Colonel, and plate
after plate of little, brown, juicy birds called sora, so tender and
toothsome they could be eaten bones and all.

When Phil wound up with cakes and custards, apples, pears and nuts from
the orchard and fields, his mind was swimming in a dream of luxury. And
over it all the spirit of true hospitality brooded. A sense of home and
reality as intimate, as genuine as if he sat beside his mother's chair
in the little cottage in Ohio.

"Lord save me," he breathed. "If I stay here long I'll have but one
hope, to own a plantation and a home like this--"

Toombs sat on Lee's right and Douglas on his left. Mr. and Mrs. Pryor
occupied the places of honor beside Mrs. Lee.

The Colonel's keen eye studied Douglas with untiring patience. To his
rising star, the man who loved the Union, was drawn as by a magnet.
Toombs, the Whig, belonged to his own Party, the aristocracy of brains
and the inheritors of the right to leadership. He was studying Toombs
with growing misgivings. He dreaded the radicalism within the heart of
the Southern Whig.

His eye rested on Sam, serving the food as assistant butler in Ben's
absence. In the kink of his hair, the bulge of his smiling lips, the
spread of his nostrils, the whites of his rolling eyes, he saw
the Slave. He saw the mystery, the brooding horror, the baffling
uncertainty, the insoluble problem of such a man within a democracy of
self-governing freemen. He stood bowing and smiling over his guests, in
shape a man. And yet in racial development a million years behind the
wit and intelligence of the two leaders at his side.

Over this dusky figure, from the dawn of American history our fathers
had wrangled and compromised. More than once he had threatened to divide
or destroy the Union. Reason and the compromises of great minds had
saved us. In Sam he saw this grinning skeleton at his feast.

He could depend on the genius of Douglas when the supreme crisis came.
He felt the quality of his mind tonight. But could Douglas control the
mob impulse of the North where such appeals as _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ had
gripped the souls of millions and reason no longer ruled life?

There was the rub.

There was no question of the genius of Douglas. The question was could
any leadership count if the mob, not the man, became our real ruler? The
task of Douglas was to hold the fanatic of the North while he soothed
the passions of the radical of the South. Henry Clay had succeeded. But
_Uncle Tom's Cabin_ had not been written in his day.

Toombs was becoming a firebrand. His eloquence was doing in the South
what Mrs. Stowe's novel was doing in the North--preparing the soil for
revolution--planting gunpowder under the foundations of society.

Could these forces yet be controlled or were they already beyond
control?



CHAPTER V


After dinner, Jeb Stuart succeeded in separating Mary from Phil and
began again his adoration. The men adjourned to the library to discuss
the Presidential Campaign and weigh the chances of General Scott against
Franklin Pierce. The comment of Toombs was grim in its sarcasm and early
let him out of the discussion.

"It doesn't matter in the least, gentlemen, who is elected in November,"
he observed. "There's nothing before the country as yet. Not even an
honest-to-God man."

Lee shook his head gravely.

Toombs parried his protest.

"I know, Colonel Lee, you're fond of the old General. You fought with
him in Mexico. But--" he dropped his voice to a friendly whisper--"all
the same, you know that what I say is true."

He took a cigar from the mantel, lighted it and waved to the group.

"I'll take a little stroll and smoke."

Custis took Phil to the cottage of the foreman to see a night school in
session.

"You mean the overseer's place?" Phil asked eagerly, as visions of Simon
Legree flashed through his mind.

"No--I mean Uncle Ike's cottage. He's the foreman of the farm. We have
no white overseer."

Phil was shocked. He had supposed every Southern plantation had a white
overseer as slave driver with a blacksnake whip in his hand. A negro
foreman was incredible. As a matter of fact there were more negro
foremen than white overseers in the South.

In Uncle Ike's cottage by the light of many candles the school for boys
was in session. Custis' brother "Rooney," was the teacher. He had six
pupils besides Sam. Not one of them knew his lesson to-night and Rooney
was furious.

As Phil and Custis entered, he was just finishing a wrathful lecture.
His pupils were standing in a row grinning their apologies.

"I've told you boys for the last three weeks that I won't stand this.
You don't have to go to school to me if you don't want to. But if you
join my school you've got to study. Do you hear me?"

"Yassah!" came the answer in solid chorus.

"Well, you'll do more than hear me to-night. You're going to heed what I
say. I'm going to thrash the whole school."

Sam broke into a loud laugh. And a wail of woe came from every dusky
figure.

"Dar now!"

"Hear dat, folks--?"

"I been a tellin' ye chillun--"

"I lubs my spellin' book--but, oh, dat hickory switch!"

"Oh, Lordy--"

"Gib us anudder chance, Marse Rooney!"

"Not another chance," was the stern answer. "Lay off your coats."

They began to peel their coats. Big, strapping, husky fellows nudging
one another and grinning at their fourteen-year-old schoolmaster. It was
no use to protest.

They knew they deserved it. A whipping was one of the minor misfortunes
of life. Its application was universal. No other method of discipline
had yet been dreamed by the advanced thinkers and rulers of the world.
"Spare the rod and spoil the child" was accepted as the Word of God and
only a fool could doubt it. The rod was the emblem of authority for
child, pupil, apprentice and soldier. The negro slave as a workman got
less of it than any other class. It was the rule of a Southern master
never to use the rod on a slave except for crime if it could be avoided.
To flog one for laziness was the exception, not the rule.

The old Virginia gentleman prided himself particularly on the tenderness
and care with which he guarded the life of his servants. If the weather
was cold and his men exposed, he waited to see that they had dry clothes
and a warm drink before they went to bed. He never failed to remember
that his white skin could endure more than their sunburned dark ones.

The young school-teacher had no scruples on applying the rod. He
selected his switches with care, and tested their strength and
flexibility while he gave the bunch a piece of his mind.

"What do you think I'm coming down here every night for, anyhow?" he
stormed.

"Lordy, Marse Rooney," Sam pleaded, "doan we all pay you fur our
schoolin'?"

"Yes, you do when I can manage to choke it out of you. One dozen eggs a
month or one pullet every two months. And I don't even ask you where you
got the eggs or the pullet."

"Marse Rooney!" protested Sam. "Yer know we gets 'em outen our own yards
er buys 'em from de servants."

"I hope you do. Though my mother says she don't know how we eat so many
chickens and eggs at the house. Anyhow I'm not here because I'm going to
get rich on the tuition you pay me. I'm not here for my health. I'm here
from a sense of duty to you boys--"

"Yassah, we know dat, sah!"

"Give us annuder chance an' we sho' study dem lessons--"

"I gave you another chance the last time. I'll try a little hickory tea
this time."

He began at the end of the line and belabored each one faithfully. They
shouted in mockery and roared with laughter, scampered over the room and
dodged behind chairs and tables.

Phil fairly split his sides laughing.

When the fun was over, they drew close to their teacher and promised
faithfully to have every word of the next lesson. They nudged each other
and whispered their jokes about the beating.

"Must er bin er flea bitin' me!"

"I felt sumfin. Don't 'zactly know what it wuz. Mebbe a chigger!"

"Must er been a flea. Hit bit me, too!"

Sam tried to redeem himself for failing on his lessons in arithmetic.
He had long ago learned to read and write and had asked for a course in
history. The young teacher had given him a copy of _Gulliver's Travels_.

"Look a here, Marse Rooney, I been a readin' dat book yer gimme--"

"Well, that's good."

"Yer say dat book's history?"

"Well, it's what we call fiction, but I think fiction's the very best
history we can read. It may not have happened just that way but it's
true all the same."

"Well, ef hit nebber happened, I dunno 'bout dat," Sam objected. "I been
suspicionin' fer a long time dat some o' dem things that Gulliver say
nebber happen nohow."

"You read it," the teacher ordered.

"Yassah, I sho gwine ter read it, happen er no happen. Glory be ter God.
Just 'cause yer tells me, sah!"



CHAPTER VI


The next morning found Phil walking again between the white, clean rows
of the quarter houses. He was always finding something to interest him.
Every yard had its gorgeous red autumn flowers. Some of them had
roses in bloom. The walks from the gate to the door were edged with
white-washed bricks or conch shells. The conch shells were souvenirs of
summer outings at the seashore.

In the corner of the back yard there was the tall pole on which were
hung five or six dried gourds with tiny holes cut in the sides for the
martins. And every gourd had its black family. The martins were the
guardians of the servants' chicken yards. The hawks were numerous and
the woods close to the quarters. Few chickens were lost by hawks. The
martins circled the skies in battalions, watching, chattering, guarding,
basking in the southern sun.

At noon the assembly bell rang at the end of the Broadway of the
quarters. From every cottage, from field and stable, blacksmith shop,
carpenter's shop, the house of the spinners, the weavers, the dairy, the
negroes poured toward the shed beside the bell tower.

"What is it?" Phil asked of Custis.

"Saturday noon. All work stops."

"My Lord, it's been raining nearly all morning. The field hands haven't
worked a lick all day. Do they stop, too?"

"It's the unwritten law of the South. We would no more think of working
on Saturday afternoon than on Sunday."

"What are they gathering under that shed for?" Phil inquired.

Custis led him to the shed where Ike, the foreman, stood with Mrs. Lee
beside a long table on which were piled the provisions for the week to
follow.

The negroes laughed and chattered like a flock of blackbirds picking
grain in a wheat field. To each head of a family was given six pounds
of meat for each person. A father, mother and two children received
twenty-four pounds. Their bread was never rationed. The barrel in each
cottage was filled from the grist mill, a bag full at a time. They had
their own garden and flocks of chickens. Sugar, coffee and molasses were
given on the first of each month.

"Come right back here now all ob you!" Ike shouted, "des ez quick ez yer
put yo vittles away. De Missis gwine gib ye yo' winter close now, case
she gwine ter Wes' Pint next week."

The provisions were swept from the long table. Out of the storehouse
came huge piles of clothing and blankets. Each package was marked with
the owner's name.

To each pair, man and wife, or two children, was given a new wool
blanket. This was, of course, added to the stock each house had already.
A woolen blanket was good for ten years' wear. Many a servant's house
had a dozen blankets for each bed. Besides the blankets, to every woman
with a baby was given a quilted comfort.

To each man, woman and child were allotted two complete woolen suits for
the winter, a new pair of shoes and three pairs of stockings. In the
spring two suits of cotton would be given for summer. The thrifty ones
had their cedar chests piled with clothes. Many had not worn the suits
given out a year ago.

The heads of large families trudged away with six or seven blankets,
a comfort, and twenty suits of clothes. It sometimes took the father,
mother and two of the children to carry the load.

But the most amazing thing which Phil saw was the sudden transformation
of the shed into a market for the sale of slave produce to the mistress
of Arlington.

Mrs. Lee had watched the distribution of clothes, blankets, quilts,
shoes and stockings for the winter and then became the purchaser of all
sorts of little luxuries which the slave had made in his leisure hours
on Saturday afternoons and at night. The little boys and girls sold
her dried wild fruits. The women had made fine jellies. They all had
chickens and eggs to sell to the big house. Some had become experts in
making peanut brittle and fudge.

They not only sold their wares here, but they also sold them in the
market in Washington. The old men were expert basket and broom makers.
The slaves made so much extra money on their chickens, peanuts, popcorn,
fudge, brittle, molasses cakes, baskets, brooms, mats and taking in
sewing, that they were able to buy many personal luxuries. Phil observed
one dusky belle already arrayed in a silk dress for the Saturday
afternoon outing with her beau. A few of them had their Sunday dresses
made by fashionable mantua makers in Washington.

In addition to the regular distribution of clothing, the household
supplied to the servants in rapid succession everything worn by master,
mistress, son or daughter. Knowing that their clothes were being watched
and guarded by longing eyes, they never wore them very long. Mary Lee
was distributing a dozen dresses now to the girls. They had been made
within the past year.

Phil observed Sam arrayed in a swallowtail coat of immaculate cut stroll
by with his best girl. She was dressed in silk with full hoop-skirts,
ruffles, ribbons and flowers.

Sid annoyed Sam by calling loudly:

"Doan yer stay too late ter dat party. Ef ye do I'll hatter sing fur
ye--

  "Run, nigger, run, de patterole ketch you.
  Nigger run, de nigger flew,
  De nigger loss his best ole shoe!
  Run, nigger, run. Run, nigger, run. Run, nigger, run."

Sam waved his arm in a long laugh.

"Dey won't git me, chile. I'se er conjur man, I is!"

Phil had supposed the patrol of the mysterious mounted police of the
South--the men who rode at night--were to the slave always a tragic
terror.

It seemed a thing for joke and ribald song.

After lunch, the negroes entered on the afternoon's fun or work. The
industrious ones plied their trades to earn money for luxuries. The boys
who loved to fish and hunt rabbits hurried to the river and the fields.
There was always a hound at their service for a rabbit hunt on Saturday
afternoons. Some were pitching horse shoes. Two groups began to play
marbles.

The marketing done for the house, the mistress of Arlington, with
medicine case in hand, started on her round of healing for body and
mind. Mary offered to go with her but the mother saw Stuart hovering
about and quietly answered:

"No. You can comfort poor Jeb. He looks disconsolate."

Into every cottage she moved, a quiet, ministering angel. Every hope and
fear of ailing young or old found in her an ear to hear, a heart to pity
and an arm to save.

If she found a case of serious illness, a doctor was called and a nurse
set to watch by the bedside. Every delicacy and luxury the big house
held was at the command of the sufferer and that without stint.

In all these clean flower-set cottages there was not a single crippled
servant maimed in the service of his master. No black man or woman was
allowed to do dangerous work. All dangerous tasks were done by hired
white laborers. They were hired by the day under contract through their
boss. Even ditches on the farm if they ran through swamp lands infested
by malaria, were dug by white hired labor. The master would not permit
his slave to take such risks.

But the most important ministry of the mistress of Arlington was in the
medicine for the soul which she brought to the life and character of
each servant for whose training she had accepted responsibility.

To her even the master proudly and loyally yielded authority. Her sway
over the servants was absolute in its spiritual power. Into their souls
in hours of trial she poured the healing and inspiration of a beautiful
spirit. The mistress of Arlington was delicate and frail in body. But
out of her physical suffering the spirit rose to greater heights with
each day's duty and service.

This mysterious power caught the warm imagination of the negroes. They
were "servants" to others. They were her _slaves_ and they rejoiced
in the bond that bound them. They knew that her body had no rest from
morning until far into the hours of the night if one of her own needed
care. The master could shift his responsibility to a trained foreman.
No forewoman could take her place. To the whole scheme of life she gave
strength and beauty. The beat of her heart made its wheels go round.

The young Westerner studied her with growing admiration and pity. She
was the mistress of an historic house. She was the manager of an estate.
She was the counselor of every man, woman and child in happiness or in
sorrow. She was an accomplished doctor. She was a trained nurse. She
taught the hearts of men and women with a wisdom more profound and
searching than any preacher or philosopher from his rostrum. She had
mastered the art of dressmaking and the tailor's trade. She was an
expert housekeeper. She lived at the beck and call of all. She was
idolized by her husband. Her life was a supreme act of worship--a
devotion to husband, children, friends, the poor, the slave that made
her a high-priestess of humanity.

The thing that struck Phil with terrific force was that this beautiful
delicate woman was the slave of slaves.

As a rule, they died young.

He began to wonder how a people of the intelligence of these proud
white Southerners could endure such a thing as Slavery. Its waste, its
extravagance, its burdens were beyond belief.

He laughed when he thought of his mother crying over _Uncle Tom's
Cabin_. Yet a new edition of a hundred thousand copies had just come
from the press.

Early Sunday morning Custis asked him to go down to the quarters to see
Uncle Ben, the butler, who had not yet resumed his duties. He had sent
an urgent message to his young master asking him to be kind enough to
call on Sunday. The message was so formal and reserved Custis knew it
was of more than usual importance.

They found the old man superintending a special breakfast of fried fish
for two little boys, neatly served at a table with spotless cloth.
Robbie and his friend, John Doyle, were eating the fish they had caught
with Uncle Ben the day before. They were as happy as kings and talked of
fish and fishing with the unction of veteran sportsmen.

The greeting to Custis was profound in its courtesy and reverence.
He was the first born of the great house. He was, therefore, the
prospective head of the estate. Jeffersonian Democrats had long ago
abolished the old English law of primogeniture. But the idea was in the
blood of the Virginia planter. The servants caught it as quickly as they
caught the other English traits of love of home, family, kin, the cult
of leisure, the habit of Church, the love of country. It was not an
accident that the decisions of the courts of the Old South were quoted
by English barristers and accepted by English judges as law. The Common
Law of England was the law of Southern Seaboard States. It always had
been and it is to-day.

"How is you dis mornin', Marse Custis?" Ben asked with a stately bow.

"Fine, Uncle Ben. I hope you're better?"

"Des tolerble, sah, des tolerble--" he paused and bowed to Phil. "An'
dis is you' school-mate at Wes' Pint, dey tells me about?"

"Yes, Uncle," Phil answered.

"I'se glad ter welcome yer ter Arlington, sah. And I'se powerful sorry
I ain't able ter be in de big house ter see dat yer git ebry thing ter
make yer happy, sah. Dese here young niggers lak Sam do pooty well. But
dey ain't got much sense, sah. And dey ain't got no unction'tall. Dey do
de best dey kin an' dat ain't much."

"Oh, I'm having a fine time, Uncle Ben," Phil assured him.

"Praise de Lord, sah."

"Sam told me you wanted to see me, Uncle Ben," Custis said.

"'Bout sumfin mos' particular, sah--"

"At your service."

The old man waved to his wife to look after the boys' breakfast.

"Pile dem fish up on der plates, Hannah. Fill 'em up--fill'em up!"

"We're mos' full now!" Robbie shouted.

"No we ain't," John protested. "I jis begun."

Ben led the young master and his friend out the back door, past the long
pile of cord wood, past the chicken yard to a strong box which he had
built on tall legs under a mulberry tree. It was constructed of oak and
the neatly turned gable roof was covered with old tin carefully painted
with three coats of red. A heavy hasp, staple and padlock held the solid
door.

Ben fumbled in his pocket, drew forth his keys and opened it. The box
was his fireproof and ratproof safe in which the old man kept his
valuables. His money, his trinkets, his hammer and nails, augur and
bits, screwdriver and monkeywrench. From the top shelf he drew a tin
can. A heavy piece of linen tied with a string served as a cover.

He carefully untied the string in silence. He shook the can. The boys
saw that it was filled with salt of the coarse kind used to preserve
meats.

Ben felt carefully in the salt, drew forth a shriveled piece of dark
gristle, and held it up before his young master.

"Yer know what dat is, Marse Custis?"

Custis shook his head.

From the old man's tones of deep emotion he knew the matter was serious.
He thought at once of the Hoodoo. But he could make out no meaning to
this bit of preserved flesh.

"Never saw anything like it."

"Nasah. I spec yer didn't."

Ben pushed the gray hair back from his left ear. He wore his hair drawn
low over the tips of his ears. It was a fad of his, which he never
allowed to lapse.

"See anything funny 'bout de top o' dat year, sah?"

Custis looked carefully.

"It looks shorter--"

"Hit's er lot shorter. De top ob hit's clean gone, sah. Dat's why I
allus combs my ha'r down close over my years--"

He paused and held up the piece of dried flesh.

"An' dat's hit, sah."

"A piece of your ear?"

"Hit sho is. Ye see, sah, a long time ergo when I wuz young an' strong
ez er bull, one er dese here uppish niggers come ter our house drivin'
a carriage frum Westover on de James, an' 'gin ter brag 'bout his folks
bein' de bes' blood er ole Virginia. An' man I tells him sumfin. I tells
dat fool nigger dat de folks at Westover wuz des fair ter midlin. Dat
_our_ folks wuz, an' allus wuz, de very fust fambly o' Virginy! I tells
him, dat Marse Robert's father was General Light Horse Harry Lee dat
help General Washington wid de Revolution. Dat he wuz de Govenor o' ole
Virginy. Dat he speak de piece at de funeral o' George Washington, dat
we all knows by heart, now--

"'Fust in war, fust in peace and fust in de hearts o' his countrymen.'

"I tells him dat Marse Robert's mother wuz a Carter. I tells him dat he
could count more dan one hundred gemmen his kin. Dat his folks allus had
been de very fust fambly in Virginy. I tells him dat he marry my Missis,
de gran' daughter o' ole Gineral Washington his-salf--an' en--"

He paused.

"An' den, what ye reckon dat fool nigger say ter me?"

"Couldn't guess."

"He say General Washington nebber had no children. And den man, man,
when he insult me lak dat, I jump on him lak a wil' cat. We fought an'
we fit. We fit an' we fought. I got him down an' bit one o' his years
clean off smooth wid his head. In de las' clinch he git hol' er my lef
year a'fo' I could shake him, he bit de top of hit off, sah. I got him
by the froat an' choke hit outen his mouf. And dar hit is, sah."

He held up the dried piece of his ear reverently.

"And what do you want me to do with it, Uncle Ben?" Custis asked
seriously.

"Nuttin right now, sah. But I ain't got long ter live--"

"Oh, you'll be well in a few days, Uncle Ben."

"I mought an' den agin I moughtent. I been lyin' awake at night worryin'
'bout dat year o' mine. Ye see hit wouldn't do tall fur me ter go
walkin' dem golden streets up dar in Heben wid one o' my years lopped
off lake a shoat er a calf dat's been branded. Some o' dem niggers
standin' on dat gol' sidewalk would laugh at me. An' dat would hurt my
feelin's. Some smart Aleck would be sho ter holler, 'Dar come ole Ben.
But he ain't got but one year!' Dat wouldn't do, tall, sah."

Phil bit his lips to keep from laughing. He saw the thing was no joke
for the old man. It was a grim tragedy.

"What I wants ter axe, Marse Custis, is dat you promise me faithful, ez
my young master, dat when I die you come to me, get dis year o' mine
outen dis salt box an' stick hit back right whar it b'long 'fore dey
nail me up in de coffin. I des can't 'ford ter walk down dem golden
streets, 'fore all dat company, wid a piece er my year missin'. Will ye
promise me, sah?"

Custis grasped the outstretched hand and clasped it.

"I promise you, Uncle Ben, faithfully."

"Den hit's all right, sah. When a Lee make a promise, hit's des ez good
ez done. I know dat case I know who I'se er talkin' to."

He placed the piece of gristle back into the tin can, covered it with
salt, tied the linen cover over it carefully, put it back on the shelf,
locked the heavy oak door and handed Custis the key.

"I got annudder key. You keep dat one, please, sah."

Custis and Phil left the old man more cheerful than he had been for
days.



CHAPTER VII


As the sun was sinking across the gray waters of the river, reflecting
in its silver surface a riot of purple and scarlet, the master of
Arlington sat in thoughtful silence holding the fateful Book of the
Slave in his hand. He had promised his friend, Edmund Ruffin, to give
him an answer early next week as to a public statement.

He was puzzled as to his duty. To his ready protest that he was not a
politician his friend had instantly replied that his word would have ten
times the weight for that reason. So deep was his brooding he did not
notice the two boys in a heated argument at the corner of the house.

Robbie Lee had drawn his barefoot friend, John, thus far. He had balked
and refused to go farther.

"Come on, John," Robbie pleaded.

"I'm skeered."

"Scared of what?"

"Colonel Lee."

"Didn't you come to see him?"

"I thought I did."

"Well, didn't ye?"

"Yes."

"Come on, then!"

"No--"

"What you scared of him for?"

"He's a great man."

"But he's my Papa."

"He don't want to be bothered with little boys."

"Yes, he does, too. He hears everything I've got to say to him."

"Ain't you skeered of him?"

"No!"

Robbie seized John's hand again and before he could draw back dragged
him to his father's side.

Lee turned the friendliest smile on John's flushed face and won his
confidence before a word was spoken.

"Well, Robbie, what's your handsome little friend's name?"

"John Doyle, Papa."

"Your father lives on the farm just outside our gate, doesn't he?"

"Yessir," the boy answered eagerly.

His embarrassment had gone. But it was hard to begin his story. It had
seemed easy at first, the need was so great. Now it seemed that he had
no right to make the request he had in his heart.

He hung his head and dug his big toe in the gravel.

Robbie hastened to his rescue.

"John wants to tell you something, Papa," he began tenderly.

"All right," Lee cheerfully answered as he drew one boy within each arm
and hugged them both. "What can I do for you, Johnnie?"

"I dunno, sir. I hope you can do somethin'."

"I will, if I can. I like to do things for boys. I was a little boy once
myself and I know exactly how it feels. What is it?"

Again the child hesitated.

Lee studied the lines of his finely molded face and neck and throat. A
handsomer boy of ten he had never seen. He pressed his arm closer and
held him a moment until he looked up with a tear glistening in his blue
eyes.

"Tell me, sonny--"

"My Ma's been cryin' all day, sir, and I want to do somethin' to help
her--"

He paused and his voice failed.

"What has she been crying about?"

"We've lost our home, sir, and my daddy's drunk."

"You've lost your home?"

"Yessir. The sheriff come this mornin'. And he's goin' to put us out.
Ma's most crazy. I ain't been a very good boy here lately--"

"No?"

"No, sir. I've been runnin' away and goin' fishin' and hurtin' my Ma's
feelin's and now I wish I hadn't done it. I heard her sayin' this
mornin' while she wuz cryin', that you wuz the only man she knowed on
earth who could help us. She was afeared to come to see you. And I
slipped out to tell ye. I thought if I could get you to come to see us,
maybe you could tell Ma what to do and that would make up for my hurtin'
her so when I run away from my lessons this week."

The Colonel gently pressed the boys away and rose with quick decision.

"I'll ride right up, sonny, and see your mother."

"Will you, Colonel Lee?" the child asked with pathetic eagerness.

"Just as soon as I can have my horse saddled."

Lee turned abruptly into the house and left the boy dazed. He threw his
arms around Robbie, hugged him in a flash and was gone. Up the dusty way
to the gate the little bare feet flew to tell glad tidings to a lonely
woman.

She stood beside the window looking out on the wreck of her life in a
stupor of wordless pain. She saw her boy leap the fence as a hound and
rushed from the house in alarm to meet him.

He was breathless, but he managed to gasp his message.

"Ma--Ma--Colonel Lee's comin' to see you!"

"To see me?"

"Yes'm. I told him we'd lost our home and he said he'd come right up.
And he's comin', too--"

The mother looked into the child's flushed face, saw the love light in
his eyes and caught him to her heart.

"Oh, boy, boy, you're such a fine young one--my baby--as smart as a
whip. You'll beat 'em all some day and make your poor old mother proud
and happy."

"I'm going to try now, Ma--you see if I don't."

"I know you will, my son."

"I'll never run away again. You see if I do."

The boy stopped suddenly at the sight of Colonel Lee swiftly
approaching.

"Run and wash your face," the mother whispered, "and tell your brothers
to put on clean shirts. I want them to see the Colonel, too."

The boy darted into the house.

The woman looked about the yard to see if there were any evidences of
carelessness. She had tried to keep it clean. The row of flowers that
flamed in the beds beside the door was the finest in the county. She
knew that. She was an expert in the culture of the prolific tall cosmos
that blooms so beautifully in the Indian summers of Old Virginia.

A cur dog barked.

"Get under the house, sir!" she commanded.

The dog continued to look down the road at the coming horseman.

"Get under the house, I say--" she repeated and the dog slowly obeyed.

She advanced to meet her visitor. He hitched his horse to a swinging
limb outside the gate and hurried in.

No introduction was necessary. The Colonel had known her husband for
years and he had often lifted his hat to his wife in passing.

He extended his hand and grasped hers in quick sympathy.

"I'm sorry to learn of your great misfortune from your fine boy, Mrs.
Doyle."

The woman's eyes filled with tears in spite of her firm resolution to be
dignified.

"He _is_ a fine--boy--isn't he, Colonel?"

"One of the handsomest little chaps I ever saw. You should be proud of
him."

"I am, sir."

She drew her figure a bit higher instinctively. The movement was not
lost on the keen observer of character. He had never noticed before the
distinction of her personality. In a simple calico dress, and forty
years of age, she presented a peculiarly winsome appearance. Her
features were regular, and well rounded, the coloring of cheeks and
neck and hands the deep pink of perfect health. Her eyes were a bright
glowing brown. They were large, soulful eyes that spoke the love of a
mother. She might scold her husband if provoked. But those eyes could
never scold a child. They could only love him into obedience and
helpfulness. They were shining mother eyes.

Lee studied her in a quick glance before speaking. He knew instinctively
that he could trust her word.

"Is there anything I can do, Mrs. Doyle?"

"Oh, I hope so, sir. My man's gone all to pieces to-day. He's
good-hearted and kind if I do have to say it myself. But when the
sheriff come to put us out, he just flopped and quit. And then he got
drunk. I don't blame him much. If I hadn't been a woman and the mother
of three fine boys and two as pretty little gals as the Lord ever give
to a woman, I reckon I'd a got drunk, too."

She stopped, overcome with emotion and Lee hastened to ask:

"How did it happen, Mrs. Doyle?"

"Well, sir, you see, we hadn't quite paid for the place. You know it's
hard with a big family of children on a little farm o' ten acres. It's
hard to make a livin' let alone save money to pay for the land. But we
wuz doin' it. We didn't have but two more payments to make when my man
signed a note for his brother. His brother got sick and couldn't pay
and they come down on us and we're turned out o' house and home. The
sheriff's give us till Wednesday to get out and we've nowhere to go--"

A sob caught her voice.

"Don't say that, Madame. No neighbor of mine will ever be without a home
so long as I have a house with a roof on it."

"Thank you, Colonel Lee," she interrupted, "but you know I can't let my
man be a renter and see my husband and my sons workin' other people's
land like nigger slaves. I got pride. I jus' can't do it. I'd rather
starve."

"I understand, Madame," Lee answered.

The two older boys came awkwardly out into the yard. One of them was
fourteen years old and the other sixteen.

The mother beckoned and they came to her with embarrassed step. Her face
lighted with pride in their stalwart figures and well-shaped, regular
features.

"Here's my oldest boy, William, Colonel Lee."

The Colonel took the outstretched hand with cordial grasp.

"I'm glad to know you, young man."

"And glad to see you, sir," he stammered, blushing.

"My next boy Drury, sir. He ain't but fourteen but he's a grown man."

Drury flushed red but failed to make a sound.

When they had moved away and leaned against the fence watching the scene
out of the corner of an eye, the mother turned to the Colonel and asked:

"Do you blame me if I'm proud of my boys, Colonel?"

"I do not, Madame."

"The Lord made me a mother. All I know is to raise fine children and
love 'em. My little gals is putty as dolls."

John suddenly appeared beside her and pulled her skirt.

"What's the matter?" she whispered.

"Pa's waked up. I told him Colonel Lee's here and he's washed his face
and walks straight. Shall I fetch him out, too?"

"Yes, run tell him to come quick."

The boy darted back into the house.

"Johnnie's father wants to see you, Colonel Lee," the woman apologized.

"I'll be glad to talk to him, Madame."

"He'll be all right now. Your comin' to see us'll sober him. He'll be
awful proud of the honor, sir."

Doyle emerged from the house and walked quickly toward the Colonel.
His head was high. He smiled a welcome to his guest and his step was
straight, light and springing, as if he were not quite sure he could
rest his full weight on one foot and tried to get them both down at the
same time.

Lee's face was a mask of quiet dignity. The tragedy in the woman's heart
made the more pathetic the comedy of the half-drunken husband. Besides,
he was philosopher enough to know that more than half the drunkenness of
the world was the pitiful effort to smother a heartache.

The man's smile was a peculiarly winning one. His face was covered with
a full growth of blond beard cut moderately long. He never shaved. His
wife trimmed his beard in the manner most becoming to the shape of his
head, the poise of his neck and evenly formed shoulders. He wore his
hair full long and it curled about his neck in a deep blond wave. He
might have posed for the model of Hoffman's famous picture of Christ.
His eyes, a clear blue, were the finest feature of his personality. In
spite of his lack of education, in spite of his shabby clothes, in spite
of the smell of liquor he was a personality. His clean, high forehead,
his aquiline nose, his straight eyebrows, his fair skin, his tall figure
spoke the heritage of the great Nordic race of men. The race whose
leaders achieved the civilization of Rome, conquered Europe and finally
dominated civilization.

The difference between this man and the leader who wore the uniform of
a Colonel was not in racial stock. It was purely an accident of the
conditions of birth and training. Behind Lee lay two hundred years of
wealth and culture. The poorer man was his kinsman of the centuries. The
world had not been kind to him. He had lost the way of material success.
Perhaps some kink in his mind, a sense of comedy, a touch of the old
wanderlust of the ages.

Lee wondered what had kept him poor as he looked at the figure
approaching. It was straight and fine in spite of the liquor.

Doyle's brain was just clear enough to realize that he had been highly
honored in a call from the foremost citizen of Virginia. His politeness
was extreme. And it was true. It was instinctive. It leaped from
centuries of racial inheritance.

"We're proud of the honor you've done us, Colonel Lee," he announced.

He grasped the extended hand with a cordial, dignified greeting.

"I only hope I can be of some service to you and your family, Mr.
Doyle."

"I'm sure you can, sir. Won't you come in, Colonel?"

"Thank you, it's so pleasant outside, we'll just sit down by the well,
if you don't mind."

"Yessir. All right, sir."

Lee moved slowly toward the platform of the well with its old oaken
bucket and tall sweep.

His wife threw a warning at her husband under her breath.

"Don't you say nothin' foolish now--"

"I won't."

"Your tongue's too long when it gets to waggin'."

"I'll mind, Ma," he smiled.

The woman called softly to her distinguished guest:

"You'll excuse me, Colonel, while I look after the supper. I'll be back
in a minute."

"Certainly, Madame."

He could not have bowed with graver courtesy to the wife of Stephen A.
Douglas.

"Have a seat here on the well, Colonel," Doyle invited.

Lee took his seat on the weather-beaten oak boards.

Doyle turned his foot on a rounded stone and set down a little
ungracefully in spite of his effort to be fully himself. He saw at once
his misstep and hastened to apologize.

"I'm sorry, Colonel, you've caught me with the smell of liquor, sir--"

He paused and looked over his garden in an embarrassed way.

"I know what has happened to you, Mr. Doyle, and you have my deepest
sympathy."

"Thank you, sir."

"I might have done the same thing if I'd been in your position. Though,
of course, liquor won't help things for you."

Doyle smiled around the corners of his blue eyes.

"No, sir, except while it's a swimmin' in the veins. Then for a little
while you're great and rich and you don't care which a way the wind
blows."

"The farm is lost beyond hope?"

"Yessir, clean gone--world without end."

"You had a lawyer?"

"The best in the county, old Jim Randolph. I didn't have no money to pay
him. He said we'd both always voted the Whig ticket and he'd waive his
retainer. I didn't know what he was wavin', but anyhow he tuck my case.
And I will say he put up a nasty fight for me. He made one of the
greatest speeches I ever heared in my life. Hit wuz mighty nigh worth
losin' the farm ter hear him tell how I'd been abused and how fine a
feller I wuz. An' when he los' the case, he cussed the Judge, he cussed
the jury, he cussed the lawyers. He swore they was all fools and didn't
know the first principles er law nohow. I sho enjoyed the fight, ef I
did lose it. I couldn't pay him nothin' yet. But I did manage to get him
a gallon of the best apple brandy I ever tasted."

"What do you think of doing?"

"I ain't had time ter think, sir. I don't think fast nohow and the first
thing I had to do when I come home and tole the ole 'oman and she bust
out cryin'--wuz ter get drunk. Somehow I couldn't stand it."

"You've never learned a trade?"

"No sir--nothin' 'cept farmin'. I said to myself--what's the use? These
damned nigger slaves have learned all the trades. They say in the old
days, they wuz just servants in the house and stables, and field hands.
Now they've learnt _all_ the trades. They're mechanics, blacksmiths,
carpenters, wagon makers and everything. What chance has a poor white
man got agin 'em? They don't have to worry about nothin'. They have
everything they need before they lift their hands to do anything. They
got plenty to eat for themselves and their families, no matter how many
children they have. All they can eat, all they can wear, a warm house
and a big fire in the winter. I have to fight and scratch to keep a roof
over my head, wood in my fireplace, clothes on my back and somethin' to
eat on my table. How can I beat the slave at a trade? Tain't no use to
try. Ef you want to build a house, your own carpenters can do it. And if
you haven't enough slave carpenters of your own, your neighbors have.
They can hire 'em to you cheaper than I can work and live. They're goin'
to _live_ anyhow. That's settled because they're slaves. They're worth
twelve hundred dollars apiece. Their life is precious. Mine don't count.
I got to look after that myself and I got to look after my wife and
children, too. Hit ain't right, Colonel, this Slavery business. You know
that as well as I do. I've heard you say it, too--"

"I agree with you, Mr. Doyle. But if we set them all free to-morrow, and
you had to compete with their labor, you couldn't live down to their
standard of wages, could you?"

"No, I couldn't. They would kill me at that game, too. That's why I hate
a free nigger worse than a slave--"

He paused and his face knotted with fury.

"Damn 'em all--why are they here anyhow?"

"Come, come, my friend," Lee protested. "It doesn't help to swear about
it. They _are_ here. Not by any wish of mine or of yours. We inherited
this curse from the past. We have clung to old delusions while our smart
Yankee friends have shifted the responsibilities on others."

"What _can_ I do, Colonel?" Doyle asked desperately. "I don't know how
to do anything but farm. I can't go into the fields and work with slaves
as a field hand. And I couldn't get such work to do if I'd do it. I'll
die before I'll come down to it. I might rent a little farm alongside of
a free nigger. But he can beat me at that game. He can live on less and
work longer hours than I do. He'll underbid me as a cropper. He can live
and pay the owner four-fifths of the crop. I'd starve. What am I goin'
to do?"

"Had you thought of moving West into one of the new Territories just
opening?"

"Yessir. I'd thought of it. But how am I goin' to get there with a wife
and five children?"

Lee rose and looked about the place thoughtfully.

"How much could you realize from the sale of your things?"

Doyle scratched his head doubtfully.

"I ain't got no idee, sir. I'm afraid not much. Ye see it's just home
stuff. The old 'oman's awful smart. She raises enough chickens and
turkeys and ducks and guineas to eat, and she sells a few eggs and young
chickens and turkeys when they brings anything in the market. I got six
sheep, a cow, a calf, a mule, a couple o' pigs in the pen. But they
won't bring much money. Ye see I never felt so poor ez long ez I had a
_home_ where I can live independent like. That house ain't much, sir.
But you ain't no idea how deep down in my heart it's got."

He paused and looked at it. The Colonel followed his gaze. It was a
small frame structure standing in a yard filled with trees. A one-story
affair with a sharp, gabled attic. Two dormer windows projected from
the high roof and a solid brick chimney at each end gave it dignity. A
narrow porch came straight out from the front door. On either side of
the porch were built wooden benches and behind them on a lattice grew
a luxuriant rambler rose. It was still blooming richly in the warm
September sun.

"Ye see, sir," Doyle went on, "what we've got that's worth havin' can't
be sold. I love the smell o' them roses. I wake up in the night and the
breeze brings it in the window and it puts me to sleep like an old song
my mother used to sing when I was a little shaver--"

He stopped short.

"I didn't mean to snivel, sir."

"I understand, my friend. No apologies are necessary."

"And that big scuppernong grape vine out there in the garden--I couldn't
sell that. I planted it fifteen years ago. Folks told us we was too fur
north here fur it to grow good. But I knowed better. You can see its
covered a place as big ez the house. And you can smell them ripe grapes
a hundred yards before ye get to the gate. I make a little wine outen
'em. We have 'em to eat a whole month. That garden keeps us goin' winter
and summer. You see them five rows of flat turnips and the ruttabaggers
beside 'em? I've cabbage enough banked under them pine tops to make a
fifty-gallon barrel o' kraut and give us cabbage with our bacon all
winter. We've got turnip greens, onions and collards. I've got corn and
wheat in my crib and bacon enough to last me till next year. I raise
the finest watermelons and mushmelons in the county and it ain't much
trouble to live here. I never knowed how well off I wuz till the Sheriff
come and told me I had to go."

"You're in the prime of life. You can go to a new country and begin over
again. Why not?"

"If I could get there. I reckon I could."

He stopped short as his wife appeared by his side. She had heard Colonel
Lee's last question.

"Of course, you can begin over again. Haven't we got three of the finest
boys the Lord ever give a mother? They ain't got no chance here nohow.
My baby boy's one o' the smartest youngsters in the county. Ef old Andy
Jackson wuz a poor boy an' got ter be President, he might do the same
thing ef we give him a chance--"

"Yes, I reckon we could, ef we had a chance," Doyle agreed doubtfully.
"But it would be a hard pull to leave my ole Virginy home. You know that
would pull you, Colonel--now wouldn't it?"

"Yes, it would," was the earnest answer.

"You see I wuz born in this country an' me daddy before me. I like it
here. I like the feel of the air in the fall. There's a flock o' ducks
now circlin' over that bend o' the river. The geese are comin'. I heard
'em honk high up in the sky last night. I like my oysters and terrapin.
I like to shoot ducks and geese, rabbits and quail. I like the smell
o' the water. I like the smell o' these fields. I like the way the sun
shines and the winds blow down here. It's in my blood."

"But you'll go if you can get away," his wife interrupted cheerfully.

Two little girls timidly drew near. Their faces were washed clean and
their shining blonde hair gleamed in circles of golden light as the rays
of the setting sun caught it.

Lee smiled, took them both in his arms and kissed them.

A tear softened his eyes as he placed them on the ground.

"You're darling little dolls. No wonder your mother loves you."

"Run back in the house now, honeys," the mother said.

The children slowly obeyed, glancing back at the great man who had
kissed them. They wondered why their daddy hadn't kissed them oftener.

"What do you think we ought to do, Colonel Lee?" the woman asked
eagerly.

"I can tell you what I would do, Madame, in your place--"

"What?"

The husband and wife spoke the word in chorus.

"I'd go West and begin again."

"But how'm I goin' to get away, sir?" the man asked blankly.

"Sell your things for the best price you can get and I'll loan you the
balance of the money you'll need."

"Will you, sir?" the woman gasped.

"I ain't got no security for ye, Colonel--" Doyle protested.

"You are my friend and neighbor, Mr. Doyle. You're in distress. You
don't need security. I'll take your note, sir, without endorsement."

"Glory to God!" the mother cried with face uplifted in a prayer of
thanksgiving.

Doyle couldn't speak for a moment. He looked out over the roadway and
got control of his feelings before trying. There was a lump in his
throat which made his speech thick when at last he managed to grasp
Lee's hand.

"I dunno how to thank you, sir."

"It will be all right, Mr. Doyle. Look after the sale of your things and
I'll find out the best way for you to get there and let you know."

He mounted his horse and rode away into the fading sunset as they
watched him through dimmed eyes.



CHAPTER VIII


Lee had promised Edmund Ruffin his answer early in the week. Ruffin had
just ridden up the hill and dismounted.

Mrs. Marshall, the Colonel's sister, on a visit from Baltimore, fled at
his approach.

"Excuse me, Mary," she cried to Mrs. Lee. "I just can't stand these
ranting fire-eating politicians. They make me ill. I'll go to my room."

She hurried up the stairway and left the frail mistress of the house to
meet her formidable guest.

Ruffin was the product of the fierce Abolition Crusade. Hot-tempered,
impulsive, intemperate in his emotions and their expression, he was the
perfect counterpart of the men who were working night and day in the
North to create a condition of mob feeling out of which a civil conflict
might grow. _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ had set him on fire with new hatreds.
His vocabulary of profanity had been enlarged by the addition of every
name in the novel. He had been compelled to invent new expressions to
fit these characters. He damned them individually and collectively. He
cursed each trait of each character, good and bad. He cursed the good
points with equal unction and equal emphasis. In fact the good traits in
Mrs. Stowe's people seemed to carry him to greater heights of wrath and
profanity than the bad ones. He dissected each part of each character's
anatomy, damned each part, put the parts together and damned the
collection. And then he damned the whole story, characters, plot and
scenes to the lowest pit and cursed the devil for not building a lower
one to which he might consign it. And in a final burst of passion he
always ended by damning himself for his utter inability to express
_anything_ which he really felt.

With all his ugly language, which he reserved for conversation with men,
he was the soul of consideration for a woman. Mrs. Lee had no fear of
any rude expression from his lips. She didn't like him because she felt
in his personality the touch of mob insanity which the Slavery question
had kindled. She dreaded this appeal to blind instinct and belief. With
a woman's intuition she felt the tragic possibility of such leadership
North and South.

She saw his leonine head and shaggy hair silhouetted against the red
glow of the west with a shiver at its symbolism, but met him with the
cordial greeting which every Southern woman gave instinctively to the
friend of her husband.

"Come in, Mr. Ruffin," she welcomed.

He bowed over her hand and spoke in the soft drawl of the Southern
planter.

"Thank you, Madame. I'm greatly honored in having you greet me at the
door."

"Colonel Lee is expecting you."

The planter drew himself up with a touch of pride and importance.

"Yes'm. I sent him word I would be here at three. I was detained in
Washington. But I succeeded in convincing the editor of _The Daily
Globe_ that my mission was one of grave importance. I not only desire to
wish Colonel Lee God-speed on his journey to West Point and congratulate
him on the honor conferred on Virginia by his appointment to the command
of our Cadets--but--"

He paused, smiled and glanced toward the portico, as if he were holding
back an important secret.

Mrs. Lee hastened to put him at his ease.

"You can trust my discretion in any little surprise you may have for the
Colonel."

Ruffin bowed.

"I'm sure I can, Madame. I'm sure I can."

He dropped his voice.

"You know perhaps that I sent him a few days ago a scurrilous attack on
the South by a Yankee woman--a new novel?"

"He received it."

"Has he read it?"

"Carefully. He has read it twice."

"Good!"

The planter breathed deeply, squared his shoulders and paced the floor
with a single quick turn. He stopped before Mrs. Lee and spoke in sharp
emphasis.

"I'm going to spring a little surprise on the public, Madame! A
sensation that will startle the country, and God knows we need a little
shaking just now--"

He paused and whispered.

"I'm so sure of what the Colonel will say that I've brought a reporter
from the Washington _Daily Globe_ with me--"

Mrs. Lee lifted her hand in dismay.

"He is here?"

"He is seated on the lawn just outside, Madame," Ruffin hastened to
reassure her. "I thought at the last moment I'd better have him wait
until I received Colonel Lee's consent to the interview."

"I'm glad you did."

"Oh, it will be all right, I assure you!"

"He might not wish to see a reporter--"

"So I told the young man."

"I'm afraid--"

"I'll pave the way, Madame. I'll pave the way. Colonel Lee and I are
life-long friends. Will you kindly announce me?"

"The Colonel has just ridden up to the stables to give some orders about
his horses. He'll be here in a moment."

Lee stepped briskly into the room and extended his hand.

"It's you, Ruffin. My apologies. I was called out to see a neighbor. I
should have been here to receive you."

"No apologies, Colonel, Mrs. Lee has been most gracious."

The mistress of the house smiled.

"Make yourself at home, Mr. Ruffin. I shall hope to see you at dinner."

Ruffin stood respectfully until Mrs. Lee had disappeared.

"Pray be seated," Lee invited.

Ruffin seated himself on the couch and watched his host keenly.

Lee took a cigar from the mantel and offered it.

"A cigar, Ruffin?"

"Thanks."

"Now make yourself entirely at home, my good friend."

The planter lighted the cigar, blew a long cloud of smoke and settled in
his seat.

"I'm glad to learn from Mrs. Lee that you have read the book I sent
you--the Abolitionist firebrand."

"Yes."

Lee quietly walked to the mantel and got the volume.

"I have it here."

He turned the leaves thoughtfully.

Ruffin laughed.

"And, what do you think of it?"

The Colonel was silent a moment.

"Well, for those who like that kind of book--it's the kind of book they
will like."

"Exactly!" Ruffin cried, slapping his knee with a blow that bruised it.
"And you're the man in all the South to tell the fool who likes that
sort of book just how big a fool he is!"

Lee opened the volume again and turned the pages slowly.

"Ruffin, I don't read many novels--"

He paused as if in deep study.

"But this one I have read twice."

"I'm glad you did, sir," the planter snapped.

"And I must confess it stunned me."

"Stunned you?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"When I finished reading it, I felt like the overgrown boy who stubbed
his toe. It hurt too bad to laugh. And I'm too big to cry."

"You amaze me, sir."

"That's the way I feel, my friend."

He paused, walked to the window, and gazed out at the first lights that
began to flicker in the windows of the Capitol across the river.

"That book," he went on evenly, "is an appeal to the heart of the world
against Slavery. It is purely an appeal to sentiment, to the emotions,
to passion, if you will--the passions of the mob and the men who lead
mobs. And it's terrible. As terrible as an army with banners. I heard
the throb of drums through its pages. It will work the South into a
frenzy. It will make millions of Abolitionists in the North who could
not be reached by the coarser methods of abuse. It will prepare the soil
for a revolution. If the right man appears at the right moment with a
lighted torch--"

"That's just why, sir, as the foremost citizen of Virginia, you must
answer this slander. I have brought a reporter from the _Globe_ with me
for that purpose. Shall I call him,"

"A reporter from a daily paper with a circulation of fifteen thousand?"

"Your word, Colonel Lee, will be heard at this moment to the ends of the
earth, sir!"

"In a newspaper interview?"

"Yes, sir."

"Nonsense."

"It's your character that will count."

"Such an answer would be a straw pitched against a hurricane. I am told
that this book has already reached a circulation of half a million
copies and it has only begun. That means already three million readers.
To answer this book my pen should be better trained than my sword--"

"It is, sir, if you'll only use it."

"The South has only trained swords. And not so many of them as we think.
We have no writers. We have no literature. We have no champions in the
forum of the world's thought. We are being arraigned at the judgment bar
of mankind and we are dumb. It's appalling."

"That's why you must speak for us. Speak in our defense. Speak with a
tongue of flame--"

"I am not trained for speech, Ruffin. And the pen is mightier than the
sword. I've never realized it before. The South will soon have the
civilized world arraigned against her. The North with a thousand pens is
stirring the faiths, the prejudices and the sentiments of the millions.
This appeal is made in the face of History, Reason and Law. But its
force will be as the gravitation of the earth, beyond the power of
resistance, unless we can check it in time."

"When it comes to resistance," Ruffin snapped, "that's another question.
The Yankees are a race of damned cowards and poltroons, sir. They won't
fight."

Lee shook his head gravely.

"I've been in the service more than a quarter of a century, my friend.
I've seen a lot of Yankees under fire. I've seen a lot of them die. And
I know better. Your idea of a Yankee is about as correct as the Northern
notion of Southern fighters. A notion they're beginning to exploit in
cartoons which show an effeminate lady killer with an umbrella stuck in
the end of his musket and a negro mixing mint juleps for him."

"We've got to denounce those slanders. I'm a man of cool judgment and I
never lose my temper--"

He leaped to his feet purple with rage.

"But, by God, sir, we can't sit quietly under the assault of these
narrow-minded bigots. You must give the lie to this infamous book!"

"How can I, my friend?"

"Doesn't she make heroes of law breakers?"

"Surely."

"Is there no reverence for law left in this country?"

"In Courts of Justice, yes. But not in the courts of passion, prejudice,
beliefs, sentiment. The writers of sentiment sing the praises of law
breakers--"

"But there can be no question of the right or wrong of this book. It is
an infamous slander. I deny and impeach it!"

"I'm afraid that's all we can do, Ruffin--deny and impeach it. When we
come down to brass tacks we can't answer it. From their standpoint the
North is right. From our standpoint we are right, because our rights are
clear under the Constitution. Slavery is not a Southern institution; it
is a national inheritance. It is a national calamity. It was written
into the Constitution by all the States, North and South. And if the
North is ignorant of our rights under the laws of our fathers, we have
failed to enlighten them--"

"We won't be dictated to, sir, by a lot of fanatics and hypocrites."

"Exactly, we stand on our dignity. We deny and we are ready to fight.
But we will not argue. As an abstract proposition in ethics or
economics, Slavery does not admit of argument. It is a curse. It's on
us and we can't throw it off at once. My quarrel with the North is
that they do not give us their sympathy and their help in our dilemma.
Instead they rave and denounce and insult us. They are even more
responsible than we for the existence of Slavery, since their ships, not
ours, brought the negro to our shores. Slavery is an outgrown economic
folly, a bar to progress, a political and social curse to the white
race. It must die of its own weakness, South, as it died of its own
weakness, North. It is now in the process of dying. The South has freed
over three hundred thousand slaves by the voluntary act of the master.
If these appeals of the mob leader to the spirit of the mob can be
stopped, a solution will be found."

"It will never be found in the ravings of Abolitionists."

"Nor in the hot tempers of our Southern partisans, Ruffin. Look in
the mirror, my good friend. Chattel Slavery is doomed because of the
superior efficiency of the wage system. Morals have nothing to do with
it. The Captain of Industry abolished Chattel Slavery in the North, not
the preacher or the agitator. He established the wage system in its
place because it is a mightier weapon in his hand. It is subject to but
one law. The iron law of supply and demand. Labor is a commodity to be
bought and sold to the highest bidder. And the highest bidder is at
liberty to bid lower than the price of bread, clothes, fuel and shelter,
if he chooses. This system is now moving Southward like a glacier from
the frozen heart of the Northern mountains, eating all in its path. It
is creeping over Maryland, Kentucky, Missouri. It will slowly engulf
Virginia, North Carolina and Tennessee and the end is sure. Its
propelling force is not moral. It is soulless. It is purely economic.
The wage earner, driven by hunger and cold, by the fear of the loss of
life itself--is more efficient in his toil than the care-free negro
slave of the South, who is assured of bread, of clothes, of fuel and
shelter, with or without work. Slavery does not admit of argument, my
friend. To argue about it is to destroy it."

"I disagree with you, sir!" Ruffin thundered.

"I know you do. But you can't answer this book."

"It can be answered, sir."

Lee paced the floor, his arms folded behind his back, paused and watched
Ruffin's flushed face. He shook his head again.

"The book is unanswerable, because it is an appeal to emotion based on a
study of Slavery in the abstract. If no allowance be made for the tender
and humane character of the Southern people or the modification of
statutory law by the growth of public sentiment, its imaginary scenes
are within the bounds of the probable. The story is crude, but it is
told with singular power without a trace of bitterness. The blind
ferocity of Garrison, who sees in every slaveholder a fiend, nowhere
appears in its pages. On the other hand, Mrs. Stowe has painted one
slaveholder as gentle and generous. Simon Legree, her villain, is a
Yankee who has moved South and taken advantage of the power of a master
to work evil. Such men have come South. Such things might be done. It
is precisely this possibility that makes Slavery indefensible. You know
this. And I know it."

"You astound me, Colonel."

"Yes, I'm afraid I do. I'd like to speak a message to the South about
this book. I've a great deal more to say to my own people than to our
critics."

Ruffin rose, thrust his hands in his pockets, walked to the window,
turned suddenly and faced his host.

"But look here, Colonel Lee, I'm damned if I can agree with you, sir!
Suppose Slavery _is_ wrong--an economic fallacy and a social evil--I
don't say it is, mind you. Just suppose for the sake of argument that it
is. We don't propose to be lectured on this subject by our inferiors in
the North. The children of the men who stole these slaves from Africa
and sold them to us at a profit!"

Lee laughed softly.

"The sins of an inferior cannot excuse the mistakes of a superior. The
man of superior culture and breeding should lead the world in progress.
What has come over us in the South, Ruffin? Your father and mine never
defended Slavery. They knew it was to them, their children and this
land, a curse. It was a blessing only to the savage who was being taught
the rudiments of civilization at a tremendous cost to his teacher. The
first Abolition Societies were organized in the South. Washington,
Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, Randolph, all the great leaders of the
old South, the men whose genius created this republic--all denounced
Slavery. They told us that it is a poison, breeding pride and tyranny
of character, that it corrupts the mind of the child, that it degrades
labor, wears out our land, destroys invention, and saps our ideal of
liberty. And yet we have begun to defend it."

"Because we are being hounded, traduced and insulted by the North,
yes--"

"Yes, but also because we must have more land."

"We've as much right in the West as the North."

"That's not the real reason we demand the right of entry. We are
exhausting the soil of the South by our slipshod farming on great
plantations where we use old-fashioned tools and slave labor. We refuse
to study history. Ancient empires tried this system and died. The
Carthagenians developed it to perfection and fell before the Romans. The
Romans borrowed it from Carthage. It destroyed the small farms and drove
out the individual land owners. It destroyed respect for trades and
crafts. It strangled the development of industrial art. And when the
test came Roman civilization passed. You hot-heads under the goading of
Abolition crusaders now blindly propose to build the whole structure of
Southern Society on this system."

"We've no choice, sir."

"Then we must find one. Slowly but surely the clouds gather for the
storm. We catch only the first rumblings now but it's coming."

Ruffin flared.

"Now listen to me, Colonel. I'm a man of cool judgment and I never lose
my temper, sir--"

He choked with passion, recovered and rushed on.

"If they ever dare attack us, we won't need _writers_. We'll draw our
swords and thrash them! The South is growing rich and powerful."

Lee lifted his hand in a quick gesture of protest.

"A popular delusion, my friend. Under Slave labor the South is growing
poorer daily. While the Northern States, under the wage system, ten
times more efficient, are draining the blood and treasure of Europe and
growing richer by leaps and bounds. Norfolk, Richmond and Charleston
should have been the great cities of the Eastern Seaboard. They are as
yet unimportant towns in the world commerce. Boston, Philadelphia and
New York have become the centers of our business life, of our trade, our
culture, our national power. While slavery is scratching the surface of
our soil with old-fashioned plows, while we quit work at twelve o'clock
every Saturday, spend our Sundays at church, and set two negroes to
help one do nothing Monday morning, the North is sweeping onward in the
science of agriculture. While they invent machines which double their
crops, cut their labor down a hundred per cent, we are fighting for new
lands in the West to exhaust by our primitive methods. The treasures of
the earth yet lie in our mines untouched by pick or spade. Our forests
stand unbroken--vast reaches of wilderness. The slave is slow and
wasteful. Wage labor, quick, efficient. Our chief industry is the
breeding of a race of feverish politicians."

"You know, Colonel Lee, as well as I do that Slavery in the South has
been a blessing to the negro."

Lee moved his head in quick assent.

"I admit that Slavery took the negro from the jungle, from a slavery the
most cruel known to human history, that it has taught him the use of
tools, the science of agriculture, the worship of God, the first lessons
in the alphabet of humanity. But unless we can now close this school, my
friend, somebody is going to try to divide this Union some day--"

Ruffin struck his hands together savagely.

"The quicker the better, I say! If the children of the men who created
this republic are denied equal rights under its laws and in its
Territories, then I say, to your tents, oh, Israel!"

"And do you know what that may mean?"

"A Southern and a Northern Nation. Let them come!"

"The States have been knit together slowly, but inevitably by steam and
electricity. I can conceive of no greater tragedy than an attempt to-day
to divide them."

"I can conceive of no greater blessing!" Ruffin fairly shouted.

"So William Lloyd Garrison, the leader of Abolition, is saying in his
paper _The Liberator_. And, Ruffin, unless we can lock up some hot-heads
in the South and such fanatics as Garrison in the North, the mob, not
the statesman, is going to determine the laws and the policy of this
country. Somebody will try to divide the Union. And then comes the
deluge! When I think of it, the words of Thomas Jefferson ring through
my soul like an alarm bell in the night. 'I tremble for my country when
I reflect that God is just and that His justice cannot sleep forever.
Nothing is more certainly written in the book of fate than these black
people shall be free--'"

Ruffin lifted his hand in a commanding gesture.

"Don't omit his next sentence, sir--'nor is it less certain, that the
two races, equally free, cannot live under the same government--'"

"Exactly," Lee answered solemnly. "And that is the only reason why I
have ever allowed myself to own a slave for a moment--the insoluble
problem of what to do with him when freed. The one excuse for Slavery
which the South can plead without fear before the judgment bar of God is
the blacker problem which their emancipation will create. Unless it can
be brought about in a miracle of patience, wisdom and prayer."

He paused and smiled at Ruffin's forlorn expression.

"Will you call your reporter now to take my views?"

"No, sir," the planter growled. "I've changed my mind."

The Colonel laughed softly.

"I thought you might."

Ruffin gazed in silence through the window at the blinking lights in
Washington, turned and looked moodily at his calm host. He spoke in a
slow, dreamy monotone, his eyes on space seeing nothing:

"Colonel Lee, this country is hell bent and hell bound. I can see no
hope for it."

Lee lifted his head with firm faith.

"Ruffin, this country is in God's hands--and He will do what's right--"

"That's just what I'm afraid, sir!" Ruffin mused. "Oh, no--I--don't mean
that exactly. I mean that we must anticipate--"

"The wisdom of God?"

"That we must prepare to meet our enemies, sir."

"I agree with you. And I'm going to do it. I've been doing a lot of
thinking and _soul_ searching since you gave me this troublesome book to
read--"

He stopped short, rose and drew the old-fashioned bell cord.

Ben appeared in full blue cloth and brass buttons, on duty again as
butler.

"Yassah--"

"I'm glad to see you, Ben. You're feeling yourself again?"

"Yassah. Praise God, I'se back at my place once mo', sah."

The master lifted his hand in warning.

"Take care of yourself now. No more risks. You're not as young as you
once were."

"Thankee, sah."

"Ask Mrs. Lee to bring me the document on my desk. Find Sam and fetch
him here."

Ben bowed.

"Yassah. Right away, sah."

Lee turned to his guest genially.

"I'm going to ask you to witness what I'm about to do, Ruffin. And
you mustn't take offense. We differ about Slavery and politics in the
abstract, but whatever our differences on the surface, you are an old
Virginia planter and I trust we shall always be friends."

The two men clasped hands and Ruffin spoke with deep emotion.

"I am honored in your friendship, Colonel Lee. However I may differ with
you about the Union, we agree on one thing, that the old Dominion is the
noblest state on which the sun has ever shown!"

Lee closed his eyes as if in prayer.

"On that we are one. Old Virginia, the mother of Presidents and of
states, as I leave her soil I humbly pray that God's blessings may ever
rest upon her!"

"So say I, sir," Ruffin responded heartily. "And I'll try to do the
cussin' for her while you do the praying."

Mrs. Lee entered and handed to her husband a folded document, as Ben
came from the kitchen with Sam, who bowed and grinned to every one in
the room.

Lee spoke in low tones to his wife.

"Ask the young people to come in for a moment, my dear."

Mrs. Lee crossed quickly to the library door and called:

"Come in, children, Colonel Lee wishes to see you all."

Mary, Stuart, Custis, Phil, Robbie and Sid pressed into the hall in
curious, expectant mood. Mrs. Marshall knew that Ruffin was still there,
but her curiosity got the better of her aversion. She followed the
children, only to run squarely into Ruffin.

He was about to speak in his politest manner when she stiffened and
passed him.

Ruffin's eye twinkled. He knew that she saw him. She hated him for
his political views. She also knew that he hated her husband, Judge
Marshall, with equal cordiality. His pride was too great to feel the
slightest hurt at her attempt to ignore him. She was a fanatic on the
subject of the Union. All right, he was a fanatic on the idea of an
independent South. They were even. Let it be so.

With a toss of his head, he turned toward Lee who had seated himself at
the table behind the couch.

The children were chatting and laughing as they entered. A sudden hush
fell on them as they caught the serious look on the Colonel's face. He
was writing rapidly. He stopped and fixed a seal on the paper which he
held in his hand. He read it carefully, lifted his eyes to the group
that had drawn near and said:

"Children, my good friend, Mr. Ruffin, has called to-day to bid us
God-speed on our journey North. And he has asked me to answer _Uncle
Tom's Cabin_. I've called you to witness the only answer I know how to
make at this moment."

He paused and turned toward Sam.

"Come here, Sam."

The young negro rolled his eyes in excited wonder about the room and
laughed softly at nothing as he approached the table.

"Yassah, Marse Robert."

"How old are you, Sam?"

"Des twenty, sah."

"I had meant to wait until you were twenty-one for this, but I have
decided to act to-day. You will arrange to leave here and go with us as
far as New York."

The negro bowed gratefully.

"Yassah, thankee sah, I sho did want ter go norf wid you, sah, but I
hated to axe ye."

Lee handed Sam the document.

"You will go with me a free man, my boy. You are the only slave I yet
hold in my own right. I have just given you your deed of emancipation.
From this hour you are your own master. May God bless you and keep you
in health and strength and give you long life and much happiness."

Sam stared at the paper and then at the kindly eyes of his old master. A
sob caught his voice as he stammered:

"May God bless you, Marse Robert--"

Ben lifted his hands in benediction and his voice rang in the solemn
cadence of the prophet and seer:

"And let the glory of His face shine upon him forever!"

Mrs. Marshall stooped and kissed her brother.

"You're a true son of Virginia, Robert, in this beautiful answer you
make to-day to all our enemies."

She rose and faced Ruffin with square antagonism.

Lee turned to the old butler.

"And Ben, tell all our servants of the estate that, under the will of
Mrs. Lee's father I will in due time set them free. I would do so to-day
if the will had not fixed the date."

Ben bowed gravely.

"I'se proud to be your servant, Marse Robert and Missis, and when
my freedom comes frum yo' hands, I'll be prouder still to serve you
always."

With head erect Ben proudly led the dazed young freedman from the hall
to the kitchen where his reception was one of mixed wonder and pity.

There fell a moment's awkward silence, broken at last by Stuart's clear,
boyish voice. He saw Ruffin's embarrassment. He knew the man's fiery
temper and wondered at his restraint.

"Well, Mr. Ruffin," Stuart began, "we may not see as clearly as Colonel
Lee to-day, but he's my commander, sir, and I'll say he's right."

Ruffin faced Lee with a look of uncompromising antagonism and fairly
shot his words.

"And for the millions of the South, I say he's wrong. There's a time
for all things. And this is not the time for such an act. From the
appearance of this book you can rest assured the emancipation of slaves
in the South will cease. We will never be bullied into freeing our
slaves by slander and insult. Colonel Lee's example will not be
followed. The fanatics of the North have begun to spit on our faces.
There's but one answer to an insult--and that's a blow!"

Lee stepped close to the planter, laid one hand gently on his shoulder,
searched his angry eyes for a moment and slowly said:

"And thrice is he armed, my friend, who hath his quarrel just. I set my
house in order before the first blow falls."

Ruffin smiled and threw off the ugly strain.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said with friendly indifference, "that my mission
has been a failure."

"And I'm sorry we can't agree."

"I won't be able to stay to dinner, Mrs. Lee, and I bid you all good
evening."

With a wave of his hand in a gesture behind which lurked the tingling of
taut nerves, he turned and left.

The beat of his horse's hoof echoed down the road with a sharp, angry
crack.



CHAPTER IX


On Sunday the whole plantation went to Church. The negroes sat in the
gallery and listened with rapt attention to the service. They joined its
ritual and its songs with their white folks in equal sincerity and more
profound emotion.

At the crossroads the stream of carriages, carts and buggies and
horseback riders parted. To the right, the way led to the Episcopal
Church, the old English establishment of the State, long since
separated from secular authority, yet still bearing the seal of county
aristocracy. Colonel Lee was a devout member of this church. Mrs. Lee
was the inspiration of its charities and the soul of its activities.

A few of the negroes of the estate attended it with the master and
mistress of Arlington. By far the larger number turned to the left at
the cross roads and found their way to the Antioch Baptist Church. The
simplicity of its service, the fervor of its singing, and above all
the emotional call of its revivals which swept the country each summer
appealed to the warm-hearted Africans. They took to the Baptist and
Methodist churches as ducks to water. The master made no objection to
the exercise of their right to worship God as their consciences called.
He encouraged their own preachers to hold weekly prayer meetings and
exhort his people in the assembling places of the servants.

Nor did he object to the dance which Sam, who was an Episcopalian,
invariably organized on the nights following prayer and exhortation.

This last Sunday was one of tender farewells to friends and neighbors.
They crowded about the Colonel after the services. They wished him
health and happiness and success in his new work.

The last greeting he got from an old bent neighbor of ninety years. It
brought a cloud to his brow. All day and into the night the thought
persisted and its shadow chilled the hours of his departure. James
Nelson was his name, of the ancient family of the Nelsons of Yorktown.

He held Lee's hand a long time and blinked at him with a pair of keen,
piercing eyes--keen from a spiritual light that burned within. He spoke
in painful deliberation as if he were translating a message.

"I am glad you are going to West Point, Colonel Lee. You will have time
for thinking. You will have time to study the art of war as great minds
must study it alone if they lead armies to victory. Generals are not
developed in the saddle on our plains fighting savages. Our country is
going to need a leader of supreme genius. I saw him in a vision, the
night I read in the _Richmond Enquirer_ that you had been called to West
Point. I shall not see you again. I am walking now into the sunset.
Soon the shadows will enfold me and I shall sleep the long sleep. I am
content. I have lived. I have loved. I have succeeded and failed. I have
swept the gamut of human passion and human emotion. I have no right to
more. Yet I envy you the glory of manhood in the crisis that is coming.
May the God of our fathers keep you and teach you and bless you is my
prayer."

Lee was too deeply moved for words to reply. He pressed his old friend's
hand, held it in silence and turned away.

The young people rode horseback. Never in his life had Phil seen
anything to equal the easy grace with which these Southern girls sat
their horses. Their mothers before them had been born in the saddle.
Their ease, their grace was not an acquirement of the teacher. It was
bred in the bone.

When a boy challenged a girl for a race, the challenge was instantly
accepted. Their saddles were made of the finest leather which the best
saddle makers of England and America could find. Their girths were set
with double silver buckles. A saddle never turned.

When the long procession reached the gates of Arlington, it seemed to
Phil that half the congregation were going to stop for dinner. A large
part of them did. Every friend and neighbor who pressed Colonel Lee's
hand, or the hand of his wife, had been invited.

When they reached the Hall and Library to talk, their conversation
covered a wide range of interest. The one topic tabooed was scandal.
It might be whispered behind closed doors. It was never the subject of
conversation in an assembly of friends and neighbors in the home. They
talked of the rich harvest. They discussed the changes in the fortunes
of their mutual friends. They had begun to demand better roads. They
discussed the affairs of the County, the Church, the State. The ladies
chatted of fashions, of course. But they also discussed the latest
novels of George Eliot with keen interest and true insight into their
significance in the development of English literature. They knew their
Dickens, Thackeray and Scott almost by heart--especially Scott. They
expressed their opinions of the daring work of the new author with
enthusiasm. Some approved; others had doubts. They did not yet know that
George Eliot was a woman.

The chief topic of conversation among the men was politics, State and
National. The problems of the British Empire came in for a share of the
discussion. These men not only read Burke and Hume, Dickens and Scott,
they read the newspapers of England and they kept up with the program of
English political parties as their fathers had. And they quoted their
opinions as authority for a younger generation. On the shelves of the
library could be seen the classics in sober bindings and sprinkled with
them a few French authors of distinction.

Over all brooded the spirit of a sincere hospitality, gentle, cordial,
simple, generous. They did not merely possess homes, they loved their
homes. The two largest words in the tongue which they spoke were Duty
and Honor. They were not in a hurry. The race for wealth had never
interested them. They took time to play, to rest, to worship God, to
chat with their neighbors, to enjoy a sunset. They came of a race
of world-conquering men and they felt no necessity for hurrying or
apologizing for their birthright.

It was precisely this attitude of mind which made the savage attack of
the Abolitionists so far-reaching in its possible results.



CHAPTER X


The morning of the departure dawned with an overcast sky, the prophecy
of winter in the gray clouds that hung over the surface of the river. A
chill mist, damp and penetrating, crept up the heights from the water's
edge and veiled the city from view.

Something in the raw air bruised afresh the thought of goodbye to the
Southland. The threat of cold in Virginia meant the piling of ice and
snow in the North. Not a sparrow chirped in the hedges. Only a crow,
passing high in the dull sky, called his defiance of wind and weather.

The Colonel made his final round of inspection to see that his people
were provided against the winter. Behind each servant's cottage, a huge
pile of wood was stacked. The roofs were in perfect order. The chimneys
were pouring columns of smoke. It hung low at first but rolled away at
the touch of the breeze from the North.

With Mrs. Lee he visited the aged and the sick. The thing that brought
the smile to each withered mouth was the assurance of their love and
care always.

Among the servants Sam held the center of interest. The wonderful,
doubtful, yet fascinating thing had come to him. He had been set free.
In each heart was the wish and with it fear of the future. The younger
ones laughed and frankly envied him. The older ones wagged their heads
doubtfully.

Old Ben expressed the best feelings of the wiser as he took Sam's hand
for a fatherly word. He had finished the packing in an old cowhide trunk
which Custis had given him.

"We's all gwine ter watch ye, boy, wid good wishes in our hearts and a
whole lot er misgivin's a playin' roun' in our min'."

"Don't yer worry 'bout me, Uncle Ben. I'se all right."

He paused and whispered.

"Ye didn't know dat Marse Robert done gimme five hundred dollars in
gol'--did ye?"

"Five hundred dollars in gol'!" Ben gasped.

Sam drew the shining yellow eagles from the bag in his pocket and
jingled them before the old man's eyes.

"Dar it is."

Ben touched it reverently.

"Praise God fer de good folks He give us."

"I'se er proud nigger, I is. I'se sorry fur dem dat b'longs to po'
folks."

Ben looked at him benignly.

"Don't you be too proud, boy. You'se powerful young and foolish. Yer des
barely got sense enough ter git outen a shower er rain. Dat money ain't
gwine ter las yer always."

"No, but man, des watch my smoke when I git up North. Yer hear frum me,
yer will."

"I hopes I hear de right news."

Sam replaced his coin with a touch of authority in possession.

"Don't yer worry 'bout me no mo'. I'se a free man now an' I gwine ter
come into de Kingdom."

The last important task done by the Colonel before taking the train for
New York was the delivery to his lawyers of instructions for the removal
of the Doyles and the placing in his hands sufficient funds for their
journey.

He spent a day in Washington investigating the chances of the new
settler securing a quarter section of land in Miami County, Kansas,
the survey of which had been completed. He selected this County on the
Missouri border to please Mrs. Doyle. She wished to live as near the
line of old Virginia's climate as possible and in a country with trees.

Doyle promised to lose no time in disposing of his goods. The father,
mother, three sons and two little girls were at Arlington to bid the
Colonel and his family goodbye. They were not a demonstrative people but
their affection for their neighbor and friend could not be mistaken.

The mother's eyes followed him with no attempt to hide her tears. She
wiped them away with her handkerchief. And went right on crying and
wiping them again. The boys were too shy to press forward in the crowd
and grasp the Colonel's hand.

On arrival in New York the party stopped at the new Hotel Astor on
Broadway. Colonel Lee had promised to spend a day at Fort Hamilton,
his old command. But it was inconvenient to make the trip until the
following morning.

Besides, he had important business to do for Sam. He had sent two of the
servants, whom he had emancipated, to Liberia, and he planned the same
journey for Sam. He engaged a reservation for him on a steamer sailing
for Africa, and returned to the hotel at nine o'clock ready to leave for
Fort Hamilton.

He was compelled to wait for Sam's return from the boarding house for
colored people on Water Street where he had been sent by the proprietor
of the Astor. Not even negro servants were quartered in a first-class
hotel in New York or any other Northern city.

Sam arrived at half-past nine, and the Colonel strolled down Broadway
with him to the little park at Bowling Green. He found a seat and bade
Sam sit down beside him.

The boy watched the expression on his old master's face with dread. He
had a pretty clear idea what this interview was to be about and he had
made up his mind on the answer. His uncle, who had been freed five years
before, had written him a glowing letter about Liberia.

He dreaded the subject.

"You know, of course, Sam," the Colonel began, "that your life is now in
your own hands and that I can only advise you as a friend."

"An' I sho's glad ter have ye he'p me, Marse Robert."

"I'm going to give you the best advice I can. I'm going to advise you to
do exactly what I would do if I were in your place."

"Yassah."

"If I were you, Sam, I wouldn't stay in this country. I'd go back to
the land of my black fathers, to its tropic suns and rich soil. You can
never be a full-grown man here. The North won't have you as such. The
hotel wouldn't let you sleep under its roof, in spite of my protest that
you were my body-servant. In the South the old shadow of your birth will
be with you. If you wish to lift up your head and be a man it can't be
here. No matter what comes in the future. If every black man, woman and
child were set free to-morrow, there are not enough negroes to live
alone. The white man will never make you his equal in the world he is
building. I've secured your passage to Liberia and I will pay for it
without touching the money which I gave you. What do you think of it?"

Sam scratched his head and looked away embarrassed. He spoke timidly at
first, but with growing assurance.

"I'se powerful 'fraid dat Liberia's a long way frum home, Marse Robert."

"It is. But if you wish to be a full-grown man, it's your chance to-day.
It will be the one chance of your people in the future as well. Can you
make up your mind to face the loneliness and build your home under
your own vine and fig tree? There you can look every man in the face,
conscious that you're as good as he is and that the world is yours."

"I'se feared I ain't got de spunk, Marse Robert."

"The gold in your pocket will build you a house on public lands. You
know how to farm. Africa has a great future. You've seen our life. We've
taught you to work, to laugh, to play, to worship God, to love your home
and your people. You're only twenty years old. I envy you the wealth of
youth. I've reached the hilltop of life. Your way is still upward for
a quarter of a century. It's the morning of life, boy, and a new world
calls you. Will you hear it and go?"

"I'se skeered, Marse Robert," Sam persisted, shaking his head gravely.

Lee saw the hopelessness of his task and changed his point of appeal.

"What do you think of doing?"

"Who, me?"

"Who else? I can't think for you any longer."

"Oh, I'll be all right, sah. I foun' er lot er good colored friends in
de bordin' house las' night. Wid dat five hundred dollars, I be livin'
in clover here, sah, sho. I done talk wid a feller 'bout goin' in
business."

"What line of business?"

"He gwine ter sho me ter-day, sah."

"You don't think you might change your mind about Liberia?"

"Na sah. I don't like my uncle dat's ober dar, nohow."

"Then I can't help you any more, Sam?"

"Na sah, Marse Robert. Y'u been de bes' master any nigger eber had in
dis worl' an' I ain't nebber gwine ter fergit dat. When I feels dem five
hundred dollars in my pocket I des swells up lak I gwine ter bust. I'se
dat proud o' myse'f an' my ole marster dat gimme a start. Lordee, sah,
hit's des gwine ter be fun fer me ter git long an' I mak' my fortune
right here. Ye see ef I don't--"

Lee smiled indulgently.

"Watch out you don't lose the little one I gave you."

"Yassah, I got hit all sewed up in my close."

The old master saw that further argument would be useless. He rose
wondering if his act of emancipation were not an act of cowardice--the
shirking of responsibility for the boy's life. His mouth closed firmly.
That was just the point about the institution of Slavery. No such
responsibility should be placed on any man's shoulders.

Sam insisted on ministering to the wants of the family until he saw them
safely on the boat for West Point. He waved each member a long goodbye.
And then hurried to his new chum at the boarding house on Water Street.
This dusky friend had won Sam's confidence by his genial ways on the
first night of their acquaintance. He had learned that Sam had just been
freed. That this was his first trip to New York though he spoke with
careless ease of his knowledge of Washington.

But the most important fact revealed was that he had lately come into
money through the generosity of his former master. The sable New Yorker
evinced no curiosity about the amount.

After four days of joy he waked from a sickening stupor. He found
himself lying in a filthy alley at dawn, bareheaded, his coat torn up
the back, every dollar gone and his friend nowhere to be found.

Colonel Lee had given him the address of three clergymen and told him to
call on them for help if he had any trouble. He looked everywhere for
these cards. They couldn't be found. He had been so cocksure of himself
he had lost them. He couldn't make up his mind to stoop to blacking
boots and cleaning spittoons. He had always lived with aristocrats. He
felt himself one to his finger tips.

There was but one thing he could do that seemed to be needed up here.
He could handle tobacco. He could stem the leaf. He had learned that
at Arlington in helping Ben superintend the curing of the weed for the
servants' use.

He made the rounds of the factories only to find that the larger part
of this work was done in tenement homes. He spent a day finding one of
these workshops.

They offered to take him in as a boarder and give him sixty cents a day.
He could have a pallet beside the six children in the other room and a
place to put his trunk. Sixty cents a day would pay his room rent and
give him barely enough food to keep body and soul together.

He hurried back to his boarding house, threw the little trunk on his
back and trudged to the tobacco tenement. When he arrived no one stopped
work. The mother waved her hand to the rear. He placed his trunk in a
dark corner, came out and settled to the task of stemming tobacco.

He did his work with a skill and ease that fascinated the children. He
took time to show them how to grip the leaf to best advantage and rip
the stem with a quick movement that left scarcely a trace of the weed
clinging to it. He worked with a swinging movement of his body and began
to sing in soft, low tones.

The wizened eyes brightened, and when he stopped one of them whispered:

"More, black man. Sing some more!"

He sang one more song and choked. His eye caught the look of mortal
weariness in the tired face of the little girl of six and his voice
wouldn't work.

"Goddermighty!" he muttered, "dese here babies ought not ter be wukkin
lak dis!"

When lunch time came the six children begged Sam to live in the place
and take his meals with them.

Their mother joined in the plea and offered to board him for thirty
cents a day. This would leave him a few cents to spend outside. He
couldn't yet figure on clothes. It didn't seem right to have to pay for
such things. Anyhow he had enough to last him awhile.

He decided to accept the offer and live as a boarder with the family.
The lunch was discouraging. A piece of cold bread and a glass of water
from the hydrant. Sam volunteered to bring the water.

The hydrant was the only water supply for the six hundred people whose
houses touched the alley. It stood in the center. The only drainage
was a sink in front of it. All the water used had to be carried up the
stairs and the slops carried down. The tired people did little carrying
downstairs. Pans and pails full of dishwater were emptied out the
windows with no care for the passer below. Scarcely a day passed without
a fight from this cause. A fight in the quarter was always a pleasure to
the settlement.

Sam munched his bread and sipped his water. He watched the children eat
their pieces ravenously. He couldn't finish his. He handed it to the
smallest one of the children who was staring at him with eyes that
chilled his heart. He knew the child was still hungry. Such a lunch as a
piece of bread and a tin cup of water must be an accident, of course.
He had heard of jailers putting prisoners on bread and water to punish
them. He had never known human beings living at home to have such food.
They would have a good dinner steaming hot. He was sure of that.

A sudden commotion broke out in the alley below. Yells, catcalls, oaths
and the sound of crashing bricks, coal, pieces of furniture, and the
splash of much water came from the court.

The mother rushed to the window and hurled a stone. There was a pile of
them in the corner of the room.

Sam tried to look out.

"What's de matter, ma'm? Is dey er fight?"

"No--nothin' but a rent collector." The woman smiled.

It was the first pleasant thought that had entered her mind since Sam
had come.

The dinner was as rude a surprise as the lunch. He watched the woman
fumble over lighting the fire in the stove until he could stand it no
longer.

"Lemme start de fire fer ye, ma'm," he offered at last.

"I wish you would," she sighed. "I married when I wuz seventeen and I
never had made a fire before. I don't believe I'll ever learn."

The negro was not long in observing that she knew no more about cooking
than she did about lighting a fire. The only cooking utensils in the
place were a pot and a frying pan. The frying pan was in constant use.
For dinner she fried a piece of tough beef without seasoning. She didn't
know how to make bread. She bought the soggy stuff at the grocer's.
There was no bread for dinner at all. They had boiled potatoes, boiled
in plain water without even a grain of salt or pepper. The coffee was so
black and heavy and bitter he couldn't drink it.

The father had a cup of beer with his coffee. A cup of beer was provided
for Sam. The girl of twelve had rushed the growler to the corner saloon.
The negro had never tasted beer before and he couldn't drink it. The
stuff was horrible. It reminded him of a dose of quinine his mistress
had once made him take when he had a chill.

He worked harder than usual next day to forget the fear that haunted
him. At night he was ill. He had caught cold and had a fever. He dropped
on his pallet without dinner and didn't get up for three weeks.

He owed his landlady so much money now, he felt in honor bound to board
with her and give her all his earnings. He felt himself sinking into an
abyss and he didn't have the strength to fight his way out.

The thing that hurt him more than bad food and air when he got to his
work again was the look of death in the faces of the children. Their
eyes haunted him in the dark as they slept on the same floor. He would
get out of there when he was strong again. But these children would
never go except to be hauled in the dead wagon to the Potter's Field.
And he heard the rattle of this black wagon daily.

In a mood of desperation he walked down Water Street past the boarding
house. In front of the place he met a boarder who had spoken to him
the last day of his stay. He seized Sam by the coat, led him aside and
whispered:

"Has ye heard 'bout de old man, name John Brown, dat come ter lead de
niggers ter de promise' lan'?"

"No, but I'se waitin' fur somebody ter lead me."

"Come right on wid me, man. I'se a-goin' to a meetin' to-night an' jine
de ban'. Will ye jine us?"

"I jine anything dat'll lead me to de promise' lan'."

"Come on. Hit's over in Brooklyn but a nigger's gwine ter meet me at de
ferry and take me dar."

Sam felt in his pocket for the money for the ferry. Luckily he had
twenty cents. It was worth while to gamble that much on a trip to the
promised land.

An emissary of the prophet met them on the Brooklyn side and led them to
a vacant store with closed wooden shutters. No light could be seen from
the street. The guide rapped a signal and the door opened. Inside were
about thirty negroes gathered before a platform. Chairs filled the long
space. A white man was talking to the closely packed group of blacks.
Sam pressed forward and watched him.

He was old until he began to talk. And then there was something strange
and electric in his tones that made him young. His voice was vaulting
and metallic and throbbed with an indomitable will. There was contagion
in the fierceness of his tones. It caught his hearers and called them in
a spell.

His shoulders were stooped. His manner grim and impressive. There was
a quick, wiry movement to his body that gave the idea that he was
crouching to spring. It was uncanny. It persisted as his speech
lengthened.

He was talking in cold tones of the injustice being done the black man
in the South. Of the crimes against God and humanity which the Southern
whites were daily committing.

The one feature of the strange speaker that fascinated Sam was the
glitter of his shifting eyes. He never held them still. He did not try
to bore a man through with them. They were restless, as if moved by
hidden forces within. The flash of light from their depths seemed a
signal from an unknown world.

Sam watched him with open mouth.

He was finishing his talk now in a desultory way more gripping in its
deadly calm than the most passionate appeal.

"We are enrolling volunteers," he quietly announced. "Volunteers in the
United States League of Gileadites. If you sign your names to the roll
to-night understand clearly what you are doing. I have written for each
member _Words of Advice_ which he must memorize as the guide to his
action."

He drew a sheet of paper from his pocket and read:

"No jury can be found in the Northern States, that would convict a man
for defending his rights to the last extremity. This is well understood
by Southern Congressmen, who insist that the right of trial by jury
should not be granted to the fugitive slave. Colored people have more
fast friends among the whites than they suppose. Just think of the money
expended by individuals in your behalf in the past twenty years! Think
of the number who have been mobbed and imprisoned on your account. Have
any of you seen the branded hand? Do you remember the names of Lovejoy
and Torrey? Should any of your number be arrested, you must collect
together as quickly as possible so as to outnumber your adversaries who
are taking an active part against you. Let no able-bodied man appear on
the ground unequipped or with his weapons exposed to view; let that be
understood beforehand. Your plans must be known only to yourself, and
with the understanding that all traitors must die, wherever caught and
proven to be guilty.

"'Whosoever is fearful or afraid, let him return and depart early from
Mount Gilead' (Judges VII Chapter, 3rd verse; Deuteronomy XX Chapter,
8th verse). Give all cowards an opportunity to show it on condition of
holding their peace. Do not delay one moment after you're ready: you
will lose all your resolution if you do. Let the first blow be the
signal for all to engage; and when engaged do not do your work by
halves; but make clean work with your enemies--"

It was the slow way in which he spoke the last words that gave them
meaning. Sam could hear in his tones the crash of steel into human flesh
and the grating of the blade on the bone. It made him shiver.

Every negro present joined the League.

When the last man had signed, John Brown led in a long prayer to
Almighty God to bless the holy work on which these noble men had
entered. At the close of his prayer he announced that on the following
night at the People's Hall on the Bowery in New York, the Honorable
Gerrit Smith, the noblest friend of the colored men in the North, would
preside over a mass meeting in behalf of the downtrodden. He asked them
all to come and bring their friends.

The ceremony of signing over, Sam turned to the guide with a genial
smile.

"I done jine de League."

"That's right. I knew you would."

"I'se a full member now, ain't I?"

"Of course."

"When do we eat?" Sam asked eagerly.

"Eat?"

"Sho."

"We ain't organizin' de Gileadites to eat, man."

"Ain't we?"

"No, sah. We'se organizin'--ter kill white men dat come atter runaway
slaves."

"But ain't dey got nuttin ter eat fer dem dat's here?"

"You come ter de big meetin' ter-morrow night an' hear sumfin dat's good
fer yo' soul."

"I'll be dar," Sam promised. But he hoped to find something at the
meeting that was good for his stomach as well as his soul.



CHAPTER XI


The negroes in New York and Brooklyn were not the only people in the
North falling under the influence of the strange man who answered to the
name of John Brown. There was something magnetic about him that drew all
sorts and conditions of men.

The statesmen who still used reason as the guiding principle of life had
no use for him. Henry Wilson, the new Senator from Massachusetts, met
him and was repelled by the something that drew others. Governor Andrew
was puzzled by his strange personality.

The secret of his power lay in a mystic appeal to the Puritan
conscience. He had been from childhood afflicted with this conscience in
its most malignant form. He knew instinctively its process of action.

The Puritan had settled New England and fixed the principles both of
economic and political life. The civilization he set up was compact and
commercial. He organized it in towns and townships. The Meeting House
was the center, the source of all power and authority. No dwelling could
be built further than two miles from a church and attendance on worship
was made compulsory by law.

The South, against whose life Brown was organizing his militant crusade,
was agricultural, scattered, individual. Individualism was a passion
with the Southerner, liberty his battle cry. He scorned the "authority"
of the church and worshipped God according to the dictates of his own
conscience. The Court House, not the Meeting House, was his forum,
and he rode there through miles of virgin forests to dispute with his
neighbor.

The mental processes of the Puritan, therefore, were distinctly
different from that of the Southerner. The Puritan mind was given to
hours of grim repression which he called "Conviction of Sin." Resistance
became the prime law of life. The world was a thing of evil. A morass of
Sin to be attacked, to be reformed, to be "abolished." The Southerner
perceived the evils of Slavery long before the Puritan, but he made a
poor Abolitionist. The Puritan was born an Abolitionist. He should not
only resist and attack the world; he should _hate_ it. He early learned
to love the pleasure of hating. He hated himself if no more promising
victim loomed on the horizon. He early became the foremost Persecutor
and Vice-Crusader of the new world. He made witch-hunting one of the
sports of New England.

When not busy with some form of the witch hunt, the Puritan found an
outlet for his repressed instincts in the ferocity with which he fought
the Indians or worked to achieve the conquest of Nature and lay up
worldly goods for himself and his children. Prosperity, therefore,
became the second principle of his religion, next to vice crusading.
When he succeeded in business, he praised God for his tender mercies.
His goods and chattels became the visible evidence of His love. The only
holiday he established or permitted was the day on which he publicly
thanked God for the goods which He had delivered. Through him the New
England Puritan Thanksgiving Day became a national festival and through
him a religious reverence for worldly success has become a national
ideal.

The inner life of the Puritan was soul-fear. Driven by fear and
repression he attacked his rock-ribbed country, its thin soil, its
savage enemies and his own fellow competitors with fury.

And he succeeded.

The odds against him sharpened his powers, made keen his mind, toughened
his muscles.

The Southern planter, on the other hand, represented the sharpest
contrast to this mental and physical attitude toward life. He came of
the stock of the English Squire. And if he came from Scotland he found
this English ideal already established and accepted it as his own.

The joy of living, not the horror of life, was the mainspring of his
action and the secret of his character. The Puritan hated play. The
Southerner loved to play. He dreamed of a life rich and full of
spiritual and physical leisure. He enjoyed his religion. He did not
agonize over it. His character was genial. He hated fear and drove it
from his soul. He loved a fiddle and a banjo. He was brave. He was loyal
to his friends. He loved his home and his kin. He despised trade. He
disliked hard work.

To this hour in the country's life his ideal had dominated the nation.

The Puritan Abolitionists now challenged this ideal for a fight to the
finish. Slavery was protected by the Constitution. All right, they burn
the Constitution and denounce it as a Covenant with Death, an agreement
with Hell. They begin a propaganda to incite servile insurrection in
the South. They denounce the Southern Slave owner as a fiend. Even
the greatest writers of the North caught the contagion of this mania.
Longfellow, Lowell, Whittier and Emerson used their pens to blacken the
name of the Southern people. From platform, pulpit and forum, through
pamphlet, magazine, weekly and daily newspapers the stream of abuse
poured forth in ever-increasing volume.

That the proud Southerner would resent the injustice of this wholesale
indictment was inevitable. Their habit of mind, their born instinct of
leadership, their love of independence, their hatred of dictation, their
sense of historic achievement in the building of the republic would
resent it. Their critics had not only been Slave holders themselves as
long as it paid commercially, but their skippers were now sailing the
seas in violation of Southern laws prohibiting the slave trade. Our
early Slave traders were nearly all Puritans. When one of their ships
came into port, the minister met her at the wharf, knelt in prayer and
thanked Almighty God for one more cargo of heathen saved from hell.

Brown's whole plan of attack was based on the certainty of resentment
from the South. He set out to provoke his opponents. This purpose was
now the inspiration of every act of his life.

A group of six typical Northern minds had fallen completely under his
power: Dr. Samuel G. Howe, Rev. Theodore Parker, Rev. Thomas Wentworth
Higginson, Frank B. Sanborn, George L. Stearns and the Rev. Hon. Gerrit
Smith.

Gerrit Smith was many times a millionaire, one of the great land owners
of the country, a former partner in business with John Jacob Astor, the
elder, and at this time a philanthropist by profession. He had built a
church at Peterboro, New York, and had preached a number of years. In
his growing zeal as an Abolitionist he had entered politics and had just
been elected to Congress from his district.

He was a man of gentle, humane impulses and looked out upon the world
with the kindliest fatherly eyes. It was one of the curious freaks of
fate that he should fall under the influence of Brown. The stern old
Puritan was his antithesis in every line of face and mental make-up.

Smith was the preacher, the theorist, and the dreamer.

Brown had become the man of Action.

And by Action he meant exactly what the modern Social anarchist means
by _direct action_. The plan he had developed was to come to "close
quarters" with Slavery. He had organized the Band of Gileadites to kill
every officer of the law who attempted to enforce the provisions of the
Constitution of the United States relating to Slavery. His eyes were now
fixed on the Territory of Kansas.

There could be no doubt about the abnormality of the mind of the man who
had constituted himself the Chosen Instrument of Almighty God to destroy
chattel Slavery in the South.

He was pacing the floor of the parlor of the New Astor House awaiting
the arrival of his friend, Congressman Gerrit Smith, for a conference
before the meeting scheduled for eight o'clock. It was a characteristic
of Brown that he couldn't sit still. He paced the floor.

The way he walked marked him with distinction, if not eccentricity. He
walked always with a quick, springing step. He didn't swing his foot. It
worked on springs. And the spring in it had a furtive action not unlike
the movement of a leopard. His muscles, in spite of his fifty-four
years, were strong and sinewy. He was five feet ten inches in height.

His head was remarkable for its small size. The brain space was limited
and the hair grew low on his forehead, as if a hark back to the
primitive man out of which humanity grew. His chin protruded into an
aggressive threat. His mouth was not only stern, it was as inexorable as
an oath.

His hair was turning gray and he wore it trimmed close to his small
skull. His nose was an aggressive Roman type. The expression of his face
was shrewd and serious, with a touch always of cunning.

A visitor at his house at North Elba whispered one day to one of his
sons:

"Your father looks like an eagle."

The boy hesitated and replied in deep seriousness:

"Yes, or some other carnivorous bird."

The thing above all others that gave him the look of a bird of prey was
his bluish-gray eye. An eye that was never still and always shone with a
glitter. The only time this strange light was not noticeable was during
the moments when he drew the lids down half-way. He was in the habit of
holding his eyes half shut in times of deep thinking. At these moments
if he raised his head, his eyes glowed two pin points of light.

No matter what the impression he made, either of attraction or
repulsion, his personality was a serious proposition. No man looked once
only. And no man ever attempted undue familiarity or ridicule. His life
to this time had been a series of tragic failures in everything he had
undertaken. A study of his intense Puritan face revealed at once his
fundamental character. A soul at war with the world. A soul at war with
himself. He was the incarnation of repressed emotions and desires. He
had married twice and his fierce passions had made him the father of
twenty children before fifty years of age. His first wife had given
birth to seven in ten years and died a raving maniac during the birth of
her last. Two of his children had already shown the signs of unbalanced
mentality.

The grip of his mind on the individuals who allowed themselves to be
drawn within the circle of his influence became absolute.

He was a man of earnest and constant prayer to his God. The God he
worshipped was one whose face was not yet revealed to the crowd that
hung on his strangely halting words. He spoke in mystic symbols. His
mysticism was always the source of his power over the religious leaders
who had gathered about him. They had not stopped to analyze the meaning
of this appeal. They looked once into his shining blue-gray eyes and
became his followers. He never stopped to reason.

He spoke with authority.

He claimed a divine commission for action and they did not pause to
examine his credentials. He had failed at every enterprise he had
undertaken. And then he suddenly discovered his power over the Puritan
imagination.

To Brown's mind, from the day of his devotion to the fixed idea
of destroying Slavery in the South, "Action" had but one
meaning--bloodshed. He knew that revolutionary ideas are matters of
belief. He asserted beliefs. The elect believed. The damned refused to
believe.

Long before Smith had entered the room Brown had dropped into a seat by
the window, his eyes two pin points. His abstraction was so deep, his
absorption in his dreams so complete that when Smith spoke, he leaped to
his feet and put himself in an attitude of defense.

He gazed at his friend a moment and rubbed his eyes in a dazed way
before he could come back to earth.

In a moment he had clasped hands with the philanthropist. Smith looked
into his eyes and his will was one with the man of Action. He had not
yet grasped the full meaning of the Action. He was to awake later to
its tremendous import--primitive, barbaric, animal, linking man through
hundreds of thousands of years to the beast who was his jungle father.

Smith did not know that he was to preside at the meeting until Brown
told him. He consented without a moment's hesitation.



CHAPTER XII


On their way to the hall on the Bowery Gerrit Smith and John Brown
passed through dimly lighted streets along which were drifting scores of
boys and girls, ragged, friendless, homeless, shelterless in the chill
night. The strange old man's eyes were fixed on space. He saw nothing,
heard nothing of the city's roaring life or the call of its fathomless
misery.

He saw nothing even when they passed a house with a red light before
which little girls of twelve were selling flowers. Neither of the men,
living for a single fixed idea, caught the accent of evil in the child's
voice as she stepped squarely in front of them and said:

"What's ye hurry?"

When they turned aside she piped again:

"Won't ye come in?"

They merely passed on. The infinite pathos of the scene had made no
impression. That this child's presence on the streets was enough to
damn the whole system of society to the lowest hell never dawned on the
philanthropist or the man of Action.

The crowd in the hall was not large. The place was about half full and
it seated barely five hundred. The masses of the North as yet took no
stock in the Abolition Crusade.

They felt the terrific pressure of the problem of life at home too
keenly to go into hysterics over the evils of Negro Slavery in the
South. William Lloyd Garrison had been preaching his denunciations for
twenty-one years and its fruits were small. The masses of the people
were indifferent.

But a man was pushing his way to the platform of the little hall
to-night who was destined to do a deed that would accomplish what all
the books and all the magazines and all the newspapers of the Crusaders
had tried in vain to do.

Small as the crowd was, there was something sinister in its composition.
Half of them were foreigners. It was the first wave of the flood of
degradation for our racial stock in the North--the racial stock of John
Adams and John Hancock.

A few workingmen were scattered among them. Fifty or sixty negroes
occupied the front rows. Sam had secured a seat on the aisle. Gerrit
Smith rose without ceremony and introduced Brown. There were no women
present. He used the formal address to the American voter:

"Fellow Citizens:

"I have the honor to present to you to-night a man chosen of God to lead
our people out of the darkness of sin, my fellow worker in the Kingdom,
the friend of the downtrodden and the oppressed, John Brown."

Faint applause greeted the old man as he moved briskly to the little
table with his quick, springing step.

He fixed the people with his brilliant eyes and they were silent. He was
slow of speech, awkward in gesture, and without skill in the building of
ideas to hold the imagination of the typical crowd.

It was not a typical crowd of American freemen. It was something new
under the sun in our history. It was the beginning of the coming mob
mind destined to use Direct Action in defiance of the Laws on which the
Republic had been built.

There was no mistaking the message Brown bore. He proclaimed that the
negro is the blood brother of the white man. The color of his skin was
an accident. This white man with a black skin was now being beaten and
ground into the dust by the infamy of his masters. Their crimes cried
to God for vengeance. All the negro needed was freedom to transform him
into a white man--your equal and mine. At present, our brothers and
sisters are groaning in chains on Southern plantations. His vaulting
metallic tones throbbed with a strange, cold passion as he called for
Action.

The vibrant call for bloodshed in this cry melted the crowd into a new
personality. The mildest spirit among them was merged into the mob
mind of the speaker. And every man within the sound of his voice was a
murderer.

The final leap of the speaker's soul into an expression of supreme hate
for the Southern white man found its instant echo in the mob which
he had created. They demanded no facts. They asked no reasons. They
accepted his statements as the oracle of God. They were opinions,
beliefs, dogmas, the cries of propaganda only--precisely the food needed
for developing the mob mind to its full strength. Envy, jealousy, hatred
ruled supreme. Liberty was a catchword. Blood lust was the motive power
driving each heart beat.

Brown suddenly stopped. His speech had reached no climax. It had rambled
into repetition. Its power consisted in the repetition of a fixed
thought. He knew the power of this repeated hammering on the mind. An
idea can be repeated until it is believed, true or false. He had pounded
his message into his hearers until they were incapable of resistance. It
was unnecessary for him to continue. He stopped so suddenly, they waited
in silence for him to go on after he had taken his seat.

A faint applause again swept the front of the house. There was something
uncanny about the man that hushed applause. They knew that he was
indifferent to it. Hidden fires burned within him that lighted the way
of life. He needed no torches held on high. He asked no honors.
He expected no applause and he got little. What he did demand was
submission to his will and obedience as followers.

Gerrit Smith rose with this thought gripping his gentle spirit. His
words came automatically as if driven by another's mind.

"Our friend and leader has dedicated his life to the service of
suffering humanity. It is our duty to follow. The first step is to
sacrifice our money in his cause."

The ushers passed the baskets and Sam's heart warmed as he heard the
coin rattle. His eyes bulged when he saw that one of them had a pile of
bills in it that covered the coin. He heard the great and good man say
that it was for the poor brother in black. He saw visions of a warm
room, of clean food and plenty of it.

He was glad he'd come, although he didn't like the look in John Brown's
eyes while he spoke. Their fierce light seemed to bore through him and
hurt. Now that he was seated and his eyes half closed, uplifted toward
the ceiling, he wasn't so formidable. He rather liked him sitting down.

The ushers poured the money on the table and counted it. Sam had not
seen so much money together since he piled his five hundred dollars in
gold in a stack and looked at it. He watched the count with fascination.
There must be a thousand at least.

He was shocked when the head usher leaned over the edge of the platform,
and whispered to Smith the total.

"Eighty-five dollars."

Sam glanced sadly at the two rows of negroes in front. There wouldn't
be much for each. He took courage in the thought, however, that some of
them were well-to-do and wouldn't ask their share. He was sure of this
because he had seen three or four put something in the baskets.

Gerrit Smith announced the amount of the collection with some
embarrassment and heartily added:

"My check for a hundred and fifteen dollars makes the sum an even two
hundred."

That was something worth while. Smith and Brown held a conference about
the announcement of another meeting as Sam whispered to the head usher:

"Could ye des gimme mine now an' lemme go?"

"Yours?"

"Yassah."

"Your share of the collection?"

The usher eyed him in scorn.

"To be sho," Sam answered confidently. "Yer tuk it up fer de po' black
man. I'se black, an' God knows I'se po'."

"You're a poor fool!"

"What ye take hit up fer den?"

"To support John Brown, not to feed lazy, good-for-nothing, free
negroes."

Sam turned from the man in disgust. He was about to rise and shamble
back to his miserable pallet when a sudden craning of necks and moving
of feet drew his eye toward the door.

He saw a man stalking down the aisle. He carried on his left arm a
little bundle of filthy rags. He mounted the platform and spoke to the
Chairman:

"Mr. Smith, may I say just a word to this meeting?"

The Philanthropist Congressman recognized him instantly as the most
eloquent orator in the labor movement in America. He had met him at a
Reform Convention. He rose at once.

"Certainly."

"Fellow Citizens, Mr. George Evans, the leading advocate of Organized
Labor in America, wishes to speak to you. Will you hear him?"

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" came from all parts of the house.

The man began in quivering tones that held Sam and gripped the unwilling
mind of the crowd:

"My friends: Just a few words. I have in my arms the still breathing
skeleton of a little girl. I found her in a street behind this building
within the sound of the voice of your speaker."

He paused and waved to John Brown.

"She was fighting with a stray cat for a crust of bread in a garbage
pail. I hold her on high."

With both hands he lifted the dazed thing above his head.

"Look at her. This bundle of rags God made in the form of a woman to be
the mother of the race. She has been thrown into your streets to starve.
Her father is a workingman whom I know. For six months, out of work,
he fought with death and hell, and hell won. He is now in prison. Her
mother, unable to support herself and child, sought oblivion in drink.
She's in the gutter to-night. Her brother has joined a gang on the East
Side. Her sister is a girl of the streets.

"You talk to me of Negro Slavery in the South? Behold the child of the
White Wage Slave of the North! Why are you crying over the poor negro?
In the South the master owns the slave. Here the master owns the job.
Down there the master feeds, clothes and houses his man with care. Black
children laugh and play. Here the master who owns the job buys labor in
the open market. He can get it from a man for 75 cents a day. From a
woman for 30 cents a day. When he has bought the last ounce of strength
they can give, the master of the wage slave kicks him out to freeze or
starve or sink into crime.

"You tell me of the white master's lust down South? I tell you of the
white master's lust for the daughters of our own race.

"I see a foreman of a factory sitting in this crowd. I've known him for
ten years. I've talked with a score of his victims. He has the power
to employ or discharge girls of all ages ranging from twelve to
twenty-five. Do you think a girl can pass his bead eyes and not pay for
the job the price he sees fit to demand?

"If you think so, you don't know the man. I do!"

He paused and the stillness of death followed. Necks were craned to find
the figure of the foreman crouching in the crowd. The speaker was not
after the individual. His soul was aflame with the cause of millions.

"I see also a man in the crowd who owns a row of tenements so filthy,
so dark, so reeking with disease that no Southern master would allow a
beast to live in them. This hypocrite has given to John Brown to-night
a contribution of money for the downtrodden black man. He coined this
money out of the blood of white men and women who pay the rent for the
dirty holes in which they die."

A moment of silence that was pain as he paused and a hundred eyes swept
the room in search of the man. Again the speaker stood without a sign.
He merely paused to let his message sink in the hearts of his hearers.

"My eyes have found another man in this crowd who is an employer of wage
slaves. He is here to denounce Chattel Slavery in the South as the sum
of all villainies while he practices a system of wage slavery more cruel
without a thought morally wrong.

"I say this in justice to the man because I know him. He hasn't
intelligence enough to realize what he is doing. If he had he would
begin by abolishing slavery in his own household. This reformer isn't
a bad man at heart. He is simply an honest fool. These same fools in
England have given millions to abolish black slavery in the Colonies
and leave their own slaves in the Spittalfield slums to breed a race of
paupers and criminals. Why don't a Buxton or a Wilberforce complain
of the White Slavery at home? Because it is indispensable to their
civilization. They lose nothing in freeing negroes in distant Colonies.
They would lose their fortunes if they dared free their own white
brethren.

"The master of the wage slave employs his victim only when he needs him.
The Southern master supports his man whether he needs him or not. And
cares for him when ill. The Abolitionist proposes to free the black
slave from the whip. Noble work. But to what end if he deprives him of
food? He escapes the lash and lands in a felon's cell or climbs the
steps of a gallows.

"Your inspired leader, the speaker of this evening, has found his most
enthusiastic support in New England.

"No doubt.

"In Lowell, Massachusetts, able-bodied men in the cotton mills are
receiving 80 cents a day for ten hours' work. Women are receiving 32
cents a day for the same. At no period of the history of this republic
has it been possible for a human being to live in a city and reproduce
his kind on such wages. What is the result? The racial stock that made
the Commonwealth of Massachusetts a civilized state is perishing. It is
being replaced from the slums of Europe. The standard of life is dragged
lower with each generation.

"The negro, you tell me, must work for others or be flogged. The poor
white man at your door must work for others or be starved. The negro is
subject to a single master. He learns to know him, if not to like him.
There is something human in the touch of their lives. The poor white man
here is the slave of many masters. The negro may lead the life of a farm
horse. Your wage slave is a horse that hasn't even a stable. He roams
the street in the snows of winter. He is ridden by anybody who wishes a
ride. He is cared for by nobody. Our rich will do anything for the poor
except to get off their backs. The negro has a master in sickness and
health. The wage slave is honored with the privilege of slavery only so
long as he can work ten hours a day. He is a pauper when he can toil no
more.

"Your Abolitionist has fixed his eye on Chattel Slavery in the South. It
involves but three million five-hundred thousand negroes. The system of
wage slavery involves the lives of twenty-five million white men and
women.

"Slavery was not abolished in the North on moral grounds, but because,
as a system of labor it was old-fashioned, sentimental, extravagant,
inefficient. It was abolished by the masters of men, not by the men.

"The North abolished slavery for economy in production. There was no
sentiment in it. Wage slavery has proven itself ten times more cruel,
more merciless, more efficient. The Captain of Industry has seen the
vision of an empire of wealth beyond the dreams of avarice. He has seen
that the master who cares for the aged, the infirm, the sick, the lame,
the halt is a fool who must lag behind in the march of the Juggernaut.
Only a fool stops to build a shelter for his slave when he can kick him
out in the cold and find hundreds of fresh men to take his place.

"Two years ago the Chief of Police of the City of New York took the
census of the poor who were compelled to live in cellars. He found that
eighteen thousand five hundred and eighty-six white wage slaves lived in
these pest holes under the earth. One-thirteenth of the population of
the city lives thus underground to-day. Hundreds of these cellars are
near the river. They are not waterproof. Their floors are mud. When
the tides rise the water floods these noisome holes. The bedding and
furniture float. Fierce wharf rats, rising from their dens, dispute with
men, women and children the right to the shelves above the water line.

"There are cellars devoted entirely to lodging where working men and
women can find a bed of straw for two cents a night--the bare dirt for
one cent. Black and white men, women and children, are mixed in one
dirty mass. These rooms are without light, without air, filled with the
damp vapors of mildewed wood and clothing. They swarm with every species
of vermin that infest the animal and human body. The scenes of depravity
that nightly occur in these lairs of beasts are beyond words.

"These are the homes provided by the master who has established 'Free'
Labor as the economic weapon with which he has set out to conquer the
world.

"And he is conquering with it. The superior, merciless power of this
system as an economic weapon is bound to do in America what it has done
throughout the world. The days of Chattel Slavery are numbered. The
Abolitionist is wasting his breath, or worse. He is raising a feud that
may drench this nation in blood in a senseless war over an issue that is
settled before it's raised.

"Long ago the economist discovered that there was no vice under the
system of Chattel Slavery that could not be more freely gratified under
the new system of wage slavery.

"You weep because the negro slave must serve one master. He has no power
to choose a new one. Do not forget that the power to _choose_ a new
master carries with it power to discharge the wage slave and hire a new
one. This power to discharge is the most merciless and cruel tyranny
ever developed in the struggle of man from savagery to civilization.
This awful right places in the hand of the master the power of life and
death. He can deprive his wage slave of fuel, food, clothes, shelter.
Life is the only right worth having if its exercise is put into
question. A starving man has no liberty. The word can have no meaning.
He must live first or he cannot be a man.

"The wage slave is producing more than the chattel slaves ever produced,
man for man, and is receiving less than the negro slave of the South is
getting for his labor to-day.

"Your system of wage slavery is the cunning trick by which the cruel
master finds that he can deny to the worker all rights he ever had as a
slave.

"If you doubt its power, look at this bundle of rags in my hands and
remember that there are five thousand half-starved children homeless and
abandoned in the streets of this city to-night.

"Find for me one ragged, freezing, starving, black baby in the South and
I will buy a musket to equip an army for its invasion--"

He paused a moment, turned and gazed at the men on the platform and then
faced the crowd in a final burst of triumphant scorn.

"Fools, liars, hypocrites, clean your own filthy house before you weep
over the woes of negroes who are singing while they toil--"

A man on an end seat of the middle aisle suddenly sprang to his feet and
yelled:

"Put him out!"

Before Gerrit Smith could reach Evans with a gift of five dollars for
the sick child which he still held in his arms the crowd had become a
mob.

They hustled the labor leader into the street and told him to go back to
hell where he came from.

Through it all John Brown sat on the platform with his blue-gray eyes
fixed in space. He had seen, heard or realized nothing that had passed.
His mind was brooding over the plains of Kansas.



CHAPTER XIII


It was October, 1854, before John Brown's three sons, Owen, Frederick
and Salmon, left Ohio for their long journey to Kansas. In April, 1855,
they crossed the Missouri river and entered the Territory.

John Brown decided to move his family once more to North Elba before
going West. It was June before his people reached this negro settlement
in Northern New York. He placed his wife and children in an unplastered,
four-roomed house. Through its rough weatherboarding the winds and snows
of winter would howl. It had been hurriedly thrown together by his
son-in-law, Henry Thompson. Brown had never stayed on one of his little
farms long enough to bring order out of chaos.

His restless spirit left him no peace. He was now in Boston, now in
Springfield, Massachusetts, now in New York, again in Ohio, or Illinois.

He was giving up the work in Ohio to follow his sons into Kansas. He had
planned to move there two years before and abandoned the idea. He had at
last fully determined to go.

On October the sixth, his party reached the family settlement at
Osawatomie. With characteristic queerness the old man did not enter with
his sons, Oliver, Jason and John, Jr., and their caravan. He stopped
alone on the roadside two miles away until next day.

The party on arrival had plenty of guns, swords and ammunition but their
treasury held but sixty cents.

The family settlement were living in tents around which the chill
autumn winds were howling. The poor crops they had raised had not been
harvested. The men were ill and discouraged. There was little meat,
except game and that was difficult to kill. Their only bread was made
from corn meal ground at a hand-turned mill two miles away.

Brown's sons, who had preceded him, had lost all vigor. The old man was
not slow to see the way out.

The situation called for Action. He determined to get it. He immediately
plunged into Free Soil Politics without pausing to build his first
shanty against the coming rains and snows of a terrible winter.



CHAPTER XIV


The race for the lands of the new Territories of Kansas and Nebraska was
on to the finish. Nebraska was far North. Kansas only interested the
Southerner. The frontiersmen were crossing the boundary lines years
before Congress formally opened them for settlement.

After a brief stop in West Tennessee the Doyles had succeeded in
reaching Miami County, just beyond the Missouri border, in 1853. They
had settled on a fertile quarter section on the Pottawattomie Creek in a
small group of people of Southern feeling.

The sun of a new world had begun to shine at last for the humble but
ambitious woman who had borne five strong children to be the athletic
sons and daughters of a free country. Her soul rose in a triumphant song
that made her little home the holy of holies of a new religion. Her
husband was the lord of a domain of fertile land. His fields were green
with wheat. She loved to look over its acres of velvet carpet. In June
her man and three stalwart boys, now twenty, eighteen and fourteen years
of age, would swing the reaper into that field and harvest the waving
gold without the aid of a hired laborer. She and her little girls would
help and sing while they toiled.

There was no debt on their books. They had horses, cows, sheep, pigs,
chickens, ducks, turkeys. Their crib was bulging with corn. The bins in
their barn were filled with grain.

Their house was still the humble cottage of the prairie pioneer, but her
men had made it snug and warm against the winds and snows of winter.
Their farm had plenty of timber on the Pottawattomie Creek which flowed
through the center of the tract. They had wood for their fires and logs
with which to construct their stable and outhouses.

The house they built four-square with sharp gables patterned after the
home they had lost. There were no dormers in the attic, but two windows
peeped out of the gable beside the stone chimney and gave light and air
to the boys' room in the loft. A shed extension in the rear was large
enough for both kitchen and dining room.

The home stood close beside the creek, and the murmur of its waters made
music for a busy mother's heart.

There was no porch over the front door. But her boys had built a lattice
work that held a labyrinth of morning glories in the summer. She had
found the gorgeous wild flowers blooming on the prairies and made a
hedge of them for the walks. They were sending their shoots up through
the soil now to meet the sun of spring. The warm rays had already begun
to clothe the prairie world with beauty and fragrance.

The mother never tired of taking her girls on the hill beyond the creek
and watching the men at work on the wide sweeping plains that melted
into the skyline miles beyond. Something in its vast silence, in its
message of the infinite, soothed her spirit. All her life in the East
she had been fighting against losing odds. These wide breathing plains
had stricken the shackles from her soul.

She was free.

Sometimes she felt like shouting it into the sky. Sometimes she knelt
among the trees and thanked God for His mercy in giving her the new
lease of life.

The new lease on life had depth and meaning because she lived and
breathed in her children. Her man had a man's chance at last. Her boys
had a chance.

The one thing that gave her joy day and night was the consciousness of
living among the men and women of her own race. There was not a negro
in the county, bond or free, and she fervently prayed that there never
would be. Now that they were free from the sickening dread of such
competition in life, she had no hatred of the race. As a free white
woman, the mother of free white men and women, all she asked was freedom
from the touch of an inferior. She had always felt instinctively that
this physical contact was poison. She breathed deeply for the first
time.

There was just one cloud on the horizon which threatened her peace and
future. Her husband, after the fashion of his kind, in the old world and
the new, had always held political opinions and had dared to express
them without fear or favor. In Virginia his vote was sought by the
leaders of the county. He had been poor but he had influence because he
dared to think for himself.

He was a Southern born white man, and he held the convictions of his
birthright. He had never stopped to analyze these faiths. He believed in
them as he believed in God. They were things not to be questioned.

Doyle had not hesitated to express his opinions in Kansas as in
Virginia. The few Southern settlers on the Pottawattomie Creek were
sympathetic and no trouble had come. But the keen ears of the woman had
caught ominous rumors on the plains.

The father and mother sat on a rude board settee which John had built.
The boy had nailed it against a black jack close beside the bend of
the creek where the ripple of the hurrying waters makes music when the
stream is low and swells into a roar when gorged by the rains.

The woman's face was troubled as she listened to the waters. She studied
the strong lines of her husband's neck, shoulders and head, with a touch
of pride and fear. His tongue was long in a political argument. He had a
fatal gift of speech. He could say witty, bitter things if stung by an
opponent.

She spoke with deep seriousness:

"I wish you wouldn't talk so much, John--"

"And why not?"

"You'll get in trouble."

"Well, I've been in trouble most of my life. There's no use livin' at
all, if you live in fear. I ain't never knowed what it is to be afraid.
And I'm too old to learn."

"They say, the Northern men that's passin' into the Territory have got
guns and swords. And they say they're goin' to use 'em. They outnumber
the Southerners five to one."

"What are they goin' to do with their guns and swords? Cut a man's
tongue out because he dares to say who he's goin' to vote for next
election?"

"You don't have to talk so loud anyhow," his wife persisted.

"Ole woman, I'm free, white, and twenty-one. I've been a-votin' and
watchin' the elections in this country for twenty odd years. Ef I've got
to tiptoe around, ashamed of my raisin', and ashamed of my principles, I
don't want to live. I wouldn't be fit ter live."

"I want ye to live."

"You wouldn't want to live with a coward."

"A brave man can hold his tongue, John."

"I ain't never learnt the habit, Honey."

"Won't you begin?"

"Ye can't learn a old dog new tricks--can they, Jack?"

He stroked his dog's friendly nose suddenly thrust against his knee.

"You know, Honey," he went on laughingly, "we brought this yellow pup
from Old Virginia. He's the best rabbit and squirrel dog in the county.
I've taught him to stalk prairie chickens out here. I'd be ashamed to
look my dog in the face ef I wuz ter tuck my tail between my legs and
run every time a fool blows off his mouth about the South--"

He stopped and laughed, his white teeth gleaming through his fine beard.

"Don't you worry, Honey. Those fields are too purty this spring for
worrying. We're goin' to send Colonel Lee our last payment this fall and
we'll not owe a cent to any man on earth."



CHAPTER XV


John Brown plunged into politics in Kansas under the impression that his
will could dominate the rank and file of the Northern party. He quickly
faced the fact that the frontiersmen had opinions of their own. And they
were not in the habit of taking orders from a master.

His hopes were raised to their highest at the Free State Convention
which met at Lawrence on Monday, the twenty-fifth of June, 1855. This
Convention spoke in tones that stirred Brown's admiration.

It meant Action.

They elected him a vice president of the body. He had expected to be
made president. However, his leadership was recognized. All he needed
was the opportunity to take the Action on which his mind had long been
fixed. The moment blood began to flow, there would be but one leader. Of
that, he felt sure. He could bide his time.

The Convention urged the people to unite on the one issue of making
Kansas a Free Soil State. They called on every member of the Shawnee
Legislature who held Free Soil views to resign from that body, although
it had been recognized by the National Government as the duly authorized
law-making assembly of the Territory. They denounced this Legislature as
the creature of settlers from Missouri who had crowded over the border
before the Northerners could reach their destination. They urged all
people to refuse to obey every law passed by the body.

The final resolution was one inspired by Brown himself. It was a bold
declaration that if their opponents wished to fight, the Northerners
were READY! The challenge was unmistakable. Brown felt that Action was
imminent. Only a set of poltroons would fail to accept the gauge of
battle thus flung in their faces.

To his amazement the challenge was not received by the rank and file of
the Free Soil Party with enthusiasm. Most of these Northerners had moved
to Kansas as bona fide settlers. They came to build homes for the women
they had left behind. They came to rush their shacks into shape to
receive their loved ones. They had been furnished arms and ammunition by
enthusiastic friends and politicians in the older States. And they had
eagerly accepted the gifts. There were droves of Indians still roaming
the plains. There were dangers to be faced.

The Southern ruffians of whom they had heard so much had not
materialized. Although the Radical wing of the Northern Party had made
Lawrence its Capital and through their paper, the _Herald of Freedom_,
issued challenge after challenge to their enemies.

The Northern settlers began to divide into groups whose purposes were
irreconcilable. Six different conventions met in Lawrence on or before
the fifteenth of August. Each one of these conventions was divided in
councils. In each the cleavage between the Moderates and Radicals became
wider.

Out of the six conventions of Northerners at Lawrence, out of resolution
and counter resolution, finally emerged the accepted plan of a general
convention at Big Springs.

The gathering was remarkable for the surprise it gave to the Radicals of
whom Brown was the leader. The Convention adopted the first platform of
the Free State party and nominated ex-Governor Reeder as its candidate
for delegate to Congress.

For the first time the hard-headed frontiersmen who came to Kansas for
honest purposes spoke in plain language. The first resolution settled
the Slavery issue. It declared that Slavery was a curse and that Kansas
should be free of this curse. But that as a matter of common sense they
would consent to any reasonable adjustment in regard to the few slaves
that had already been brought into the Territory.

Brown and his followers demanded that Slavery should be denounced as a
crime, not a curse, as the sum of all villainies and the Southern master
as a vicious and willful criminal. The mild expression of the platform
on this issue wrought the old man's anger to white heat. The offer to
compromise with the slave holder already in Kansas he repudiated with
scorn. But a more bitter draught was still in store for him.

The platform provided that Kansas should be a Free White State. And in
no uncertain words made plain that the accent should be on the word
WHITE. The document demanded the most stringent laws excluding ALL
NEGROES, BOND AND FREE, forever from the Territory.

The old man did not hear this resolution when read. So deep was his
brooding anger, the words made no impression. Their full import did not
dawn on him until John Brown, Jr., leaned close and whispered:

"Did you hear that?"

The father stirred from his reverie and turned a dazed look on his son.

"Hear what?"

"The infamous resolution demanding that Kansas be made a white man's
country and no negro, bond or free, shall ever be allowed to enter it?"

The hard mouth twitched with scorn. And his jaws came together with a
snap.

"It doesn't matter what they add to their first maudlin plank on the
Slavery issue."

"Will you sit here and see this vile thing done?"

A look of weariness came over the stern face with its deep-cut lines.

"It's a waste of words to talk to politicians."

John, Jr. was grasping at the next resolution which was one surpassing
belief. He rubbed his ears to see if he were really hearing correctly.

This resolution denounced the charge that they were Radicals at all. It
denounced the attempt of any man to interfere by violence with slaves or
Slavery where protected by the supreme law of the land. It repudiated
as stale and ridiculous the charge of Abolitionism against them. And
declared that such an accusation is without a shadow of truth to support
it.

Charles Stearns, the representative of the New England Society, leaped
to his feet and denounced the platform in withering tones. He fairly
shrieked his final sentence:

"All honest anti-slavery men, here and elsewhere, will spit on your
platform!"

He paused and faced the leaders who had drafted it.

"And all pro-slavery men must forever despise the base sycophants who
originated it!"

John Brown, Jr., applauded. The crowd laughed.

Old John Brown had paid no further heed to the proceedings of the
Convention. His eyelids were drawn half down. Only pin points of
glittering light remained.

The resolutions were adopted by an overwhelming majority.

In the East, Horace Greeley in the _Tribune_ reluctantly accepted
the platform: "Why free blacks should be excluded it is difficult to
understand; but if Slavery can be kept out by compromise of that sort,
we shall not complain. An error of this character may be corrected; but
let Slavery obtain a foothold there and it is not so easily removed."

Brown's hopes were to be still further dashed by the persistence
with which the leaders of this Convention followed up the program of
establishing a white man's country on the free plains of the West.

When the Convention met at Topeka on the twenty-third of October, to
form a Constitution, the determination to exclude all negroes from
Kansas was again sustained. The majority were finally badgered into
submitting the issue to a separate vote of the people. On the fifteenth
of December, the Northern settlers voted on it and the question _was_
settled.

Negroes were excluded by a three-fourths majority.

Three-fourths of the Free State settlers were in favor of a white man's
country and the heaviest vote against the admission of negroes was
polled in Lawrence and Topeka, where the Radicals had from the first
made the most noise.

The Northern men who had come to Kansas merely to oppose the extension
of Slavery were in a hopeless minority in their own party. The American
voters still had too much common sense to be led into a position to
provoke civil war.

John Brown spent long hours in prayer after the final vote on the negro
issue had been counted. He denounced the leaders in politics in Kansas
as trimmers, time servers, sycophants and liars. He walked beneath
the star-sown skies through the night. He wrestled with his God for a
vision.

There must be a way to Action.

He rose from prayer at dawn after a sleepless night and called for his
sons, Owen, Oliver, Frederick and Salmon, to get ready for a journey. He
had received a first hint of the will of God. He believed it might lead
to the way.

He organized a surveyor's party and disguised himself as a United States
Surveyor. He had brought to Kansas a complete outfit for surveying land.
He instructed Owen and Frederick to act as chain carriers, Salmon as
axeman and Oliver as marker. He reached the little Southern settlement
on the Pottawattomie Creek the fifteenth of May.

He planted his compass on the bank of the creek near the Doyles' house
and proceeded to run a base line.

The father and three boys were in the fields at work beyond the hill.

He raised his compass and followed the chainman to the Doyles' door. The
mother and little girl trudged behind, delighted with the diversion of
the party, so rare on the lonely prairies. Little could they dream the
grim deed that was shaping in the soul of the Surveyor.

When they reached the house she turned to the old man with Southern
courtesy:

"Won't you come in, sir, and rest a few minutes?"

The strange, blue-gray eyes glanced restlessly toward the hill and he
signaled his sons:

"Rest awhile, boys."

Frederick and Oliver sat down on a pile of logs. Salmon and Owen, at
a nod from their father, wandered carelessly toward the stable and
outhouses.

Owen found the dog Doyle had brought from Virginia and took pains to
make friends with him.

Brown's keen, restless eyes carefully inspected the door, its fastenings
and the strength of its hinges. The iron of the hinges was flimsy. The
fastening was the old-fashioned wooden shutters hung outside and closed
with a single slide. He noted with a quick glance that there was no
cross bar of heavy wood nor any sockets in which such a bar could be
dropped.

The windows were small. There was no glass. Solid wooden shutters hung
outside and closed with a single hook and eye for fastenings.

The sun was setting before the surveying party stopped work. They
had run a line close to the house of every Southern settler on the
Pottawattomie Creek, noting carefully every path leading to each house.
They had carefully mapped the settlement and taken a census of every
male inhabitant and every dog attached to each house. They also made an
inventory of the horses, saddles and bridles.

Having completed their strange errand, they packed their instruments and
rode toward Osawatomie.



CHAPTER XVI


With the opening of the Territory of Kansas the first Regiment of United
States Cavalry, commanded by Colonel E.V. Sumner, had been transferred
to Fort Leavenworth.

The life of the barracks was young Lieutenant J.E.B. Stuart.

Colonel Lee had been transferred from West Point to the command of the
Second United States Cavalry on the Mexican Border at the same time that
Stuart's regiment was moved to Kansas.

The rollicking song-loving, banjo-playing Virginian had early
distinguished himself as an Indian fighter. He had been dangerously
wounded, but recovered with remarkable rapidity. His perfect health and
his clean habits stood him in good stead on the day an Indian's bullet
crashed through his breast.

He was a favorite with officers and men. As a cadet he had given promise
of the coming soldier. At the Academy he was noted for his strict
attendance to every military duty, and his erect, soldierly bearing. He
was particularly noted for an almost thankful acceptance of a challenge
to fight any cadet who might feel himself aggrieved. The boys called him
a "Bible Class Man." He was never known to swear or drink. They also
called him "Beauty Stuart," in good natured boyish teasing.

He was the best-looking cadet of his class, as he was the best-looking
young officer of his regiment. His hair was a reddish brown. His eyes a
deep steel blue, his voice clear and ringing.

In his voice the soul of the man spoke to his fellows. He was always
singing--always eager for a frolic of innocent fun. Above all, he was
always eager for a frolic with a pretty girl. He played both the banjo
and the guitar and little he cared for the gathering political feud
which old John Brown and his sons had begun to foment on the frontier.

As a Southerner the struggle did not interest him. It was a foregone
conclusion that the country would be settled by Northern immigrants.
They were pouring into the Territory in endless streams. A colony from
New Haven, Connecticut, one hundred strong, had just settled sixty miles
above Lawrence on the Kansas River. They knew how to plow and plant
their fields and they had modern machinery with which to do it. The
few Southerners who came to Kansas were poorly equipped. Lawrence was
crowded with immigrants from every section of the North. The fields were
white with their tents. A company from Ohio, one from Connecticut, and
one from New Hampshire were camping just outside the town. Daily their
exploring committees went forth to look at localities. Daily new
companies poured in.

Stuart let them pour and asked no questions about their politics. He was
keen on one thing only--the pretty girls that might be among them.

When exploring parties came to Fort Leavenworth, the young Lieutenant
inspected them with an eye single to a possible dance for the regiment.
The number of pretty girls was not sufficient to cause excitement among
the officers as yet. The daughters of the East were not anxious to
explore Kansas at this moment. The Indians were still troublesome at
times.

A rumor spread through the barracks that the prettiest girl in Kansas
had just arrived at Fort Riley, sixty-eight miles beyond Topeka. Colonel
Phillip St. George Cooke of Virginia commanded the Fort and his daughter
Flora had ventured all the way from Harper's Ferry to the plains to see
her beloved daddy.

The news thrilled Stuart. He found an excuse to carry a message from
Colonel Sumner to Colonel Cooke.

He expected nothing serious, of course. Every daughter of Virginia knew
how to flirt. She would know that he understood this from the start. It
would be nip and tuck between the Virginia boy and the Virginia girl.

He had always had such easy sailing in his flirtations he hoped Miss
Flora would prove a worthy antagonist.

As a matter of course, Colonel Cooke asked the gallant young Virginian
to stay as his guest.

"What'll Colonel Sumner say, sir?" Stuart laughed.

"Leave Sumner to me."

"You'll guarantee immunity?"

"Guaranteed."

"Thank you, Colonel Cooke, I'll stay."

Stuart could hardly wait until the hour of lunch to meet the daughter.
He was impatient to ask where she was. The Colonel guessed his anxiety
and hastened to relieve it, or increase it.

"You haven't met my daughter, Lieutenant?" he asked casually.

"I haven't that honor, Colonel, but this gives me the happy
opportunity."

He said it with such boyish fun in his ringing voice that Cooke laughed
in spite of his desire to maintain the strictest dignity. He half
suspected that the young officer might meet his match in more ways than
one.

"She'll be in at noon," the Commander remarked. "Off riding with one of
the boys."

"Of course," Stuart sighed.

He began to scent a battle and his spirits rose. He went to his room,
took his banjo out of its old leather strapped case and tuned it
carefully. He made up his mind to give the young buck out riding with
her the fight of his life while there.

He heard the ring of the girl's laughter as she bade her escort goodbye
at the door. He started to go down at once and begin the struggle.
Something in the ring of her young voice stopped him. There was a joyous
strength in it that was disconcerting. A girl who laughed like that had
poise. She was an individual. He liked, too, the tones of her voice
before he had seen her.

This struck him as odd. Never in his life before had he liked a girl
before meeting her just for a tone quality in her voice. This one
haunted him the whole time he was changing his uniform.

He decided to shave again. He had shaved the night before very late. He
didn't like the suggestion of red stubble on his face. It might put him
at a disadvantage.

He resented the name of Beauty Stuart and yet down in his man soul he
knew that he was vain.

He began to wonder if she were blonde or brunette, short or tall, petite
or full, blue eyes or brown? She must be pretty. Her father was a man of
delicate and finely marked features--the type of Scotch-Irish gentlemen
who had made the mountains of Virginia famous for pretty women and
brainy men.

He heard her softly playing a piano and wondered how on earth they had
ever moved a piano to this far outpost of civilization. The cost was
enormous. But the motive of her father in making such a sacrifice to
please her was more important. His love for her must be unusual. It
piqued his interest and roused again his impulse for a battle royal with
another elusive daughter of his native state.

He made up his mind not to wait for the call to lunch. He would walk
boldly into the reception room and introduce himself. She knew he was
there, of course.

At the first sound of his footstep, her hand paused on the keys and she
turned to greet him, rising quickly, and easily.

The vision which greeted Stuart stunned him for a moment. A perfect
blonde with laughing blue eyes, exactly the color of his own, slim
and graceful, a smile that was sunlight, and a step that was grace
incarnate.

And yet her beauty was not the thing that stunned him. He had discounted
her good looks from a study of her father's delicate face. It was the
glow of a charming personality that disarmed him at the first glance.

She extended a slender hand with a smile.

"I'm so glad to meet you, Lieutenant Stuart."

He took it awkwardly, and blushed. He mumbled when he spoke and was
conscious that his voice was thick.

"And I'm so glad to see you, Miss Flora."

They had each uttered the most banal greeting. Yet the way in which the
words were spoken was significant.

Never in his life had he heard a voice so gentle, so tender, so
appealing in its sincerity. All desire to flirt, to match wit against a
charming girl vanished. He felt a resistless impulse to protect her
from any fool who would dare try to start a flirtation. She was too
straightforward, too earnest, too sincere. She seemed a part of his own
inmost thought and life.

It was easy to see that while she was the pet of her father, she was
unspoiled. Stuart caught himself at last staring at her in a dazed,
foolish way. He pulled himself together and wondered how long he had
held her hand.

"Won't you play for me, Miss Flora?" he asked at last.

"If you'll sing," she laughed.

"How do you know I sing?"

"How do you know I play?"

"I heard you."

"I heard you, too."

"Upstairs?"

"Just before you came down."

"I had no idea I was so loud."

"Your voice rings. It has carrying power."

He started to say: "I hope you like it," and something inside whispered:
"Behave."

She took the seat at the piano and touched the keys with an easy,
graceful movement. She looked up and smiled. Her eyes blinded him. They
were so bright and friendly.

"What will you sing?"

"_Annie Laurie_," he answered promptly.

Stuart sang with deep tenderness and passion. He outdid himself. And he
knew it. He never knew before that he could sing so well.

On the last stanza the girl softly joined a low, sweet voice with his.
As the final note died away in Stuart's voice, hers lingered a caress.
The man's heart leaped at its tenderness.

"Why didn't you join me at first?" he asked.

"Nobody axed me, sir!" she said.

"Well, I ask you now--come on--we'll do it together!"

"All right," was the jolly answer.

They sang it in duet to the soft accompaniment which she played.

Never had he heard such singing by a slip of a girl. Her voice was rich,
full of feeling and caressing tenderness. He felt his soul dissolving in
its liquid depths.

Throughout the lunch he caught himself staring at her in moments of long
silence. He had for the first time in his life lost his capacity for
silly gaiety.

He roused himself with an effort, and wondered what on earth had come
over him. He was too deeply interested in studying the girl to attempt
to analyze his own feelings. It never occurred to him to try. He was too
busy watching the tender light in her eyes.

He wondered if she could be engaged to the fellow she went riding
with? He resented the idea. Of course not. And when he remembered the
care-free ring to her laughter when she said goodbye, he was reassured.
No girl could laugh a goodbye like that to a man she loved. The tone was
too poised and impersonal.

He asked her to ride with him that afternoon.

"On one condition," she smiled.

"What?"

"That you bring your banjo and play for me when I ask you."

"How'd you know I had a banjo?"

"Caught the final twang as you tuned it on my arrival."

"I'll bring it if you like."

"Please."

He hurried to his room, placed the banjo in its case and threw it over
his shoulder. She had promised to be ready in ten minutes and have the
horses at the door.

She was ready in eight minutes, and leaped into the saddle before he
could reach her side. For the life of him he couldn't keep his eye off
her exquisite figure.

She rode without effort. She had been born in the saddle.

She led him along the military road to the juncture of the Smoky Hill
and Republican rivers. A lover at the Fort had built a seat against a
huge rock that crowned the hill overlooking the fork of the rivers.

Stuart hitched the horses and found the seat. For two hours he played
his banjo and they sang old songs together.

"I love a banjo--don't you?" she asked enthusiastically.

"It's my favorite music. There's no sorrow in a banjo. You can make it
laugh. You can make it shout. You can make it growl and howl and snarl
and fight. But you can't make a banjo cry. There are no tears in it. The
joy of living is all a banjo knows. Why should we try to know anything
else anyhow?"

"We shouldn't," she answered soberly. "The other things will come
without invitation sometime."

For an hour they talked of the deep things of life. He told of his high
ambitions of service for his country in the dark days that might come in
the future. Of the kind of soldier the nation would need, and the ideal
he had set for his soul of truth and honor, of high thinking and clean
living in the temptations that come to a soldier's daily life.

And she applauded his ideals. She told him they were big and fine and
she was proud of him as a true son of Old Virginia.

The sun was sinking behind the dim smoky hills toward the West when she
rose.

"We must be going!"

"I had no idea it was so late," he apologized.

It was not until he reached his room at eleven o'clock after three hours
more of her in the reception room that he faced the issue squarely.

He stood before the mirror and studied his flushed face. A look of deep
seriousness had crept into his jolly blue eyes.

"You're a goner, this time, young man!" he whispered. "You're in love."

He paused and repeated it softly.

"_In love_--the big thing this time. Sweeping all life before it.
Blotting out all that's passed and gripping all that lies beyond--Glory
to God!"

For hours he lay awake. The world was made anew. The beauty of the new
thought filled his soul with gratitude.

He dared not tell her yet. The stake was too big. He was playing for all
that life held worth having. He couldn't rush a girl of that kind. A
blunder would be fatal. He had a reputation as a flirt. She had heard
it, no doubt. He must put his house in order. His word must ring true.
She must believe him.

He made up his mind to return to Fort Leavenworth next day and manage
somehow to get transferred to Fort Riley for two weeks.



CHAPTER XVII


The Surveyor of the lands of Pottawattomie Creek was shaping the
organization of a band of followers.

To this little group, composed as yet of his own sons in the main, he
talked of his work, his great duty, his mission with mystic elation. A
single idea was slowly fixing itself in his mind as the purpose of life.

It was fast becoming an obsession.

He slept but little. The night before he had slept but two hours. When
the camp supper had been prepared, he stood with bare head in the midst
of his followers and thanked God. The meal was eaten to-night in a grim
silence which Brown did not break once. The supper over, he rose and
again returned thanks to the Bountiful Giver.

And then he left the camp without a word. Alone he tramped the prairie
beneath the starlit sky of a beautiful May night. Hour after hour he
paused and prayed. Always the one refrain came from his stern lips:

"Give me, oh, Lord God, the Vision!"

And he would wait with eyes set on the stars for its revelation. He
crouched at last against the trunk of a tree in a little ravine near
the camp. It was past three o'clock. William Walker, who was acting his
second in command, was still waiting his orders for the following day.
He saw Brown enter the ravine at one o'clock. Impatient of his endless
wandering, tired and sleepy, he decided to follow his Chief and ask his
orders.

He found him in a sitting posture, leaning against a blackjack, his
rifle across his knees. Walker called softly and received no response.
He approached and laid his hand on his shoulder.

Instantly he leaped to his feet, his rifle at his follower's breast, his
finger on the trigger.

"My God!" Walker yelled.

His speech was too late to stop the pressure of the finger. Walker
pushed the muzzle up and the ball grazed his shoulder. The leader
gripped his follower's arm, stared at him a moment and merely grunted:

"Oh!"

When the day dawned a new man was found to act as second in command.
Walker had deserted his queer chieftain.

The old man entered the camp at dawn, the light of determination in his
eyes and a new set to his jaw. His first plan of the Pottawattomie was
right. The turn toward Lawrence had been a waste of time. He selected
six men to accompany him on his mission, his four sons who had made
up the Surveyor's party, his son-in-law, Henry Thompson, and Theodore
Weiner. Owen, Salmon, Oliver and Frederick Brown knew every foot of the
ground. They had carried the chain, set the markers and flags and kept
the records.

He called his men in line and issued his first command:

"To the house of James Townsley."

Townsley belonged to the Pottawattomie Rifles of which organization his
son, John Jr., was the Captain.

Arrived at the house, Brown drew Townsley aside and spoke in a vague,
impersonal manner.

"I hear there is trouble expected on the Pottawattomie."

"Is there?"

"We hear it."

"What are you going to do?"

"March to their rescue. Will you help us?"

"How?"

"Harness your team of grays and take our party to Pottawattomie."

"All right."

The old man found a grindstone and ordered the ugly cutlasses which
he had brought from Ohio to be sharpened. He stood over the stone and
watched it turned until each edge was as keen as a butcher's blade.

It began to dawn on the two younger sons before the grinding of the
swords was finished what their father had determined.

Frederick asked Oliver tremblingly:

"What do you think of this thing?"

"It looks black to me."

"It looks hellish to me."

"I'm not going."

"Nor am I."

They promptly reported the decision to their father.

His eyes flamed.

"It's too late to retreat now!"

"We're not going," was the sullen answer in chorus.

The father gripped the two with his hard hands and held them as in a
vise.

"You will not put me to shame now before these men. You will go with
me--do you hear?"

His tones rang with the quiver of steel and the boys' wills weakened.

Frederick said finally:

"We'll go with you then, but we'll take no part in what you do."

"Agreed," was the stern answer.

He turned to Oliver and said:

"Give me your revolver. I may need it."

"It's mine," the boy replied. "I'll not give it up."

The old man looked the stalwart figure over in a quick glance of
appraisement. Brown had been a man of iron strength in his day but
his shoulders were stooped and he knew he was no match for the fierce
strength of youth. Yet his hesitation was only for an instant.

With the sudden spring of a panther he leaped on the boy and attempted
to take the pistol by force. The son resisted with fury.

Frederick, alarmed lest the pistol should be discharged in the struggle,
managed to slip it from his brother's belt.

The match was not equal.

Youth was master in the appeal to brute strength. At North Elba the
father had once thrown thirty lumbermen in a day, one after the other,
in a wrestling match. He summoned the last ounce of strength now to
subdue his rebellious son.

Frederick watched the contest with painful anxiety. His own mind was not
strong. He had already given evidences of insanity that had distressed
his brother. If Oliver should kill his father or the old man should kill
the brother! He couldn't face the hideous possibility. Yet he couldn't
stop them.

Fortunately there were no other witnesses to the fight. Townsley was
busy at the stable with the team. Weiner and Thompson had gone into the
house to complete their packing of provisions for the journey.

In tones of blind anguish Frederick followed the two desperate
struggling men.

"Don't do this, Father!"

The old man made no answer save to swing his agile son's frame to one
side in another futile effort to throw him to the ground.

Not a word escaped his lips. His eyes flashed and glittered with the
uncertain glare of a maniac in the moments when the iron muscles of the
son pinned his arms and held his wiry body rigid.

Again Frederick's low pleading could be heard. This time to his brother:

"Can't you stop it, Oliver?"

"How can I?"

"For God's sake stop it--stop it!"

"I can't stop it. Don't ye see he's got me and I've got to hold him."

The consciousness of failing strength drove the father to fury. His
breath was coming now in shorter gasps. He knew his chances of success
were fading. He yielded for a moment, and ceased to struggle. A cunning
look crept into his eyes.

The boy relaxed his vigilance. The old man felt the boy's grip ease.
With a sudden thrust of his body he summoned the last ounce of strength,
and threw his son to the ground.

The boy laughed a devilish cry of the strong with the weak as he fell.
Before he touched the ground he had deftly turned the father's body
beneath his and the full weight of his two hundred pounds fairly crushed
the breath from the older man.

A groan of rage and despair was wrung from his stern lips. But no word
escaped him. Frederick rushed to the prostrate figures, seized Oliver by
the shoulders and tore his grip loose.

"This is foolish!" he stormed.

No sooner had Brown risen than he plunged again at his son. The boy had
been playing with him to this time. The half of his strength was yet in
reserve. A little angry grunt came from his lips, and his father was a
child in his hands. With sure, quick movement he pinioned both arms and
jammed him against the wheel of the wagon. He held him there for an
instant helpless to resist or move.

The last cry of despairing command came from Brown's soul.

"Let go of me, sir!"

The boy merely growled a bulldog's answer.

"Not till you agree to behave yourself."

Another desperate contraction of muscles and the order came more feebly.

"Will you let go of me, sir?"

"Will you behave yourself?"

"Yes," came the sullen answer.

The boy relaxed his grip and stood ready for action.

"All right, then."

"You can keep your pistol."

"I intend to."

"But you are not to use it, sir, without my orders."

"I am not going to use it at all, except in self-defense."

"You will not be called upon to defend yourself. I am going on a divine
mission. God has shown me the way in a Vision. I wish no man's help who
must be driven."

"You'll not get any help, sir. I wouldn't have gone on that survey with
you if I'd known what was in your mind."

Brown searched his son's eyes keenly.

"You will not betray me to my enemies?"

"I can't do that. You're my father."

He turned to Frederick.

"Nor you?"

The tears were streaming down the boy's face. He was hysterical from the
strain of the fight.

"You heard me, sir," the father stormed.

"What did you say?" Frederick stammered.

Oliver explained.

"He asked if you were going to betray his plans to those people on the
Pottawattomie."

A far-away expression came into his eyes.

"No--no--not that."

"Then you'll both follow and keep out of my way until we have finished
the work and then come back with me?"

"Yes," Oliver answered.

"Yes," Frederick echoed vaguely.

Townsley and Weiner were coming with the pair of grays to be hitched to
the wagon. Weiner led his own pony already saddled. When they reached
the wagon all signs of rebellion had passed.

"Are you ready?" Townsley asked.

"Ready." Brown's metallic voice rang.

The horses were hitched to the wagon, the provisions and equipment
loaded. Brown turned to his loyal followers:

"Arm yourselves."

Owen, Salmon, Henry Thompson, Theodore Weiner and John Brown each
buckled a loaded revolver about his waist, and seized a rifle and
cutlass.

Weiner mounted his pony as an outpost rider and the others climbed into
the wagon. Oliver and Frederick agreed to follow on foot. The expedition
moved toward the Southern settlement on Pottawattomie Creek.

Brown crouched low in the wagon as it moved slowly forward and a look of
cunning marked his grim face.

He was the Witch Hunter now. The chase was on. And the game was human.

As the sun was setting behind the Western horizon in a glow of orange
and purple glory the strange expedition drove down to the edge of the
timber between two deep ravines and camped a mile above Dutch Henry's
Crossing of the Pottawattomie.

The scene was one of serene beauty. The month of May--Saturday, the
twenty-third. Nature was smiling in the joy of her happiest hour. Peace
on earth, plenty, good will and happiness breathed from every bud and
leaf and song of bird.

The broad prairies of the Territory were fertile and sunny. They
stretched away in unbroken, sublime loveliness until the land kissed the
infinite of the skies. Unless one had the feeling for this suggestion of
an inland sea the view might be depressing and the eye of the traveler
weary.

The spot which John Brown picked for his camp was striking in its beauty
and picturesque appeal. Winding streams, swelling hills, and steep
ravines broke the monotony of the plains.

The streams were bordered by the rich foliage of noble trees. The
streams were called "Creeks." In reality, they were beautiful rivers
in the month of May--the Marais des Cygnes and the Pottawattomie. They
united near Osawatomie to form the Osage River, the largest tributary
to the Missouri below its mountain sources. Each river had its many
tributaries winding gracefully along wood-fringed banks.

Beyond these ribbons of beautiful foliage stretched the gorgeous carpet
of the grass-matted, flower-strewn prairies.

The wild flowers were in full bloom, pushing their red, white, yellow,
blue and pink heads above the grass. The wind was blowing a steady
life-giving gale. The fields of flowers bowed and swayed and rose again
at its touch. Their perfume filled the air. The perfume of the near-by
fields was mingled with the odor of thousands of miles of prairie
gardens to the south and west. A peculiar clearness in the atmosphere
gave the widest range to vision. Brown climbed the hill alone while his
men were unpacking. From the hilltop, even in the falling twilight, he
could see clearly for thirty or forty miles.

He swept the horizon for signs of the approach of a party which might
interfere with his plan.

He knelt again and prayed to his God, as the twilight deepened into
darkness. The stars came out one by one and blinked down at his bent
figure still in prayer, his eyes uplifted in an uncanny glare.

As he slowly moved back to his camp he met Townsley.

Frederick and Oliver had reached camp and Townsley had caught a note of
the sinister in their whispered talk. He didn't like the looks of it.
Brown had told him there was trouble brewing on the Pottawattomie. He
had supposed, as a matter of course, that it was the long-threatened
attack of enemies on Weiner's store. Weiner, a big, quarrelsome
Austrian, had been in more than one fist fight with his neighbors.

Brown studied Townsley and decided to give him but a hint of his true
purpose. He didn't like this sign of weakness on the eve of great
events.

Townsley took the hint with a grain of salt, but what he heard was
enough to bring alarm. The thing Brown had hinted was incredible.

But as Townsley looked at the leader he realized that he was not an
ordinary man. There was something extraordinary about him. He either
commanded the absolute obedience of men who came near him or he sent
them from him with a repulsion as strong as the attraction to those who
liked him.

He felt the smothering power of this spell over his own mind now and
tried to break it.

"Mr. Brown," Townsley began haltingly, "I've brought you here now. You
are snug in camp. I'd like to take my team back home."

"To-night?"

"To-night."

"It won't do."

"Why not?"

"I won't allow this party to separate until the work to which God has
called me is done."

"I've done my share."

"No. It will not do for you to go yet."

"I'm going--"

"You're not!"

Brown faced the man and held him in a silent look of his blue-gray eyes.

Townsley quailed before it.

"Whatever happens, you brought me here. You are equally responsible with
me."

Townsley surrendered.

The threat was unmistakable. He saw that he was trapped. Whether he
liked it or not, he had packed his camp outfit, harnessed his horses and
driven over the trail on a hunting expedition. He knew now that they
were stalking human game. It sent the chills down his spine. But there
was no help for it. He had to stick.

Brown spent the night alone reconnoitering the settlement of the
Pottawattomie, marking the place of his game and making sure that no
alarm could be given. All was still. There was nowhere the rustle of a
leaf along a roadway that approached the unsuspecting quarry.

Saturday dawned clear and serene. His plans required that he lie
concealed the entire day. He could stalk his prey with sure success on
the second night. The first he had to use in reconnoitering.

When breakfast had been eaten and Brown had finished his morning
prayers, he ordered his men to lie low in the tall grass and give no
sign of life until the shadows of night should again fall. They were
not allowed to kindle another fire. The fires of the breakfast had been
extinguished at daylight.

The wind rose with the sun and the tall wild flowers swayed gracefully
over the dusty figures of the men. They lay in a close group with Brown
in the center leading the low-pitched conversation which at times became
a debate.

As the winds whispered through the moving masses of flowers, the old man
would sometimes stop his talk suddenly and an ominous silence held the
group. He had the strange power of thus imposing his will on the men
about him. They watched the queer light in his restless eyes as he
listened to the voices within.

Suddenly he awaked from his reverie and began an endless denunciation
of both parties in Kansas. Northern and Southern factions had become
equally vile. The Southerners were always criminals. Their crime was now
fully shared by the time servers, trimmers and liars in the Free State
party.

His eyelids suddenly closed halfway and his eyes shone two points of
light as his metallic voice rang without restraint:

"They're all crying peace, peace!"

He paused and hissed his words through the grass.

"There shall be no peace!"



CHAPTER XVIII


Brown lay flat on his belly the last hour of the day catching moments
of fitful sleep. At sunset he lifted his small head above the grass
and scanned the horizon. There might be the curling smoke of a camp in
sight. A relief party might be on his trail.

He breathed a sigh of satisfaction. All was well. The sun was fast
sinking beneath the hills, the prey was in sight and no hand could be
lifted to help.

The moment the shadows closed over the ravine he rose, stretched his
cramped body and turned to Thompson.

"Build your fire for supper."

Thompson nodded.

"And give our men all they can eat."

"Yes, sir."

"They'll need their strength to-night."

"I understand."

The supper ready, Brown gathered his band around the camp fire and
offered thanks to his God. The meal was eaten in silence. The tension
of an imperious mind had gripped the souls of his men. They moved as if
stalking game at close quarters.

And they were doing this exactly.

The last pot and pan had been cleaned and packed. The fire was
extinguished. Brown issued his first order of the deed.

"Lie down flat in the grass now."

The men dropped one by one. Brown was the last.

"When I give the word, see that your arms are in trim and march single
file fifty yards apart and beat the brush as you go. If you come on a
cabin in our path not marked in our survey, it is important. Do not pass
it. Report to me immediately."

There was no response. He had expected none. The order was final.

The first move in the man hunt was carefully planned.

The instinct to kill is the elemental force, beneath our culture, which
makes the hunter. The strongest personalities of our world-conquering
race of Nordic freemen are always hunters. If they do not practice
the chase the fact is due to an accident of position in life. The
opportunity has not been given.

Beneath the skin of the man of the College, the Council Table, the
Forum, the Sacred Altar, of Home, and the Church slumbers this elemental
beast.

Culture at best is but a few hundred years old and it has probably
skipped several generations in its growth. The Archaic instinct in man
to kill reaches back millions of years into the past. The only power on
earth to restrain that force is Law. The rules of life, embodied in law
are the painful results of experience in killing and the dire effects
which follow, both to the individual and the race. Law is a force only
so long as reverence for law is made the first principle of man's social
training. The moment he lifts his individual will against the embodied
experience of humanity, he is once more the elemental beast of the
prehistoric jungle--the Hunter.

And when the game is human and the hunter is a man of prayer, we have
the supreme form of the beast, the ancient Witch Hunter. It is a fact
that the pleasure of killing is universal in man. Our savage ancestors
for millions of years had to kill to live. We have long ago outgrown
this necessity in the development of civilization. But the instinct
remains.

We are human as we restrain this instinct and bring it under the
dominion of Law. We still hunt the most delicate and beautiful animals,
stalk and kill them, driven by the passionate secret pleasure of the act
of murder. With bated breath and glittering eyes we press our advantage
until the broken wing ceases to flutter and the splintered bone to
crawl.

This imperious atavism the best of us cannot or will not control in the
pursuit of animals. When man has lifted his arm in defiance of Tradition
and Law, this impulse is the dominant force which sweeps all else as
chaff before it.

John Brown was the apostle of the sternest faith ever developed in the
agonies of our history. To him life had always been a horror.

There was no hesitation, no halting, no quiver of maudlin pity, when he
slowly rose from his grass-covered lair in the darkness and called his
men at ten o'clock:

"Ready!"

Single file, moving silently and swiftly they crept through the night,
only the sharpened swords clanking occasionally broke the silence. Their
tread was soft as the claws of panthers. The leader's spirit gripped
mind and body of his followers.

They moved northward from the camp in the ravine and crossed the
Mosquito Creek just above the home of the Doyles. Once over the creek,
the hunters again spread out single file fifty yards apart.

They had gone but two hundred yards when the signal to halt was
whispered along the line. Owen Brown reported to his father:

"There's a cabin just ahead."

"We haven't charted it in our survey?"

"No."

"It will not do to pass it," said Brown.

"They might give the alarm."

"Surround it and do your duty," was the stern command.

Owen called three men, cautiously approached the door and knocked.

Something moved inside and a gun was suddenly rammed through a chink in
the walls. The muzzle line could be seen in the flash of a star's light.

The four men broke and scattered in the brush. They reported to the
leader.

"We want no fight with this fool. No gun play if we can avoid it. We'll
take our chances and let him alone. He'll think we're a bunch of sneak
thieves. I don't see how we missed this man's place. It can't be five
hundred yards from the Doyles'. Back to your places and swing round his
cabin."

Owen quickly gave the order and the hunters passed on. The first one of
the marked prey had shown teeth and claws and the hunters slipped on
under the cover of the darkness to easier game.

The Doyles were not armed.

At least the chances were the old shotgun was not loaded, as it was used
only for hunting.

The hunters crouched low and circled the Doyle house, crawling through
the timber and the brush.

A hundred yards from the stable, a dog barked. Owen had carefully marked
this dog on the day of the survey. He was merely a faithful yellow cur
which Doyle had brought from Virginia. He looked about seven years old.
If crossed he might put up a nasty fight. If approached with friendly
word by a voice he had once heard, the rest would be easy.

The signal was given to halt. The hunters paused and stood still in
their tracks. Owen had taken pains to be friendly with this dog on the
day of the survey. He had called him a number of times and had given him
a piece of bread from his pocket. He was sure he could manage him.

In a low tone he whistled and called the dog by name. He had carefully
recalled it.

"Jack!"

He listened intently and heard the soft step of a paw rustling the
leaves. The plan was working.

The dog pushed his way into an open space in the brush and stopped.

The hunter called softly:

"Jack, old boy!"

The dog wagged his tail. The man could see the movement of kindly
greeting in the starlight, and ventured close. He bent low and called
again:

"Come on, boy!"

The dog answered with a whine, wagged his tail, came close and thrust
his nose against the man's arm in a welcome greeting. With his left hand
the man stroked the warm, furry head, while his right slowly slipped the
ugly sharpened cutlass from its scabbard.

Still stroking the dog's head and softly murmuring words of endearment,
he straightened his body:

"Bully old dog! Fine old doggie--"

The dog's eyes followed the rising form with confidence, wagging his
tail in protest against his going.

The hand gripped the brass hilt of the cutlass, the polished steel
whizzed through the air and crashed into the yellow mass of flesh and
bones.

His aim was bad in the dark. He missed the dog's head and the sword
split the body lengthwise. To the man's amazement a piercing howl of
agony rang through the woods.

He dropped his sword and gripped the quivering throat and held it in a
vise of steel until the writhing body was still at last.

Inside the darkened cabin, the mother stirred from an uneasy sleep. She
shook her husband and listened intently. The only sound that came from
without was the chirp of crickets and the distant call of a coyote from
the hill across the creek.

She held her breath and listened again. The man by her side slept
soundly. She couldn't understand why her heart persisted in pounding.
There wasn't the rustle of a leaf outside. The wind had died down with
the falling night. It couldn't be more than eleven o'clock.

Her husband's breathing was deep and regular. His perfect rest and the
sense of strength in his warm body restored her poise. She felt the
slender forms of her little girls in the trundle bed and tried to go
back to sleep.

It was useless. In spite of every effort her eyes refused to close.
Again she was sure she had heard the dog's cry in the night. She
believed that it was an ugly dream. The dawn of a beautiful Sunday
morning would find all well in the little home and her faithful dog
again wagging his tail at the door asking for breakfast.

She listened to the beating of her foolish heart. Wide awake, she began
to murmur a prayer of thanks to God for all His goodness and mercy in
the new home He had given.

As Owen's hands slowly relaxed from the throat of the lifeless body
he seized a handful of leaves and wiped the blood from the blade and
replaced it in the scabbard.

He rose quickly and gave the signal to advance. Again crouching low,
moving with the soft tread of beasts of prey, the hunters closed in on
the settler's home.

The keen ears of the mother, still wide awake, caught the crunch of feet
on the gravel of the walk. With a heart pounding again in alarm she
raised her head and listened. From the other side of the house came the
rustle of leaves stirred by another swiftly approaching footstep. It
was so still she could hear her own heart beat again. There could be no
mistake about it this time.

She gripped her husband's arm:

"John!"

He moaned drowsily.

"John--John--"

"What's matter?" he murmured without lifting his head from the pillow.

"Get up quick!"

"What for?" he groaned.

"There's somebody around the house."

"Na."

"I tell you--yes!"

"Hit's the dawgs."

"I heard a man's step on the path, I tell you."

"Yer dreamin', ole woman--"

"I'm not, I tell ye."

"Go back to sleep."

The man settled again and breathed deeply.

The woman remained on her elbow, listening with every nerve strained in
agony.

Again she heard a step on the gravel. This time another footfall joined
the first. She gripped her husband's shoulders and shook him violently.

"John, John!" she whispered.

He had half roused himself this time, shocked into consciousness by her
trembling grip on his shoulders. But above all by the tremor in her
whispered call.

"What is it, Mahala?"

"For God's sake, get up quick and call the boys down outen the loft."

"No!" he growled.

"I tell you, there's somebody outside--"

They were both sitting on the edge of the bed now, speaking in whispers.

"You're dreamin', ole 'oman," he persisted.

"I heard 'em. There's more'n one. I heard some on the other side of the
house. I heard two in front. Call the boys down--"

"Don't wake the boys up fer nothin--"

"Is yer gun loaded?"

"No."

"Oh, my God."

"I ain't got no powder. I don't kill game in the springtime."

They both listened. All was still. They could hear the breathing of the
little girls in the trundle bed.

The crunch of feet suddenly came to the doorstep. The woman's hand
gripped her husband's arm in terror. He heard it now.

"That's funny," he mused.

"Call the boys!" the mother pleaded.

"_Wait_ till we find out what it is--"

A firm knock on the door echoed through the darkened room.

"God save us!" the woman breathed.

Doyle rose and quietly walked to the door.

"What is it?" he called in friendly tones.

"We're lost in the woods," a voice answered.

His wife had followed and gripped his arm.

"Don't open that door."

"Wait, Mother--"

"We're trying to find the way to Mr. Wilkinson's--can you tell us?"

"Sure I can."

He moved to open the door. Again his wife held him.

"Don't do it!"

Doyle brushed her aside.

"Don't be foolish, Mahala," he protested indignantly. "I'm a poor sort
o' man if I can't tell a lost traveler the way out of the woods."

"They're lyin'!"

"We'll see."

He raised the latch and six men crashed their way through the door. John
Brown led the assault. He held a dim lantern in his hand which he lifted
above his head, as he surveyed the room. He kept his own face in shadow.

With a smothered cry, the mother backed against the trundle bed
instinctively covering the sleeping figures of the girls.

Brown pointed a cocked revolver at Doyle's breast and said in cold
tones:

"Call those three boys down."

Doyle hesitated.

Brown's eye glanced down the barrel of his revolver:

"Quick!"

The man saw he had no chance.

He mounted the ladder, the revolver following him. The mother's
terror-stricken eyes saw that each man was armed with two revolvers, a
bowie knife and cutlass.

"Don't you scare 'em," Brown warned.

"I won't."

"Tell 'em to come down and show us the way to Wilkinson's."

"Boys!" the father called.

There was no answer at first, and the father wondered if they had heard
and gotten weapons of some kind. He hoped not. It would be a useless
horror to try to defend themselves before a mother's eyes, and those
little girls screaming beside her.

He hastened to call a second time and reassure their fears.

"Boys!"

William, the older one, answered drowsily:

"Yessir--"

"Come down, all of you. Some travelers are here who've lost the way.
They want you to help them get to Mr. Wilkinson's."

"All right, sir."

The boys hastily slipped on their trousers and shoes.

"Tell 'em to hurry," Brown ordered.

"Jest slip on yer shoes and britches," Doyle called.

The Surveyor held the lantern behind his body until the three sons had
come down the ladder and he saw that they were unarmed.

He stepped to the fireplace, took the shotgun from the rack and handed
it to Weiner.

The boys, startled at the group of stern armed men, instinctively moved
toward their father, dazed by the assault.

Brown faced the group.

"You four men are my prisoners."

The mother left the trundle bed and faced the leader.

"Who are you?"

Brown dropped his lantern, fixed her with his eyes.

"I am the leader of the Northern Army."

"What are you doing here to-night?"

"I have come on a divine mission."

"Who sent you?"

"The Lord of Hosts in a Vision--"

"What are you going to do?"

"The will of God."

"What are you going to do?" she fairly screamed in his face.

"That is not for your ears, woman," was the stern answer. "I have
important business with Southern settlers on the Pottawattomie
to-night."

The woman's intuition saw in a flash the hideous tragedy. With a cry of
anguish she threw her arms around her husband's neck, sobbing.

"Oh, John, John, my man, I told ye not to talk--but ye would tell folks
what ye believed. Why couldn't ye be still? Oh, my God, my God, it's
come to this!"

The man soothed her with tender touch.

"Hush, Mother, hush. You mustn't take on."

"I can't help it--I just can't. God have mercy on my poor lost soul--"

She paused and looked at her boys.

With a scream she threw herself first on one and then on the other.

"Oh, my big fine boy! I can't let you go! Where is God to-night? Is He
dead? Has He forgotten me?"

The father drew her away and shook her sternly.

"Hush, Mother, hush! Yer can't show the white feather like this!"

"I can't help it. I can't give up my boys!"

She paused and looked at Doyle.

"And I can't give you up, my man--I just can't!"

"Don't, don't--" the husband commanded. "We've got to be men now."

She fought hard to control her tears. The little girls began to sob. She
rushed to the trundle bed and soothed them.

"Keep still, babies. They won't hurt you. Keep still!"

The children choked into silence and she leaped toward Brown and tried
to seize his hand. He repulsed her and she went on frantically.

"Please, for God's sake, man, have mercy on a wife and mother, if you
ain't got no pity in your heart for my men! Surely you have women
home. Their hearts can break like mine. My man's only been talkin' as
politicians talk. It was nothing. Surely it's no crime."

Brown drew a notebook from his pocket and held it up.

"I have the record in this book of your husband's words against the men
of our party, Madame. He stands convicted of murder in his heart. His
sons are not of age. Their opinions are his."

For a moment the mother forgot her pleading and shrieked her defiance
into the stern face before her.

"And who made you a judge o' life and death for my man and my sons? I
bore these boys of the pains of my body. God gave them to me. They are
mine, not yours!"

Brown brushed her aside.

"That's enough from you. Those men are my prisoners. Bring them on!"

He moved toward the door and the guards with drawn swords closed in on
the group.

The mother leaped forward and barred the way to the door. She faced
Brown with blanched face. Her breath came in short gasps. She fought
desperately for control of her voice, failed to make a sound, staggered
to the old man, grasped blindly his body and sank to her knees at his
feet.

At last she managed to gasp:

"Just one of my boys--then--my baby boy! He's a big boy--but look at his
smooth face--he ain't but fourteen years old. Hit don't seem but
yistiday that he wuz just a laughin' baby in my arms! And I've always
been that proud of him. He's smart. He's always been smart--and God
forgive me--I've loved him better'n all the others--hit--wuzn't--right--
fer--a--mother--to--love one of her--children--more--than--the--others--
but I couldn't help it! If ye'll just spare him--hit's all I'll ask ye
now"--her voice sank into a sob as her face touched the floor.

The dark figure above her did not move and she lifted her head with
desperate courage.

"I'll be all alone here--a broken-hearted woman with two little gals and
nobody to help me--or work fer me--ef you'll just spare my baby boy--"

She sprang to her feet and threw her arms around the youngest boy's
neck.

"Oh, my baby, my baby, I can't let ye go--I can't--I can't!"

She lifted her tear-streaming eyes to the dark face again.

"Please, please, for the love of
God--you--say--you--believe--in--God--leave me this one!"

Brown moved his head in a moment's uncertainty. He turned to Owen.

"Leave him and come on with the others."

With a desperate cry, the mother closed her eyes and clung to the boy.

She dared not lift them in prayer for the others as they passed out into
the night.

The armed men had seized her husband and her two older sons, William and
Drury, and hustled them through the door. The mother drew the boy back
on the trundle bed and held him in her arms. The little girls crouched
close and began to sob.

"Hush--don't make a noise. They won't hurt you. I want to hear what they
do--maybe--"

The mother stopped short, fascinated by the horror of the tragedy she
knew would take place outside her door. The darkness gave no token of
its progress. A cricket was chirping in the chimney just awakened by the
noise.

She held her breath and listened. Not a sound. The silence was
unbearable. She sprang to her feet in a moment's fierce rebellion
against the crime of such an infamous attack. A roused lioness, she
leaped to the mantel to seize the shotgun.

John followed and caught her.

"The gun's gone, Ma," he cried.

"Yes, yes, I forgot," she gasped. "They took it, the damned fiends!"

"Ma, Ma, be still!" the boy pleaded. He was horror-stricken at the oath
from her lips. In all his life he had never heard her use a vulgar word.

"Yes, of course," she faltered. "I mustn't try to do anything. They
might come back and kill you--my baby boy!"

She pressed him again to her heart and held him. She strained her ears
for the first signal of the deed the darkness shrouded.

The huntsmen dragged the father and two sons but a hundred and fifty
yards from the door and halted beside the road. Brown faced the father
in the dim starlight.

"You are a Southern white man?"

"I am, sir."

"You are pro-Slavery?"

"I hate the sight and sound of a slave."

"But you believe in the institution?"

"I hate it, I tell you."

Brown paused as if his brain had received a shock. The answer had been
utterly unexpected. The man was in earnest. He meant what he said. And
he was conscious of the solemnity of the trial on which his life hung.

Brown came back to his cross examination, determined to convict him on
the grounds he had fixed beforehand.

"What do you mean when you say that you hate the institution of
Slavery?"

"Exactly what I say."

"You do not believe in owning slaves?"

"I do not."

"Did you ever own one?"

"No!"

"And you never expect to own one?"

"Never."

"Why did you rush into this Territory among the first to cross the
border?"

"I come West to get away from niggers, and bring my children up in a
white man's country."

Quick as a flash came the crucial question from lips that had never
smiled. It was the triumphant scream of an eagle poised to strike. He
had him at last.

"Then you don't believe the negro to be your brother and your equal--do
you?"

The poor white man's body suddenly stiffened and his chin rose:

"No, by God, I don't believe that!"

John Brown lifted his hand in a quick signal and Owen stepped stealthily
behind Doyle. The sharpened cutlass whistled through the air and crashed
into Doyle's skull. His helpless hands were lifted instinctively as he
staggered. The swift descending blade split the right hand open and
severed the left from the body before he crumpled in a heap on the
ground. The assassin placed his knee on the prostrate figure and plunged
his knife three times in the breast,--once through the heart and once
through each lung. He had learned the art in butchering cattle.

Fifty yards away the mangled bodies of William and Drury Doyle lay on
the ground with the dim figure of the assassin bending low to make sure
that no sign of life remained.

John Brown raised the wick of his lantern and walked coolly up to
the body of the elder Doyle. He flashed the lantern on the distorted
features. A look of religious ecstasy swept the stern face of the
Puritan and his eyes glittered with an unearthly glare.

He uttered a sound that was half a laugh and half a religious shout,
snatched his pistol from his belt, placed the muzzle within an inch of
the dead skull and fired. The brains of the corpse splashed the muzzle
of the revolver.

The trembling mother inside the cabin uttered a low cry of horror and
crumpled in the arms of her son.

The boy dragged her to the bed and rushed to the kitchen for a cup of
water. He dashed it in her face and cried for joy when she breathed
again. He didn't mind the moans and sobs. The thought that she, too,
might be dead had stopped his very heartbeat.

He soothed her at last and sat holding her hand in the dark. The girls
nestled against her side. The mother gave no sign that she was conscious
of their presence.

Her spirit was outside the cabin now, hovering in the darkness mourning
her dead. Through the dread hours of the night she sat motionless,
listening, dreaming.

No sounds came from the darkness. The coyote had ceased to call. The
cricket in the chimney slept at last.



CHAPTER XIX


The dark figures secured the horses, bridles and saddles and moved to
the next appointed crime.

The stolen horses were put in charge of the two sons, who had refused to
take part in the events of the night. They were ordered to follow the
huntsmen carefully.

Again they crept through the night and approached the home of Wilkinson,
the member of the Legislature from the County. Brown had carefully
surveyed his place and felt sure of a successful attack unless the house
should be alarmed by a surly dog which no member of his surveying party
had been able to approach.

When they arrived within two hundred yards of the gate, it was one
o'clock. Brown carefully watched the house for ten minutes to see that
no light gleamed through a window or a chink. The wife had been sick
with the measles when the survey was made. There was no sign of a light.

Salmon and Owen Brown were sent by the men on a protest to Brown.

Salmon was spokesman.

"We've got something to say to you, Father, before we take out
Wilkinson--"

"Well?" the old man growled.

"You gave every man strict orders to fire no guns or revolver unless
necessary--didn't you?"

"I did."

"You fired the only shot heard to-night."

"I'll not do it again. I didn't intend to. I don't know why I did it.
Stick to my order."

"See that _you_ stick to it," the boy persisted.

"I will. Use only your knives and cutlasses. The cutlass first always."

The men began to move slowly forward.

Brown called softly.

"Just a minute. This dog of Wilkinson's is sure to bark. Don't stop to
try to kill him. Rush the house double quick and pay no attention to his
barking--"

"If he bites?" Owen asked.

"Take a chance, don't try to kill him--Wilkinson might wake. Now, all
together--rush the house!"

They rushed the, house at two hundred yards. They had taken but ten
steps when the dog barked so furiously Brown called a halt. They waited.

Then, minutes later the dog raged, approaching the house and retreating.
His wild cry of alarm rang with sinister echo through the woods. The
faithful brute was calling his master and mistress to arms.

Still the man inside slept. The Territory of Kansas to this time had
been as free from crime as any state on its border. The lawmaker had
never felt a moment's uneasiness.

Footsteps approached the door. The sick woman saw the shadow of a man
pass the window. The starlight sharply silhouetted his face against the
black background.

Some one knocked on the door.

The woman asked:

"Who's that?"

No one answered.

"Henry, Henry!" she called tensely.

"Well?" the husband answered.

"There's somebody knocking at the door."

Wilkinson half raised in bed.

"Who is that?"

A voice replied:

"We've lost the road. We want you to tell us the way to Dutch Henry's."

Wilkinson began to call the directions.

"We can't understand--"

"You can't miss the way."

"Come out and show us!"

The request was given in tones so sharp there could be no mistake. It
was a command not a plea.

"I'll have to go and tell them," he said to his wife.

"For God's sake, don't open that door," she whispered.

"It's best."

She seized and held him.

"You shall not go!"

Wilkinson sought to temporize.

"I'm not dressed," he called. "I can tell you the way as well without
going outdoors."

The men stepped back from the door and held a consultation. John Brown
at once returned and began his catechism:

"You are Wilkinson, the Member of the Legislature?"

"I am, sir."

"You are opposed to the Free Soil Party?"

"I am."

The answers were sharp to the point of curtness and his daring roused
the wrath of Brown to instant action.

"You're my prisoner, sir."

He waited an instant for an answer and, getting none, asked:

"Do you surrender?"

"Gentlemen, I do."

"Open the door!"

"In just a minute."

"Open it--"

"When I've made a light."

"We've got a light. Open that door or we'll smash it!"

Again the sick woman caught his arm.

"Don't do it!"

"It's better not to resist," he answered, opening the door.

Brown held the lantern in his face.

"Put on your clothes."

Wilkinson began to dress.

The men covered him with drawn revolvers. The sick woman sank limply on
the edge of the bed.

"Are there any more men in this house?" Brown asked sharply.

"No."

"Have you any arms?"

"Only a quail gun."

"Search the place."

The guard searched the rooms, ransacking drawers and chests. They took
everything of value they could find, including the shotgun and powder
flask.

The sick woman at length recovered her power of speech and turned to
Brown.

"If you've arrested my husband for anything, he's a law-abiding man. You
can let him stay here with me until morning."

"No!" Brown growled.

"I'm sick and helpless. I can't stay here by myself."

"Let me stay with my wife, gentlemen," Wilkinson pleaded, "until I can
get some one to wait on her and I'll remain on parole until you return
or I'll meet you anywhere you say."

Brown looked at the woman and at the little children trembling by her
side and curtly answered:

"You have neighbors."

"So I have," Wilkinson agreed, "but they are not here and I cannot go
for them unless you allow me."

"It matters not," Brown snapped. "Get ready, sir."

Wilkinson took up his boots to pull them on when Brown signaled his men
to drag him out.

Without further words they seized him and hurried into the darkness.
They dragged him a few yards from the house into a clump of dead brush.

Weiner was the chosen headsman. He swung his big savage figure before
Wilkinson and his cutlass flashed in the starlight.

The woman inside the darkened house heard the crash of the blade against
the skull and the dying groan from the lips of the father of her babies.

When the body crumpled, Weiner knelt, plunged his knife into the throat,
turned it and severed the jugular vein.

Standing over the body John Brown spoke to one of his men.

"The horses, saddles and bridles from the stable--quick!"

The huntsman hurried to the stable and took Wilkinson's horse.

It was two o'clock before they reached the home of James Harris on the
other side of the Pottawattomie. Harris lived on the highway and kept a
rude frontier boarding place where travelers stopped for the night.

With him lived Dutch Henry Sherman and his brother, William.

Brown had no difficulty in entering this humble one-room house. It was
never locked. The latch string was outside.

Without knocking Brown lifted the latch and sprang into the room with
his son, Owen, and another armed huntsman.

He surveyed the room. In one bed lay Harris, his wife and child. In two
other beds were three men, William Sherman, John Whitman and a stranger
who had stopped for the night and had given no name.

"You are our prisoners," Brown announced. "It is useless for you to
resist."

The old man stood by one bed with drawn saber and Owen stood by the
other while Weiner searched the room. He found two rifles and a bowie
knife which he passed through the door to the guard outside.

Brown ordered the stranger out first. He kept him but a few minutes and
brought him back. He next ordered Harris to follow him.

Brown confronted his prisoner in the yard. A swordsman stood close by
his side to catch his nod.

"Where is Dutch Henry Sherman?"

"On the plains hunting for lost cattle."

"You are telling me the truth?" Brown asked, boring him through with his
terrible eyes.

"The truth, sir!"

He studied Harris by the light of his lantern.

"Have you ever helped a Southern settler to enter the Territory of
Kansas?"

"No."

"Did you take any hand in the troubles at Lawrence?"

"I've never been to Lawrence."

"Have you ever done the Free State Party any harm?"

"No. I don't take no part in politics."

"Have you ever intended to do that party any harm?"

"I don't know nothin' about politics or parties."

"What are you doing living here among these Southern settlers?"

"Because I can get better wages."

"Any horses, bridles, or saddles?"

"I've one horse."

"Saddle him and bring him here."

A swordsman walked by his side while he caught and saddled his horse and
delivered him to his captors.

Brown went back into the house and brought out William Sherman. Harris
was ordered back to bed, and a new guard was placed inside until the
ceremony with Sherman should be ended.

It was brief.

Brown had no questions to ask this man. He was the brother of Henry
Sherman, the most hated member of the settlement. Brown called Thompson
and Weiner and spoke in tones of quick command.

"Take him down to the Pottawattomie Creek. I want this man's blood to
mingle with its waters and flow to the sea!"

The doomed man did not hear the sentence of his judge. The two huntsmen
caught his arms and rushed him to the banks of the creek. He stood for a
moment trembling and dazed. Not a word had passed his lips. Not one had
passed his guards.

They loosed their grip on his arms, stepped back and two cutlasses
whistled through the air in a single stroke. The double blow was so
swiftly and evenly delivered that the body stood erect until the second
stroke of the sharpened blades had cut off one hand and split open the
breast.

When the body fell at the feet of the huntsmen they seized the quivering
limbs and hurled them into the creek.

They reported at once to their Captain. He stood in front of the house
with his restless gaze sweeping the highway for any possible, belated
traveler. The one hope uppermost in his mind was that Dutch Henry
Sherman might return with his lost cattle in time.

He raised his lantern and looked at his watch. The men who had butchered
William Sherman stood with red swords for orders.

Brown had not yet uttered a word. He knew that the work on the bank
of the Pottawattomie was done. The attitude of his swordsmen was
sufficient.

He asked but one question.

"You threw him into the water?"

"Yes."

"Good."

He closed his silver watch with a snap.

"It's nearly four o'clock. We have no more time for work to-night. Back
to camp."

The men turned to repeat his orders.

"Wait!"

His order rang like vibrant metal.

The men stopped.

"We'll mount the horses we have taken, and march single file. I'll ride
the horse taken here. Bring him to the door."

With quick springing step Brown entered the house where the husband and
wife and the two lodgers were still shivering under the eye of the guard
with drawn sword.

The leader's voice rang with a note of triumph.

"You people whose lives have been spared will stay in this house until
sunrise. And the less you say about what's happened to-night the longer
you'll live."

He turned to his guard.

"Come on."

Brown had just mounted his horse to lead the procession back to the camp
in the ravine, when the first peal of thunder in a spring shower crashed
overhead.

He glanced up and saw that the sky was being rapidly overcast by swiftly
moving clouds. A few stars still glimmered directly above.

The storm without was an incident of slight importance. The rain would
give him a chance to test the men inside. He ordered his followers to
take refuge in the long shed under which Harris stabled the horses and
vehicles of travelers.

He stationed a sentinel at the door of the house.

His orders were clear.

"Cut down in his tracks without a word, the man who dares to come out."

The swordsman threw a saddle blanket around his shoulders and took his
place at the doorway.

The storm broke in fury. In five minutes the heavens were a sea of
flame. The thunder rolled over the ravine, the hills, the plains in
deafening peals. Flash after flash, roar after roar, an endless throb of
earth and air from the titanic bombardment from the skies. The flaming
sky was sublime--a changing, flashing, trembling splendor.

Townsley was the only coward in the group of stolid figures standing
under the shed. He watched by the lightning the expression of Brown's
face with awe. There was something terrible in the joy that flamed in
his eyes. Never had he seen such a look on human face. He forgot the
storm and forgot his fears of cyclones and lightning strokes in the
fascination with which he watched the seamed, weather-beaten features
of the man who had just committed the foulest deed in the annals of
American frontier life. There was in his shifting eyes no shadow of
doubt, of fear, of uncertainty. There was only the look of satisfaction,
of supreme triumph. The coward caught the spark of red that flashed from
his soul.

For a moment he regretted that he had not joined the bloody work with
his own hand. He was ashamed of his pity for the stark masses of flesh
that still lay on the deluged earth. In spite of the contagion of
Brown's mind which he felt pulling him with resistless power, his own
weaker intellect kept playing pranks with his memory.

He recalled the position of the bodies which they had left in the
darkness. He had seen them by the light of the lantern which Brown had
flashed each time before leaving. He remembered with a shiver that the
two Doyle boys had died with their big soft blue eyes wide open, staring
upward at the starlit skies. He wondered if the rain had beaten their
eyelids down.

A blinding flash filled the sky and lighted every nook and corner of the
woods and fields. He shook at its glare and put his hand over his eyes.
For a moment he could see nothing but the wide staring gaze upward
of those stalwart young bodies. He shivered and turned away from the
leader.

The next moment found him again watching the look of victory on the
terrible face.

As the lightning played about Brown's form he wondered at the impression
of age he gave with his face turned away and his figure motionless. He
was barely fifty-seven and yet he looked seventy-five, until he moved.

The moment his wiry body moved there was something uncanny in the
impression he gave of a wild animal caught in human form.

Brown had tired waiting for the shower to pass and had begun to pace
back and forth with his swinging, springy step. When he passed, Townsley
instinctively drew aside. He knew that he was a coward and yet he
couldn't feel the consciousness of cowardice in giving this man room. It
was common sense.

The storm passed as swiftly as it came.

Without a word the leader gave the signal. His men mounted the stolen
horses. With Townsley's grays and Weiner's pony the huntsmen returned to
the camp in the ravine, a procession of cavalry.

The eastern sky was whitening with the first touch of the coming sun
when they dismounted.

The leader ordered the fire built and a hearty breakfast cooked for each
man. As was his custom he wandered from the camp alone, his arms gripped
behind his stooped back. He climbed the hill, stood on its crest and
watched the prairie.

The storm had passed from west to east. On the eastern horizon a low
fringe of clouds was still slowly moving. They lay in long ribbons of
dazzling light. The sun's rays flashed through them every color of the
rainbow. Now they were a deep purple, growing brighter with each moment,
until every flower in the waving fields was touched with its glory. The
purple melted into orange; the waving fields were set with dazzling
buttercups; the buttercups became poppies. And then the mounting sun
kissed the clouds again. They blushed scarlet, and the fields were red.

The grim face gave no sign that he saw the glory and beauty of a
wonderful Sabbath morning. His figure was rigid. His eyes set. A sweet
odor seemed to come from the scarlet rays of the sun. The man lifted his
head in surprise to find the direction from which the perfume came.

He looked at the ground and saw that he was standing in a bed of
ripening wild strawberries.

He turned from the sunrise, stooped and ate the fruit. He was ravenously
hungry. His hunger satisfied, he walked deliberately back to camp as the
white light of day flooded the clean fields and woods.

He called his men about the fire and searched for marks of the night's
work. As the full rim of the sun crept over the eastern hills and its
first rays quivered on the surface of the water, the huntsmen knelt by
the bank of the Pottawattomie and washed the stains from their swords,
hands and clothes.

Breakfast finished, the leader divided among his headsmen the goods
stolen from his victims and called his men to Sunday prayers.

With folded hands and head erect in the attitude of victory he read from
memory a passage from the old Hebrew prophet, singing in triumph over
the enemies of the Lord. From the scripture recitation, given in tones
so cold and impersonal that they made Townsley shiver, his voice drifted
into prayer:

"We thank thee, oh, Lord, God of Hosts, for the glorious victory Thou
hast given us this night over Thy enemies. We have heard Thy voice. We
have obeyed Thy commands. The wicked have been laid low. And Thy glory
shines throughout the world on this beautiful Sabbath morning. Make
strong, oh, God, the arms of Thy children for the work that is yet
before them. Thou art a jealous God. Thou dost rejoice always in blood
offerings on Thy altars. We have this night brought to Thee and laid
before Thy face the five offerings which the sins of man have demanded.
May this blood seem good in Thy sight, oh, God, as it is glorious in the
eyes of Thy servant whom Thou hast anointed to do Thy will. May it be as
seed sown in good ground. May it bring forth a harvest whose red glory
shall cover the earth, even as the rays of the sun have baptized our
skies this morning. We wait the coming of Thy Kingdom, oh, Lord, God of
Hosts. Speed the day we humbly pray. Amen."

Townsley's eyes had gradually opened at the tones of weird, religious
ecstasy with which the last sentences of the prayer were spoken. He was
staring at Brown's face. It was radiant with a strange joy. He had not
smiled; but he was happy for a moment. His happiness was so unusual,
so sharply in contrast with his habitual mood, the sight of it chilled
Townsley's soul.



CHAPTER XX


Stuart succeeded in securing from Colonel Sumner a leave of absence
of two weeks to visit Fort Riley. The Colonel suspected the truth and
teased the gallant youngster until he confessed.

He handed Stuart the order with a hearty laugh.

"It's all right, my boy. I've been young myself. Good luck."

Stuart's laughter rang clear and hearty.

"Thank you, Colonel. You had me scared."

He had just turned to leave the room when a messenger handed Sumner a
telegram.

Stuart paused to hear the message.

"Bad news, Lieutenant."

"What, sir?"

"An attack has been made on the Southern settlement on the
Pottawattomie."

"A drunken fight--"

"No. Wilkinson, the member of the Legislature from Miami County, was
taken from his house in the night and murdered."

"The story's a fake," Stuart ventured.

"The man who sent this message doesn't make such mistakes."

He paused and studied the telegram.

"No. This means the beginning of a blood feud. The time's ripe for it."

"We'll have better news to-morrow," Stuart hoped.

"We'll have worse. I've been looking for something like this since the
day I heard old Brown harangue a mob at Lawrence."

He stopped short.

"You'll have to give me back that order, my boy."

Stuart's face fell.

"Colonel, I've just got to see that girl, if it's only for a day--"

He slowly handed the order back to the Commandant. Sumner watched the
red blood mount to Stuart's face with a look of sympathy.

"Is it as bad as that, boy?"

"It couldn't be worse, sir," Stuart admitted in low tones. "I'm a
goner."

"All right. You've no time to lose, I'll give you three days--"

"Thank you!"

"This regiment will be on the march before a week has passed or I miss
my guess."

"I'll be here, sir!" was the quick response.

Stuart grasped the leave of absence and hurried out before another
messenger could arrive.

He reached Fort Riley the following day and had but twenty-four hours in
which to crowd the most important event of his life.

He paced the floor in Colonel Cooke's reception room awaiting Flora's
appearance with eager impatience. What on earth could be keeping her? He
asked himself the question fifty times and looked at his watch a dozen
times before he heard the rustle of organdy on the stairs.

A vision of radiant youth! She had taken time to make her beauty still
more radiant with the daintiest touches to her blonde hair.

The simple dress she wore was a poem. The young cavalier was stunned
anew. There was no doubt about the welcome in her smile and voice. It
thrilled him to his fingertips. He held her hand until she drew it away
with a little self-conscious laugh that was confusing to Stuart's plan
of direct action.

There was a touch of the Southern girl's conscious poise and coquetry in
the laugh. There was something aloof in it that meant trouble. He felt
it with positive terror. He didn't have time to fence for position. He
was in no mood for a flirtation. He had come to speak the deep things.

She led him to a seat with an air of dignity and reserve that alarmed
him still more. He had taken too much for granted perhaps. There might
be another man. Conceited fool! He hadn't thought it possible. Her
manner had been so frank, so utterly sincere.

She sat by his side smiling at him in the bewitching way so many pretty
girls had done before, when they merely wished to play with love.

He spoke in commonplaces and studied her with increasing panic. Her
tactics baffled him. Until at last he believed he had solved the riddle!
She had suddenly waked to the fact, as he had, that she had met her
fate. She was drawing back for a moment in fright at the seriousness of
surrender.

"Yes, that's it!" he murmured half aloud.

"What did you say?" she asked archly.

And his heart sank again. She asked the question with a tone of teasing
that made him blush in spite of himself.

With sudden resolution he decided to make the plunge.



CHAPTER XX


Stuart succeeded in securing from Colonel Sumner a leave of absence
of two weeks to visit Fort Riley. The Colonel suspected the truth and
teased the gallant youngster until he confessed.

He handed Stuart the order with a hearty laugh.

"It's all right, my boy. I've been young myself. Good luck."

Stuart's laughter rang clear and hearty.

"Thank you, Colonel. You had me scared."

He had just turned to leave the room when a messenger handed Sumner a
telegram.

Stuart paused to hear the message.

"Bad news, Lieutenant."

"What, sir?"

"An attack has been made on the Southern settlement on the
Pottawattomie."

"A drunken fight--"

"No. Wilkinson, the member of the Legislature from Miami County, was
taken from his house in the night and murdered."

"The story's a fake," Stuart ventured.

"The man who sent this message doesn't make such mistakes."

He paused and studied the telegram.

"Dee double dare you."

"He said that you're a sad product of Sir Walter Scott's novels, a
singing, rollicking, flirting, lazy young cavalier."

"Didn't say lazy."

"No."

"I thought not."

"I added that for good measure."

"I thought so."

"And he warned me that there might be a streak of the old Stuart purple
blood in your veins that might make you silly for life--"

"Didn't say silly."

"No, I added that, too."

Stuart again seized the hand she had deftly withdrawn. He pressed it
tenderly and sought the depths of her blue eyes.

"Ah, honey girl," he cried passionately, "don't tease me any more,
please! I've got to leave you in a few hours. My regiment is going to
march. It may be a serious business. You're a brave soldier's daughter
and you're going to be a soldier's bride."

The girl's lips quivered for the first time and her voice trembled the
slightest bit as she fought for self-control.

"I'll never marry a soldier."

"You will!"

"My daddy's never at home. I promised my mother never to look at a
soldier."

"You're looking at me, dear heart!"

She turned quickly.

"I won't--"

Stuart drew her suddenly into his arms and kissed her.

"I love you, Flora! And you're mine."

She looked into his eyes, smiled, slipped both arms around his neck and
kissed him.

"And I love you, my foolish, singing, laughing boy!"

"Always?"

"Always."

"And you'll marry me?"

"You couldn't get away from me if you tried."

She drew him down and kissed him again.

"The shadow will always be in my heart, dear soldier man. The shadow of
the day I shall lose you! But it's life. I'll face it with a smile."

Through the long, sweet hours of the day and deep into the night they
held each other's hand, and talked and laughed and dreamed and planned.

What mattered the shadow that was slowly moving across the sunlit earth?
It _was_ the morning of life!



CHAPTER XXI


The eight men engaged in the remarkable enterprise on the Pottawattomie,
led by their indomitable Captain, mounted their stolen horses and boldly
rode to the camp of the military company commanded by John Brown, Jr.
The father planned to make his stand behind these guns if pursued by
formidable foes.

Brown reached the camp of the Rifles near Ottawa Jones' farm at
midnight. The fires still burned brightly. To his surprise he found that
the news of the murders had traveled faster than the stolen horses.

The camp was demoralized.

John Brown, Jr., had been forced to resign as Captain and H. H. Williams
had been elected in his stead.

The reception which the County was giving his inspired deed stunned the
leader. He had expected a reign of terror. But the terror had seized his
own people. He was compelled to lie and deny his guilt except to his
own flesh and blood. Even before his sons he was arraigned with fierce
condemnation.

On the outer edge of the panic-stricken camp his sons, Jason and John,
Jr., faced him with trembling and horror in their voices.

Jason had denounced the first hint of the plan when the surveyor's
scheme was broached. John, Jr. had refused to move a step on the
expedition. The two sons confronted their father with determined
questions. He shifted and evaded the issue.

Jason squared himself and demanded:

"Did you kill those men?"

"I did not," was the sharp answer.

The son held his shifting eye by the glare of the camp fire.

"Did you have _anything_ to do with the killing of those men?"

To his own he would not lie longer. It wasn't necessary. His reply was
quick and unequivocal.

"I did not do it. But I approved it."

"It was the work of a beast."

"You cannot speak to me like that, sir!" the old man growled.

"And why not?"

"I am your father, sir!"

"That's why I tell you to your face that you have disgraced every child
who bears your name--now--and for all time. What right had you to put
this curse upon me? The devils in hell would blush to do what you have
done!"

The father lifted his hand as if to ward a blow and bored his son
through with a steady stare.

"God is my judge--not you, sir!"

John Brown, Jr., sided with his brother in the attack but with less
violence. His feebler mind was already trembling on the verge of
collapse.

"It cuts me to the quick," the old man finally answered, "that my own
people should not understand that I had to make an example of these
men--"

Jason finally shrieked into his ears:

"Who gave you the authority of Almighty God to sit in judgment upon your
fellow man, condemn him without trial and slay without mercy?"

The father threw up both hands in a gesture of disgust and walked from
the scene. He spent the night without sleep, wandering through the woods
and fields.

Three days later while Brown and his huntsmen were still hiding in the
timber, the people of his own settlement at Osawatomie held a public
meeting which was attended by the entire male population. They
unanimously adopted resolutions condemning in the bitterest terms the
deed.

When the old man heard of these resolutions he ground his teeth in rage.
He had thought to sweep the Territory with a Holy War in a Sacred Cause.
He expected the men who hated Slavery to applaud his Blood Offering to
the God of Freedom. Instead they had hastened to array themselves with
his foes.

Something had gone wrong in the execution of his divine vision. His
mind was stunned for the moment. But he was wrestling again with God in
prayer, while the avengers were riding to demand an eye for an eye and a
tooth for a tooth.

When the true history of man is written it will be the record of mind
not the story of the physical acts which follow the mental process.

The dangers of society are psychological, not physical. The crucial
moments of human history are not found in the hours in which armies
charge. They are found in the still small voices that whisper in the
silence of the night to a lone watcher by the fireside. They are found
in the words of will that follow hours of silent thought behind locked
doors or under the stars.

The story of man's progress, his relapses to barbarism, his victories,
his failures, his years of savage cruelties, his eras of happiness and
sorrow, must be written at last in terms of mental states.

John Brown's mind had conceived and executed the series of murders that
shocked even a Western frontier. His mind enacted the tragedy days
before the actual happening.

And it was the state of mind created by the deed that upset all his
calculations. The reaction was overwhelming. He was correct in his faith
that a blood feud once raised, all appeal to reason and common sense,
all appeal to law, order, tradition, religion would be vain babble. But
he had failed to gauge the moral sense of his own party. They had not
yet accepted the theory which he held with such passionate conviction.

Brown's moral code was summed up in one passage from the Bible which he
quoted and brooded over daily:

"WITHOUT THE SHEDDING OF BLOOD THERE IS NO REMISSION OF SINS."

But he had made a mistake in the spot chosen for rousing the Blood Feud.
Men had instantly seen red. They sprang to their arms. They leaped as
tigers leap on their prey. But his own people were the prey. He had
miscalculated the conditions of frontier life, though he had not yet
realized it. His stubborn, restless mind clung to the idea that the
stark horror of the crimes which he had committed in the name of Liberty
would call at last all men who stood for Freedom.

He held his armed band in camp under the sternest discipline to await
this call of the blood.

The Southern avengers who swarmed across the Missouri border into the
region of Osawatomie accepted Brown's standards of justice and mercy
without question. A few men of education among them were the only
restraining influence.

Through these exciting days the old man would show himself at daylight
in different places removed from his camp in the woods. While squadrons
of avengers were scouring the ravines, the river bottoms and the tangled
underbrush, he was lying quietly on his arms. Sometimes his pursuers
camped within hearing and got their water from the same spring.

With all his indomitable courage he was unable to rally sufficient men
to afford protection to his people. He was a fugitive from justice
with a price on his head. Yet, armed and surrounded by a small band of
faithful followers, he led a charmed life.

His deed on the Pottawattomie made murder the chief sport of the unhappy
Territory. The life of the frontier was reduced to anarchy. Outrages
became so common it was impossible to record them. Murder was a daily
incident. Many of them passed in secret. Many were not revealed for days
and weeks after they had been committed--then, only by the discovery of
the moldering remains of the dead. Two men were found hanging on a tree
near Westport. They were ill-fated Free State partisans who had fallen
by the hand of the avengers. The troops buried them in a grave so
shallow that the prairie wolves had half devoured them before they were
again found and re-buried.

The Free Soil men organized guerrilla bands for retaliation. John E.
Cook, a daring young adventurer, the brother-in-law of Governor Willard
of Indiana, early distinguished himself in this work. He put himself
at the head of a group of twenty young "Cavalry Scouts" who ranged the
country, asking no quarter and giving none.

A squadron of avengers invaded Brown's settlement at Osawatomie, sacked
and partly destroyed it, and killed his son, Frederick, whose mind
had been in a state of collapse since the night of the murders on the
Pottawattomie.

John Brown rallied a group of sympathizers and fought a pitched battle
with the invaders but was defeated with bloody losses and compelled to
retreat.

He was followed by Deputy United States Marshal, Henry C. Pate. Brown
turned and boldly attacked Pate's camp and another battle ensued. The
Deputy Marshal, wishing to avoid useless bloodshed, sent out a flag
of truce and asked an interview with the guerrilla commander. Brown
answered promptly, advanced and sent for Pate.

Pate, trusting the flag of truce, approached the old man.

"I am addressing the Captain in command?" Pate asked.

"You are, sir."

"Then let me announce that I am a Deputy United States Marshal."

"And why are you fighting us?"

"I have no desire for bloodshed, sir. I am acting under the orders of
the Marshal of the Territory."

"And what does the Marshal demand?"

"The arrest of the men for whom I have warrants."

Pate had never seen John Brown and had no idea that he was talking to
the old man himself.

"I have a proposition to make," he went on.

"I'll have no proposals from you, sir," Brown announced shortly. "I
demand your surrender."

"I am an officer of the law. I cannot surrender to armed outlaws."

Brown's metallic voice quivered.

"I demand your immediate and unconditional surrender!"

"I have the right to retire under a flag of truce and consider your
proposition with my men--"

Pate started to go and Brown stood in front of him.

"You're not going."

"You will violate a flag of truce?"

Brown signaled his men to advance and surround Pate.

"You're not going, sir," he repeated.

"I claim my rights under a flag of truce accepted by you for this
parley. An Indian respects that flag."

Brown pointed to his men who were standing within the sound of their
voices.

"Order those men to surrender."

Pate folded his arms and remained silent.

Brown placed his revolver at the Deputy Marshal's breast and shouted.

"Tell your men to lay down their arms!"

Pate refused to speak. There was a moment's deadly silence and the
Marshal's posse, to save the life of their Captain, threw down their
guns and the whole party were made prisoners.

The United States Cavalry at Fort Leavenworth were ordered to the scene
to rescue the Deputy Marshal and his men.



CHAPTER XXII


The bugles at Fort Leavenworth sounded Boots and Saddles for the march
on Brown and his guerrillas. The barracks were early astir with the
excitement. Stern work might be ahead. Outlaws who would dare violate a
flag of truce, to take a United States Marshal and his posse would
have no more respect for cavalry. The men and officers were tired of
disorder. They were eager for a stand up and knock down fight. They
expected it and they were ready for it.

Stuart's bride was crying. In spite of her young husband's gay banter,
she persisted in being serious.

"There's no danger, honey girl!" he laughed.

She touched the big cavalry pistol in its holster, her lips still
trembling.

"No--you're just galloping off on a picnic."

"That's all it will be--"

"Then you can take me with you."

Stuart's brow clouded.

"Well, no, not just that kind of a picnic."

"There may be a nasty fight and you know it."

"Nonsense."

"It may, too."

"Don't be silly, little bride," he pleaded. "You're a soldier's wife
now. The bullet hasn't been molded that's going to get me. I feel it. I
know it."

She threw her arms around his neck and held him in a long silence. Only
a sob broke the stillness. He let her cry. His arms merely tightened
their tender hold, as he caressed her fair head and kissed it.

"There, there, now. That's enough. It's hard, this first parting. It's
hard for me. You mustn't make it harder."

"We've just begun to live, dearest," she faltered. "I can't let you go.
I can't stand it for an hour and you'll be gone for days and days--"

She paused and sobbed.

"Why did I marry a soldier-man?"

"You had to, honey. It was fate. God willed it."

He spoke with deep reverence. She lifted her lips for his goodbye kiss.

He turned quickly to go and she caught him again and smothered him with
kisses.

"I can't help it, darling man," she sobbed. "I didn't mean to make it
hard for you--but--I've an awful presentiment that I shall lose you--"

Her voice died again in a pathetic whisper.

Stuart laughed softly and kissed the tears from her eyes.

"So has every soldier's wife, honey girl. The silly old presentiment is
overworked. It will pass bye and bye--when you see me coming home so
many, many times to play that old banjo for you and sing our songs over
again."

She shook her head and smiled.

"Go now--quick," she said, "before I break down again."

He swung out the door, his sword clanking and his arm waving. She
watched him from the window, crying. She saw him mount his horse with a
graceful swing. His figure on horseback was superb. Horse and man seemed
one.

He looked over his shoulder, saw her at the window and waved again. She
ran to her room, closed the door, took his picture to bed with her and
cried herself to sleep.

The thing that had so worried her was that Colonel Sumner was taking
Major Sedgwick with him for conference and a single squadron of fifty
men under Stuart's command. The little bride had found out that he was
the sole leader of the fifty fighting men and her quick wit had sensed
the danger of the possible extermination of such a force in a battle
with desperadoes. She was ashamed of her breakdown. But she knew her man
was brave and that he loved a fight. She would count the hours until his
return.

Brown rallied a hundred and fifty men when the squadron of cavalry was
ordered to the rescue of Pate and his posse. He entrenched himself on an
island in Middle Ottawa Creek and from this stronghold raided and robbed
the stores within range of his guerrillas. On June 3rd, he successfully
looted the store of J. M. Bernard at Centropolis and secured many
valuables, particularly clothing.

The raiding party was returning from the looted store as Stuart's
cavalry troop was approaching Brown's camp.

The cavalry arrived in the nick of time. A battle was imminent that
might have ended in a massacre. Within striking distance of Brown's
island Colonel Sumner encountered General Whitfield, a Southern Member
of Congress, at the head of a squadron of avengers, two hundred and
fifty strong, heavily armed and well mounted.

Sumner acted with quick decision. He confronted Whitfield and spoke with
a quiet emphasis not to be mistaken:

"By order of the President of the United States and the Governor of the
Territory, I am here to disperse all armed bodies assembled without
authority."

"May I see the order of the President, sir?" Whitfield asked.

"You may."

The telegraphic order was handed to the leader. He read it in silence
and handed it back without a word.

Colonel Sumner continued:

"My duty is plain and I'll do it."

He signaled Stuart to draw up his company for action. The Lieutenant
promptly obeyed. Fifty regulars wheeled and faced two hundred and fifty
rugged horsemen of the plains.

Whitfield consulted his second in command and while they talked Colonel
Sumner again addressed him:

"Ask your people to assemble. I wish to read to them the President's
order and the Governor's proclamation."

Whitfield called his men. In solemn tones Sumner read the documents.
Whitfield saw that his men were impressed.

"I shall not resist the authority of the General Government. My party
will disperse."

He promptly ordered them to disband. In five minutes they had
disappeared.

On the approach of the company of cavalry, John Brown, with a single
guard, walked boldly forward to meet them.

Colonel Sumner heard his amazing request with rising wrath. He spoke as
one commanding a body of coordinate power.

"I have come to suggest the arrangement of terms between our forces,"
Brown coolly suggested.

"No officer of law, sir," Sumner sternly replied, "can make terms with
lawless, armed men. I am here to execute the orders of the President.
You will surrender your prisoners immediately, disarm your men and
disperse or take the consequences."

Brown turned without a word and slowly walked back to his camp. The
United States cavalry followed close at his heels with drawn sabers,
Stuart at their head.

Colonel Sumner summoned Brown before Sedgwick and Stuart and made to him
an announcement which he thought but fair.

"I must tell you now that there is with my company a Deputy United
States Marshal, who holds warrants for several men in your camp. Those
warrants will be served in my presence."

Brown's glittering eye rested on the Deputy Marshal. He moved uneasily
and finally said in a low tone:

"I don't recognize any one for whom I have warrants."

The grim face of the man of visions never relaxed a muscle.

Sumner turned to the Deputy indignantly.

"Then what are you here for?"

He made no answer. And Stuart laughed in derision.

During this tense moment the keen blue eyes of the Lieutenant of cavalry
studied John Brown with the interest of a soldier in the man who knows
not fear.

At first glance he was a sorry figure. He was lean and gaunt and looked
taller than he was for that reason. His face was deeply sun tanned and
seamed. He looked a rough, hard-working old farmer. The decided stoop
of his shoulders gave the exaggerated impression of age. His face was
shaved. He wore a coarse cotton shirt, a clean one that had just been
stolen from Bernard's store. It was partly covered by a vest. His hat
was an old slouched felt, well worn. In general appearance he was
dilapidated, dusty, and soiled.

The young officer was too keen a judge of character to be deceived
by clothes on a Western frontier. The dusty clothes and worn hat he
scarcely saw. It was the terrible mouth that caught and held his
imagination. It was the mouth of a relentless foe. It was the mouth of a
man who might speak the words of surrender when cornered. But he could
no more surrender than he could jump out of his skin.

Stuart was willing to risk his life on a wager that if he consented to
lay down his arms, he had more concealed and that he would sleep on them
that night in the brush.

The low forehead and square, projecting chin caught and held his fancy.
It was the jaw and chin of the fighting animal. No man who studied that
jaw would care to meet it in the dark.

But the thing that had put the Deputy out of commission as warrant
officer of the Government was the old man's strange, restless eyes.
Stuart caught their steel glitter with a sense of the uncanny. He
had never seen a human eye that threw at an enemy a look quite so
disconcerting. He had laughed at the Deputy's fear to move with fifty
dragoons to back him. There was some excuse for it. Back of those
piercing points of steel-blue light were one hundred and fifty armed
followers. What would happen if he should turn to these men and tell
them to fight the cavalry of the United States? It was an open question.

The old man walked toward his men with wiry, springing step.

The prisoners were released.

Stuart shook hands with Pate, who was a Virginian and a former student
of the University.

Brown's men laid down their arms and dispersed.

True to Stuart's surmise he did not move far from his entrenched camp.
He anticipated a fake surrender to the troops. He had concealed weapons
for the faithful but half a mile away. With Weiner he built a new camp
fire before Stuart's cavalry had moved two miles.



CHAPTER XXIII


The man with the slouched hat and coarse cotton shirt lost no time in
grieving over the dispersal of his one hundred and fifty men. It was the
largest force he had ever assembled. His experience in the three days
in which he had acted as their commander had greatly angered him. The
frontiersman who failed to come under the spell of Brown's personality
by direct contact generally refused to obey his orders.

The crowd of free rangers which his fight with Pate had gathered proved
themselves beyond control. They raided the surrounding country without
Brown's knowledge.

They stole from friend and foe with equal impartiality. There was one
consolation in his surrender to the United States troops. He got rid of
these troublesome followers. They had already robbed him of the
spoils of his own successful raids and not one of them had shown any
inclination to bring in the enemies' goods for common use.

He began to choose the most faithful among them for a scheme of wider
scope and more tragic daring. He was not yet sure of his plan. But God
would reveal it clearly.

He spent a week at his new camp in the woods wandering alone, dreaming,
praying, weighing this new scheme from every point of view.

His mind came back again and again to the puzzle of the failure to raise
a National Blood Feud.

For a moment his indomitable Puritan soul was discouraged. He had obeyed
the command of his God. He could not have been mistaken in the voice
which spoke from Heaven:

"WITHOUT THE SHEDDING OF BLOOD THERE IS NO REMISSION OF SINS."

He had laid the Blood Offering on God's altar counting his own life as
of no account in the reckoning and from that hour he had been a fugitive
from justice, hiding in the woods. He had escaped arrest only by the
accidental assembling of a mob of a hundred and fifty disorderly fools
who had stolen his own goods before they had been dispersed.

Instead of the heroic acclaim to which the deed entitled him, his own
flesh and blood had cursed him, one of his sons had been shot and
another was lying in prison a jibbering lunatic.

Would future generations agree with the men who had met in his own town
and denounced his deed as cruel, gruesome and revolting?

His stolid mind refused to believe it. Through hours of agonizing
prayer the new plan, based squarely on the vision that sent him to
Pottawattomie, began to fix itself in his soul.

This time he would chose his disciples from the elect. Only men tried in
the fires of Action could be trusted. Of five men he was sure. His son,
Owen, he knew could be depended on without the shadow of turning. Yet
Oliver was the second disciple chosen. He had forgiven the boy for
the fight over the pistol and had taken pains to regain his complete
submission. John Henry Kagi was the third chosen disciple, a young
newspaper reporter of excellent mind and trained pen. He had been
captured by United States troops in Kansas as a guerrilla raider and was
imprisoned first at Lecompton and then at Tecumseh. The fourth disciple
selected was Aaron Dwight Stevens, an ex-convict from the penitentiary
at Fort Leavenworth. Stevens was by far the most daring and interesting
figure in the group. His knowledge of military tactics was destined to
make him an invaluable aide. The uncanny in Brown's spirit had appealed
to his imagination from the day he made his escape from the penitentiary
and met the old man. The fifth disciple chosen was John E. Cook, a man
destined to play the most important role in the new divine mission with
the poorest qualification for the task. Born of a well-to-do family in
Haddon, Connecticut, he had studied law in Brooklyn and New York. He
dropped his studies against the protest of his people in 1855, and,
driven by the spirit of adventure, found his way into Kansas and at
last led his band of twenty guerrillas into John Brown's camp. Brown's
attention was riveted on him from the day they met. He was a man of
pleasing personality and the finest rifle shot in Kansas. He was genial;
he was always generous; He was brave to the point of recklessness; and
he was impulsive, indiscreet and utterly reckless when once bent on a
purpose. His sister had married Willard, the Governor of Indiana.

Brown's new plan required a large sum of money. With the prestige
his fighting in Kansas had given him, he believed the Abolition
philanthropists of the East would give this sum. He left his disciples
to drill and returned East to get the money.

In Boston his success was genuine, although the large amount which he
asked was slow in coming.

The old man succeeded in deceiving his New England friends completely as
to the Pottawattomie murders. On this event he early became a cheerful,
consistent and successful liar. This trait of his character had been
fully developed in his youth. Everywhere he was acclaimed by the pious
as, "Captain Brown, the old partisan hero of Kansas warfare."

His magnetic, uncanny personality rarely failed to capture the dreamer
and the sentimentalist. Sanborn, Howe, Theodore Parker, Thomas Wentworth
Higginson, George L. Stearns and Gerrit Smith became his devoted
followers. He even made Wendell Phillips and William Lloyd Garrison his
friends.

Garrison met him at Theodore Parker's. The two men were one on
destroying Slavery: Garrison, the pacifist; Brown, the man who believed
in bloodshed as the only possible solution of all the great issues of
National life. Brown quoted the Old Testament; Garrison, the New.

He captured the imagination of Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson.

He was raising funds for another armed attack on Slavery in Kansas. The
sentimentalists asked no questions. And if hard-headed business men
tried to pry too closely into his plans, they found him a past master in
the art of keeping his own counsel.

He struck a snag when he appealed to the National Kansas Committee for a
gift of rifles and an appropriation of five thousand dollars. They voted
the rifles on conditions. But a violent opposition developed against
giving five thousand dollars to a man about whose real mind they knew so
little.

H. B. Hurd, the Chairman of the Committee, had suspected the purpose
back of his pretended scheme for operations in Kansas. He put to Brown
the pointblank question and demanded a straight answer.

"If you get these guns and the money you desire, will you invade
Missouri or any slave territory?"

The old man's reply was characteristic. He spoke with a quiet scorn.

"I am no adventurer. You all know me. You are acquainted with my
history. You know what I have done in Kansas. I do not expose my
plans. No one knows them but myself, except perhaps one. I will not be
interrogated. If you wish to give me anything, I want you to give it
freely. I have no other purpose but to serve the cause of Liberty."

His answer was not illuminating. It contained nothing the Committee
wished to know. The statement that they knew him was a figure of speech.
They had read partisan reports of his fighting and his suffering in
Kansas--through his own letters, principally. How much truth these
letters contained was something they wished very much to find out. He
had given no light.

He declared that they knew what he had done in Kansas. This was the one
point on which they needed most light.

The biggest event in the history of Kansas was the deed on the
Pottawattomie. In the fierce political campaign that was in progress its
effects had been neutralized by denials. Brown had denied his guilt on
every occasion.

Yet as they studied his strange personality more than one member of the
Committee began to suspect him as the only man in the West capable of
the act.

The Committee refused to vote the rifles and compromised on the money
by making a qualification that would make the gift of no service.
They voted the appropriation, "in aid of Captain John Brown in any
_defensive_ measures that may become necessary." He was authorized to
draw five hundred dollars when he needed it for this purpose.

The failure rankled in the old man's heart and he once more poured out
the vials of his wrath on all politicians,--North and South.

For months he became an incessant and restless wanderer throughout New
York and the New England States.

He finally issued a general appeal for help through the _New York
Tribune_ and other friendly papers.

The contributions came slowly. The invitations to speak came slower. At
Collinsville, Connecticut, however, after his lecture he placed with
Charles Blair, a blacksmith and forge-master, an important secret order
for a thousand iron pikes. Blair pledged his loyalty. He received his
first payment on account, for a stand of weapons destined to become
souvenirs in marking the progress of civilization in the new world.

In the midst of his disappointing canvas for funds he received a letter
from his son, Jason, that a Deputy United States Marshal had passed
through Cleveland on the way East with a warrant for his arrest for the
Pottawattomie murders.

On the receipt of this news he wrote his friend, Eli Thayer:

"One of the U. S. hounds is on my track: and I have kept myself hid for
a few days to let my track get cold. I have no idea of being taken: _and
intend_ (if God _will_) to go back with Irons _in_ rather than _upon_ my
hands. I got a _fine lift_ in Boston the other day; and hope Worcester
will not be _entirely behind_. I do not mean _you_; or _Mr. Alien &
Company_."

So dangerous was the advent of the U. S. Marshal from Kansas that Brown
took refuge in an upper room in the house of Judge Russell in Boston
and remained in hiding an entire week. Mrs. Russell acted as maid and
allowed no one to open the front door except herself during the time of
his stay.

The Judge's house was on a quiet street and his connection with the
Abolition movement had been kept secret for political reasons. His
services to their cause were in this way made doubly valuable.

Brown daily barricaded his door and told his hostess that he would not
be taken alive. He added with the nearest approach to a smile ever seen
on his face:

"I should hate to spoil your carpet, Madame."

While in hiding at Judge Russell's he composed a sarcastic farewell to
New England. It is in his best style and true character as a poseur:

"Old Brown's _Farewell_: to the Plymouth Rock; Bunker Hill Monument;
Charter Oaks; and _Uncle Tom's Cabins_.

"Has left for Kansas. Was trying since he came out of the Territory to
secure an outfit; or, in other words, the means of arming and equipping
thoroughly, his regular minute men, who are mixed up _with the People of
Kansas_: and _he leaves the States_, with a _deep feeling of sadness_:
that after exhausting _his own_ small means: and with his _family and
his brave men_: suffered hunger, nakedness, cold, sickness, (and some of
them) imprisonment, with most barbarous and cruel treatment: _wounds
and death_: that after laying on the ground for months; in the most
unwholesome _and_ sickly as well as uncomfortable places: with sick and
wounded destitute of any shelter part of the time; dependent in part on
the care, and hospitality of the Indians: and hunted like Wolves: that
after all this; in order to sustain a cause, which _every Citizen_ of
this _Glorious Republic_, is under equal moral obligation to do: (_and
for the neglect of which HE WILL be held accountable TO GOD:) in which
every Man, Woman and Child of the human family;_ has a deep and awful
interest; and that _no wages are asked or expected:_ he cannot secure
(amidst all the wealth, luxury and extravagance of this _'Heaven
exalted'_ people) even the necessary supplies for a common soldier. HOW
ARE THE MIGHTY FALLEN?

"JOHN BROWN."

Following his usual tactics of interminable delays and restless, aimless
wandering, it was the 7th of August before he reached Tabor, Iowa, the
appointed rendezvous of his disciples.

Two days after his arrival the Free State election of the ninth of
August was held in Kansas and the heavy vote polled was a complete
triumph of the men of peace within the party. Kansas, in his absence,
had settled down to the tried American plan of the ballot box for the
decision of political disputes. Brown wrote Stearns a despairing letter.
He was discouraged and utterly without funds. He begged for five hundred
to one thousand dollars immediately for secret service and no questions
asked. He promised interesting times in Kansas if he could secure this
money. Of his disciples for the great coming deed but one had arrived
at Tabor, his faithful son Owen. The old man lingered at Tabor with his
religious friends until November before starting for Kansas.

Higginson, his chief backer in Massachusetts, was growing angry over his
repeated delays and senseless inaction. Sanborn, always Brown's staunch
defender, wrote Higginson a letter begging patience:

"You do not understand Brown's circumstances. He is as ready for
revolution as any other man, and is now on the border of Kansas safe
from arrest, prepared for action. But he needs money for his present
expenses and active support.

"I believe that he is the best Dis-union champion you can find, and with
his hundred men, when he is put where he can raise them and drill them
(for he has an expert drill officer with him) WILL DO MORE TO SPLIT THE
UNION than a list of 50,000 names for your Convention, good as that is.

"What I am trying to hint at is that the friends of Kansas are looking
with strange apathy at a movement which has all the elements of fitness
and success--a good plan, a tried leader, and a radical purpose. If you
can do anything for it _now_, in God's name do it--and the ill results
of the new policy in Kansas may be prevented."

The new policy in Kansas must be smashed at all hazards, of course. To
the men who believed in bloodshed as the only rational way to settle
political issues, the ballot box and the council table were the
inventions of the Devil. It was the duty of the children of Light to
send the Lord's Anointed with the Sword of Gideon to raise anew the
Blood Feud.

It is evident from this letter of F. B. Sanborn to Higginson that even
Sanborn had not penetrated the veil of the old Puritan's soul. The one
to whom he had revealed his true plan was his faithful son in Kansas.
The Territory was not the objective of this mission. It was only a feint
to deceive friend and foe.

And he succeeded in doing it.

That his purpose was the disruption of the Union in a deluge of blood,
Sanborn, of course, understood and approved. He was utterly mistaken as
to the time and place and method which the Man of Visions had chosen for
the deed.

On entering the Territory, now as peaceful as any State in the Union,
Brown gathered his disciples, Oliver, Kagi, Stevens, and Cook and
despatched them to Tabor, Iowa. Here they were informed for the first
time of the real purpose of their organization--the invasion of Virginia
and the raising of a servile insurrection in which her soil would be
drenched in blood within sight of the Capitol at Washington. With
Stevens, as drill master, they began the study of military tactics. They
moved to Springdale and established their camp for the winter.



CHAPTER XXIV


Suddenly the old man left Springdale. He ordered his disciples to
continue their drill until he should instruct them as to their next
march.

Two weeks later he was in Rochester, New York, with Frederick Douglas.
In a room in this negro's house Brown composed a remarkable document as
a substitute for the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of
the United States.

He hurried with his finished manuscript to the home of Gerrit Smith at
Peterboro for a consultation with Smith, Sanborn, Higginson and Stearns.

Only Sanborn and Smith appeared. Brown outlined to them in brief his
plan of precipitating a conflict by the invasion of the Black Belt of
the South and the establishment of a negro empire. Its details were as
yet locked in his own breast.

Smith and Sanborn discussed his plans and his Constitution for the
Government of the new power. In spite of its absurdities they agreed
to support him in the venture. Smith gave the first contribution which
enabled him to call the convention of negroes and radicals at Chatham,
Canada, to adopt the "Constitution."

Brown went all the way to Springdale, Iowa, to escort the entire body of
his disciples to this convention. And they came across a continent
with him--Stevens, Kagi, Cook, Owen Brown, and six new men whom he had
added--Leeman, Tidd, Gill, Taylor, Parsons, Moffit and Realf.

Thirty-four negroes gathered with them. Among the negroes were Richard
O. P. Anderson and James H. Harris of North Carolina.

The presiding officer was William C. Monroe, pastor of a negro church in
Detroit. Kagi, the stenographer, was made Secretary of the Convention.

Brown addressed the gathering in an unique speech:

"For thirty years, my friends, a single passion has pursued my soul--to
set at liberty the slaves of the South. I went to Europe in 1851 to
inspect fortifications and study the methods of guerrilla warfare which
have been successfully used in the old world. I have pondered the
uprisings of the slaves of Rome, the deeds of Spartacus, the successes
of Schamyl, the Circassian Chief, of Touissant L'Overture in Haiti, of
the negro Nat Turner who cut the throats of sixty Virginians in a single
night in 1831.

"I have developed a plan of my own to sweep the South. You must trust
me with its details. I shall depend on the blacks for the body of my
soldiers. And I expect every freedman in the North to flock to my
standard when the blow has fallen. I know that every slave in the South
will answer my call. The slaveholders we will not massacre unless
we must. We will hold them as hostages for our protection and the
protection of any prisoners who may fall into their hands."

The men listened in rapt attention and when he read his "Constitution
and Preamble," it was unanimously adopted.

The Constitution which they adopted was a piece of insanity in the
literal sense of the word, a confused medley of absurd, inapplicable
forms.

The Preamble, however, which contained the keynote of Brown's philosophy
of life, was expressed in clear-cut, logical ideas.

He read it in a cold, vibrant voice:

"Whereas, Slavery, throughout its entire existence in the United States
is none other than a most barbarous, unprovoked and unjustifiable war of
one portion of its citizens upon another portion: the only conditions
of which are perpetual imprisonment, and hopeless servitude or absolute
extermination, in utter disregard and violation of those eternal and
self-evident truths set forth in our Declaration of Independence:
_Therefore_, we CITIZENS OF the UNITED STATES, and the OPPRESSED PEOPLE
who by a RECENT DECISION of the SUPREME COURT ARE DECLARED to have NO
RIGHTS WHICH the WHITE MAN is BOUND to RESPECT; TOGETHER WITH ALL OTHER
PEOPLE DEGRADED by the LAWS THEREOF, DO, for the TIME BEING ORDAIN and
ESTABLISH for OURSELVES, the FOLLOWING PROVISIONAL CONSTITUTION and
ORDINANCES the BETTER to protect, our PERSONS, PROPERTY, LIVES and
LIBERTIES: and to GOVERN our ACTION."

The first result of his Radical Convention was the exhaustion of his
treasury. He had used his last dollar to bring his men on from the West
and no money had been collected to pay even their return fares.

They were compelled to go to work at various trades to earn their bread.
Brown determined to return to Kansas and create a sensation that would
again stir the East and bring the money into his treasury. He would at
the same time test the first principle of his plan by an actual raid
into a neighboring Southern State. In the meantime, he issued his first
order of the Great Deed. He selected John E. Cook as his scout and spy
and dispatched him to Harper's Ferry, Virginia, to map its roads, study
its people and reconnoiter the surrounding territory.

He raised the money to pay Cook's fare and saw him on the train for
Virginia before he started for Kansas to spring his second national
sensation.



CHAPTER XXV


Brown's scout reached the town of Harper's Ferry on June 5, 1858. The
magnificent view which greeted his vision as he stepped from the
train took his breath. The music of trembling waters seemed a grand
accompaniment to an Oratorio of Nature.

The sensitive mind of the young Westerner responded to its soul appeal.
He stood for half an hour enraptured with its grandeur. Two great
rivers, the Potomac and the Shenandoah, rushing through rock-hewn gorges
to the sea, unite here to hurl their tons of foaming waters against the
last granite wall of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Beyond the gorge, through which the roaring tide has cut its path, lies
the City of Washington on the banks of the Potomac, but sixty miles
away--a day's journey on a swift horse; an hour and a half by rail.

Cook at first had sharply criticized Brown's selection of such a place
for the scene of the Great Deed. As he stood surveying in wonder the
sublimity of its scenery he muttered softly:

"The old man's a wizard!"

The rugged hills and the rush of mighty waters called the soul to great
deeds. There was something electric in the air. The town, the rivers,
the mountains summoned the spirit to adventure. The tall chimneys of the
United States Arsenal and Rifle Works called to war. The lines of hills
were made for the emplacement of guns. The roaring waters challenged the
skill of generals.

The scout felt his heart beat in quick response. The more he studied the
hills that led to High Knob, a peak two thousand four hundred feet in
height, the more canny seemed the choice of Brown. From the top of this
peak stretches the county of Fauquier, the beginning of the Black Belt
of the South. Fauquier County contained more than ten thousand Slaves
and seven hundred freed negroes. There were but nine thousand eight
hundred whites. From this county to the sea lay a series of adjoining
counties in which the blacks outnumbered the whites. These counties
contained more than two hundred and sixty thousand negroes.

The Black Belt of Virginia touched the Black Belts of North Carolina,
South Carolina and Georgia--an unbroken stretch of overwhelming black
majority. In some counties they outnumbered the whites, five to one.

This mountain gorge, hewn out of the rocks by the waters of the rivers,
was the gateway into the heart of the Slave System of the South. And it
could be made the highroad of escape to the North if once the way were
opened.

Another fact had influenced the mind of Brown. The majority of the
workmen of Harper's Ferry were mechanics from the North. They would not
be enthusiastic defenders of Slavery. They were not slave owners. In a
fight to a finish they would be indifferent. Their indifference would
make the conquest of the few white masters in town a simple matter.

Cook felt again the spell of Brown's imperious will. He had thought the
old man's chief reason for selecting Harper's Ferry as the scene was his
quixotic desire to be dramatic. He knew the history of the village.
It had been named for Robert Harper, an Englishman. Lord Fairfax, the
friend of George Washington, had given the millwright a grant of it in
1748. Washington, himself, had made the first survey of the place and
selected the Ferry, in 1794, as the site of a National Armory.

Colonel Lewis Washington, the great-grandson of Washington's brother,
lived on the lordly plantation of Bellair, four miles in the country.
Brown had learned that the sword which Frederick the Great had given to
Washington, and the pistols which Lafayette had given him hung on the
walls of the Colonel's library.

He had instructed Cook to become acquainted with Colonel Washington,
and locate these treasures. He had determined to lead his negro army of
insurrection with these pistols and sword buckled around his waist.

Cook was an adventurer but he had no trace of eccentricity in his
character. He thought this idea a dangerous absurdity. And he believed
at first that it was the one thing that had led his Chief to select
this spot. He changed his mind in the first thirty minutes, as he stood
studying the mountain peak that stood sentinel at the gateway of the
Black Belt.

With a new sense of the importance of his mission he sought a boarding
house. He was directed by the watchman at the railroad station, a
good-looking freedman, an employee of the Mayor of the town, to the
widow Kennedy's. Her house was situated on a quiet street just outside
the enclosure of the United States Arsenal.

Cook was a man of pleasing address, twenty-eight years old, blue-eyed,
blond, handsome, affable, genial in manner and a good mixer. Within
twenty-four hours he had made friends with the widow and every boarder
in the house.

They introduced him to their friends and in a week he had won the good
opinion of the leading citizens of the place. A few days later the
widow's pretty daughter arrived from boarding school and the young
adventurer faced the first problem of his mission.

She was a slender, dark-eyed, sensitive creature of eighteen. Shy,
romantic, and all eyes for the great adventure of every Southern girl's
life--the coming of the Prince Charming who would some day ride up to
her door, doff his plumed hat, kiss her hand and kneel at her feet?

Cook read the eagerness in her brown eyes the first hour of their
meeting. And what was more serious he felt the first throb of emotion
that had ever distressed him in the presence of a woman.

He had never made love. He had tried all other adventures. He had never
met the type that appealed to his impulsive mind. He was angry with
himself for the almost resistless impulse that came, to flirt with this
girl.

It could only be a flirtation at best and, it could only end in
bitterness and hatred and tragedy in the end. He had done dark deeds on
the Western plains. But they were man deeds. No delicate woman had been
involved in their tangled ethics.

There was something serious in his nature that said no to a flirtation
of any kind with a lovely girl. He had always intended to take women
seriously. He did take them seriously. He wouldn't hesitate to kill a
man if he were cornered. But a woman--that was different. He tried
to avoid the eyes of Virginia. He couldn't. In spite of all, seated
opposite at the table, he found himself looking into their brown liquid
depths. They were big, soulful eyes, full of tenderness and faith and
wonder and joy. And they kept saying to him:

"Come here, stranger man, and tell me who you are, where you came from,
where you're going, and what's your hurry."

There was nothing immodest or forward in them. They just kept calling
him.

She was exactly the type of girl he had dreamed he would like to marry
some day when life had quieted down. She was of the spirit, not the
flesh. Yet she was beautiful to look upon. Her hair was a dark, curling
brown, full of delicate waves even on the top of her head. Her hands
were dainty. Her body was a slender poem in willowy, graceful lines. Her
voice was the softest Southern drawl.

The Kennedys were not slave holders. The pretty daughter joyfully helped
her mother when she came home from school. Her sentiments were Southern
without the over emphasis sometimes heard among the prouder daughters
of the old regime. These Southern sentiments formed another impassable
barrier. Cook said this a hundred times to himself and sought to make
the barrier more formidable by repeating aloud his own creed when in his
room alone.

The fight was vain. He drifted into seeing her a few minutes alone each
day. She had liked him from the first. He felt it. He knew it. He had
liked her from the first, and she knew it.

Each night he swore he'd go to bed without seeing her and each night he
laughed and said:

"Just this once more and it won't count."

He felt himself drifting into a tragedy. Yet to save his life he
couldn't lay hold of anything that would stand the strain of the sweet
invitation in those brown eyes.

To avoid her he spent days tramping over the hills. And always he came
back more charmed than ever. The spell she was weaving about his heart
was resistless.



CHAPTER XXVI


Brown returned to Kansas with Stevens and Kagi, his two bravest and most
intelligent disciples.

If he could make the tryout of his plan sufficiently sensational, his
prestige would be restored, his chief disciples become trained veterans
and his treasury be filled.

When he arrived, the Free State forces had again completely triumphed at
the ballot box. They had swept the Territory by a majority of three to
one in the final test vote on the new Constitution. The issue of Slavery
in Kansas was dead. It had been settled for all time.

Such an inglorious end for all his dreams of bloodshed did not depress
the man of visions. Kansas no longer interested him except as a
rehearsal ground for the coming drama of the Great Deed.

He had carefully grown a long gray beard for the make-up of his new
role. It completely changed his appearance. He not only changed his
make-up, but he also changed his name. The title he gave to the new
character which he had come to play was, "Shubel Morgan."

The revelation of his identity would be all the more dramatic when it
came.

When his men and weapons had been selected, he built his camp fire on
the Missouri Border. His raid was carefully planned in consultation with
Stevens, Kagi and Tidd. With these trusted followers he had rallied a
dozen recruits who could be depended on to obey orders. Among them was a
notorious horse thief and bandit known in the Territory by the title of
"Pickles."

As they entered the State of Missouri on the night of the twenty-fifth
of January, Brown divided his forces. Keeping the main division under
his personal command, he despatched Stevens with a smaller force to
raid the territory surrounding the two plantations against which he was
moving.

Between eleven and twelve o'clock Brown reached the home of Harvey G.
Hicklin, the first victim marked on his list.

Without the formality of a knock he smashed his door down and sprang
inside with drawn revolver.

Hicklin surrendered.

"We have come to take your slaves and such property as we need," the old
man curtly answered.

"I am at your mercy, gentlemen," Hicklin replied.

Gill was placed in charge of the robbers who ransacked the bureau
drawers, closets and chests for valuables.

Brown collected the slaves and assured them of protection. When every
watch, gun, pistol, and every piece of plate worth carrying had been
collected, and the stables stripped of every horse and piece of leather,
the old man turned to his victim and coolly remarked:

"Now get your property back if you can. I dare you and the whole United
States Army to follow me to-night. And you tell this to your neighbors
to-morrow morning."

Hicklin kept silent.

Brown knew that his tongue would be busy with the rising sun. He also
knew that his message would be hot on the wires to the East before the
sun would set. He could feel the thrill it would give his sentimental
friends in Boston. And he could see them reaching for their purses.

The men were still emptying drawers on the floor in a vain search for
cash. Hicklin never kept cash over night in his house. He lived too near
the border.

Brown called his men from their looting and ordered them to the next
house which he had marked for assault--the house of James Lane,
three-quarters of a mile away.

They smashed Lane's door and took him a prisoner with Dr. Erwin, a guest
of the family.

From Hicklin he had secured considerable booty and his men were keen for
richer spoils. The first attack had netted the raiders two fine horses,
a yoke of oxen, a wagon, harness, saddles, watches, a fine collection
of jewelry, bacon, flour, meal, coffee, sugar, bedding, clothing, a
shotgun, boots, shoes, an overcoat and many odds and ends dumped into
the wagon.

From Lane they expected more. They were sore over the results. They got
six good horses, their harness and wagons, a lot of bedding, clothing
and provisions, but no jewelry except two plain silver watches.

Brown added five negroes to his party and told them he would take them
to Canada. Thus far no blood had been shed. The attacks had been made
with such quiet skill, the surprise was complete. In spite of all the
talk and bluster of frontier politicians no sane man in the State of
Missouri could conceive of the possibility of such a daring crime. The
victims were utterly unprepared for the assault. And no defense had been
attempted.

Stevens had better luck. His party had encountered David Cruise, a
man who was rash enough to resist. He was an old man, too, of quiet,
peaceable habits and exemplary character. He proved to be the man who
didn't know how to submit to personal insult.

He owned but one slave who did the cooking for his family. When Stevens
broke into his house and demanded the woman, he indignantly refused to
surrender his cook to a gang of burglars.

The ex-convict, who had served his term for an assault with intent to
kill, didn't pause to ask Cruise any questions.

His revolver clicked, a single shot rang out and the old man dropped on
the floor with a bullet through his heart.

Passing the body, Stevens looted the house. He made the largest haul of
the night. He secured four oxen, eleven mules, two horses, and a wagon
load of provisions. Incidentally he picked up a valuable mule from a
neighbor of Cruise as they passed his house on the way to join Brown.

When Stevens reported the murder and gave the inventory of the valuable
goods stolen, "Shubel Morgan" stroked his long gray beard and spoke but
one word:

"Good."

In his grim soul he knew that the blood stain left on Cruise's floor
would be worth more to his cause than all the stolen jewelry, horses and
wagons. Its appeal to the East would be the one secret force needed to
rouse the archaic instincts of his pious backers. They would deny with
indignation the accusation of murder against his men. They would invent
the excuse of self-defense. He did not need to make it. From the deeps
of their souls would come the shout of the ancient head-hunter returning
with the bloody scalp of a foe in his hand. Brown felt this. He knew it,
because he felt it in his own heart. He was a Puritan of Puritans.

With deliberate daring the caravan moved back into the Territory. For
the moment the audacity of the crime stunned the frontier. He had
figured on this hour of uncertainty and amazement to make good his
escape. He knew that he could depend on the people along the way to Iowa
to protect the ten slaves which he had brought out of Missouri.

The press of Kansas unanimously condemned the outrage. Brown knew they
would. He could spit in their faces now. He was done with Kansas. His
caravan was moving toward the North; his eyes were fixed on the hills of
Virginia.

His experiment had been a success.

The President of the United States, James Buchanan, offered a reward
of $250 for his arrest. The Governor of Missouri raised the reward to
$3,000. The press flashed the news of the daring rescue of ten slaves by
old John Brown. He regained in a day his lost prestige. The stories of
the robberies which accompanied the rescue were denied as Border Ruffian
lies, as "Shubel Morgan" knew they would be denied.

His enterprise had met every test. He got his slaves safely through to
Canada and started a reign of terror. The effect of the raid into a
Slave State had tested his theory of direct, bloodstained action as the
solution and the only solution of the problem.

The occasional frowns of pious people on his methods caused him no
uneasiness or doubt. He was a man of daily prayer. He was on more
intimate terms with God than his critics.

The one fly in the ointment of his triumph was the cold reception given
him by the religious settlement at Tabor, Iowa. These good people had
treated him as a prophet of God in times past and his caravan had headed
for Tabor as their first resting place.

He entered the village with a song of triumph. He would exhibit his
freed slaves before the Church and join with the congregation in a hymn
of praise to God.

But the news of his coming had reached Tabor before his arrival. They
had heard of the stealing of the oxen, the horses, the mules, the
wagons.

They had also heard of the murder of David Cruise. Brown had denied the
Pottawattomie crimes and they had believed him. This murder he could
not deny. They had not yet reached the point of justifying murder in an
unlawful rescue. These pious folks also had a decided prejudice against
a horse thief, however religious his training and eloquent his prayers.

When his caravan of stolen wagons, horses and provisions, moved slowly
into the village, a curious but cold crowd gazed in silence. He placed
the negroes in the little school house and parked his teams on the
Common.

The next day was Sunday and the old Puritan hastened to church with his
faithful disciples. Amazed that he had received from the Rev. John
Todd no invitation to take part in the services, he handed Stevens a
scribbled note:

"Give it to the preacher when he comes in."

Stevens gave the minister the bit of paper without a word and resumed
his seat in the House of God.

The Rev. John Todd read the scrawl with a frown:

"John Brown respectfully requests the church at Tabor to offer public
thanksgiving to Almighty God in behalf of himself and company: _and of
their rescued captives, in particular_, for His gracious preservation
of their lives and health: and His signal deliverance of all out of the
hands of the wicked. 'Oh, give thanks unto the Lord; for He is good: for
His mercy endureth forever.'"

The Rev. Dr. King was in the pulpit with the militant preacher Todd that
day and the perplexed man handed the note to King.

The two servants of Christ were not impressed with the appeal. The words
Brown had marked in italics and his use of the Psalms failed to rouse
the religious fervor of the preachers. They knew that somewhere in the
crowd sat the man who had murdered Cruise and stolen those horses. They
also knew that John Brown had approved the deeds of his followers.

Todd rose and announced that he had received a petition which he could
not grant. He announced a public meeting of the citizens of the town in
the church the following day to take such action as they might see fit.

When Brown faced this meeting on Monday he felt its hostility from the
moment he rose. He made an excuse for not speaking by refusing to go on
when a distinguished physician from Missouri entered the church.

Brown demanded that the man from Missouri be expelled. The citizens of
Tabor refused. And the old man sullenly took his seat.

Stevens, the murderer, sprang to his feet and in his superb bass voice
shouted:

"So help me, God, I'll not sit in council with one who buys and sells
human flesh."

Stevens led the disciples out of the church.

At the close of the discussion the citizens of Tabor unanimously adopted
the resolution:

"_Resolved_, That while we sympathize with the oppressed and will do all
that we conscientiously can to help them in their efforts for freedom,
nevertheless we have no sympathy with those who go to slave states to
entice away slaves and take property or life, when necessary, to attain
this end.

"J. SMITH, _Sec. of Meeting._" Tabor, Feb. 7, 1857.

John Brown shook the dust of Tabor from his feet after a long prayer to
his God which he took pains to make himself.

At Grinnell, Iowa, his reception was cordial and he began to feel the
confidence which his exploit would excite in the still more remote East.
His caravan had moved Eastward but fourteen days' journey from Tabor
and he had been received with open arms. The farther from the scene of
action Brown moved, the more heroic his rugged patriarchal figure with
its flowing beard loomed.

On reaching Boston his triumph was complete. Every doubt and fear had
vanished. Sanborn, Higginson, Stearns, Howe, and Gerrit Smith, in a
short time, secured for him more than four thousand dollars and the
Great Deed was assured.



CHAPTER XXVII


While Brown was at work in the North collecting money, arms and
ammunition, Cook was quietly completing his work at the Ferry. He
fought the temptation to take Virginia with him on his trips and then
succumbed.

The thing that decided it was the fact that she knew Colonel Louis
Washington and had been to Bellair. She promised to introduce him.

To make sure of Brown's quixotic instructions about the sword and
pistols he must make the trip. The drive in the snug little buggy along
the river bank was a red letter experience in the young Westerner's
life.

Seated beside the modest slip of a Southern girl chatting with vivacity
and a happiness she couldn't conceal, the man forgot that he was a
conspirator in a plot to deluge a nation in blood. He forgot the long
nights of hiding in woods and ravines. He forgot dark deeds of sacking
and robbery. He was just a boy again. The sun was shining in the glory
of a sweet spring morning in the mountains. The flowers were blooming in
the hedges. He smelled the wild cherry, blackberry and dewberry bushes.
Birds were singing. The new green of the leaves was dazzling in its
splendor. The air was pure and sweet and sent the blood bounding to the
tips of his fingers.

He glanced at the soft red cheeks of the girl beside him and a great
yearning for a home and babies and peace overwhelmed him. His lips
trembled and his eyes filled with tears. He rebelled against the task to
which he had put his hand.

"Why so pensive?" she asked with a laugh.

"Am I?"

"You haven't spoken for a mile."

"I'm just so happy, I reckon," he answered seriously.

He remembered his grim task and threw off the spell. He must keep a
cool head and a strong hand. He remembered the strange old man to whose
"Constitution" he had sworn allegiance in Canada and began to talk in
commonplaces.

To the girl's romantic ears they had meaning. Every tone of his voice
fascinated her. The mystery about him held her imagination. She was sure
it was full of thrilling adventure. He would tell her some day. She
wondered why he had waited so long. He had been on the point of telling
his love again and again and always stopped with an ugly frown. She
wondered sometimes if his life had been spoiled by some tragedy. A
thousand times she asked herself the question whether he might be
married and separated from a wife. He had lived in the North. He had
told her many places he had seen. People were divorced sometimes in the
North. She dismissed the thought as absurd and resigned herself again to
the charms of his companionship.

Colonel Washington was delighted to see again the daughter of an old
friend. Her father had been his companion on many a hunting and fishing
trip.

Virginia introduced her companion.

"My friend, Mr. John Cook, Colonel Washington."

The colonel extended his hand cordially.

"Glad to meet you, young man. A friend of Virginia's is a friend of
mine, sir."

"Thank you."

"Walk right in, children, sit down and make yourselves at home. I'll
find that damned old lazy butler of mine and get you some refreshments."

"Let's sit outside," Virginia whispered.

"No," Cook protested. "I want to see the inside of a Washington home."

The Colonel waved his arm toward the house.

"With you in a minute, children. Walk right in."

"Of course, if you wish it," the girl said softly.

They entered the fine old house, and sat down in the hall. Cook smiled
at the easy fulfillment of his task. Directly in front of the door, set
in a deep panel, was the portrait of the first President. On the right
in a smaller panel hung the sword which Frederick the Great had given
him. On the other side, the pistols from the hands of Lafayette. A tiny,
gold plate, delicately engraved, marked each treasure.

Virginia showed him these souvenirs of her country's history. She spoke
of them with breathless awe. She laughed with girlish pride.

"Aren't they just grand?"

Cook nodded.

He felt guilty of treachery. A betrayal of Southern hospitality in
this sweet girl's presence! He ground his teeth at the thought of his
weakness the next moment.

Colonel Washington appeared through the door from the dining room. He
was followed by his ancient butler, bearing a tray filled with drinks.

The Colonel served them with his own hand. The negro grinned his welcome
to the guests. At the sight of a slave, Cook was himself again. His jaw
closed and his eye flashed. He was once more the disciple of the Man of
the Blood-Feud.

Washington handed a tall glass to Virginia.

"Your lemonade, young lady. I know your taste and approve."

He bowed low and gave her the drink.

He took two glasses of mint juleps, one in each hand.

"Mr. Cook, the favorite drink of these mountains, sir, as pure as its
dews, as refreshing as its air--the favorite drink of old Virginia. To
your good health, sir!"

Cook's head barely moved and he drank in silence.

He held his mood of reserve on the drive home. In vain the girl smiled
and coaxed his dreary spirits. He refused to respond. They passed the
same wonderful views, the same birds were singing, the same waters
foaming and laughing over the rocks below. The man heard nothing, saw
nothing, save a vision inside his raging soul. He saw men riding through
the night to that house. He saw black hands grip iron pikes and knock at
the door of its great hall.

There was a far-away look in his keen eyes--eyes that could sight a
rifle with deadly aim.

The slender girl nestled closer in wonder at the veil that had suddenly
dropped between them. The fires of youth and passion responded for a
moment to this instinctive stir of his mate. Resistance was agony. His
arm moved to encircle her waist. He turned in an impulse to kiss her
lips and whisper the mad things his heart was saying.

He caught himself in time.

What had he to do with this eternal call of the human heart to love and
be loved? It meant home, it meant tenderness. It meant peace and good
will to every living thing. He had come to kill, not to love; to
destroy, not build homes.

Again he rebelled against his hideous task. And then he remembered John
Brown and all for which he stood. His oath crashed through his memory.
He resolved to put every thought of tenderness, beauty, and love under
his feet and trample them. It was the only way to save himself and this
girl.

It would be hard--but he would do it. For an entire week he did not
speak to her except in monosyllables. He made no effort to hide his
decision. He wanted her to see and know the firm purpose within his
heart.

Her eyes followed him with a look of dumb anguish. If she had spoken in
reproaches he would have fought and withstood her. Her silence was more
than he could bear.

On the sixth day of his resolution he saw that she had been crying. She
smiled and tried to hide it, but he knew. He would go for a walk to the
Heights and cheer her up a bit. It wasn't necessary to be brutal.

Her brown eyes began to smile again. They walked over the Heights and
down a steep pathway among the rocks to the river's edge and sat down on
a boulder worn smooth by the waters of the spring floods.

The ripple of the current made soft music. They were silent for a long
time and then she turned toward him a tender, questioning gaze. In spite
of her effort to be strong a tear stole down the firm young cheek.

"What have I done to make you angry?"

"Nothing," he answered in a whisper.

"What's the matter, then?"

He took her hand and held it in a cruel grip before he spoke. His words
came at last in passionate pleading.

"Oh, dear little girl, can't you see how I've been fighting this thing
for months--how I've tried to keep away from you and couldn't?"

"Why?"

She breathed the question leaning so close that her lips framed a kiss.

"I can't tell you," he said.

"But you must! You must!" she pleaded.

Tears were in his eyes now. He looked away.

"A gulf separates us, child."

"How can it?" she whispered tenderly.

"It's just there!"

"Can't you cross it?"

"No."

She drew her slender body erect with an effort. She tried to speak twice
before she succeeded.

"You--are--married--then?"

"Oh--no--no--not that--no!"

She bent close again, a sweet smile breaking through her tears.

"Then you can tell me what it is."

"I couldn't tell it, even to my wife."

Her brow contracted in a puzzled look.

"It's nothing low or dishonorable?"

"No. And it belongs to the big things of life-and death."

"And I cannot know this secret?"

"You cannot know. I have taken an oath."

"And it separates us?"

"Yes."

"But why--if--you--love--me--and I love--you--"

She paused and blushed scarlet. She had told a man her love before he
had spoken. But he _had_ spoken! His voice, his tears, his tones had
told her.

He looked at her a moment, trembling. He spoke one word at a time as if
he had no breath to finish the sentence.

"It's--sweet--to--hear--your--dear--lips--say--that--you--love--me--God
knows I love you--you-dear-little-angel-sent-from heaven! I'm not worthy
to touch your hand and yet I'm crushing it--I can't help it--I can't-I
can't."

She slipped into his arms and he crushed her to his heart.

"I love you," she whispered. "I can trust you. I'll never ask your
secret until you wish to tell me. Just love me, forever. That's all I
ask."

"I can do that, and I will!" he answered solemnly.

They were married the next night in the parsonage of the Methodist
Church of which she was a member. And the foundation was laid for a
tragedy involving more lives than one.



CHAPTER XXVIII


From an old log farmhouse on the hills of Maryland,--overlooking the
town of Harper's Ferry, the panther was crouching to spring.

For four months in various disguises Brown had reconnoitered the
mountains around the gorge of the two rivers. He had climbed the
peak and looked into the county of Fauquier with its swarming slave
population. Each week he piloted his wagon to the town of Chambersburg,
Pennsylvania, thirty-five miles back in the hills.

The Humanitarians through their agents were shipping there, day by day,
the powder, lead, guns, knives, torches and iron pikes the Chosen One
had asked.

These pious men met him for a final conference in the home of Gerrit
Smith, the preacher philanthropist of Peterboro.

The canny old huntsman revealed to them just enough to excite the
unconscious archaic impulse beneath the skin of culture. He told them
that he was going to make a daring raid into the heart of the Old South
and rescue as many of the "oppressed" as possible. They knew that the
raid into Missouri had resulted in murder and that he rode back into
Kansas with the red stains on his hands.

Brown gained their support by this carefully concealed appeal to their
subconscious natures. As the crowd of eager faces bent close to catch,
the details of his scheme, the burning eyes of the leader were suddenly
half closed. Silence followed and they watched the two pin points of
light in vain.

Each pious man present caught the smell of human blood. Yet each pious
man carefully concealed this from himself and his neighbor until it
would be approved by all. Had the bald facts behind the enterprise been
told in plain English, religion and culture would have called a
halt. The elemental impulse of the Beast must therefore be carefully
concealed.

Every man present knew that they were sending Brown on a man-hunt. They
knew that the results might mean bloodshed. They knew, as individuals,
exactly what was being said and what was being planned. Its details
they did not wish to know. The moral significance--the _big_ moral
significance of the deed was something apart from the bloody details.
The Great Deed could be justified by the Higher Law, the Greater Glory
of God. They were twisting the moral universe into accord with the
elemental impulse of the brute that sleeps beneath every human skin.

The Great Deed about to be done would be glorious, its actors heroes and
martyrs of a Divine Cause. They knelt in prayer and their Chosen Leader
invoked the blessings of the Lord of Hosts upon them and upon his
disciples in the Divine Cause.

The hour of Action was now swiftly approaching. Cook had become a book
agent. With his pretty Virginia wife his figure became familiar to every
farm, in the county. He visited every house where a slave was to be
found. He sold maps as well as books. He also sketched maps in secret
when he reached the quiet of his home while his happy little bride sang
at her work.

He carefully compiled a census of slaves at the Ferry and in the
surrounding country. So sure had he become of the success of the blow
when it should fall, that he begged his Chief to permit him to begin
to whisper the promise of the uprising to a few chosen men among the
slaves.

The old man's eyes; flamed with anger.

"You have not done this already?" he growled.

"No--no."

"You swear it?"

Brown had seized Cook by both arms and searched his eyes for the truth.
The younger man was amazed at the volcanic outburst of anger.

"A hundred times I've told you, Cook, that you talk too much," he went
on tensely. "You mean well, boy, but your marriage may prove a tragedy
in more ways than one."

"It has proven my greatest weapon."

"If you're careful, if you're discreet, if you can control your foolish
impulses. I've warned you again and again and yet you've been writing
letters--"

Cook's eyes wavered.

"I only wrote one to an old girl friend in Tabor."

"Exactly. You told of your marriage, your happiness, your hopes of a
great career--and I got a copy of the letter."

"How?"

"No matter. If I got it, somebody else could get one. Now will you swear
to me again to obey my orders?"

The burning eyes pierced his soul and he was wax.

"Yes. I swear!"

"Good. I want a report from you daily from now on. Stop your excursions
into the country, except to meet me in broad daylight in the woods this
side of our headquarters. You understand?"

"Yes. You can depend on me."

Brown watched him with grave misgivings. He was the one man on whom
he depended least and yet his life and the life of every one in his
enterprise was in his hands. There were more reasons than one why he
must hasten the final preparations for the Deed.

The suspicions of the neighbors had been roused in spite of the utmost
vigilance. He had increased his disciples to twenty men. He had induced
his younger son, Watson, to leave North Elba and join them. His own
daughter, Annie, and Oliver's wife had come with Watson, and the two
women were doing the work for his band--cooking, washing, and scrubbing
without a murmur.

The men were becoming restless in their close confinement. Five of them
were negroes. Brown's disciples made no objections to living, eating
and sleeping with these blacks. Such equality was one of the cardinal
principles of their creed.

But the danger of the discovery of the presence of freed negroes
living in this farmhouse with two white women and a group of white men
increased each day.

The headquarters had a garrulous old woman for a neighbor. Gradually,
Mrs. Huffmeister became curious about the doings at the farm. She began
to invent daily excuses for a visit. They might be real, of course, but
the old man's daughter became uneasy. As she cleaned the table, washed
the dishes and swept the floors of the rooms and the porch, she was
constantly on the lookout for this woman.

The thing that had fascinated her was the man whom this girl called
father. His name was "Smith," but it didn't seem to fit him. She was an
illiterate German and knew nothing of the stirring events in Kansas. But
her eyes followed the head huntsman with fascinated curiosity.

At this time his personal appearance was startling in its impressive
power, when not on guard or in disguise. His brilliant eyes, his flowing
white beard and stooped shoulders arrested attention instantly and held
it. He was sixty years old by the calendar and looked older. And yet
always the curious thing about him was that the impression of age was on
the surface. It was given only when he was still. The moment he moved
in the quick, wiry, catlike way that was his habit, age vanished. The
observer got the impression of a wild beast crouching to spring.

It was little wonder that Mrs. Huffmeister made excuses to catch a
glimpse of his figure. It was little wonder that she had begun to talk
to her friends about "Mr. Smith" and his curious ways.

She had talked to him only once. She was glad that he didn't talk much.
There was an expression to his set jaw and lips that was repulsive.
Especially there was something chill in the tones of his voice. They
never suggested tenderness or love, or hope or happiness--only the
impersonal ring of metal. The agile and alert body of a man of his age
was an uncanny thing, too. The woman's curiosity was roused anew with
each glimpse she got of him until her coming at last became a terror to
the daughter.

She warned her father and he hastened his preparations. If the world
below once got a hint of what was going on behind those rough logs there
would be short shrift for the men who were stalking human game.

It became necessary for the entire party of twenty men to lie concealed
in the low attic room the entire day. Not more than two of them could be
seen at one time.

The strange assortment of ex-convicts, dreamers, theorists, adventurers
and freed negroes were kept busy by their leader until the eve of the
Great Deed. They whittled into smooth shape the stout hickory handles
for a thousand iron pikes, which Blair, the blacksmith of Collinsville,
Connecticut, had finally delivered. To these rude weapons the fondest
hopes of the head-huntsman had been pinned from the first. The slave
was not familiar with the use of firearms. His strong, black arm could
thrust these sharp pieces of iron into human breasts with deadly
accuracy. Brown saw that every nail was securely set in the handles.

Each day he required the first stand of rifles to be burnished anew.
The swords and knives were ground and whetted until their blades were
perfect.

There was not work enough to stop discussion toward the end. Cook had
finally whispered to Tidd that the leader intended to assault and take
the United States Arsenal and Rifle Works. Cook's study of law revealed
the fact that this act would be high treason against the Republic.

The men had all sworn allegiance to Brown under his Constitution but the
rank and file of the little provisional army did not understand that he
intended to attack the National authority by a direct assault.

A violent discussion broke out in the attack led by Tidd. At the end of
the argument Tidd became so infuriated by Brown's imperious orders for
submission to his will that he left the place in a rage, went down to
the Ferry and spent the week with Cook.

Brown tendered his resignation as Commander in Chief. There was no other
man among them who would dare to lead. A frank discussion disclosed this
fact and the disciples were compelled to submit. They voted submission
and authorized Owen to put it in writing which he did briefly but to the
point:

Harper's Ferry, Aug. 18, 1859.

DEAR SIR,

We have all agreed to sustain your decisions, until you have _proved
incompetent_, and many of us will adhere to your decisions as long as
you will.

Your friend, OWEN SMITH.


The rebellion was suppressed within the ranks and the leader's authority
restored. But the task of watching and guarding became more and more
trying and dangerous.

One of the women remained on guard every moment from dawn to dusk. When
washing dishes she stood at the end of the table where she could see the
approach to the house. The meals over, she took her place on the porch
or just inside the door. Always she was reading or sewing. She not only
had to watch for foes from without, but she was also the guard set over
the restless "invisible" upstairs. In spite of her vigilance, Hazlett
and Leeman would slip off into the woods and wander for hours. Hazlett
was a fine-looking young fellow, overflowing with good nature and social
feelings. The prison life was appalling to him. Leeman was a boy from
Saco, Maine, the youngest man among the disciples. He smoked and drank
occasionally and chafed under restraint.

In spite of the women's keen watch these two fellows more than once
broke the rules by slipping into Harper's Ferry in broad daylight and
spending the time at Cook's house. They loved to watch the slender,
joyous, little wife at her work. They envied Cook, and, while they
watched, wondered at the strange spell that had bound their souls and
bodies to the old man crouching on the hill to strike the sleeping
village.

The reports of these excursions reached Brown's ears and increased his
uneasiness. The thing that hastened the date for the Great Deed to its
final place on the calendar was the fact that a traitor from ambush had
written a letter to the Secretary of War, John B. Floyd, revealing the
whole plot and naming John Brown of Kansas as the leader.

The Secretary of War was at the time in the mountains of Virginia on
a vacation. The idea of any sane human being organizing a secret
association to liberate the slaves of the South by a general
insurrection was too absurd for belief--too puerile for attention. The
letter was tossed aside.

If this were not enough, his friend and benefactor, Gerrit Smith, had
made an unfortunate speech before a negro audience in which he had
broadly hinted of his hope of an early slave insurrection.

It was the last straw. He was awaiting recruits but he dare not delay.
He summoned his friend, Frederick Douglas, from Rochester to meet him at
Chambersburg. If he could persuade Douglas to take his place by his side
on the night the blow would be struck, he would need no other recruits.
Brown knew this negro to be the foremost leader of his race and that the
freedmen of the North would follow him.

The old man arranged through his agent in Chambersburg that the meeting
should take place in an abandoned stone quarry just outside of town.

The watcher on the hill over Harper's Ferry was disguised as a
fisherman. His slouch hat, and also rod and reel, rough clothes, made
him a typical farmer fisherman of the neighborhood. He reached the stone
quarry unchallenged.

With eager eloquence he begged for the negro's help.

Douglas asked the details of his attack.

Brown bared it, in all its daring. He did not omit the Armory or the
Rifle Works.

Douglas was shocked.

With his vivid eloquence as a negro orator, he possessed far more common
sense than the old Puritan before whom he stood. He opposed his plea
as the acme of absurdity. The attack on the Federal Arsenal would be
treason. It would array the whole Nation against him. It would hurl the
army of the United States with the militia of Virginia on his back in an
instant.

Brown; boldly faced this possibility and declared that with it he could
still triumph, if once he crossed the line of Farquier county and thrust
his pikes into the heart of the Black Belt.

All day Saturday and half the day on Sunday the argument between the two
men continued. At noon on Sunday the old man slipped his arm around the
negro and pressed it close. His voice was softer than Douglas had ever
heard it and it sent the cold chills down his spine in spite of his firm
determination never to yield.

"Come with me, Douglas, for God's sake," he begged. "I'll defend you
with my life. I want you for a special purpose. I'll capture Harper's
Ferry in two hours. They'll be asleep. When I cross the line on the
mountain top and call the ten thousand slaves in Fauquier County--the
bees will swarm, man! Can't you see them? Can't you hear the roar when
I've placed these pikes in their hands?--_I want you_ to hive them."

Douglas hesitated for only a moment. His vivid imagination had seen the
flash of the hell-lit vision of the slave insurrection and his soul
answered with a savage cry. But he slipped from Brown's arms, rubbed his
eyes and flung off the spell.

"My good friend," he said at last, "you're walking into a steel trap.
You can't come out alive."

He turned to Shields Green, the negro guard who was now one of the old
man's disciples. Green had been a friend of Douglas' in Rochester. He
had introduced him to the Crusader. He felt responsible for his life. He
had a duty to perform to this ignorant black man and he did it, painful
as it was.

"Green, you have heard what I've just said to my friend. He has changed
his plans since you volunteered. You understand, now. You can go with
him or come home with me to Rochester. What will you do?"

His answer was coolly deliberate.

"I b'lieve I go wid de ole man!"

With a heavy heart Brown saw Douglas leave. It was the shattering of his
most dramatic dream of the execution of the Great Deed. When the black
bees should swarm he had seen himself at the head of the dark, roaring
tide of avengers, their pikes and rifles flashing in the Southern sun.
Around his waist was the sword of George Washington and the pistols of
Lafayette. His Aide of Honor would ride, this negro, once a fugitive
slave. Side by side they would sweep the South with fire and sword.

On arrival at his headquarters on the hill he learned that a revival
of religion was going on in the town below and he fixed Sunday, the
seventeenth of October, as the day of the Deed. Harper's Ferry would not
only be asleep that night--every foe would be lulled in songs of praise
to God.



CHAPTER XXIX


At eight o'clock on Sunday night, the sixteenth of October, 1859, John
Brown drove his one-horse wagon to the door of the rude log house in
which he had hidden with his disciples for four months.

It was a damp, chill evening of mid fall. Heavy rain clouds obscured the
stars and not a traveler ventured along the wind-swept roads. From the
attic were loaded into the wagon crowbars, sledge hammers, iron pikes
and oil-soaked faggots.

The crowbars and sledge hammers might be used on the gates or doors.
There could be no doubt about the use to which the leader intended to
put the pikes and torches.

When the wagon had been loaded the old man summoned his faithful son,
Owen.

"Captain Owen Brown," the steel voice rang, "you will take private
Barclay Coppoc and F.J. Merriam and establish a guard over this house
as the headquarters of our expedition. Hold it at all hazards. You are
guarding the written records of our work, the names of associates, the
reserves of our arms and ammunition. We will send you reinforcements in
due time."

Owen saluted his commander and the two privates under his command took
their places beside him.

Brown waved to the eighteen men standing around the wagon.

"Get on your arms, and to the Ferry!"

They had been ready for hours, eager for the Deed. Not one among them in
his heart believed in the wisdom of this assault, yet so grim was the
power of Brown's mind over the wills of his followers, there was not a
laggard among them.

Brown drove the wagon and led the procession down the pitch-black road
toward the town. The men fell in line two abreast and slowly marched
behind the team.

Cook and Tidd, raised to the rank of Captains, their commissions
duly signed, led the tramping men. There were many captains in this
remarkable army of twenty-one. There were more officers than privates.
The officers were commissioned to recruit their black companies when the
first blow had been struck.

The enterprise on which these twenty-one veteran rangers had started in
the chill night was by no means so foolhardy as appears on the surface.
The leader was leaving his base of supplies with a rear guard of but
three men. Yet the army on the march consisted of but eighteen. He knew
that the United States Arsenal had but one guarded gate and that the
old watchman had not fired a gun in twenty-five years. It would be the
simplest thing to force this gate and the Arsenal was in their hands.
The Rifle Works had but a single guard. They could be taken in five
minutes. Once inside these enclosures, he had unlimited guns and
ammunition at his command.

The town would be asleep at ten o'clock when he arrived at the Maryland
end of the covered bridge across the Potomac. Eighteen armed men were an
ample force to capture the unsuspecting town. Not a single policeman was
on duty after ten. The people were not in the habit of locking their
doors.

The one principle of military law which the leader was apparently
violating was the failure to provide a plan of retreat. But retreat was
the last thing he intended to face.

The one thing on which he had staked his life and the success of his
daring undertaking was the swarming of the black bees. His theory was
reasonable from the Abolitionist's point of view. He believed that negro
Chattel Slavery as practiced in the South was the sum of all villainies.
And the Southern slave holders were the arch criminals and oppressors of
human history. In his Preamble of the new "Constitution" to which his
men had sworn allegiance, he had described this condition as one
of "perpetual imprisonment, and hopeless servitude or absolute
extermination." If the negroes of the South were held in the chains of
such a system, if they were being beaten and exterminated, the black
bees _would_ swarm at the first call of a master leader and deluge the
soil in blood.

John Brown believed this as he believed in the God to whom he prayed
before he loaded his pikes and torches on the wagon. These black legions
would swarm to-night! He could hear their shouts of joy and revenge
as they gripped their pikes and swung into line under his God imposed
leadership.

The whole scheme was based on this faith. If Garrison's words were true,
if the Southern slave holder was a fiend, if Mrs. Stowe's arraignment of
Slavery on the grounds of its inhuman cruelty was a true indictment, his
faith was well grounded.

His thousand pikes in the hands of a thousand determined blacks led by
the trained Captains whom he had commissioned was a force adequate to
hold the town of Harper's Ferry and invade the Black Belt beyond the
Peak.

The moment these black legions swarmed and weapons were placed in their
hands the insurrection would spread with lightning rapidity. The weapons
were in the Arsenal. The massacres would be sweeping through Virginia,
North and South Carolina before an adequate force could reach this
mountain pass. And when they reached it, he would be at the head of a
black, savage army moving southward with resistless power.

The only question was the swarming of this dark army. Cook, who had
spent nearly a year among the people and knew these slaves best, was the
one man who held a doubt. For this reason he had begged Brown a second
time to let him sound the strongest men among the slaves and try their
spirit. Brown refused. He knew a negro. He was simply a white man in a
black skin by an accident of climate. He knew exactly what he would do
when put to the test. To discuss the subject was a waste of words. And
so with faith serene in the success of the Deed, he paused but a moment
at the entrance of the bridge.

He ordered Captains Kagi and Stevens to advance and take as prisoner
William Williams, the watchman. The two rangers captured Williams
without a struggle.

"A good joke, boys," he laughed.

"You'll find it a good one before the night's over," Stevens answered.

When he attempted to move, a revolver at his breast still failed to
convince him.

"Go 'way, you boys, with your foolishness. It's a dark night, but I'm
used to being scared!"

It was not until Kagi gave him a rap over the head with his rifle that
he sat down in amazement and wiped the sweat from his brow. He forgot
the chill of the night air. His brain was suddenly on fire.

Brown waited at the entrance of the bridge until the watchman had been
captured and Cook and Tidd had cut the line on the Maryland side of the
river.

He then advanced across the covered way to the gate of the Arsenal hut a
few yards beyond the Virginia entrance.

He captured Daniel Whelan, the watchman at the Arsenal entrance.
Dumbfounded but stubborn, he refused to betray his trust by surrendering
the keys.

"Open the gate!" Brown commanded.

"To hell wid yez!"

A half dozen rifles were thrust at his head.

He folded his arms and stood his ground.

They pushed a lantern into his face and Brown studied him a moment. He
didn't wish a gun fired yet. The town was asleep and he wanted it to
sleep.

"Get a crowbar," he ordered.

They got a crowbar from the wagon, jammed it into the chain which held
the wagon gate and twisted the chain until it snapped. He drove the
wagon inside, closed the gate and the United States Arsenal was in his
hands.

Brown placed the two watchmen in charge of his men, Jerry Anderson and
Dauphin Thompson.

He spoke to the prisoners in sharp command.

"Behave yourselves, now. I've come here to free all the negroes in this
State. If I'm interfered with I'll burn the town and have blood."

Every man who passed through the dark streets was accosted, made
prisoner and placed under guard.

Hazlett and Edwin Coppoc were ordered to hold the Armory. Oliver Brown
and William Thompson were sent to seize the Shenandoah bridge, the
direct line of march into the slave-thronged lower valley.

Stevens was sent to capture the Rifle Works which was accomplished in
two minutes.

The program had worked exactly as Brown had predicted. Not a shot had
been fired and they were masters of the town, its two bridges, the
United States Arsenal, Armory and Rifle Works.

The men were now despatched through the town for the real work of the
night--the arming of the black legion with pikes and torches.

It was one o'clock before the first accident happened. Patrick Higgins,
the second night watchman, came to relieve Williams on the Maryland
bridge.

Oliver Brown, on guard, cried:

"You're my prisoner, sir."

The Irishman grinned.

"Yez don't till me!"

Without another word he struck Oliver a blow. The crack of a rifle was
the answer. In his rage young Brown was too quick with the shot. The
bullet plowed a furrow in Higgins' skull but failed to pierce it.

He ran into the shadows.

Once inside the Wager House, he gave the alarm. The train from the West
pulled into the station and was about to start across the bridge when
Higgins, his face still streaked with blood, rushed up to the conductor
and told him what had happened. He went forward to investigate, was
fired on and backed his train out to the next station.

As the train pulled out Shepherd Haywood, a freedman, the baggage master
of the station, walked toward the bridge to find the missing watchman.
The raiders shot him through the breast and he fell mortally wounded.
The first victim was a faithful colored employee of Mayor Beekham, the
station master of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad Company.

The shot that killed him roused a man of action. Dr. John D. Starry
lived but a stone's throw from the spot where Haywood had fallen.
Hearing the shot and the groans of the wounded man, the doctor hastened
to his rescue and carried him into the station. He could give no
coherent account of what had happened and was already in a dying
condition.

The doctor investigated. He approached two groups of the raiders, was
challenged and retreated. Satisfied of the seriousness of the attack
when he saw two armed white men lead three negroes holding pikes in
their hands into the Armory gate, he saddled his horse and rode to his
neighbors in town and country and gave the alarm.

While this dangerous messenger was on his foam-flecked horse, Brown,
true to his quixotic sense of the dramatic, sent a raiding party of
picked men to capture Colonel Washington and bring to his headquarters
in the Arsenal the sword and pistols. On this foolish mission he
despatched Captains Stevens, Cook and Tidd, with three negro privates,
Leary, Anderson and Green. He gave positive orders that Colonel
Washington should be forced to surrender the sword of the first
President into the hands of a negro.

Day was dawning as the strange procession on its return passed through
the Armory gate. In his own carriage was seated Colonel Washington and
his neighbor, John H. Allstead. Their slaves and valuables were packed
in the stolen wagons drawn by stolen horses.

Brown stood rifle in hand to receive them.

"This," said Stevens to Washington, "is John Brown."

"Osawatomie Brown of Kansas," the old man added with a stiffening of his
figure.

He then handed a pike to each of the slaves captured at Bellair and
Allstead's:

"Stand guard over these white men."

The negroes took the pikes and held them gingerly.

At sunrise Kagi sent an urgent message to his Chief advising him that
the Rifle Works could not be held in the face of an assault. He begged
him to retreat across the Potomac at the earliest possible moment.

Retreat was a word not in the old man's vocabulary. He sent Leary to
reinforce him, with orders to hold the works.

He buckled the sword and pistols of Washington about his gaunt waist
and counted his prisoners. He had forty whites within the enclosure. He
counted the slaves whom he had armed with pikes. He had enrolled under
his banner less than fifty. They stood in huddled groups of wonder and
fear.

The black bees had failed to swarm.

He scanned the horizon and not a single burning home lighted the skies.
It had begun to drizzle rain. Not a torch had been used.

He had lost four precious hours in his quixotic expedition to capture
Colonel Washington, his sword and slaves. He could not believe this a
mistake. God had shown him the dramatic power of the act. He held a
Washington in his possession. He was being guarded by his own slaves,
armed. The scene would make him famous. It would stir the millions of
the North. It would drive the South to desperation.

The thing that stunned him was the failure of the black legions to
mobilize under the Captains whom he had appointed to lead them.

It was incredible.

He paced the enclosure, feverishly recalling the histories of mobs which
he had studied, especially the fury of the French populace when the
restraints of Law and Tradition had been lifted by the tocsin of the
Revolution. The moment the beast beneath the skin of religion and
culture was unchained, the massacres began. Every cruelty known to man
had been their pastime.

And these beasts were white men. How much more should he expect of the
Blacks? Haiti had given him assurance of darker deeds. The world was
shivering with the horrors of the Black uprising in Haiti when he was
born. He had drunk the story from his Puritan mother's breast. From
childhood he had brooded with secret joy over its bloody details.

The Black Bees had swarmed there and Toussaint L'Overture had hived them
as he had asked Frederick Douglas to hive them here. They seized the
rudest weapons and wiped out the white population. They butchered ten
thousand French men, women and children. And not a cry of pity or mercy
found an echo in a savage breast.

What was wrong here?

He had proclaimed the slave a freeman. He had placed an iron pike in his
right hand and a torch in his left. Why had they not answered with a
shout of triumph?

His somber mind refused to believe that they would not rise. Even now he
was sure they were mobilizing in a sheltered mountain gorge. Before noon
he would hear the roar of their coming and see the terror-stricken faces
of the whites fleeing before their rush.

He had repeated to his Northern crowds the fable of negro suffering in
the South until he believed the lie himself. He believed it with every
beat of his stern Puritan heart. And he had repeated and shouted it
until the gathering Abolitionist mob believed it as a message from God.
The fact that the system of African slavery, as actually practiced in
the South, was the mildest and most humane form of labor ever fixed
by the masters of men, they refused to consider. The mob leader never
allows his followers to consider facts.

He knows that his crowd prefers dreams to facts. Dreams are the motives
of crowd action. The dream, the illusion, the unreality have ever been
the forces that have shaped human history in its hours of crisis when
Fate has placed the future in the hands of the mob.

The fact that Slavery in the South had lifted millions of black
savages--half of them from cannibal tribes--into the light of human
civilization--that it had been their school, their teacher, their
church, their inspiration--did not exist, because it was a fact. They
did not deal in facts.

And so again Brown lifted his burning eyes toward the hills reflected
in the mirror of the rivers. Down one of those rocky slopes the Black
Legion would sweep before the day was done!

He had boldly despatched Cook across the Potomac bridge with the wagons,
horses and treasures stolen from Colonel Washington's house to be stored
at headquarters. There was still no doubt or shadow of turning in his
imperious soul.

With each passing moment the swift feet of the avengers were closing the
trap into which he had walked.

By ten o'clock the terror-stricken people of the town and county had
seized their weapons and the fight began. Bullets were whistling from
every street corner and every window commanding a glimpse of the Arsenal
and Armory.

Brown's handful of men began to fall. The Rifle Works surrendered first
and his guard of three men were all dead or wounded. By three o'clock
his forces had been cut to pieces and he had taken refuge in the Engine
House of the Armory. The bridges were held by the people. Owen, Cook and
his guard at the old log house on the Maryland side were cut off and
could not come to his rescue.

The amazing news of an Abolition invasion of Virginia and the capture
of the United States Arsenal and Rifle Works had shaken the nation.
President Buchanan hastily summoned from Arlington the foremost soldier
of the Republic and despatched Colonel Robert E. Lee to the scene
with the only troops available at the Capital, a company of marines.
Lieutenant J. E. B. Stuart volunteered to act as his aide. The young
cavalier was in the East celebrating the birth of a baby boy.



CHAPTER XXX


When the marines arrived from Washington it was past midnight. The town
swarmed with armed men from every farm and fireside. Five companies of
militia from Maryland and Virginia were on the ground and Henry Wise,
the Governor of Virginia, was hurrying to take command.

Stuart had established Colonel Lee's headquarters behind the brick wall
of the Arsenal enclosure. Not more than fifty yards from the gate stood
the Engine House in which Brown had barricaded himself with his two
sons, Oliver and Watson, and four of his men. He held forty white
hostages.

A sentinel of marines covered the entrance to the enclosure. The militia
had yielded command to the United States troops.

As Stuart stood awaiting Colonel Lee's arrival, Lieutenant Green, in
command of the marines, stepped briskly to the aide's side to report the
preliminary work.

As yet no one in the excited town knew the identity of the mysterious
commander "John Smith" who led the invasion. No one could guess the
number of men he had in his army nor how many he held in reserve on the
Maryland hills.

Stuart's blue eyes flashed with excitement.

"The marines have the Arsenal completely surrounded?" he asked.

"A rat couldn't get through, Lieutenant Stuart."

"The bridges leading into Harper's Ferry guarded?"

"Three picked men at each end, sir."

"Any signs of the Abolitionists on the hills at dawn?"

"A shot from a sniper on the Maryland side nipped one of the guards--"

"Then their headquarters and the reserves are back in those hills."

"I'm sure of it. I've sent a squad to get the sniper."

"All right, it's daylight. Keep your marines away from the Arsenal gate.
It's barely fifty yards to the Engine House. We've got the Abolitionists
penned inside. But they're good shots."

"I've warned them, sir."

"No fighting now until Colonel Lee takes command. His train has just
pulled in."

"Why the devil didn't he come with us?" Green asked suddenly.

"Called to the White House for a conference with President Buchanan, in
such haste that he couldn't stop to put on his uniform. The Capital's
agog over this affair. The wildest rumors are afloat."

"Nothing to the rumors afloat here among these militiamen and dazed
citizens."

"Colonel Lee will straighten them out in short order--"

Stuart suddenly stiffened to attention as he saw the soldierly figure of
the Colonel approaching from the station with quick, firm step. Over his
civilian suit he had hastily thrown an army overcoat and looked what he
was, the bronzed veteran commander of the Texas plains.

He saluted the two young officers and quickly turned to his aide.

"No sign of a slave uprising, of course?"

"The invaders did their best to bring it on. They've taken about fifty
negroes from their masters."

"Armed them?"

"With pikes and rifles."

"The invaders have robbed houses as reported?"

"Taken everything they could get their hands on. They forced their way
into Colonel Washington's home, dragged him from bed, stole his watch,
silver, wagons, horses, saddles and harness. They hold him a prisoner
with four of his slaves."

"Colonel Washington is now their prisoner?"

"With others they are holding as hostages."

"Hostages?"

"They swear to murder them all at the first sign of an attack."

"They won't!" he answered sharply.

"I think they will, sir. They shot an unarmed negro porter at the depot
and murdered the Mayor to-day as he was passing through the streets.
They are expecting reinforcements at any minute."

"The militia are ready for duty?"

"Some are. Some are drinking."

Lee turned to Lieutenant Green.

"Close every barroom in town."

Green saluted.

"At once, sir."

Green turned to execute the order. The only problem that gave Lee
concern was the use the invaders might make of the prisoners they held.
That they would not hesitate to expose them to death as a protection
to their own lives he couldn't doubt. Men who would dare the crime of
raising a slave insurrection would not hesitate to violate the code of
military honor.

He saw Stuart was restless. There was something on his mind. He half
guessed the trouble and paused.

"Well, Lieutenant?"

Stuart laughed.

"I suppose, Colonel, you couldn't possibly let me lead the assault on
the Engine House, could you?"

Lee's eyes twinkled at the eager look. The Colonel was a man as well as
a soldier. And he was a father. He loved the shouts of children more
than he loved the shouts of armies. In the pause he saw a vision. A
little blue-eyed mother crooning over a baby which she had named for her
sweetheart. The great heart forgot the daring soldier before him eager
for a fight. He saw only the handsome husband and a wife at home praying
God for his safe return. He could see her pressing the pink bundle of
flesh to her heart, singing a lullaby that was a prayer. There would be
no glory in such an assault. There was only the possibility of a bloody
tragedy before a handful of desperadoes could be overcome. He faced his
aide with a frown.

"Lieutenant Green is in command of the marines, sir. You are only my
voluntary aide. You will act strictly within the rules of war."

Stuart saluted. He knew that his commander was a stern disciplinarian.
Argument was out of the question. He made up his mind, however, to watch
for a chance to join in the attack, once it was begun.

Green returned from his errand leading an old negro who held one of
Brown's iron pikes.

The lieutenant thrust the trembling figure before the Colonel.

Lee studied him, and suppressed the smile that began to play about his
lips.

"Well, uncle, this looks bad for you," he said finally.

"Lordee, Master, don't you blame me!" the old negro protested.

"They found him hiding in the bushes," Green explained.

"Yassah," the old man broke in. "I wuz kivered up in de leaves!"

"That's right, sir," Green agreed. "The pike was standing beside a tree.
They raked the leaves and found him in a hole."

"An' I tried ter git under de hole, too."

"The raiders took you by force?" Lee asked.

"Yassah! Dey pulls me outen bed, make me put on my close, gimme dis here
han' spike, an' tells me I kin kill my ole marster an' missis when I
feels like it--"

"Did you try to kill them?" Lee asked seriously.

"Who? Me?"

"Yes."

"Man! I drawed dat han' spike on dem Abolishioners an' I says: 'You low
doun stinkin' po' white trash. Des try ter lay de weight er yo' han' on
my marster er missis,--an' I'll lan' yo' in de middle of er spell er
sickness'--"

"And they took you prisoner."

"Yassah."

"I see."

"Dey starts ter shoot me fust! But den dey say I wuzn't wuf de powder
an' lead hit'ud take ter kill me."

"And you escaped?"

"Na sah, not den. Dey make me go wid 'em, wher er no. But I git loose
byme bye an' crawl inter dat patch er trees doun dar by de ribber--"

"We found him there," Green nodded.

"Yassah, I mak' up my min' dat dey's have ter burn de woods an' sif de
ashes for' dey ebber see me ergin."

Stuart's boyish laughter rang without restraint.

"All right, uncle," Lee responded cordially. "You can leave that pike
with me."

"Yassah, you kin sho have it. God knows I ain't got no use fur it."

He threw the pike down and brushed his hands as if to get rid of the
contagion of its touch.

"You're safe," Lee added. "The United States Marines are in command of
Harper's Ferry now."

"Yassah. De Lawd knows I doan wanter 'sociate wid no slu-footed,
knock-kneed po' whites. I'se er ristercrat, I is. Yassah, dat's me!"

"I'm glad to help you, uncle."

"Thankee, sah."

"Hurry back to your home now and help your people in their troubles."

"Yassah, right away, sah--right away!"

The old man hurried home, bowing right and left to his white friends and
muttering curses on the heads of the Abolitionists, who had dragged him
from his bed and caused him to lose four square meals.

Lee examined the pike carefully. He measured its long stiletto-like
blade, projecting nine inches from its fastenings in the hickory handle.
He observed the skill and care with which the rivets had been set.

"An ugly piece of iron," he said at last.

"I'll bet they've thousands of them somewhere back in these hills,"
Stuart added.

"And not a negro has lifted his hand against his master?"

"Not one."

Lee ran his fingers along the edges of the blade and a dreamy look came
into his thoughtful eyes.

"My boy, such people deserve their freedom. But not this way--not this
way! God save us from the horrors of the mob and the fanatic who leads
them! Slavery is surely and swiftly dying. It cannot survive the
economic pressure of the century. If only we can be saved from such
madness."

His voice died away as in a troubled dream. He looked up suddenly and
turned to his aide.

"I must summon their leader to surrender. You have not yet learned his
name?"

"He calls himself John Smith, sir. They've been here all summer in an
old farmhouse on the Maryland side."

"Strange that their purpose should not have been discovered. Their work
has been carefully and secretly planned."

"Beyond a doubt."

"They could not have done it without big backing somewhere."

"They've had it. They've had plenty of money. They have rifles of the
finest make. And they're not the type made in this Arsenal."

"They expected to use the rifles in the Armory, of course. And they
expect reinforcements. Any sign of their reserves?"

"Not yet, sir. We have the roads guarded for ten miles."

"We'll settle it before they can get help," Lee said sharply.

He hastily wrote a summons to surrender and handed it to Stuart.

"Approach the Engine House under a flag of truce. Ask for a parley with
their leader and give him this."

Stuart saluted.

"At once, sir."

He attached his handkerchief to his sword and entered the gate. A loud
murmur rose from the crowd of excited people who had pressed close to
see the famous commander of the Marines.

Lee turned to the sentinel.

"Push that crowd back."

The crowd had pressed closer, watching Stuart with increasing
excitement.

The sentinel clubbed his musket and pressed against the front men
savagely.

"Stand back!"

The people slowly retreated. Lee turned to Lieutenant Green.

"Your men are ready for action?"

"They await your orders, sir."

"I suppose you wish the honor of leading the troops in taking these men
out of the Engine House?"

Green smiled and bowed.

"Thank you, Colonel!"

"Pick a detail of only twelve men, with a reserve of twelve more. When
Lieutenant Stuart gives you the signal, assault the Engine House and
batter down the doors with sledge hammers--"

Green saluted.

"Yes, sir."

Lee spoke his next command in sharp emphasis.

"The citizens inside whom the raiders are holding must not be harmed.
See to this when you gain an entrance. Once inside, pick your enemies.
You understand?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"Hold your men in check until the signal to attack. I hope it will not
be necessary to give it. I shall do my best to avoid further bloodshed."

"All right, sir."

Green saluted and stood at attention awaiting the arrival of Stuart.

Lee's aide had approached the Engine House, watched in breathless
suspense by a crowd of more than two thousand people. In spite of the
efforts of the sentinels they had jammed every inch of space commanding
a view of the enclosure.

When Stuart reached the bullet-marked door he called:

"For Mr. Smith, the commander of the invaders, I have a communication
from Colonel Lee!"

Brown opened the door about four inches and placed his body against the
crack. Stuart could see through the opening his hand gripping a rifle.

He refused to open it further and the parley was held with the door
ajar.

He at last allowed Stuart to enter.

His first look at the man's face startled him. The full gray beard could
not mask the terrible mouth which he had studied one day in Kansas. And
nothing could dim the flame that burned in his blue-gray eyes.

He recognized him instantly.

"Why, aren't you old Osawatomie Brown of Kansas, whom I once held there
as my prisoner?"

"Yes, but you didn't keep me."

"I have a written communication from Colonel Lee."

"Read it."

Stuart drew the sheet of paper from his pocket and read in his clear,
ringing voice:

"Headquarters Harper's Ferry,

October 18, 1859.

Colonel Lee, United States Army, commanding the troops sent by the
President of the United States to suppress the insurrection at this
place, demands the surrender of the people in the Armory buildings."

"If they will peaceably surrender themselves and return the pillaged
property, they shall be kept in safety to await the orders of the
President. Colonel Lee reports to them, in all frankness, that it is
impossible for them to escape, that the Armory is surrounded by troops,
and that if he is compelled to take them by force he cannot answer for
their safety.

R. E. LEE, _Colonel Commanding U. S. Troops_."


Stuart waited and Brown made no reply.

"You will surrender?"

"I will not," was the prompt answer.

In vain the young officer tried to persuade the stubborn old man to
submit without further loss of life.

"I advise you to trust to the clemency of the Government," Stuart urged.

"I know what that means, sir. A rope for my men and myself. I prefer to
die just here."

"I'll give you a short time to think it over and return for your final
answer."

Brown at once began to barricade the doors and windows. And Stuart
reported to his commander.

Lee met him at the gate.

"Well?"

"A little surprise for us, Colonel--"

"He refuses to surrender?"

"Absolutely. Captain 'John Smith' turns out to be Old John Brown of
Osawatomie, Kansas, sir."

"You're sure?"

"I couldn't be mistaken. I had him a prisoner on the plains once when
our troops were ordered out to quell the disturbances."

"That man's been here all summer planning this attack?"

"And not a soul knew him."

Lee was silent a moment and spoke slowly:

"It can only mean a conspiracy of wide scope to drench the South in
blood--"

"Of course."

"He refuses to yield without a fight?"

Stuart laughed.

"He don't know how to surrender. I left him with two pistols and a bowie
knife in his belt and a rifle in each hand."

"How many men were with him?"

"I saw but six besides the prisoners he holds as hostages. The prisoners
begged for an interview with you, sir. I told them to be quiet--that you
knew what you were doing."

"It's incredible!" Lee exclaimed.

He paused in deep thought and went on as if talking to himself.

"Strange old man--I must see him."

"I wouldn't, Colonel. He's a tough customer."

"I hate to order an assault on six men. He must be insane."

"No more than you are, unless the pursuit of a fixed idea for a lifetime
makes a man insane."

Lee turned suddenly to his aide.

"Press that crowd back into the next street and ask him to come here
under a flag of truce."

"I warn you, Colonel," Stuart protested. "He violated a flag of truce in
Kansas. He won't hesitate to shoot you on sight if he takes a notion."

Lee smiled.

"He didn't try to shoot you on sight, did he?"

"No--"

"Go back and bring him here. I must find out some things from him if I
can. He may not survive the assault."

Stuart again fixed his flag of truce and returned to the Engine House.
This time the Colonel called a cordon of marines and pressed the crowd
into the next street.

He beckoned to a sentinel.

"Ask Lieutenant Green to step here."

The sentinel called a marine to take his place and went in search of the
commander of the company.

Lee lifted his eyes to the hills of Maryland. But a few miles beyond the
first range lay the town of Sharpsburg, where Destiny was setting the
stage for the bloodiest battle in the history of the republic. A little
farther on lay the town of Gettysburg, over whose ragged hills Death was
hovering in search of camping ground.

Did his prophetic soul pierce the future? Never had he been more
profoundly depressed. The event he was witnessing was but the prelude to
a tragedy he felt to be from this hour inevitable.

Green saluted in answer to his summons.

"I want you to witness an interview which I will have with John Brown,
and receive my final orders!"

"The leader is old John Brown?"

"Lieutenant Stuart has identified him."

A shout from a crowd of boys who had climbed the trees of the next
street caused Lee to turn toward the gate as the invader and Stuart
passed through.

As Lee confronted Brown no more startling contrast could be presented by
two men born under the same flag. John Brown with his bristling, unkempt
beard, his two revolvers and sword hanging and dangling on his gaunt
frame, his eyes glittering and red from the loss of two nights' sleep,
the incarnation of Lawlessness; Lee, the trained soldier, the inheritor
of centuries of constructive genius, the aristocrat in taste, the
humblest and gentlest Christian in spirit, the lover of Peace, of Order.

The commander of the forces of Law spoke in friendly tones.

"You are John Brown of Osawatomie, Kansas?"

"Yes!"

"You are in command of the invaders who have killed four citizens of
Harper's Ferry and seized the United States Arsenal?"

"I am in command."

"Would you mind telling me why you have invaded Virginia?"

"To free your slaves."

"How many men were under your command when you entered?"

"Seventeen white men and five colored freedmen."

"With an armed force of twenty-two you have invaded the South to free
three million slaves?"

"I expected help--" He paused and his burning eyes flashed toward the
hills. "And I still expect it!"

"From whom could you expect it?"

"From here and elsewhere."

"From blacks as well as whites?"

"From both."

"You have been disappointed in not getting it from either?"

"Thus far--yes."

Lee studied him with increasing wonder. There was a quiet daring in his
attitude, an utter disregard of the tragic forces that had closed in on
his ill-fated venture that was astounding. What could be its secret?
It was something more than the coolness and poise of a brave Ulan. His
manner was not cool. His mind was not poised.

There was a vibrant ring to his metallic voice which betrayed the
profoundest emotion. His daring came from some mysterious source within.
It was a daring that was the contradiction of reason and experience. It
was uncanny.

Lee asked his questions in measured tones.

"You were disappointed, I take it, particularly in the conduct of the
blacks?"

"Yes."

"Exactly. If negro Slavery in the South were to-day the beastly thing
which you and Garrison have so long proclaimed, you could not have been
disappointed. Had your illusion of abuse and cruelty been true the
negroes _would_ have risen to a man, put their masters to death, and
burned their homes. Yet, not a black man has lifted his hand. There must
be something wrong in your facts--"

Brown lifted his head solemnly.

"There can be nothing wrong in my faith, Colonel Lee. It comes from
God."

"I didn't say your faith, my friend. I said your facts--" He paused and
picked up the pike.

"These unused pikes bear witness to your error. This is an ugly weapon,
Mr. Brown!"

"It was meant to kill."

"We found it in the hands of a negro."

"I wish to conceal nothing, sir--" The old man paused, lifted his
stooped shoulders and drew a deep breath. "I armed fifty blacks with
them and I had many more which I hoped to use."

Lee touched the point of the two-edged blade,

"This piece of iron, then, placed in the hands of a negro was meant for
the breasts of Southern white men, women and children?"

"I came to proclaim your slaves free and give them the weapons to make
good my orders."

"Who gave you the authority to issue orders of life and death?" Lee
asked with slow, steady emphasis.

Brown's eyes flashed.

"I gave it to myself, sir. By the authority of my conscience and what I
believe to be right."

"Suppose all took the same orders? Every man who differs with his
neighbor, gets his gun, proclaims himself the mouthpiece of God and
kills those who disagree with him. Civilization is built on an agreement
not to do this thing. We have placed in the hands of the officer of the
law the task of executing justice. The moment we dare as individuals to
take this into our own hands, the world becomes a den of wild beasts--"

"The world's already a den of wild beasts," Brown interrupted sharply.
"They have snarled and snapped long enough. It's time to clinch and
fight it out."

There could be no doubt of the savage earnestness of the man who spoke.
There was the ring of steel in every word. Lee looked at him curiously.

"May I ask how many people you know in the North who feel that way
toward the South?"

"Millions, sir."

"And they back you in this attack?"

"A few chosen prophets--yes--thank God."

"And these prophets of the coming mob of millions have furnished you the
money to arm and equip this expedition?"

"They have."

"It's amazing--"

"The millions are yet asleep," Brown admitted. He shook his gray locks
as his terrible mouth closed with a deep intake of breath. "But I'll
awake them! The thunderbolt which I have launched over Harper's Ferry
will call them. And they will follow me. I hope to hear the throb of
their drums over the hills before you have finished with me to-day!"

Lee was silent again, looking at the face with flaming eyes in a new
wonder.

"And you invade to rob and murder at will?"

"I have not robbed!"

"No?"

"I have confiscated the property of slaveholders for use in a divine
cause."

"Who gave you the right to confiscate the property of others in any
cause?"

"Again I answer, my conscience."

"So a common thief can say."

"I am no common thief."

"Yet when you forced your way into Colonel Washington's home at night
you committed a felony, known as burglary."

"I did it in a holy crusade, sir."

"The highwayman on the plains might plead the same necessity."

"You know, Colonel Lee, that I am neither felon, nor highwayman. I am an
Abolitionist. My sole aim in the invasion of the South is to free the
slave--"

"At any cost?"

"At any cost. I see, feel, know but one thing-that you are guilty of a
great wrong against God and humanity. I have the right to interfere with
you. To free those whom you hold in bondage."

"Even though you deluge the world in blood?"

"Yes. That is why I am here. I have no personal hate. No spirit of
revenge. I have killed only when I thought I had to. I have protected
your citizens whom hold as prisoners."

"You had no right to take those men prisoners."

Brown ignored the interruption.

"I ordered my men to fire only on those who were trying to stop our
work."

"And yet you placed these pikes in the hands of negroes and gave them
oil-soaked torches?"

Brown threw his hand high over his head as if to waive an irrelevant
remark.

"I am here, sir, to aid those suffering a great wrong."

"And you begin by doing a greater wrong!"

The old man pursued his one idea without a break in thought. Lee's words
made not the slightest impression.

"This question of the negro, Colonel Lee, you must face. You may dispose
of me now easily. But this question is still to be settled. The end of
that is not yet!"

"I, too, believe that Slavery is wrong, my friend. Yet surely this is
not the way to bring to the slave his freedom. On pikes to be driven
into the breasts of unoffending men and women! Two wrongs have never yet
made a right."

The old man lifted his head towards the hills and a look of religious
rapture overspread his furrowed face. His soul's deepest faith breathed
in his words:

"Moral suasion is a vain thing, sir. This issue can be settled in blood
alone."

The Colonel watched him with a growing feeling of futility.

"I have taken pains in this interview, Mr. Brown, to clear the way for
your surrender without bloodshed. I cannot persuade you?"

"Upon what terms?"

"Terms?"

"I said so, sir."

The Colonel marveled at his audacity. Yet he was in dead earnest. His
suggestion was not bravado.

"The only possible terms I can offer I suggested in my first message. I
will protect you and your men from this infuriated crowd and guarantee
you a fair trial by the civil authorities."

"I can't accept," Brown answered curtly. "You must allow me to leave
this place with my men and the prisoners I hold as hostages until I
reach the canal locks on the Maryland side. There I will release your
citizens, and as soon as this is done your troops may fire on us, and
pursue us."

"Such an offer is a waste of words. You must see that further resistance
is useless."

"You have the numbers on us, sir," Brown answered defiantly. "But we are
not afraid of death. I'd as lief die by a bullet as on the gallows. I
can do more now by dying than by living. I came here to destroy the
institution of Slavery by the sword--"

Lee's answer came with clean-cut emphasis.

"The law which protects Slavery is going to be repealed in God's own
time. I am, myself, working toward that end as well as you, sir, and the
end is sure. But at this moment the Constitution of the United States
to which we owe liberty, justice, order, progress, wealth and power,
guarantees this institution. Until its repeal it is my duty and it is
your duty to obey the law. Will you submit?"

Brown's answer came like the crack of a rifle.

"The laws of the United States I have burned in a public square, sir.
The Constitution is a covenant with Death, an agreement with Hell. I
loathe it. I despise it. I spit upon it--"

Lee lifted his hand in gesture of command.

"That will do, sir!"

He faced Stuart with quick decision.

"Take him back to his men and give the signal of assault."

"Good!"

Stuart turned to Green.

"I'll wave my cap."

Stuart led Brown through the gate to the Engine House.

Lee summoned Green.

"Your troops are raw men, I understand."

"They have never been under fire, sir. But they're soldiers--never
fear."

"All right. We'll put them to the test. Assault and take the Engine
House without firing a shot. No matter how severe the fire on you, we
must protect our citizens held inside. Use the bayonet only. Give each
of your twelve men careful instructions. When fired on, they must not
return that fire!"

Green saluted and passed to the head of his detail of twelve men. A
shout from the boys in the tree tops was the signal of Stuart's return.

"Watch that crowd," Lee ordered the sentinel. "Use the reserves to hold
them out of range."

Stuart returned with his eyes flashing.

"Ready, sir!"

"Give your signal."

Stuart stepped into the open, and waved his cap.

Green's detail of twelve men, the commander at their head, rushed to the
Engine House with a shout. The crowd of two thousand people answered
with a roar.

A volley rang from the besieged and a moment's silence followed. Their
first shots had gone wild and not a marine had fallen. They had reached
the door and their sledge hammers were raining blows on its solid
timbers. An incessant fire poured from the portholes which Brown had cut
through the walls. The men were so close to the door his shots were not
effective.

Brown ordered one of his prisoners, Captain Dangerfield, a clerk of the
Armory Staff, to secure the fastenings. Dangerfield slipped the bolts to
their limit and stood watching his chance to throw them and admit the
marines.

Brown ordered him back. He retreated a few feet and watched the bolts,
as the blows rained on the door.

Stuart had slipped into the fight. He called to Green.

"The hammers are too light. There's a big ladder outside. Get it and use
it as a battering ram."

With a shout the marines seized the ladder, five men on a side, and
drove it with tremendous force against the door. The first blow shivered
a panel.

Brown ordered the fire engine rolled against the door. Dangerfield
sprang to assist. He slipped the bolt out instead of in! The next rush
of the ladder drove the door against the engine, rolled it back a foot
and made a small opening through which Lieutenant Green forced his way.

The marines crowded in behind him. Green sprang on the engine with drawn
sword and looked for Brown. A shower of bullets greeted him. Yet the
miracle happened. Not one touched him. He recognized Colonel Washington,
leaped from the engine and rushed to his side.

On one knee, a few feet to his left, knelt a man with a carbine in his
hand pulling the lever to reload.

Colonel Washington waved his arm.

"That's Osawatomie."

The Lieutenant sprang twelve feet at him. He gave a quick underthrust
of his sword, struck him midway of the body and raised the old man
completely from the ground. He fell forward with his head between his
knees. Green clubbed his sword and rained blow after blow on his head.

The men who watched the scene supposed that he had split the skull. Yet
he survived. Green's first sword thrust had struck the heavy leather
belt and did not enter the body. The sword was bent double. The clubbed
blade was too light. It had made only superficial wounds.

As the marines pressed through the opening the first man was shot dead.
The second was wounded in the face. The men who followed made short
work of the fight. They bayoneted a raider under the engine and pinned
another to the wall.

The fight had lasted but three minutes.

Brown lay on the ground wounded. His son, Oliver, was dead. His son,
Watson, was mortally wounded. All the rest were dead or prisoners, save
seven who made good their escape with Cook and Owen Brown into the hills
of Pennsylvania.

Colonel Lee entered the Engine House and greeted Washington.

"You are all right, sir?"

"Sound as a dollar, Colonel Lee. The damned old fool's had me penned
up here for two days. I'm dry as a powder horn and hungry as a
wolf. Nothing to eat, and nothing to drink, but _water out of a
horse-bucket_!"

Green faced his Colonel and saluted. He glanced at the prostrate
prisoners.

"See that their wounds are dressed immediately. Give them good food, and
take them as quickly as possible to the jail at Charlestown under heavy
guard. See that they are not harmed or insulted by the people."

Lee turned sadly to his friend.

"Colonel Washington, the thing we have dreaded has come. The first blow
has been struck. The Blood Feud has been raised."



CHAPTER XXXI


On the surface only was the Great Deed a failure. Not a single pike had
been thrust into a white man's breast by his slave. Not a single torch
had been applied to a Southern home. His chosen Captains never passed
the sentinel peak into Fauquier county. The Black Bees had not swarmed.
But the keen ear of the old man had heard the rumble of the swarming of
twenty million white hornets in the North.

The moment he had lifted his head a prisoner in the hands of his
courteous captor, he foresaw the power which the role of martyrdom would
give to his cause. Instantly he assumed the part and played it with
genius to the last breath of his indomitable body.

He had stained the soil of Virginia with the blood of innocent and
unoffending citizens. He had raised the Blood Feud at the right moment,
a few months before a Presidential campaign. He had raised it at the
right spot in a mountain gorge that looked southward to the Capitol at
Washington and northward to the beating hearts of the millions, who had
been prepared for this event by the long years of the Abolition Crusade
which had culminated in _Uncle Tom's Cabin_.

A wave of horror for a moment swept the nation, North and South.
Frederick Douglas fled to Europe. Sanborn, the treasurer and manager of
the conspiracy, hurried across the border into Canada. Howe and Stearns
hid. Theodore Parker was already in Europe.

Poor, old, gentle, generous Gerrit Smith collapsed and was led to the
insane asylum at Ithaca, New York.

Two men alone of the conspirators realized the tremendous thing that
had been done--John Brown in jail at Charlestown, and Thomas Wentworth
Higginson, the militant preacher of Massachusetts.

To Brown, life had been an unbroken horror. His tragic Puritan soul had
ever faced it with scorn--scorn for himself and the world. He was used
to failure and disaster. They had been his meat and drink. Bankruptcy,
imprisonment, flight from justice and the death of half his children had
been mere incidents of life.

He had cast scarcely a glance at his dying sons in the Engine House. He
had not tried to minister to them. His hand was tightly gripped on his
carbine.

His grim soul now rose to its first long flight of religious ecstasy.
He saw that the Southerner's reverence for Law and Order would make his
execution inevitable. His dark spirit shouted for joy. His own blood, if
he could succeed in playing the role of martyr, would raise the Blood
Feud to its highest power. No statesman, no leader, no poet, no seer
could calm the spirit of the archaic beast in man, which this martyrdom
would raise if skillfully played. He was sure he could play the role
with success.

The one man in the North who saw with clear vision the thing which
Brown's failure had done was the Worcester clergyman.

Higginson was a preacher by accident. He was a born soldier. From the
first meeting with Brown his fighting spirit had answered his cry for
blood with a shout of approval. Higginson not only refused to run, but
also groaned with shame at the fears of his fellow conspirators. His
first utterance was characteristic of his spirit.

"I am overwhelmed with remorse that the men who gave him money and arms
could not have been by his side when he fell."

He stood his ground in Worcester and dared arrest. He did not proclaim
his guilt from the housetop. But his friends and neighbors knew and he
walked the streets with head erect.

He did more. He joined with John W. LeBarnes and immediately organized a
plot to liberate Brown by force. He raised the money and engaged George
H. Hoyt to go to Harper's Ferry, ostensibly to appear as his attorney at
the trial, in reality to act as a spy, discover the strength of the
jail and find whether it could be stormed and taken by a company of
determined men.

At his first interview with Brown the spy revealed his purpose.

"I have come from Boston to rescue you," he whispered.

The old man's face was convulsed with anger. He spoke in the tones of
final command which had always closed argument with friend or foe.

"Never will I consent to such a scheme."

"But listen--"

"You listen to me, young man. The bare mention of this thing again and I
shall refuse to see or speak to you. Do you accept my decision, sir?"

Hoyt agreed at once. Only in this way could he keep in touch with the
man whom he had come to save.

"The last thing on this earth I would ask," Brown continued sternly, "is
to be taken from this jail except by the State of Virginia when I shall
ascend the scaffold."

Hoyt looked longingly at the old-fashioned fireplace in his prison room.
Two men could have crawled up its flue at the same time.

His refusal did not stop Higginson's efforts. He appealed to the forlorn
wife at North Elba, New York, to go to Harper's Ferry, ask to see her
husband and whisper her plan into his ear. He sent the money and got
Mrs. Brown as far as Baltimore on her journey when Brown heard of it and
stopped her with a peremptory command.

The determined conspirator then worked up the proposition to buy a steam
tug which could make 18 knots an hour, steam up the James River to
Richmond, kidnap the Governor of the Commonwealth, Henry Wise, and hold
him for ransom until Brown was released. The scheme only failed for the
lack of money.

Higginson had seen one thing. Brown saw a bigger thing.

Higginson's refusal to flee was based on sound psychology. He knew that
from the day John Brown struck his brutal blow at the heart of the South
and blood had begun to flow, the Blood Feud would be the biggest living
fact in the Nation's history.

He knew that he could remain in Worcester with impunity. The strength of
a revolution lies in the fact that its first bloodletting releases the
instincts of the animal in man hitherto restrained by law. He knew that
Brown's cry of Liberty for the slave would become for millions the cloak
to hide the archaic impulse to kill. He knew that while the purpose of
civilization is to restrain and control these instincts of the beast in
man--it was too late for the forces of Law and Order to rally in the
North. The first outbursts of indignation against Brown would quickly
pass. They would be futile.

He read them with a smile. The _New York Herald_ said: "He has met with
a fate which he courted, but his death and the punishment of all his
criminal associates will be as a feather in the balance against the
mischievous consequences which will probably follow from the rekindling
of the slavery excitement in the South."

The _Tribune_ took the lead in dismissing the act as the deed of a
madman. The Hartford _Evening News_ declared:

"Brown is a poor, demented, old man. The calamity would never have
occurred had there been no lawless and criminal invasion of Kansas."

But the most significant utterance in the North came from the Pacifist
leader of Abolition, William Lloyd Garrison, himself. Higginson read it
with a cry of joy.

_The Liberator's_ words of comment were brief but significant of the
coming mob mind:

"The particulars of a misguided, wild, and apparently insane, through
disinterested and well-intended effort by insurrection, to emancipate
the slaves in Virginia, under the leadership of Captain John, alias
'Osawatomie' Brown, may be found on our third page. Our views of war
and bloodshed even in the best of causes, are too well known to need,
repeating here; _but let no one who glories in the revolutionary
struggle of 1776, deny the right of slaves to imitate the example of our
fathers._"

Even the leader of the movement for Abolition by peaceful means had
succumbed to the poison of the smell of human blood.

Higginson knew that the process of a revolution was always in the order
of Ideas, Leaders, The Mob, The Tread of Armies. For thirty years
Garrison and the Abolition Crusaders had spread the Ideas. The Inspired
Leader had at last appeared. His right arm had struck the first blow. He
could hear the roar of the coming mob whose impulse to murder had been
roused. It would call their ancestral soul. The answer was a certainty.
He could see no necessity for Brown's blood to be spilled in martyrdom.

The old man, walking with burning eyes toward his trial, knew better.
His vision was clear. God had revealed His full purpose at last. He
would climb a Virginia gallows and drag millions down, from that
scaffold into the grave with him.



CHAPTER XXXII


Never in the history of an American commonwealth was a trial conducted
with more reverence for Law than the arraignment of John Brown and his
followers in the stately old Court House at Charlestown, Virginia.

The people whom he had assaulted with intent to kill, the people against
whom he had incited slaves to rise in bloody insurrection, the kinsmen
of the dead whom his rifles had slain, stood in line on the street and
watched him pass into the building manacled to one of his disciples.
They did not hoot, nor hiss, nor curse. They watched him walk in silence
between the tall granite pillars of the House of Justice.

The behavior of this crowd was highwater mark in the development of
Southern character. The structure of their society rested on the
sanctity of Law. It was being put to the supreme test.

A Northern crowd under similar conditions, had they followed the
principles which John Brown preached, would have torn those prisoners to
pieces without the formality of a trial.

It was precisely this trait of character in his enemies on which Brown
relied for the martyrdom he so passionately desired. When the witnesses
at the preliminary hearing had testified to his guilt and the Court had
ordered the trial set, he was asked if he had counsel.

He rose from his seat and addressed the nation, not the Court:

"Virginians, I did not ask for any quarter at the time I was taken.
I did not ask to have my life spared. The Governor of the State of
Virginia tenders me his assurance that I shall have a fair trial, but
under no circumstances whatever will I be able to have a fair trial. If
you seek my blood, you can have it at any moment, without this mockery
of a trial. I have no counsel. I am ready for my fate. I do not wish a
trial. I have now little further to ask, other than that I may not be
foolishly insulted, as cowardly barbarians insult those who fall into
their power."

The posing martyr was courting insults which had not been offered
him. He was grieved that he could not bring the charge of barbarous
treatment. He had been treated by Colonel Lee with the utmost
consideration. His wounds had been dressed. He had received the best
medical care. He had eaten wholesome food. His jailer had proven
friendly and sympathetic.

He went out of his way to insult the Court and the people and invite
abuse. He demanded that he be executed without trial.

The Court calmly assigned him two of the ablest lawyers in the county,
and ordered the trial to proceed.

At noon the following day the Grand Jury returned a true bill against
each of the prisoners for treason to the commonwealth, and for
conspiring with slaves to commit both treason and murder, and for
murder.

Captain Avis, the kindly jailer, was ordered to bring his prisoners into
Court. He found old Brown in bed, pretending to be ill. He refused to
rise. He was determined to get the effect of an arraignment of his
prostrate body in the court room. He had foreseen the effect of this
picture on the imagination of the North. The crowd of eager reporters at
the preliminary hearing had given him the cue.

He was carried into the court room exactly as he had desired, on a cot.
While the hearing proceeded he lay with his eyes closed as if in deep
suffering. He had carefully prepared a plea for delay which he knew
would not be granted. Its effect on the mob mind of the North was what
he sought. The press would give it wings.

He lifted himself on his elbow and asked Judge Parker to allow him to
make a protest:

"I have been promised a fair trial. I am not now in circumstances that
enable me to attend a trial, owing to the state of my health. I have a
severe wound in the back, or rather in one kidney which enfeebles me
very much. But I am doing well, and I only ask for a very short delay
of my trial, that I may be able to listen to it! And I merely ask this
that, as the saying is, the devil may have his dues, no more. I wish to
say further that my hearing is impaired by wounds I have about my head.
I could not hear what the Court said this morning. I would be glad to
hear what is said at my trial. Any short delay would be all I would ask.
I do not presume to ask more than a very short delay so that I may in
some degree recover and be able at least to listen to my trial."

Dr. Mason the attending physician, swore that he had examined Brown,
and that his wounds had effected neither his hearing nor his mind. He
further swore that he was not seriously disabled.

Brown knew that this was true, but he had entered his plea. His words
would flash over the nation. The effect was what he foresaw. Although he
had defied the laws of God and man, he dared demand more than justice
under the laws which he had spit upon. And, however inconsistent his
position, he knew that as the poison of the Blood Feud which he was
raising filled the souls of the people through the press, he would be
glorified from day to day and new power given to every word he might
utter.

He had already composed his last message destined to sway the minds of
millions. The response of the radical press to his pose of illness was
quick and sharp. The Lawrence, Kansas, _Republican_ voiced the feelings
of thousands:

"We defy an instance to be shown in any civilized community where a
prisoner has been forced to trial for his life, when so disabled by
sickness or ghastly wounds as to be unable even to sit up during the
proceedings, and compelled to be carried to the judgment hall upon a
litter. Such a proceeding shames the name of Justice, and only finds a
congenial place amid the records of the bloody Inquisition."

Even so conservative a paper as the Boston _Transcript_ said:

"Whatever may be his guilt or folly, a man convicted under such
circumstances, and, especially, a man executed after such a trial, will
be the most terrible fruit that Slavery has ever borne, and will excite
the execration of the civilized world."

The canny old poseur was on his way to an immortal martyrdom. He knew
that every article of the Virginia Code was being scrupulously obeyed.
He knew that the Grand Jury was in session and that the trial was set
at the first term of the court following the crime. There had been no
haste. He also knew that the impartial Judge who was presiding was the
soul of justice in his dealings both with the clamorous people, the
prosecution and the counsel appointed for the defense. But he also knew
that the mob mind to whom he was appealing would not believe that he
knew this. In appeals to the crowd he was a past master. In this appeal
he knew that facts would count for nothing--beliefs, illusions for
everything.

He played each opportunity for all it was worth.

When the Court opened the following morning, his counsel, Mr. Botts,
amazed the prisoner and the prosecution by reading a telegram from Ohio
asking a delay on the ground that important affidavits were on the way
to prove legally that John Brown was insane. Before the old man could
stop him he gave to the Court the substance of these sworn statements.

His friends and relatives in Ohio had sworn that Brown had been always
a monomaniac and had been intermittently insane for twenty years. One
swore that he had been plainly insane for a quarter of a century. On the
family record of insanity the affidavits all agreed. His grandmother was
hopelessly insane for six years and died insane. His uncles and aunts,
two sons and two daughters had been intermittently insane for years,
while one of his daughters had died a hopeless maniac. His only sister,
her daughter and one of his brothers were insane at intervals. Two of
his first cousins were occasionally mad. Two had been committed to the
State Insane Asylum repeatedly and two others were at that time in close
restraint.

Brown refused to allow this plea to be entered. He bitterly denounced
the counsel assigned to him as traitors, and at their request the
following day they were allowed to withdraw from the case. No sooner had
he finished his denunciation of his counsel than Hoyt, the young alleged
attorney, sent by Higginson to defend him, sprang to his feet and asked
a delay, as he was unprepared to proceed without assistance.

The Judge adjourned the Court until the following morning at ten
o'clock.

The young spy knew nothing of law but he bluffed it through until the
arrival of two able attorneys, Samuel Chilton of Washington, and Hiram
Grismer of Cleveland.

Botts, the dismissed counsel, who had sought to save Brown's life by the
plea of insanity, put his notes and his office at the disposal of Hoyt
and sat up all night with him preparing his work for the following day.

When the new lawyers appeared the old man made another play at illness
to gain delay. The Court ordered him to be brought in on his cot. Again,
the physician swore he was lying, that he was gaining in strength daily.
The Judge, however, granted a delay of two days.

The moment the order was issued for an adjournment Brown deliberately
rose from his cot and walked back to jail.

The trial was closed on Monday by the speeches of the prosecution and
the defense. The judge charged the jury and in three-quarters of an hour
they filed back into the jury box.

The crowd jammed every inch of space in the old Court House, the wide
entrance hall, and overflowed into the street.

The foreman solemnly pronounced him guilty.

The old man merely pulled the covers of his cot up and stretched his
legs, as if he had no interest in the verdict. Entirely recovered from
every effect of his wounds, as able to walk as ever, he had refused to
walk and had been carried again into the court room. He had determined
to receive his sentence on a bed. He knew the effect of this picture on
the gathering mob.

The silence of death fell on the crowded room. Not a single cry of
triumph from the kindred of the dead. Not a single cheer from the men
whose wives and children had been saved from the horrors of massacre.

Chilton made his motion for an arrest of judgment and the judge ordered
the motion to stand over until the next day. Brown heard the arguments
the following day again lying on his cot. The judge reserved his
decision and the final scene of the drama was enacted on November
second.

The clerk asked John Brown if he had anything to say concerning why
sentence should not be pronounced upon him.

The crowd stared as they saw the wiry figure of the old man quickly
rise. He fixed his eagle eye on them, not on the judge.

Over their heads he talked to the gathering mob of his countrymen. Brown
had been a habitual liar from boyhood. In this speech, made on the eve
of the sentence of death, he lied in every paragraph. He lied as he had
when he grew a beard to play the role of "Shubel Morgan." He lied as he
had lied to his victims when posing as a surveyor on the Pottawattomie.
He lied as he had done when he crept through the darkness of the night
on his sleeping prey. He lied as he had a hundred times about those
gruesome murders. He lied for his Sacred Cause.

He lied without stint and without reservation. He lied with such
conviction that he convinced himself in the end that he was a hero--a
martyr of human liberty and progress. And that he was telling the solemn
truth.

"I have, may it please the court, a few words to say:

"In the first place I deny everything but what I have already admitted:
of a design on my part to free slaves. I intended certainly to have made
a clean thing of that matter, as I did last winter when I went into
Missouri and there took slaves without the snapping of a gun on either
side, moving them through the country and finally leading them into
Canada. I designed to have done the thing again on a larger scale.
That was all I intended. I never did intend murder or treason, or the
destruction of property, or to excite or to incite slaves to rebellion,
or to make insurrection.

"Now, if it is deemed necessary that I should forfeit my life for the
furtherance of the ends of justice, and mingle my blood further with
the blood of my children--and with the blood of millions in this slave
country whose rights are disregarded by wicked, cruel and unjust
treatment--I say let it be done."

David Cruise was not there to tell of the bullet that crashed through
his heart in Missouri. Frederick Douglas was not there to tell that he
abandoned Brown in the old stone quarry outside Chambersburg, precisely
because he had changed the plan of carrying off slaves as in Missouri to
a scheme of treason, wholesale murders and insurrection.

Cruise was in his grave and Douglas on his way to Europe. There was no
one to contradict his statements. The mob mind never asks for facts. It
asks only for assertions. John Brown gave them what he knew they wished
to hear and believe.

They heard and they believed.

With due solemnity, the Judge pronounced the sentence of death and fixed
the date on December the second, thirty days in the future.

The old man's eyes flamed with hidden fires at the unexpected grant of a
month in which to complete the raising of the Blood Feud so gloriously
begun. He was a master in the coming of mystic phrases in letters. He
gloried in religious symbols. Within thirty days he could work with his
pen the miracle that would transform a nation into the puppets of his
will.

He walked beside the jailer, his eyes glittering, his head uplifted.
The Judge ordered the crowd to keep their seats until the prisoner was
removed. In silence he marched through the throng without a hiss or a
taunt.



CHAPTER XXXIII


The day of the Great Deed was one never to be forgotten by Cook's little
bride. They had been married six months. Each hour had bound the girl's
heart in closer and sweeter bonds. The love that kindled for the
handsome blond the day of their first meeting had grown into the
deathless passion of the woman for her mate.

He was restless Saturday night. Through the long hours she held her
breath to catch his regular breathing. He did not sleep.

At last the terror of it gripped her. Her hand touched his brow and
brushed the hair back from his forehead.

"What's the matter, John dear?"

"Restless."

"What is it?"

"Oh, nothing much. Just got to thinking about something and can't sleep.
That's all. Go to sleep now, like a good girl. I'm all right."

The little fingers sought his hand and gripped it.

"I'll try."

She rose at dawn. He had asked an early breakfast to make a long trip
into the country.

At the table she watched him furtively. She had asked to go with him and
he told her he couldn't take her. She wondered why. A great fear began
to steal into her soul. It was the first time she had dared to look into
the gulf. She would never ask his secret. He must tell her of his own
free will. Her eyes searched his. And he turned away without an answer.

He fought for self-control when he kissed her goodbye. A mad desire
swept his heart to take her in his arms, perhaps for the last time.

It would be a confession at the moment the blow was about to fall. He
would betray the lives of his associates. He gripped himself and left
her with a careless smile.

All day she brooded over the odd parting, the constraint, the silence,
the sleepless night.

She went to the services of the revival and sought solace in the songs
and prayers of the people. At night the minister preached a sermon
that soothed her. A warm glow filled her heart. If God is love as the
preacher said, he must know the secrets of his heart and life. He must
watch over and bring her lover safely back to her arms.

She reached home at a quarter to ten and went to bed humming an old song
Cook had taught her. The tired body was ready for sleep. She did
not expect her husband to return that night. He had gone as far as
Chambersburg. He promised to come on Monday afternoon.

Through the early hours of the fatal night she slept as soundly as a
child.

The firing at the Arsenal between three and four o'clock waked her. She
sprang to her feet and looked out the window. The street lamps flickered
fitfully in the drizzling rain. No one was passing. There were no
shouts, no disturbances.

She wondered about the shots. A crowd of drunken fools were still
hanging around the Galt House bar perhaps. She went back to bed and
slept again.

It was eight o'clock before the crash of a volley from the Arsenal
enclosure roused her. She leaped to her feet, rushed to the window and
stood trembling as volley followed volley in a long rattle of rifle and
shotgun and pistol.

A neighbor hurried past with a gun in his hand. She asked him what the
fighting meant.

"Armed Abolitionists have invaded Virginia," he shouted.

Still it meant nothing to her personally. Her husband was not an
Abolitionist. She had known him for more than a year. She had been with
him day and night for six months in the sweet intimacy of home and love.

And then the hideous truth came crashing on her terror-stricken soul.
Cook had been recognized by a neighbor as he drove Colonel Washington's
wagon across the Maryland bridge at dawn. A committee of citizens came
to cross-examine her.

She faced them with blanched cheeks.

"My husband, an Abolitionist!" she gasped.

"He's with those murderers and robbers."

She turned on the men like a young tigress.

"You're lying--I tell you!"

For an hour they tried to drag from her a confession of his plans. They
left at last convinced that she knew nothing, that she suspected nothing
of his real life. She had fought them bravely to the last. In her soul
of souls she knew the hideous truth. She recalled the strange yearning
with which he had looked at her as he left Sunday morning. She saw the
bottom of the gulf at last.

With a cry of anguish and despair she sank to the floor in a faint.

She stirred with one thought tearing at her heart. Had they killed or
captured him? She rose, dressed and joined the crowd that surged through
the streets. The Rifle Works had been captured, Kagi was dead, the other
two wounded, one fatally, the other a prisoner. No trace of her husband
had been found. He had not reentered the town from the Maryland side.

She walked to the bridge and found it guarded by armed citizens. Tears
of joy filled her eyes.

"He can't get back now!" she breathed.

She hurried to her room, fell on her knees and prayed:

"Oh, dear Lord Jesus, I've tried to be a good and faithful wife. My man
has loved me tenderly and truly. Save him, oh, Lord! Don't let him come
back now into this den of howling beasts. They'll tear him to pieces.
And I can't endure it. I can't. I can't. Have pity, Lord. I'm just a
poor, heart-broken wife!"

Through six days of terror and excitement, of surging crowds and
marching soldiers, the shivering figure watched through her window--and
silently prayed. A guard had been set at her house to catch her husband
if he dared to return. She laughed softly.

He would not return! She had asked God not to let him. She was asking
him now with every breath she breathed. God would not forget her. He
would answer her prayers. She knew it. God is love.

She had begun to sleep again at night. Her man was safe in the mountains
of Pennsylvania. The Governor of Virginia had set a price on his head.
Men were scouring the hills hunting, as they hunt wild beasts, but God
would save him. She had seen His shining face in prayer and He had
promised.

And then the blow fell.

Far down the street she caught the roar of a mob. Its cries came faintly
at first and then they grew to fierce oaths and brutal shouts.

A man stopped in front of her house and spoke to the guard.

"They've got him!"

"Who?"

"Cook!"

"The damned beast, the spy, the traitor!"

"Where are they takin' him?"

"To the jail at Charlestown."

She had no time to lose. She must see him. Bareheaded she rushed into
the street and fought her way to his side. His hands were manacled but
his fair head was held erect until he saw the white face of his bride.
And then his eyes fell.

Would she, too, turn and curse him?

He asked himself the hideous question once and dared not lift his head.
He felt her coming nearer. The guard halted. His eyes were blurred. He
could see nothing.

He only felt two soft arms slip round his neck. His own moved
instinctively to clasp her but the manacles held them. She kissed his
lips before the staring crowd and murmured inarticulate sounds of love
and tenderness. She smoothed his blond hair back from his forehead and
crooned over him as a mother over a babe.

"My little wife--my poor little girlie--my baby!" he murmured. "Forgive
me--I tried to save you from this. But I couldn't. Love would have it
so. Now you can forget me!"

The arms tightened about his neck, and gave the answer lips could not
frame.

When his trial came she moved to Charlestown to sit by his side in the
prison dock, touch his manacled hands and look into his eyes.

The trial moved to its certain end with remorseless certainty. Cook's
sister, the wife of Governor Willard, sat beside her doomed brother, and
cheered the desolate heart of the girl he had married. Governor Willard
gave the full weight of his position and his sterling manhood to his
wife in her grief.

He had employed the best lawyer in his state to defend Cook--Daniel W.
Vorhees, whose eloquence had given him the title of "The Tall Sycamore
of the Wabash."

When the great advocate rose, his towering figure commanded a painful
silence in the crowded court room. The people, who packed every inch of
its space, hated the man who had lived among them for more than a year
as a spy. But he had a wife, he had a sister. And in this solemn hour he
should have his day in court. The crowd listened to Vorhees' speech with
rapt attention.

His appeal was not based on the letter of the law. He took broader,
higher grounds. He sketched the dark days of blood-cursed Kansas. He saw
a handsome prodigal son, lured by the spirit of adventure, drawn into
its vortex of blind passions. He pictured the sinister figure of the
grim Puritan leader condemned to death. He told of the spell this evil
mind had thrown over a sensitive boy's soul. He pleaded for mercy
and forgiveness, for charity and divine love. He pictured the little
Virginia girl at his side drawn into the tragedy by a deathless love. He
sketched in words that burned into the souls of his hearers the love of
his sister, a love big and tender and strong, a love that had followed
him in the far frontiers with prayers, a love that encircled him in the
darkness of deeds of violence against the forms of law and order. He
pleaded for her and the distinguished Governor of a great state, not
because of their high position in life but because they had hearts that
could ache and break.

When he had finished his remarkable speech, strong men who hated Cook
were sobbing. The room was bathed in tears. The stern visaged judge made
no effort to hide his.

The court charged the jury to do impartial justice under the laws of the
commonwealth.

There could be but one verdict. It was solemnly given by the foreman and
the judge pronounced the sentence of death.

Two soft arms stole around the doomed man's neck, and then, before the
court, crowd and God as witnesses, the little wife tenderly cried:

"My lover--my sweetheart--my husband--through evil report and
through good report, through life, through death, through all
eternity--I--love--you!"

Again strong men wept and turned from one another to hide the signs of
their weakness.

The wife walked beside her doomed lover back to the jail. As they went
through the narrow passage to his cell, the tall, rough-looking prison
guard who accompanied them brushed close, caught her hand and pressed
it.

His eyes met hers in a quick look that said more plainly than words:

"I must see you alone."

She waited outside the jail until he reappeared.

He approached her boldly and spoke as if he were delivering a casual
message.

"Keep your courage, young woman. And don't you be surprised at anything
I'm going to say to you. There's people lookin' at us now. I'm just
tellin' you a message your husband's told me--you understand."

"Yes--yes--go on--I understand," she answered quickly.

"I'm from Kansas. I'm a friend of John Cook's. I come all the way here
to help him. I joined these guards to get to him. I'm goin' to get him
out of here if I can."

"Thank God--thank God," she murmured.

"Keep a stiff upper lip and get your hand on some money to follow us."

"I will."

Another guard approached.

"Leave me now. My name's Charles Lenhart. Don't try to talk to me again.
Just watch and wait."

She nodded, brushed the tears from her eyes and left quickly.

He was on the job without delay. Cook and Edwin Coppoc, condemned to die
on the same day, occupied the same room in jail. They borrowed a knife
from Lenhart as soon as he came on duty and "forgot" to return it. With
this knife they worked at night for a week cutting a hole through the
brick wall. Under their clothes in a corner they concealed the fragments
of bricks.

When the opening had been completed, they cut teeth in the knife blade
and made a small saw strong and keen enough to eat through a link in
their shackles.

On the night fixed, Lenhart was on guard waiting in breathless suspense
for the men to drop the few feet into the prison yard. A brick wall
fifteen feet high could he scaled from his shoulders and the last man up
could give him a lift.

Through the long, chill hours he paced his beat on the wall and waited
to hear the crunching of the bodies slipping through the walls.

What had happened?

Something had gone wrong in the impulsive mind of the blue-eyed
adventurer inside. The hole was open, the saw in his hand to cut the
manacles, when he suddenly stopped.

"What's the matter?" Coppoc asked.

"We can't do this to-night."

"For God's sake, why?"

"My sister's in town with Governor Willard to tell me goodbye. They
will put the blame of this on them. My sister might be imprisoned. The
Governor would be in bad. I've caused them trouble enough--God knows--"

"When are they going?"

"To-morrow. We'll wait until to-morrow night--after they've gone."

"But Lenhart may not be on guard."

"That's so," Cook agreed. "Coppoc, you can go alone. You'd better do
it."

"No."

"You'd better."

"I'm not made out of that sort of goods," the boy answered.

"You've got a good old Quaker mother out in Springdale praying for you.
It's your chance--go--I can't tonight."

Nothing could induce Coppoc to desert his comrade and leave him to
certain death when his escape should be known.

They replaced the bricks, covered the debris and waited until the
following night.

At eleven o'clock they cut the manacles and Coppoc crawled out first. He
had barely touched the ground when Cook followed. They glanced about
the yard and it was deserted. They strained their eyes to make out the
figure of the guard who passed the brick wall. He was not in sight. It
was a good omen. Lenhart had no doubt foreseen their escape and dropped
to the street outside.

They saw that the timbers of the gallows on which they were to die had
not all been fastened.

They secured two pieces of scantling and reached the top of the wall.
Suddenly the dark figure of a guard moved toward them. Cook called the
signal to Lenhart. But a loyal son of Virginia stood sentinel that
night. The answer was a rifle shot. They started to leap and caught the
flash of a bayonet below.

They walked back into the jail and surrendered to Captain Avis, their
friendly keeper.

The little wife waited and watched in vain.



CHAPTER XXXIV


All uncertainty at an end to his execution, John Brown set his hand to
finish the work of his life in a supreme triumph. He entered upon the
task with religious joy. The old Puritan had always been an habitual
writer of letters. The authorities of Virginia allowed him to write
daily to his friends and relatives. He quickly took advantage of this
power. The sword of Washington which he grasped on that fatal Sunday
night had proven a feeble weapon. He seized a pen destined to slay a
million human beings.

His soul on fire with the fixed idea that he had been ordained by God to
drench a nation in blood, he joyfully began the task of creating the mob
mind.

No man in history had a keener appreciation of the power of the daily
press in the propaganda of crowd ideas. The daily newspaper had just
blossomed into its full radiance in the modern world. No invention in
the history of the race has equaled the cylinder printing press as an
engine for creating crowd movements.

The daily newspaper of 1859 spoke only in the language of crowds. They
were, in fact, so many mob orators haranguing their subscribers. They
wrote down to the standards of the mob. They were molders of public
opinion and they were always the creatures of public opinion. They wrote
for the masses. Their columns were filled with their own peculiar brand
of propaganda, illusions, dreams, assertions, prejudices, sensations,
with always a cheap smear of moral platitude. Our people had grown too
busy to do their own thinking. The daily newspapers now did it for them.
There was as little originality in them as in the machines which printed
the editions. Yet they were repeated by the crowd as God-inspired truth.

We no longer needed to seek for the mob in the streets. We had it at the
breakfast table, in the office, in the counting room. The process of
crowd thinking became the habit of daily life.

John Brown hastened to use this engine of propaganda. From his
comfortable room in the jail at Charlestown there poured a daily stream
of letters which found their way into print.

A perfect specimen of his art was the concluding paragraph of a letter
to his friend and fellow conspirator, George L. Stearns of Boston.

"I have asked to be _spared_ from having any _mock or hypocritical
prayers made over me_ when I am publicly _murdered_; and that my only
_religious attendants_ be poor, _little, dirty, ragged, bareheaded
and barefooted slave boys and girls_, led by old, _gray-headed slave
mothers_,"

This message he knew would reach the heart of every Abolitionist of
the North, of every reader of _Uncle Tom's Cabin_. On the day of his
transfiguration on the scaffold he would deliver the final word that
would sweep these millions into the whirlpool of the Blood Feud.

To his wife and children he wrote a message which hammered again his
fixed idea into a dogma of faith:

"John Rogers wrote to his children, 'Abhor the arrant whore of Rome.'
John Brown writes to his children to abhor with _undying hatred_ also
the 'sum of all villainies,' slavery."

Not only did these daily letters find their way into the hands of
millions through the press, but the newspapers maintained a staff of
reporters at Charlestown to catch every whisper from the prisoner. So
brilliantly did these reports visualize his daily life that the crowds
who read them could hear the clanking of the chains as he walked and the
groans that came from his wounded body.

Thousands of letters began to pour into the office of the Governor of
Virginia, threatening, imploring, pleading for his life. The leading
politicians of all parties of the North were at length swept into this
howling mob by the press. To every plea the Governor of the Commonwealth
replied:

"Southern Society is built on Reverence for Law. The Law has been
outraged by this man. It shall be vindicated, though the heavens fall."

In this stand he was immovable and the South backed him to a man. For
exciting servile insurrection the King of Great Britain was held up
to everlasting scorn by our fathers who wrote the Declaration of
Independence. For this crime among others we rebelled and established
the American Republic. Should John Brown be canonized for the same
infamy? The Southern people asked this question in dumb amazement at the
clamor from the North.

And so the Day of Transfiguration on the scaffold dawned.

Judge Thomas Russell and his good wife journeyed all the way from Boston
to minister to the wants of their strange guest. There was in the
distinguished jurist's mind a question which he must ask Brown before
the rope should strangle him forever. His martyrdom had cleared every
doubt and cloud from the mind of his friend save one. His fascinating
letters, filled with the praise of God and the glory of a martyr's
cause, had exalted him.

The judge had heard his speech in court on the day he was sentenced to
death and had believed that each word was inspired. But the old man, who
was now to die in glory, had spent a week in Judge Russell's house in
Boston hiding from a deputy sheriff in whose hands was a warrant for
plain murder--one of the foulest murders in the records of crime. The
judge was a student of character, as well as Abolitionist.

He asked Brown for his last confidential statement as to these crimes on
the Pottawattomie. There was no hesitation in his bold reply. Standing
beneath the shadow of the gallows, the white hand of Death on his
stooped shoulders, one foot on earth and the other pressing the shores
of eternity, he lied as brazenly as he had lied a hundred times before.
He assured his friend and his wife that he had nothing to do with those
killings.

Mrs. Russell, weeping, kissed him.

And Brown said calmly: "Now, go."

As he ascended the scaffold he handed to one who stood near his final
message, the supreme utterance over which he had prayed day and night to
his God. Despatched from the scaffold, and sealed by his blood, he knew
that its magic words would spread by contagion the Red Thought.

His face shone with the glory of his hope as his feet climbed the
scaffold steps. On the scrap of paper he had written:

"I, JOHN BROWN, AM NOW QUITE CERTAIN THAT THE CRIMES OF THIS GUILTY LAND
WILL NEVER BE PURGED AWAY BUT WITH BLOOD."

The trap fell, his darkened soul swung into eternity and the deed
was done. He had raised the Blood Feud to the nth power. His message
thrilled the world.

Bells were tolling in the North while crowds of weeping men and women
knelt in prayer to his God. Had they but lifted the veil and looked,
they would have seen the face of a fiend. But their eyes were now
blinded with the madness which had driven him to his death.

In Cleveland, Melodeon Hall was draped in mourning at a meeting where
thousands wept and cursed and prayed. Mammoth gatherings were held in
New York, in Rochester and Syracuse. In Boston a crowd, so dense they
were lifted from their feet by the pressure of thousands behind,
clamoring for entrance, rushed into Tremont Temple.

William Lloyd Garrison, the Pacifist, declared the meeting was called to
witness John Brown's resurrection. He flung the last shred of principle
to the winds and joined the mob of the Blood Feud without reservation.

"As a peace man--an ultra peace man--I am prepared to say: 'Success to
every Slave Insurrection in the South and in every Slave Country!'"

Wendell Phillips, believing Judge Russell's report of Brown's denial of
the Pottawattomie murders, declared to the thousands who crowded Cooper
Union that John Brown was a Saint--that he was not on the Pottawattomie
Creek on that fateful night, that he was not within twenty-five miles of
the spot!

Ralph Waldo Emerson, ignorant of the truth of Pottawattomie, hailed
Brown as "the new Saint, than whom none purer or more brave was ever led
by love of men into conflict and death--the new Saint who has achieved
his martyrdom and will make the gallows glorious as the cross."

One great spirit among the anti-slavery forces refused to be swept in
the current of insanity. Abraham Lincoln at Troy, Kansas, said on the
day of Brown's death:

"Old John Brown has been executed for treason against a State. We cannot
object, even though he agreed with us in thinking Slavery wrong. That
cannot excuse violence, bloodshed and treason. It could avail him
nothing that he might _think_ himself right."

Lincoln's voice was drowned in the roar of the mob.

John Brown from the scaffold had set in motion forces of mind beyond
control. Never before had men so little grasped the present, so stupidly
ignored the past, so poorly divined the future. Reason had been hurled
from her throne. Man had ceased to think.

Had Lieutenant Green's sword pierced Brown's heart he would have
died the death of a mad dog. His imprisonment, his carefully staged
martyrdom, his message of blood, and final, just execution by Law
created the mob mind which destroyed reverence for Law.

As he swung from the gallows and his body swayed for a moment between
heaven and earth Colonel Preston, standing beside the steps, solemnly
cried:

"So perish all such enemies of Virginia! All such enemies of the Union!
All such foes of the human race!"

Yet even as the trap was sprung, in the Capitol of the greatest State
of the North, the leaders of the crowd were firing a hundred guns as a
dirge for their martyr hero.

A criminal paranoiac had become the leader of twenty millions of people.
The mob mind had caught the disease of his insanity and a nation began
to go mad.

Robert E. Lee, in command of the forces of Law and Order, watched the
swaying ghostly figure with a sense of deep foreboding for the future.



CHAPTER XXXV


John Brown's body lay molderingin the grave but his soul was marching
on. And his soul was a thousand times mightier than his body had ever
been.

While living, his abnormal mind repelled men of strong personality.
He had never been able to control more than two dozen people in any
enterprise which he undertook. And in these small bands rebellions
always broke out.

The paranoiac had been transfigured now into the Hero and the Saint
through the worship of the mob which his insanity had created. His
apparent strength of character was in reality weakness, an incapacity to
master himself or control his criminal impulses. But the Jacobin mind of
his followers did not consider realities. They only cherished dreams,
illusions, assertions. The mob never reasons. It only believes. Reason
is submerged in passion.

John Brown was a typical Jacobin leader. He was first and last a Puritan
mystic. The God he worshipped was a fiend, but he worshipped Him with
all the more passionate devotion for that reason. When he committed
murder on the Pottawattomie he stalked his prey as a panther. He sang
praises to his God as he paused in the brush before he sprang. His
narrow mind, with a single fixed idea, was inaccessible to any
influences save those which fed his mania. Nothing could loose the grip
of his soul on this dream. He closed his glittering eyes and refused to
consider anything that might contradict his faith.

He acted without reason, driven blindly forward by an impulse. When his
cunning mind used reason it was never for the purpose of finding truth.
It was only for the purpose of confounding his enemies. He never used it
as a guide to conduct.

By the magic of mental contagion he had transferred from the scaffold
this Jacobin mind to the soul of a nation. The contact of persons is not
necessary to transfer this disease. Its contagion is electric. It moves
in subtle thought waves, as a mysterious pestilence spreads in the
night. The mob mind, once formed, is a new creation and becomes with
amazing rapidity a resistless force. The reason for its uncanny
power lies in the fact that when once formed it is dominated by the
unconscious, not the conscious forces, of man's nature. Its credulity is
boundless. Its passions dominate all life. The records of history are a
sealed book. Experience does not exist.

Impulse rules the universe.

And this mob mind moves always as a unit. It devours individuality. Men
who as individuals may be gentle and humane are swept into accord with
the most beastly cry of the crowd. This mental unity grows out of the
crushing power of contagion. Gestures, cries, deeds of hate and fury are
caught, approved, repeated.

Any lie can be built into a religion if repeated often enough to a crowd
by a mind on fire with its passions. Pirates have died as bravely as
John Brown. The glorification of the manner of his dying was merely a
phenomenon of the unity of the crowd mind. It was precisely the grip
of his Puritan mysticism, his worship of the Devil, that gave to his
insanity its most dangerous appeal.

For the first time in the history of the republic the mob mind had
mastered the collective soul of its people. The contagion had spread
both North and South. In the North by sympathy, in the South by a
process of reaction even more violent and destructive of reason.

John Brown had realized his vision of the Plains. He had raised a
National Blood Feud.

No hand could stay the scourge. The Red Thought burst into a flame that
swept North and South, as a prairie fire sweeps the stubble of autumn.
_Uncle Tom's Cabin_ had prepared the stubble.

From the Northern press began to pour a stream of vindictive abuse. A
fair specimen of this insanity appeared in the New York _Independent_:

"The mass of the population of the Atlantic Coast of the slave region of
the South are descended from the transported convicts and outcasts of
Great Britain. Oh, glorious chivalry and hereditary aristocracy of the
South! Peerless first families of Virginia and Carolina! Progeny of the
highwaymen, the horse thieves and sheep stealers and pickpockets of Old
England!"

The fact that this paper was a religious publication, the outgrowth of
the New England conscience, gave its columns a peculiar power over the
Northern mind.

The South retorted in kind. _De Bow's Review_ declared:

"The basic framework and controlling inference of Northern sentiment is
Puritanic, the old Roundhead rebel refuse of England, which has ever
been an unruly sect of Pharisees, the worst bigots on earth and the
meanest tyrants when they have the power to exercise it."

When the Conventions met a few months later to name candidates for the
Presidency and make a declaration of principles, leaders had ceased to
lead and there were no principles to declare.

The mob mind was supreme.

The Democratic Convention met at Charleston, South Carolina, to name
the successor of James Buchanan. Their constituents commanded a vast
majority of the voters of the Nation. The Convention became a mob. The
one man, the one giant leader left in the republic, the one constructive
mind, the one man of political genius who could have saved the nation
from the holocaust toward which it was plunging was Stephen A. Douglas
of Illinois. He could have been elected President by an overwhelming
majority had he been nominated by this united convention. He was
entitled to the nomination. He had proven himself a statesman of the
highest rank. He had proven himself impervious to sectional hatred or
sectional appeal. He was a Northern man, but a friend of the South as
well as the North. He was an American of the noblest type.

But the radical wing of his party in the South were seeing Red. Old
Brown's words to them meant the spirit of the North. They heard echoing
and reechoing from every newspaper and pulpit:

"I, JOHN BROWN, AM NOW QUITE CERTAIN THAT THE CRIMES OF THIS GUILTY LAND
WILL NEVER BE PURGED AWAY BUT WITH BLOOD."

If the hour for bloodshed had come they demanded that the South prepare
without further words. And they believed that the hour had come. They
heard the tread of swarming hosts. They were eager to meet them.

Reason was flung to the winds. Passion ruled. Compromise was a thing
beyond discussion. Douglas was a Northern man and they would have none
of him. He was hooted and catcalled until he was compelled to withdraw
from the Convention.

The radical South named their own candidate for President. He couldn't
be elected. No matter. War was inevitable.

Let it come.

The Northern Democratic Convention named Douglas for President. He
couldn't be elected. No matter. War was inevitable. Let it come.

In dumb amazement at the tragedy approaching--the tragedy of a divided
Union and a bloody civil war--the Union men of the party nominated a
third ticket, Bell of Tennessee and Everett of Massachusetts. They
couldn't be elected. No matter. War was inevitable. It had to come. They
would stand by their principles and go down with them.

When the new Republican party met at Chicago they were sobered by the
responsibility suddenly thrust upon them of naming the next President of
the United States. Fremont, a mere figurehead as their candidate, had
polled a million votes in the campaign before. With three Democratic
tickets in the field, success was sure.

They wrote a conservative platform and named for their candidate Abraham
Lincoln, the one man in their party who had denounced John Brown's
deeds, the man who had declared in his debates with Douglas that he did
not believe in making negroes voters or jurors, that he did not believe
in the equality of the races, that he did not believe that two such
races could ever live together in a Democracy on terms of political or
social equality.

Their candidate was the gentlest, broadest, sanest man within their
ranks. Unless the nation had already gone mad they felt that in his
triumph they would be safe from the Red Menace which stalked through
their crowded hall. Their radical leaders were furious. But they were
compelled to submit and fight for his election. The life of their party
depended on it. Their own life was bound up in their party.

There was really but one issue before the nation--peace or war. The new
party, both in its candidate and its platform, sought with all its power
to stem the Red Tide of the Blood Feud which John Brown had raised.

Their well-meant efforts came too late.

War is a condition of mind primarily. Its causes are always
psychological--not physical. The result of this state of mind is an
abnormal condition of the nervous system, in which the thoughts and acts
of men are controlled by the collective mind--the mob mind. Indians
execute their war dances for days and nights to produce this mental
state. Once it had been created, the war cry alone can be heard.

This mind, once formed, deliberative bodies cease to exist. The Congress
of the United States ceased to exist as a deliberative body at the
session which followed John Brown's execution.

The atmosphere of both the Senate and the House was electric with hatred
and passion. Men who met at the last session as friends, now glared into
each other's faces, mortal enemies.

L. Q. C. Lamar, the young statesman from Mississippi, threw a firebrand
into the House on the day of its opening.

"The Republicans of this House are not guiltless of the blood of John
Brown, his conspirators, and the innocent victims of his ruthless
vengeance."

Keitt of South Carolina shouted:

"The South asks nothing but her rights. I would have no more, but as
God is my judge I would shatter this republic from turret to foundation
stone before I would take a little less!"

Old Thaddeus Stevens of Pennsylvania scrambled up on his club foot and
with a face flaming with scorn replied:

"I do not blame gentlemen of the South for using this threat of rending
God's creation from foundation to turret. They have tried it fifty
times, and fifty times they have found weak and recreant tremblers in
the North who have been affected by it, and who have retreated before
these intimidations."

He turned to the group of conservative members of his own party with a
look of triumphant taunting. He wanted war. He courted it. He saw its
coming with a shout of joy.

The House was in an uproar. Members leaped from their seats and jammed
the aisles, shouting, cheering, hissing, catcalling. The clerk was
powerless to preserve order.

For two months the bedlam continued while they voted in vain to elect
a Speaker. The new party was determined to have John Sherman. The
opposition was divided but finally chose Mr. Pennington, a moderate of
mediocre ability.

During these eight weeks of senseless wrangling the members began to arm
themselves with revolvers. One of the weapons dropped from the pocket of
a member from New York and he was accused of attempting to draw it for
use against an opponent.

The sergeant at arms was summoned and pandemonium broke loose. For a
moment it seemed that a pitched battle before the dais of the Speaker
was inevitable.

John Sherman rose and made a remarkable statement--remarkable in showing
how the mob mind will inevitably destroy the mind of the individual
until its unity is undisputed. He spoke in tones of reconciliation.

"When I came here I did not believe that the Slavery question would come
up; and but for the unfortunate affair of Brown's at Harper's Ferry I
do not believe that there would have been any feeling on the subject.
Northern members came here with kindly feelings, no man approving of the
deed of John Brown, and every man willing to say so, every man willing
to admit it an act of lawless violence."

It was true. And yet before that mad session closed they were Brown's
disciples and he had become their martyr here. The mob mind devours
individuality, and reduces all to the common denominator of the archaic
impulse.

In the fierce conflict for Speaker four years before, when Banks had
been chosen, Slavery was then the issue. Good humor, courtesy and reason
ruled the contest which lasted three days longer than the fight over
Sherman. Instead of courtesy and reason--hatred, passion, defiance,
assertion were now the order of the day. Four years before a threat of
disunion was made on the floor. The House received it with shouts of
derision and laughter. Keitt's dramatic threat had thrown the House into
an uproar which had to be quelled by the sergeant at arms. Envy, hate,
jealousy, spite, passion were supreme. The favorite epithets hurled
across the Chamber were:

"Slave driver!"

"Nigger thief!"

The newspapers no longer reported speeches as delivered. They were
revised and raised to greater powers of vituperation and abuse. Instead
of a convincing, logical speech, their champion hurled a "torrent of
scathing denunciation," "withering sarcasm," and "crushing invective!"

At this historic session appeared the first suit of Confederate Gray,
worn by Roger A. Pryor, the brilliant young member from Virginia.

Immediately a Northern member leaped to his feet. He had caught the
significance of the Southern emblem. He gave a moment's silent survey
to the gray suit and opened his address on the State of the Country by
saying:

"Virginia, instead of clothing herself in sheep's wool, had better don
her appropriate garb of sackcloth and ashes!"

The nation was already at war before Abraham Lincoln left Springfield
for Washington to take his seat as President. It was deemed wise that he
should enter the city practically in disguise.

In vain the great heart that beat within his lonely breast tried to stem
the Red Tide in his first inaugural. With infinite pathos he turned
toward the South and spoke his words of peace, reconciliation and
assurance:

"I have no purpose directly or indirectly to interfere with the
institution of Slavery in the States where it exists. I believe I have
no lawful right to do so, and I have no inclination to do so."

His closing sentences were spoken with his deep eyes swimming in tears.

"I am loath to close. We are not enemies but friends. We must not be
enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds
of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every
battlefield and patriot grave, to every living heart and hearthstone all
over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union when again
touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature."

The noblest men of North and South joined with the new President,
pleading for peace. They knew by the light of reason that a war of
brothers would be a wanton crime. They proved by irresistible logic that
every issue dividing the nation could be settled at the Council Table.

They pleaded in vain. They pitched straws against a hurricane. From the
deep, subconscious nature of man, the lair of the beast, came only the
growl of challenge to mortal combat.

The new President is but a leaf tossed by the wind. The Union of which
our fathers dreamed is rent in twain. With tumult and shout, the armies
gather, blue and gray, brother against brother. A madman's soul now
rides the storm and leads the serried lines as they sweep to the red
rendezvous with Death.



CHAPTER XXXVI


A little mother with a laughing boy two years old and baby in her arms
was awaiting at a crowded hotel in Washington the coming of her father
from the Western plains. Her men were going in opposite directions in
these tragic days that were trying the souls of men. Colonel Phillip
St. George Cooke was a Virginian. Lieutenant J. E. B. Stuart was a
Virginian. The soul of the little mother was worn out with the question
that had no answer. Why should her lover-husband and her fine old daddy
fight each other?

She stood appalled before such a conflict. She had written to her father
a letter so gentle, so full of tender appeal, he could not resist its
call. She had asked that he come to see her babies and her husband and,
face to face, say the things that were in his heart.

Her own sympathies were with her husband. He had breathed his soul into
hers. She thought as he thought and felt as he felt. But her dear old
daddy must have deep reasons for refusing to follow Virginia, if she
should go with the South in Secession. She must hear these reasons.
Stuart must hear them. If he could convince them, they would go with
him.

In her girl's soul she didn't care which way they went, as long as they
did not fight each other. She had watched the shadow of this war deepen
with growing anguish. If her father should meet her husband in battle
and one should kill the other! How could she live? The thought was too
horrible to frame in, words, but it haunted her dreams. She couldn't
shake it off.

That her rollicking soldier man would come out alive she felt sure
somehow. No other thought was possible. To think that he might be killed
in the pride and glory of his youth was nonsense. Her mind refused now
to dwell on the idea. She dismissed it with a laugh. He was so vital.
He lived to his finger tips. His voice rang with the joy of living.
The spirit of eternal youth danced in his blue eyes. He was just
twenty-eight years old. He was the father of a darling boy who bore his
name and a baby that nestled in her arms to whom they had given hers.

Life in its morning of glory was his--wife, babies, love, youth, health,
strength, clean living and high thinking. No, it was the thought of harm
to her father that was eating her heart out. He has passed the noon-tide
of life. His slender, graceful form lacked the sturdy power of youth.
His chances were not so good.

The thing that sickened her was the certainty that both these men,
father and husband, would organize the cavalry service and fight on
horseback. They had spent their honeymoon on the plains. She had ridden
over them with her joyous lover.

He would be a cavalry commander. She knew that he would be a general.
Her father was a master of cavalry tactics and was at work on the Manuel
for the United States Army.

The two men were born under the same skies. Their tastes were similar.
Their clean habits of life were alike. Their ideals were equally high
and noble. How could two such men fight each other to the death over an
issue of politics when some wife or sister or mother must look on a dead
face when the smoke has cleared?

Her soul rose in rebellion against it all. She summoned every power of
her mind to the struggle with her father.

She brought them together at last in the room with her babies, asleep in
their cradles. She sat down between the two and held a hand in each of
hers.

"Now, daddy dear, you must tell me why you're going to fight Virginia if
she secedes from the Union."

The gentle face smiled sadly.

"How can I make you understand, dear baby? It's foolish to argue such
things. We follow our hearts--that's all."

"But you must tell me," she pleaded.

"There's nothing to tell, child. We must each decide these big things of
life for himself. I'll never draw my sword against the Union. My fathers
created it. I've fought for it. I've lived for it. And I've got to die
for it, if must be, that's all--"

He paused, withdrew his hand from hers, rose and put it on Stuart's
shoulder.

"You've chosen a fine boy for your husband, my daughter. I love him. I'm
proud of him. I shall always be proud that your children bear his name.
He must fight this battle of his allegiance in his own soul and answer
to God, not to me. I would not dare to try to influence him."

Stuart rose and grasped the Colonel's hand. His eyes were moist.

"Thank you, Colonel. I shall always remember this hour with you and
my Flora. And I shall always love and respect you, in life or death,
success or failure."

The older man held Stuart's hand in a strong grip.

"It grieves me to feel that you may fight the Union, my son. I have seen
the end in a vision already. The Union is indissoluble. The stars in
their courses have said it."

"It may be, sir," Stuart slowly answered. "Who knows? We must do each
what we believe to be right, as God gives us to see the right."

The little mother was softly crying. Her hopes had faded. There was the
note of finality in each word her men had uttered. She was crushed.

For an hour she talked in tender commonplaces. She tried to be cheerful
for her father's sake. She saw that he was suffering cruelly at the
thought of saying a goodbye that might be the last.

She broke down in a flood of bitter tears. The father took her into his
arms and soothed her with tender words. But something deep and strange
had stirred in the mother heart within her.

She drew away from his arms and cried in anguish.

"It's wrong. It's wrong. It's all wrong--this feud of blood! And God
will yet save the world from it. I must believe that or I'd go mad!"

The two men looked at each other in wonder for a moment and then at the
mother's convulsed face. Into the older man's features slowly crept a
look of awe, as if he had heard that voice before somewhere in the still
hours of his soul.

Stuart bent and kissed her tenderly.

"There, dear, you're overwrought. Don't worry. Your work God has given
you in these cradles."

"Yes, that's why I feel this way," she whispered on his breast.



CHAPTER XXXVII


If reason had ruled, the Gulf States of the South would never have
ordered their representatives to leave Washington on the election of
Abraham Lincoln. The new administration could have done nothing with the
Congress chosen. The President had been elected on a fluke because
of the division of the opposition into three tickets. Lincoln was a
minority President and was powerless except in the use of the veto.

If the Gulf States had paused for a moment they could have seen that
such an administration, whatever its views about Slavery, would have
failed, and the next election would have been theirs. The moment they
withdrew their members of Congress, however, the new party had a
majority and could shape the nation's laws.

The crowd mind acts on blind impulse, never on reason.

In spite of the President's humane purpose to keep peace when he
delivered his first inaugural, he had scarcely taken his seat at the
head of his Cabinet when the mob mind swept him from his moorings and he
was caught in the torrent of the war mania.

The firing on Fort Sumter was not the first shot by the Secessionists.
They had fired on the _Star of the West_, a ship sent to the relief
of the Fort, weeks before. They had driven her back to sea. But the
President at that moment had sufficient power to withstand the cry for
blood. At the next shot he succumbed to the inevitable and called for
75,000 volunteers to invade the South. This act of war was a violation
of his powers under Constitutional law. Congress alone could declare
war. But Congress was not in session.

The mob had, in fact, declared war. The President and his Cabinet were
forced to bow to its will and risk their necks on the outcome of the
struggle.

So long as Virginia, North Carolina and Tennessee refused to secede and
stood with the Border States of Maryland, Missouri and Kentucky inside
the Union, the Confederacy organized at Montgomery, Alabama, must remain
a mere political feint.

The call of the President on Virginia, North Carolina, Tennessee,
Kentucky, Missouri and Maryland, all slave States, to furnish their
quota of troops to fight the seceders, was in effect a declaration of
war by a united North upon the South.

Virginia had refused to join the Confederacy before by an overwhelming
majority. All eyes were again turned on the Old Dominion. Would she
accept the President's command and send her quota of troops to fight her
sisters of the South, or would she withdraw from the Union?

The darkest day of its history was dawning on Arlington. Lee had spent a
sleepless night watching the flickering lights of the Capitol, waiting,
hoping, praying for a message from the Convention at Richmond. On that
message hung the present, the future, and the sacred glory of the past.

The lamp on the table in the hall was still burning dimly at dawn when
Mary Lee came downstairs and pulled the old-fashioned bell cord which
summoned the butler.

Ben entered with a bow.

"You ring for me, Missy?"

"Yes. You sent to town to see if an Extra had been issued?"

"Yassam. De boy come back more'n a hour ago."

"There was none?"

"Nomum."

"And he couldn't find Lieutenant Stuart?"

"Nomum. He look fur him in de telegraph office an' everywhar."

"Why don't he come--why don't he come?" she sighed.

"I spec dem wires is done down, an' de news 'bout Secesum come froo de
country fum Richmon' by horseback, M'am."

The girl sighed again wearily.

"The coffee and sandwiches ready, Ben?"

"Yassam. All on de table waitin'. De coffee gittin' cold."

"I'll bring Papa down, if I can get him to come."

"Yassam. I hopes ye bring him. He sho must be wore out."

"It's daylight," she said, "open the windows and put out the lamp."

Mary climbed the stairs again to get her father to eat. Ben drew the
curtains and the full light of a beautiful spring morning flooded the
room. A mocking bird was singing in the holly. A catbird cried from
a rosebush, a redbird flashed and chirped from the hedge and a colt
whinnied for his mother.

The old negro lowered the lamp, blew it out and began to straighten the
room. A soft knock sounded on the front door.

He stopped and listened. That was queer. No guest could be coming to
Arlington at dawn. Lieutenant Stuart would come on horseback and the
ring of his horse's hoofs could be heard for half a mile.

He turned back to his work and the knock was repeated, this time louder.

He cautiously approached the door.

"Who's dar?"

"Hit's me."

"Me who?"

"Hit's me--Sam."

"'Tain't no Sam nuther--"

"'Tis me."

"Sam's bin free mos' ten year now an' he's livin' in New York--"

"I done come back. Lemme come in a minute!"

Ben was not sure. He picked up a heavy cane, held it in his right hand
and cautiously opened the door with his left, as Sam entered.

The old man dropped the cane and stepped back in dumb amazement. It was
some time before he spoke.

"Name er Gawd, Sam--hit is you."

"Sho, hit's me!"


"What yer doin' here?"

"I come to see my old marster when I hears all dis talk 'bout war. Whar
is he?"

Ben lifted his eyes to the ceiling and spoke in a solemn tone:

"Up dar in his room all night trampin' back an' forth lak er lion in
de cage, waitin' fur Marse Stuart ter fetch de news fum Richmond 'bout
secessun--"

"Secessun?"

Ben nodded--and raised his eyes in a dreamy look.

"Some say Ole Virginy gwine ter stay in de Union. Some say she's a gwine
ter secede. De Convenshun in Richmon' wuz votin' on hit yestiddy. Marse
Stuart gone ter town ter fetch de news ter Arlington."

Sam stepped close and searched Ben's face.

"What's my ole marster dat set me free gwine ter do?"

"Dat's what everybody's axin. He bin prayin' up dar all night."

Sam glanced toward the stairway and held his silence for a while. He
spoke finally with firm conviction.

"Well, I'se gwine wid him. Ef he go wid de Union, I goes. Ef he go wid
ole Virginy, I go wid ole Virginy. Whichever way _he_ go, dat's de
_right_ way--"

"Dat's so, too!" Ben responded fervently.

Sam advanced to the old butler with the quick step of the days when he
was his efficient helper.

"What ye want me ter do?"

Ben led him to the portico and pointed down the white graveled way to
Washington.

"Run doun de road ter de rise er dat hill an' stay dar. De minute yer
see a hoss cross dat bridge--hit's Marse Stuart. Yer fly back here an'
tell me--"

Sam nodded and disappeared. Ben hurried back into the hall, as Mary and
her mother came down the stairs.

Mrs. Lee was struggling to control her fears.

"No sign of Lieutenant Stuart yet, Ben?"

"Nomum. I'se er watchin'."

"Look again and see if there's any dust on that long stretch beyond the
river--"

Ben shook his head.

"Yassam, I look."

He passed out the front door still wagging his head in deep sympathy for
the stricken mistress of the great house.

Mary slipped her arm around her mother, and used the pet name she spoke
in moments of great joy and sorrow.

"Oh, Mim dear, you mustn't worry so!"

Her mother's lips trembled. She tried to be strong and failed. The tears
came at last streaming down her cheeks.

"I can't help it, darling. Life hangs on this message--our home--"

She paused and her eyes wandered about the familiar room and its
furnishings.

"You know how I love this home. It's woven into the very fiber of my
heart. Our future--all that we have on earth--it's more than I can
bear--"

The daughter drew the dear face to her lips.

"But why try to take it all on our shoulders, dearest? We must leave
Papa to fight this out alone. We can't decide it for him."

The mother brushed her tears away and responded cheerfully.

"Yes, I know, dear. Your father didn't leave his room all day yesterday.
He ate no dinner. No supper. All night the tramp of his feet overhead
has only been broken when he fell on his knees to pray--"

Her voice wandered off as in a half dream. She paused, and then rushed
on impetuously.

"Why, why can't we hear from Richmond? The Convention should have voted
before noon yesterday. And we've waited all night--"

"The authorities may be holding back the news."

"But why should they suppress _such_ news? The world must know."

She stopped suddenly--as if stunned by the thought that oppressed her.
She seized Mary's hand, and asked tensely:

"What do you think, dear? Has Virginia left the Union?"

A quick answer was on the young lips. She had a very clear opinion. She
had talked to Stuart. And his keen mind had seen the inevitable. She
didn't have the heart to tell her mother. She feigned a mind blank from
weariness.

"I can't think, honey. I'm too tired."

Ben came back shaking his gray head.

"Nomum. Dey ain't no sign on de road yet."

The waiting wife and mother cried in an anguish she could not control.

"Why--why--why?"

Ben sought to distract her thoughts with the habit of house control. He
spoke in his old voice of friendly scolding.

"Ain't Marse Robert comin' doun to his coffee, M'am?"

"Not yet, Ben. I couldn't persuade him." The mistress caught the effort
of her faithful servant to help in his humble way and it touched her.
She was making a firm resolution to regain her self-control when a
distant cry was heard from the roadway.

"Uncle Ben!"

"What's dat?" the old man asked.

"He's coming?" Mrs. Lee gasped.

"I dunno, M'am. I hears sumfin!"

Sam's cry echoed near the house now in growing excitement.

"Uncle Ben--Uncle Ben!"

"See, Ben, see quick--" Mary cried.

"Yassam. He's comin', sho. He's seed him."

The mother's face was uplifted in prayer.

"God's will be done!"

The words came in a bare whisper. And then as if in answer to the cry of
her heart she caught new hope and turned to her daughter.

"You know, dear, the first Convention voted against Secession!"

Sam reached the door and met Ben.

"Uncle Ben--he's a comin'--Marse Stuart's horse! I seen him 'way 'cross
de ribber fust--des one long, white streak er dust ez fur ez de eye can
reach!"

The mother gripped Mary's arm with cruel force. The strain was again
more than she could bear.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear, what have they done? What have they done?"

Ben entered the hall holding himself erect with the dignity of one who
must bear great sorrows with his people. The mistress called to him
weakly:

"Tell Colonel Lee, Ben."

The old man bowed gravely.

"Yassam. Right away, M'am."

Ben hurried to call his master as Sam edged into the front door and
smiled at his mistress.

Mrs. Lee saw and recognized him for the first time. His loyalty touched
her deeply in the hour of trial. She extended her hand in warm greeting.

"Why, _Sam_, you've come home!"

"Yassam. I come back ter stan' by my folks when dey needs me."

Mary's eyes were misty as she smiled her welcome.

"You're a good boy, Sam."

"Yassam. Marse Robert teach me."

The echo of Stuart's horse's hoof rang under the portico and Sam hurried
to meet him.

His clear voice called:

"Don't put 'im up, boy!"

Mary's heart began to pound. She knew he would be galloping down the
white graveled way again in a few minutes. His next order confirmed her
fear.

"Just give him some water!"

"Yassah!"

The two women stood huddled close in tense anxiety.

Lee hurried down the stairs and met Stuart at the door. Before the
familiarity of a handshake or word of welcome he asked:

"What news, Lieutenant?"

Stuart spoke with deep emotion. On every word the man and the woman hung
breathlessly.

"It has come, sir. Virginia has answered to the President's call to send
troops against her own people. She has sacrificed all save honor. The
vote of the Convention was overwhelming. She has withdrawn from the
Union--"

A moment's deathly silence. And the cry of pain from a woman's white
lips. Mary caught her mother in her arms and held her firmly. The cry
wrung her young heart.

"Oh, dear God, have mercy on us--and give us strength to bear it--"

Stuart hurried to her side and tried to break the blow with cheerful
words.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Lee. The South is right."

Lee had not spoken. His brilliant eyes had the look of a man who walks
in his sleep. They were in the world but not of it. The deep things of
eternity were in their brooding. He waked at last and turned to Stuart
sadly.

"God save our country, my boy."

He paused and looked out the doorway on the beautiful green of the lawn.
The perfume from the rose garden stole in on the fresh breeze that
stirred from the river.

"A frightful blow," he went on dreamily, "this news you bring."

Stuart's young body stiffened.

"You're the foremost citizen of Virginia, sir. Others may doubt and
waver and be confused. I think I know what you're going to do, in the
end--"

"It's hard--it's hard," the strong man cried bitterly.

The mother and daughter studied his face in eager, anxious waiting. On
his word life hung. Stuart glanced at their tense faces and couldn't
find speech. He turned and spoke briskly.

"I must hurry, sir. I'll be in Richmond before sunset."

The sound of carriage wheels grated on the road and a foaming pair of
horses drew under the portico. A woman sprang out.

Mrs. Lee turned to the Colonel.

"It's your sister, Annie, Colonel."

"Yes," Stuart added, "I passed her on the way--"

Mrs. Marshall hurried to greet Mrs. Lee. The two women embraced and wept
in silence.

"Mary!"

"Annie!"

The names were barely breathed.

Mary silently kissed her aunt as she turned from her mother. The
Colonel's sister raised her eyes and saw Stuart. Her tones were sharp
with the ring of a commander giving orders:

"Our army is marching, Lieutenant Stuart! You here in civilian clothes?"

The strong, young body stiffened.

"I have resigned my commission in the United States Army, Mrs.
Marshall--"

Her finger rose in an imperious gesture.

"You will live to regret it, sir!"

Lee frowned and laid his hand on his sister's arm in a gesture of
appeal.

"Annie, dear, please."

She regained her poise at the touch of his hand and turned to Mrs. Lee.

Stuart extended his hand briskly.

"Goodbye, sir. I hope to see you in Richmond soon--"

Lee's answer was gravely spoken.

"Goodbye, my boy. I honor you in your quick decision, with the clear
vision of youth. We, older men, must halt and pray, and feel our way."

With a laugh in his blue eyes Stuart paused at the door half embarrassed
at Mrs. Marshall's presence. He waved his hat to the group.

"Well, goodbye, everybody! I'm off to join the Cavalry!"

Outside as he hurried to his horse he waved again.

"Goodbye--!"

There was a moment's painful silence. They listened to the beat of his
horse's hoof on the white roadway toward Washington. As the tall soldier
listened he heard the roar of the hoofs of coming legions. And a
warrior's soul leaped to the saddle. But the soul of the man, of the
father and brother uttered a cry of mortal pain. He looked about the
hall in a dazed way as if unconscious of the presence of the women of
his home.

Mrs. Lee saw his deep anxiety and whispered to Mrs. Marshall.

"Come to my room, Annie, and rest before you say anything to Robert--"

She shook her head.

"No--no, my dear. I can't. My heart's too full. I can't rest. It's no
use trying."

The wife took both her hands.

"Then remember, that his heart is even fuller than yours."

"Yes, I know."

"And you cannot possibly be suffering as he is."

"I'll not forget, dear."

Mrs. Lee pressed her hands firmly.

"And say nothing that you'll live to regret?"

"I promise, Mary."

"Please!"

With a lingering look of sympathy for brother and sister, Mrs. Lee
softly left the room.

Lee stood gazing through the window across the shining waters of the
river whose mirror but a few months ago had reflected the distorted
faces of John Brown and his men at Harper's Ferry. It had come, the
vision he had seen as he looked on the dark stains that fateful morning.

He dreaded this interview with his sister. He knew the views of Judge
Marshall, her husband. He knew her own love for the Union.

She was struggling for control of Her emotions and her voice was
strained.

"You've--you've heard this awful news from Richmond?"

"Yes," he answered quietly. "And I've long felt it coming. The first
thunderbolt struck us at Harper's Ferry. The storm has broken now--"

"What are you going to do?"

She asked the question as if half afraid to pronounce the words. Lee
turned away in silence. She followed him and laid a hand on his arm.

"You'll let me tell you all that's in my heart, my brother?"

The soldier was a boy again. He took his sister's hand and stroked it as
he had in the old days at Stratford.

"Of course, my dear."

"And remember that we _are_ brother and sister?"

"Always."

She clung to his hand and made no effort now to keep back the tears.

"And that I shall always believe in you and be proud of you--"

A sob caught her voice and she could not go on. He pressed her hand.

"It's sweet to hear you say this, Annie, in the darkest hour of my
life--"

She interrupted him in quick, passionate appeal.

"Why should it be the darkest hour, Robert? What have you or I, or our
people, to do with the madmen who are driving the South over the brink
of this precipice?"

Lee shook his head.

"The people of the South are not being driven now, my dear--"

He stopped. His eyes flashed as his words quickened.

"They are rushing with a fierce shout as one man. The North thinks that
only a small part of the Southern people are in this revolution, misled
by politicians. The truth is, the masses are sweeping their leaders
before them, as leaves driven by a storm. The cotton states are
unanimous. Virginia has seceded. North Carolina and Tennessee will
follow her to-morrow, and the South a Unit, the Union is divided."

The sister drew herself up with pride, and squarely faced him. She spoke
with deliberation.

"Our families, Robert, from the beginning have stood for the glory of
the Union. It is unthinkable that you should leave it. Such men as
Edmund Ruffin--yes--the impulsive old firebrand has already volunteered
as a private and gone to South Carolina. He pulled the lanyard that
fired the first shot against Fort Sumter. We have nothing in common with
such men--"

Lee lifted his hand in protest.

"Yes, we have, my dear. We are both sons of Virginia, our mother and the
mother of this Republic."

"All the more reason why I'm begging to-day that you dedicate your
genius, your soul and body to fight the men who would destroy the
Union!"

Lee raised his eyes as if in prayer and drew a deep breath.

"There's but one thing for me to decide, Annie--my duty."

His sister clasped her hands nervously and glanced about the room. Her
eyes rested on the portraits of Washington, and his wife and she turned
quickly.

"Your wife is the grand-daughter of Martha Washington. Can you look on
that portrait of the father of this country, handed down to the mother
of your children, and dare draw your sword to destroy his work?"

"I've tried to put him in my place and ask what he would do--"

He stopped suddenly.

"What would Washington do if he stood in my place to-day?"

"My dear brother!"

"Remember now that you are appealing to me as my sister. Did Washington
allow the ties of blood to swerve him from his duty? His own mother was
a loyal subject of the King of Great Britain and died so--"

"Washington led an army of patriots in a sacred cause," she interrupted.

"Surely. But he won his first victories as a soldier fighting the
French, under the British flag. He denounced that flag, joined with the
French and forced Cornwallis to surrender to the armies of France and
the Colonies of America. He was equally right when he fought under the
British flag against the French, and when he fought with Lafayette and
Rochambeau and won our independence. Each time he fought for his rights
under law. Each time with mind and conscience clear, he answered the
call of duty. The man who does that is always right, my sister, no
matter what flag flies above him!"

"Oh, Robert, there is but one flag--the flag of Washington, and your
father, Henry Lee--"

The brother broke in quickly.

"And yet, the first blood in this conflict was drawn by a man who cursed
that flag, who again and again defied its authority, and gloried in the
fact that he had trampled it beneath his feet. The North has proclaimed
him a Saint. Their soldiers are now marching on the South singing a song
of glory to John Brown and all for which he stood. What would Washington
do if he were living, and these men were marching to invade Virginia,
put his home at Mount Vernon to the torch, and place pikes in the hands
of his slaves--"

Lee searched his sister's eyes and drove his question home.

"What would he do?"

The woman was too downright in her honesty to quibble or fence. She
couldn't answer. She flushed and hesitated.

"I don't know--I don't know. I only know," she hastened to add, "that he
couldn't be a traitor."

"Even so. Who is the traitor, my dear? The man who defies the
Constitution and the laws of the Union? Or the man who defends the law
and the rights of his fathers under it?"

Again she couldn't answer. She would not acknowledge defeat. She simply
refused to face such a problem. It led the wrong way. With quick wit
she changed her point of attack. She drew close and asked in passionate
tenderness:

"Have you counted the cost? The frightful cost which you and yours must
pay if you dare defend Virginia?"

Lee nodded his head sorrowfully.

"On my knees, I've tried to reckon it." He looked longingly over the
wide lawn that rolled in green splendor toward the river.

"I know that if I cast my lot with Virginia, this home, handed down to
us from Washington, will be lost, and its fields trampled under the
feet of hostile armies. That my wife and children may wander homeless,
dependent on the charity or courtesy of friends. The thought of it tears
my heart!"

His voice sank to a whisper. And then he lifted his head firmly.

"But I must not allow this to swerve me an inch from my duty--"

The sound of horses' hoofs again echoed on the roadway, as Ben entered
from the dining room to announce breakfast.

Lee listened.

"See who that is, Ben."

"Yassah."

As Ben passed out the door, Lee continued:

"I will not say one word to influence my three sons. I will not even
write to them. They must fight this battle out alone, as I am fighting
it out to-day."

His sister smiled wanly.

"Your sons will follow you, Robert. And so will thousands of the best
men in Virginia. Your responsibility is terrible."

Ben announced from the door.

"Mr. Francis Preston Blair, ter see you, sir."

Lee waved the butler from the room.

"I'll receive him, Ben. You can go."

"Thank God!" Mrs. Marshall breathed. "He's the most influential man
in Washington. He is in close touch with the President, and he is a
Southerner--"

She looked at her brother pleadingly.

"You'll give him the most careful hearing, Robert?"

"I don't know the object of his visit, but I'll gladly see him."

"He's a staunch Union man. He can have but one object in coming!" she
cried with elation.

With courtesy Lee met his distinguished visitor at the door and grasped
his hand.

"Walk in, Mr. Blair. You know my sister, Mrs. Marshall of Baltimore?"

Blair smiled.

"I am happy to say that Mrs. Marshall and I are the best of friends.
We have often met at the house of my son, Montgomery Blair, of Mr.
Lincoln's Cabinet."

"Let me take your hat, sir," Lee said with an answering smile.

"Thank you."

The Colonel crossed the room to place it on a table.

Mrs. Marshall took advantage of the moment to whisper to Blair.

"I've done my best. I'm afraid I haven't convinced him. May God give you
the word to speak to my brother to-day!"

Blair rubbed his hands and a look of triumph overspread his rugged face.

"He has, Madame. I have a message for him!"

"A message?"

"From the highest authority!"

"May I be present at your conference?" she pleaded eagerly.

"By all means, Madame. Stay and hear my announcement. He cannot refuse
me."

Lee sought at once to put Blair at ease on his mission.

"From my sister's remark a moment ago, I may guess the purpose of your
coming, Mr. Blair?"

His guest surveyed Lee with an expression of deep pleasure in the
unfolding of his message.

"In part, yes, you may have guessed my purpose. But I have something to
say that even your keen mind has not surmised--"

"I am honored, sir, in your call and I shall be glad to hear you."

Blair drew himself erect as if on military duty.

"Colonel Lee, I have come after a conference with President Lincoln, to
ask you to throw the power of your great name into this fight now to put
an end to chaos--"

"You have come from the President?"

"Unofficially--"

"Oh--"

"But with his full knowledge and consent."

"And what is his suggestion?"

Blair hesitated.

"He cannot make it until he first knows that you will accept his offer."

"His offer?"

Blair waited until the thought had been fully grasped and then uttered
each word with solemn emphasis.

"His offer, sir, of the supreme command of the armies of the Union--"

A cry of joy and pride came resistlessly from the sister's lips.

"Oh, Robert--Robert!"

Lee was surprised and deeply moved. He rose from his seat, walked to the
window, looked out, flushed and slowly said:

"You--you--cannot mean this--?"

Blair hastened to assure him.

"I am straight from the White House. General Scott has eagerly endorsed
your name."

"But I cannot realize this to me--from Abraham Lincoln?"

"From Abraham Lincoln, whose simple common sense is the greatest
asset to-day which the Union possesses. His position is one of frank
conciliation toward the South."

"Yet he said once that this Republic cannot endure half slave and half
free and the South interpreted that to mean--war--"

"Exactly. Crowds do not reason. They refuse to think. They refuse,
therefore, to hear his explanation of those words. He hates Slavery
as you hate Slavery. He knows, as you know, that it is doomed by the
process of time. To make this so clear that he who runs may read, he
wrote in his inaugural address in so many words his solemn pledge to
respect every right now possessed by the masters of the South under law.

_"'I have no purpose to interfere with the institution of Slavery in the
States where it exists.'"_

"His sole purpose now is to save the Union, Slavery or no Slavery--"

"Surely, Robert," his sister cried, "you can endorse that stand!"

"Mr. Lincoln," Blair went on eagerly, "is a leader whose common sense
amounts to genius. No threats or bluster, inside his own party or
outside of it, can swerve him from his high aim. He is going to save
this Union first and let all other questions bide their time."

Lee searched Blair with his keen eyes.

"But Mr. Lincoln, without the authority of Congress, has practically
declared war. He has called on Virginia to furnish troops to fight
a sister State. My State has decided that he had no power under the
Constitution to issue such a call. It is, therefore, illegal. The
organic law of the republic makes no provision for raising troops to
fight a sister State."

Blair lifted both hands in a persuasive gesture.

"Let us grant, Colonel Lee, that in law you are right. The States are
sovereign. The Constitution gives the General Government no power to
coerce a State. Our fathers, as a matter of fact, never faced such a
possibility. Grant all that in law. Even so, a mighty, united nation
has grown through the years. It is now a living thing, immutable,
indissoluble. It commands your obedience and mine."

Lee was silent and Mrs. Marshall cried:

"Surely this is true, Robert!"

"My dear Mr. Blair," Lee slowly began, "your claim is the beginning of
the end of law--the beginning of anarchy. If under the law, Virginia
is right, is it not my duty to defend her? Obedience to law is the
cornerstone on which all nations are built if they endure. Reverence for
law is to-day the force driving the South into revolution--"

"A revolution doomed to certain failure," Blair quickly interrupted.
"The border slave states of Maryland, Kentucky and Missouri, under Mr.
Lincoln's conservative leadership, will never secede. Without them the
South must fail. You have served under the flag of the Union for thirty
years. You know the North. You know the South. And you know that such a
revolution based on a division of the Union without these border States
is madness--"

"It is madness, Robert," Mrs. Marshall joined, "utter madness!"

"Right and duty, Mr. Blair, have nothing to do with success or failure,"
Lee responded. "I know the fearful odds against the South. I know the
indomitable will, the energy, the fertile resources, the pride of
opinion of the North, once set in motion. I know that the South has no
money, no army, no organized government, no standing in the Court of
Nations. She will have a white population of barely five millions
against twenty-two millions--and her ports will be closed by our Navy--"

Blair interrupted and leaned close.

"And let me add, that as our leader _you_ will not only command the
greatest army ever assembled under the American flag, backed by a great
Navy--but that your victory will be but the beginning of a career. From
your window you see the White House and the Capitol. The man who leads
the Union armies will succeed Mr. Lincoln as President."

Lee's protest was emphatic.

"I aspire to no office, Mr. Blair. I'm fifty-four years of age. I am on
the hilltop of life. The way leads down a gentle slope, I trust, to a
valley of peace, love and happiness. Ambition does not lure me; I have
lived. I have played my part as well as I know how. I am content. I love
my Country, North and South, East and West. I am a trained soldier--I
know nothing else."

"The highest honor of this Nation, Colonel Lee, is something no man born
under our flag dares to decline. Few men in history have been so well
equipped as you for such an honor, both by birth and culture. You must
also remember that the President of the United States is Commander in
Chief of the Army and Navy. You are proud of your profession. You would
honor it in the highest office of the Republic. You are held in the
highest esteem by every soldier in the army. The President calls you.
The Nation calls you. All eyes are upon you."

Blair studied the effect of his appeal. He saw that Lee was profoundly
moved. Yet his courteous manner gave no hint of the trend of his
emotions. He did not reply for a moment and then spoke with tenderness.

"My dear friend, you must not think that I am deaf to such calls. They
move me to the depths. But no honor can reconcile me to this awful war.
It is madness. It is absolutely unnecessary. But for John Brown's insane
act it could have been avoided. But it has come. Its glory does not
tempt me. I wish peace on earth and good will to all men. I am a
soldier, but a Christian soldier--"

His voice broke.

"I am one of the humblest followers of Jesus Christ. There is but a
single question for me to decide--my duty--"

A horseman dashed under the portico, threw his reins to Sam and entered
without announcement.

"Colonel Lee?" he asked.

"Yes."

He handed Lee a folded paper bearing the great seal of the State.

"A message, sir, from Richmond."

Lee's hand trembled as he broke the seal. He stared at its words as in a
dream.

"You have important news?" Blair asked.

"Most important. I am summoned to Richmond by the Governor in obedience
to a resolution of the Legislature."

Mrs. Marshall advanced on the dusty, young messenger, her eyes aflame
with anger.

"How dare you enter this house unannounced, sir?"

The boy did not answer. He turned away with a smile. She repented her
words immediately. They had sounded undignified, if not positively rude.
But she had been so sure that Blair could not fail. This call from
Richmond, coming in the moment of crisis, drove her to desperation. She
looked at Blair helplessly and he rallied to the attack with renewed
determination.

"A Nation is calling you. The Union your fathers created is calling you,
Colonel Lee!"

Lee's figure stiffened the least bit, though his words were uttered in
the friendliest tones.

"Virginia is also calling me, Mr. Blair. Your own State of Maryland has
not seceded. For that reason you cannot feel this tragedy as I feel it.
Put yourself in my place. I ask you the question, is not the command of
a State that of a mother to a child? We are citizens of the State, not
of the Union. There is no such thing as citizenship in the Union. We
vote only as citizens of a State. We enlist as soldiers by States. I was
sent to West Point as a cadet by the State of Virginia. Even President
Lincoln's proclamation calling for volunteers to coerce a State,
revolutionary as it is, is addressed, not to individual men, but to the
States. He must call on each to furnish her quota of soldiers--"

"Yet the call is to every citizen of the Nation!"

Lee's hand was raised in a gesture of imperious affirmation.

"There is no such thing as citizenship of the Nation! We don't pay taxes
to the Nation. We may yet become a Nation. We are as yet a Union of
Sovereign States. Virginia has refused to furnish the troops called for
by the President and has withdrawn from the Union. She reserved in her
vote to enter, the right to withdraw. I am a Virginian. What is my
duty?"

"To fight for the Union, Robert--always!" Mrs. Marshall answered.

"I love the Union, my dear sister, my heart aches at the thought of its
division--"

He turned sharply to Blair.

"But is not the South to-day in taking her stand for the rights of the
State asserting a principle as vital as the Union itself? All the great
minds of the North have recognized that these rights are fundamental
to our life. Bancroft declares that the State is the guardian of the
security and happiness of the individual. Hamilton declares that, if
the States shall lose their powers, the people will be robbed of their
liberties. George Clinton says that the States are our _only_ security
for the liberties of the people against a centralized tyranny. These
rights once surrendered, and I solemnly warn you, my friend, that your
children and mine may live to see in Washington a centralized power that
will dare to say what you shall eat, what you shall drink, and what you
shall wear!"

Blair laughed incredulously.

"Surely it's a far cry to that, Colonel--"

"I'm not so sure, Mr. Blair. And the cry from Virginia rings through my
heart. I see her in mortal peril. My father was three times Governor
of the Commonwealth. Virginia gave America the immortal words of the
Declaration of Independence. She gave us something greater. She gave us
George Washington, a Southern slaveholder, whose iron will alone carried
our despairing people through ten years of hopeless revolution and won
at last our right to live. Madison wrote the Constitution. John Marshall
of Virginia, as Chief Judge of the Supreme Court, established its power
on the foundations of Justice and Law. Jefferson doubled our area in the
Louisiana Territory. Scott and Taylor extended it to the Pacific Ocean
from Oregon to the Gulf of California. Virginia in the generosity of her
great heart gave the Northwest to the Union and forbade the extension of
slavery within it--"

Blair leaped to make a point.

"Surely these proud recollections, of her gifts to the Union should form
bonds too strong to be broken!"

"So say I, sir! Surely they should place the people of all sections
under obligations too deep to permit the invasion of her sacred soil!
Can I stand by as her loyal son and see this invasion begun? I regret
that Virginia has withdrawn. But the deed is done. Her people through
their Governor and their Legislature call me--command me to come to her
defense. They may be wrong. They may be blinded by passion. They are
still my people, my neighbors, my friends, my children--and I cannot--"

He drew a deep breath and rose to his full height.

"_I will not draw my sword against them!_"

"Glory to God!" the messenger exulted.

Blair spoke with despair.

"This is your final decision?"

"Final."

The messenger slipped close to Lee and spoke hurriedly.

"I came by special train, sir--an engine and coach. They wait you on
a siding just outside of town. We're afraid the line may be cut. The
Northern troops are bivouacing on the Capitol hill. They may stop us.
We've no time to lose. I hope you can come at once."

The messenger walked quickly through the door and seized his horse's
reins.

Lee turned to Blair.

"Troops are on the Capitol Hill?"

"A regiment of Pennsylvanians has just arrived, I believe."

Sam had edged through the door and stood smiling at his old master. The
Colonel had not seen him to this moment.

"You here, Sam?" he said with feeling.

"Yassah. I come home ter stan' by you, Marse Robert."

"Saddle my horse, you can go with me!"

"Yassah. Thankee, sah!"

"Bring Sid to fetch our horses back from the train."

"Yassah, glory hallelujah!" Sam shouted as he darted for the stable.

The anxious mother, praying in her room upstairs, heard Sam's shout and
hurried down with Mary. The other children happily were on the Pamunkey
at the home of Custis.

The mother's heart was pounding. There was war in Sam's shout. She felt
its savage thrill. She gripped herself for the ordeal. There should
be no vain regrets, no foolish words. Her soul rose in the glory of
sacrificial love.

"What is it, my dear?" she asked softly.

"I go to Richmond immediately. Northern troops are pouring into
Washington. Send my things to me if you can."

His eyes wandered about the room he loved. He would never see it again.
He felt this in his inmost soul. It would be but the work of an hour
for the troops to sweep across the bridge, sack its rooms and leave its
beautiful lawn a sodden waste.

The wife saw the anguish in his gaze and her words rang with exaltation.

"Then it is God's will. And I shall try to smile. You have reached this
decision in deepest thought and prayer. And I know that you are right!"

Lee took her in his arms and held her in silence. Those who saw, wept.
At last he kissed her tenderly and turned to the others.

His sister walked blindly toward him.

"Oh, Robert, you have broken my heart--"

"I know, Annie, that you'll blame me," he answered, gently.

She slipped her arms about his neck.

"No, I shall not blame you. I understand now. I only grieve--"

Her voice broke. She struggled to control herself.

"How handsome you are in this solemn hour, my glorious,
soldier-brother--" Again her voice failed.

"The pity and horror of it all! My husband and my son will fight
you--and--I--shall--pray--for--their--success--oh--how can God permit
it!--Goodbye, Robert!"

Her arms tightened and his responded. His hand touched her hair and he
said slowly:

"If dark hours come to us, my sister, we are children again roaming the
fields hand in hand. We'll just remember that."

She kissed him tenderly.

"And success or failure, dear Annie," he continued, "shall be in God's
hands--not ours. I go to lead a forlorn hope perhaps. But I must share
the miseries of my people."

He slipped from her arms and silently embraced his daughter, and again
her mother.

"Say goodbye to the other children for me when you see them, dear."

Blair took his extended hand.

"I know what you feel, Colonel Lee," he said solemnly. "I'm only sorry I
could not hold you."

"Thank you, my friend. My people believe, and I believe that we have
rights to defend. And we must do our best--even if we perish."

He strode quickly to the door, and paused. A sudden pain caught his
heart as he crossed its threshold for the last time. He looked back,
lifted his head as in prayer and passed out.

He mounted his horse and rode swiftly through the beautiful spring
morning toward Richmond--and Immortality. The women stood weeping. The
President's messenger watched in sorrow.



CHAPTER XXXVIII


When John Brown cunningly surveyed the lines around those houses in
Kansas, observed the fastenings of their doors, marked the strength of
the shutters, learned the names of their dogs, crept under the cover
of darkness on his prey as a wild beast creeps through the jungle and
hacked his innocent victims to pieces, we know that he was a criminal
paranoiac pursuing a fixed idea under the delusion that God had sent
him.

Yet on the eighteenth of July, 1861, Colonel Fletcher Webster's
regiment, the Twelfth Massachusetts, marched through the streets of
Boston singing a song of glory to John Brown which one of its members
composed. They were also marching Southward to kill. The only difference
was they had a Commission.

War had been declared.

Why did the war crowd on the streets and in the ranks burst into song as
they marched to kill their fellow men?

To find the answer we must go back to the dawn of human history and see
man, as yet a savage beast, with but one impulse the dominant force in
life, the archaic impulse to slay.

All wars are not begun in this elemental fashion. There are wars of
defense forced on innocent nations by brutal aggressors. But the joy
that thrills the soul of the crowd on the declaration of war is always
the simple thing. It is the roar of the lion as he springs on his prey.

In this Song to the Soul of John Brown there was no thought of freeing
a slave. War was not declared on that ground. The President who called
them had no such purpose. The men who marched had no such idea. They
sang "Glory, Glory Hallelujah! Glory, Glory Hallelujah!" because they
saw Red.

The restraints of Law, Religion and Tradition had been lifted. The
primitive beast that had been held in check by civilization, rose with
a shout and leaped to its ancient task. The homicidal wish--fancy
with which the human mind had toyed in times of peace in dreams and
reveries--was now a living reality.

Not one in a thousand knew what the war was about. And this one in a
thousand who thought he knew was mistaken. It had been made legal to
kill. They were marching to kill. They shouted. They sang.

They were marching to the most utterly senseless and unnecessary
struggle in the history of our race. The North in the hours of sanity
which preceded the outburst did not wish war. The South in her sane
moments never believed it possible. Yet the hell-lit tragedy of brothers
marching to slay their brothers had come. Nothing could dampen the
enthusiasm of this first joyous mob.

On the night of the twentieth of July the Army of the North was encamped
about seven miles from Beaureguard's lines at Bull Run. The volunteers
were singing, shouting, girding their loins for the fray. They had heard
the firing on the first skirmish line. Fifteen or twenty men had been
killed it was reported.

The Red Thought leaped!

At two o'clock before day on Sunday morning, the order came to advance
against the foe. The deep thrill of the elemental man swept the crowd.
They had come loaded down with baggage. They hurled it aside and got
their guns.

What many of them were afraid of was that the whole rebel army would
escape before they could get into the thick of it. Many had brought
handcuffs and ropes along with which to manacle their prisoners and have
sport with them after the fight, another ancient pastime of our half-ape
ancestors. They threw down some of their blankets but held on to their
handcuffs.

When the first crash of battle came these raw recruits on both sides
fought with desperate bravery for nine terrible hours. They fought from
dawn until three o'clock in the afternoon under the broiling Southern
sun of July. Charge and counter charge left their toll of the dead and
then the tired archaic muscles began to wonder when it would end. Why
hadn't victory come? Where were the prisoners they were to manacle?

Both sides were sick with hunger and weariness. The Southerners were
expecting reinforcements from Manassas Junction. The Northerners were
expecting reinforcements. Their eyes were turned toward the same road
which led from the Shenandoah Valley.

A dust cloud suddenly rose over the hill. A fresh army was marching on
the scene. North and South looked with straining eyes. They were not
long in doubt. The first troops suddenly swung in on the right flank of
the Southern army and began to form their lines to charge the North.

Suddenly from this fresh Southern line rose a new cry. From two thousand
throats came the shrill, elemental, savage shout of the hunter in sight
of his game--the fierce Rebel Yell.

They charged the Northern lines and then pandemonium--blind, unreasoning
wolf-panic seized the army that had marched with songs and shouts to
kill. They broke and fled. They cut the traces of their horses, left the
guns, mounted and rode for life.

The mob engulfed the buggies and carriages of Congressmen and picnickers
who had come out from Washington to see the fun. A rebellion crushed at
a blow!

Stuart at the head of his Black Horse Cavalry, his saber flashing, cut
his way through this mob again and again.

When the smoke of battle lifted, the dazed, ill-organized ambulance
corps searched the field for the first toll of the Blood Feud. They
found only nine hundred boys slain and two thousand six hundred wounded.
They lay weltering in their blood in the smothering heat and dust and
dirt.

The details of men were busy burying the dead, some of their bodies yet
warm.

The morning after dawned black and lowering and the rain began to pour
in torrents. Through the streets of Washington the stragglers streamed.
The plumes which waved as they sang were soaked and drooping. Their
gorgeous, new uniforms were wrinkled and mud-smeared.

The President called for five hundred thousand men this time. The joy
and glory of war had gone.

But war remained.

War grim, gaunt, stark, hideous--as remorseless as death.



CHAPTER XXXIX


In a foliage-embowered house on a hill near Washington Colonel Jeb
Stuart, Commander of the Confederate Cavalry, had made his headquarters.

Neighing horses were hitched to the swaying limbs. They pawed the
ground, wheeled and whinnied their impatience at inaction. Every man who
sat in one of those saddles owned his mount. These boys were the flower
of Southern manhood. The Confederate Government was too poor to furnish
horses for the Cavalry. Every man, volunteering for this branch of the
service, must bring his own horse and equipment complete. The South only
furnished a revolver and carbine. At the first battle of Bull Run they
didn't have enough of them even for the regiments Stuart commanded.
Whole companies were armed only with the pikes which John Brown had made
for the swarming of the Black Bees at Harper's Ferry. They used these
pikes as lances.

The thing that gave the Confederate Cavalry its impetuous dash, its fire
and efficiency was the fact that every man on horseback had been born
in the saddle and had known his horse from a colt. From the moment they
swung into line they were veterans.

The North had no such riders in the field as yet. Brigadier-General
Phillip St. George Cooke was organizing this branch of the service. It
would take weary months to train new riders and break in strange horses.

Until these born riders, mounted on their favorites, could be killed or
their horses shot from under them, there would be tough work ahead for
the Union Cavalry.

A farmer approached at sunset. He gazed on the array with pride.

He lifted his gray head and shouted:

"Hurrah for our boys! Old Virginia'll show 'em before we're through with
this!"

A sentinel saluted the old man.

"I've come for Colonel Stuart. His wife and babies are at my house.
He'll understand. Tell him."

The farmer watched the spectacle. Straight in front of the little
portico on its tall staff fluttered the Commander's new, blood-red
battle flag with its blue St. Andrew's cross and white stars rippling
in the wind. Spurs were clanking, sabers rattling. A courier dashed up,
dismounted and entered the house. Young officers in their new uniforms
were laughing and chatting in groups before the door.

An escort brought in a Federal Cavalry prisoner on his mount. The boys
gathered around him and roared with laughter. He was a good-natured
Irishman who could take a joke. His horse was loaded down with a hundred
pounds of extra equipment. The Irishman had half of it strapped on his
own back.

A boy shouted:

"For the Lord's sake, did you take him with all that freight?"

An escort roared:

"That's why we took him. He couldn't run."

The boy looked at the solemn face of the prisoner and chaffed:

"And why have ye got that load on your own back, man?"

Without cracking a smile the Irishman replied:

"An' I thought me old horse had all he could carry!"

The boys roared, pulled him down, took off his trappings and told him to
make himself at home.

Inside the house could be heard the hum of conversation, with an
occasional boom of laughter that could come from but one throat.

Work for the day completed, he came to the door to greet his visitor.
The farmer's eyes flashed at the sight of his handsome figure. He was
only twenty-eight years old, of medium height, with a long, silken,
bronzed beard and curling mustache.

He waved his hand and cried:

"With you in a minute!"

His voice was ringing music. He wore a new suit of Confederate gray
which his wife had just sent him. His gauntlets extended nine inches
above the wrists. His cavalry boots were high above the knee. His
broad-brimmed felt hat was caught up on one side with a black ostrich
plume. His cavalry coat fitted tightly--a "fighting jacket." It was
circled with a black belt from which hung his revolver and over which
was tied a splendid yellow sash. His spurs were gold.

A first glance would give the impression of a gay youngster over fond
of dress. But the moment his blue eyes flashed there came the glint of
steel. The man behind the uniform was seen, the bravest of the brave,
the flower of Southern chivalry.

For all his gay dress he was from the crown of his head to the soles of
his feet, every inch the soldier--the soldier with the big brain and
generous, fun-loving heart. His forehead was extraordinary in height
and breadth, bronzed by sun and wind. His nose was large and nostrils
mobile. His eyes were clear, piercing, intense. His laughing mouth was
completely covered by the curling mustache and long beard.

He had darted around the house on waving to his visitor and in a minute
reappeared, followed by three negroes. He was taking his minstrels with
him on the trip to see his wife.

The cavalcade mounted. He waved his aides aside.

"No escort, boys. See you at sunrise."

The farmer's house was only half a mile inside his lines. When the army
of the North was hurled back into Washington he had sent for his wife
and babies and arranged for their board at the nearest farmhouse.

The little mother's heart was fluttering with love and pride. Richmond
was already ringing with the praises of her soldier man. They
were recruiting the first brigade of Cavalry. He was slated for
Brigadier-General of the mounted forces. And he was only twenty-eight!

Stuart sprang from his horse and rushed to meet his wife. She was
waiting in the glow of the sunset, her eyes misty with joyous tears.

It was a long time as she nestled in his arms before she could speak.
Her voice was barely a whisper.

"You've passed through your first baptism of blood safely, my own!"

"Baptism of blood--nothing!" He laughed. "It wasn't a fight at all. We
had nothing to do till the blue birds flew. And then we flew after 'em.
Oh, honey girl, it was just a lark. I laughed till I cried--"

She raised her eyes to his.

"And you didn't see my dear old daddy anywhere?"

"No. I wish I had! I'd have taken the loyal old rascal prisoner and made
you keep him till the war's over."

"It _is_ over, isn't it, dear?"

"No."

"Why, you've driven the army back in a panic on Washington. They'll ask
for peace, won't they?"

"They won't, honey. I know 'em too well. They'll more than likely ask
for a million volunteers."

"It's not over, then?"

"No, dear little mother. I'll be honest with you. Don't believe silly
talk. We're in for a long, desperate fight--"

"And I've been so happy thinking you'd come home--"

"Your home will be with me, won't it?"

"Always."

"All right. This is the beginning of my scheme for the duration of the
war. I'm going to get you a map of Virginia, showing the roads. I'll get
you a compass. There'll always be a little farmhouse somewhere behind my
headquarters. Our home will be in the field and saddle for a while."

He kissed his babies and ate his supper laughing and joking like a
boy of nineteen. The table cleared, he ordered a concert for their
entertainment.

Bob, the leader of his minstrels, was a dandified mulatto who played the
guitar, the second was a whistler and the third a master of the negro
dance, the back step and the breakdown.

Bob tuned his guitar, picked his strings and gazed at the ceiling. He
was apparently selecting the first piece. It, was always the same, his
favorite, "Listen to the Mocking Bird." He played with a plaintive,
swaying melody that charmed his hearers. The whistler amazed them with
his marvelous imitation of birds and bird calls. The room throbbed with
every note of the garden, field and wood.

The mother's face was wreathed in smiles. The boy shouted. The baby
crooned. The first piece done, the audience burst into a round of
applause.

Bob gave them "Alabama" next, accompanied by the whistler and his bird
chorus.

Stuart laughed and called for the breakdown. Bob begins a jig on his
guitar, the whistler claps and the sable dancer edges his way to the
center of the floor in little spasmodic shuffles. He begins with his
heel tap, then the toe, then in leaps and whirls. The guitar swelled
to a steady roar. The whistler quickens his claps. And Stuart's boyish
laughter rang above the din.

"Go it, boy! Go it!"

The dancer's eyes roll. His step quickens. He cuts the wildest figures
in a frenzy of abandoned joy. With a leap through the door he is gone.
The guitar stops with a sudden twang and Stuart's laughter roars.

And then he gave an hour to play with his children before a mother's
lullaby should put them to sleep. He got down on his all fours and
little Jeb mounted and rode round the room to the baby's scream of joy.
He lay flat on the floor with the baby on his breast and let her pull
his beard and mustache until her strength failed.

The children were still sound asleep when they sat down and ate
breakfast before day.

At the first streak of dawn he was standing beside his horse ready for
the dash back to his headquarters and the work of the day.

The shadow had fallen across the woman's heart again. He saw and
understood. He put his hand under her chin and lifted it.

"No more tears now, my sweetheart."

"I'll try."

"We may be here for weeks."

"There'll be another fight soon?"

"I think not."

"For a month?"

"Not for a long time."

"Thank God!"

A far-off look stole into his eyes.

"It will be a good one though when it comes, I reckon."

"There can be no _good_ one--if my boy's in it."

"Well, I'll be in it!"

"Yes. I know."

She kissed him and turned back into the house, with the old fear
gripping her heart.



CHAPTER XL


The early months of the war were but skirmishes. The real work of
killing and maiming the flower of the race had not begun.

The defeat had given the sad-eyed President unlimited power to draw
on the resources of the nation for men and money. His call for half
a million soldiers met with instant response. The fighting spirit of
twenty-two million Northern people had been roused. They felt the
disgrace of Bull Run and determined to wipe it out in blood.

Three Northern armies were hurled on the South in a well-planned,
concerted movement to take Richmond. McDowell marched straight down to
Fredericksburg with forty thousand. Fermont, with Milroy, Banks and
Shields, was sweeping through the Shenandoah Valley. McClellan, with
his grand army of one hundred and twenty thousand men, had moved up
the Peninsula in resistless force until he lay on the banks of the
Chickahominy within sight of the spires of Richmond.

To meet these three armies aggregating a quarter of a million men, the
South could marshall barely seventy thousand. Jackson was despatched
with eighteen thousand to baffle the armies of McDowell, Fremont,
Milroy, Shields and Banks in the Valley and prevent their union with
McClellan.

The war really began on Sunday, the second of June, 1862, when Robert
E. Lee was sent to the front to take command of the combined army of
seventy thousand men of the South.

The new commander with consummate genius planned his attack and flung
his gray lines on McClellan with savage power. The two armies fought in
dense thickets often less than fifty yards apart. Their muskets flashed
sheets of yellow flame. The sound of ripping canvas, the fire of small
arms in volleys, could no longer be distinguished. The sullen roar was
endless, deafening, appalling. Over the tops of oak, pine, beech, ash
and tangled undergrowth came the flaming thunder of two great armies
equally fearless, the flower of American manhood in their front ranks,
daring, scorning death, fighting hand to hand, man to man.

The people in the churches of Richmond as they prayed could hear the
awful roar. They turned their startled faces toward the battle. It rang
above the sob of organ and the chant of choir.

The hosts in blue and gray charged again and again through the tangle
of mud and muck and blood and smoke and death. Bayonet rang on bayonet.
They fought hand to hand, as naked savages once fought with bare hands.
The roar died slowly with the shadows of the night, until only the crack
of a rifle here and there broke the stillness.

And then above the low moans of the wounded and dying came the distant
notes of the church bells in Richmond calling men and women again to the
house of God.

There was no shout of triumph--no cheering hosts--only the low moan of
death and the sharp cry of a boy in pain. The men in blue could have
moved in and bivouaced on the ground they had lost. The men in gray had
no strength left.

The dead and the dying were everywhere. The wounded were crawling
through the mud and brush, like stricken animals; some with their legs
broken; some with arms dangling by a thread; some with hideous holes
torn in their faces.

The front was lighted with the unclouded splendor of a full Southern
moon. Down every dim aisle of the woods they lay in awful, dark heaps.
In the fields they lay with faces buried in the dirt or eyes staring up
at the stars, twisted, torn, mangled. The blue and the gray lay side
by side in death, as they had fought in life. The pride and glory of a
mighty race of freemen.

The shadows of the details moved in the moonlight. They were opening the
first of those long, deep trenches. They were careful in these early
days of war. They turned each face downward as they packed them in. The
grave diggers could not then throw the wet dirt into their eyes and
mouths. Aching hearts in far-off homes couldn't see; but these boys
still had hearts within their breasts.

The fog-rimmed lanterns flickered over the fields peering into the faces
on the ground.

The ambulance corps did its best at the new trade. It was utterly
inadequate on either side. It's always so in war. The work of war is to
maim, to murder--not to heal or save.

The long line of creaking wagons began to move into Richmond over the
mud-cut roads. Every hospital was filled. The empty wagons rolled back
in haste over the cobble stones and out on the muddy roads to the front
again.

At the hospital doors the women stood in huddled groups--wives,
sweethearts, mothers, sisters, praying, hoping, fearing, shivering. Far
away in the field hospitals, the young doctors with bare, bloody arms
were busy with saw and knife. Boys who had faced death in battle without
a tremor stood waiting their turn trembling, crying, cursing. They could
see the piles of legs and arms rising higher as the doctors hurled
them from the quivering bodies. They stretched out their hands in the
darkness to feel the touch of loved ones. They must face this horror
alone, and then battle through life, maimed wrecks. They peered through
the shadows under the trees where the dead were piled and envied them
their sleep.

The armies paused next day to gird their loins for the crucial test.
Jackson was still in the Shenandoah Valley holding three armies at bay,
defeating them in detail. His swift marches had so paralyzed his enemies
that McDowell's forty thousand men lay at Fredericksburg unable to move.

Lee summoned Stuart.

When the conference ended the young Cavalry Commander threw himself into
the saddle and started Northward with a song. Determined to learn the
strength of McClellan's right wing and confuse his opponent, Lee had
sent Stuart on the most daring adventure in the history of cavalry
warfare. Stuart had told him that he could ride around McClellan's whole
army, cut his communications and strike terror in his rear.

With twelve hundred picked horsemen, fighting, singing, dare-devil
riders, Stuart slipped from Lee's lines and started toward
Fredericksburg.

On the second day he surprised and captured the Federal pickets without
a shot. He dreaded a meeting with the Cavalry. His father-in-law,
General Cooke, was in command of a brigade of blue riders. He thought
with a moment's pang of the little wife at home praying that they should
never meet. Let her pray. God would help her. He couldn't let such a
thing happen.

He suddenly confronted a squadron of Federal Cavalry. With a yell his
troops charged and cleared the field. They must ride now with swifter
hoofbeat than ever. The news would spread and avengers would be on their
heels. They were now far in the rear of McClellan's grand army. They had
felt out his right wing and knew to a mile where its lines ended.

They dashed toward the York River Railroad which supplied the Northern
army, surprised the company holding Tunstall's Station, took them
prisoners, cut the wires and tore up the tracks.

On his turn toward Richmond when he reached the Chickahominy River, its
waters were swollen and he couldn't cross. He built a bridge out of the
timbers of a barn, took his last horse over and destroyed it, as the
shout of a division of Federal Cavalry was heard in the distance.

With twelve hundred men he had made a raid which added a new rule to
cavalry tactics. He had ridden around a great army, covering ninety
miles in fifty-six hours with the loss of but one man. He had
established the position of the enemy, destroyed enormous quantities
of war material, captured a hundred and sixty-five prisoners and two
hundred horses. He had struck terror to the hearts of a sturdy foe, and
thrilled the South with new courage.

Jackson's victorious little army joined Lee at Gaines' Mill on the
twenty-seventh of June, and on the following day McClellan was in full
retreat.

On the first of July it ended at Malvern Hill on the banks of the James.
Of the one hundred and ten thousand men who marched in battle line on
Richmond, eighty-six thousand only reached the shelter of his gunboats.

The first great battle of the war had raged from the first of June until
the first of July. Fifty thousand brave boys were killed or mangled on
the red fields of death. Washington was in gloom. The Grand Army of more
than two hundred thousand had gone down in defeat. It was incredible.

Richmond had been saved. The glory of Lee, Jackson and Stuart filled the
South with a new radiance. But the celebration of victory was in minor
key. Every home was in mourning.

Six days later Stuart once more clasped his wife to his heart. It had
been a month since he had seen her. The thunder of guns she had heard
without pause. She knew that both her father and her lover were
somewhere in the roaring hell below the city. Stuart never told her how
close they had come to a charge and counter charge at the battle of
Gaines' Mill.

The old, tremulous question she couldn't keep back:

"You didn't see my daddy, did you, dear?"

Stuart shouted in derision at the idea.

"Of course not, honey girl. It's not written in the book of life. Forget
the silly old fear."

"And they didn't even scratch my soldier man?"

"Never a scratch!"

She kissed him again.

"You know I've a little woman praying for me every day. I lead a charmed
life!"

She gazed at his handsome, bronzed face.

"I believe you do, dearest!"



CHAPTER XLI


McClellan fell before the genius of Lee, and Pope was put in his place.

They met at Second Manassas. The new general ended his brief campaign in
a disaster so complete, so appalling that it struck terror to the heart
of the Nation. Lee had crushed him with an ease so amazing that Lincoln
was compelled to recall McClellan to supreme command. When the toll of
the Blood Feud was again reckoned twenty-five thousand more of our brave
boys lay dead or wounded beneath the blazing sun of the South.

The Confederate Government now believed its army invincible, led by Lee.
In spite of poor equipment, with the men half clad and half barefooted,
Lee was ordered to invade Maryland. It was a political move, undertaken
without the approval of the Commander.

As the gray lines swept Northward to cross the Potomac into Maryland,
Lincoln was jubilant. To Hay, his young secretary, he whispered:

"We've got them now, boy. We've got them! The war must speedily end. Lee
can never get into Maryland with fifty thousand effective men. The river
will be behind them. I'll have McClellan on him with a hundred thousand
well-shod, well-fed, well-armed soldiers and the finest equipment of
artillery that ever thundered into battle.

"McClellan's on his mettle. His army will fight like tigers to show their
faith in him. They were all against me when I removed him. Now they'll
show me something. Mark my words."

Luck was with McClellan. By an accident Lee's plan of campaign had
fallen into his hands. Yet it was too late to forestall his first master
stroke. In the face of a hostile army of twice his numbers Lee divided
his forces, threw Jackson's corps on Harper's Ferry, captured the town,
Arsenal and Rifle Works, twelve thousand five hundred prisoners and vast
stores of war material. Among the booty taken were new blue uniforms
with which Jackson promptly clothed his men.

Lee met McClellan at Antietam and waited for Jackson to arrive from
Harper's Ferry.

When McClellan's artillery opened in the gray dawn, more than sixteen
thousand of Lee's footsore men had fallen along the line of march unable
to reach the battlefield. The Union Commander was massing eighty-seven
thousand men behind his flaming batteries. Lee could count on but
thirty-seven thousand. He gave McClellan battle with his little army
hemmed in on one side by Antietam Creek and on the other by the sweeping
Potomac.

The President in Washington received the news of the positions of the
armies and their chances of success with exultation. As the sun rose
a glowing dull red ball of fire breaking through the smoke of the
artillery, Hooker's division swept into action and drove the first line
of Lee's men into the woods. Here they rallied and began to mow down the
charging masses with deadly aim. For two hours the sullen fight raged in
the woods without yielding an inch on either side. Hooker fell wounded.
He called for aid. Mansfield answered and fell dead as he deployed his
men. Sedgwick's Corps charged and were caught in a trap between two
Confederate brigades concealed and massed to meet them. Sedgwick was
wounded and his command barely saved from annihilation.

While this struggle raged on the Union right, the center saw a bloodier
tragedy. French and Richardson charged the Confederate position. A
sunken road crossed the field over which they marched. For four tragic
hours the men in gray held this sunken road until it was piled with
their bodies. When the final charge of massed blue took it, they found
to their amazement that but three hundred living men had been holding it
for an hour against the assaults of five thousand. So perfect was the
faith of those gray soldiers in Robert E. Lee they died as if it were
the order of the day. It was simply fate. Their Commander could make no
mistake.

Burnsides swung his reinforced division around the woods and pushed up
the heights against Sharpsburg to cut Lee's only line of retreat. He
forced the thin, gray lines before him through the streets of the
village. On its outer edge he suddenly confronted a mass of men clad in
their own blue uniform.

How had these men gotten here?

He was not long in doubt. The blue line suddenly flashed a red wave
squarely in their faces. It was Jackson's Corps from Harper's Ferry in
their new uniforms. The shock threw the Union men into confusion, a
desperate charge drove them out of Sharpsburg, and Lee's army camped on
the field with the dead.

For fourteen hours five hundred guns and a hundred thousand muskets
thundered and hissed their message of blood. When night fell more than
twenty thousand of our noblest men lay dead and wounded on the field.

Lee skillfully withdrew his army across the Potomac. Safe in Virginia he
rallied his shattered forces while he sent Stuart once more in a daring
ride around McClellan's army.

Again McClellan fell before the genius of Lee. Burnsides was put in his
place.

They met at Fredericksburg. Burnsides, the courtly, polished gentleman,
crossed the Rappahannock River and charged the hills on which Lee's
grim, gray men had entrenched. His magnificent army marched into a death
trap. Lee's batteries had been trained to rake the field from three
directions.

Five times the Union hosts charged these crescent hills and five times
they were rolled back in waves of blood. A fierce freezing wind sprang
up from the North. The desperate Union Commander thought still to turn
defeat into victory and ordered the sixth charge.

The men in blue pulled down their caps and charged once more into the
jaws of death. The lines as they advanced snatched up the frozen bodies
of their comrades, carried them to the front, stacked the corpses into
long piles for bulwarks, dropped low and fought behind them. In vain.
The gray hills roared and blazed, roared and blazed with increasing
fury. Darkness came at last and drew a mantle of mercy over the scene.

The men in blue planted the frozen bodies of their dead along the outer
line as dummy sentinels and crept through the shadows across the river
shattered, broken, crushed. They left their wounded. Through the long
hours of the freezing night the pitiful cries came to the boys in gray
on the wings of the fierce North winds. They crawled out into the
darkness here and there and held a canteen to the lips of a dying foe.

At dawn they looked and saw the piles of the slain wrapped in white
shrouds of snow. The shivering, ragged, gray figures, thinly clad, swept
down the hill, stripped the dead and shook the frost from the warm
clothes.

Burnsides fell before the genius of Lee and Hooker was put in his place.

Fighting Joe Hooker they called him. At Chancellorsville a few months
later he led his reorganized army across the same river and threw it
on Lee with supreme confidence in the results. He led an army of one
hundred and thirty thousand men in seven grand divisions backed by four
hundred and forty-eight great guns.

Lee, still on the hills behind Fredericksburg, had sixty-two thousand
men and one hundred and seventy guns. He had sent Longstreet's corps
into Tennessee.

Hooker threw the flower of his army across the river seven miles above
Fredericksburg to flank Lee and strike him from the rear while the
remainder of his army crossed in front and between the two he would
crush the Confederate army as an eggshell.

But the unexpected happened. Lee was not only a stark fighter. He was a
supreme master of the art of war. He understood Hooker's move from the
moment it began. His gray army had already slipped out of his trenches
and were feeling their way through the tangled vines and underbrush with
sure, ominous tread. In this wilderness Hooker's four hundred guns would
be as useless as his own hundred and seventy. It would be a hand-to-hand
fight in the tangled brush. The gray veteran was a dead shot and he was
creeping through his own native woods. On this beautiful May morning,
Lee, Jackson, and Stuart met in conference before the battle opened.
The plan was chosen. Lee would open the battle and hold Hooker at close
range. Jackson would "retreat." Out of sight, he would turn, march
swiftly ten miles around their right wing and smash it before sundown.

At five o'clock in the afternoon while Lee held Hooker's front,
Jackson's corps crept into position in Hooker's rear. The shrill note of
a bugle rang from the woods and the yelling gray lines of death swept
down on their unsuspecting foe. Without support the shattered right wing
was crushed, crumpled and rolled back in confusion.

At eight o'clock Jackson, pressing forward in the twilight, was mortally
wounded by his own men and Stuart took his command. The gay, young
cavalier placed himself at the head of Jackson's corps and charged
Hooker's disorganized army. Waving his black plumed hat above his
handsome, bearded face, he chanted with boyish gaiety an improvised
battle song:

  "Old Joe Hooker,
  Won't you come out o' the Wilderness?"

His men swept the field and as Hooker's army retreated Lee rode to
the front to congratulate Stuart. At sight of his magnificent figure
wreathed in smoke his soldiers went wild. Above the roar of battle rang
their cheers:

"Lee! Lee! Lee!"

From line to line, division to division, the word leaped until the
wounded and the dying joined its chorus.

The picket lines were so close that night in the woods they could talk
to one another. The Southerners were chaffing the Yanks over their many
defeats, when a Yankee voice called through the night his defense of the
war to date:

"Ah, Johnnie, shut up--you make me tired. You're not such fighters as ye
think ye are. Swap generals with us and we'll come over and lick hell
out of you!"

There was silence for a while and then a Confederate chuckled to his
mate:

"I'm damned if they mightn't, too!"

The morning dawned at last after the battle and they began to bury the
dead and care for the wounded. Their agonies had been horrible. Some
had fallen on Friday, thousands on Saturday. It was now Monday. Through
miles of dark, tangled woods in the pouring rain they still lay groaning
and dying.

And over all the wings of buzzards hovered.

The keen eyes of the vultures had watched them fall, poised high as the
battle raged. The woods had been swept again and again by fire. Many of
the bodies were black and charred. Some of the wounded had been burned
to death. Their twisted bodies and distorted features told the story.
The sickening odor of roasted human flesh yet filled the air.

It was late at night on the day after, before the wounded had all been
moved. The surgeons with sleeves rolled high, their arms red, their
shirts soaked, bent over their task through every hour of the black
night until legs and arms were piled in heaps ten feet high beside each
operating table.

Thirty thousand magnificent men had been killed and mangled.

The report from Chancellorsville drifted slowly and ominously northward.
The White House was still. The dead were walking beside the lonely, tall
figure who paced the floor in dumb anguish, pausing now and then at the
window to look toward the hills of Virginia.

Lee's fame now filled the world and the North shivered at the sound of
it.

Volunteering had ceased. But the cannon were still calling for fodder.
The draft was applied. And when it was resisted in fierce riots, the
soldiers trained their guns on their own people. The draft wheel was
turned by bayonets and the ranks of the army filled with fresh young
bodies to be mangled.

Hooker fell before Lee's genius and Meade took his place.

The Confederate Government, flushed with its costly victories, once more
sought a political sensation by the invasion of the North. Lee marched
his army of veterans into Pennsylvania.

At Gettysburg he met Meade.

The first day the Confederates won. They drove the blue army back
through the streets of the village and their gallant General, John F.
Reynolds, was killed.

The second day was one of frightful slaughter. The Union army at its
close had lost twenty thousand men, the Confederate fifteen thousand.

The moon rose and flooded the rocky field of blood and death with silent
glory. From every shadow and from every open space through the hot
breath of the night came the moans of thousands and high above their
chorus rang the cries for water.

No succor could be given. The Confederates were massing their artillery
on Seminary Ridge. The Union legions were burrowing and planting new
batteries.

Fifteen thousand helpless, wounded men lay on the field through the long
hours of the night.

At ten o'clock a wounded man began to sing one of the old hymns of Zion
whose words had come down the ages wet with tears and winged with human
hopes. In five minutes ten thousand voices, from blue and gray, had
joined. Some of them quivered with agony. Some of them trembled with a
dying breath. For two hours the hills echoed with the unearthly music.

At a council of war Longstreet begged Lee to withdraw from Gettysburg
and pick more favorable ground. Reinforced by the arrival of Pickett's
division of fifteen thousand fresh men and Stuart's Cavalry, he decided
to renew the battle at dawn.

The guns opened at the crack of day. For seven hours the waves of blood
ebbed and flowed.

At noon there was a lull.

At one o'clock a puff of white smoke flashed from Seminary Ridge. The
signal of the men in gray had pealed its death call. Along two miles on
this crest they had planted a hundred and fifty guns. Suddenly two miles
of flame burst from the hills in a single fiery wreath. The Federal guns
answered until the heavens were a hell of bursting, screaming, roaring
shells.

At three o'clock the storm died away and the smoke lifted.

Pickett's men were deploying in the plain to charge the heights of
Cemetery Ridge. Fifteen thousand heroic men were forming their line to
rush a hill on whose crest lay seventy-five thousand entrenched soldiers
backed by four hundred guns.

Pickett's bands played as on parade. The gray ranks dressed on their
colors. And then across the plain, with banners flying, they swept and
climbed the hill. The ranks closed as men fell in wide gaps. Not a man
faltered. They fell and lay when they fell. Those who stood moved on and
on. A handful reached the Union lines on the heights. Armistead with a
hundred men broke through, lifted his red battle flag and fell mortally
wounded. The gray wave in sprays of blood ebbed down the hill, and the
battle ended. Meade had lost twenty-three thousand men and seventeen
generals. Lee had lost twenty thousand men and fourteen generals.

The swollen Potomac was behind Lee and his defeated army. So sure was
Stanton of the end that he declared to the President:

"If a single regiment of Lee's army ever gets back into Virginia in
an organized condition it will prove that I am totally unfit to be
Secretary of War."

The impossible happened.

Lee got back into Virginia with every regiment marching to quick step
and undaunted spirit. He crossed the swollen Potomac, his army in
fighting trim, every gun intact, carrying thousands of fat Pennsylvania
cattle and four thousand prisoners of war taken on the bloody hills of
Gettysburg.

The rejoicing in Washington was brief. Meade fell before the genius of
Lee, and Grant, the stark fighter of the West, took his place.

The new Commander was granted full authority over all the armies of the
Union. He placed Sherman at Chattanooga in command of a hundred thousand
men and ordered him to invade Georgia. He sent Butler with an army
of fifty thousand up the Peninsula against Richmond on the line of
McClellan's old march. He raised the army of the Potomac to a hundred
and forty thousand effective fighting soldiers, placed Phil Sheridan in
command of his cavalry, put himself at the head of this magnificent army
and faced Lee on the banks of the Rapidan. He was but a few miles from
Chancellorsville where Hooker's men had baptized the earth in blood the
year before.

A new draft of five hundred thousand had given Grant unlimited men for
the coming whirlwind. His army was the flower of Northern manhood. He
commanded the best-equipped body of soldiers ever assembled under the
flag of the Union. His baggage train was sixty miles long and would
have stretched the entire distance from his crossing at the Rapidan to
Richmond.

Lee's army had been recruited to its normal strength of sixty-two
thousand. Again the wily Southerner anticipated the march of his foe
and crept into the tangled wilderness to meet him where his superiority
would be of no avail.

Confident of his resistless power Grant threw his army across the
Rapidan and plunged into the wilderness. From the dawn of the first day
until far into the night the conflict raged. As darkness fell Lee had
pushed the blue lines back a hundred yards, captured four guns and
a number of prisoners. At daylight they were at it again. As the
Confederate right wing crumpled and rolled back, Long-street arrived on
the scene and threw his corps into the breach.

Lee himself rode forward to lead the charge and restore his line. At
sight of him, from thousands of parched throats rose the cries:

"Lee to the rear!"

"Go back, General Lee!"

"We'll settle this!"

They refused to move until their leader had withdrawn. And then with a
savage yell they charged and took the field.

Lee sent Longstreet to turn Grant's left as Jackson had done at
Chancellorsville. The movement was executed with brilliant success.
Hancock's line was smashed and driven back on his second defenses.
Wardsworth at the head of his division was mortally wounded and fell
into Longstreet's hands. At the height of his triumph in a movement that
must crumple Grant's army back on the banks of the river, Longstreet
fell, shot by his own men. In the change of commanders the stratagem
failed in its big purpose.

In two days Grant lost sixteen thousand six hundred men, a greater toll
than Hooker paid when he retreated in despair.

Grant merely chewed the end of his big cigar, turned to his lieutenant
and said:

"It's all right, Wilson. We'll fight again."

The two armies lay in their trenches watching each other in grim
silence.



CHAPTER XLII


In Lee's simple tent on the battlefield amid the ghostly trees of the
wilderness his Adjutant-General, Walter Taylor, sat writing rapidly.

Sam, his ebony face shining, stood behind trying to look over his
shoulder. He couldn't make it out and his curiosity got the better of
him.

"What dat yer writin' so hard, Gin'l Taylor?"

Without lifting his head the Adjutant continued to write.

"Orders of promotion for gallantry in battle, Sam."

"Is yer gwine ter write one fer my young Marse Robbie?"

Taylor paused and looked up. The light of admiration overspread his
face.

"General Lee never promotes his sons or allows them on his staff, Sam.
General Custis Lee, General Rooney Lee, and Captain Robbie won their
spurs without a word from him. They won by fighting."

"Yassah! Dey sho's been some fightin' in dis here wilderness. Hopes ter
God we git outen here pretty quick. Gitten too close tergedder ter suit
me."

The clatter of a horse's hoofs rang out in the little clearing in front
of the tent.

Taylor looked up again.

"See if that's Stuart. General Lee's expecting him."

Sam peered out the door of the tent.

"Dey ain't no plume in his hat an' dey ain't no banjo man wid him.
Nasah. Tain't Gin'l Stuart."

"All right. Pull up a stool."

"Yassah!"

Sam unfolded a camp stool and placed it at the table. A sentinel
approached and called:

"Senator William C. Rives of the Confederate Congress to see General
Lee."

Taylor rose.

"Show him in."

The Senator entered with a quick, nervous excitement he could not
conceal.

"Colonel Taylor--"

"Senator."

The men clasped hands and Taylor continued to watch the nervous manner
of his caller.

"My coming from Richmond is no doubt a surprise?"

"Naturally. We're in pretty close quarters with Grant here to-night--"

Rives raised his hand in a gesture of despair.

"No closer than our Government in Richmond is with the end at this
moment, in my judgment. I couldn't wait. I had to come to-night. You
have called an informal council as I requested?"

"The moment I got your message an hour ago."

Taylor caught his excitement and bent close.

"What is it, Senator?"

Rives hesitated, glanced at the doors of the tent and answered rapidly.

"The Confederate Congress has just held a secret session without the
knowledge of President Davis--"

He drew from his pocket a letter and handed it to the Adjutant.

"You will see from this letter of the presiding officer my credentials.
They have sent me as their agent on an important mission to General
Lee."

He paused as Taylor carefully read the letter.

"How soon can I see him?"

"I'm expecting him in a few minutes," Taylor answered. "He's riding on
the front lines trying to feel out Grant's next move. He is very anxious
over it."

"This battle was desperate?" Rives asked nervously.

"Terrific."

"Our losses in the two days?"

"More than ten thousand."

"Merciful God--"

"Grant's losses were far greater," Taylor added briskly.

"No matter, Taylor, no matter!" he cried in anguish, springing to his
feet. He fought for control of his emotions and hurried on.

"The maws of those cannon now are insatiate! We can't afford to lose ten
thousand men from our thin ranks in two days. If your army suspected
for one moment the real situation in Richmond, they'd quit and we'd be
lost."

"They only ask for General Lee's orders, Senator. Their faith in our
leader is sublime."

"And that's our only hope," Rives hastened to add. "General Lee may save
us. And he is the only man who can do it."

He stopped and studied Taylor closely. He spoke with some diffidence.

"The faith of his officers in him remains absolutely unshaken?"

"They worship him."

"My appeal will be solely to him. But I may need help."

"I've asked Alexander and Gordon to come. General Gordon did great
work to-day. It was his command that broke Hancock's lines and took
prisoners. I've just slated him for further promotion. Stuart is already
on the way here to report the situation on the right where his cavalry
is operating."

The ring of two horses' hoofs echoed.

"If Stuart will only back me!" Rives breathed.

Outside the Cavalry Commander was having trouble with Sweeney, his
minstrel follower, an expert banjo player.

Stuart laughed heartily at his fears.

"Come on, Sweeney. Don't be a fool."

The minstrel man still held back and Stuart continued to urge.

"Come on in, Sweeney. Don't be bashful. I promised you shall see General
Lee and you shall. Come on!"

Taylor and Rives stood in the door of the tent watching the conflict.

"Never be afraid of a great man, Sweeney!" Stuart went on. "The greater
the man the easier it is to get along with him. General Lee wears no
scarlet in his coat, no plume in his hat, no gold braid on his uniform.
He's as plain as a gray mouse--"

Stuart laughed and whispered:

"He's too great to need anything to mark his rank. But he never frowns
on my gay colors."

"He knows," Taylor rejoined, "that it's your way of telling the glory of
the cause."

"Sure! He just laughs at my foolishness and gives me an order to lick a
crowd that outnumbers me, three to one."

He took hold of Sweeney's arm.

"Don't be afraid, old boy. Marse Robert won't frown on your banjo.
He'll just smile as he recalls what the cavalry did in our last battle.
Minstrel man, make yourself at home."

Sweeney timidly touched the strings, and Stuart wheeled toward Rives.

"Well, Senator, how goes it in Richmond?"

Rives answered with eager anxiety. His words were not spoken in despair
but with an undertone of desperate appeal.

"Dark days have come, General Stuart. And great events are pending.
Events of the utmost importance to the army, to the country, to General
Lee."

"Just say General Lee and let it go at that," Stuart laughed. "He _is_
the army _and_ the country."

He turned to Taylor.

"Where's Marse Robert?"

"Inspecting the lines. He fears a movement to turn our flank at
Spottsylvania Court House."

"My men are right there, watching like owls. They'll catch the first
rustle of a leaf by Sheridan's cavalry."

"I hope so."

"Never fear. Well, Sweeney, while we wait for General Lee, Senator Rives
needs a little cheer. We've medicine in that box for every ill that man
is heir to. Things look black in Richmond, he tells us. All right. Give
us the old familiar tune--_Hard Times and Wuss Er Comin'!_--Go it!"

Sweeney touched his strings sharply.

"You don't mind, sir?" he asked Taylor.

"Certainly not. I like it."

Sentinels, orderlies, aides and scouts gathered around the door as
Sweeney played and sang with Stuart. The Cavalryman's spirit was
contagious. Before the song had died away, they were all singing the
chorus in subdued tones. Sweeney ended with Stuart's favorite--_Rock of
Ages_.

General John B. Gordon joined the group, followed by General E.P.
Alexander.

Taylor called the generals together.

"Senator Rives, gentlemen, is the bearer of an important message from
the Confederate Congress to General Lee. I have asked you informally to
join him in this meeting."

Rives entered his appeal.

"I am going to ask you to help me to-night in paying the highest tribute
to General Lee in our power."

Gordon responded promptly.

"We shall honor ourselves in honoring him, sir."

"Always," Alexander agreed.

Rives plunged into the heart of his mission.

"Gentlemen, so desperate is the situation of the South that our only
hope lies in our great Commander. The Confederate Congress has sent me
to offer him the Dictatorship--"

"You don't mean it?" Stuart exploded.

"Will you back me?"

The Cavalry leader grasped his hand.

"Yours to count on, sir!"

"Yes," Gordon joined.

"We'll back you!" Alexander cried.

Rives' face brightened.

"If he will only accept. The question is how to approach him?"

"It must be done with the utmost care," Alexander warned.

"Exactly." Rives nodded. "Shall I announce to him it once the vote of
Congress conferring on him the supreme power?"

"Not if you can approach him more carefully," Alexander cautioned.

"I can first propose that as Commanding General he might accept
the peace proposals which Francis Preston Blair has brought from
Washington--"

"What kind of peace proposals?" Gorden asked sharply.

"He proposes to end the war immediately by an armistice, and arrange for
the joint invasion of Mexico by the combined armies of the North and
South under the command of General Lee."

Alexander snapped at the suggestion.

"By all means suggest the armistice first. General Lee won his spurs in
Mexico. The plan might fire his imagination--as it would have fired the
soul of Caesar or Napoleon. If he refuses to go over the head of Davis,
you can then announce the vote of Congress giving him supreme power."

The general suddenly paused at the familiar sound of Traveler's
hoofbeat.

The officers stood and saluted as Lee entered. He was dressed in his
full field gray uniform of immaculate cut and without spot. He wore his
sword, high boots and spurs and his field glasses were thrown across his
broad shoulders.

He glanced at the group in slight surprise and drew Stuart aside.

"I sent for you, General Stuart, to say that I am expecting a courier at
any moment who may report that General Grant will move on Spottsylvania
Court House."

He paused in deep thought.

"If so, Sheridan will throw the full force of his cavalry on your lines,
to turn our right and circle Richmond."

Stuart's body stiffened.

"I'm ready, sir. He may reach Yellow Tavern. He'll never go past it."

In low, tense words Lee said:

"I'm depending on you, sir."

Stuart saluted in silence.

Lee turned back into the group and Taylor explained:

"I have called an informal meeting at the request of Senator Rives."

Lee smiled.

"Oh, I see. A council of both War and State."

Rives came forward and the Commander grasped his hand.

"Always glad to see _you_, Senator. What can we do for you?"

"Everything, sir. Can we enter at once into our conference?"

"The quicker the better. General Grant may drop in on us at any moment
without an invitation."

Rives smiled wanly.

"General Lee, we face the gravest crisis of the war."

"No argument is needed to convince me of that, sir. Grant's men have
gripped us with a ferocity never known before."

"And our boys," Alexander added, "in all the struggle have never been
such stark fighters as to-day."

"I agree with you," Lee nodded. "But Grant is getting ready to fight
again to-morrow morning--not next month. His policy is new, and it's
clear. He plans to pound us to death in a series of quick, successive
blows. His man power is exhaustless. We can't afford to lose many men.
He can. An endless blue line is streaming to the front."

"And that's why I'm here to-night, General," Rives said gravely.

"Grant is now in supreme command of all the Armies of the Union. While
he moves on Richmond, Butler is sweeping up the James and Sherman is
pressing on Atlanta. We have lost ten thousand men in two-days' battle.
In the next we'll lose ten thousand more. In the next ten thousand
more--"

"We must fight, sir. I have invaded the North twice. But I stand on the
defense now. I have no choice."

"That remains to be seen, General Lee," Rives said with a piercing look.

"What do you mean?"

"A few days ago, your old friend, Francis Preston Blair, entered our
lines and came to Richmond on a mission of peace. He has now before Mr.
Davis and his Cabinet a plan to end the war. He proposes that we stop
fighting, unite and invade Mexico to defend the Monroe Doctrine.
Maximilian of Austria has just been proclaimed Emperor in a conspiracy
backed by Napoleon. The suggestion is that we join armies under your
command, dethrone Maximilian, push the soldiers of Napoleon into the
sea, and restore the rule of the people on the American Continent."

Lee looked at him steadily.

"Mr. Davis refuses to listen to this proposal?"

"Only on the basis of the continued division of our country. Lincoln
naturally demands that we come back into the Union first, and march on
Mexico afterwards. Mr. Davis refuses to come back into the Union first.
And so we end where we began--unless we can get help from you, General
Lee--"

"Well?"

"The Confederate Congress has sent me as their spokesman to make a
proposition to you."

He handed Lee the letter from the Congress.

"Will you issue as Commanding General an order for an armistice to
arrange the joint invasion of Mexico?"

"You mean take it on myself to go over the head of Mr. Davis, and issue
this order without his knowledge?"

"Exactly. We could not take him into our confidence."

"But Mr. Davis is my superior officer and he is faithfully executing the
laws."

"You will not proclaim an armistice, then?"

Lee spoke with irritation.

"How can you ask me to go over the head of my Chief with such an order?"

Alexander pressed forward.

"But you might consider a proclamation looking to peace under this
plan--if you were in a position of supreme power?"

"I have no such power. I advised our people to make peace before I
invaded Pennsylvania. I have urged it more than once, but they cannot
see it. And I must do the work given me from day to day."

"We now propose to give to you the sole decision as to what that work
shall be."

"How, sir?"

"I am here to-night, General, as the agent of our Government, to confer
on you this power. The Congress has unanimously chosen you as Dictator
of the Confederacy with supreme power over both the civil and military
branches of the Government."

"And well done!" cried Gordon.

"We back them!" echoed Alexander.

"Hurrah for the Confederate Congress," shouted Stuart--"the first signs
of brains they've shown in many a day--"

He caught himself at a glance from Rives.

"Excuse me, Senator--I didn't mean quite that."

Lee fixed Rives with his brilliant eyes.

"The Confederate Congress has no authority to declare & Dictatorship."

"We have."

"By what law?"

"By the law of necessity, sir. The civil government in Richmond has
become a farce. I acknowledge it sorrowfully. Your soldiers are ill
clothed, half starved, and the power to recruit your ranks is gone. The
people have lost faith in their civil leaders. Disloyalty is rampant. In
the name of ultra State Sovereignty, treason is everywhere threatening.
Soldiers are taken from your army by State authorities on the eve of
battle. Men are deserting in droves and defy arrest. You have justly
demanded the death penalty for desertion. It has been denied. Bands of
deserters now plunder, burn and rob as they please. You are our only
hope. You are the idol of our people. At your call they will rally. Men
will pour into your ranks, and we can yet crush our enemies, or invade
Mexico as you may decide."

"He's right, General," Gordon agreed. "The South will stand by you to a
man."

Alexander added with deep reverence:

"The people believe in you, General Lee, as they believe in God."

A dreamy look overspread Lee's face.

"Their faith is misplaced, sir! God alone decides the fate of nations.
And God, not your commanding General, will decide the fate of the South.
The thing that appalls me is that we have no luck. For in spite of
numbers, resources, generalship--the unknown factor in war is luck. The
North has had it all. At Shiloh at the moment of a victory that would
have ended Grant's career, Albert Sydney Johnson, our ablest general,
was shot and Grant escaped. At the battle of Chancellorsville in these
very woods, Jackson at the moment of his triumph-Jackson my right
arm--was shot by his own men. To-day Longstreet falls in the same way
when he is about to repeat his immortal deed--"

He paused.

"The South has had no luck!"

Alexander eagerly protested.

"I don't agree with you, sir. God has given the South Lee as her
Commander. Your genius is equal to a hundred thousand men. And in all
our terrible battles, at the head of your men, again and again, as you
were to-day, with bullets whistling around you, you've lived a charmed
life. You're here to-night strong in body and mind, without a scratch.
Don't tell me, sir, that we haven't had luck!"

Stuart broke in.

"You're the biggest piece of luck that ever befell an army."

Lee rose.

"I appreciate your confidence and your love, gentlemen. But I've made
many tragic mistakes, and tried to find an abler man to take my place."

"There's no such man!" Stuart boomed. "Give the word to-night and every
soldier in this army would follow you into the jaws of hell!"

Lee's eyes were lifted dreamily.

"And you ask me to blot out the liberties of our people by a single act
of usurpation?"

Alexander lifted his hand.

"Only for a moment, General, that we may restore them in greater glory.
The truth is the Confederate Government is not fitted for revolution.
Let's win this war and fix it afterwards."

"I do not believe either in military statesmen or political generals.
The military should be subordinate always to the civil power--"

"But Congress," Rives broke in, "speaking for the people, offers you
supreme power. Mr. Davis has not proven himself strong enough for the
great office he holds."

Lee flared at this assertion.

"And if he has not, sir, who gave _me_ the right to sit in judgment upon
my superior officer and condemn him without trial? Mr. Davis is the
victim of this unhappy war. I say this, though, that he differs with me
on vital issues. I urged the abolition of Slavery. He opposed it. So did
your Congress. I urged the uncovering of Richmond and the concentration
of our forces into one great army for an offensive--"

Rives interrupted.

"We ask you to take the supreme power and decide these questions."

Lee replied with a touch of anger.

"But I may be wrong in my policies. Mr. Davis is a man of the highest
character, devoted soul and body to the principles to which he has
pledged his life. He is a statesman of the foremost rank. He is
a trained soldier, a West Point graduate. He is a man of noble
spirit--courageous, frank, positive. A great soul throbs within his
breast. He has done as well in his high office as any other man could
have done--"

He looked straight at Rives.

"We left the Union, sir, because our rights had been invaded. Our
revolution is justified by this fact alone. You ask me to do the thing
that caused us to revolt. To brush aside the laws which our people have
ordained and set up a Dictatorship with the power of life and death over
every man, woman and child. For three years we have poured out our blood
in a sacred cause. We are fighting for our liberties under law, or we
are traitors, not revolutionists. We are fighting for order, justice,
principles, or we are fighting for nothing--"

A courier dashed to the door of the tent and handed Lee a message which
he read with a frown.

"This discussion is closed, gentlemen. General Grant is moving on
Spottsylvania Court House. My business is to get there first. My work is
not to jockey for place or power. It is to fight. Move your forces at
once!"



CHAPTER XLIII


Lee hurried to Spottsylvania Court House and was entrenched before Grant
arrived. The two armies again flew at each other's throat. True to Lee's
prediction the Union Commander hurled Sheridan's full force of ten
thousand cavalry in a desperate effort to turn the right and strike
Richmond while the Confederate infantry were held in a grip of death.

From a hilltop Stuart saw the coming blue legions of Sheridan. They rode
four abreast and made a column of flashing sabers and fluttering guidons
thirteen miles long.

The young Cavalier waved his plumed hat and gave a shout. It was
magnificent. He envied them the endless line of fine horses. He had but
three small brigades to oppose them. But his spirits rose.

He ordered his generals to harass the advancing host at every point of
vantage, delay them as long as possible and draw up their forces at
Yellow Tavern for the battle.

He took time to dash across the country from Beaver Dam Station to see
his wife and babies. He had left them at the house of Edmund Fontaine.
He feared that the Federal Cavalry might have raided the section.

To his joy he found them well and happy, unconscious of the impending
fight.

For the first time in his joyous life of song and play and war he was
worried.

His wife was in high spirits. She cheered him.

"Don't worry about us, my soldier man! We're all right. No harm has
ever befallen us. We've had three glorious years playing lovers'
hide-and-seek. I've ceased to worry about you. Your life is charmed. God
has heard my prayers. You're coming home soon to play with me and the
babies always!"

She was too happy for Stuart to describe the host of ten thousand riders
which he had just seen. Their lives were in God's hands. It was enough.

He held her in his arms longer than was his wont at parting. And then
with a laugh and a shout to the children he was gone.

At Jerrold's Mill, Wickham's brigade suddenly fell on Sheridan's rear
guard and captured a company. Sheridan refused to stop to fight.

At Mitchell's Shop, Wickham again dashed on the rear guard and was
forced back by a counter charge. As he retreated, fighting a desperate
hand-to-hand saber engagement, Fitzhugh Lee and Stuart rushed to his aid
and the blue river rolled on again toward Richmond.

At Hanover Junction Stuart allowed his men to sleep until one o'clock
and then rode with desperate speed to Yellow Tavern. He reached his
chosen battle ground at ten o'clock the following morning. He had won
the race and at once deployed his forces to meet the coming avalanche.

Wickham he stationed on the right of the road, Lomax on the left. He
placed two guns in the road, one on the left to rake it at an angle.

He dismounted his men and ordered them to fight as infantry. A reserve
of mounted men were held in his rear.

He sent his aide into Richmond to inquire of its defenses and warn
General Bragg of the sweeping legions. The Commandant at the Confederate
Capital replied that he could hold his trenches. He would call on
Petersburg for reinforcements. He asked Stuart to hold Sheridan back as
long as possible.

On the morning of the eleventh of May, at 6:30, he wrote his dispatch to
Lee:

"Fighting against immense odds of Sheridan. My men and horses are tired,
hungry and jaded, _but all right!_"

It was four o'clock before Sheridan struck Yellow Tavern. With skill and
dash he threw an entire brigade on Stuart's left, broke his line, rolled
it up and captured his two guns. Stuart ordered at once a reserve
squadron to charge the advancing Federals. With desperate courage they
drove them back in a hand-to-hand combat, saber ringing on saber to the
shout and yell of savages.

As the struggling, surging mass of blue riders rolled back in confusion,
Stuart rode into the scene cheering his men. A man in blue, whose horse
had been shot from under him, fired his revolver pointblank at Stuart.
The shot entered his body just above the belt and the magnificent head
with the waving plume drooped on his breast.

Captain Dorsey hurried to his assistance. There were but a handful of
his men between him and the Federal line, The wounded Commander was in
danger of being captured by a sudden dash of reserves. He was lifted off
his horse and he leaned against a tree.

Stuart raised his head.

"Go back now, Dorsey, to your men."

"Not until you're safe, sir."

As the ambulance passed through his broken ranks in the rear, he lifted
himself on his elbow and rallied his men with a brave shout:

"Go back! Go back to your duty, men! And our country will be safe. Go
back! Go back! I'd rather die than be whipped."

The men rallied and rushed to the firing line. They fought so well that
Sheridan lost the way to Richmond and the Capital of the Confederacy was
saved.

The wounded Commander was taken to the home of his brother-in-law,
Dr. Charles Brewer, in Richmond. He had suffered agonies on the rough
journey but bore his pain with grim cheerfulness.

He had sent a swift messenger to his wife. He knew she would reach
Richmond the next day.

The following morning Major McClellan, his aide, rode in from the
battlefield to report to General Bragg. Having delivered his message he
hurried to the bedside of his beloved Chief.

The doctor shook his head gravely.

"Inflammation has set in, Major--"

"My God, is there no hope?"

"None."

The singing, rollicking, daring young Cavalier felt the hand of death on
his shoulder. He was calm and cheerful. His bright words were broken by
paroxysms of suffering. He would merely close his shining blue eyes and
wait.

He directed his aide to dispose of his official papers.

He touched McClellan's hand and the Major's closed over it.

"I wish you to have one of my horses and Venable the other."

McClellan nodded.

"Which of you is the heavier?"

"Venable, sir."

"All right, give him the gray. You take the bay."

The pain choked him into silence again. At last he opened his eyes.

"You'll find in my hat a small Confederate flag which a lady in
Columbia, South Carolina, sent me with the request that I wear it on my
horse in a battle and return it to her. Send it."

Again the agony stilled the musical voice.

"My spurs," he went on, "which I have always worn in battle, I promised
to Mrs. Lilly Lee of Shepherdstown, Virginia--"

He paused.

"My sword--I leave--to--my--son."

A cannon roared outside the city. With quick eagerness he asked:

"What's that?"

"Gracey's brigade has moved out against Sheridan's rear as he retreats.
Fitz Lee is fighting them still at Meadow Bridge."

He turned his blue eyes upward and prayed:

"God grant they may win--"

He moved his head aside and said:

"I must prepare for another world."

He listened to the roar of the guns for a moment and signaled to his
aide:

"Major, Fitz Lee may need you."

McClellan pressed his hand and hurried to the front.

As he passed out the tall figure of the President of the Confederacy
entered. Jefferson Davis sat by his side and held his hand. He loved
his daring young Cavalry Commander. He had made him a Major-General at
thirty. He was dying now at thirty-one. The tragedy found the heart of
the sorrowful leader of all the South.

When the Reverend Dr. Peterkin entered he said:

"Now I want you to sing for me the old song I love best--

  "'Rock of Ages cleft for me,
  Let me hide myself in thee--'"

With failing breath he joined in the song.

A paroxysm of pain gripped him and he asked the doctor:

"Can I survive the night?"

"No, General. The end is near."

He was silent. And then slowly said:

"I am resigned if it be God's will.
But--I--would--like--to--see--my--wife--"

The beautiful voice sank into eternal silence.

So passed the greatest cavalry leader our country has produced. A man
whose joyous life was a long wish of good will toward all of his fellow
men.

The little mother heard the news as she rode in hot haste over the rough
roads to Richmond. The hideous thing was beyond belief, but it had come.
She had heard the roar of battle for three years and after each bloody
day he had come with a smile on his lips and a stronger love in his
brave heart. She had ceased to fear his death in battle. God had
promised her in prayer to spare him. Only once had a bullet cut his
clothes.

And now he was dead.

But yesterday he dashed across the country from his line of march, and,
even while the conflict raged, held her in his arms and crooned over
her.

The tears had flowed for two hours before she reached the house of
death. She could weep no longer.

A sister's arm encircled her waist and led her unseeing eyes into the
room. There was no wild outburst of grief at the sight of his cold body.

She stooped to kiss the loved lips, placed her hand on the high forehead
and drew back at its chill. She stood in dumb anguish until her sister
in alarm said:

"Come, dear, to my room."

The set, blue eyes never moved from the face of her dead.

"It's wrong. It's wrong. It's all wrong--this hideous murder of our
loved ones! Why must they send my husband to kill my father? Why must
they send my father to kill the father of my babies? Why didn't they
stop this a year ago? It must end some time. Why did they ever begin it?
Why must brother kill his brother? My father, thank God, didn't kill
him. But little Phil Sheridan, his schoolmate, did. And he never spoke
an unkind word about him in his life! His heart was overflowing with joy
and love. He sang when he rode into battle--"

She paused and a tear stole down her cheeks at last.

"Poor boy, he loved its wild din and roar. It was play to his daring
spirit."

A sob caught her voice and then it rose in fierce rebellion:

"Where was God when he fell? He was thirty-one years old, in the glory
of a beautiful life--"

Her sister spoke in gentle sympathy.

"His fame fills the world, dear."

"Fame? Fame? What is that to me, now? I stretch out my hand, and it's
ashes. My arms are empty. My heart is broken. Life isn't worth the
living."

Her voice drifted into a dreamy silence as the tears streamed down her
cheeks. She stood for half an hour staring through blurred eyes at the
cold clay.

She turned at last and seized her sister's hands both in hers, and gazed
with a strange, set look that saw something beyond time and the things
of sense.

"My dear sister, God will yet give to the mothers of men the power to
stop this murder. There's a better way. There's a better way,"



CHAPTER XLIV


While Sheridan rode against Richmond, Lee and Grant were struggling in
a pool of red at the "Bloody Angle" of Spottsylvania. The musketry fire
against the trees came in a low undertone, like the rattle of a hail
storm on the roofs of houses.

A company of blue soldiers were cut off by a wave of charging gray. The
men were trying to surrender. Their officers drew their revolvers and
ordered them to break through. A sullen private shouted:

"Shoot your officers!"

Every commander dropped in his tracks. And the men were marched to the
rear. Hour after hour the flames of hell swirled in endless waves about
this angle of the Southern trenches. Line after line of blue broke
against it and eddied down its sides in slimy pools.

Color bearers waved their flags in each other's faces, clinched and
fought, hand to hand, like devils. Two soldiers on top of the trench,
their ammunition spent, choked each other to death and rolled down the
embankment among the mangled bodies that filled the ditch.

In this mass of struggling maniacs men were fighting with guns, swords,
handspikes, clubbed muskets, stones and fists. Night brought no pause to
save the wounded or bury the dead.

For five days Grant circled his blue hosts in a whirlpool of death
trying in vain to break Lee's trenches. He gave it up. The stolid,
silent man of iron nerves watched the stream of wagons bearing the
wounded, groaning and shrieking, from the field. Lee's forces had been
handled with such skill the impact of numbers had made but little
impression.

Thirty thousand dead and mangled lay on the field.

The stark fighter of the West was facing a new problem. The devotion of
Lee's men was a mania. He was unconquerable in a square hand-to-hand
fight in the woods.

A truce to bury the dead followed. They found them piled six layers deep
in the trenches, blue and gray locked in the last embrace. Black wings
were flapping over them unafraid of the living. Their red beaks were
tearing at eyes and lips, while deep below yet groaned and moved the
wounded.

Again Grant sought to flank his wily foe. This time he beat Lee to the
spot. The two armies rushed for Cold Harbor in parallel columns flashing
at each other deadly volleys as they marched. Lee took second choice of
ground and entrenched on a gently sloping line of hills. They swung in
crescent as at Fredericksburg.

With consummate skill he placed his guns and infantry to catch both
flanks and front of the coming foe. And then he waited for Grant to
charge. Thousands of men in the blue ranks were busy now sewing their
names in their underclothing.

With the first streak of dawn, at 4:30, they charged. They walked into
the mouth of a volcano flaming tons of steel and lead in their faces.
The scene was sickening. Nothing like it had, to this time, happened in
the history of man.

_Ten thousand men in blue fell in twenty minutes._

Meade ordered Smith to renew the assault. Daring a court martial, Smith
flatly refused.

The story of the next seventy-two hours our historians have refused to
record. Through the smothering heat of summer for three days and nights
the shrieks and groans of the wounded rose in endless waves of horror.
No hand could be lifted to save. With their last breath they begged,
wept, cried, prayed for water. No man dared move in the storm-swept
space. Here and there a heroic boy in blue caught the cry of a wounded
comrade and crawled on his belly to try a rescue only to die in the
embrace of his friend.

When the truce was called to clear the shambles every man of the ten
thousand who had fallen was dead--save two. The salvage corps walked in
a muck of blood. They slipped and stumbled and fell in its festering
pools. The flies and vultures were busy. Dead horses, dead men, smashed
guns, legs, arms, mangled bodies disemboweled, the earth torn into an
ashen crater.

In the thirty days since Grant had met Lee in the wilderness, the
Northern army had lost sixty thousand men, the bravest of our race.

Lee's losses were not so great but they were tragic. They were as great
in proportion to the number he commanded.

Grant paused to change his plan of campaign. The procession of
ambulances into Washington had stunned the Nation. Every city, town,
village, hamlet and country home was in mourning. A stream of protest
against the new Commander swept the North. Lincoln refused to remove
him. And on his head was heaped the blame for all the anguish of the
bitter years of failure.

His answer to his critics was remorseless.

"We must fight to win. Grant is the ablest general we have. His losses
are appalling. But the struggle is now on to the bitter end. Our
resources of men and money are exhaustless. The South cannot replace her
fallen sons. Her losses, therefore, are fatal!"

War had revealed to all at last that the Abolition crusade had been
built on a lie. The negro had proven a bulwark of strength to the South.
Had their theories been true, had the slaves been beaten and abused the
Black Bees would surely have swarmed. A single Southern village put to
the torch by black hands would have done for Lee's army what no opponent
had been able to do. It would have been destroyed in a night. The
Confederacy would have gone down in hopeless ruin.

Not a black hand had been raised against a Southern man or woman in
all the raging hell. This fact is the South's vindication against the
slanders of the Abolitionists. The negroes stood by their old masters.
They worked his fields; they guarded his women and children; they
mourned over the graves of their fallen sons.

And now in the supreme hour of gathering darkness came the last act of
the tragedy--the arming of the Northern blacks and the training of their
hands to slay a superior race.

In the first year of the war Lincoln had firmly refused the prayer of
Thomas Wentworth Higginson that he be allowed to arm and drill the Black
Legions of the North. Later the pressure could not be resisted. The
daily murder of the flower of the race had lowered its morale. It had
lowered the value set on racial trait and character. The Cavalier and
Puritan, with a thousand years of inspiring history throbbing in their
veins, had become mere cannon fodder. The cry for men and still more men
was endless. And this cry must be heard, or the war would end.

Men of the white breed were clasping hands at last across the lines
under the friendly cover of the night. They spoke softly through their
tears of home and loved ones. The tumult and the shout had passed. The
jeer and taunt, blind passion and sordid hate lay buried in the long,
deep graves of a hundred fields of blood.

Grant's new plan of campaign resulted in the deadlock of Petersburg.
The two armies now lay behind thirty-five miles of deep trenches with a
stretch of volcano-torn, desolate earth between them.

The Black Legions were massed for a dramatic ending of the war. Grant,
Meade, and Burnside had developed a plan. Hundreds of sappers and miners
burrowed under the shell-torn ground for months, digging a tunnel under
Lee's fortress immediately before Petersburg.

The tunnel was not complete before Lee's ears had caught the sound. A
counter tunnel was hastily begun but Grant's men had reached the spot
under the center of Elliot's salient before the Confederates could
intercept them.

Grant skillfully threw a division of his army on the north side of the
James and made a fierce frontal attack on Richmond while he gathered
the flower of his army, sixty-five thousand men with his Black Legions,
before the tunnel that would open the way into Petersburg.

Lee was not misled by the assault on Richmond. But it was absolutely
necessary to meet it, or the Capital would have fallen. He was
compelled, in the face of the threatened explosion and assault, to
divide his forces and weaken his lines before the tunnel.

His men were on the ground beyond the James to intercept the column
moving toward Richmond. When the assault failed, Hancock and Sheridan
immediately recrossed the river to take part in the capture of
Petersburg and witness the end of the Confederacy.

The tons of powder were stored under the fort and the fuse set. The
Black battalions stood ready to lead the attack and enter Petersburg
first.

At the final council of war, the plan was changed. A division of New
Englanders, the sons of Puritan fathers and mothers, were set to this
grim task and the negroes were ordered to follow.

High words had been used at the Council. The whole problem of race and
racial values was put to the test of the science of anthropology and of
mathematics. The fuse would be set before daylight. The charge must be
made in darkness with hundreds of great guns flaming, shrieking, shaking
the earth. The negro could not be trusted to lead in this work. He had
followed white officers in the daylight and under their inspiration had
fought bravely. But he was afraid of the dark. It was useless to mince
matters. The council faced the issue. He could not stand the terrors of
the night in such a charge.

The decision was an ominous one for the future of America--ominous
because merciless in its scientific logic. The same power which had
given the white man his mastery of science and progress in the centuries
of human history gave him the mastery of his brain and nerves in the
dark. For a thousand years superstition had been trained out of his
brain fiber. He could hold a firing line day or night. The darkness was
his friend, not his enemy.

The New Englanders were pushed forward for the attack. The grim
preparations were hurried. The pioneers were marshaled with axes and
entrenching tools. A train pulled in from City Point with crowds of
extra surgeons, their amputating tables and bandages ready. The wagons
were loaded with picks and shovels to bury the dead quickly in the
scorching heat of July.

The men waited in impatience for the explosion. It had been set for two
o'clock. For two hours they stood listening. Their hearts were beating
high at first. The delay took the soul out of them. They were angry,
weary, cursing, complaining.

The fuse had gone out. Another had to be trained and set. As the Maine
regiments gripped their muskets waiting for the explosion of the mine, a
negro preacher in the second line behind them was haranguing the Black
Battalions. His drooning, voodoo voice rang through the woods in weird
echoes:

"Oh, my men! Dis here's gwine ter be er great fight. De greatest fight
in all de war. We gwine ter take ole Petersburg dis day. De day er
Juberlee is come. Yes, Lawd! An' den we take Richmon', 'stroy Lee's
army an' en' dis war. Yas, Lawd, an' 'member dat Gen'l Grant an' Gen'l
Burnside, an' Gen'l Meade's is all right here a-watch-in' ye! An' member
dat I'se er watchin' ye. I'se er sargint in dis here comp'ny. Any you
tries ter be a skulker, you'se gwine ter git a beyonet run clean froo
ye--yas, Lawd! You hear me!"

He had scarcely finished his harangue when a smothering peal of thunder
shook the world. The ground rocked beneath the feet of the men. Some
were thrown backwards. Some staggered and caught a comrade's shoulder.
A pillar of blinding flame shot to the stars. A cloud of smoke rolled
upward and spread its pall over the trembling earth. A shower of human
flesh and bones spattered the smoking ground.

The men in front shivered as they brushed the pieces of red meat from
their hands and clothes.

The artillery opened. Hundreds of guns were pouring shells from their
flaming mouths. The people of Petersburg leaped from their beds and
pressed into the streets stunned by the appalling shock and the storm of
artillery which followed.

The ground in front of the tunnel had been cleared of the abatis.
Burnside's New England veterans rushed the crater. A huge hole had been
torn in Lee's fortifications one hundred yards long and sixty feet wide
and twenty-five feet in depth.

The hole proved a grave. The charging troops floundered in its spongy,
blood-soaked sides. They stumbled and fell into its pit. The regiments
in the rear, rushing through the smoke and stumbling over the mangled
pieces of flesh of Elliott's three hundred men who had been torn to
pieces, were on top of the line in front before they could clear the
crumbling walls.

When the charging hosts at last reached the firm ground inside the
Confederate lines, the men in gray were rallying. Their guns had been
trained on the yawning chasm now a struggling, squirming, cursing mass
of blue. Slowly order came out of chaos and Burnside's men swung to the
right and to the left and swept Lee's trenches for three hundred yards
in each direction. The charging regiments poured into them and found the
second Confederate line. Elliott's men who yet lived, driven from their
outer line by the resistless rush of the attack, retreated to a deep
ravine, rallied and held this third line.

Lee reached the field and took command. Mahone's men came to the rescue
marching with swift, steady tread. They took their position on the crest
which commanded the open space toward the captured trenches.

As Wright's brigade moved into position, the Black Battalions were
ordered to charge. They had been hurried through the crater and into
the trenches on the right and left. At the signal they swarmed over the
works, with a voodoo yell, and in serried black waves, charged the men
in gray. In broad daylight the Southerners saw for the first time the
plan of the dramatic attack.

The white men of the South shrieked an answer and gripped their muskets.
The cry they gave came down the centuries from three thousand years of
history. It came from the hearts of a conquering race of men. They had
heard the Call of the Blood of the Race that rules the world.

Without an order from their commanders, with a single impulse, the whole
Southern line leaped from their cover and dashed on the advancing Black
Legions in a counter charge so swift, so terrible, there was but a
single crash and the yell of white victory rang over the field. The
Blacks broke and piled pell mell into the trenches and on into the hell
hole of the crater.

Fifty of Lee's guns were now pouring a steady stream of shells into this
pit of the damned.

The charging gray lines rolled over the captured trenches. They ringed
the edge of the crater with a circle of flaming muskets. The writhing
mass of dead, dying, wounded and living, scrambling blacks and whites,
was a thing for devil's joy. At the bottom of the pit the heap was ten
feet deep in moving flesh. In vain the terror-stricken blacks scrambled
up the slippery sides through clouds of smoke. They fell backward and
rolled down the crumbling walls.

Young John Doyle stood on the brink of this crater, his eyes aflame
with revenge. His musket was so hot at last he threw it down, tore a
cartridge belt from the body of a dead negro trooper, seized his rifle
and went back to his task.

Sickened at last by the holocaust, the officers of the South ordered
their men to cease firing. They had charged without orders. They refused
to take orders. The officers began to strike them with their swords!

"Cease firing!"

"Damn you, stop it!"

Their orders rang around the flaming curve in vain. They seized the men
by their collars and dragged them back. The gray soldiers tore away,
rushed to the smoking rim and fired as long as they had a cartridge in
their belts.

It was the poor white man who got beyond control at the sight of these
yelling black troops wearing the uniform of the Republic. Had their
souls leaped the years and seen in a vision dark-skinned hosts charging
the ranks of white civilization in a battle for supremacy of the world?



CHAPTER XLV


When the smoke had lifted from the field of the Black Battalions,
Lee stood in Richmond before a secret meeting of the leaders of the
Confederacy. Jefferson Davis presided. The meeting was called by request
of the Commander. He had an important announcement to make.

Facing the anxious group gathered around the Cabinet table he spoke with
unusual emphasis:

"Gentlemen, the end is in sight unless I can have more men. So long as
I can burrow underground my half-clothed and half-starved soldiers will
hold Grant at bay. I may hold him until next spring. Not longer. The
North is using negro troops. They have enrolled nearly two hundred
thousand. Their man power counts. We can arm our negroes to meet them.
They will fight under the leadership of their masters. I speak as a
mathematician and a soldier. I do not discuss the sentimental side. I
must have men and I must have them before spring or your cause is lost."

Robert Toombs of Georgia leaped to his feet. His words came slowly,
throbbing with emotion.

"Any suggestion from General Lee deserves the immediate attention of
this Government. He speaks to-night as an engineer and mathematician. He
has told us the worst. It was his duty. I honor him for it.

"But I differ with him. He can see but one angle of this question. He
is a soldier in field. It is our duty to see both the soldier's and the
statesman's point of view. And our cause is not so desperate as the
science of engineering and mathematics would tell us.

"The war of the revolution was won by Washington in spite of
mathematics. The odds were all against him. We have our chance. This war
is now in its fourth year. The outlook seems dark in Richmond. It is
darker in Washington. What have they accomplished in these years of
blood and tears? Nothing. Not a slave has been freed. Not a question at
issue has found its solution. The millions of the North are in despair
and they are crying for peace--peace at any price. The Presidential
election is but a few weeks off. They have nominated Abraham Lincoln
again for President. They had to, although he is the most unpopular man
who ever sat in the White House. All the mistakes, all the agony, all
the horrors of this war, they have unjustly heaped on his drooping
shoulders.

"McClellan is his opponent _on a peace platform_.

"The Republican Party is split as ours was before the war. John C.
Fremont is running on the Radical ticket against Lincoln. Unless a
miracle happens General George B. McClellan will be elected the next
President. If he is, the war ends in a draw.

"It's a fair chance. We can take it.

"But our chance of success is not the real question before us. It is
a bigger one. The question before you is bigger than the South. It
is bigger than the Republic. It is bigger than the Continent. It may
involve the future of civilization.

"The employment of these negro troops, clothed in the uniform of the
Union, marks the lowest tide mud to which its citizenship has ever sunk.
The profoundest word in history is _race_. The ancestral soul of a
people rules its destiny. What is the ancestral soul of the negro? The
measurement of the skull of the Egyptian is exactly the shape and size
of six thousand years ago. Has the negro moved upward? This republic
was born of the soul of a race of pioneer white freemen who settled our
continent and built an altar within its Forest Cathedral to Liberty and
Progress. In the record of man has a negro ever dreamed this dream?

"The Roman Republic fell and Rome became a degenerate Empire. Why?
Because of the lowering of her racial stock by slaves. The decline
of the Roman spirit was due to a mixture of races. The flower of her
manhood died on her far-flung battle lines. Slaves and degenerates at
home bred her future citizens.

"Have we also placed our feet on the path of oblivion? History is
littered with the wrecks of civilization. And always the secret is found
in racial degeneracy--the lowering of the standard of racial values.
Civilization is a name--an effect. Race is the cause. If a race
maintains its soul, it must remain itself and it must breed its best.
Race is the result of thousands of years of this selection. One drop of
negro blood makes a negro. The inferior can always blot out the superior
if granted equality.

"This uniform is the first step toward racial oblivion for the white
man in America. It is the first step toward equality. A people of half
breeds have no soul. They are always ungovernable. The negro is the
lowest species of man. Through Slavery he has been disciplined into the
family of humanity. We cannot yet grant him equality. Abraham Lincoln
who has consented to arm these blacks against us has himself said:

_"'There is a physical difference between the white and black races
which will forever forbid them living together on terms of political or
social equality.'_

"How can he prevent social and political equality once these black men
are clothed with the dignity of the uniform of a Nation? He has declared
his intention of colonizing the negro race. General Lee also holds this
as the solution. If Slavery falls, it _is_ the _only_ solution.

"In the meantime we hold fast to the faith within us. Dare to arm a
negro, drill and teach him to kill white men, and we are traitors to
country, traitors to humanity, traitors to civilization. Robert E. Lee
himself is the supreme contradiction of the sentimental mush involved in
the dogma of equality. His genius and character is a racial product.

"The man in gray stands for two things, Reverence for Law and the Racial
Supremacy of the White Man.

"If we must clothe negroes in gray to save the Confederacy, let it go
down in blood and ashes. We'll stand for this. And hand our ideal down
to our children. If defeat shall come, we may yet live to save the
Republic. We hold a message for Humanity."

There was no further discussion. The South chose death before racial
treason.



CHAPTER XLVI


The miracle which Toombs feared came to pass. In the blackest hour of
the Lincoln administration, his own party despaired of his election. The
National Republican Committee came to Washington and demanded that he
withdraw from the ticket and allow them to name a candidate who might
have a chance against General McClellan and his peace platform.

And then it happened.

Sherman suddenly took Atlanta and swung his legions toward the sea. A
black pall of smoke marked his trail. The North leaped once more with
the elemental impulse. A wave of war enthusiasm swept Lincoln back into
the White House. And a new line of blue soldiers streamed to Grant's
front.

The ragged men in gray were living on parched corn. Grant edged his blue
legions farther and farther southward until he saw the end of the mortal
trenches Lee's genius had built. The lion sprang on his exposed flank
and Petersburg was doomed.

The Southern Commander sent his fated message to Richmond that he
must uncover the Capital of the Confederacy, and staggered out of his
trenches to attempt a union of forces with Johnston's army in North
Carolina.

Grant's host were on his heels, his guns thundering, his cavalry
destroying.

A negro regiment entered Richmond as the flames of the burning city
licked the skies.

Lee paused at Appomattox to await the coming of his provision train. His
headquarters were fixed beneath an apple tree in full bloom.

He bent anxiously over a field map with his Adjutant. His face was
clouded with deep anxiety.

"Why doesn't Gordon report?" he cried. "We've sent three couriers. They
haven't returned. Grant has not only closed the road to Lynchburg, he
has pushed a wedge into our lines and cut Gordon off. If he has, we're
in a trap--"

"It couldn't have happened in an hour!" Taylor protested.

"Order Fitzhugh Lee to concentrate every horse for Gordon's support and
call in Alexander for a conference."

Taylor hastened to execute the command and Lee sat down under the
flower-draped tree.

Sam approached bearing a tray.

"De coffee's all ready, Marse Robert--'ceptin' dey ain't no coffee in
it. Does ye want a cup? Hit's good, hot black water, sah!"

Lee's eyes were not lifted.

"No, Sam, thank you."

The faithful negro shook his head and walked back to his sorry kitchen.

Taylor handed his order to a dust-covered courier.

"Take this to Fitz Lee."

The courier scratched his head.

"I don't know General Fitz Lee, sir."

"The devil you don't. What division are you from?"

"Dunno, sir. Been cut to pieces so many times and changed commanders so
much I dunno who the hell I belong to--"

"How'd you get here?"

"Detailed for the day."

"You know General John B. Gordon?"

The dusty figure stiffened.

"I'm from Georgia."

"Take this to him."

Taylor handed the man his order as the thunder of a line of artillery
opened on the left.

"Which way is General Gordon?" the courier asked.

"That's what I want to know. Get to him. Follow the line of that firing.
You'll find him where it's hottest. Get back here quick if you have to
kill your horse."

Sam came back with his tray.

"I got yo' breakfus' an' dinner both now, Marse Robert."

Lee looked up with a smile.

"Too tired now. Eat it for me, Sam--"

Sam turned quickly.

"Yassah. I do de bes' I kin fur ye."

As Sam went back to the kitchen he motioned to a ragged soldier who
stood with his wife and little girl gazing at the General.

"Dar he is. Go right up an' tell him."

Sweeney approached Lee timidly. The wife and girl hung back.

He tried to bow and salute at the same time.

"Excuse me for coming, General Lee, but my company's halted there in the
woods. You've stopped in a few yards of my house, sir. Won't you come in
and make it your headquarters?"

"No, my good friend. I won't disturb your home."

The wife edged near.

"It's no trouble at all, sir. We'd be so proud to have you."

"Thank you. I always use my tent, Madame. I'll not be here long."

"Please come, sir!" the man urged.

Lee studied his face.

"Haven't I seen you before, my friend?"

"Yes, sir. I'm the man who brought the news that General Stuart had
fallen at Yellow Tavern."

Lee grasped his hand.

"Oh, I remember. You're Sweeney--Sweeney whose banjo he loved so well.
And this is your wife and little girl?"

"Yes, sir," Mrs. Sweeney answered.

The Commander pressed her hand cordially.

"I'm glad to know you, Mrs. Sweeney. Your husband's music was a great
joy to General Stuart."

The little girl handed him a bunch of violets. He stooped, kissed her
and took her in his arms.

"You'd like your papa to come back home from the war and stay with you
always, wouldn't you, dear?"

"Yes, sir," she breathed.

"Maybe he will, soon."

"You see, General," Sweeney said, "when my Chief fell, I threw my banjo
away and got a musket."

"If I only had Stuart here to-day!" Lee sighed.

"He'd cut his way through, sir, with a shout and a laugh," Sweeney
boasted.

A courier handed Lee a dispatch and Sweeney edged away. The Commander
read the message with a frown and crumpled the paper in his hand. The
wagons at Appomattox had been cut to pieces. His army had nothing to
eat. They had been hungry for two days and nights.

"It's more than flesh can bear, Taylor--and yet listen to those guns!
They're still fighting this morning. Fighting like tigers. Grant's
closing in with a hundred thousand men. Unless Gordon breaks through
within an hour--he's got us--"

Lee gazed toward the sound of the guns on the left. His face was calm
but his carriage was no longer quite erect. The agony of sleepless
nights had plowed furrows in his forehead. His eyes were red. His cheeks
were sunken and haggard. His face was colorless. And yet he was calmly
deliberate in every movement.

An old man, flushed with excitement, staggered up to him.

Lee started.

"Ruffin--you here?"

"General Lee," he began, "will you hear me for just one moment?"

"Certainly."

Lee sprang to his feet.

"But how did you get into my lines--I thought I was surrounded?"

"I came out of Richmond with General Alexander's rear guard, sir, six
days ago."

"Oh, I see."

"Ten years ago, General Lee, in your house, I predicted this war. Last
week I saw the city in flames and I hope to God every house was in ashes
before that regiment of negro cavalry galloped through its streets."

"I trust not, Ruffin. I left my wife and children there."

"I hope they're safe, sir."

"They're in God's hands."

A courier handed Lee a dispatch which he read aloud.

"President Davis has been forced to flee from Danville and all
communication with him has been cut."

"General Lee," Ruffin cried excitedly, "this country is now in your
hands."

"What would you have me do?"

"Fight until the last city is in ashes and the last man falls in his
tracks. Fools at your headquarters have been talking for two days of
surrender. It can't be done. It can't be done. If you surrender do you
know what will happen?"

"I've tried to think."

"I'll tell you, sir. Thaddeus Stevens, the Radical Leader of Congress,
has already prepared the bill to take the ballot from the Southern white
man and give it to the negro. The property of the whites he proposed to
confiscate and give to their slaves. He will clothe the negro with all
power and set him to rule over his former masters."

Lee answered roughly.

"Nonsense, Ruffin. I am better informed. Senator Washburn, Mr. Lincoln's
spokesman, entered Richmond with the Federal army. He says that the
President will remove the negro troops from the United States as soon
as peace is declared. He has a bill in Congress to colonize the negro
race."

"Stevens is the master of Congress."

"If the North wins, Lincoln will be the master of Congress. We need fear
no scheme of insane vengeance."

Lee took from Taylor two despatches.

"General Mahone has taken a thousand prisoners--"

"Glory to God!" Ruffin shouted. "Such men don't know how to surrender!"

"And our cavalry has captured. General Gregg and a squadron of his
men--"

"Surrender!" the old man roared. "They'll never surrender, sir, unless
you say so. Our wives, our daughters, our children, our homes, our
cause, our lives, are in your hands. For God's sake, don't listen to
fools. Don't give up, General Lee--don't--"

General Alexander sprang from his horse and approached his Commander.

Lee spoke in low, strained tones.

"I'm afraid we're caught."

He turned to the old man.

"Excuse me, Ruffin, I must confer with General Alexander."

Ruffin's reply came feebly.

"With your permission I will--stay--at--your headquarters for a little
while."

"Certainly."

Taylor led the old man toward his baggage wagon.

"Come with me, sir. I'll find you a cot."

"Thank you. Thank you." His eyes were dim and he walked stumblingly.
"Surrender, Taylor! Surrender? Why, there's no such word--there's no
such word--"

Lee and Alexander moved down to the little field table.

"We must decide," the Commander began, "what to do in case Gordon can't
break through. How many guns in your command?"

"More than forty, sir. We've just captured a section of Federal
artillery in perfect order."

"Forty guns! And Grant is circling us with five hundred--"

"We have fought big odds before. We have ammunition. The artillery has
done little on this retreat. They're eager for a fight, if you wish to
give battle."

"I can rally but eight thousand men for a final charge. They are tired
and hungry. What have we got to do?"

"This means but one thing, then--"

"Well, sir?"

"Order the army to scatter--each man for himself. They can slip through
the brush to-night like quail, and reach Johnston's army."

"You think this best?"

"It's the only thing to do, sir. Surrender--never. Scatter. And when
Grant closes in to-morrow his hands will be empty. He'll find a few
broken guns and wagons. Our men will be safe beyond his lines and ready
to fight again."

"That's the plan!" Taylor joined.

"We can beat Grant that way, General. The Confederacy may win by delay.
At least by delay we can give the State Governments time to make their
own terms as States. If you surrender, it's all over."

"I do not think the North will acknowledge the sovereignty of the States
at this late day."

"It is reported that Lincoln has offered to accept the surrender of
States and make terms--"

"This would, of course," Lee slowly answered, "prolong the war as long
as one held out--"

"And don't forget, sir," Alexander urged stoutly, "that the single State
of Texas is three times larger than France. She has countless head of
cattle and horses on her plains. She can equip armies. Her warlike sons,
with you to lead them, would laugh at conquest for the next ten years.
The territory of the South is too vast to be held except at a cost the
North cannot afford to pay--"

"Armies may march across it," Taylor interrupted, "a million soldiers
could not hold it _unless you surrender!_"

"Guerrilla warfare is a desperate resort," Lee answered sadly.

"There are things worse," Alexander cried passionately. "This army is
ready to die to a man before we will submit to unconditional surrender.
The men who have fought under you for these three tragic years have the
right to demand that you spare us this shame!"

"General Grant will not ask unconditional surrender. I have been in
correspondence with him for two days. He has already put his terms in
writing. They are generous. All officers may retain their swords and
every horse go home for the spring plowing. He merely requires our
parole not to take up arms again."

"He would offer no such terms," Alexander argued, "unless he knew you
yet had a chance to win--"

Lee waved his hand.

"Our only chance is to continue the struggle by a fierce guerrilla
war--"

"For God's sake, let's do it, sir!"

"Can we," the calm voice went on, "as Christian soldiers, choose such
a course? We've fought bravely for what we believed to be right. If I
enter a guerrilla struggle, what will be the result? Years of bloody
savagery. Our own men, demoralized by war, would supply their wants
by violence and plunder. I could not control them. And so raid and
counter-raid. Houses pillaged and burned by friend and foe. Crops
destroyed. All industry paralyzed. Women violated. We might force the
Federal Government at last to make some sort of compromise. But at what
a cost--what a cost!"

"You can control our men," Alexander maintained. "Your name is magic.
The South will obey you."

Lee gazed earnestly into the face of his gallant young Commander of
Artillery and said:

"If I wield such power over our people, is it not a sacred trust? Is it
not my duty now to use it for their healing, and not their ruin?"

General John B. Gordon suddenly rode up and sprang from his horse.

Lee eagerly turned.

"General Gordon--you have cut through?"

"I have secured a temporary truce to report to you in person, I have
fought my corps to a frazzle. The road is still blocked and I cannot
move."

"What is your advice?" Lee asked.

"Your decision settles it, sir."

A courier plunged toward the group on a foaming horse.

"Fitzhugh Lee's cavalry's broken through!" he shouted. "The way's
opened. The whole army can pass!"

"I don't believe it," Gordon growled.

"It's too good to be true," Taylor said.

"It's true!" Alexander exclaimed, "of course it's true!"

"You come from Longstreet?" Lee inquired.

"Yes, sir. He asks instructions."

"Tell him to use his discretion. He's on the spot."

The courier wheeled and rode back as the crash of a musket rang out
beside the baggage wagon.

"What's that?" Taylor asked sharply.

"It can't be an attack," Gordon wondered. "A truce is in force."

Sam rushed to Lee.

"Hit's Marse Ruffin, sah," he whispered. "He put de muzzle er de gun in
his mouf an' done blow his own head clean off!"

"See to him, Taylor," Lee ordered. "The old ones will quit, I'm afraid."

A courier rode up and handed him another dispatch. He read it slowly.

"Fitzhugh Lee says the message was a mistake, the road is still blocked.
Only a company of raiders broke through."

"It's too bad," Gordon said.

"It's hell," Alexander groaned. "Let's scatter, sir! It's the only way.
Issue the order at once--"

A sentinel saluted.

"Colonel Babcock, aide to General U.S. Grant, has come for your answer,
sir."

All eyes were fixed on Lee.

"Tell Babcock I'll see him in a moment."

An ominous silence fell. Lee lifted his head and spoke firmly.

"We've played our parts, gentlemen, in a hopeless tragedy, pitiful,
terrible. At least eight hundred thousand of our noblest sons are dead
and mangled. A million more will die of poverty and disease. Every issue
could have been settled and better settled without the loss of a drop
of blood. The slaves are freed by an accident. An accident of war's
necessity--not on principle. The manner of their sudden emancipation,
unless they are removed, will bring a calamity more appalling than the
war itself. It must create a Race Problem destined to grow each day more
threatening and insoluble. Yet if I had to live it all over again I
could only do exactly what I have done--"

He paused.

"And now I'll go at once to General Grant."

He took two steps to cross the stile over the fence, and turned as a cry
of pain burst from Alexander's lips. He sank to a seat, bowed his face
in his hands and groaned:

"Oh, my God, I can't believe it! I can't believe it. After all these
years of blood. I can't believe it--my God--to think that this is the
end!"

"I know, General Alexander," Lee spoke gently, "that my surrender means
the end. It has come and we must face it. We must accept the results
in good faith and turn our faces toward the east. Yesterday is dead.
To-morrow is ours--"

His voice softened.

"I don't mind telling you now, that I had rather die a thousand deaths
than go to General Grant. Dying is the easiest thing that I could do at
this moment. I could ride out front along the lines for five minutes and
it would be all over. But the men who know how to die must do harder
things. I call you, sir, to this battle grimmer than death--to this
nobler task--we've got to live now!"

Alexander slowly rose with Gordon and both men saluted.

Within an hour he was returning from the meeting with his brave and
generous conqueror. A loud cheer rang over the Confederate lines.

"It's Lee returning along the road crowded with his men," Gordon
explained.

Another cheer echoed through the forests.

Gordon smiled.

"Alexander the Great, when he conquered a world, never got the tribute
which Lee is receiving from those men. There's not one in their ranks
who wouldn't die for him."

Louder and louder rolled the cheers mingled now with the pet name his
soldiers loved.

"Marse Robert! Marse Robert!"

Alexander's eyes flashed.

"The hour of his surrender, the supreme triumph of his life."

Lee rode slowly into view on Traveler's gray back. The men were crowding
close. They cried softly. They touched his saddle, his horse and tried
to reach his hands.

He lifted his right arm over their heads and they were still.

"My heart's too full for speech, my men. I have done for you all that
was in my power. You have done your duty. We leave the rest to God. Go
quietly to your homes now and work to build up our ruined country. Obey
the laws and be as good citizens as you have been soldiers. I'm going to
try to do this. Will you help me?"

"That we will!"

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Marse Robert!"

Grizzled veterans were sobbing like children.

The war had ended--the most futile and ferocious of human follies. When
it shall cease on earth at last, then, and not until then, will the soul
of man leap to its final triumph, for the energy of the universe will
flow through the fingers of workmen, artists, authors, inventors and
healers. On this issue the saving of a world awaits the word of the
mothers of men.

THE END





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