Book: The Crisis, Complete

W >> Winston Churchill >> The Crisis, Complete




It was the hour he had dreaded, stolen suddenly upon him out of the
night. How many times had he rehearsed this scene to himself! He, Stephen
Brice, who had preached and slaved and drilled for the Union, a renegade
to be shunned by friend and foe alike! He had talked for his country, but
he would not risk his life for it. He heard them repeating the charge. He
saw them passing him silently on the street. Shamefully he remembered the
time, five months agone, when he had worn the very uniform of his
Revolutionary ancestor. And high above the tier of his accusers he saw
one face, and the look of it stung to the very quick of his soul.

Before the storm he had fallen asleep in sheer weariness of the struggle,
that face shining through the black veil of the darkness. If he were to
march away in the blue of his country (alas, not of hers!) she would
respect him for risking life for conviction. If he stayed at home, she
would not understand. It was his plain duty to his mother. And yet he
knew that Virginia Carvel and the women like her were ready to follow
with bare feet the march of the soldiers of the South.

The rain was come now, in a flood. Stephen's mother could not see in the
blackness the bitterness on his face. Above the roar of the waters she
listened for his voice.

"I will not go, mother," he said. "If at length every man is needed, that
will be different."

"It is for you to decide, my son," she answered. "There are many ways in
which you can serve your country here. But remember that you may have to
face hard things."

"I have had to do that before, mother," he replied calmly. "I cannot
leave you dependent upon charity."

She went back into her room to pray, for she knew that he had laid his
ambition at her feet.

It was not until a week later that the dreaded news came. All through the
Friday shells had rained on the little fort while Charleston looked on.
No surrender yet. Through a wide land was that numbness which precedes
action. Force of habit sent men to their places of business, to sit idle.
A prayerful Sunday intervened. Sumter had fallen. South Carolina had shot
to bits the flag she had once revered.

On the Monday came the call of President Lincoln for volunteers. Missouri
was asked for her quota. The outraged reply of her governor went back,
--never would she furnish troops to invade her sister states. Little did
Governor Jackson foresee that Missouri was to stand fifth of all the
Union in the number of men she was to give. To her was credited in the
end even more men than stanch Massachusetts.

The noise of preparation was in the city--in the land. On the Monday
morning, when Stephen went wearily to the office, he was met by Richter
at the top of the stairs, who seized his shoulders and looked into his
face. The light of the zealot was on Richter's own.

"We shall drill every night now, my friend, until further orders. It is
the Leader's word. Until we go to the front, Stephen, to put down
rebellion." Stephen sank into a chair, and bowed his head. What would he
think,--this man who had fought and suffered and renounced his native
land for his convictions? Who in this nobler allegiance was ready to die
for them? How was he to confess to Richter, of all men?

"Carl," he said at length, "I--I cannot go."

"You--you cannot go? You who have done so much already! And why?"

Stephen did not answer. But Richter, suddenly divining, laid his hands
impulsively on Stephen's shoulders.

"Ach, I see," he said. "Stephen, I have saved some money. It shall be for
your mother while you are away."

At first Stephen was too surprised for speech. Then, in spite of his
feelings, he stared at the German with a new appreciation of his
character. Then he could merely shake his head.

"Is it not for the Union?" implored Richter, "I would give a fortune, if
I had it. Ah, my friend, that would please me so. And I do not need the
money now. I 'have--nobody."

Spring was in the air; the first faint smell of verdure wafted across the
river on the wind. Stephen turned to the open window, tears of intense
agony in his eyes. In that instant he saw the regiment marching, and the
flag flying at its head.

"It is my duty to stay here, Carl," he said brokenly.

Richter took an appealing step toward him and stopped. He realized that
with this young New Englander a decision once made was unalterable. In
all his knowledge of Stephen he never remembered him to change. With the
demonstrative sympathy of his race, he yearned to comfort him, and knew
not how. Two hundred years of Puritanism had reared barriers not to be
broken down.

At the end of the office the stern figure of the Judge appeared.

"Mr. Brice!" he said sharply.

Stephen followed him into the littered room behind the ground glass door,
scarce knowing what to expect,--and scarce caring, as on that first day
he had gone in there. Mr. Whipple himself closed the door, and then the
transom. Stephen felt those keen eyes searching him from their
hiding-place.

"Mr. Brice," he said at last, "the President has called for seventy-five
thousand volunteers to crush this rebellion. They will go, and be
swallowed up, and more will go to fill their places. Mr. Brice, people
will tell you that the war will be over in ninety days. But I tell you,
sir, that it will not be over in seven times ninety days." He brought
down his fist heavily upon the table. "This, sir, will be a war to the
death. One side or the other will fight until their blood is all let, and
until their homes are all ruins." He darted at Stephen one look from
under those fierce eyebrows. "Do you intend to go sir?"

Stephen met the look squarely. "No, sir," he answered, steadily, "not
now."

"Humph," said the Judge. Then he began what seemed a never-ending search
among the papers on his desk. At length he drew out a letter, put on his
spectacles and read it, and finally put it down again.

"Stephen," said Mr. Whipple, "you are doing a courageous thing. But if we
elect to follow our conscience in this world, we must not expect to
escape persecution, sir. Two weeks ago," he continued slowly, "two weeks
ago I had a letter from Mr. Lincoln about matters here. He mentions you."

"He remembers me!" cried Stephen

The Judge smiled a little. "Mr. Lincoln never forgets any one," said he.
"He wishes me to extend to you his thanks for your services to the
Republican party, and sends you his kindest regards."

This was the first and only time that Mr. Whipple spoke to him of his
labors. Stephen has often laughed at this since, and said that he would
not have heard of them at all had not the Judge's sense of duty compelled
him to convey the message. And it was with a lighter heart than he had
felt for many a day that he went out of the door.

Some weeks later, five regiments were mustered into the service of the
United States. The Leader was in command of one. And in response to his
appeals, despite the presence of officers of higher rank, the President
had given Captain Nathaniel Lyon supreme command in Missouri.

Stephen stood among the angry, jeering crowd that lined the streets as
the regiments marched past. Here were the 'Black Jaegers.' No wonder the
crowd laughed. Their step was not as steady, nor their files as straight
as Company A. There was Richter, his head high, his blue eyes defiant.
And there was little Tiefel marching in that place of second lieutenant
that Stephen himself should have filled. Here was another company, and at
the end of the first four, big Tom Catherwood. His father had disowned
him the day before, His two brothers, George and little Spencer, were in
a house not far away--a house from which a strange flag drooped.

Clouds were lowering over the city, and big drops falling, as Stephen
threaded his way homeward, the damp anal gloom of the weather in his very
soul. He went past the house where the strange flag hung against its
staff In that big city it flaunted all unchallenged. The house was thrown
wide open that day, and in its window lounged young men of honored
families. And while they joked of German boorishness and Yankee cowardice
they held rifles across their knees to avenge any insult to the strange
banner that they had set up. In the hall, through the open doorway, the
mouth of a shotted field gun could be seen. The guardians were the Minute
Men, organized to maintain the honor and dignity of the state of
Missouri.

Across the street from the house was gathered a knot of curious people,
and among these Stephen paused. Two young men were standing on the steps,
and one was Clarence Colfax. His hands were in his pockets, and a
careless, scornful smile was on his face when he glanced down into the
street. Stephen caught that smile. Anger swept over him in a hot flame,
as at the slave auction years agone. That was the unquenchable fire of
the war. The blood throbbed in his temples as his feet obeyed,--and yet
he stopped.

What right had he to pull down that flag, to die on the pavement before
that house?




CHAPTER XVII

CAMP JACKSON

What enthusiasm on that gusty Monday morning, the Sixth of May, 1861!
Twelfth Street to the north of the Market House is full three hundred
feet across, and the militia of the Sovereign State of Missouri is
gathering there. Thence by order of her Governor they are to march to
Camp Jackson for a week of drill and instruction.

Half a mile nearer the river, on the house of the Minute Men, the strange
flag leaps wildly in the wind this day.

On Twelfth Street the sun is shining, drums are beating, and bands are
playing, and bright aides dashing hither and thither on spirited
chargers. One by one the companies are marching up, and taking place in
line; the city companies in natty gray fatigue, the country companies
often in their Sunday clothes. But they walk with heads erect and chests
out, and the ladies wave their gay parasols and cheer them. Here are the
aristocratic St. Louis Grays, Company A; there come the Washington Guards
and Washington Blues, and Laclede Guards and Missouri Guards and Davis
Guards. Yes, this is Secession Day, this Monday. And the colors are the
Stars and Stripes and the Arms of Missouri crossed.

What are they waiting for? Why don't they move? Hark! A clatter and a
cloud of dust by the market place, an ecstasy of cheers running in waves
the length of the crowd. Make way for the dragoons! Here they come at
last, four and four, the horses prancing and dancing and pointing
quivering ears at the tossing sea of hats and parasols and ribbons. Maude
Catherwood squeezes Virginia's arm. There, riding in front, erect and
firm in the saddle, is Captain Clarence Colfax. Virginia is red and
white, and red again,--true colors of the Confederacy. How proud she was
of him now! How ashamed that she even doubted him! Oh, that was his true
calling, a soldier's life. In that moment she saw him at the head of
armies, from the South, driving the Yankee hordes northward and still
northward until the roar of the lakes warns them of annihilation. She saw
his chivalry sparing them. Yes, this is Secession Monday.

Down to a trot they slow, Clarence's black thorough-bred arching his long
neck, proud as his master of the squadron which follows, four and four.
The square young man of bone and sinew in the first four, whose horse is
built like a Crusader's, is George Catherwood. And Eugenie gives a cry
and points to the rear where Maurice is riding.

Whose will be the Arsenal now? Can the Yankee regiments with their
slouchy Dutchmen hope to capture it! If there are any Yankees in Twelfth
Street that day, they are silent. Yes, there are some. And there are
some, even in the ranks of this Militia--who will fight for the Union.
These are sad indeed.

There is another wait, the companies standing at ease. Some of the
dragoons dismount, but not the handsome young captain, who rides straight
to the bright group which has caught his eye, Colonel Carvel wrings his
gauntleted hand.

"Clarence, we are proud of you, sir," he says.

And Virginia, repeats his words, her eyes sparkling, her fingers
caressing the silken curve of Jefferson's neck.

"Clarence, you will drive Captain Lyon and his Hessians into the river."

"Hush, Jinny," he answered, "we are merely going into camp to learn to
drill, that we may be ready to defend the state when the time comes."

Virginia laughed. "I had forgotten," she said.

"You will have your cousin court-martialed, my dear," said the Colonel.

Just then the call is sounded. But he must needs press Virginia's hand
first, and allow admiring Maude and Eugenie to press his. Then he goes
off at a slow canter to join his dragoons, waving his glove at them, and
turning to give the sharp order, "Attention"! to his squadron.

Virginia is deliriously happy. Once more she has swept from her heart
every vestige of doubt. Now is Clarence the man she can admire. Chosen
unanimously captain of the Squadron but a few days since, Clarence had
taken command like a veteran. George Catherwood and Maurice had told the
story.

And now at last the city is to shake off the dust of the North. "On to
Camp Jackson!" was the cry. The bands are started, the general and staff
begin to move, and the column swings into the Olive Street road, followed
by a concourse of citizens awheel and afoot, the horse cars crowded.
Virginia and Maude and the Colonel in the Carvel carriage, and behind
Ned, on the box, is their luncheon in a hamper Standing up, the girls can
just see the nodding plumes of the dragoons far to the front.

Olive Street, now paved with hot granite and disfigured by trolley wires,
was a country road then. Green trees took the place of crowded rows of
houses and stores, and little "bob-tail" yellow cars were drawn by
plodding mules to an inclosure in a timbered valley, surrounded by a
board fence, known as Lindell Grove. It was then a resort, a picnic
ground, what is now covered by close residences which have long shown the
wear of time.

Into Lindell Grove flocked the crowd, the rich and the poor, the
proprietor and the salesmen, to watch the soldiers pitch their tents
under the spreading trees. The gallant dragoons were off to the west,
across a little stream which trickled through the grounds. By the side of
it Virginia and Maude, enchanted, beheld Captain Colfax shouting his
orders while his troopers dragged the canvas from the wagons, and
staggered under it to the line. Alas! that the girls were there! The
Captain lost his temper, his troopers, perspiring over Gordian knots in
the ropes, uttered strange soldier oaths, while the mad wind which blew
that day played a hundred pranks.

To the discomfiture of the young ladies, Colonel Carvel pulled his goatee
and guffawed. Virginia was for moving away.

"How mean, Pa," she said indignantly. "How car, you expect them to do it
right the first day, and in this wind?"

"Oh! Jinny, look at Maurice!" exclaimed Maude, giggling. "He is pulled
over on his head."

The Colonel roared. And the gentlemen and ladies who were standing by
laughed, too. Virginia did not laugh. It was all too serious for her.

"You will see that they can fight," she said. "They can beat the Yankees
and Dutch."

This speech made the Colonel glance around him: Then he smiled,--in
response to other smiles.

"My dear," he said, "you must remember that this is a peaceable camp of
instruction of the state militia. There fly the Stars and Stripes from
the general's tent. Do you see that they are above the state flag? Jinny;
you forget yourself."

Jinny stamped her foot

"Oh, I hate dissimulation," she cried, "Why can't we, say outright that
we are going to run that detestable Captain Lyon and his Yankees and
Hessians out of the Arsenal."

"Why not, Colonel Carvel?" cried Maude. She had forgotten that one of her
brothers was with the Yankees and Hessians.

"Why aren't women made generals and governors?" said the Colonel.

"If we were," answered Virginia, "something might be accomplished."

"Isn't Clarence enough of a fire-eater to suit you?" asked her father.

But the tents were pitched, and at that moment the young Captain was seen
to hand over his horse to an orderly, and to come toward them. He was
followed by George Catherwood.

"Come, Jinny," cried her cousin, "let us go over to the main camp."

"And walk on Davis Avenue," said Virginia, flushing with pride. "Isn't
there a Davis Avenue?"

"Yes, and a Lee Avenue, and a Beauregard Avenue," said George, taking his
sister's arm.

"We shall walk in them all," said Virginia.

What a scene of animation it was. The rustling trees and the young grass
of early May, and the two hundred and forty tents in lines of military
precision. Up and down the grassy streets flowed the promenade, proud
fathers and mothers, and sweethearts and sisters and wives in gala dress.
Wear your bright gowns now, you devoted women. The day is coming when you
will make them over and over again, or tear them to lint, to stanch the
blood of these young men who wear their new gray so well.

Every afternoon Virginia drove with her father and her aunt to Camp
Jackson. All the fashion and beauty of the city were there. The bands
played, the black coachmen flecked the backs of their shining horses, and
walking in the avenues or seated under the trees were natty young
gentlemen in white trousers and brass-buttoned jackets. All was not
soldier fare at the regimental messes. Cakes and jellies and even ices
and more substantial dainties were laid beneath those tents. Dress parade
was one long sigh of delight: Better not to have been born than to have
been a young man in St. Louis, early in Camp Jackson week, and not be a
militiaman.

One young man whom we know, however, had little of pomp and vanity about
him,--none other than the young manager (some whispered "silent partner")
of Carvel & Company. If Mr. Eliphalet had had political ambition, or
political leanings, during the half-year which had just passed, he had
not shown them. Mr. Cluyme (no mean business man himself) had pronounced
Eliphalet a conservative young gentleman who attended to his own affairs
and let the mad country take care of itself. This is precisely the wise
course Mr. Hopper chose. Seeing a regiment of Missouri Volunteers
slouching down Fifth street in citizens' clothes he had been remarked to
smile cynically. But he kept his opinions so close that he was supposed
not to have any.

On Thursday of Camp Jackson week, an event occurred in Mr. Carvel's store
which excited a buzz of comment. Mr. Hopper announced to Mr. Barbo, the
book-keeper, that he should not be there after four o'clock. To be sure,
times were more than dull. The Colonel that morning had read over some
two dozen letters from Texas and the Southwest, telling of the
impossibility of meeting certain obligations in the present state of the
country. The Colonel had gone home to dinner with his brow furrowed. On
the other hand, Mr. Hopper's equanimity was spoken of at the widow's
table.

At four o'clock, Mr. Hopper took an Olive Street car, tucking himself
into the far corner where he would not be disturbed by any ladies who
might enter. In the course of an hour or so, he alighted at the western
gate of the camp on the Olive Street road. Refreshing himself with a
little tobacco, he let himself be carried leisurely by the crowd between
the rows of tents. A philosophy of his own (which many men before and
since have adopted) permitted him to stare with a superior good nature at
the open love-making around him. He imagined his own figure,--which was
already growing a little stout,--in a light gray jacket and duck
trousers, and laughed. Eliphalet was not burdened with illusions of that
kind. These heroes might have their hero-worship. Life held something
dearer for him.

As he was sauntering toward a deserted seat at the foot of a tree, it so
chanced that he was overtaken by Mr. Cluyme and his daughter Belle. Only
that morning, this gentleman, in glancing through the real estate column
of his newspaper, had fallen upon a deed of sale which made him wink. He
reminded his wife that Mr. Hopper had not been to supper of late. So now
Mr. Cluyme held out his hand with more than common cordiality. When Mr.
Hopper took it, the fingers did not close any too tightly over his own.
But it may be well to remark that Mr. Hopper himself did not do any
squeezing. He took off his hat grudgingly to Miss Belle. He had never
liked the custom.

"I hope you will take pot luck with us soon again, Mr. Hopper," said the
elder gentleman. "We only have plain and simple things, but they are
wholesome, sir. Dainties are poor things to work on. I told that to his
Royal Highness when he was here last fall. He was speaking to me on the
merits of roast beef--"

"It's a fine day," said Mr. Hopper.

"So it is," Mr. Cluyme assented. Letting his gaze wander over the camp,
he added casually, "I see that they have got a few mortars and howitzers
since yesterday. I suppose that is the stuff we heard so much about,
which came on the 'Swon' marked 'marble.' They say Jeff Davis sent the
stuff to 'em from the Government arsenal the Secesh captured at Baton
Rouge. They're pretty near ready to move on our arsenal now."

Mr. Hopper listened with composure. He was not greatly interested in this
matter which had stirred the city to the quick. Neither had Mr. Cluyme
spoken as one who was deeply moved. Just then, as if to spare the pains
of a reply, a "Jenny Lind" passed them. Miss Belle recognized the
carriage immediately as belonging to an elderly lady who was well known
in St. Louis. Every day she drove out, dressed in black bombazine, and
heavily veiled. But she was blind. As the mother-in-law of the stalwart
Union leader of the city, Miss Belle's comment about her appearance in
Camp Jackson was not out of place.

"Well!" she exclaimed, "I'd like to know what she's doing here!"

Mr. Hopper's answer revealed a keenness which, in the course of a few
days, engendered in Mr. Cluyme as lusty a respect as he was capable of.

"I don't know," said Eliphalet; "but I cal'late she's got stouter."

"What do you mean by that?" Miss Belle demanded.

"That Union principles must be healthy," said he, and laughed.

Miss Cluyme was prevented from following up this enigma. The appearance
of two people on Davis Avenue drove the veiled lady from her mind.
Eliphalet, too, had seen them. One was the tall young Captain of
Dragoons, in cavalry boots, and the other a young lady with dark brown
hair, in a lawn dress.

"Just look at them!" cried Miss Belle. "They think they are alone in the
garden of Eden. Virginia didn't use to care for him. But since he's a
captain, and has got a uniform, she's come round pretty quick. I'm
thankful I never had any silly notions about uniforms."

She glanced at Eliphalet, to find that his eyes were fixed on the
approaching couple.

"Clarence is handsome, but worthless," she continued in her sprightly
way. "I believe Jinny will be fool enough to marry him. Do you think
she's so very pretty, Mr. Hopper?"

Mr. Hopper lied.

"Neither do I," Miss Belle assented. And upon that, greatly to the
astonishment of Eliphalet, she left him and ran towards them. "Virginia!"
she cried; "Jinny, I have something so interesting to tell you!"

Virginia turned impatiently. The look she bestowed upon Miss Cluyme was
not one of welcome, but Belle was not sensitive. Putting her arm through
Virginia's, she sauntered off with the pair toward the parade grounds,
Clarence maintaining now a distance of three feet, and not caring to hide
his annoyance.

Eliphalet's eyes smouldered, following the three until they were lost in
the crowd. That expression of Virginia's had reminded him of a time,
years gone, when she had come into the store on her return from Kentucky,
and had ordered him to tell her father of her arrival. He had smarted
then. And Eliphalet was not the sort to get over smarts.

"A beautiful young lady," remarked Mr. Cluyme. "And a deserving one, Mr.
Hopper. Now, she is my notion of quality. She has wealth, and manners,
and looks. And her father is a good man. Too bad he holds such views on
secession. I have always thought, sir, that you were singularly fortunate
in your connection with him."

There was a point of light now in each of Mr. Hopper's green eyes. But
Mr. Cluyme continued:

"What a pity, I say, that he should run the risk of crippling himself by
his opinions. Times are getting hard."

"Yes," said Mr. Hopper.

"And southwestern notes are not worth the paper they are written on--"

But Mr. Cluyme has misjudged his man. If he had come to Eliphalet for
information of Colonel Carvel's affairs, or of any one else's affairs, he
was not likely to get it. It is not meet to repeat here the long business
conversation which followed. Suffice it to say that Mr. Cluyme, who was
in dry goods himself, was as ignorant when he left Eliphalet as when he
met him. But he had a greater respect than ever for the shrewdness of the
business manager of Carvel & Company.

.........................

That same Thursday, when the first families of the city were whispering
jubilantly in each other's ears of the safe arrival of the artillery and
stands of arms at Camp Jackson, something of significance was happening
within the green inclosure of the walls of the United States arsenal, far
to the southward.

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