Book: The Crisis, Complete

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The days had become alike in sadness to Stephen. Richter gone, and the
Judge often away in mysterious conference, he was left for hours at a
spell the sole tenant of the office. Fortunately there was work of
Richter's and of Mr. Whipple's left undone that kept him busy. This
Thursday morning, however, he found the Judge getting into that best
black coat which he wore on occasions. His manner had recently lost much
of its gruffness.

"Stephen," said he, "they are serving out cartridges and uniforms to the
regiments at the arsenal. Would you like to go down with me?"

"Does that mean Camp Jackson?" asked Stephen, when they had reached the
street.

"Captain Lyon is not the man to sit still and let the Governor take the
first trick, sir," said the Judge.

As they got on the Fifth Street car, Stephen's attention was at once
attracted to a gentleman who sat in a corner, with his children about
him. He was lean, and he had a face of great keenness and animation. He
had no sooner spied Judge Whipple than he beckoned to him with a kind of
military abruptness.

"That is Major William T. Sherman," said the Judge to Stephen. "He used
to be in the army, and fought in the Mexican War. He came here two months
ago to be the President of this Fifth Street car line."

They crossed over to him, the Judge introducing Stephen to Major Sherman,
who looked at him very hard, and then decided to bestow on him a vigorous
nod.

"Well, Whipple," he said, "this nation is going to the devil; eh?"

Stephen could not resist a smile. For it was a bold man who expressed
radical opinions (provided they were not Southern opinions) in a St.
Louis street car early in '61.

The Judge shook his head. "We may pull out," he said.

"Pull out!" exclaimed Mr. Sherman. "Who's man enough in Washington to
shake his fist in a rebel's face? Our leniency--our timidity--has
paralyzed us, sir."

By this time those in the car began to manifest considerable interest in
the conversation. Major Sherman paid them no attention, and the Judge,
once launched in an argument, forgot his surroundings.

"I have faith in Mr. Lincoln. He is calling out volunteers."

"Seventy-five thousand for three months!" said the Major, vehemently, "a
bucketful on a conflagration I tell you, Whipple, we'll need all the
water we've got in the North."

The Judge expressed his belief in this, and also that Mr. Lincoln would
draw all the water before he got through.

"Upon my soul," said Mr. Sherman, "I'm disgusted. Now's the time to stop
'em. The longer we let 'em rear and kick, the harder to break 'em. You
don't catch me going back to the army for three months. If they want me,
they've got to guarantee me three years. That's more like it." Turning to
Stephen, he added: "Don't you sign any three months' contract, young
man."

Stephen grew red. By this time the car was full, and silent. No one had
offered to quarrel with the Major. Nor did it seem likely that any one
would.

"I'm afraid I can't go, sir."

"Why not?" demanded Mr. Sherman.

"Because, sir," said the Judge, bluntly, "his mother's a widow, and they
have no money. He was a lieutenant in one of Blair's companies before the
call came."

The Major looked at Stephen, and his expression changed.

"Find it pretty hard?" he asked.

Stephen's expression must have satisfied him, but he nodded again, more
vigorously than before.

"Just you WAIT, Mr. Brice," he said. "It won't hurt you any."

Stephen was grateful. But he hoped to fall out of the talk. Much to his
discomfiture, the Major gave him another of those queer looks. His whole
manner, and even his appearance, reminded Stephen strangely of Captain
Elijah Brent.

"Aren't you the young man who made the Union speech in Mercantile Library
Hall?"

"Yes, sir," said the Judge. "He is."

At that the Major put out his hand impulsively, and gripped Stephen's.

"Well, sir," he said, "I have yet to read a more sensible speech, except
some of Abraham Lincoln's. Brinsmade gave it to me to read. Whipple, that
speech reminded me of Lincoln. It was his style. Where did you get it,
Mr. Brice?" he demanded.

"I heard Mr. Lincoln's debate with Judge Douglas at 'Freeport," said
Stephen; beginning to be amused.

The Major laughed.

"I admire your frankness, sir," he said. "I meant to say that its logic
rather than its substance reminded one of Lincoln."

"I tried to learn what I could from him, Major Sherman."

At length the car stopped, and they passed into the Arsenal grounds.
Drawn up in lines on the green grass were four regiments, all at last in
the blue of their country's service. Old soldiers with baskets of
cartridges were stepping from file to file, giving handfuls to the
recruits. Many of these thrust them in their pockets, for there were not
enough belts to go around. The men were standing at ease, and as Stephen
saw them laughing and joking lightheartedly his depression returned. It
was driven away again by Major Sherman's vivacious comments. For suddenly
Captain Lyon, the man of the hour, came into view.

"Look at him!" cried the Major, "he's a man after my own heart. Just look
at him running about with his hair flying in the wind, and the papers
bulging from his pockets. Not dignified, eh, Whipple? But this isn't the
time to be dignified. If there were some like Lyon in Washington, our
troops would be halfway to New Orleans by this time. Don't talk to me of
Washington! Just look at him!"

The gallant Captain was a sight, indeed, and vividly described by Major
Sherman's picturesque words as he raced from regiment to regiment, and
from company to company, with his sandy hair awry, pointing,
gesticulating, commanding. In him Stephen recognized the force that had
swept aside stubborn army veterans of wavering faith, that snapped the
tape with which they had tied him.

Would he be duped by the Governor's ruse of establishing a State Camp at
this time? Stephen, as he gazed at him, was sure that he would not. This
man could see to the bottom, through every specious argument. Little
matters of law and precedence did not trouble him. Nor did he believe
elderly men in authority when they told gravely that the state troops
were there for peace.

After the ranks were broken, Major Sherman and the Judge went to talk to
Captain Lyon and the Union Leader, who was now a Colonel of one of the
Volunteer regiments. Stephen sought Richter, who told him that the
regiments were to assemble the morning of the morrow, prepared to march.

"To Camp Jackson?" asked Stephen.

Richter shrugged his shoulders.

"We are not consulted, my friend," he said. "Will you come into my
quarters and have a bottle of beer with Tiefel?"

Stephen went. It was not their fault that his sense at their comradeship
was gone. To him it was as if the ties that had bound him to them were
asunder, and he was become an outcast.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE STONE THAT IS REJECTED

That Friday morning Stephen awoke betimes with a sense that something was
to happen. For a few moments he lay still in the half comprehension which
comes after sleep when suddenly he remembered yesterday's incidents at
the Arsenal, and leaped out of bed.

"I think that Lyon is going to attack Camp Jackson to-day," he said to
his mother after breakfast, when Hester had left the room.

Mrs. Brice dropped her knitting in her lap.

"Why, Stephen?"

"I went down to the Arsenal with the Judge yesterday and saw them
finishing the equipment of the new regiments. Something was in the wind.
Any one could see that from the way Lyon was flying about. I think he
must have proof that the Camp Jackson people have received supplies from
the South."

Mrs. Brice looked fixedly at her son, and then smiled in spite of the
apprehension she felt.

"Is that why you were working over that map of the city last night?" she
asked.

"I was trying to see how Lyon would dispose his troops. I meant to tell
you about a gentleman we met in the street car, a Major Sherman who used
to be in the army. Mr. Brinsmade knows him, and Judge Whipple, and many
other prominent men here. He came to St. Louis some months ago to take
the position of president of the Fifth Street Line. He is the keenest,
the most original man I have ever met. As long as I live I shall never
forget his description of Lyon."

"Is the Major going back into the army?" said Mrs. Brice, Stephen did not
remark the little falter in her voice. He laughed over the recollection
of the conversation in the street car.

"Not unless matters in Washington change to suit him," he said. "He thinks
that things have been very badly managed, and does not scruple to say so
anywhere. I could not have believed it possible that two men could have
talked in public as he and Judge Whipple did yesterday and not be shot
down. I thought that it was as much as a man's life is worth to mention
allegiance to the Union here in a crowd. And the way Mr. Sherman pitched
into the Rebels in that car full of people was enough to make your hair
stand on end."

"He must be a bold man," murmured Mrs. Brice.

"Does he think that the--the Rebellion can be put down?"

"Not with seventy-five thousand men, nor with ten times that number."

Mrs. Brice sighed, and furtively wiped her eyes with her handkerchief.

"I am afraid we shall see great misery, Stephen," she said.

He was silent. From that peaceful little room war and its horrors seemed
very far away. The morning sun poured in through the south windows and
was scattered by the silver on the sideboard. From above, on the wall,
Colonel Wilton Brice gazed soberly down. Stephen's eyes lighted on the
portrait, and his thoughts flew back to the boyhood days when he used to
ply his father with questions about it. Then the picture had suggested
only the glory and honor which illumines the page of history. Something
worthy to look back upon, to keep ones head high. The hatred and the
suffering and the tears, the heartrending, tearing apart for all time of
loving ones who have grown together,--these were not upon that canvas,
Will war ever be painted with a wart?

The sound of feet was heard on the pavement. Stephen rose, glancing at
his mother. Her face was still upon her knitting.

"I am going to the Arsenal," he said. "I must see what as happening."

To her, as has been said, was given wisdom beyond most women. She did not
try to prevent him as he kissed her good-by. But when the door had shut
behind him, a little cry escaped her, and she ran to the window to strain
her eyes after him until he had turned the corner below.

His steps led him irresistibly past the house of the strange flag,
ominously quiet at that early hour. At sight of it anger made him hot
again. The car for South St. Louis stood at the end of the line, fast
filling with curious people who had read in their papers that morning of
the equipment of the new troops. There was little talk among them, and
that little guarded.

It was a May morning to rouse a sluggard; the night air tingled into life
at the touch of the sunshine, the trees in the flitting glory of their
first green. Stephen found the shaded street in front of the Arsenal
already filled with an expectant crowd. Sharp commands broke the silence,
and he saw the blue regiments forming on the lawn inside the wall. Truly,
events were in the air,--great events in which he had no part.

As he stood leaning against a tree-box by the curb, dragged down once
more by that dreaded feeling of detachment, he heard familiar voices
close beside him. Leaning forward, he saw Eliphalet Hopper and Mr.
Cluyme. It was Mr. Cluyme who was speaking.

"Well, Mr. Hopper," he said, "in spite of what you say, I expect you are
dust as eager as I am to see what is going on. You've taken an early
start this morning for sightseeing."

Eliphalet's equanimity was far from shaken.

"I don't cal'late to take a great deal of stock in the military," he
answered. "But business is business. And a man must keep an eye on what
is moving."

Mr. Cluyme ran his hand through his chop whiskers, and lowered his voice.

"You're right, Hopper," he assented. "And if this city is going to be
Union, we ought to know it right away."

Stephen, listening with growing indignation to this talk, was unaware of
a man who stood on the other side of the tree, and who now came forward
before Mr. Hopper. He presented a somewhat uncompromising front. Mr.
Cluyme instantly melted away.

"My friend," said the stranger, quietly, "I think we have met before,
when your actions were not greatly to your credit. I do not forget a
face, even when I see it in the dark. Now I hear you utter words which
are a disgrace to a citizen of the United States. I have some respect for
a rebel. I have none for you, sir."

As soon as Stephen recovered from the shock of his surprise, he saw that
Eliphalet had changed countenance. The manner of an important man of
affairs, which he hay so assiduously cultivated, fell away from him. He
took a step backward, and his eyes made an ugly shift. Stephen rejoiced
to see the stranger turn his back on the manager of Carvel & Company
before that dignitary had time to depart, and stand unconcernedly there
as if nothing had occurred.

Then Stephen stared at him.

He was not a man you would look at twice, ordinarily, he was smoking a
great El Sol cigar. He wore clothes that were anything but new, a slouch
hat, and coarse grained, square-toed boots. His trousers were creased at
the knees. His head fell forward a little from his square shoulders, and
leaned a bit to one side, as if meditatively. He had a light brown beard
that was reddish in the sun, and he was rather short than otherwise.

This was all that Stephen saw. And yet the very plainness of the man's
appearance only added to his curiosity. Who was this stranger? His words,
his action, too, had been remarkable. The art of administering a rebuke
like that was not given to many men. It was perfectly quiet, perfectly
final. And then, when it was over, he had turned his back and dismissed
it.

Next Stephen began to wonder what he could know about Hopper. Stephen had
suspected Eliphalet of subordinating principles to business gain, and
hence the conversation with Mr. Cluyme had given him no shock in the way
of a revelation, But if Hopper were a rogue, ought not Colonel Carvel to
hear it? Ought not he, Stephen Brice, to ask this man with the cigar what
he knew, and tell Judge Whipple? The sudden rattle of drums gave him a
start, and cruelly reminded him of the gulf of prejudice and hatred fast
widening between the friends.

All this time the stranger stood impassively chewing his cigar, his hand
against the tree-box. A regiment in column came out of the Arsenal gate,
the Union leader in his colonel's uniform, on horseback at its head. He
pulled up in the street opposite to Stephen, and sat in his saddle,
chatting with other officers around him.

Then the stranger stepped across the limestone gutter and walked up to
the Colonel's horse, He was still smoking. This move, too, was surprising
enough, It argued even more assurance. Stephen listened intently.

"Colonel Blair, my name is Grant," he said briefly.

The Colonel faced quickly about, and held out his gloved hand cordially,
"Captain Ulysses Grant," said he; "of the old army?"

Mr. Grant nodded.

"I wanted to wish you luck," he said.

"Thank you, Grant," answered the Colonel. "But you? Where are you living
now?"

"I moved to Illinois after I left here," replied Mr. Grant, as quietly as
before, "and have been in Galena, in the Leather business there. I went
down to Springfield with the company they organized in Galena, to be of
any help I could. They made me a clerk in the adjutant general's office
of the state I ruled blanks, and made out forms for a while." He paused,
as if to let the humble character of this position sink into the
Colonel's comprehension. "Then they found out that I'd been quartermaster
and commissary, and knew something about military orders Now I'm a state
mustering officer. I came down to Belleville to muster in a regiment,
which wasn't ready. And so I ran over here to see what you fellows were
doing."

If this humble account had been delivered volubly, and in another tone,
it is probable that the citizen-colonel would not have listened, since
the events of that day were to crown his work of a winter. But Mr. Grant
possessed a manner of holding attention.. It was very evident, however;
that Colonel Blair had other things to think of. Nevertheless he said
kindly:

"Aren't you going in, Grant?"

"I can't afford to go in as a captain of volunteers," was the calm reply:
"I served nine years in the regular army and I think I can command a
regiment."

The Colonel, whose attention was called away at that moment, did not
reply. Mr. Grant moved off up the street. Some of the younger officers
who were there, laughed as they followed his retreating figure.

"Command a regiment!" cried one, a lieutenant whom Stephen recognized as
having been a bookkeeper at Edwards, James, & Doddington's, and whose
stiff blue uniform coat creased awkwardly. "I guess I'm about as fit to
command a regiment as Grant is."

"That man's forty years old, if he's a day," put in another. "I remember
when he came here to St. Louis in '54, played out. He'd resigned from the
army on the Pacific Coast. He put up a log cabin down on the Gravois
Road, and there he lived in the hardest luck of any man I ever saw until
last year. You remember him, Joe."

"Yep," said Joe. "I spotted him by the El Sol cigar. He used to bring a
load of wood to the city once in a while, and then he'd go over to the
Planters' House, or somewhere else, and smoke one of these long fellows,
and sit against the wall as silent as a wooden Indian. After that he came
up to the city without his family and went into real estate one winter.
But he didn't make it go. Curious, it is just a year ago this month than
he went over to Illinois. He's an honest fellow, and hard working enough,
but he don't know how. He's just a dead failure."

"Command a regiment!" laughed the first, again, as of this in particular
had struck his sense of humor. "I guess he won't get a regiment in a
hurry, There's lots of those military carpet-baggers hanging around for
good jobs now."

"He might fool you fellows yet," said the one caller, though his tone was
not one of conviction. "I understand he had a first-rate record an the
Mexican War."

Just then an aide rode up, and the Colonel gave a sharp command which put
an end to this desultory talk. As the First Regiment took up the march,
the words "Camp Jackson" ran from mouth to mouth on the sidewalks.
Catching fire, Stephen ran with the crowd, and leaping on passing street
car, was borne cityward with the drums of the coming hosts beating in his
ears.

In the city, shutters were going up on the stores. The streets were
filled with, restless citizens seeking news, and drays were halted here
and there on the corners, the white eyes and frenzied calls of the negro
drivers betraying their excitement. While Stephen related to his mother
the events of the morning, Hester burned the dinner. It lay; still
untouched, on the table when the throbbing of drums sent them to the
front steps. Sigel's regiment had swung into the street, drawing in its
wake a seething crowd.

Three persons came out of the big house next door. One was Anna
Brinsmade; and there was her father, his white hairs uncovered. The third
was Jack. His sister was cringing to him appealingly, and he struggling
in her grasp. Out of his coat pocket hung the curved butt of a pepperbox
revolver.

"Let me go, Anne!" he cried. "Do you think I can stay here while my
people are shot down by a lot of damned Dutchman?"

"John," said Mr. Brinsmade, sternly, "I cannot let you join a mob. I
cannot let you shoot at men who carry the Union flag."

"You cannot prevent me, sir," shouted the young man, in a frenzy. "When
foreigners take our flag for them own, it is time for us to shoot them
down."

Wrenching himself free, he ran down the steps and up the street ahead of
the regiment. Then the soldiers and the noisy crowd were upon them and
while these were passing the two stood there as in a dream. After that
silence fell upon the street, and Mr. Brinsmade turned and went back into
the house, his head bowed as in prayer. Stephen and his mother drew back,
but Anne saw them.

"He is a rebel," she faltered. "It will break my father's heart."

She looked at Stephen appealingly, unashamed of the tears in her eyes.
Then she, too went in.

"I cannot stay here mother," he said.

As he slammed the gate, Anne ran down the steps calling his name. He
paused, and she caught his sleeve.

"I knew you would go," she said, "I knew you would go. Oh, Stephen, you
have a cool head. Try to keep Jack--out of mischief."

He left her standing on the pavement. But when he reached the corner and
looked back he saw that she had gone in at his own little gate to meet
his mother. Then he walked rapidly westward. Now and again he was stopped
by feverish questions, but at length he reached the top of the second
ridge from the river, along which crowded Eighteenth Street now runs.
There stood the new double mansion Mr. Spencer Catherwood had built two
years before on the outskirts of the town, with the wall at the side, and
the brick stable and stable yard. As Stephen approached it, the thought
came to him how little this world's goods avail in times of trouble. One
of the big Catherwood boys was in the blue marching regiment that day,
and had been told by his father never again to darken his doors. Another
was in Clarence Colfax's company of dragoons, and still another had fled
southward the night after Sumter.

Stephen stopped at the crest of the hill, in the white dust of the
new-turned street, to gaze westward. Clouds were gathering in the sky,
but the sun still shone brightly, Half way up the rise two blue lines had
crawled, followed by black splotches, and at the southwest was the glint
of the sun on rifle barrels. Directed by a genius in the art of war, the
regiments were closing about Camp Jackson.

As he stood there meditating and paying no attention to those who hurried
past, a few familiar notes were struck on a piano. They came through the
wide-shuttered window above his head. Then a girl's voice rose above the
notes, in tones that were exultant:--

"Away down South in de fields of cotton,
Cinnamon seed and sandy bottom,
Look away, look away, Look away, look away.
Den I wish I was in Dixie's Land,
Oh, oh! oh, oh!
In Dixie's Land I'll take my stand,
And live and die in Dixie's Land.
Away, away, away.
Away down South in Dixie."

The song ceased amid peals of girlish laughter. Stephen was rooted to the
spot.

"Jinny! Jinny Carvel, how dare you!" came through the shutters. "We shall
have a whole regiment of Hessians in here."

Old Uncle Ben, the Catherwoods' coachman, came out of the stable yard.
The whites of his eyes were rolling, half in amusement, half in terror.
Seeing Stephen standing there, he exclaimed:

"Mistah Brice, if de Dutch take Camp Jackson, is we niggers gwinter be
free?"

Stephen did not answer, for the piano had started again,

"If ever I consent to be married,
And who could refuse a good mate?
The man whom I give my hand to,
Must believe in the Rights of the State."

More laughter. Then the blinds were flung aside, and a young lady in a
dress of white trimmed with crimson stood in the window, smiling.
Suddenly she perceived Stephen in the road. Her smile faded. For an
instant she stared at him, and then turned to the girls crowding behind
her. What she said, he did not wait to hear. He was striding down the
hill.




CHAPTER XIX.

THE TENTH OF MAC

Would the sons of the first families surrender, "Never!" cried a young
lady who sat behind the blinds in Mrs. Catherwood's parlor. It seemed to
her when she stopped to listen for the first guns of the coming battle
that the tumult in her heart would drown their roar.

"But, Jinny," ventured that Miss Puss Russell who never feared to speak
her mind, "it would be folly for them to fight. The Dutch and Yankees
outnumber them ten to one, and they haven't any powder and bullets."

"And Camp Jackson is down in a hollow," said Maude Catherwood, dejectedly.
And yet hopefully, too, for at the thought of bloodshed she was near to
fainting.

"Oh," exclaimed Virginia, passionately, "I believe you want them to
surrender. I should rather see Clarence dead than giving his sword to a
Yankee."

At that the other two were silent again, and sat on through an endless
afternoon of uncertainty and hope and dread in the darkened room. Now and
anon Mr. Catherwood's heavy step was heard as he paced the hall. From
time to time they glanced at Virginia, as if to fathom her thought. She
and Puss Russell had come that day to dine with Maude. Mr. Catherwood's
Ben, reeking of the stable, had brought the rumor of the marching on the
camp into the dining-room, and close upon the heels of this the rumble of
the drums and the passing of Sigel's regiment. It was Virginia who had
the presence of mind to slam the blinds in the faces of the troops, and
the crowd had cheered her. It was Virginia who flew to the piano to play
Dixie ere they could get by, to the awe and admiration of the girls and
the delight of Mr. Catherwood who applauded her spirit despite the
trouble which weighed upon him. Once more the crowd had cheered,--and
hesitated. But the Dutch regiment slouched on, impassive, and the people
followed.

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