Book: The Crisis, Complete

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Mrs. Colfax did not receive these tidings with transports. She permitted
her niece to come into her room, and then: sank into a chair before the
mirror of her dressing-table, and scanned her face there.

"I could not sleep a wink, Jinny, all night long. I look wretchedly. I am
afraid I am going to have another of my attacks. How it is raining! What
does the newspaper say?"

"I'll get it for you," said Virginia, used to her aunt's vagaries.

"No, no, tell me. I am much too nervous to read it."

"It says that they will be paroled to-day, and that they passed a
comfortable night."

"It must be a Yankee lie," said the lady. "Oh, what a night! I saw them
torturing him in a thousand ways the barbarians! I know he had to sleep
on a dirty floor with low-down trash."

"But we shall have him here to-night, Aunt Lillian!" cried Virginia.
"Mammy, tell Uncle Ben that Mr. Clarence will be here for tea. We must
have a feast for him. Pa said that they could not hold them."

"Where is Comyn?" inquired Mrs. Colfax. "Has he gone down to see
Clarence?"

"He went to Jefferson City last night," replied Virginia. "The Governor
sent for him."

Mrs. Colfax exclaimed in horror at this news.

"Do you mean that he has deserted us?" she cried. "That he has left us
here defenceless,--at the mercy of the Dutch, that they may wreak their
vengeance upon us women? How can you sit still, Virginia? If I were your
age and able to drag myself to the street, I should be at the Arsenal
now. I should be on my knees before that detestable Captain Lyon, even if
he is a Yankee." Virginia kept her temper.

"I do not go on my knees to any man," she said. "Rosetta, tell Ned I wish
the carriage at once."

Her aunt seized her convulsively by the arm.

"Where are you going, Jinny?" she demanded. "Your Pa would never forgive
me if anything happened to you."

A smile, half pity, crossed the girl's anxious face.

"I am afraid that I must risk adding to your misfortune, Aunt Lillian,"
she said, and left the room.

Virginia drove to Mr. Brinsmade's. His was one of the Union houses which
she might visit and not lose her self respect. Like many Southerners,
when it became a question of go or stay, Mr. Brinsmade's unfaltering love
for the Union had kept him in. He had voted for Mr. Bell, and later had
presided at Crittenden Compromise meetings. In short, as a man of peace,
he would have been willing to sacrifice much for peace. And now that it
was to be war, and he had taken his stand uncompromisingly with the
Union, the neighbors whom he had befriended for so many years could not
bring themselves to regard him as an enemy. He never hurt their feelings;
and almost as soon as the war began he set about that work which has been
done by self-denying Christians of all ages,--the relief of suffering. He
visited with comfort the widow and the fatherless, and many a night in
the hospital he sat through beside the dying, Yankee and Rebel alike, and
wrote their last letters home.

And Yankee and Rebel alike sought his help and counsel in time of
perplexity or trouble, rather than hotheaded advice from their own
leaders.

Mr. Brinsmade's own carriage was drawn up at his door; and that gentleman
himself standing on the threshold. He came down his steps bareheaded in
the wet to hand Virginia from her carriage.

Courteous and kind as ever, he asked for her father and her aunt as he
led her into the house. However such men may try to hide their own trials
under a cheerful mien, they do not succeed with spirits of a kindred
nature. With the others, who are less generous, it matters not. Virginia
was not so thoughtless nor so selfish that she could not perceive that a
trouble had come to this good man. Absorbed as she was in her own
affairs, she forgot some of them in his presence. The fire left her
tongue, and to him she could not have spoken harshly even of an enemy.
Such was her state of mind, when she was led into the drawing-room. From
the corner of it Anne arose and came forward to throw her arms around her
friend.

"Jinny, it was so good of you to come. You don't, hate me?"

"Hate you, Anne dear!"

"Because we are Union," said honest Anne, wishing to have no shadow of
doubt.

Virginia was touched. "Anne," she cried, "if you were German, I believe I
should love you."

"How good of you to come. I should not have dared go to your house,
because I know that you feel so deeply. You--you heard?"

"Heard what?" asked Virginia, alarmed.

"That Jack has run away--has gone South, we think. Perhaps," she cried,
"perhaps he may be dead." And tears came into the girl's eyes.

It was then that Virginia forgot Clarence. She drew Anne to the sofa and
kissed her.

"No, he is not dead," she said gently, but with a confidence in her voice
of rare quality. "He is not dead, Anne dear, or you would have heard."

Had she glanced up, she would have seen Mr. Brinsmade's eye upon her. He
looked kindly at all people, but this expression he reserved for those
whom he honored. A life of service to others had made him guess that, in
the absence of her father, this girl had come to him for help of some
kind.

"Virginia is right, Anne," he said. "John has gone to fight for his
principles, as every gentleman who is free should; we must remember that
this is his home, and that we must not quarrel with him, because we think
differently." He paused, and came over to Virginia. "There is something I
can do for you, my dear?" said he.

She rose. "Oh, no, Mr. Brinsmade," she cried. And yet her honesty was as
great as Anne's. She would not have it thought that she came for other
reasons. "My aunt is in such a state of worry over Clarence that I came
to ask you if you thought the news true, that the prisoners are to be
paroled. She thinks it is a--" Virginia flushed, and bit a rebellious
tongue. "She does not believe it."

Even good Mr. Brinsmade smiled at the slip she had nearly made. He
understood the girl, and admired her. He also understood Mrs. Colfax.

"I'll drive to the Arsenal with you, Jinny," he answered. "I know
Captain Lyon, and we shall find out certainly."

"You will do nothing of the kind, sir," said Virginia, with emphasis."
Had I known this--about John, I should not have come."

He checked her with a gesture. What a gentleman of the old school he was,
with his white ruffled shirt and his black stock and his eye kindling
with charity.

"My dear," he answered, "Nicodemus is waiting. I was just going myself to
ask Captain Lyon about John." Virginia's further objections were cut
short by the violent clanging of the door-bell, and the entrance of a
tall, energetic gentleman, whom Virginia had introduced to her as Major
Sherman, late of the army, and now president of the Fifth Street
Railroad. The Major bowed and shook hands. He then proceeded, as was
evidently his habit, directly to the business on which he was come.

"Mr. Brinsmade," he said, "I heard, accidentally, half an hour ago that
you were seeking news of your son. I regret to say, sir, that the news I
have will not lead to a knowledge of his whereabouts. But in justice to a
young gentleman of this city I think I ought to tell you what happened at
Camp Jackson."

"I shall be most grateful, Major. Sit down, sir."

But the Major did not sit down. He stood in the middle of the room. With
some gesticulation which added greatly to the force of the story, he gave
a most terse and vivid account of Mr. John's arrival at the embankment by
the grove--of his charging a whole regiment of Union volunteers. Here was
honesty again. Mr. Sherman did not believe in mincing matters even to a
father and sister.

"And, sir," said he, "you may thank the young man who lives next door to
you--Mr. Brice, I believe--for saving your son's life."

"Stephen Brice!" exclaimed Mr, Brinsmade, in astonishment.

Virginia felt Anne's hand tighten But her own was limp. A hot wave swept
over her, Was she never to hear the end of this man.

"Yes, sir, Stephen Brice," answered Mr. Sherman. "And I never in my life
saw a finer thing done, in the Mexican War or out of it."

Mr. Brinsmade grew a little excited. "Are you sure that you know him?"

"As sure as I know you," said the Major, with excessive conviction.

"But," said Mr. Brinsmade, "I was in there last night, I knew the young
man had been at the camp. I asked him if he had seen Jack. He told me
that he had, by the embankment. But he never mentioned a word about
saving his life."

"He didn't," cried the Major. "By glory, but he's even better than I
thought him, Did you see a black powder mark on his face?"

"Why, yes, sir, I saw a bad burn of some kind on his forehead."

"Well, sir, if one of the Dutchmen who shot at Jack had known enough to
put a ball in his musket, he would have killed Mr. Brice, who was only
ten feet away, standing before your son."

Anne gave a little cry--Virginia was silent--Her lips were parted. Though
she realized it not, she was thirsting %a hear the whole of the story.

The Major told it, soldier fashion, but well. How John rushed up to the
line. How he (Mr. Sherman) had seen Brice throw the woman down and had
cried to him to lie down himself how the fire was darting down the
regiment, and how men and women were falling all about them; and how
Stephen had flung Jack and covered him with his body.

It was all vividly before Virginia's eyes. Had she any right to treat
such a man with contempt? She remembered hour he had looked, at her when
he stood on the corner by the Catherwoods' house. And, worst of all, she
remembered many spiteful remarks she had made, even to Anne, the gist of
which had been that Mr. Brice was better at preaching than at fighting.
She knew now--and she had known in her heart before--that this was the
greatest injustice she could have done him.

"But Jack? What did Jack do?"

It was Anne who tremblingly asked the Major. But Mr. Sherman, apparently,
was not the man to say that Jack would have shot Stephen had he not
interfered. That was the ugly part of the story. John would have shot the
man who saved his life. To the day of his death neither Mr. Brinsmade nor
his wife knew this. But while Mr. Brinsmade and Anne had gone upstairs to
the sickbed, these were the tidings the Major told Virginia, who kept it
in her heart. The reason he told her was because she had guessed a part
of it.

Nevertheless Mr. Brinsmade drove to the Arsenal with her that Saturday,
in his own carriage. Forgetful of his own grief, long habit came to him
to talk cheerily with her. He told her many little anecdotes of his
travel, but not one of them did she hear. Again, at the moment when she
thought her belief in Clarence and her love for him at last secure, she
found herself drawing searching comparisons between him and the quieter
young Bostonian. In spite of herself she had to admit that Stephen's deed
was splendid. Was this disloyal? She flushed at the thought. Clarence had
been capable of the deed,--even to the rescue of an enemy. But--alas,
that she should carry it out to a remorseless end--would Clarence have
been equal to keeping silence when Mr. Brinsmade came to him? Stephen
Brice had not even told his mother, so Mr. Brinsmade believed.

As if to aggravate her torture, Mr. Brinsmade's talk drifted to the
subject of young Mr. Brice. This was but natural. He told her of the
brave struggle Stephen had made, and how he had earned luxuries, and
often necessities, for his mother by writing for the newspapers.

"Often," said Mr. Brinsmade, "often I have been unable to sleep, and have
seen the light in Stephen's room until the small hours of the morning."

"Oh, Mr. Brinsmade," cried Virginia. "Can't you tell me something bad
about him? Just once."

The good gentleman started, and looked searchingly at the girl by his
side, flushed and confused. Perhaps he thought--but how can we tell what
he thought? How can we guess that our teachers laugh at our pranks after
they have caned us for them? We do not remember that our parents have
once been young themselves, and that some word or look of our own brings
a part of their past vividly before them. Mr. Brinsmade was silent, but
he looked out of the carriage window, away from Virginia. And presently,
as they splashed through the mud near the Arsenal, they met a knot of
gentlemen in state uniforms on their way to the city. Nicodemus stopped
at his master's signal. Here was George Catherwood, and his father was
with him.

"They have released us on parole," said George. "Yes, we had a fearful
night of it. They could not have kept us--they had no quarters."

How changed he was from the gay trooper of yesterday! His bright uniform
was creased and soiled and muddy, his face unshaven, and dark rings of
weariness under his eyes.

"Do you know if Clarence Colfax has gone home?" Mr. Brinsmade inquired.

"Clarence is an idiot," cried George, ill-naturedly. Mr. Brinsmade, of
all the prisoners here, he refused to take the parole, or the oath of
allegiance. He swears he will remain a prisoner until he is exchanged."

"The young man is Quixotic," declared the elder Catherwood, who was not
himself in the best of humors.

"Sir," said Mr. Brinsmade, with as much severity as he was ever known to
use, "sir, I honor that young man for this more than I can tell you.
Nicodemus, you may drive on." And he slammed the door.

Perhaps George had caught sight of a face in the depths of the carriage,
for he turned purple, and stood staring on the pavement after his
choleric parent had gone on.

It was done. Of all the thousand and more young men who had upheld the
honor of their state that week, there was but the one who chose to remain
in durance vile within the Arsenal wall--Captain Clarence Colfax, late of
the Dragoons.

Mr. Brinsmade was rapidly admitted to the Arsenal, and treated with the
respect which his long service to the city deserved. He and Virginia were
shown into the bare military room of the commanding officer, and thither
presently came Captain Lyon himself. Virginia tingled with antagonism
when she saw this man who had made the city tremble, who had set an iron
heel on the flaming brand of her Cause. He, too, showed the marks of his
Herculean labors, but only on his clothes and person. His long red hair
was unbrushed, his boots covered with black mud, and his coat unbuttoned.
His face was ruddy, and his eye as clear as though he had arisen from
twelve hours' sleep. He bowed to Virginia (not too politely, to be sure).
Her own nod of are recognition did not seem to trouble him.

"Yes, sir," he said incisively, in response to Mr. Brinsmade's question,
"we are forced to retain Captain Colfax. He prefers to remain a prisoner
until he is exchanged. He refuses to take the oath of allegiance to the
United States.

"And why should he be made to, Captain Lyon? In what way has he opposed
the United States troops?"

It was Virginia who spoke. Both looked at her in astonishment.

"You will pardon me, Miss Carvel," said Captain Lyon, gravely, "if I
refuse to discuss that question with you." Virginia bit her tongue.

"I understand that Mr. Colfax is a near relative of yours, Miss Carvel,"
the Captain continued. "His friends may come here to see him during the
day. And I believe it is not out of place for me to express my admiration
of the captain's conduct. You may care to see him now--"

"Thank you," said Virginia, curtly.

"Orderly, my respects to Captain Colfax, and ask him if a he will be kind
enough to come in here. Mr. Brinsmade," said the Captain, "I should like
a few words with you, sir." And so, thanks to the Captain's delicacy,
when Clarence arrived he found Virginia alone. She was much agitated She
ran toward him as he entered the door, calling his name.

"Max, you are going to stay here?"

"Yes, until I am exchanged."

Aglow with admiration, she threw herself into his arms. Now, indeed, was
she proud of him. Of all the thousand defenders of the state, he alone
was true to his principles--to the South. Within sight of home, he alone
had chosen privation.

She looked up into his face, which showed marks of excitement and
fatigue. But above all, excitement. She knew that he could live on
excitement. The thought came to her--was it that which sustained him now?
She put it away as treason. Surely the touch of this experience would
transform the boy into the man. This was the weak point in the armor
which she wore so bravely for her cousin.

He had grown up to idleness. He had known neither care nor
responsibility. His one longing from a child had been that love of
fighting and adventure which is born in the race. Until this gloomy day
in the Arsenal, Virginia had never characterized it as a love of
excitement---as any thing which contained a selfish element. She looked
up into his face, I say, and saw that which it is given to a woman only
to see. His eyes burned with a light that was far away. Even with his
arms around her he seemed to have forgotten her presence, and that she
had come all the way to the Arsenal to see him. Her hands dropped limply
from his shoulders She drew away, as he did not seem to notice.

So it is with men. Above and beyond the sacrifice of a woman's life, the
joy of possessing her soul and affection, is something more desirable
still--fame and glory--personal fame and glory, The woman may share them,
of course, and be content with the radiance. When the Governor in making
his inauguration speech, does he always think of the help the little wife
has given him. And so, in moments of excitement, when we see far ahead
into a glorious future, we do not feel the arms about us, or value the
sweets which, in more humdrum days, we labored so hard to attain.

Virginia drew away, and the one searching glance she gave him he did not
see. He was staring far beyond; tears started in her eyes, and she turned
from him to look out over the Arsenal grounds, still wet and heavy with
the night's storm. The day itself was dark and damp. She thought of the
supper cooking at home. It would not be eaten now.

And yet, in that moment of bitterness Virginia loved him. Such are the
ways of women, even of the proudest, who love their country too. It was
but right that he should not think of her when the honor of the South was
at stake; and the anger that rose within her was against those nine
hundred and ninety-nine who had weakly accepted the parole.

"Why did Uncle Comyn not come?" asked Clarence.

"He has gone to Jefferson City, to see the Governor.."

"And you came alone?"

"No, Mr. Brinsmade brought me."

"And mother?"

She was waiting for that question. What a relief that should have come
among the first.

"Aunt Lillian feels very badly. She was in her room when I left. She was
afraid," (Virginia had to smile), "she was afraid the Yankees would kill
you."

"They have behaved very well for Yankees," replied he, "No luxury, and
they will not hear of my having a servant. They are used to doing their
own work. But they have treated me much better since I refused to take
their abominable oath."

"And you will be honored for it when the news reaches town."

"Do you think so, Jinny?" Clarence asked eagerly, "I reckon they will
think me a fool!"

"I should like to hear any one say so," she flashed out.

"No," said Virginia, "our friends will force them to release you. I do
not know much about law. But you have done nothing to be imprisoned for."

Clarence did not answer at once. Finally he said. "I do not want to be
released."

"You do not want to be released," she repeated.

"No," he said. "They can exchange me. If I remain a prisoner, it will
have a greater effect--for the South."

She smiled again, this time at the boyish touch of heroics. Experience,
responsibility, and he would get over that. She remembered once, long
ago, when his mother had shut him up in his room for a punishment, and he
had tortured her by remaining there for two whole days.

It was well on in the afternoon when she drove back to the city with Mr.
Brinsmade. Neither of them had eaten since morning, nor had they even
thought of hunger. Mr. Brinsmade was silent, leaning back in the corner
of the carriage, and Virginia absorbed in her own thoughts. Drawing near
the city, that dreaded sound, the rumble of drums, roused them. A shot
rang out, and they were jerked violently by the starting of the horses.
As they dashed across Walnut at Seventh came the fusillade. Virginia
leaned out of the window. Down the vista of the street was a mass of blue
uniforms, and a film of white smoke hanging about the columns of the old
Presbyterian Church Mr. Brinsmade quietly drew her back into the
carriage.

The shots ceased, giving place to an angry roar that struck terror to her
heart that wet and lowering afternoon. The powerful black horses galloped
on. Nicodemus tugging at the reins, and great splotches of mud flying in
at the windows. The roar of the crowd died to an ominous moaning behind
them. Then she knew that Mr. Brinsmade was speaking:-- "From battle and
murder, and from sudden death--from all sedition, privy conspiracy, and
rebellion,--Good Lord, deliver us."

He was repeating the Litany--that Litany which had come down through the
ages. They had chanted it in Cromwell's time, when homes were ruined and
laid waste, and innocents slaughtered. They had chanted it on the dark,
barricaded stairways of mediaeval Paris, through St. Bartholomew's night,
when the narrow and twisted streets, ran with blood. They had chanted it
in ancient India, and now it was heard again in the New World and the New
Republic of Peace and Good Will.

Rebellion? The girl flinched at the word which the good gentleman had
uttered in his prayers. Was she a traitor to that flag for which her
people had fought in three wars? Rebellion! She burned to blot it forever
from the book Oh, the bitterness of that day, which was prophecy of the
bitterness to come.

Rain was dropping as Mr. Brinsmade escorted her up her own steps. He held
her hand a little at parting, and bade her be of good cheer. Perhaps he
guessed something of the trial she was to go through that night alone
with her aunt, Clarence's mother. Mr. Brinsmade did not go directly home.
He went first to the little house next door to his. Mrs. Brice and Judge
Whipple were in the parlor: What passed between them there has not been
told, but presently the Judge and Mr. Brinsmade came out together and
stood along time in, the yard, conversing, heedless of the rain.




CHAPTER XXI

THE STAMPEDE

Sunday dawned, and the people flocked to the churches. But even in the
house of God were dissension and strife. From the Carvel pew at Dr.
Posthelwaite's Virginia saw men and women rise from their knees and walk
out--their faces pale with anger. At St. Mark's the prayer for the
President of the United States was omitted. Mr. Russell and Mr.
Catherwood nodded approvingly over the sermon in which the South was
justified, and the sanction of Holy Writ laid upon her Institution. With
not indifferent elation these gentlemen watched the departure of brethren
with whom they had labored for many years, save only when Mr. Brinsmade
walked down the aisle never to return. So it is that war, like a
devastating flood, creeps insistent into the most sacred places, and will
not be denied. Mr. Davitt, at least, preached that day to an united
congregation,--which is to say that none of them went out. Mr. Hopper,
who now shared a pew with Miss Crane, listened as usual with a most
reverent attention. The clouds were low and the streets wet as people
walked home to dinner, to discuss, many in passion and some in sorrow,
the doings of the morning. A certain clergyman had prayed to be delivered
from the Irish, the Dutch, and the Devil. Was it he who started the old
rumor which made such havoc that afternoon? Those barbarians of the
foreign city to the south, drunk with power, were to sack and loot the
city. How it flew across street and alley, from yard to yard, and from
house to house! Privileged Ned ran into the dining-room where Virginia
and her aunt were sitting, his eyes rolling and his face ashen with
terror, crying out that the Dutch were marching on the city, firebrands
in hand and murder in their hearts.

"De Gen'ral done gib out er procl'mation, Miss Jinny," he cried. "De
Gen'ral done say in dat procl'mation dat he ain't got no control ober de
Dutch soldiers."

Mrs. Colfax fainted.

"Oh Miss Jinny, ain't you gwineter Glencoe? Ain't you gwineter flee away?
Every fambly on dis here street's gwine away--is packin' up fo' de
country. Doan't you hear 'em, Miss Jinny? What'll your pa say to Ned of
he ain't make you clear out! Doan't you hear de carridges a-rattlin' off
to de country?"

Virginia rose in agitation, yet trying to be calm, and to remember that
the safety of the household depended upon her alone. That was her
thought,--bred into her by generations,--the safety of the household, of
the humblest slave whose happiness and welfare depended upon her father's
bounty. How she longed in that instant for her father or Captain Lige,
for some man's strength, to depend upon. Would there be wisdom in flight?

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