CHAPTER VI.
The next day Harrod Summers and I drove over to the cavalry camp to seeAmory. It was a crisp, cheery morning, just enough wintry rime in earthand air and sky to make rapid motion a keen delight. As we neared thespot, the mellow notes of the trumpet came floating on the breeze, andas we rounded a bend in the road, we came in sight of the troop itselftrotting across a broad open field. Mars was taking advantage of theglorious weather to brush up on company drill, and we had arrived justin time to see it.
It was a very pretty, stirring sight to my eyes; for the dash and spiritof the manoeuvres were new to a man whose martial associations hadbeen confined to the curbstones of Broadway, barring that blisteringmarch from Annapolis to the railway, and the month of _feted_ soldieringat the capital and Camp Cameron in '61. Harrod gazed at it all withprofessional calm; occasionally giving some brief and altogether tootechnical explanation of evolutions that were beyond my comprehension.But the one thing which struck me most forcibly was that, thoughfrequently trotting or galloping close to where we sat in the buggy,Mr. Frank Amory never took the faintest notice of us. His wholeattention was given to his troop and the drill; and with flashing sabreand animated voice, he darted here and there on his big chestnut sorrel,shouting, exhorting, and on occasion excitedly swearing at somethick-headed trooper; but for all the notice he took of us we might aswell have been back at home.
"Rather a cool reception," said I, "considering the youngster was soanxious we should come over."
"Why, that's all right," said Harrod. "It is a breach of militarypropriety to hold any kind of communication with lookers-on when afellow's at drill or on parade."
And yet to my civilian notions this struck me as being uncivil. Lessthan a month afterwards I saw the same young fellow sit like a statue onhis horse, and never give the faintest sign of recognition when the girlI knew he--well, that's anticipating--when a party of ladies were drivenin carriages past his troop, so close to his horse's nose as toseriously discomfit that quadruped, and one of the young ladies was MissCarrington. To my undisciplined faculties that sort of thing wasincomprehensible. I looked on at the drill for a while, wondering how inthe world those fellows could manage to keep their seats in the saddlewithout grabbing the pommel, when Harrod remarked that he believed hewould go on into the village to attend to some business, and leave me atAmory's tent until he returned. Of course I could only assent; and inanother moment I was landed in front of the tent which had become sofixed a picture "in my mind's eye" since the afternoon Mr. Stiggins rodein to inquire where the lieutenant and his people had gone. A darky boyofficiously brushed off the seat of a camp-chair, saying that "Mos' likedrill'd be over in ten minutes." So I sat me down under the canvas towait.
Amory's tent was not luxurious. It was one of the simple variety knownas the "wall" tent, so called probably because for three feet from theground the sides are vertical and give more room than the "A" tents ofthe rank and file. A camp-cot occupied one side; a canvas-covered trunkstood at the head. Then on the other side of the tent was a rudefield-desk, perched on four legs; the pigeon-holes crammed withportentous-looking blanks and papers, and the lid lowered to ahorizontal. On this lay a square of blotting-paper, covered withink-dabs and some stray papers, an ungainly inkstand, and one or twoscattered pens and holders. A looking-glass about the size of one's facewas swung on the front pole. A rude washstand was placed near the footof the bed. A swinging pole, hung under the ridge-pole of the tent,constituted the wardrobe or clothes-closet of the occupant, and fromthis several garments were pendent. There was no tent floor; the bareground was the carpet; and but for one little table the abode would havebeen rude in the extreme as the habitation of a civilized being. Thetable in question stood at the entrance of the tent, under the "fly" orawning spread in front. A couple of pipes with brier-root stems laythereon, and a jar of tobacco. But in an easel-frame of soft velvet, aframe rich and handsome, conspicuously so in contrast with all thesurroundings, was a photograph--cabinet-size--of a woman's face. It wasnot there on the occasion of my first visit, nor was the table. Butthere sat the picture, the first thing one would notice in entering thetent; and, having nothing else to do, I proceeded to examine it.
A sweet, placid, sorrow-worn face; eyes whose wrinkled lids spoke ofage, but yet looked calmly, steadfastly into mine. Scanty hair, yetrippling over the brows and temples as though indicating that in yearsgone by the tresses had been full and luxuriant. Scanty hair, tingedwith many a streak of gray, and carried back of the ears in a fashionsuggestive of the days that long preceded the war,--the days when JennyLind entranced us all at Castle Garden (though I claim to have been buta boy then); when Mario and Grisi were teaching us Knickerbockers thebeauties of Italian opera; when Count D'Orsay was the marvel ofmetropolitan society; when daguerreotypes were first introduced alongBroadway. All these I thought of as I looked into this placid face, sorefined in its every line; marking, too, that at the throat was claspeda portrait in plain gold frame, the inevitable indication that thewearer was of Southern birth, for none but our Southern women wear thusoutwardly the portraits of those they love and have lost. The picturefascinated me; it was so sweet, so simple, so homelike; and, as I stoodwith it in my hands, I could plainly see the strong likeness between thefeatures and those of my plucky young hero, whom I was half ready to beindignant with for ignoring me ten minutes before. His mother I knew itto be at a glance.
Just then came an orderly bearing a packet of letters. To my intensegratification--I don't know why--he saluted with his unoccupied hand ashe said, "Letters for the lieutenant, sir." Was it possible that hethought I might be some staff-officer? He could not--that is, he wouldnot, had he ever seen me straddle a horse--suppose me to be acavalryman. Perhaps he had heard I was with the lieutenant the night henabbed Hank Smith; perhaps he--why, perhaps they--the troop--had heard Ihad charged through the woods to his support. Well, I took withdignified calm the bundle of letters he handed me, and endeavored tolook the suppositious character and place them carelessly on the table,when the superscription of the very first one attracted my attention.The writing was strangely familiar. There were four letters,--two"official," long and heavy; two personal, and evidently of feminineauthorship. It was my business to lay them on the table. I did nothingof the kind. Holding the package in both hands, I sat stupidly staringat the topmost letter,--a tiny, dainty affair,--and striving to comeback from dream-land. Where had I seen that superscription before? Therestood the address, "Lieut. Frank Amory, --th U.S. Cavalry, SandbrookStation, Memphis and Charleston R. R., Alabama," every letter asperfectly traced as though by the hand of an engraver; every i dotted,every t crossed, every capital having its due proportion, every letterwellnigh perfect. The superscription itself was a chirographic marvel.The writing was simply beautiful, and I had seen it before. It wasfamiliar to me, or at least _had_ been well known. Pondering over it, Igazed, of course, at the postmark: a mere blur. Something or some placein New York was all I could make out before it suddenly occurred to methat the whole thing was none of my business anyhow. I set the packetdown on the table and strove to shut it from my mind; but there thatletter lay on top, staring me in the face; I could not keep my eyesfrom it. I turned, picked it up and placed it on the desk inside thetent; dropped a handkerchief that was lying there over it; and returnedto my place under the fly. I wanted to keep it out of my sight.
Presently, the bustle and laughter among the tents of the soldiers nearme gave warning that the troop had come in from drill. The next moment,as I was again holding and looking at the picture in the velvet frame,Mars came springily forward, his sabre and spurs clinking with everystride. He pulled off his gauntlet, and held out his hand with a cheeryand cordial "So glad to see you, Mr. Brandon," and then, as I was aboutto apologize for taking liberties with his belongings, he said,--and howcan I throw into the words the tremulous tenderness of his voice?--
"That's mother. My birthday present. It only came a few days ago, and Ilike to have it out here with me."
/>
And the boy took it from my hands, and stood for a moment, all glowingas he came from his rapid drill, and with the beads of perspiration onhis face, and looked fondly at it.
"It's the only decent picture I ever had of her, and, somehow, it almostseems as though she were here now. That Ku-Klux business upset hercompletely, and the blessed little mother wants me to pull out andresign; but I can't do that."
"I have been admiring it for some time, Mr. Amory. The face attracted meat once, and it was easy to see the family resemblance. May I ask whereyour mother is living now?"
"In Boston now, but I think she longs to come South again. The Northnever seemed home to her. Father was in the old army. Perhaps Vinton hastold you. He was killed at Fredericksburg, at the head of his brigade;and my uncle, mother's younger brother, died of wounds received in thesame fight." Amory's voice faltered a little and his color brightened."Of course they were on opposite sides," he added, in a lower tone.
I bowed silently. Nothing seemed the appropriate thing to say just then.Presently Amory went on:
"You see I'm about all she has left in the world,--her only son. Andwhen husband and brother were both taken from her at one fell swoop, itmade it hard to let me take up father's profession; but it was alwayshis wish, and the only thing I'm fit for, I reckon."
"Do Yankees habitually say 'I reckon'?" I asked, by way of lightening upthe rather solemn tone of the conversation.
Mars laughed. "Why," said he, "I'm more than half Southern; born inNorth Carolina, and spending much of my boyhood there at mother's oldhome. They used to call me 'reb' the whole time I was a cadet. It is awonder I wasn't an out-and-out 'reb' too. All mother's people were, andthey never have been reconciled to her for sticking to father and hisside of the question. Poor little mother," he added, while the tearsgathered in his eyes, "she _is_ alone in the world if ever woman was,and I sometimes wonder if I ought not to yield to her wishes and go andbe a clerk of some kind."
All the glow, all the life that possessed him as he came in fresh fromthe exercise of his drill seemed to have left Mars by this time. He wasprofoundly sad and depressed. That was plainly to be seen. Hoping tofind something as a distraction to his gloomy reflections, I called hisattention to the mail that had arrived during his absence. He movednegligently towards the desk, raised the handkerchief with wearyindifference, and glanced at the packet underneath. Instantly his wholemanner changed; the color sprang to his face; his eyes flamed, and anervous thrill seemed to shoot through his frame. Paying no attention tothe others, he had seized the dainty missive that so excited mycuriosity, and with a hand that plainly shook tore it open, turned hisback to me with the briefest "Excuse me one minute," and was speedily soabsorbed in the letter that he never noticed me as I rose and strolledout to the front of the tent and the bright wintry sunshine beyond. Theboy needed to be alone.
Fully fifteen minutes passed by before he rejoined me, coming out with aquick, nervous step, and a face that had grown white and almost old inthat time. What _could_ be wrong with him?
"Mr. Brandon, I beg your pardon for being so inhospitable. My letterswere important, and--and rather a surprise, one of them. It is justabout noon. May I offer you a toddy? It's the best I can do."
Mr. Brandon, to the scandal of his principles, decided that on thisoccasion he would accept the proffered refreshment. It seemed to be arelief to Mars. He bustled about, getting sugar and glasses and somefresh spring water; then speedily tendering me a goblet, produced ablack bottle from his trunk.
"Shall I pour for you?" said he. "Say when." And in a moment the juiceof the rye and other less harmful ingredients were mingled with thesweetened water.
"You will excuse me," said he. "I never touch it, except--well, thatdrink I took the night on the train after our tussle with Smith is theonly one I've taken since I joined the troop. I promised mother, Mr.Brandon."
The reader has already discovered that Mr. Brandon could readily make asentimental idiot of himself on slight provocation. Hearing these wordsof Mr. Amory's and the renewed allusion to the mother who filled so biga place in the boy's heart, Mr. Brandon deposited his glass on the tableand held out his hand; took that of the surprised young soldier; gave ita cordial grip; made an abortive attempt to say something neat andappropriate; and broke abruptly off at the first word. Then Harrod cameback.
"Brandon," said he, "there's the mischief to pay in New Orleans. I'vejust received the papers, and it looks as though there would be riot andbloodshed with a vengeance."
"What's up now?" I asked, with vivid interest.
"It seems to be a breaking out of the old row. Two legislatures, youknow, and a double-headed executive. More troops are ordered there."
I eagerly took the paper and read the headlines. The same old story,only worse and more of it. The State-house beleaguered; the metropolitanpolice armed with Winchesters and manning a battery; the citizensholding indignation meetings and organizing for defence against usurpingState government; two riots on Canal Street, and a member of onelegislature shot down by the sergeant-at-arms of the other; a great moborganizing to attack the governor and the State-house, etc., etc. It alllooked familiar enough. I had seen the same thing but a short timebefore. It was simply a new eruption of the old volcano, but a graveone, unless I utterly misjudged the indications.
"Amory," said Harrod, "mount your horse and come over to dinner with us.Mr. Brandon and I must go back, for there are matters in the mail whichrequire my attention at once."
But Amory said he could not leave. In Vinton's absence he felt that heought to stick to camp. We drove back as we came.
Both the young ladies were on the gallery when we drove up. Harrod shookhis head in response to the look of inquiry in Pauline's eyes.
"Not back yet, and no news of him,--unless--unless--there should besomething in this letter," said he, with provoking gravity anddeliberation, as he felt in every pocket of his garments in apparentlyvain search, while the quizzical look in his face proclaimed that he waspurposely reserving the right pocket for the last.
Miss Summers stood with exemplary patience and outstretched hand. Atlast the eagerly-expected letter was produced, and Harrod and I went into talk over the startling tidings from New Orleans. The next moment weheard Pauline's rapid step in the hall and ascending the stairs; heardher go hurriedly to her room and close the door, Harrod looked puzzledand a little worried.
"I hope there is no bad news from Vinton," he said. "That rush to herroom is unlike her." Then the swish of Kitty's skirts was heard. Harrodstepped out and spoke some words to her in a low tone. Her reply wasanxious and startled in its hurried intonation, but the words wereindistinct.
"She says Pauline did not read her letter through at all, but sprang upwith tears in her eyes and merely said she must run up-stairs a fewminutes. What do you suppose is wrong?"
Of course I had no explanation to offer. Pauline did not return for anhour. When she again appeared she was very pale and quiet. Harrodmeantime had taken a horse and ridden off to Sandbrook, where he wantedto reach the telegraph-office. It was late in the evening when hereturned. I had been reading in the library for some time while theladies were at the piano. He strode into the hall and stood at theparlor-door.
"Pauline, did the major tell you in his letter?" he asked.
"Tell me what?" she inquired, with quickly rising color.
"That their orders had come?" She hesitated and made no reply. Quicklyhe stepped forward and threw his arm around her, tenderly kissing herforehead.
"You'll make a soldier's wife, Pauline. You can keep a secret."
And now, looking quickly at Miss Kitty, I saw that she had risen andwas eagerly gazing at them, a strange, wistful light in her sweet youngface.
"What is it all, colonel?" I inquired.
"The cavalry left for New Orleans at dark. Amory got telegraphic orderssoon after we left, and Vinton came in from the West by the eveningtrain and took command at the station. Neither of them had time to comeout here to
say good-by," he added, with an involuntary glance at Kitty,while still holding Pauline's hand in his own.
"You saw Major Vinton?" Pauline calmly asked.
"Yes, dear. I have a note for you. He was only there thirty minutes.Amory had the troop, horses and all, on the cars before the Memphistrain got in."
She took her note and with him walked into the library. Irresolutely Istepped out on the gallery a moment. Then returning for a cigar orsomething consolatory, I nearly collided with Miss Kitty at theparlor-door. She recoiled a pace; then with her bonny head bowed in herhands, with great sobs shaking her slender form, my unheroic littleheroine rushed past me and up the stairs to her own room. I felt like aspy.