A Daughter of the Union

“They are going to the war with a song upon their lips, perhaps to be killed, while I am afraid because I am alone,” mused Jeanne, her lip curling in self-contempt. “I don’t believe that girls amount to much after all.”

“I will be brave,” and the girl sat up very straight. “I will not be afraid any more, for I, too, am battling for the right. I am just as truly serving my country as they are, and I will be just as brave. Besides, father would be sorry if he knew that I felt so bad.”

Drying her eyes she listened attentively to the soldiers as they sang, one after another, the martial airs that had become so popular since the breaking out of the war. After a little time they struck up “The Star Spangled Banner,” and then there followed a scene that the girl never forgot. Men, women and children caught the enthusiasm and, rising to their feet, joined in the song. Jeanne sang too, as she had never sung before. The words held a new meaning for her. She felt once more an exaltation of spirit and a kinship with these brave fellows who were willing to give their lives for their country. What was danger, disease or life itself, if she could be of service in ever so small a way?

A mighty shout went up as the final chorus was rendered, and three cheers for the flag were given with a vim that mingled musically with the rush and roar of the train. Flushed and breathless Jeanne sank back into her seat, her eyes shining, her cheeks glowing, her whole being thrilled with patriotic fervor. She was no longer fearful and lonely, but eager and ready to do and dare all things needful for the success of her mission.

And so when Washington was reached the girl took up her satchel with quite the air of an old traveler and, accosting an official, asked about her train with the utmost self-possession.

She had but a short time to wait before she was once more flying across the country en route for Cincinnati. The night passed without incident. The journey was tiresome but so uneventful that she became imbued with confidence in her ability to travel alone and made her change to the Memphis and Charleston Railroad for Memphis at Cincinnati without trouble.

The day had been very warm and as Jeanne took her seat in the coach she heaved a sigh of relief as she saw the sun sinking to his rest.

“It will be cooler now,” she said to herself, settling comfortably back in the cushions. “I am glad that I have the seat to myself.”

But to her dismay at the next station a rough-looking man entered the car and took possession of the seat beside her. The girl looked intently out of the window, after her first glance at the fellow, inwardly hoping that his journey would not be a long one. For some time the man did not pay any attention to her, then he turned abruptly and said:

“Do you want that window down?”

“No; thank you,” returned Jeanne adopting the manner she had seen her mother use towards people of whom she did not approve.

The man eyed her narrowly, but the girl preserved her composure under his scrutiny.

“What’s yer got in yer basket?” he demanded presently.

A look of indignation flashed over Jeanne’s face. She opened her lips to reply. “None of your business,” as some of the girls she knew would have done, but something that her mother had once said came into her mind just as she was about to make the retort.

“My dear,” her mother had said, “no matter how rudely others may behave, be a lady. Because some one else has been impolite does not excuse it in you.”

As this came to Jeanne she closed her lips resolutely and, turning her back very decidedly, looked out of the window.

“Yer needn’t put on any of yer airs with me,” growled the fellow, who was evidently in a surly humor. “Can’t yer answer a civil question?”

Still Jeanne made no reply, and the man reached out to take hold of her basket. But the girl was too quick for him, and lifting it into her lap held on to it tightly while she placed her feet upon her satchel.

“Yer needn’t be so spunky,” said the fellow sheepishly. “I jest wanted to see if yer didn’t have somethin’ to eat.”

“If you are hungry, you should have said so,” said Jeanne, relaxing instantly, for her warm heart was always open to appeals of this nature. She opened her basket and took out some dainty sandwiches. “You are quite welcome to what you wish to eat,” she said graciously, “but you were not very nice about asking for it.”

“A feller don’t stop fer manners,” said the man nibbling at the sandwiches gingerly, “when he’s as hungry as I am. Is that all ye’ve got in there?”

“I have some more lunch,” said Jeanne rather indignantly, for the fellow did not seem very ravenous for a hungry man. “I shall keep that for the rest of my journey.”

“Whar yer goin’? Ain’t yer got nobody with yer?” queried the man a gleam coming into his eyes.

“Don’t you think that you are rather inquisitive?” questioned Jeanne boldly. “Why should you want to know where I am going?”

“Because folks have to be keerful in times like these,” said the other brusquely. “Haven’t yer got some money too?”

“I have none to give you,” answered Jeanne. “And I would rather that you would not sit by me any longer. Will you please go away?”

“Not if I knows myself and I think I do,” laughed the man. “See here! I’ll go away if you will give me your purse. I know that it’s in that there basket. You take too much care of it fer it only ter hold yer food. Now give it to me quick.”

“I won’t,” said Jeanne determinedly clinging to the basket, for she had put her purse there after buying some fruit. “If you touch this basket I’ll scream and the people will know what you are doing.”

“Pooh! I’ll tell them that you are my crazy sister that I’m taking to an asylum,” said the fellow easily. “Now you’d better give me that money.”

“People would know that I was not your sister,” exclaimed the girl scornfully. “You don’t look in the least like my brother. Now, sir, go away.”

“Not without that money. Sit down,” he commanded gruffly as the girl half rose from her seat.

Jeanne cast a wild, imploring look about her for help and sank back in her seat despairingly, for the passengers seemed intent upon other concerns, and the noise of the train prevented the conversation from being overheard.

“Are you going to hand out that money?”

“Ye-es,” faltered Jeanne, reaching for her purse.

“What do you mean by frightening this girl?” demanded a voice, and a hand was laid upon the ruffian’s shoulder. “Get out of my seat, you rascal, or I’ll have you thrown off the car.”

A cry of delight escaped Jeanne’s lips as she saw that the man who had come to her assistance was the old gentleman who had bought the handkerchiefs from her during the fair.

“I–I did not mean any harm,” stammered the fellow, resigning the seat with alacrity. “I was jest trying ter scare the girl a little.”

“Well, let me catch you ‘jest trying ter scare her,’ any more, and it will be the worse for you,” cried the old gentleman threateningly. “Now clear out, and let me see no more of you.”

The fellow slunk off and her friend in need took the seat by Jeanne’s side.

“That fellow was annoying you terribly, was he not?”

“Yes, sir; I was very much frightened, especially when he demanded my money.”

“What! Did he do that? Why the scamp! This is worse than I thought. I’ll get the conductor after him.”

“Oh, let him go,” pleaded Jeanne, who was quite a little upset by the episode. “Please stay with me.”

“Very well.” The old man saw her nervousness and acquiesced willingly. “He can’t get off the train so long as this rate of speed is kept up, and I’ll see about getting him later. Now tell me all about it.”

Jeanne gave him a succinct account of what the man had said and done. “And I was so glad when you came up as you did,” she said in finishing. “But I did not expect to see you here, sir, and I thank you so much for your assistance.”

“Tut, tut! It is every American’s duty to look after women folks when they travel alone. I had just come from the smoker and saw as I entered the door that something was wrong. As the ruffian had my seat I came up at once and demanded it of him. But you are not more surprised to see me than I was to recognize the little patriot of the handkerchiefs. Aren’t you a long way from home?”

“Yes, sir; I am, but I am going to visit my Uncle Ben in New Orleans.”

“Rather a troublesome time for a visit,” remarked the other musingly. Then as a deep flush suffused the girl’s cheek, he added keenly, “I know that there are sometimes reasons why visits should be made even though the times be perilous. There! I am not going to ask any questions, so don’t look at me like that. My name is Emanuel Huntsworth, and I live near Corinth, Mississippi. I was formerly a New Englander but settled in the South a number of years ago. My Union sentiments having made me obnoxious to my neighbors I feared for the safety of my family and am returning from moving them North. I am going back now to wind up my business, when I shall go North once more to do what I can for the government. If you have no friends with you, perhaps you have no objections to my company as far as our ways lie together.”

“I should be pleased to be with you,” said Jeanne sweetly. “I am all alone, Mr. Huntsworth. My name is Jeanne Vance, and I live in New York City. I was all right until I got on this train, but now I can’t help but be a little uneasy since that man acted so.”

“The rascal! I had forgotten him. Conductor,” as that individual came by. “I think there is a man on this train that will bear watching.” Thereupon he related the incident to the official.

“I will look after the fellow,” said the conductor.

But search failed to reveal the presence of the man on the train and soon Mr. Huntsworth and Jeanne were convinced that, fearing the consequences of his actions, he had jumped from the train.

CHAPTER V
CASTING BREAD UPON THE WATERS

“Then isn’t it rather queer for your father to choose such a time as this for you to pay him a visit?” queried Mr. Huntsworth keenly. “Now don’t be alarmed, child,” he added hastily as Jeanne looked up in a startled manner while the color mounted to cheek and brow. “I do not wish you to tell me any of your secrets if you have any. I presume that there are just and sufficient reasons for you to go or you would not be going. I merely wished to show you that over anxiety to reach your destination might subject you to suspicion. Also tell no one else that you have never seen your uncle. If you do, others beside myself will wonder why you have been sent to him at a time like this. You don’t mind my telling you this, little girl, do you?”

“No, indeed,” returned Jeanne warmly. “I am very glad that you did so. Father says that one way to learn things is to listen to older people. But I will be truly glad to see Uncle Ben. Father has told me so much about him. He was his favorite brother, and my brother, Dick, is named for him and for father too. Richard Benjamin Vance.”

Mr. Huntsworth’s eyes twinkled, and he gave a low chuckle of appreciation.

“My dear,” said he, “just answer every one who asks you questions in the way you have me, and you’ll come out all right. Of course you would want to see your uncle under those circumstances.” Again he chuckled and looked at her approvingly. “She knows that I am her friend,” he mused, “yet she will not tell me why she is sent down here. That there is some reason for it I am convinced. A very remarkable girl!” Aloud he continued, “Here we are at Memphis, child. What shall you do now?”

“It is so near night that I guess that I’d better go to a hotel,” said Jeanne. “That is what father always does first. Then to-morrow morning I want to find Commodore Porter. I have a letter for him.”

“Porter is down the river with Farragut. I doubt if you will be able to find him. But we’ll see in the morning. The thing to do is to get a good night’s rest after this journey. Here is a cab for the Gayoso House. I always stop there. It is a good place, and overlooks the river. Have you ever seen the Mississippi before?”

“No,” answered Jeanne trying to look about in the gathering darkness. “It’s a great river, isn’t it?”

“None greater,” answered Mr. Huntsworth enthusiastically. “Whichever side of this struggle holds it will be the winning side. It is the backbone of the rebellion, and the key to the whole situation.”

“But we hold it, sir,” said Jeanne earnestly. “My father says that now that Vicksburg is taken it will not be long before Richmond will fall and then the rebellion will be over.”

“Pray God that your father may be right,” said Mr. Huntsworth. “But I fear that he is mistaken. These Southerners are not so easily whipped. Every inch of the Confederacy will have to be conquered before they will acknowledge themselves beaten. The North makes the same mistake as the South does. Each forgets that both are of the same Anglo-Saxon blood that never knows defeat. I fear the struggle will be a long and bloody one, all the more bitter for being waged between brothers.”

“I hope that it will not be long,” sighed Jeanne. “I shouldn’t like for Dick to have to be away much longer.”

“Is your brother in the army, my dear?”

“Yes, sir. Father works for the government, mother belongs to The Woman’s Central Relief Association, and I make socks and hem handkerchiefs for the soldiers, and––” she paused suddenly, conscious that she was about to speak of the object of her journey.

“And you hold fairs to tempt the shekels from the unwary, eh?” completed Mr. Huntsworth. “Well, you are certainly a patriotic family. This is the Gayoso House, child. It has been the resort of all the noted Southerners. It is too dark for you to see the river, but you can hear its murmurings.”

Jeanne leaned forward eagerly. The soft lapping of the water, as it beat against the foot of the bluff upon which the city stood, came gently to her ears.

“I wish I could see it,” she exclaimed.

“You can in the morning. Meantime, let’s get some supper. Here, boy,” to a porter, “don’t you see that we are waiting to be shown to the dining-room?”

“Yes, sah. Right dis way, sah,” responded the negro, his ivories relaxing into a broad grin. “Glad ter see yer back, sah. We all’s mighty sorry ter heah dat you is gwine ter go norf, sah.”

“Who told you that I was going North, you black rascal?” demanded Mr. Huntsworth. “I’ve been North. Have just gotten back. Here, take this, and tell that waiter to hurry up with that supper.”

“Yes, sah. Thank ye, sah,” answered the black pocketing the shinplaster slipped into his hand, with alacrity.

“I think I never saw so many negroes before,” remarked Jeanne, looking about the dining-room. “Where do they all come from?”

“You’ll see a great many more before you go back to New York,” responded Mr. Huntsworth. “The South literally teems with them. If the race only knew its power it would not leave its battles to be fought by the North. A while ago I said the Mississippi was the key to the rebellion. I was mistaken. It is dar-key.”

Jeanne laughed merrily.

“My dear child, did you see the point?” cried the old gentleman delightedly. “That is indeed an accomplishment! Now my daughter, Anne, is a good girl. An excellent girl, but she not only cannot make a pun, but neither can she see one when it is made. I have a little weakness that way myself.”

“We used to, Dick, father and I, to make them at home. But we did it so much that mother stopped us. She said that it wasn’t refined–I am sure that I beg your pardon,” she broke off in great distress.

“There! Don’t take it so to heart,” laughed Mr. Huntsworth good-naturedly. “I know that it isn’t just the thing to pun, but

“Then, too, we have the example of the immortal Shakespeare. But I won’t indulge again before you, my dear.”

“Oh, but I like them,” cried Jeanne. “I think mother stopped us because we did nothing else for a time. But she used to laugh at some of them herself. She did, truly.”

“Well, well, of course if you enjoy them that is another thing. Perhaps you can tell when a boy is not a boy.”

“I can beat any sort of a drum but a conundrum,” was Jeanne’s quick reply.

“My, my, but I shall have to look to my laurels,” exclaimed Mr. Huntsworth in mock alarm. “That was very bright.”

“It’s Dick’s,” confessed Jeanne blushing. “He is so clever. He could always think of something good to say.”

“You think a great deal of Dick, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir; we are very proud of him. And his Colonel has complimented him twice for bravery,” and Jeanne’s eyes lighted up with pride. “He went at the first call for troops. I’ll never forget the day he asked father if he might go. ‘It’s our country’s need, father,’ he said, standing there so brave and handsome. ‘No Vance has ever turned a deaf ear to that, sir.’ And father said, ‘My son, if you feel it your duty, go, and God be with you.’ O, you should see Dick, sir,” she continued, enthusiastically. “There is no one quite like him.”

“Perhaps I may some day. I should like to very much. I do not wonder at his bravery since every one of you are so devoted to the cause. Now, my little girl, you had best retire. I am sure that you must be tired.”

Jeanne rose instantly and, bidding him good-night, was shown to her room. She was up bright and early the next morning, and, dressing quickly ran down the stairs and out on the gallery eager to take a look at the city.

The Gayoso House fronted upon a wide esplanade which extended along the bluff in front of the town. Blocks of large warehouses and public buildings bordered the esplanade on the same side as the hotel. The city was beautifully situated on the Mississippi River just below the mouth of the Wolf River, and located upon what was known as the fourth Chickasaw Bluff, an elevation about forty feet high.

Below the bluff ran the river, and far to the right was what had been a naval depot established by the United States but used until the recent capitulation of Memphis by the Confederates for the purpose of building vessels of their own. To Jeanne, accustomed to New York City, Memphis seemed very small indeed. It was in reality a place of about twelve thousand inhabitants and considered a flourishing little city, being the port of entry for Shelby County, Tennessee. At one time it was the most important town on the river between St. Louis and New Orleans.

But if the girl was disappointed in the size of the place, the beauty of the surroundings made up for it. She gave an ecstatic “Oh,” at the sight of the broad esplanade with the noble river washing the base of the bluff which jutted out into a bed of sandstone that formed a natural landing for boats. Several steamboats lay at anchor and Jeanne’s attention was drawn to them by the singing of the blacks as they hurried to and from the wharf loading the steamers with freight. It was a weird plantation refrain in the minor key. Jeanne had never heard anything like it, and she listened intently as the song grew louder and louder as the enthusiasm of the blacks increased:

Over and over they sang the refrain, and the girl was so interested that she did not hear Mr. Huntsworth’s approach.

“Well, what do you think of the South?” he asked.

“I like it. Mr. Huntsworth, just listen to those negroes sing. Isn’t it musical?”

“They call them niggers here,” said Mr. Huntsworth smiling. “Yes; their singing is melodious. I have always liked to listen to it. Sometime in the future, I fancy, more will be made of those melodies than we dream of now. When you go down the river you will hear more of it. Some of their songs are very quaint. Do you know that we will have to see General Wallace to obtain a permit to go into the enemy’s country?”

“General Wallace?” repeated Jeanne. “Why?”

“The town is under martial law with General Wallace in command. I have been wondering what will be the best for you to do. To come with me to Corinth, for we can go there without difficulty, or for you to stick to the river route as you had intended. I have learned that Vicksburg is not in our hands after all. Its capitulation was a false report. Farragut is waiting for Halleck to send troops to occupy it and is still keeping up the bombardment.”

“But a boat could get through, could it not?”

“Yes; I think so. Davis guards the stream above Vicksburg while the Commodore holds the lower part. I’ll talk with General Wallace about it. Meantime after we have had breakfast you can walk along this esplanade, and see something of the place. You will not get lost, will you?”

“No, indeed,” laughed Jeanne. “I came from New York, you know. I should be able to get around a little place like this.”

“Very well, then.”

Jeanne donned her hat and wandered along the wide esplanade viewing the city, the river and the surrounding country. She walked on and on until finally she had wandered some distance from the hotel and the buildings were growing farther and farther apart when she was startled by a groan.

Looking about her she beheld a young fellow of about twenty-one years clad in the blue uniform of the United States lying upon the ground. Without a thought but that one of the soldiers was suffering Jeanne sprang to his side and knelt beside him.

“What is it?” she cried. “Are you hurt?”

“Just faint,” murmured the young man in a weak voice, and the girl noted with surprise the Southern accent. “I’ll be all right in a moment.”

“Smell this.” Jeanne thrust her bottle of smelling salts under his nose, and began to chafe his forehead vigorously. “There! You’re better now, aren’t you?”

“Much better.” The young fellow struggled to a sitting posture and smiled wanly. “What a good little thing you are!”

“Well, I like soldiers,” said Jeanne. “My brother, Dick, is one, and whenever I see a soldier suffering I always want to do something for him. You are fighting for us, you know. Are you sick?”

“No; but I have been. I just came out of the hospital a few days ago, and I am not so strong as I thought.”

“You should go home and stay until you get well,” said the girl with a quaint assumption of maternal authority.

“Home! I have none.” The young man’s brow darkened. “If I were to go to my home, I would be spurned from its doors.”

“But why?” cried Jeanne.

“Listen, and you shall hear, child. I am a native of the state of Louisiana. I was educated at West Point, and when the war broke out had just graduated. You know the conditions under which we are entered, do you not?”

Jeanne shook her head.

“We are to serve the country four years for the education given, so when the war came I felt it my duty to give those four years. I went to my father and told him so briefly. ‘Never darken my door again while you wear that uniform,’ he said. ‘You are no son of mine if you side in with a horde of miscreants sent to invade the sacred soil of the South.’ I told him that it was my duty. That I had but just graduated and that my honor demanded that I should repay my debt to the government, but he would not listen. So I left him.”

“But have you no friends?” asked Jeanne, her face aglow with compassion.

“Friends? No; they fight on the other side,” was the bitter reply. “And what do these Yankees care for me? They don’t realize what I have given up.”

“But we do care,” cried the girl. “My father and mother just love soldiers. Oh, if you would only go to them they would care for you. Do go. Will you?”

A smile lighted up the young man’s face as he noted her warmth.

“I wish all your people were like you,” he said. “It would not be so hard to do my duty then.”

“We are all just alike,” said Jeanne. “My father would be proud to have you honor his house. And you are an officer, too,” she added, glancing at his epaulets.

“Only a lieutenant.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter what you are since you are a soldier. Have you a pencil and paper?”

“Yes; why?”

“I want to give you my father’s address. You will go there, won’t you?”

“My little girl,” the young man’s voice was husky. “I couldn’t do that, you know. Why, it would be monstrous to intrude upon them.”

“No; it would not,” declared Jeanne. “I wish I were going home. I’d make you go with me. But won’t you go? Truly they would welcome you as if you were Dick, my brother. And if you don’t go, I’ll always feel as if something had happened to you just because you had no place to go. You have done a great deal for our side, you know.”

“Well, I’ll promise,” said the soldier a little wearily, as if it were beyond his strength to prolong the argument. “Where do they live?”

“In New York City,” and Jeanne rapidly penciled the address.

“Then it is utterly out of the question. I can’t promise you.”

“I know,” said Jeanne quickly. “You haven’t any money.”

A flush passed over the Lieutenant’s face.

“Soldiers never do have, Dick says,” went on the girl, taking out her purse in a matter-of-fact way.

“No–no, I–I can’t do that,” groaned the soldier. “Merciful goodness, has it come to this? That I should receive charity from a child!”

“It isn’t charity,” cried Jeanne hotly. “You can pay it back to my father if you like. I want you to get good and strong so that you can fight for us again.”

“I’ll do it,” exclaimed the young fellow impulsively. “A few weeks’ rest would put new life in me. And I’ll be your soldier, little girl.”

“Will you?” cried Jeanne delightedly. “That will be most as good as if I could fight myself, won’t it?”

“Every bit,” declared the Lieutenant rising. “God bless you, child. Such warm hearts as yours make life seem worth the living after all.”

He raised her hand to his lips. Then as if afraid to trust himself to speak further left her abruptly. Excited and happy Jeanne ran back to the hotel where she found Mr. Huntsworth waiting for her.

CHAPTER VI
IN DIXIE LAND

“Then, my dear, you have done a noble thing. If the young man told the truth his position is indeed a sad one. His rebel kinsmen would turn from him if he espoused the cause of the Union and his duty is doubly hard that he must fight against father, home, neighbors and friends. I am afraid that we do not appreciate all that a man gives up when, a Southerner by birth, he throws his lot in with ours. Many high-minded men have gone with the South because their state went that way, and it takes nobleness indeed to rise above the call of one’s own state when the government demands the sacrifice. I should like to have seen the young fellow. Did he give his name?”

“Why, I did not think to ask it,” exclaimed Jeanne. “But father will know of course.”

“So you really believe that he will go to your father’s.”

“Certainly I do.”

“Oh, for the faith of childhood,” exclaimed Mr. Huntsworth. “But whether he does or not you seemed to have infused new life into him and that is what a man needs most when he is discouraged. You are a true patriot, child. But now, my little Quixote, let’s go to General Wallace. I have explained everything to him, but he desires to see you personally.”

The headquarters of Gen. Lewis Wallace who was at this time in charge of the city of Memphis were soon reached, and Jeanne and her friend were ushered into his presence. A man of medium height, rather slender in build, stern of feature but whose eyes beamed with kindness, serious of mien and visage and habited in a plain suit of blue flannel with two stars upon his shoulders denoting a Major-General in the United States Army, rose to greet them. Full of chivalric dash, possessing a cool head with a capacity for large plans and the steady nerve to execute whatever he conceived, the young General was an interesting figure and Jeanne gazed at him with some curiosity.

“So, my little maid,” said the General. “You wish to go to New Orleans?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Jeanne returning his scrutiny modestly.

“Do you not know that it will be a difficult matter to do so? Farragut is still storming the batteries of Vicksburg and while a transport goes this morning to take supplies to Captain Davis, and you could go down that far on it, still it is scarcely the time for a girl to make a visit.”

“I must go, General,” said Jeanne firmly.

“Will you tell me why, my child?”

“I cannot, sir.”

“But I cannot let you subject yourself to danger unless there is some necessity for it. It seems to me that a mere visit could be postponed until a safer season. Now unless there are urgent reasons for it I feel compelled to forbid your going.”

“Sir,” said Jeanne blushing at her temerity yet speaking boldly notwithstanding, “there are urgent reasons for my going. I do not wish to tell them because they concern the government. But my father would not have let me come had there not been necessity.”

“You surely do not mean that you are an emissary of the government?” exclaimed the General in surprise. “Why, you are but a little girl.”

“But exceedingly patriotic, General,” interrupted Mr. Huntsworth. “She has given a fair to raise money for the soldiers, made I don’t know how many shirts, socks and handkerchiefs and just now emptied her purse to send a soldier home to her parents to be taken care of. Best of all she can relish a pun when she hears one which you will agree is a rare accomplishment for a girl or even a woman. Oh, she is capable of anything.”

“I believe it,” laughed the General. “I fear that I shall have to give up before such a formidable array of accomplishments. Have you really done all those things?”

“All but the shirts,” answered Jeanne shyly, “mother makes those. You see father works for the government, mother is in the Women’s Relief Association and Dick is in the army, so I just had to do something to help too.”

“I see,” said the General. “What is your father’s name?”

“Richard Vance, sir.”

“Richard Vance!” exclaimed the General. “Oh! I understand everything now. You shall go to New Orleans, child, if our boats can get you there. The transport will start in an hour. Can you be ready to go by that time?”

“I am ready now, sir.”

“That is the bearing of a true soldier,” approved the General. “I will give you a letter to Farragut––”

“I have one to Commodore Porter, sir,” interrupted Jeanne, producing the missive. “He is my father’s friend.”

“That is all right,” General Wallace hastily scanned the letter. “But I will add a few lines to Farragut. Success to you, my child.”

“Thank you, sir,” answered Jeanne gratefully.

“Now we will amuse ourselves by walking about a little until the transport starts,” said Mr. Huntsworth as they left the room. “My train goes this afternoon.”

“Then I shall have to tell you good-bye soon,” said the girl regretfully. “I am sorry, Mr. Huntsworth. You have been very kind to me. My journey would not have been so easy had it not been for you.”

“Tut, tut, I have done nothing,” said the old gentleman. “I have pleased myself in helping you. I was glad to have such a bright little companion. And we shall meet again, my dear. I promise you that. I am not going to lose sight of my little comrade easily. I want to bring my daughter, Anne, to see you when you get home.”

“I wish you would,” replied Jeanne. “I should like to know her. Mr. Huntsworth, don’t you think I might send a telegram to my father from here to let him know that I am all right and about to start for New Orleans?”

“Why, bless my soul, child! That is the very thing to do! What a head you have! There is the office on the other side of the street.”

“Yes; that was what made me think of it.”

The telegram dispatched, the two wended their way to Jackson Park.

The statue of the old hero of New Orleans stood in the centre of the green. It was inclosed by a circular iron fence and ornamented by carefully trained shrubbery. The bust of the hero was placed on the top of a plain shaft of marble about eight feet high. On the north side of the shaft was an inscription.

“Look!” exclaimed Mr. Huntsworth. “Some rampant rebel has marred that inscription.”

Jeanne looked and saw the writing which read “The Federal Union: It Must be Preserved”–the words Federal and Union had been chipped out, presenting an appearance as if a small hammer had been struck across them.

“The villain!” continued the old gentleman irascibly. “He ought to be hung who ever he is!”

“It is a pity,” said Jeanne. “Isn’t this a cruel war, Mr. Huntsworth, that the things both the North and South have been so proud of now become hateful to one part of the country? I never thought so much about it until since I met that young man this morning.”

“It is a terrible thing for brothers to be arrayed against each other as we are,” assented Mr. Huntsworth. “But don’t think about it too much. It is a pity that your young life should be clouded by the knowledge. You think too much for your age.”

“I am better for it,” said Jeanne. “Wouldn’t it be dreadful for me to laugh and play and be glad all day when the country is in peril? Every one ought to think.”

“Perhaps you are right. But sometimes I have heard you say things that made me think you a bit uncanny, as the Scotch say. I am going to advise your father to turn you out to grass when the war is over. I suppose it would be useless to urge such a thing so long as the war continues.”

“‘To turn me out to grass,’” laughed Jeanne. “What a funny expression. Do you mean for me to live in the fields like the cows and the horses?”

“Well, something on that order,” smiled Mr. Huntsworth. “Your father will understand what I mean. See, there is your steamer, child. I will see you aboard and then I must say good-bye.”

The steamer which had been a passenger packet plying her trade between St. Louis and New Orleans before the war had been converted into a transport for carrying men and supplies for the government. As Mr. Huntsworth and Jeanne ascended the gangplank they were met by the Captain.

“Is this the young lady who is to be our guest down the river?” he asked in such a hearty way that Jeanne’s heart warmed to him immediately. “General Wallace advised me that I was to expect one.”

“This is the girl, Captain,” replied Mr. Huntsworth. “And I hope for your sake that you and your crew are thoroughly Union, otherwise it would be better for you to meet with a rebel ram. I don’t believe that the Johnnies could make it any warmer for you than she could.”

“This is just the place for her then,” declared the Captain smilingly. “We are Union to the core, Miss Vance. I believe that is your name.”

“Yes, sir; my name is Jeanne Vance, but please do not call me ‘Miss Vance.’ It makes me feel so strange.”

“All right, my little girl. I will do as you say. I am glad that you have no grown-up notions about you. I foresee that we shall get along famously. This is the way to the cabin, and that room is where you will bunk. It is next to mine. You can call on me or Tennessee for anything you need.”

“Tennessee!” ejaculated Jeanne with a puzzled look.

“Yes; our cook. We call her Tenny for short, and she is about the jolliest old darky that ever trod a deck. A good motherly woman with a white soul if she is black. Now make yourself comfortable. I will send Tenny to you to help you. I have some things to attend to on deck.”

“Isn’t he kind?” exclaimed Jeanne. “How good people are to girls traveling alone!”

“It is because they are Americans,” said Mr. Huntsworth. “You should be proud of such a country. I am glad that you have fallen into such pleasant hands. I will tell your father if I see him before you do. Will you stay in New Orleans long?”

“I don’t know. I will have to hear from my father about that. But how easy it has been to get there!”

“The most difficult part is to come,” said the old gentleman gravely. “Once the Vicksburg batteries are passed you will be safe. I do not think that this boat will try to make the run. She is hardly in fighting shape. Of course you will be transferred to a gun boat. Well, well, I hope that you will get through all right and that we will soon meet again. Good-bye, little girl.”

“Good-bye, sir,” and Jeanne shook hands with him cordially. “Thank you so much for all your kindness. I hope that I will see you again. Good-bye.”

Another hand shake and the old gentleman left the cabin slowly, and went on shore.

“Done you feel bad, honey,” and a fat negress came up to her as she sat down on the side of her berth feeling rather forlorn. “Wus dat yer par?”

“No,” and Jeanne looked up quickly with a smile. “Are you Tennessee? I am glad to see you. The Captain told me about you.”

“Yes; I’se Tennessee, honey, but lawsie! Dey doesn’t call me nuffin but Tenny. But ef yer want ter see the las’ ob de ole gem’muns jest foller yer aunty ter de deck.”

Jeanne followed the negress, and stood on the deck watching the preparations for departure. Mr. Huntsworth saw her and waved his hand. Jeanne waved hers in response, and as the transport backed out into the river and steamed southward, she gazed at him until his figure grew to be a tiny speck and then disappeared in the distance.

“Now, missy, I’se got ter ten’ ter de dinner, but you can kum wid me ef yer likes, elsen you can stay hyar and watch de ribber. Most folks likes ter do dat. I ’spect mebbe dats de best thing fer yer.”

“Well, then I will stay, Mrs. Tenny,” smiled Jeanne.

“Mrs. Tenny! Huh! Who is yer talkin’ to, honey? I’se jest Tenny or aunty jest as yer likes. But done go ter puttin’ no missis on to it. White folks done do dat down hyar.”

“Then I will call you Tenny,” said Jeanne, recoiling just a little from calling the woman aunty. “But it doesn’t seem right not to say Mrs.”

“Yes, missy, it’s all right. Now I’ll get up a good dinner. ’Specks you is powerful hungry, ain’t yer? Ole Tenny gwine ter do her bes’ fer de little missy,” and the good creature hurried below.

CHAPTER VII
THE EXAMPLE OF A GIRL

“Whar you bin dat you ain’t nebber seed no ’nolias befo’?” queried Tennessee as she listened to Jeanne’s expressions of admiration as a particularly handsome clump of magnolias came into view on the western bank. The channel of the river at this point ran so close to the shore that the perfume of the creamy blossoms was very perceptible.

“I’ve always lived in New York City,” replied Jeanne. “I saw some magnolia trees once in Maryland, but I never saw them in blossom. Aren’t they beautiful?”

“Yes, honey. Dey is purty fer a fac’,” replied the negress. “I allers laked de ’nolias myself, and dat wuz de reason dat I named my darter so, but we called her Snowball fer short.”

“You did?” laughed Jeanne. “Why, Tenny, Snowball isn’t any shorter than Magnolia. Why didn’t you call her ‘Nolia,’ if you wished to shorten the name?”

“My ole marster, he done it,” was the reply. “Ole marster say, ‘Tenny, dat li’l pickaninny too white ter be named anything so yaller as a magnolia. Better call her Snowball.’ Ole marster allers would hab his joke, and dat gal of mine wuz jist as brack as de nex’ one. I didn’t want my chile called Snowball. It wuzn’t stylish nohow, but would you b’lebe me, chile? De fust thing I knowed, white and culled wuz a callin’ her Snowball, an’ den I did, too.”

“Where is she now, Tenny? I should think you would want her with you on these trips.”

“Chile, chile, dat’s de thing dat tears dis hyar old heart ob mine,” said the woman, her eyes filling with tears. “Ole marster say she was a ‘likely gal’ an’ she wuz, ef she wuz mine. Dey made much ob her and would hab her roun’ dem all de time. Seem laik nobody could do for ’em laik Snowball. Den ole marster tuk sick and died an’ ole missus she say she hab ter sell us all, kase she didn’t hab no money any mo’. An’ Massa Cap’n he bought me but ’nother man bought Snowball an’ tuk her down to Loosyanny.”

“Why, that is awful!” cried Jeanne, her eyes overflowing, her heart full of sympathy for the darky. She had often heard tales of this kind but this was the first time that this phase of slavery had been brought home to her. A child torn from its mother appealed to her, so many miles from her own dear mother, as nothing else could have done. “Why didn’t Captain Leathers buy her too?” she asked. “He seems like a kind man.”

“He is, honey. ’Deed he is,” replied Tenny wiping her eyes, “an’ he did try, but the yudder man had bought her fust an’ he wouldn’t gib her up. I can’t blame him fer she wuz a likely gal. Lawsie, chile, dat gal wuz smarter’n a whip!”

“How long has she been gone, Tenny?”

“’Twas befo’ de wah broke out. Massa Cap’n he wanted a good cook, an’ I sutinly am dat, so he tuk me. He say dat I’se ter hab my freedum too, but shucks! what’s freedum ter me? I’d rudder hab my gal dan all de freedum in de world.”

“Yes; I suppose so,” said Jeanne dreamily. “Still, Tenny, if you had your freedom you could go to look for Snowball.”

“Now, missy, what could Tenny do? A pore ole nigger can’t do nuffin nohow. S’pose I did fin’ her, what’s I gwine ter do ’bout it? I couldn’t buy her. ’Sides, ef dey cot an ole ’ooman a foolin’ roun’ dat didn’t seem ter ’long ter nobody dey lock me up, suah. Mebbe dey’d whip me. An’, chile, once you had de whip ter yer back you doesn’t want it no mo’. No; I’se gwine ter stay right with Massa Cap’n. He’s a good marster, an’ he’ll take good keer ob Tenny.”

Jeanne sat silently thinking over what she had heard. Her heart ached for the helpless mother and she chafed at her inability to aid her. The darkness of the great slavery evil fell upon her spirit. Was this the land of the free and the home of the brave? she mused. How could she ever sing “The Star Spangled Banner” again so long as it waved over a country a portion of whose inhabitants groaned under a yoke of bondage!

“’Spect I ortern’t ter hab tole yer dis, chile,” said Tenny, becoming alarmed at her silence. “A nigga’s trubbles nuffin nohow. Done you bodder yer purty haid ober it. I’se sorry I tole yer.”

“I am glad, Tenny, but I do feel so sorry for you. I wish I could help you. If I knew where the man was that bought your child I’d buy her back and give her to you. Then if Captain Leathers would set you free you could both go North and nobody could ever separate you again.”

“Bress yer good haht, honey!” exclaimed Tenny, clapping her hands. “I wish I knowed his name. He wus an horsifer. I heerd dem call him Kuhnel.”

“And don’t you remember his name?”

“No, missy; I doesn’t. Nebber heerd him called nuffin but Kuhnel nohow. Wait a minnit! Chile, chile, ’pears ter me I did hyar it. Lemme think. My ole haid no ’count no mo’.” She placed her hands to her head and looked with troubled eyes at Jeanne. “Why can’t I ’member? ’Twuzn’t Massa Benson? No; ’twuzn’t. Think, nigga! Why done yer ’zert yersef? Nebber did hab no sense nohow.”

Thus she rambled on, muttering to herself until presently she sprang to her feet exclaiming:

“I’se got it, missy. ’Twuz Kuhnel Peyton. Massa Kuhnel Peyton! I ’members it now ’zactly. Massa Kuhnel Peyton! Dat’s it. Dat’s it.”

“Colonel Peyton!” said Jeanne. “I’ll remember that name, Tenny. How much do you suppose the Colonel would want for her?”

“’Bout a tousand dollahs, I reckon,” answered Tenny.

“A thousand dollars,” echoed Jeanne in dismay. “Oh, Tenny, I haven’t near that much. I didn’t suppose that it would be so much as that.”

“Niggas wuth heaps ob money,” said Tenny proudly. “My gal wuz smaht, I tell yer. Dat’s why she brung so much. Can’t you buy her, missy? Tenny’ll lub yer all yer life ef yer will.”

“I’ll write to my father,” decided Jeanne. “I’ll get him to buy her for me. He will know just what to do, and you shall have your child again, Tenny, I’ll promise you that.”

“Ef yer’ll jest do that, missy, ole Tenny’ll do anything in de wohld fer yer,” sobbing in her eagerness. “To think ob habin’ my babby ergain. She wuz my babby, missy. I had ten befo’ her but ’peared laik none ob dem tuk sich a hole on ma haht de way she did. Ef I kin hab her ergain I’ll brack yer shoes, an’ scrub yer floors er do anything all de res’ ob ma life. Yer won’t need ter lift yer purty white han’s ter do er a lick er wuk nebber no mo’.”

“I’ll do it if it is possible,” said Jeanne. “It may take some time to find the Colonel, Tenny. You know that the war has disturbed everything so, but my father will know just what to do. If anybody can find him I know that he can. Just hope and pray that it will all come right yet.”

“I’ll do dat, honey. I’se been prayin’ fer dis long time, but I didn’t do no hopin’ kase it didn’t seem no use. But bress yer! De Lohd seems ’bout ter lead me outen de valley ob de shadder. Massa Cap’n say sumtime we all be free, but dat’s too much ter hope fer.”

“No; it isn’t, Tenny. The people up North are talking about it all the time and working for it. I should not be surprised if it were to happen any time.”

“Glory!” shouted the old woman rapturously. “Den dere wouldn’t be no mo’ whippin’s, ner chilluns sold frum der mammies, ner hidin’s in de swamp wid de dogs arter yer, ner put in jail ef yer does run away. Oh, chile, it’ll be de bressed day ef it do happen! But it can’t be true.”

“Hope for it, Tenny. That is what we are doing, but it grows late and I believe that I am tired. Would you mind going with me to the cabin while I go to bed? Someway I feel lonesome to-night.”

“’Course yer lonesum. Way offen yer folks laik dis. Suttinly I’ll go an’ only too glad. Ole Tenny’ll put yer ter bed laik she wuz yer own mammy.” She bustled about the girl when they reached the latter’s stateroom and soon had Jeanne snugly in bed. “Dis hyar winda’ll gib yer air,” she said opening it. “Yer needn’t be afeerd kase it opens on de ribba, and nobody can’t git in. Now shet dem eyes ob yourn, and go ter sleep.”

She sat by the girl’s side and began crooning weirdly. The wild barbaric melody rising and falling in a sort of rhythm with the motion of the boat. Jeanne listened fascinated by the music and presently her eyes became heavy and soon she was fast asleep.

On and on down the tortuous curves of the river The Gem wended her way until at last she came in sight of the flotilla under the command of Commodore Davis. A shout went up from the fleet as the men caught sight of the transport, and there was a scramble for her sides as she hove to alongside of the flagship of the Commodore.

Jeanne kept herself in readiness to be transferred to one of the gunboats, for Captain Leathers had told her that he did not expect to go farther. Soon he returned from a visit to the flagship.

“Commodore Davis says that it will not be advisable for you to come aboard any one of his ships as there are many cases of fever among the men,” he said, coming at once to the waiting girl. “Both Commodore Farragut’s force and his own are down with it. They intend withdrawing from the assault on Vicksburg as they have received orders to that effect from Washington. Therefore Davis will retire to Helena and Farragut to New Orleans until they can have the coöperation of the army.”

“But––” began Jeanne.

“You see the thing is to get you to Farragut,” interrupted the Captain. “Davis and I have decided that some of these supplies ought to be carried to the Commodore directly. He knows his need; so that I am going to him with the transport. Davis will send a gunboat with me for protection. It is fair to tell you that there will be great danger. The ram Arkansas is anchored just below the city and will do all she can to injure us. Now the question is, what will you do? The best thing to my way of thinking would be for you to stay right here with old Tenny either on one of the gunboats, fever stricken though they be, or to land somewhere until my return.”

“There is no question at all about it,” said Jeanne decidedly. “I will go with you.”

“But you understand that there is danger, child? Great danger! We may all of us be killed.”

“Yes; I know,” replied Jeanne quietly, “but I started for New Orleans, Captain, and I am going if I can get there.”

“Then there is nothing more to be said,” and the Captain heaved a sigh. “I will not attempt to combat your decision, child, but I wish you would not go. However I must see the men now, and place the matter before them. You may go with me if you like.”

Jeanne followed him and stood by his side as he called all hands aft.

“My men,” said the captain in clear tones, “I have called you together to put a plain statement of facts before you. You know that we were sent here with supplies for the two fleets of Commodores Farragut and Davis. Both squadrons have many cases of fever which has seriously depleted their strength. Farragut needs the drugs that we have immediately. Of course he can get supplies by the outside route, but that takes too long. The poor fellows are in urgent want of what we have. Now, men, it was not the intention to go farther when we started than Davis’s flotilla, but my heart bleeds for those suffering sailors. I want to run by Vicksburg to-night in the darkness. I will not disguise the danger. The ram Arkansas lies at anchor under the city as a further menace besides the batteries. I want no man to accompany the expedition who does not go willingly. All who wish to remain with the fleet may do so without the least stigma of cowardice attaching to them. Who will go with me?”

There was dead silence. Jeanne looked with surprise at the grave faces before her. She had thought that men were always ready to lay down their lives in a good cause. She had not dreamed that any one would hesitate for a moment. Her amazed look gave place to one of scorn as the time passed and no one spoke. Stepping close to the Captain’s side she slipped her little hand into his and said clearly:

“I will go with you, Captain.”

CHAPTER VIII
THROUGH SHOT AND SHELL

“Now, men,” said the Captain seriously, still retaining Jeanne’s hand, “you fully realize what you are doing, do you? Think well, because there can be no backing out when we have started. Any one who does not wish to join us may go forward. We have no means of fighting and must take whatever the ‘rebs’ choose to give us. You see that I am not mincing matters with you, boys. Move forward any of you who do not wish to go.”

He paused and waited for a few moments, but not a man stirred from his place.

“Then listen,” he went on briskly. “We’ll finish giving the Commodore his supplies, and then barricade the boat with bales of cotton. Under the protection of one of Davis’s gunboats we will try to run the batteries under cover of the darkness. Now fall to, my hearties. There is much to be done.”

There was another cheer and the men sprang to their tasks. The Captain looked down at the girl by his side. Jeanne’s eyes were like stars, and her cheeks were red as roses. The blood of her Revolutionary ancestors was up and she showed no sign of fear.

“What will your father say if I do not bring you safely through this?” asked the Captain.

“It is a risk that we must run,” said Jeanne. “There is no more danger for me than for you and the men.”

“True, child; yet we are men, and you are only a girl. I don’t know just where you ought to stay through this affair. One part of the boat will be just as safe as another.”

“Don’t mind me, Captain. You will have your duties to attend to, and I will not bother if I am ‘only a girl.’”

“Ah! that touched you, did it?” laughed the Captain. “But I do mind you, child. I don’t half like this idea of your going. You are sure that you won’t stay here?”

“Sure, Captain. Indeed, I must get to New Orleans, and there is no other way, is there?”

“No; to try to make it by land on either side the river would be through the enemy’s country with every chance in favor of capture. This is a desperate risk but sometimes desperate chances stand the best show of success. Once past Vicksburg and the rest is easy.”

“Then please don’t say anything more about my staying,” pleaded Jeanne. “I will try not to be the least bit in the way.”

And so it came about that the transport made ready to run the batteries of Vicksburg with Jeanne on board. The girl watched the men as they worked, and waited impatiently for the time to come for them to start. At last night fell. There was no moon, and a little before midnight a gunboat drifted out of Miliken’s Bend where the fleet lay, and, showing no light from its chimney, moved like some great bird down the noiseless current, while the transport, hugging the western shore under the cover of the friendly darkness, followed close in the rear.

No sound could be heard from the heights of Vicksburg, nor could any lights be seen. The city lay in the brooding darkness as calmly quiet as though no dread batteries lay at her feet waiting but the word of command to belch forth their terrible fire. An hour passed, and Jeanne, sitting in the darkness of the cabin listening with strained ears to catch the least sound, began to believe that they would get safely past the city undiscovered.

Suddenly there came a flash followed by a crash that shook the shores. Lights danced along the heights. Thunder answered thunder and the roar of batteries from land and water rent the air. Presently a blaze flickered, flashed and then sprang up in a great sheet of flame upon the heights throwing the gunboat and the transport into a strong light, and turning the gloom of the black midnight into the brilliancy of day. The Confederates had fired a mass of combustibles with which to spy out the whereabouts of their enemies.

With the first burst of the artillery Jeanne ran up on deck.

“Back to the cabin, girl,” shouted the Captain hoarsely. “This is no place for you.”

But as Jeanne turned to obey him a shot tore through the cabin and fell hissing into the water beyond. The girl paused. Captain Leathers caught her arm and drew her behind a bale of cotton.

“Stay there!” he panted. “You will be as safe as anywhere.”

At this moment a terrible shape loomed out of the darkness making straight for the gunboat. A shout went up from the crews of the gunboat and the transport as the rebel ram Arkansas was recognized. Determined to make a grand effort to escape, Captain Leathers ordered all steam to be crowded on, thinking to run down the river while the gunboat engaged the ram.

The Gem responded nobly to the appeal and her prow cut the waters until they rolled from her in one mass of foam. But the Captain’s design was penetrated instantly by the enemy, and shot and shell sizzed through the air like hail. It seemed miraculous that the transport escaped being riddled.

Meantime the gunboat saw that the ram designed to run her down, and swinging round, welcomed the visitor with a full broadside. As the sound of the guns and their tremendous reverberations ran along the shore, the answer came in a terrific onslaught from the batteries above. Pandemonium seemed to have broken loose. Shot and shell whistled and sang through the air carrying death and desolation in their wake. Shouts and cries added to the confusion of the moment.

The ram, foiled in her first attempt to run down the Yankee, withdrew a short distance and turned again upon the boat. This time she got her sharp bow full in upon the heavy iron sides of the gunboat but her headway was not sufficient to cause any very serious damage. Before she could get away the Captain of the Yankee vessel rushed upon the hurricane deck and seizing a pistol shot the rebel pilot dead. The rebel crew retaliated by shooting him down. In the meantime the ram prepared for another blow, withdrawing for a terrific onslaught.

Just at this moment a shell struck the magazine of the plucky gunboat. There was an instantaneous explosion and the boat was blown to atoms, her gallant crew perishing with her.

“We are doomed,” groaned Captain Leathers. “Nothing can save us now. Are you ready to die, little girl?”

“Ready, Captain,” came from Jeanne’s pale lips, and she arose from her place behind the cotton. “But I want to die standing. I wish we could shoot, Captain.”

“So do I. But we are at their mercy. It would be a relief to do something, but to die without a chance for a shot. Ah!”

The exclamation was caused by the fact that the light of the bonfires was dying down, and the transport was nearing the turn of the lower bend. The shadows grew deeper and longer, and soon only a pale flickering flame remained of the brilliant light of a short time before. Then the blackness of night settled once more upon the river and a cheer broke from the crew as the transport rounded the lower bend of the great loop upon which Vicksburg stood, and passed out from under the batteries of the modern Gibraltar.

“Will that terrible vessel come after us?” asked Jeanne hardly realizing that the danger was over.

“No, child. We are safe. The ram knows that Farragut is somewhere near here, and she will not venture out to-night. We are safe; thank God!”