"You are crazy, Oleah," said Abner; "your very words are treason."
"If treason, then his mother is infected with the same disease, and, in the language of Patrick Henry, 'If this be treason, make the most of it,'" said Mrs. Tompkins, with a laugh, in which all joined.
"I am sure we ought to get at the truth of this question," said Mr. Tompkins; "we have both sides represented."
"Who will judge between us?" asked Mrs. Tompkins.
"All have taken sides except Irene. Which side are you on?" asked Oleah.
"I know nothing about either side," the girl answered, lightly; "so how can I choose?"
Mrs. Tompkins' love for her sunny land was next in her heart to her love for her husband, and forced her to espouse a cause which, to her, seemed patriotic. This was the only question on which she and her husband differed, and it was avoided by both as much as possible, yet sometimes, in spite of their precautions, it would creep into their family conversations.
"Irene is the proper one to act as judge," said Abner.
"Why?" Irene lifted her eyes in wonder.
"Because you know nothing about it."
"Do they make the best judges who know the least?"
"Frequently; and a juror who knows anything of the case he is to pass a verdict on is incompetent, so you are a competent juror, any way, Irene; and as one woman is equal to twelve men you can complete the entire panel."
"I beg pardon of the court," said Irene, rising from the table, "but I can not sit on this jury. I am prejudiced on both sides. I have friends on both sides, and I could not render an unbiased verdict."
"That's no excuse," said Abner.
"If it's not, the new piece of music you bought me is, so I leave you to your discussion, and hope you may effect a happy compromise." She was gone.
There was a moment's silence, and then the rippling music of her voice filled the halls and rooms of the great house.
"I wish the name she bears was rightfully hers, though I am glad she is not my sister," Abner said to himself. The same thought flashed through Oleah's mind, and, as usual, the mobile face betrayed his thoughts. Every one seemed always to understand his feelings.
Irene had just returned from school, an accomplished beauty and an acknowledged belle.
No wonder strange emotions stirred the hearts of the brothers, and that thoughts gained entrance in their breasts which might prove more disastrous than mere political differences.
CHAPTER VII. THE ELECTION AND THE RESULT.
The election of 1860 was an exciting one. No means were spared to poll every possible vote. Lincoln was the Republican candidate, Douglas a Northern, and Breckinridge a Southern Democrat, and Bell the Whig and "Know-Nothing" candidate, and all four parties worked vigorously.
Mr. Tompkins and his sons reached Snagtown early in the morning. The village was already alive with the stir and excitement. The polls opened at sunrise, and men were soon crowding around them, quarreling, disputing, joking. The morning air was crisp and frosty, and the people were compelled to walk about briskly to keep from being chilled.
A dirty faced urchin, with a pumpkin under one arm and some turnips under the other, paused in front of the polls, and, stretching out his neck like a young rooster achieving his first crow, bawled out:
"Hurrah for Douglas!"
It was the first patriotic wave which had caused an undulation of his infantile breast.
There chanced to be another boy, more dirty than the first, sitting on a fence near by gnawing an apple-core. His "pa" was a Breckinridge man, and, regarding this outburst as a challenge, he threw away the apple-core and fell with fury upon him of the pumpkin and turnips. Coming head first into the stomach of the Douglasite, he sent boy, pumpkin, and turnips into the gutter.
The enraged young Douglasite scrambled to his feet, and, leaving his vegetables behind, started in hot pursuit of the now fleeing Breckinridgeite, while shouts and cheers went up from the many spectators.
Mr. Diggs came along, engaged in conversation with a farmer whom he was trying to persuade to vote for himself and Breckinridge, for Mr. Diggs was a candidate for the office of District Attorney. On account of his small stature, the candidate was compelled to walk with upturned face, in order to watch the effect of his words upon the tall Virginian. The sidewalk being crowded, they had taken the middle of the street, and Mr. Diggs struck his toe with such force against the abandoned pumpkin that he was thrown down, and, falling on the pumpkin, he rolled with it into the gutter, which was half full of mud and water. Shouts and yells of laughter greeted Mr. Diggs as he scrambled to his feet and picked up the glasses which he had lost in his fall.
"By jingo, Diggs, ye look like Crazy Joe's mud man now!" cried some one from the crowd.
This was too much for the candidate, and, with something very much like an oath, he hurried away to change his clothes.
As the day advanced, the crowd increased, and as electioneering progressed, the crowd became very noisy.
There was Mr. Snag, a direct descendant of the founder of Snagtown, who claimed political honors. He was a candidate for County Judge. He had been one of the pioneers, had fought Indians, bears, wolves, panthers, and rattlesnakes, to establish this growing country. He had always been the workingman's friend, and was now ready to sacrifice himself on the official altar.
Mr. Snag had been a clothing merchant, noted for close dealings with his customers and oppression of his employes; but two or three months before he announced himself a candidate, a change came over him. His harshness of voice and manner grew subdued. He became not agreeable only, but accommodating and charitable. He attended church and the bar-rooms regularly, and was developing into a general favorite. He was welcomed in the most select circles, yet he was not exclusive. No man was too ragged, too dirty, or too drunk to cause Mr. Snag to be ashamed of his society. He was more than changed; he was completely metamorphosed.
On election day he was more affable than ever. He was at hand to lift up a drunken rowdy who had fallen over the pumpkin, and led him at once to the voting place, to poll his vote for himself and Breckinridge. But the pumpkin remained.
Later in the day, two rowdies, from the country, having imbibed too much of the electioneering beverage, got in a quarrel. One struck the other, and he fell by the pumpkin. A friend of the fallen man seized the pumpkin, and broke it into fragments over the other man's head, bringing him to the ground, of course. A general melee was averted only by the appearance of some good-natured candidate, who tried to restore peace, followed by a couple of constables, who at once arrested the malcontents.
In the afternoon Abner and Oleah went up to the polls. The two brothers had been silent during the forenoon, both seeming to avoid the political question which was agitating the Nation.
"Who are you going to vote for, Abner?" asked Mr. Diggs, strutting up to the young planter with a smile he thought becoming a District Attorney. "Is it Breckinridge, Douglas, or constitutional unionist Bell?"
"Neither," Abner answered.
"Who, then, is your man?" asked the inquisitive Mr. Diggs, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, and tipping first on his heels then on his toes, as he looked up, with an engaging smile, into the face of the man before him.
"I shall vote for Abraham Lincoln," Abner answered firmly.
"Pshaw! you are joking," said Mr. Diggs, his little eyes twinkling idiotically behind his glasses.
"I was never more in earnest."
"Why, man, they'd hang you if you voted for Lincoln!"
"I shall risk it, at all events."
His brother's words brought a sharp pain to Oleah's heart. He stopped suddenly, and laid a detaining hand on Abner's arm.
"Abner, you surely do not intend to vote for that Abolitionist?" he said, with a ring of defiance in his voice.
"I do," was the firm reply.
"For heaven's sake, think what you are about. Do you want to ruin the country?" Entreaty and distress was melting his indignation.
"No, I want to save it," was the calm reply.
"How can it be that you will vote for an abolitionist?"
"Because his principles and mine are the same," said Abner, earnestly.
The brothers were nearer a quarrel than they had ever been in their lives. Oleah's feelings were wounded, and he turned away, leaving his brother to go his way alone.
But three votes were polled in Snagtown for Abraham Lincoln, and Abner Tompkins, his father, and Uncle Dan, were supposed to have cast them.
Late that evening Mr. Tompkins and his sons rode home. The trio were silent and thoughtful, but they little dreamed what that day's work would bring forth.
Great was the consternation of the Southern leaders when the result of the election became known. Reports were fluctuating from the first, yet soon began to show favorable returns for Lincoln. Betting was heavy in Snagtown. In a few days the leaders began to threaten a dissolution, and, no sooner was it ascertained beyond a doubt that Mr. Lincoln was elected than they proceeded to put their menaces into execution. At this time secession was rife, the very air was full of it. Southern politicians alleged that Mr. Lincoln was a sectional candidate, pledged to the overthrow of slavery. On the 20th of December, 1860, a convention in Charleston declared that "the union before existing between South Carolina and other States, under the name of the United States of America, was dissolved."
By the 1st of February, 1861, through the influence of the press and the devices of a few leaders, Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and Texas, following the example of South Carolina, had passed ordinances of secession, and their Senators and Representatives left their seats in the American Congress.
On the 4th of February, delegates from six of the seceded States met at Montgomery, Alabama, and formed a union under the title of the "Confederate States of America." For provisional President they elected Mr. Jefferson Davis, of Mississippi, who had been a Colonel of some note in the Mexican War, a member of Pierce's cabinet, and a prominent advocate of Southern rights in the United States Senate.
But we must now attend to the individuals in this history, whom other historians have neglected.
On the evening of the 23d of December, 1860, Mr. Tompkins and his family were assembled in the large, cheerful sitting-room. The fire-place was piled with blazing logs, and the light and warmth of the room seemed more pleasant, contrasted with the soughing winds and falling snow without.
No thought of the approaching holidays seemed to have entered the minds of any of the group. The brothers were silent and sat apart. The cloud, so small as to be scarcely discernable, was growing larger and overshadowing each. It had first been visible on election day, when they parted on the way to the polls. Though no allusion had ever been made to this conversation, their brotherly union had been shaken. They drove, rode, and hunted together as usual, but there was one question they could never approach without disagreeing, and disagreement was apt to produce disagreeable feelings.
There was a ring at the bell, and the girl who answered the summons ushered in Uncle Dan, closely followed by Crazy Joe.
"Good evenin' to ye all," said the old man, as he entered the cozy sitting room. "How do you all do?"
"Pretty well, Uncle Dan. How are you and Joe this evening?" returned Mr. Tompkins, rising and grasping the hard, rough hand of the old hunter.
"We ar' both purty well," said Uncle Dan, shaking hands with all present. "I tell ye what's a fact, it's gettin' cold out, an' no mistake, snowing just like blazes."
Joe, who was in no talkative mood, took a seat in a corner, and fixed his gaze on the fire.
"I thought from the way the wind whistled it had grown colder. Come, Maggie, fix Uncle Dan and Joe some supper," said the planter.
"Ya-as, fur I'm hungry as a wolf," returned the old man, with the familiarity of a frequent and welcome guest.
"Are you hungry, Joe?" asked Mrs. Tompkins.
"I am, but it is written that man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word of God."
"I'll put that ar' fellur agin any preacher in the settlement for quotin' Scriptur. He jest seems to know the whole thing by heart."
"Have you heard any news recently?" Mr. Tompkins asked.
"News! Don't talk about news! Jist wait till I've had some supper, an' I'll give ye a little mess o' news that'll make ye hair stand on ye head."
After the mountaineer had partaken of a warm meal, and returned to the comfortable sitting-room, Mr. Tompkins asked:
"What is that remarkable news, Uncle Dan?"
"Wall, I kin tell it now," he answered, resuming his seat, "but I sw'ar it war too much for a empty stomach. About two hours ago the news first come to Snagtown, an' now the whole place is wild. The convention, which met at Charleston, South Carliny, three days ago, passed ordernances o' secession, and declar' the State out o' the Union."
"Oh, pshaw! it must be a mistake," said Mr. Tompkins.
"Mistake? Not by a jug full. It ar' a actual fact. The news came in as straight as a crow flies. There war rumors o' it before, but now it's sartin."
"Great heaven! that means civil war."
"It means war, but it wont be civil, not by a jug full. They ar' already talkin' about musterin' men and gettin' ready to fight. Thar's to be a grand muster and speakin' at Snagtown next Saturday. They say that Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and Texas ar' sure to foller South Carliny, in a few weeks, and maybe all them slave States, even Virginia and Missouri."
"Have the people gone crazy?" cried Mr. Tompkins.
"It's no more than might be expected," said Oleah. "The North has set her foot on the South, and if she feels like withdrawing from the partnership, she certainly has a right to do so."
"Partnership?" put in Abner, with an astonished look.
"It is merely a confederation of States, formed by a compact, and, if one wishes to withdraw, she has the right," answered Oleah.
"Our Government is formed by the people, and not by the States," said Abner.
"Then, why is it not called the United People, and not the United States? Each State is a separate corporation, capable of suing and being sued, contracting and dissolving contracts. They were originally colonies, but when they freed themselves from Great Britain, for protection and safety, they united. Who can doubt that South Carolina has not the right, when she has become capable of taking care of herself, to withdraw from others?"
"There is a great difference between corporations and governments," said Abner. "Our Constitution does not say, 'We, the United States,' 'As the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union.' When they belonged to England, they were considered as a whole and not as a part. In the Declaration of Independence, declaring the Colonies free and independent States, does so in the name and by the authority of the good people whom they represented, and not of the States."
"All that sounds very well, Abner," said Oleah, bitterly, "but words will have no effect on an oppressed and downtrodden people. The South will be free—"
"Yes, if they have to enslave one-half of humanity to do so," interrupted Abner.
"That's just the point Abolitionists are driving to, though few are as honest as you to admit. The slaves make the South wealthy and powerful. The North is jealous and wants to deprive us of the means of wealth. There is but one remedy left us—the same remedy adopted by the Colonies when oppressed by Great Britain—withdraw, rebel."
"You are too hasty," said Abner, more coolly. "You have no assurance that when Abraham Lincoln does take his seat, the 4th of March next, he will abolish slavery. Wait and see."
"Wait and see?" cried Oleah. "Wait until he has withdrawn every gun and armed vessel from the South? Wait until he has overrun the whole country with armed soldiers? Wait until he has bound us hand and foot? Then what can we do? No! Now is the time for action."
"I don't believe Lincoln will free the negroes," said Abner.
"I will stake my life as the wager," said Oleah, "that before his term of office expires, he declares every negro in the United States a free American citizen, war or no war. Mark my words and see if I am not a true prophet."
"Come, come, boys, we have had political discussion enough for the present," said Mr. Tompkins.
"Ya-as," said Uncle Dan, "we don't want the civil war to commence to-night; least of all places, heah. One thing sure about it, you youngsters had better let us old folks talk 'bout these things, we can do it without gettin' so red in the face. The whole country is in a bad fix, an' ef it comes to a smash up, I swar I don't want to see it begin between brothers."
CHAPTER VIII. MR. DIGGS IN A NEW FIELD.
Mr. Diggs was defeated for the office of county attorney by a large majority, but he was young and buoyant, and after a few days of repining began to revive.
A new excitement took possession of him. Strange talk came to his ears, and his little round eyes glistened with delight from behind his glasses, and his little round lips parted with smiles of pleasure. War on a gigantic scale—a new Nation, with new men at its head—was the all-absorbing topic. The Union was shattered, and a new Nation was rising out of the ruins and fragments of the old.
Mr. Diggs concluded to espouse the cause of the new Nation. He would raise a company of volunteers to fight its battles; he would be captain. From captain he would be promoted for his bravery to colonel, from colonel to brigadier-general, or commander-in-chief. Mr. Diggs' fertile imagination planned a glorious future for himself. Other men had risen from obscurity to renown, and why not he?
He strutted about with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, reveling already in his future greatness. The new and powerful Nation was his all-absorbing theme. When he met any one he would say:
"Well, what's the news, and what's the prospect of war?"
The prospect was very good, every one thought.
One day, talking with a young man about his own age, but cooler and less blood-thirsty, Mr. Diggs said they were too slow about fighting. Since the surrender of Twiggs in Texas no other event had transpired, and such indifference was monstrous.
"Don't be in a hurry, Diggs," said his friend. "Let them have time for consideration."
"There's no need of consideration. I am ready now. I will go, like Marion, to avenge my country's wrongs," said Diggs.
"This is war against our own countrymen," said his friend, "and I don't think there is any place in either rank for me."
"There is a place for me," said Diggs, strutting about with his hands in his pockets and expectorating profusely. "My country needs me, and I reckon there's a place for me."
"Will you take a colonelcy to commence with?" his friend asked, with a smile.
"I don't expect a colonelcy at first," said Diggs. "I want to start at the foot of the ladder, as captain, and gradually rise until I am commander-in-chief."
"You would make such a noble-looking general!" said a bystander, surveying the fat little fellow.
"You can talk, Howard Jones, but I—hem! hem!—have always had a taste for military life."
"You would make such a fine-looking commander," said Jones. "Mounted on a tall charger you would yourself strike terror to the enemy."
"I can prove that all generals were small men," said Diggs, strutting about.
"Of course they were; but you—you would kill all your enemies. They would die with laughter when they saw a general on a horse seventeen hands high, looking like a bug on a log."
"Oh, talk sense, Jones."
"On a big war-horse you would look very much like a bug on a log," said Jones. "But wouldn't it be grand for Crazy Joe's mud man to turn out a general?"
"Can't you talk sense, or are you a fool?" roared the exasperated Diggs; and, unable longer to endure the ridicule of his companions, he turned abruptly around and left the crowd gathered about him.
The Winter of 1860-61 passed away; but little had been done in Snagtown save mustering and speech-making. Those in favor of open rebellion were in the minority in the neighborhood, but those in favor of neutrality in the majority; but those in favor of standing for the Stars and Stripes the smallest class of all.
Patrick Henry Diggs was in a dilemma. His ambition pointed him to the battle-field, that his great abilities, which no one seemed to appreciate, might be shown to the world. The idea of a new Nation dazzled him and showed a path as splendor for his willing feet to follow. But he felt reluctant to draw his sword against the flag of Washington and Marion. He was sure, however, that these turbulent times meant something great for himself. He never lost an opportunity to muster in the ranks of the Home Guards or to make a speech.
The eastern part of Virginia seceded on April 17, 1861, but the northwestern portion, about Snagtown, was at peace, save from the mustering of Home Guards to protect home and families from the incursions of either army.
Oleah Tompkins was an avowed secessionist, attended the Meetings of the Knights of the Golden Circle, and was already sworn to support the Southern cause. Secret meetings were taking place all over the country, and night meetings held three or four times a week.
Mr. Diggs joined one of these secret organizations, and met with them one night in an old school-house which stood on the side of an abandoned road, about four miles from Snagtown in the direction of the Twin Mountains. About forty in all had assembled there, among them Howard Jones and Seth Williams, two men who seemed, Mr. Diggs thought, to live only to annoy him.
Mr. Diggs had come to the meeting with the intention of making one of his most patriotic speeches; but when he discovered his old enemies, their eyes sparkling with mischief, his heart sank within him.
Nearly all present were armed with shot-guns, rifles and pistols, and a guard was placed about the school-house. Preliminary matters settled, Howard Jones rose and addressed the chairman of the meeting, stating that, as they had with them the distinguished attorney, Patrick Henry Diggs, who was in sympathy with the cause, he would like to hear from him.
Despite the stirring times, everybody present was eagerly expectant of fun. Cries for Diggs were heard all over the house. Mr. Diggs' opinion of Jones rose rapidly.
"Mr. Speaker," began Mr. Diggs, rising and gazing about through his glasses, "in the language of one of old
Here he made a gesture with both hands, which Jones declared looked like a turtle trying to crawl up hill.
A solemn pause.
"I say," interrupted Seth Williams, in an audible whisper, nudging the orator, "s'pose you leave Rome, and come down to our present age. Give us something about the new Confederacy."
"That's just what I am coming to," said Mr. Diggs, "and I hope you will not interrupt me again." After a short pause he resumed:
"It is no common cause which brings us here to-night. Tyrants and traitors are abroad in the land. A gigantic foe is invading the fair soil of Virginia, and we are here to protect our firesides. All law writers, from Blackstone down, agree that all men should protect their homes. Now, fellow-citizens, remember our forefathers all fought, and bled, and died for this glorious Union." [Applause.]
"Touch lightly on that," whispered Jones.
"I repeat" said Mr. Diggs, "that Washington was the greatest man that ever lived." And now, grown eloquent and excited, he mounted a bench and whipped his left hand under the tails of his coat, while he waved his right in vehement gesture.
All the efforts of Seth Williams and Howard Jones to keep him on the track were unavailing. He commenced to speak about the Stars and Stripes.
"Oh, thunder! go back to Rome if you can't make a better secession speech," said Jones.
The truth was that Mr. Diggs, like a great many others at this time, hardly knew which side he was on. When he swore to preserve the Union at all hazards, his astonished friends pulled him down.
A call was made for volunteers, and Mr. Diggs was the first to enroll his name. Though calling themselves a Home Guard, these volunteers were really enrolled in the army of the Southern Confederacy. Oleah Tompkins was among the first to thus espouse the Southern cause.
The clouds of war grew darker and darker every hour. At any moment the storm might burst in all its fury. Snagtown was in a constant state of excitement as the crisis approached. Her more timid citizens trembled with dread.
Henry Smith, a farmer's son, a young man of limited education, but of strong common sense, stood in the street one bright morning, engaged in conversation with Seth Williams.
"Come, now, Harry," said Williams, persuasively, "you had better come in with us. The time has come, or will soon come, when our homes will have to be defended. We shall be overrun with soldierly hirelings, who will rob and burn and murder as they go. Our families will need protection, and this duty devolves on us."
"But, Seth, some say the Home Guard will be marched South into the Confederate army."
"Oh, nothing of the kind," said Williams. "Our only object is to protect our homes from the soldiers of both sides, and to meddle with neither unless they invade our State."
"I think we are justified in protecting our own interests; but, though I despise Abraham Lincoln, I cannot raise my hand against the old Stars and Stripes."
"Oh, there is no danger that you will be forced into the Confederate army. We are only organizing a Home Guard now; if we raise troops for the South, that will be another thing."
"When do you meet again?" asked Harry.
"To-morrow night; we go into camp next week in real earnest."
"Where?"
"On Wolf Creek, about three or four miles away, between here and the Twin Mountains."
"Where do you meet to-morrow night?"
"At the school-house on the road between here and Twin Mountains."
"I will be there," said Harry.
As Williams walked away, a young man who had been observing the two with keen interest, approached Harry and said:
"I can tell what you and Seth Williams were talking about."
"I will give you three guesses, Abner," said Harry, laughing.
"He was trying to persuade you to enlist in the Home Guards."
"That was just it," replied Harry.
"Don't do it, Harry, or you will repent it. I tell you the name Home Guard is only a cover, and every one who enlists will be in the Confederate army in three months. Unless you mean to take up arms against your country, keep clear of the Home Guard."
"I don't want to fight in Lincoln's army, nor do I want to enter the confederate ranks, so I thought the Home Guards would be the place for me."
"Don't you enlist," said Abner Tompkins, "or you will repent it."
As Harry walked away, Mr. Diggs came along, his short legs, in rapid motion, resembling the thick spokes of a wheelbarrow, and his head inclined backward at an angle of forty-five degrees, and his glasses, as usual, on his nose, and his little fat hands thrust deep into his pockets.
"Hold on, Diggs!" said Abner. "I want to speak to you."
"Hem, hem, hem!" began Mr. Diggs. "Good morning, Mr. Tompkins. Well—hem—I am—that is, I am—hem—glad to see you. I was just going to have my man drive me out to your house. Have a little important business with—that is with one member of your family, he—he he!"
"Diggs, I hear that you have enlisted in the Confederate army; is it so?" asked Abner, abruptly.
"Well, sir, I expect—that is, I apprehend, my dear sir, that—you—perhaps are correctly informed."
"Why, Diggs, what in the world do you mean?" asked Abner.
"Oh, our country is too large; should be divided. We intend to build up a vast Southern empire. The North has always trampled on our rights, and it is time for us to resist."
"But how do you intend to resist? By overthrowing the best government the world has ever known? Build up a Southern empire! Is not the grand old republic established by Washington good enough for you? The North is not trampling on your rights. Your wrongs are imaginary. And as to our country being too large, can a nation like ours grow too powerful? Think, Diggs, before you act, or, like Calhoun, you may expect Washington to come to you in sleep, and place the black spot on your hand which Arnold wears in the other world. Think Diggs! Don't raise your hand against your country without well considering the matter."
Diggs, for a few minutes, was silent, and then he said:
"I think you are right, Abner. I will not prove a traitor to my country. I shall ask to have my name taken off the roll to-morrow night."
"Do so, or you will surely repent it as you live. If you want military honors, seek them in the ranks of your country. There is a call for seventy-five thousand volunteers."
"You are right, you are right. I will go and volunteer. Where shall I go?"
"We are raising a company at the junction, about twenty miles from here."
"I will go day after to-morrow, but I am in a hurry now. I am going to your house on business. The fact is—I don't mind telling the facts to you—I am going on purpose to see Miss Irene. He, he, he! I am determined to see how I stand there, he, he, he!"
Abner started back in amazement, but Mr. Diggs hurried away, without observing his movement.
"The consummate fool!" muttered Abner. "The idiot! To think of our Irene!"
Mr. Diggs hurried off with an air of much importance, and ordered Mose to make ready the carriage, and drive him to the Tompkins mansion.
Mose was not as quick of movement as he had been fifty years before, but he managed to have the equipage in readiness by four o'clock in the afternoon.
At Mr. Tompkins' door Mr. Diggs alighted, to be informed by Miss Irene's maid that her mistress was calling with Mrs. Tompkins, and would not return for an hour.
"I will wait," said Mr. Diggs. "I must—hem, hem—must see Miss Irene."
After a few moments of waiting Mr. Diggs became tired of sitting in the house and sauntered out to the piazza, and there met the ladies on their return.
"Miss Irene,—hem, hem, hem," he began advancing. "I am delighted to see you, I—hem—that is—hem—I came on purpose to see you, and—and talk with you, and bid you good-by before I leave for the field of glory. I have joined the Confederate army—hem—no, I mean to say I am going to join the Union army in a day or two. That is, I don't know exactly which army I shall join yet—and I come to bid you adieu."
Irene looked a little puzzled and felt not a little annoyed at this address. There was something she did not like about Mr. Diggs' manner.
"Will you come in?" she said, "and I will see you presently."
Mr. Diggs accordingly re-entered the house, and Irene went up to her room to change her dress. She managed to detain herself until tea was announced and then invited Mr. Diggs to the dining-room.
After tea the little fellow followed her back to the parlor, and she resigned herself to be bored for an hour or more by him, but did not yet suspect the real cause of his visit.
"Hem—hem," began Mr. Diggs, "Miss Irene, these are troublous times."
"They are indeed," answered Irene, from her seat opposite the loquacious Mr. Diggs.
"We don't know one minute what will happen the next."
"No, we do not," said Irene, who really did not imagine what was to happen on this occasion.
"Hem, hem! two large armies are raising."
"So I am informed," said Irene.
"And they mean destruction to each other."
"I fear some damage will be done."
"Hem, hem! Sumter has fallen."
"So I have heard."
"Deuce take it!" thought Mr. Diggs aside, "she is as cool as an iceberg, and I am getting flurried. What had I better say or do next?" Then a short pause.
"Some of your friends will doubtless take part in the coming struggle," he finally said.
"I fear they will be rash enough to do so," she replied.
"And some may go to return no more,"—voice and eyes were growing pathetic.
"Alas! such is too often the fate of war."
"I have concluded to enter the army."
"A great many young men are now talking of going into the army."
"I feel that my country needs my services."
"You are patriotic."
Mr. Diggs felt flattered.
"You are—hem—hem, very kind, Miss Irene, to attribute patriotism to me. Patriotism, true patriotism is one of man's most noble attributes."
"I agree with you."
"But, Miss Irene, it is hard to go, even to our country's aid, and leave behind friends dearer to us than life."
"Mercy!" mentally ejaculated Irene, "does the little fool mean to propose?" Then, still without any encouraging warmth in her tone, she asked, "When do you expect to leave Snagtown?"
"In two or three days at most, and I feel—hem—pardon me, Miss Irene." He rose and drew his chair nearer hers.
"He really means it!" thought Irene, her eyes bright, half with mischief, half with annoyance.
"I have something—hem, hem, hem!—I wish to say to you. I—I—that is—hem—I cannot leave for the field of danger until I—have—hem, hem! until I have revealed to you my feelings."
Mr. Diggs paused, and tried to look sentimental; but a more sheepish, simple-looking specimen of humanity Irene was sure she had never before beheld.
The farce had been carried too far, and she said coldly:
"Your manner and words are quite incomprehensible, Mr. Diggs."
"I will make myself plain," said Mr. Diggs, swallowing something in his throat, and taking hope. "You shall understand me. I say I cannot leave for the field of battle, cannot face the cannon's mouth, in this suspense—"
"Then don't go, Mr. Diggs," interrupted Irene, with difficulty restraining her merriment, all her pity put to flight by his affectation and conceit.
"I should almost feel inclined to turn a deaf ear to the 'obstreperous trump of fame,' and 'only list to love and thine,' should you command me to stay."
"Sir, you are growing more and more incomprehensible. Let us leave this subject."
"Not yet, oh no, not yet! Wait until you have heard all. I love you, Irene, dearest, and—and—ah! come to my arms and say you will be mine!"
Down he went on one knee, with upturned face and out-stretched arms. Poor Irene felt an almost irresistible impulse to laugh, and for a moment dared not speak.
He mistook her silence and again began to plead.
"Speak, O brightest sylph, fairer than the angels, sweeter than—hem, hem!—than the honey in the honey-comb!"
"For mercy's sake, stand up, Mr. Diggs!" said Irene.
"Not until you say you will be mine!" and his arms expanded, like an opened double gate.
"Then Mr. Diggs, I fear you will never reach the field of glory, for the war will be over before you rise from your knees," said Irene.
"Oh! ah! Hem, hem! You cannot be so cruel,"—still kneeling, and leaning further forward, as though to compel her to his embrace.
"Mr. Diggs, you can never be to me more than a friend. Pray, do not pursue the subject further."
"Miss Irene, dear, dear Miss Irene, you utterly wreck my life! I care not a straw for it now!" whined little Mr. Diggs, turning, still on his knees, towards Irene who had crossed the room, the most pitiful of faces.
No answer.
"You are—hem, hem!—very cruel, Miss Irene," he rose and awkwardly took his seat.
"I regret to have given you pain," said Irene graciously, as, at Mr. Diggs' request, she rang for his carriage, "but I am sure you will soon forget it, and will see that you had mistaken your feelings."
As Mr. Diggs was in the act of getting into his carriage the sound of horse's feet came to his ear, and a moment later Oleah Tompkins galloped up to the side of the old rockaway.
"Halloo, Diggs! are you just leaving?" asked Oleah.
"Yes—hem, hem!—I am going home," said Diggs.
"Well, be on hand to-morrow night without fail, now. We want every member of the company there, as we shall go into camp in a day or two."
"Well,—hem, hem, hem!—Oleah, I have almost concluded not to go. I can not—hem, hem!—take up arms against the flag of Washington."
"Oh, that's abolitionist nonsense! What care you for a flag that will not protect you?"
"That's so," said Diggs.
"Then why should we consent to bow our necks to tyrant's heels simply because the great and good Washington fought under a rag with certain stripes and certain stars upon it?"
"That is so. Hem, hem, hem! 'They first have breathed treason.'"
"Yes, they stole our property. The interests of the North and South are directly opposite. They want to ruin us, and we must protect ourselves while we can. We can not live in peace with the North; the next best thing is to separate."
"That's so,—hem, hem!—that's so," said Mr. Diggs.
"Then why refuse to enter the Confederate army? The South is your country, and if you want military renown seek it in the ranks of your country. If they call you a rebel be proud of the name. Washington and Marion were rebels."
Mr. Diggs was completely won back to the Southern cause; and, assuring Oleah he would be with them the next night, drove away.
CHAPTER IX. THE CHASM OPENS.
The storm clouds were gathering dark about the Tompkins mansion. The heads of the household were silent on the question, each knowing the different feelings and sympathies of the other. Their sons were also silent, but there was a sullenness in their silence that foretold the coming strife. There was one member of the once happy household who could not comprehend the trouble, whose very gentleness kept her in ignorance of the threatened danger.
Yet neither love nor loving care could keep her from knowing that trouble was brewing. She could not but notice the coldness gradually growing between the two brothers. Brothers whose affection she once thought no earthly power could lessen, were growing daily colder and more and more estranged. Every morning each mounted his horse, and rode away alone, and it was always late in the night when they came home, never together. Gloomy and silent, the morning meal was hurried through, the pleasant conversation that had always accompanied it, was heard no more, if we except the efforts of Irene, who strove with all her power to infuse some of the old-time harmony and brightness into the altered family.
It was the evening of Mr. Diggs' visit to the Tompkins mansion, one of those clear bright evenings when the curtains of night seem reluctant to fall, and the fluttering folds seem held apart to reveal the beauty of the dying day. Irene sat by the window, gazing up at the dark blue vault, and listening to the far-off song of a whip-poor-will upon the lonely hillside. Nature to her had never seemed more calm or lovely. The moon, serenely bright, shed mellow light over the landscape, and the dark old forest on whose trees the early buds had swelled into green leaves, lay in a quiet repose. Only man, of all created things seemed unresting. Far down the road she heard the clatter of horses' hoofs. At all times now, day and night, she heard them.
Clatter, clatter, clatter—sleeping or waking, it was always the same, always this beat of hoofs. To her it seemed as if ten thousand dragoons were constantly galloping, galloping, galloping down the great road: somewhere their marshalled thousands must be gathering. Horsemen singly, horsemen in pairs, horsemen in groups, were galloping, galloping, until her ears ached with the awful din.
As she looked, a horseman came dashing down the hill; he passed through the gate and down the avenue.
"That must be either Abner or Oleah," thought Irene. "Six months ago, they would have gone and returned together."
When he stepped on the piazza, the moon fell on his face and revealed the features of Abner Tompkins. He came rapidly up the steps and into the house. Staying only a few moments in the room below, where his parents were, then came directly to Irene's door and knocked.
She bade him come in.
"Irene," he said in tremulous tones, "I have strange news for you. I must leave to-night for months perhaps, perhaps forever, my home, my parents—and you."
Irene sprang to his side eager and excited.
"Why, Abner, what do you mean?"
"Is it such a surprise to you? I will try to speak calmly, but I have only a few moments to stay. I have a load on my heart that I must unburden to you."
"What is it?" she said, drawing a low stool to his feet and seating herself she took both his hands in her own. "Tell me what troubles you, let me share it with you. Who should share your troubles if not your sister?"
"Irene, what I have to say will shock you."
"No, no, it will not. If you have done anything wrong, I shall be sure it was not your fault—"
"No, you misunderstand me; it is nothing I have done," he interrupted.
"Then what is this secret, brother?"
"I am not your brother."
Irene had promised that his secret should not shock her, yet had a bombshell burst at her feet, she could not have been more astonished.
She sprang from the low stool, and stood with clasped hands, the color fading from her face, her slight form swaying as though she had received a blow.
Abner, alarmed, sprang from his chair, and caught her in his arms.
"Irene, Irene, don't take it so," he said, bending tenderly over the white face.
"Not my brother? Why you must be mad!" she gasped.
"Irene, I am not your brother, but I love you a thousand times more fondly than a brother could love. It was this I wanted to tell you before I leave you. What, Irene, weeping—weeping because I am not your brother! My darling, let me be nearer and dearer than a brother!"
"Abner, I can not realize it, I can not think!" she said, pressing her hands to her throbbing temples.
"Think of it when I am gone, Irene, for I must go. To-morrow's sun must find me miles from here. But through all the coming strife I shall cherish your image. I shall hope for your love if I return. Now, good-by, my love, my Irene!"
He caught her in his arms, but it was only a sisterly embrace that Irene returned. She could not yet believe that Abner was not her brother.
He went down stairs, she heard his mother's sobs, his father's broken voice; the door opened and closed, and from her window she saw him pass down the avenue, out of sight. Soon she heard a horse galloping down the road, and knew that Abner was riding swiftly away in the gathering darkness.
Completely overcome, and not daring to meet Mr. or Mrs. Tompkins till she had controlled herself, Irene, throwing a light shawl about her shoulders, went down stairs, stepped through an open window out on the broad piazza. The cool night air fanned her cheeks and revived her spirits. She walked through the grounds to a summer house covered with trailing vines whose fragrant flowers filled the air with sweetest odors.
"It can not be, it can not be," she murmured. "He was surely jesting. I an outcast or foundling or a oh! merciful Heaven! I can not endure the thought!" and her beautiful eyes filled with tears. The whip-poor-will's call still sounded from the distant hillside, and soon another sound broke the evening stillness—the tread of a man's feet on the graveled walk. Irene turned her head quickly, and saw Oleah standing in the doorway.
"I thought I should find you here, Irene," he said. "You always choose this arbor on moonlight evenings."
"You have been absent all day, Oleah. What fearful business is it that keeps both my brothers from my side!"
"Ah! Heaven be praised, Irene, darling Irene, that you know nothing of it!"
"Abner left to-night, perhaps never to return he said," she went on, wiping the tears from her face.
"I see you have been weeping, dear Irene. I have more news for you. I too have to bid you what may prove a long farewell. I leave to-night for our camp, and shall soon march to join the main army. But I can not leave you, Irene, without telling you of something I have long kept a secret."
Irene could not speak; sobs choked her voice. Then from Oleah's lips fell those same startling words:
"I am not your brother."
She sat motionless. Then it must be true. They could not both be mistaken, could not both possess the same hallucination. If anyone was mad, it was herself. But Oleah went on in his quick passionate way:
"You are not my sister, dearest Irene, and that you are not gives me only joy. When you were left at our house a tiny baby, I claimed you for my sister, and when I learned you could not be my sister, I said you should one day be my wife. I loved from the first time those bright eyes laughed into mine, and that love has grown with my growth and strengthened with my strength, until it has taken possession of my entire being. O, Irene, Irene, you can never know how deep is the love I have born you from early childhood. I could not leave this old home without telling you that I loved you with more than a brother's love."
He paused, and Irene remained silent.
"Speak, Irene! Will you not speak?"
She was still silent, her large dark eyes fixed and staring, her white lips motionless, her whole form rigid as a statue. She thought of Abner's parting words, and pain and terror filled her soul. Had she entered this happy home only to bring discord, to widen the breach between the two brothers?
"O Irene, Irene," he pleaded, "by the memory of our happy childhood I implore you, speak once more before I go. Say that you will love me, that you will pray for me—pray for my safe return, pray for my soul if I fall in battle!"
The marble statue found voice.
"I will pray for you, Oleah, to heaven day and night, for your safe return."
"But will you give me your love? O Irene, if you only knew how dear you are to me, you will surely learn to love me!"
"I have always given you a sister's warmest love, Oleah," she replied, "and this is all too new, too strange, for me to change so suddenly."
"But you promise you will change?" he asked eagerly.
"I can not promise yet," she said. "I do not know myself, and neither do you comprehend your own feelings."
"Irene, dearest, I have known myself for years. Try to love me, and pray for me," he said, and taking both her hands as she came to his side, "for now I must go." He stooped and pressed a kiss on those white lips, and Irene was alone. Soon she heard again the hoof beats of a flying horse, and knew that Oleah had left his home.
When he had returned to bid farewell to his home, Abner Tompkins, before entering the house, walked down the long gravel walk, through the avenue of grand old elms, until the outer gate was reached. Here he paused a moment, and gazed up at the moon riding through the dark blue, fathomless vault of heaven; then he turned his gaze upon the spacious pillared mansion, his pleasant home, that he was to leave that night, perhaps forever. It was the home of his childhood; beneath its roof dwelt those he loved; and feelings of sadness filled his heart as he realized the fact that he must leave it. On his right lay the great road, the road that, in his boyhood, he had imagined, led to far-off lands and fairy kingdoms; the road he had thought must be endless, and had desired to follow to its end. Across the road was the forest where he and his brother had so often wandered. Every spot seemed hallowed with sacred remembrances of childhood, and associated with every object and every thought was that brother from whom he was gradually drifting away. He stood beneath the old hickory tree, whose nuts they had gathered, and whose topmost branches they had climbed in their adventurous boyhood. To-night all were fading away. He was going to different scenes, to see strange faces, to meet hardships, danger, perhaps death; worse than all to draw his sword against that very brother whose life had so long been one with his.
"Oh, what a curse is civil war," said Abner, with a sigh, "dividing nations, people and kindred." And, leaning against the trunk of the giant old hickory, he stood for a moment lost in painful reverie.
The beat of a horse's hoofs aroused him, and he saw his brother approaching. To reach the house he was compelled to pass within a few feet of the hickory tree, and must inevitably discover Abner, who, however, made no effort to conceal himself. Standing in the shade of the tree as he was, Oleah did not see his brother until he was within a few feet of him, and then could not distinguish his features.
"Halloo, whom have we here?" he said, reining in his horse abruptly.
"Who is there? Speak quick, or it may be the worse for you," cried impetuous Oleah, not receiving an immediate answer.
"It is I, Oleah," said Abner, stepping from under the branches of the old tree.
The two brothers had grown more and more estranged, but as yet there had been no open rupture between them.
"Well, I might inquire what you are doing there?" said Oleah.
"And I might ask what you are doing here, and where you are going, and a hundred other questions. If I were to tell you I was star-gazing you would not believe me."
"I don't know; I might," said Oleah. "You were sentimental at times when a boy, and the habit of looking at the moon and stars may have followed you into maturer years."
"I was just thinking," said Abner, "that this tree is very old, yet very hale."
"It is," answered Oleah; "it was a full grown tree when I first remember seeing it."
"Yes, and we have often climbed its branches or swung beneath them."
"That is all true," said Oleah, restlessly, "but why talk of that, above all other times, to-night?"
"It brings pleasant memories of our happy childhood. And why not to-night as well as any other time?" said Abner.
"I have reasons for not wishing to talk or to think of the past to-night," said Oleah. "I have enough to trouble me without bringing up recollections that are now anything but pleasant."
"Recollections of childhood are always pleasant to me," said Abner, "and when storms of passion sway me, such thoughts calm the storm and soothe my turbulent mind once more to peace."
"Have you been in a rage to-night?" asked Oleah, with a smile.
"No."
"Then why are you conjuring recollections of the past?"
"I have not conjured them up; they come unbidden. This night, above all others, I would not drive the thoughts of our past away."
"And why?" asked Oleah, uneasily.
"Because this night we part, Oleah, perhaps forever."
Oleah, rash, hot-headed, fiery Oleah, had a tender heart in his bosom, and now he was trembling with emotion, although he made an effort to appear calm.
"How do you know that we are to part to-night?" he asked.
"We are both going from our home, and going in different directions. We are standing on opposite sides of a gulf momentarily growing wider."
A fearful suspicion crossed Oleah's mind. "Do you leave home to-night?"
"Yes."
"Where are you going?"
"To join the army of my country and the Union."
Oleah started back as if he had received a stunning blow in the face. Abner was aware that Oleah had enlisted in the Confederate army, but Oleah did not dream that his brother would enter the army of the North.
"Abner, Abner," he cried, hurriedly dismounting from his horse and coming to his brother's side, "for heaven's sake say that it is not true!"
"But it is true," said Abner sadly. "To-night we separate, you to fight for the cause of the South, I for the preservation of the Union."
"O Abner, O my brother, how can you be so blinded? It is a war between the North and South, the only object of the North being to give freedom to our slaves. You will see if the North should be successful, that every negro in the land will be freed."
"And you will see that the North has no such intentions. Mr. Lincoln, although a Republican, was born in a slave State, and he will not free the slaves. But, Oleah, it is useless for us to discuss these matters; we part to-night, and let us—"
"But should we meet," said Oleah, his hot blood mounting to his face, "it will be as enemies. You are my brother now, but when you don the hated uniform of an Abolition soldier you will be my enemy; for I have sworn by the eternal heavens to cut asunder every tie of friendship or kindred when I find them arrayed against our cause."
"Oleah," said Abner, "be not too rash in your vows. Do not make them just yet."
"I have already made them; and whoever confronts me with a blue coat and a Yankee musket is an enemy, whatever blood runs in his veins."
"I pray that we may never meet thus," said Abner. "Rather would I have you find among the slain the body of one you no longer own as a brother."
One of the stable men now appeared, leading Abner's horse. Oleah's hot passion was gone; his eyes were misty, his voice was choked. The brothers clasped hands in silence, and five minutes later Abner was galloping down the great road.