CHAPTER XIII—A NIGHT’S ADVENTURES
It was the very next afternoon that Joe Maxwell received the expected summons from Mr. Deometari. The message was brought by a negro on a mule, and the mule seemed to be very tired, although it had come only nine miles.
“I never is see no mule like dis,” said the negro, indignantly, as he took a soiled letter from his hat and handed it to Joe. “I start from town at two o’tlocks, an’ here ’tis mos’ night. I got me a stick an’ I hit ’er on one side, an’ den she’d shy on t’er side de road, an’ when I hit ’er on dat side, she’d shy on dis side. She been gwine slonchways de whole blessed way.”
Mr. Deomatari’s note had neither address nor signature, and it was very brief. “Come at once,” it said. “You remember the retreat from Laurel Hill and the otter? Come in by the jail and around by the Branham place. If some one cries, ‘Who goes there?’ say, ‘It is the Relief.’”
Joe turned the note over and studied it. “Who gave you this?” he asked the negro.
“Dat chuffy-lookin’ white man what stay dar at de tavern. He say you mustn’t wait for me, but des push on. Dem wuz his ve’y words—des push on.”
Joe had some trouble in getting away. The editor had gone off somewhere in the plantation; and Butterfly, the horse he proposed to ride—the horse he always rode—was in the pasture, and a colt in a plantation pasture is as big a problem as a hard sum in arithmetic. The colt is like the answer. It is there somewhere; but how are you going to get it, and when? Harbert solved the problem after a while by cornering the colt and catching him; but the sun was nearly down when Joe started, and he then had nine miles to ride. Harbert, who was a sort of plantation almanac, said there would be no moon until after midnight, and a mighty small one then; but this made no difference to Joe Maxwell. Every foot of the road was as familiar to him as it was to old Mr. Wall, the hatter, who was in the habit of remarking that, if anybody would bring him a hatful of gravel from the big road that led to Hillsborough, he’d “up an’ tell ’em right whar they scooped it up at.” Joe not only knew the road well, but he was well mounted. Butterfly had all the faults Of a colt except fear. He was high-spirited and nervous, but nothing seemed to frighten him. When the lad started, Harbert ran on ahead to unlatch the big plantation gate that opened on the public-road.
“Good-night, Marse Joe,” said the negro. “I wish you mighty well.”
“Good-night, Harbert,” responded Joe, as he went cantering into the darkness.
There was something more than a touch of fall in the evening air, and Butterfly sprang forward eagerly, and chafed at the bit that held him back. The short, sharp snorts that came from his quivering nostrils showed the tremendous energy he had in reserve, and it was not until he had gone a mile or more that he settled down into the long, swift, sweeping gallop that seemed in the dim light to throw the trees and fences behind him. At a cross-road Joe heard the tramp of horses and the jingling of spurs and bridle-bits, but he never paused, and it was not until long afterward he learned that he had come near forming the acquaintance of Wilson’s raiders, who were making their way back to Atlanta.
By the time the stars had come out, Joe could see the lights of Hillsborough twinkling in the distance, and in a short time he had turned into the back street that led by the jail and made way across the town until he reached the square below the tavern. Then he turned to the left, and was soon in front of Mr. Deometari’s room. Boy-like, he was secretly sorry that some sentinel had not challenged him on the way, so that he could give the countersign. A muffled figure, sitting on the edge of the veranda, roused itself as Joe rode up.
“Where is Mr. Deometari?” the lad asked.
“He in dar,” replied the figure. “Is you fum de plantation, sah?”
“Yes.”
“Den I’m to take yo’ hoss,” the negro said.
“Well, you must be careful with him,” said the lad.
“Dat I will, suh, kaze Marse Deo say he gwine pay me, an’ ’sides dat, I stays at de liberty stable.”
Joe saw his horse led away, and then he knocked at Mr. Deometari’s door.
“Come in!” cried that genial gentleman.
“I’m here, sir,” said Joe, as he entered.
“Why, my dear boy! so you are! and glad I am to see you. And you are on time. I had just pulled out my watch, and said to myself, ‘In one short quarter of an hour the boy should be here, and I shall have his supper ready for him.’ And just then you knocked, and here is my watch still in my hand. My dear boy, sit down and rest your bones. I feel better.”
Mr. Deomatari had supper for Joe and himself brought to his room, and as he ate he talked.
“You are a clever chap,” said Mr. Deome-tari. “You don’t know how clever you are. No,” he went on, seeing a curious smile on Joe’s face—“no, I’m not making fun of you. I mean just what I say. Where is the boy in this town who would have galloped through the dark on an errand that he knew nothing of? I tell you, he is not to be found. But suppose he could be found, wouldn’t he bother me with ten thousand questions about what he was expected to do, and how he was going to do it, and when, and which, and what not? Now, I want to ask you why you came?”
“Because you sent for me,” said Joe buttering another biscuit. “And because I wanted to find out all about—”
“All about what?” asked Mr. Deometari.
“About Mr. Pruitt, and—everything.”
“Well,” said Mr. Deometari, “I won’t tell you precisely why I sent for you—you’ll find out for yourself; but one of the reasons is that I want you to go with a little party of us to a point not far from your home. You know the roads, and you know what the negroes call the short cuts.”
“To-night?” asked Joe.
“Yes, to-night. Not now, but a little later.”
Joe ate his supper, and then sat gazing into the fire that had been kindled on the hearth.
“I was just thinking, Mr. Deo,” he said, after a while, “whether I ought to go and see mother.”
“Now that is the question.” Mr. Deometari drew his chair closer to the lad, as if preparing to argue the matter. “Of course, you feel as if you ought to go. That is natural. But, if you go, you will have to give your mother some reason for being here. You could only tell her that I had sent for you. This is such a poor reason that she would be uneasy. Don’t you think so?”
“Well,” said Joe, after a pause, “I can come to see her next Sunday.”
Rubbing his fat hands together, Mr. Deome-tari looked at Joe a long time. He seemed to be meditating. The ring on his finger glistened like a ray of sunlight that had been captured and was trying to escape.
“I want to take you around,” he said to Joe after a while, “and introduce you to Captain Johnson, our worthy provost-marshal.”
“Me?” asked the lad, in a tone of astonishment.
“Yes,” said Mr. Deometari. “Why not? A bright boy like you should be acquainted with all our great military men. Our noble captain would be very glad to see you if he knew as much about your visit as I do.”
“But as it is,” said Joe, quickly, “he doesn’t know any more about it than I do.”
“My dear boy,” exclaimed Mr. Deometari, in a bantering tone, “don’t get impatient. It is so very simple that all our plans might be spoiled if I told you. Now, then,” he continued, looking at his watch, “if you are ready, we will go. You have no overcoat, but my shawl here will answer just as well.”
Joe protested that he never wore an overcoat, even in the coldest weather; but his protest had no effect on Mr. Deometari, who gave the shawl a dexterous turn and wrapped Joe in it from head to heels. Then he fastened it at the lad’s throat with a long steel pin that had a handle like a dagger.
“Why, I look just like a girl,” said Joe, glancing down at his feet.
“Very well, Miss Josephine,” laughed Mr. Deometari; “just take my arm.”
The provost-marshal’s office was on the opposite side of the public square from the tavern, and Mr. Deometari, instead of following the sidewalk, went through the court-house yard. There was not much formality observed around the office. There was no sentinel stationed at the door, which was opened (in response to Mr. Deometari’s knock) by a small negro boy.
Down a little passage-way, or hall, Mr. Deometari went, followed by Joe. A light shone from a door at the end of a passage on the left, and into this door Mr. Deometari went without ceremony. There was not much furniture in the room—four chairs, a lounge, and a table. A sword hung on the wall, between lithograph portraits of General Lee and Stonewall Jackson; and on one side was a long array of pigeonholes full of papers. A man sat at the table, and he was so busily engaged in writing that he nodded without looking up from his work.
“Henderson,” said Mr. Deometari, “I have company to-night. I want you to know this young man. His name is Joe Maxwell. He is an honorary member of the Relief Committee.”
At this Henderson wiped his pen on his head and laid it down. Then he peered across the table at Joe. The two candles that gave him light were so close to his eyes that they blinded him when he lifted his face.
“Maxwell, did you say?—All right, Mr. Maxwell; I am glad to see you. Excuse my hand; it is full of ink.”
Mr. Henderson had a soft, gentle voice, and his hand, although it was splashed with ink, was as delicate as that of a woman.
“Is this the Mr. Henderson you were telling me about some time ago?” asked Joe, turning to Mr. Deometari. “I mean the Mr. Henderson who was sick when you retreated from Laurel Hill?”
“The same,” said Mr. Deometari.
Mr. Henderson laughed softly to hide his surprise, pushed his chair back, and rose from his seat. Whatever he was going to say was left unsaid. At that moment a knock that echoed down the hallway came on the outer door, and it was followed almost immediately by the firm and measured tread of some newcomer. Then there appeared in the doorway the serene face of Mr. Archie Blandford. He glanced around the room half-smiling until his eyes fell on Joe, and then the shadowy smile gave place to an unmistakable frown. Joe saw it, and for the first time felt that his position was a peculiar one, to say the least. He began to feel very uncomfortable, and this feeling was not relieved by the curt nod of recognition that Mr. Blandford gave him. He was a sensitive lad, and it was not pleasant to realize that he was regarded as an intruder. He looked at Mr. Deometari, but that gentleman seemed to be absorbed in a study of the portraits on the wall. Mr. Blandford advanced a few steps into the room, hesitated, and then said, abruptly:
“Deo! let me see you a moment.”
The two men went into the hall and as far as the outer door, and, although they talked in subdued tones, the passage took the place of a speaking-tube, and every word they uttered could be heard by Joe Maxwell and Mr. Henderson.
“Deo,” said Mr. Blandford, “what under the sun is Maxwell doing here? He ought to be at home in bed.”
“He is here,” Mr. Deometari explained, “at my invitation.”
“But your reason must tell you, Deo, that that child ought not to be mixed up in this night’s business. It is almost certain to be serious.”
“That is precisely the reason he is here,” said Mr. Deometari. “I might preach to you from now until doomsday, and you’d never lis-ten to me. But, with that boy looking at you, you’ll keep your temper. I know you better than you know yourself. You came here tonight with your mind made up to do something rash. I read it in your face last night; I saw it in your eyes this morning; I hear it in your voice now. My dear fellow, it will never do in the world. You would ruin everything. What you intended to do, you won’t dare to do with that boy looking at you. And there’s another reason: if this man Johnson is to be taken out of the county, the best route is by Armour’s Ferry, and Maxwell knows every foot of the road.”
Then there was a pause, and Mr. Henderson went to the door and said;
“You two might as well come in here and have it out. We can hear every word you say.”
They came back into the room, Mr. Bland-ford smiling, and Mr. Deometari a little flushed.
“I forgot to shake hands with you just now,” said Mr. Blandford, going over to Joe and seizing the lad’s hand. “It wasn’t because I don’t like you.”
“Thank you,” replied Joe. “I don’t understand what you and Mr. Deo were talking about, but I don’t wan’t to be in the way.”
“You are not in the way at all,” said Mr. Deometari, emphatically.
“I should say not,” exclaimed Mr. Blandford, heartily. “Deo is right and I was wrong. I’d be happy if I wasn’t in anybody’s way any more than you are. You’ll find out when you grow bigger that a man never gets too old to be a fool.” With that he reached under his overcoat and unbuckled a heavy pistol, and placed it on the mantel.—“You see,” he said to Mr. Deometari, “I am making a complete surrender. I don’t want to have that gun where I can get my hands on it when I see our friend Captain Johnson.”
“You may buckle on your pistol,” remarked Mr. Henderson, softly. “You won’t see the captain to-night.”
“Thunderation!” exclaimed Mr. Deometari, springing to his feet. “We must see him! Pruitt is in the guard-house. Sick or well, Captain Johnson must travel with us this night. I don’t want him killed or hurt, but the scoundrel shall strut around this town no more.”
“It’s just as I tell you,” said Henderson, in his gentle way; “you’ll not see him to-night.”
Mr. Blandford laughed, as though he regarded the matter as a joke, while Mr. Henderson began to fumble among some papers on the table. He selected from these three little documents, which he spread out before him, one on the other. Then he looked at the other two men and smiled.
“Tom,” said Mr. Deometari, “this is a very serious matter. You know this man Johnson as well as we do, and you know that the time has come to get rid of him.”
“I know him a great deal better than either of you,” said Mr. Henderson, still smiling, “and that is the reason he’s not here to-night. That is the reason you won’t see him.”
Mr. Deometari paced back and forth on the floor, pulling his whiskers, while Mr. Blandford drummed impatiently on the table.
“The trouble is,” Mr. Henderson went on, still addressing Mr. Deometari, “that we are both afraid of Archie Blandford’s temper.”
“Now, just listen at that!” exclaimed Mr. Blandford. “Why, you’ll make this chap here think I’m vicious. He’ll believe I’m a man-eater.”
“We both know how he feels toward Captain Johnson,” Mr. Henderson continued, not heeding the interruption, “and we have both been trying to prevent him from doing anything he might regret. I think your plan would have succeeded; and I’m glad you brought Maxwell, anyhow, because I like to meet a bright boy once in a while; but my plan is the best, after all, for Captain Johnson is gone.”
Mr. Deometari stopped walking the floor, and sat down. “Tell us about it.”
“Well,” said Mr. Henderson, “here is some correspondence that came to Captain Johnson through the post-office. There are three letters. We will call this number one:
“‘Sir: It has been noticed that you have refused to forward supplies intended for the wives and children of Confederate soldiers. This refers especially to the wife and children of one John Pruitt.’”
“There is no signature,” said Mr. Henderson. “This”—taking up another document—“we will call number two.”
“‘Sir: It is known that no supplies have left this post for the wife and children of one John Pruitt. Will the Relief Committee have to act?
“Here,” continued Mr. Henderson, “is the last. It is number three:
“‘Sir: John Pruitt is in jail, where he can not help himself. The Relief Committee will meet to-morrow night. Hold yourself in readiness to hear again the story of the retreat from Laurel Hill.’”
“Well?” said Mr. Deometari, as Mr. Henderson paused.
“Well, the man was worried nearly to death. He was in a continual fidget. At last he came to me and talked the matter over. That was yesterday. We went over the Laurel Hill incidents together, and I used Archie Blandford’s name pretty freely. The upshot of it was that I advised Captain Johnson to report to the commander of the post in Macon, and he took my advice.”
“Do I look like a dangerous man?” asked Mr. Blandford, turning to Joe.
“Not now,” replied Joe. “But your eyes are very bright.”
“I wish to goodness they were as bright as yours!” said Mr. Blandford, laughing.
“So we’ve had all our trouble for nothing,” Mr. Deometari suggested.
“Oh, no,” said Mr. Henderson; “we’ve been saved a great deal of trouble. Johnson is gone, and I have here an order for Pruitt’s release.”
“If we had known all this,” remarked Mr. Deometari, “Maxwell would be safe in bed, where I suspect he ought to be.—My son,” he went on, “it is a pity to have you riding back and forth in the night.”
“Just to please a fat man with the whimsies,” Mr. Blandford observed.
“Oh, it is no trouble to me,” Joe protested. “It is almost like a book, only I don’t exactly understand it all. What were you going to do with Captain Johnson?”
“Me? oh, I—well, the fact is, Deo was commanding my regiment to-night,” replied Mr. Blandford. He seemed to be embarrassed.
“It is all very simple,” said Mr. Deometari.
“When you get a little older you’ll find a great many people like Captain Johnson. He had a little power, and he has used it so as to turn all the people here against him. Another trouble is, that he used to belong to the regulars, where the discipline is as strict as it can be. He has tried to be too strict here, and these Confederate people won’t stand it. The private soldier thinks he is as good as a commissioned officer, and sometimes better. A provost-marshal is a sort of military chief of police, and, when his commander is as far away as Macon, he can do a good deal of harm, especially if he has a streak of meanness running through him. Johnson has made enemies here by the hundred. Worst of all, he has treated the wives of soldiers very badly. You know all about his spite at John Pruitt. We were going to take him to-night to Armour’s Ferry, put him across the river, and give him to understand that we could get along without him.”
“And he would never come back?” asked Joe.
“No,” said Mr. Deometari, “he would never come back.”
“Was Mr. Blandford very mad with him?” inquired the lad.
“Yes, I was,” that gentleman admitted, laughing a little and looking uncomfortable. “He had me arrested once, and tried to make me shovel sand into a barrel that was open at both ends. What do you think of that?”
“I think it must have been very funny,” said Joe, laughing heartily.
“I reckon it was funny,” observed Mr. Bland-ford, grimly, “but the rascal wouldn’t have enjoyed the fun if it hadn’t been for this big fat man here.”
“You are not referring to me, I hope,” said Mr. Henderson, so seriously that the rest burst out laughing.
“Come, now,” Mr. Deometari suggested. “Let’s let in some fresh air on poor John Pruitt.”
There was nothing more to be done after Mr. Pruitt was released from the guard-house, and so Joe mounted his horse and cantered off to the plantation. Butterfly was very glad to have his head turned in that direction, and he went so swiftly that in the course of an hour Joe was at home and in bed. His mind was so full of what he had seen and heard that he went over it all in his slumber. Mr. Deometari, chunky as he was, took the place of Porthos, the big musketeer; Mr. Blandford was D’Artagnan; Mr. Henderson was the sleek and slender one (Aramis) whose name Joe could not remember in his dreams; and even Mr. Pruitt grew into a romantic figure.
CHAPTER XIV—THE CURTAIN FALLS
Somehow, after Joe Maxwell’s experience with Mr. Deometari, Mr. Blandford, and the rest, events of importance seemed to follow each other more rapidly. Some of them were surprising, and all confusing. It was in the month of July that Atlanta was taken by General Sherman. A few weeks afterward, Harbert, while cleaning and oiling the old Washington No. 2 hand-press in The Countryman office, told Joe that the Federal army would come marching through the county before long.
“Who told you?” asked Joe.
“De word done come,” replied Harbert “Hit bleeze ter be so, kaze all de niggers done hear talk un it. We-all will wake up some er deze odd-come-shorts an’ fin’ de Yankees des a-swarmin’ all ’roun’ here.”
“What are you going to do?” Joe inquired, laughing.
“Oh, you kin laugh, Marse Joe, but deyer comin’. What I g wine do? Well, suh, I’m gwine ter git up an’ look at um, an’ may be tip my hat ter some er de big-bugs ’mongst um, an’ den I’m gwine on ’bout my business. I don’t speck deyer gwine ter bodder folks what don’t bodder dem, is dey?”
Joe had forgotten this conversation until it was recalled to his mind one morning shortly after his night ride to Hillsborough. General Sherman had swung loose from Atlanta, and was marching down through middle Georgia. The people that Joe saw went about with anxious faces, and even the negroes were frightened.
Before this vast host all sorts of rumors fled, carrying fear and consternation to the peaceful plantations. At last, one cold, drizzly day in November, Joe Maxwell, trudging along the road on his way to the printing-office, heard the clatter of hoofs behind him, and two horsemen in blue came galloping along. They reined up their horses, and inquired the distance to Hillsborough, and then went galloping on again. They were couriers carrying dispatches from the Twentieth Army Corps to General Sherman.
There was hurrying to and fro on the plantation after this. The horses and mules were driven to a remote field in which there was a large swamp. Joe carried Butterfly and tethered him in the very middle of the swamp, where he could get plenty of water to drink and young cane to eat. During the next ten hours the plantation, just as Harbert predicted, fairly swarmed with foraging parties of Federals. Guided by some of the negroes, they found the horses and mules and other stock and drove them off; and, when Joe heard of it, he felt like crying over the loss of Butterfly. The horse did not belong to him, but he had trained it from a colt, and it was his whenever he wanted to use it, day or night. Yet Butterfly was soon forgotten in the excitement and confusion created by the foragers, who swept through the plantations, levying in the name of war on the live-stock, and ransacking the not too well-filled smoke-houses and barns in search of supplies.
Joe Maxwell saw a good deal of these foragers, and he found them all, with one exception, to be good-humored. The exception was a German, who could scarcely speak English enough to make himself understood. This German, when he came to the store-room where the hats were kept, wanted to take off as many as his horse could carry, and he became very angry when Joe protested. He grew so angry, in fact, that he would have fired the building. He lit a match, drew together a lot of old papers and other rubbish, and was in the act of firing it, when an officer ran in and gave him a tremendous paddling with the flat of his sword. It was an exhibition as funny as a scene in the circus, and Joe enjoyed it as thoroughly as he could under the circumstances. By night, all the foragers had disappeared.
The army had gone into camp at Denham’s Mill, and Joe supposed that it would march on to Hillsborough, but in this he was mistaken. It turned sharply to the left the next morning and marched toward Milledgeville. Joe had aimlessly wandered along this road, as he had done a hundred times before, and finally seated himself on the fence near an old school-house, and began to whittle on a rail. Before he knew it the troops were upon him. He kept his seat, and the Twentieth Army Corps, commanded by General Slocum, passed in review before him. It was an imposing array as to numbers, but not as to appearance! For once and for all, so far as Joe was concerned, the glamour and romance of war were dispelled. The skies were heavy with clouds, and a fine, irritating mist sifted down. The road was more than ankle-deep in mud, and even the fields were boggy. There was nothing gay about this vast procession, with its tramping soldiers, its clattering horsemen, and its lumbering wagons, except the temper of the men. They splashed through the mud, cracking their jokes and singing snatches of songs.
Joe Maxwell, sitting on the fence, was the subject of many a jest, as the good-humored men marched by.
“Hello, Johnny! Where’s your parasol?”
“Jump down, Johnny, and let me kiss you good-by!”
“Johnny, if you are tired, get up behind and ride!”
“Run and get your trunk, Johnny, and get aboard!”
“He’s a bushwhacker, boys. If he bats his eyes, I’m a-goin’ to dodge!”
“Where’s the rest of your regiment, Johnny?”
“If there was another one of ’em a-settin’ on the fence, on t’other side, I’d say we was surrounded!”
These and hundreds of other comments, exclamations, and questions, Joe was made the target of; and, if he stood the fire of them with unusual calmness, it was because this huge panorama seemed to him to be the outcome of some wild dream. That the Federal army should be plunging through that peaceful region, after all he had seen in the newspapers about Confederate victories, seemed to him to be an impossibility. The voices of the men, and their laughter, sounded vague and insubstantial. It was surely a dream that had stripped war of its glittering’ trappings and its flying banners. It was surely the distortion of a dream that tacked on to this procession of armed men droves of cows, horses, and mules, and wagon-loads of bateaux! Joe had read of pontoon bridges, but he had never heard of a pontoon train, nor did he know that bateaux were a part of the baggage of this invading army.
But it all passed after a while, and then Joe discovered that he had not been dreaming at all. He jumped from the fence and made his way home through the fields. Never before, since its settlement, had such peace and quiet reigned on the plantation. The horses and mules were gone, and many of the negro cabins were empty. Harbert was going about as busy as ever, and some of the older negroes were in their accustomed places, but the younger ones, especially those who, by reason of their fieldwork, had not been on familiar terms with their master and mistress, had followed the Federal army. Those that remained had been informed by the editor that they were free; and so it happened, in the twinkling of an eye, that the old things had passed away and all was new.
In a corner of the fence, not far from the road, Joe found an old negro woman shivering and moaning. Near her lay an old negro man, his shoulders covered with an old ragged shawl. “Who is that lying there?” asked Joe.
“It my ole man, suh.”
“What is the matter with him?”
“He dead, suh! But, bless God, he died free!” *
It was a pitiful sight, and a pitiable ending of the old couple’s dream of freedom. Harbert and the other negroes buried the old man, and the old woman was made comfortable in one of the empty cabins; she never ceased to bless “little marster,” as she called Joe, giving him all the credit for everything that was done for her. Old as she was, she and her husband had followed the army for many a weary mile on the road to freedom. The old man found it in the fence corner, and a few weeks later the old woman found it in the humble cabin.
The next morning, as Joe Maxwell was loitering around the printing-office, talking to the editor, Butterfly came galloping up, ridden by Mink, who was no longer a runaway.
as it is given here, and was published afterward in The
Countryman.
“I seed you put ’im out in de swamp dar, Mars’ Joe, an’ den I seed some er de yuther niggers gwine dar long wid dem Yankee mens, an’ I say ter myse’f dat I better go dar an’ git ’im; so I tuck ’im down on de river, an’ here he is. He mayn’t be ez fatez he wuz, but he des ez game ez he yever is been.”
Joe was pleased, and the editor was pleased; and it happened that Mink became one of the tenants on the plantation, and after a while he bought a little farm of his own, and prospered and thrived.
But this is carrying a simple chronicle too far. It can not be spun out here and now so as to show the great changes that have been wrought—the healing of the wounds of war; the lifting up of a section from ruin and poverty to prosperity; the molding of the beauty, the courage, the energy, and the strength of the old civilization into the new; the gradual uplifting of a lowly race. All these things can not be told of here. The fire burns low, and the tale is ended.
The plantation newspaper was issued a little while longer, but in a land filled with desolation and despair its editor could not hope to see it survive. A larger world beckoned to Joe Maxwell, and he went out into it. And it came about that on every side he found loving hearts to comfort him and strong and friendly hands to guide him. He found new associations and formed new ties. In a humble way he made a name for himself, but the old plantation days still live in his dreams.