CHAPTER, XV. MUTTERINGS
Early in the next year, 1861,—that red year in the Calendar of our history,—several gentlemen met secretly in the dingy counting-room of a prominent citizen to consider how the state of Missouri might be saved to the Union. One of these gentlemen was Judge Whipple, another, Mr. Brinsmade; and another a masterly and fearless lawyer who afterward became a general, and who shall be mentioned in these pages as the Leader. By his dash and boldness and statesmanlike grasp of a black situation St. Louis was snatched from the very bosom of secession.
Alas, that chronicles may not stretch so as to embrace all great men of a time. There is Captain Nathaniel Lyon,—name with the fateful ring. Nathaniel Lyon, with the wild red hair and blue eye, born and bred a soldier, ordered to St. Louis, and become subordinate to a wavering officer of ordnance. Lyon was one who brooked no trifling. He had the face of a man who knows his mind and intention; the quick speech and action which go with this. Red tape made by the reel to bind him, he broke. Courts-martial had no terrors for him. He proved the ablest of lieutenants to the strong civilian who was the Leader. Both were the men of the occasion. If God had willed that the South should win, there would have been no occasion.
Even as Judge Whipple had said, the time was come for all men to decide. Out of the way, all hopes of compromises that benumbed Washington. No Constitutional Unionists, no Douglas Democrats, no Republicans now.
All must work to save the ship. The speech-making was not done with yet. Partisanship must be overcome, and patriotism instilled in its place. One day Stephen Brice saw the Leader go into Judge Whipple's room, and presently he was sent for. After that he was heard of in various out-of-the-way neighborhoods, exhorting all men to forget their quarrels and uphold the flag.
The Leader himself knew not night from day in his toil,—in organizing, conciliating, compelling when necessary. Letters passed between him and Springfield. And, after that solemn inauguration, between him and Washington. It was an open secret that the Governor of Missouri held out his arms to Jefferson Davis, just elected President of the new Southern Confederacy. It soon became plain to the feeblest brain what the Leader and his friends had perceived long before, that the Governor intended to use the militia (purged of Yankee sympathizers) to save the state for the South.
The Government Arsenal, with its stores of arms and ammunition, was the prize. This building and its grounds lay to the south of the City, overlooking the river. It was in command of a doubting major of ordnance; the corps of officers of Jefferson Barracks hard by was mottled with secession. Trade was still. The Mississippi below was practically closed. In all the South, Pickens and Sumter alone stood stanch to the flag. A general, wearing the uniform of the army of the United States, surrendered the whole state of Texas.
The St. Louis Arsenal was next in succession, and the little band of regulars at the Barracks was powerless to save it. What could the Leader and Captain Lyon do without troops? That was the question that rang in Stephen's head, and in the heads of many others. For, if President Lincoln sent troops to St. Louis, that would precipitate the trouble. And the President had other uses for the handful in the army.
There came a rain-sodden night when a mysterious message arrived at the little house in Olive Street. Both anxiety and pride were in Mrs. Brice's eyes as they followed her son out of the door. At Twelfth Street two men were lounging on the corners, each of whom glanced at him listessly as he passed. He went up a dark and narrow stair into a lighted hall with shrouded windows. Men with sober faces were forming line on the sawdust of the floors. The Leader was there giving military orders in a low voice. That marked the beginning of the aggressive Union movement.
Stephen, standing apart at the entrance, remarked that many of the men were Germans. Indeed, he spied his friend Tiefel there, and presently Richter came from the ranks to greet him.
“My friend,” he said, “you are made second lieutenant of our company, the Black Jaegers.”
“But I have never drilled in my life,” said Stephen.
“Never mind. Come and see the Leader.”
The Leader, smiling a little, put a vigorous stop to his protestations, and told him to buy a tactics. The next man Stephen saw was big Tom Catherwood, who blushed to the line of his hair as he returned Stephen's grip.
“Tom, what does this mean?” He asked.
“Well,” said Tom, embarrassed, “a fellow has got to do what he think's right.”
“And your family?” asked Stephen.
A spasm crossed Tom's face.
“I reckon they'll disown me, Stephen, when they find it out.”
Richter walked home as far as Stephen's house. He was to take the Fifth Street car for South St. Louis. And they talked of Tom's courage, and of the broad and secret military organization the Leader had planned that night. But Stephen did not sleep till the dawn. Was he doing right? Could he afford to risk his life in the war that was coming, and leave his mother dependent upon charity?
It was shortly after this that Stephen paid his last visit for many a long day upon Miss Puss Russell. It was a Sunday afternoon, and Puss was entertaining, as usual, a whole parlor-full of young men, whose leanings and sympathies Stephen divined while taking off his coat in the hall. Then he heard Miss Russell cry:
“I believe that they are drilling those nasty Dutch hirelings in secret.”
“I am sure they are,” said George Catherwood. “One of the halls is on Twelfth Street, and they have sentries posted out so that you can't get near them. Pa has an idea that Tom goes there. And he told him that if he ever got evidence of it, he'd show him the door.”
“Do you really think that Tom is with the Yankees?” asked Jack Brinsmade.
“Tom's a fool,” said George, with emphasis, “but he isn't a coward. He'd just as soon tell Pa to-morrow that he was drilling if the Yankee leaders wished it known.”
“Virginia will never speak to him again,” said Eugenie, in an awed voice.
“Pooh!” said Puss, “Tom never had a chance with Jinny. Did he, George? Clarence is in high favor now. Did you ever know any one to change so, since this military business has begun? He acts like a colonel. I hear that they are thinking of making him captain of a company of dragoons.”
“They are,” George answered. “And that is the company I intend to join.”
“Well,” began Puss, with her usual recklessness, “it's a good thing for Clarence that all this is happening. I know somebody else—”
Poor Stephen in the hall knew not whether to stay or fly. An accident decided the question. Emily Russell came down the stairs at that instant and spoke to him. As the two entered the parlor, there was a hush pregnant with many things unsaid. Puss's face was scarlet, but her hand was cold as she held it out to him. For the first time in that house he felt like an intruder. Jack Brinsmade bowed with great ceremony, and took his departure. There was scarcely a distant cordiality in the greeting of the other young men. And Puss, whose tongue was loosed again, talked rapidly of entertainments to which Stephen either had not been invited, or from which he had stayed away. The rest of the company were almost moodily silent.
Profoundly depressed, Stephen sat straight in the velvet chair, awaiting a seasonable time to bring his visit to a close.
This was to be the last, then, of his intercourse with a warmhearted and lovable people. This was to be the end of his friendship with this impetuous and generous girl who had done so much to brighten his life since he had come to St: Louis. Henceforth this house would be shut to him, and all others save Mr. Brinsmade's.
Presently, in one of the intervals of Miss Russell's feverish talk, he rose to go. Dusk was gathering, and a deep and ominous silence penetrated like the shadows into the tall room. No words came to him. Impulsively, almost tearfully, Puss put her hand in his. Then she pressed it unexpectedly, so that he had to gulp down a lump that was in his throat. Just then a loud cry was heard from without, the men jumped from their chairs, and something heavy dropped on the carpet.
Some ran to the window, others to the door. Directly across the street was the house of Mr. Harmsworth, a noted Union man. One of the third story windows was open, and out of it was pouring a mass of gray wood smoke. George Catherwood was the first to speak.
“I hope it will burn down,” he cried.
Stephen picked up the object on the floor, which had dropped from his pocket, and handed it to him.
It was a revolver.
Volume 5.
CHAPTER XVI. THE GUNS OF SUMTER
Winter had vanished. Spring was come with a hush. Toward a little island set in the blue waters of Charleston harbor anxious eyes were strained.
Was the flag still there?
God alone may count the wives and mothers who listened in the still hours of the night for the guns of Sumter. One sultry night in April Stephen's mother awoke with fear in her heart, for she had heard them. Hark! that is the roar now, faint but sullen. That is the red flash far across the black Southern sky. For in our beds are the terrors and cruelties of life revealed to us. There is a demon to be faced, and nought alone.
Mrs. Brice was a brave woman. She walked that night with God.
Stephen, too, awoke. The lightning revealed her as she bent over him. On the wings of memory be flew back to his childhood in the great Boston house with the rounded front, and he saw the nursery with its high windows looking out across the Common. Often in the dark had she come to him thus, her gentle hand passing over aim to feel if he were covered.
“What is it, mother?” he said.
She said: “Stephen, I am afraid that the war has come.”
He sat up, blindly. Even he did not guess the agony in her heart.
“You will have to go, Stephen.”
It was long before his answer came.
“You know that I cannot, mother. We have nothing left but the little I earn. And if I were—” He did not finish the sentence, for he felt her trembling. But she said again, with that courage which seems woman's alone:
“Remember Wilton Brice. Stephen—I can get along. I can sew.”
It was the hour he had dreaded, stolen suddenly upon him out of the night. How many times had he rehearsed this scene to himself! He, Stephen Brice, who had preached and slaved and drilled for the Union, a renegade to be shunned by friend and foe alike! He had talked for his country, but he would not risk his life for it. He heard them repeating the charge. He saw them passing him silently on the street. Shamefully he remembered the time, five months agone, when he had worn the very uniform of his Revolutionary ancestor. And high above the tier of his accusers he saw one face, and the look of it stung to the very quick of his soul.
Before the storm he had fallen asleep in sheer weariness of the struggle, that face shining through the black veil of the darkness. If he were to march away in the blue of his country (alas, not of hers!) she would respect him for risking life for conviction. If he stayed at home, she would not understand. It was his plain duty to his mother. And yet he knew that Virginia Carvel and the women like her were ready to follow with bare feet the march of the soldiers of the South.
The rain was come now, in a flood. Stephen's mother could not see in the blackness the bitterness on his face. Above the roar of the waters she listened for his voice.
“I will not go, mother,” he said. “If at length every man is needed, that will be different.”
“It is for you to decide, my son,” she answered. “There are many ways in which you can serve your country here. But remember that you may have to face hard things.”
“I have had to do that before, mother,” he replied calmly. “I cannot leave you dependent upon charity.”
She went back into her room to pray, for she knew that he had laid his ambition at her feet.
It was not until a week later that the dreaded news came. All through the Friday shells had rained on the little fort while Charleston looked on. No surrender yet. Through a wide land was that numbness which precedes action. Force of habit sent men to their places of business, to sit idle. A prayerful Sunday intervened. Sumter had fallen. South Carolina had shot to bits the flag she had once revered.
On the Monday came the call of President Lincoln for volunteers. Missouri was asked for her quota. The outraged reply of her governor went back,—never would she furnish troops to invade her sister states. Little did Governor Jackson foresee that Missouri was to stand fifth of all the Union in the number of men she was to give. To her was credited in the end even more men than stanch Massachusetts.
The noise of preparation was in the city—in the land. On the Monday morning, when Stephen went wearily to the office, he was met by Richter at the top of the stairs, who seized his shoulders and looked into his face. The light of the zealot was on Richter's own.
“We shall drill every night now, my friend, until further orders. It is the Leader's word. Until we go to the front, Stephen, to put down rebellion.” Stephen sank into a chair, and bowed his head. What would he think,—this man who had fought and suffered and renounced his native land for his convictions? Who in this nobler allegiance was ready to die for them? How was he to confess to Richter, of all men?
“Carl,” he said at length, “I—I cannot go.”
“You—you cannot go? You who have done so much already! And why?”
Stephen did not answer. But Richter, suddenly divining, laid his hands impulsively on Stephen's shoulders.
“Ach, I see,” he said. “Stephen, I have saved some money. It shall be for your mother while you are away.”
At first Stephen was too surprised for speech. Then, in spite of his feelings, he stared at the German with a new appreciation of his character. Then he could merely shake his head.
“Is it not for the Union?” implored Richter, “I would give a fortune, if I had it. Ah, my friend, that would please me so. And I do not need the money now. I 'have—nobody.”
Spring was in the air; the first faint smell of verdure wafted across the river on the wind. Stephen turned to the open window, tears of intense agony in his eyes. In that instant he saw the regiment marching, and the flag flying at its head.
“It is my duty to stay here, Carl,” he said brokenly.
Richter took an appealing step toward him and stopped. He realized that with this young New Englander a decision once made was unalterable. In all his knowledge of Stephen he never remembered him to change. With the demonstrative sympathy of his race, he yearned to comfort him, and knew not how. Two hundred years of Puritanism had reared barriers not to be broken down.
At the end of the office the stern figure of the Judge appeared.
“Mr. Brice!” he said sharply.
Stephen followed him into the littered room behind the ground glass door, scarce knowing what to expect,—and scarce caring, as on that first day he had gone in there. Mr. Whipple himself closed the door, and then the transom. Stephen felt those keen eyes searching him from their hiding-place.
“Mr. Brice,” he said at last, “the President has called for seventy-five thousand volunteers to crush this rebellion. They will go, and be swallowed up, and more will go to fill their places. Mr. Brice, people will tell you that the war will be over in ninety days. But I tell you, sir, that it will not be over in seven times ninety days.” He brought down his fist heavily upon the table. “This, sir, will be a war to the death. One side or the other will fight until their blood is all let, and until their homes are all ruins.” He darted at Stephen one look from under those fierce eyebrows. “Do you intend to go sir?”
Stephen met the look squarely. “No, sir,” he answered, steadily, “not now.”
“Humph,” said the Judge. Then he began what seemed a never-ending search among the papers on his desk. At length he drew out a letter, put on his spectacles and read it, and finally put it down again.
“Stephen,” said Mr. Whipple, “you are doing a courageous thing. But if we elect to follow our conscience in this world, we must not expect to escape persecution, sir. Two weeks ago,” he continued slowly, “two weeks ago I had a letter from Mr. Lincoln about matters here. He mentions you.”
“He remembers me!” cried Stephen
The Judge smiled a little. “Mr. Lincoln never forgets any one,” said he. “He wishes me to extend to you his thanks for your services to the Republican party, and sends you his kindest regards.”
This was the first and only time that Mr. Whipple spoke to him of his labors. Stephen has often laughed at this since, and said that he would not have heard of them at all had not the Judge's sense of duty compelled him to convey the message. And it was with a lighter heart than he had felt for many a day that he went out of the door.
Some weeks later, five regiments were mustered into the service of the United States. The Leader was in command of one. And in response to his appeals, despite the presence of officers of higher rank, the President had given Captain Nathaniel Lyon supreme command in Missouri.
Stephen stood among the angry, jeering crowd that lined the streets as the regiments marched past. Here were the 'Black Jaegers.' No wonder the crowd laughed. Their step was not as steady, nor their files as straight as Company A. There was Richter, his head high, his blue eyes defiant. And there was little Tiefel marching in that place of second lieutenant that Stephen himself should have filled. Here was another company, and at the end of the first four, big Tom Catherwood. His father had disowned him the day before, His two brothers, George and little Spencer, were in a house not far away—a house from which a strange flag drooped.
Clouds were lowering over the city, and big drops falling, as Stephen threaded his way homeward, the damp anal gloom of the weather in his very soul. He went past the house where the strange flag hung against its staff In that big city it flaunted all unchallenged. The house was thrown wide open that day, and in its window lounged young men of honored families. And while they joked of German boorishness and Yankee cowardice they held rifles across their knees to avenge any insult to the strange banner that they had set up. In the hall, through the open doorway, the mouth of a shotted field gun could be seen. The guardians were the Minute Men, organized to maintain the honor and dignity of the state of Missouri.
Across the street from the house was gathered a knot of curious people, and among these Stephen paused. Two young men were standing on the steps, and one was Clarence Colfax. His hands were in his pockets, and a careless, scornful smile was on his face when he glanced down into the street. Stephen caught that smile. Anger swept over him in a hot flame, as at the slave auction years agone. That was the unquenchable fire of the war. The blood throbbed in his temples as his feet obeyed,—and yet he stopped.
What right had he to pull down that flag, to die on the pavement before that house?
CHAPTER XVII. CAMP JACKSON
What enthusiasm on that gusty Monday morning, the Sixth of May, 1861! Twelfth Street to the north of the Market House is full three hundred feet across, and the militia of the Sovereign State of Missouri is gathering there. Thence by order of her Governor they are to march to Camp Jackson for a week of drill and instruction.
Half a mile nearer the river, on the house of the Minute Men, the strange flag leaps wildly in the wind this day.
On Twelfth Street the sun is shining, drums are beating, and bands are playing, and bright aides dashing hither and thither on spirited chargers. One by one the companies are marching up, and taking place in line; the city companies in natty gray fatigue, the country companies often in their Sunday clothes. But they walk with heads erect and chests out, and the ladies wave their gay parasols and cheer them. Here are the aristocratic St. Louis Grays, Company A; there come the Washington Guards and Washington Blues, and Laclede Guards and Missouri Guards and Davis Guards. Yes, this is Secession Day, this Monday. And the colors are the Stars and Stripes and the Arms of Missouri crossed.
What are they waiting for? Why don't they move? Hark! A clatter and a cloud of dust by the market place, an ecstasy of cheers running in waves the length of the crowd. Make way for the dragoons! Here they come at last, four and four, the horses prancing and dancing and pointing quivering ears at the tossing sea of hats and parasols and ribbons. Maude Catherwood squeezes Virginia's arm. There, riding in front, erect and firm in the saddle, is Captain Clarence Colfax. Virginia is red and white, and red again,—true colors of the Confederacy. How proud she was of him now! How ashamed that she even doubted him! Oh, that was his true calling, a soldier's life. In that moment she saw him at the head of armies, from the South, driving the Yankee hordes northward and still northward until the roar of the lakes warns them of annihilation. She saw his chivalry sparing them. Yes, this is Secession Monday.
Down to a trot they slow, Clarence's black thorough-bred arching his long neck, proud as his master of the squadron which follows, four and four. The square young man of bone and sinew in the first four, whose horse is built like a Crusader's, is George Catherwood. And Eugenie gives a cry and points to the rear where Maurice is riding.
Whose will be the Arsenal now? Can the Yankee regiments with their slouchy Dutchmen hope to capture it! If there are any Yankees in Twelfth Street that day, they are silent. Yes, there are some. And there are some, even in the ranks of this Militia—who will fight for the Union. These are sad indeed.
There is another wait, the companies standing at ease. Some of the dragoons dismount, but not the handsome young captain, who rides straight to the bright group which has caught his eye, Colonel Carvel wrings his gauntleted hand.
“Clarence, we are proud of you, sir,” he says.
And Virginia, repeats his words, her eyes sparkling, her fingers caressing the silken curve of Jefferson's neck.
“Clarence, you will drive Captain Lyon and his Hessians into the river.”
“Hush, Jinny,” he answered, “we are merely going into camp to learn to drill, that we may be ready to defend the state when the time comes.”
Virginia laughed. “I had forgotten,” she said.
“You will have your cousin court-martialed, my dear,” said the Colonel.
Just then the call is sounded. But he must needs press Virginia's hand first, and allow admiring Maude and Eugenie to press his. Then he goes off at a slow canter to join his dragoons, waving his glove at them, and turning to give the sharp order, “Attention”! to his squadron.
Virginia is deliriously happy. Once more she has swept from her heart every vestige of doubt. Now is Clarence the man she can admire. Chosen unanimously captain of the Squadron but a few days since, Clarence had taken command like a veteran. George Catherwood and Maurice had told the story.
And now at last the city is to shake off the dust of the North. “On to Camp Jackson!” was the cry. The bands are started, the general and staff begin to move, and the column swings into the Olive Street road, followed by a concourse of citizens awheel and afoot, the horse cars crowded. Virginia and Maude and the Colonel in the Carvel carriage, and behind Ned, on the box, is their luncheon in a hamper Standing up, the girls can just see the nodding plumes of the dragoons far to the front.
Olive Street, now paved with hot granite and disfigured by trolley wires, was a country road then. Green trees took the place of crowded rows of houses and stores, and little “bob-tail” yellow cars were drawn by plodding mules to an inclosure in a timbered valley, surrounded by a board fence, known as Lindell Grove. It was then a resort, a picnic ground, what is now covered by close residences which have long shown the wear of time.
Into Lindell Grove flocked the crowd, the rich and the poor, the proprietor and the salesmen, to watch the soldiers pitch their tents under the spreading trees. The gallant dragoons were off to the west, across a little stream which trickled through the grounds. By the side of it Virginia and Maude, enchanted, beheld Captain Colfax shouting his orders while his troopers dragged the canvas from the wagons, and staggered under it to the line. Alas! that the girls were there! The Captain lost his temper, his troopers, perspiring over Gordian knots in the ropes, uttered strange soldier oaths, while the mad wind which blew that day played a hundred pranks.
To the discomfiture of the young ladies, Colonel Carvel pulled his goatee and guffawed. Virginia was for moving away.
“How mean, Pa,” she said indignantly. “How car, you expect them to do it right the first day, and in this wind?”
“Oh! Jinny, look at Maurice!” exclaimed Maude, giggling. “He is pulled over on his head.”
The Colonel roared. And the gentlemen and ladies who were standing by laughed, too. Virginia did not laugh. It was all too serious for her.
“You will see that they can fight,” she said. “They can beat the Yankees and Dutch.”
This speech made the Colonel glance around him: Then he smiled,—in response to other smiles.
“My dear,” he said, “you must remember that this is a peaceable camp of instruction of the state militia. There fly the Stars and Stripes from the general's tent. Do you see that they are above the state flag? Jinny; you forget yourself.”
Jinny stamped her foot
“Oh, I hate dissimulation,” she cried, “Why can't we, say outright that we are going to run that detestable Captain Lyon and his Yankees and Hessians out of the Arsenal.”
“Why not, Colonel Carvel?” cried Maude. She had forgotten that one of her brothers was with the Yankees and Hessians.
“Why aren't women made generals and governors?” said the Colonel.
“If we were,” answered Virginia, “something might be accomplished.”
“Isn't Clarence enough of a fire-eater to suit you?” asked her father.
But the tents were pitched, and at that moment the young Captain was seen to hand over his horse to an orderly, and to come toward them. He was followed by George Catherwood.
“Come, Jinny,” cried her cousin, “let us go over to the main camp.”
“And walk on Davis Avenue,” said Virginia, flushing with pride. “Isn't there a Davis Avenue?”
“Yes, and a Lee Avenue, and a Beauregard Avenue,” said George, taking his sister's arm.
“We shall walk in them all,” said Virginia.
What a scene of animation it was. The rustling trees and the young grass of early May, and the two hundred and forty tents in lines of military precision. Up and down the grassy streets flowed the promenade, proud fathers and mothers, and sweethearts and sisters and wives in gala dress. Wear your bright gowns now, you devoted women. The day is coming when you will make them over and over again, or tear them to lint, to stanch the blood of these young men who wear their new gray so well.
Every afternoon Virginia drove with her father and her aunt to Camp Jackson. All the fashion and beauty of the city were there. The bands played, the black coachmen flecked the backs of their shining horses, and walking in the avenues or seated under the trees were natty young gentlemen in white trousers and brass-buttoned jackets. All was not soldier fare at the regimental messes. Cakes and jellies and even ices and more substantial dainties were laid beneath those tents. Dress parade was one long sigh of delight: Better not to have been born than to have been a young man in St. Louis, early in Camp Jackson week, and not be a militiaman.
One young man whom we know, however, had little of pomp and vanity about him,—none other than the young manager (some whispered “silent partner”) of Carvel & Company. If Mr. Eliphalet had had political ambition, or political leanings, during the half-year which had just passed, he had not shown them. Mr. Cluyme (no mean business man himself) had pronounced Eliphalet a conservative young gentleman who attended to his own affairs and let the mad country take care of itself. This is precisely the wise course Mr. Hopper chose. Seeing a regiment of Missouri Volunteers slouching down Fifth street in citizens' clothes he had been remarked to smile cynically. But he kept his opinions so close that he was supposed not to have any.
On Thursday of Camp Jackson week, an event occurred in Mr. Carvel's store which excited a buzz of comment. Mr. Hopper announced to Mr. Barbo, the book-keeper, that he should not be there after four o'clock. To be sure, times were more than dull. The Colonel that morning had read over some two dozen letters from Texas and the Southwest, telling of the impossibility of meeting certain obligations in the present state of the country. The Colonel had gone home to dinner with his brow furrowed. On the other hand, Mr. Hopper's equanimity was spoken of at the widow's table.
At four o'clock, Mr. Hopper took an Olive Street car, tucking himself into the far corner where he would not be disturbed by any ladies who might enter. In the course of an hour or so, he alighted at the western gate of the camp on the Olive Street road. Refreshing himself with a little tobacco, he let himself be carried leisurely by the crowd between the rows of tents. A philosophy of his own (which many men before and since have adopted) permitted him to stare with a superior good nature at the open love-making around him. He imagined his own figure,—which was already growing a little stout,—in a light gray jacket and duck trousers, and laughed. Eliphalet was not burdened with illusions of that kind. These heroes might have their hero-worship. Life held something dearer for him.
As he was sauntering toward a deserted seat at the foot of a tree, it so chanced that he was overtaken by Mr. Cluyme and his daughter Belle. Only that morning, this gentleman, in glancing through the real estate column of his newspaper, had fallen upon a deed of sale which made him wink. He reminded his wife that Mr. Hopper had not been to supper of late. So now Mr. Cluyme held out his hand with more than common cordiality. When Mr. Hopper took it, the fingers did not close any too tightly over his own. But it may be well to remark that Mr. Hopper himself did not do any squeezing. He took off his hat grudgingly to Miss Belle. He had never liked the custom.
“I hope you will take pot luck with us soon again, Mr. Hopper,” said the elder gentleman. “We only have plain and simple things, but they are wholesome, sir. Dainties are poor things to work on. I told that to his Royal Highness when he was here last fall. He was speaking to me on the merits of roast beef—”
“It's a fine day,” said Mr. Hopper.
“So it is,” Mr. Cluyme assented. Letting his gaze wander over the camp, he added casually, “I see that they have got a few mortars and howitzers since yesterday. I suppose that is the stuff we heard so much about, which came on the 'Swon' marked 'marble.' They say Jeff Davis sent the stuff to 'em from the Government arsenal the Secesh captured at Baton Rouge. They're pretty near ready to move on our arsenal now.”
Mr. Hopper listened with composure. He was not greatly interested in this matter which had stirred the city to the quick. Neither had Mr. Cluyme spoken as one who was deeply moved. Just then, as if to spare the pains of a reply, a “Jenny Lind” passed them. Miss Belle recognized the carriage immediately as belonging to an elderly lady who was well known in St. Louis. Every day she drove out, dressed in black bombazine, and heavily veiled. But she was blind. As the mother-in-law of the stalwart Union leader of the city, Miss Belle's comment about her appearance in Camp Jackson was not out of place.
“Well!” she exclaimed, “I'd like to know what she's doing here!”
Mr. Hopper's answer revealed a keenness which, in the course of a few days, engendered in Mr. Cluyme as lusty a respect as he was capable of.
“I don't know,” said Eliphalet; “but I cal'late she's got stouter.”
“What do you mean by that?” Miss Belle demanded.
“That Union principles must be healthy,” said he, and laughed.
Miss Cluyme was prevented from following up this enigma. The appearance of two people on Davis Avenue drove the veiled lady from her mind. Eliphalet, too, had seen them. One was the tall young Captain of Dragoons, in cavalry boots, and the other a young lady with dark brown hair, in a lawn dress.
“Just look at them!” cried Miss Belle. “They think they are alone in the garden of Eden. Virginia didn't use to care for him. But since he's a captain, and has got a uniform, she's come round pretty quick. I'm thankful I never had any silly notions about uniforms.”
She glanced at Eliphalet, to find that his eyes were fixed on the approaching couple.
“Clarence is handsome, but worthless,” she continued in her sprightly way. “I believe Jinny will be fool enough to marry him. Do you think she's so very pretty, Mr. Hopper?”
Mr. Hopper lied.
“Neither do I,” Miss Belle assented. And upon that, greatly to the astonishment of Eliphalet, she left him and ran towards them. “Virginia!” she cried; “Jinny, I have something so interesting to tell you!”
Virginia turned impatiently. The look she bestowed upon Miss Cluyme was not one of welcome, but Belle was not sensitive. Putting her arm through Virginia's, she sauntered off with the pair toward the parade grounds, Clarence maintaining now a distance of three feet, and not caring to hide his annoyance.
Eliphalet's eyes smouldered, following the three until they were lost in the crowd. That expression of Virginia's had reminded him of a time, years gone, when she had come into the store on her return from Kentucky, and had ordered him to tell her father of her arrival. He had smarted then. And Eliphalet was not the sort to get over smarts.
“A beautiful young lady,” remarked Mr. Cluyme. “And a deserving one, Mr. Hopper. Now, she is my notion of quality. She has wealth, and manners, and looks. And her father is a good man. Too bad he holds such views on secession. I have always thought, sir, that you were singularly fortunate in your connection with him.”
There was a point of light now in each of Mr. Hopper's green eyes. But Mr. Cluyme continued:
“What a pity, I say, that he should run the risk of crippling himself by his opinions. Times are getting hard.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Hopper.
“And southwestern notes are not worth the paper they are written on—”
But Mr. Cluyme has misjudged his man. If he had come to Eliphalet for information of Colonel Carvel's affairs, or of any one else's affairs, he was not likely to get it. It is not meet to repeat here the long business conversation which followed. Suffice it to say that Mr. Cluyme, who was in dry goods himself, was as ignorant when he left Eliphalet as when he met him. But he had a greater respect than ever for the shrewdness of the business manager of Carvel & Company.
That same Thursday, when the first families of the city were whispering jubilantly in each other's ears of the safe arrival of the artillery and stands of arms at Camp Jackson, something of significance was happening within the green inclosure of the walls of the United States arsenal, far to the southward.
The days had become alike in sadness to Stephen. Richter gone, and the Judge often away in mysterious conference, he was left for hours at a spell the sole tenant of the office. Fortunately there was work of Richter's and of Mr. Whipple's left undone that kept him busy. This Thursday morning, however, he found the Judge getting into that best black coat which he wore on occasions. His manner had recently lost much of its gruffness.
“Stephen,” said he, “they are serving out cartridges and uniforms to the regiments at the arsenal. Would you like to go down with me?”
“Does that mean Camp Jackson?” asked Stephen, when they had reached the street.
“Captain Lyon is not the man to sit still and let the Governor take the first trick, sir,” said the Judge.
As they got on the Fifth Street car, Stephen's attention was at once attracted to a gentleman who sat in a corner, with his children about him. He was lean, and he had a face of great keenness and animation. He had no sooner spied Judge Whipple than he beckoned to him with a kind of military abruptness.
“That is Major William T. Sherman,” said the Judge to Stephen. “He used to be in the army, and fought in the Mexican War. He came here two months ago to be the President of this Fifth Street car line.”
They crossed over to him, the Judge introducing Stephen to Major Sherman, who looked at him very hard, and then decided to bestow on him a vigorous nod.
“Well, Whipple,” he said, “this nation is going to the devil; eh?”
Stephen could not resist a smile. For it was a bold man who expressed radical opinions (provided they were not Southern opinions) in a St. Louis street car early in '61.
The Judge shook his head. “We may pull out,” he said.
“Pull out!” exclaimed Mr. Sherman. “Who's man enough in Washington to shake his fist in a rebel's face? Our leniency—our timidity—has paralyzed us, sir.”
By this time those in the car began to manifest considerable interest in the conversation. Major Sherman paid them no attention, and the Judge, once launched in an argument, forgot his surroundings.
“I have faith in Mr. Lincoln. He is calling out volunteers.”
“Seventy-five thousand for three months!” said the Major, vehemently, “a bucketful on a conflagration I tell you, Whipple, we'll need all the water we've got in the North.”
The Judge expressed his belief in this, and also that Mr. Lincoln would draw all the water before he got through.
“Upon my soul,” said Mr. Sherman, “I'm disgusted. Now's the time to stop 'em. The longer we let 'em rear and kick, the harder to break 'em. You don't catch me going back to the army for three months. If they want me, they've got to guarantee me three years. That's more like it.” Turning to Stephen, he added: “Don't you sign any three months' contract, young man.”
Stephen grew red. By this time the car was full, and silent. No one had offered to quarrel with the Major. Nor did it seem likely that any one would.
“I'm afraid I can't go, sir.”
“Why not?” demanded Mr. Sherman.
“Because, sir,” said the Judge, bluntly, “his mother's a widow, and they have no money. He was a lieutenant in one of Blair's companies before the call came.”
The Major looked at Stephen, and his expression changed.
“Find it pretty hard?” he asked.
Stephen's expression must have satisfied him, but he nodded again, more vigorously than before.
“Just you WAIT, Mr. Brice,” he said. “It won't hurt you any.”
Stephen was grateful. But he hoped to fall out of the talk. Much to his discomfiture, the Major gave him another of those queer looks. His whole manner, and even his appearance, reminded Stephen strangely of Captain Elijah Brent.
“Aren't you the young man who made the Union speech in Mercantile Library Hall?”
“Yes, sir,” said the Judge. “He is.”
At that the Major put out his hand impulsively, and gripped Stephen's.
“Well, sir,” he said, “I have yet to read a more sensible speech, except some of Abraham Lincoln's. Brinsmade gave it to me to read. Whipple, that speech reminded me of Lincoln. It was his style. Where did you get it, Mr. Brice?” he demanded.
“I heard Mr. Lincoln's debate with Judge Douglas at 'Freeport,” said Stephen; beginning to be amused.
The Major laughed.
“I admire your frankness, sir,” he said. “I meant to say that its logic rather than its substance reminded one of Lincoln.”
“I tried to learn what I could from him, Major Sherman.”
At length the car stopped, and they passed into the Arsenal grounds. Drawn up in lines on the green grass were four regiments, all at last in the blue of their country's service. Old soldiers with baskets of cartridges were stepping from file to file, giving handfuls to the recruits. Many of these thrust them in their pockets, for there were not enough belts to go around. The men were standing at ease, and as Stephen saw them laughing and joking lightheartedly his depression returned. It was driven away again by Major Sherman's vivacious comments. For suddenly Captain Lyon, the man of the hour, came into view.
“Look at him!” cried the Major, “he's a man after my own heart. Just look at him running about with his hair flying in the wind, and the papers bulging from his pockets. Not dignified, eh, Whipple? But this isn't the time to be dignified. If there were some like Lyon in Washington, our troops would be halfway to New Orleans by this time. Don't talk to me of Washington! Just look at him!”
The gallant Captain was a sight, indeed, and vividly described by Major Sherman's picturesque words as he raced from regiment to regiment, and from company to company, with his sandy hair awry, pointing, gesticulating, commanding. In him Stephen recognized the force that had swept aside stubborn army veterans of wavering faith, that snapped the tape with which they had tied him.
Would he be duped by the Governor's ruse of establishing a State Camp at this time? Stephen, as he gazed at him, was sure that he would not. This man could see to the bottom, through every specious argument. Little matters of law and precedence did not trouble him. Nor did he believe elderly men in authority when they told gravely that the state troops were there for peace.
After the ranks were broken, Major Sherman and the Judge went to talk to Captain Lyon and the Union Leader, who was now a Colonel of one of the Volunteer regiments. Stephen sought Richter, who told him that the regiments were to assemble the morning of the morrow, prepared to march.
“To Camp Jackson?” asked Stephen.
Richter shrugged his shoulders.
“We are not consulted, my friend,” he said. “Will you come into my quarters and have a bottle of beer with Tiefel?”
Stephen went. It was not their fault that his sense at their comradeship was gone. To him it was as if the ties that had bound him to them were asunder, and he was become an outcast.