CHAPTER I.
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“Hi! Dat good un! Bully for de 'federates, dis
chile say. Dey's showed deyse'fs out now! Cut um
stick in de night, eh, an' put! Jes' like de wicked flea in
de Bible dat no one wan't a tryin' fer to cotch. Golly,
I wish I'd got de rebel flea 'tween dis yer finger an'
fum! Wouldn' I crack um 'bout de shortes'? An' de
Yankees got dar umformation from a 'telligent conterban',
did dey? Wish't I know'd dat 'telligent feller! I'd like'
o shake um paw, an' gib um a chaw ob ole Varginny for
de sarvice he done to ebery nigger in de Souf w'en he
help de Yankees. Wish't I was in his brogans, — reckon
dey wouldn' fin' no 'telligenter nor no willin'er conterban'
dan ole Pic ud make ef he got de chance fer ter show
um sentermen's; but de trouble wid dis yer nigger is, him
candle's got a bushel basket atop ob um, an' de Bible
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hese'f say dat dat ar' ain't no kin' ob a fashion. Bud ef de
Yankees 'ud come an' kick off de ole basket—golly,
what a confurgation o' smartness 'ud bust on dey eyesight!”
“Then you believe in the Yankees, Pic, and would like
to help them?” said a low voice.
“O Lordy, what dat? Golly, mas'r, whar be you?
Hebenly Marster, I's a gone goose now! I warn't on'y
funnin', mas'r; kin' o' makin' b'lieve, yer know!” stammered
the negro, springing from the feeding-trough,
where he was sitting, and hastily cramming the torn
newspaper he had been reading into the pocket of his
Osnaburgs.
“Whar be you, den, any way, mas'r?” continued he,
a little more stoutly, as his great eyes, rolling wildly from
floor to scaffold, from scaffold to beam, and thence into
the very pitch of the roof, failed to discover any occupant
of the room besides himself and Dolly the cow.
“Wha' was it?” continued he in a lower tone, as his
first demand remained unanswered. “'Tain't de time o'
day for ghos'esses nor brownies; dey all takin' dey morn
in' nap, an' sleepin' off dey night's doin's. Mabbe 'twas
ole Nick hese'f, on'y I 'spected he wor too busy takin'
care o' de 'federacy to bodder he horns 'bout one ole
nigger like dis yer.”
“No; he has a little time left for you, Pic,” returned
the same sepulchral voice, although the speaker still
remained invisible.
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“I's powerful sorry to hear dat ar news,” retorted the
negro, recovering a little of his native audacity through
the very extremity of his terror.
“We was in hopes, now he'd got dis new handle ter
work wid, he wor gwine to let de niggers alone, an' let'
um try to he'p deyse'fs out o' de fix he's got 'um inter.”
“It isn't old Nick's way to let go when he has once got
hold, Pic. But don't you want to see him? Shut your
eyes, and say, `Raw-head-and-bloody-bones, fee-faw-fum'
three times, and then look up in the mow just over your
own head.”
Picter, closing his eyes, repeated the formula to the best
of his ability, and then, opening them to twice their usual
size, rolled them toward the designated locality.
Peering over the edge of the hay appeared a white and
ghastly face, blood-stained and haggard, and closely
swathed in a white bandage. The expression was preternaturally
severe and solemn.
“Well, Pic, and what do you think of me?” inquired
the apparition, after a considerable pause.
“Golly, mas'r! I tink you isn' so brack as you's painted!”
ejaculated Pic, adding, with more assurance, “An'
I might ha' know'd you wasn', cause it say so in de
Bible.”
The grim visage suddenly relaxed into a hearty laugh.
“Bravo, Pic! I've always heard `the devil isn't as
black as he's painted,' but I never heard Scripture
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authority for it before. But now tell me, good fellow,” continued
the mysterious speaker, with some return of
anxiety in his voice, “can anybody overhear me but
yourself?”
“W'y, mas'r, dat hard question fer ter answer,” said
Pic, dubiously, while his wild eyes once more roamed
about the barn. “I t'ou't I was all 'lone jes' now, w'en
I sot down fer look inter de paper jes' a lilly minit.”
“And never knew I was listening to the whole story,
Pic?” put in the voice, more joyously. “Well, as far as
I know, there is no one else here.”
“'Less you's brung you sarvents 'long wid you,” suspiciously
suggested Pic. “S'pose dey's put dey bodies
in dey trousers' pockets jes' now, an' is unwisible.”
“O, my imps! Well, I'll promise they shan't trouble
you as long as you're a good Union man.”
“Dis yer de Sou'fern 'Federacy, mas'r,” said Pic cautiously;
for, as his belief in the stranger's human character
increased, his fears of him, as a possible spy, returned.
“I know that, you cunning old darkey, and I know,
too, your way of feeling about it. Didn't I just hear
your opinion of the result of our fight at Carnifex Ferry
the other day? and wasn't you just envying the contraband
who showed us the way through those confounded
mountain passes? Well, here's an opportunity for you
to rival him. I am a federal officer, wounded, and
taken prisoner at this very battle of Carnifex Ferry. I
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made my escape the second day after I was taken; but
I've lost my way, and wandered among the mountains
here for a week, I should think, until I'm starved, and
footsore, and used up generally. Last night I crept in
here for a sleep in your master's haymow; and just now,
after hearing you express your sentiments upon war matters
so frankly, it occurred to me you might like to help
me along a little. Should you mind, for instance, letting
me drink out of that pail of milk? I tried to get some
from the cow in the night; but I am afraid my education
in milking was neglected, for I couldn't get a drop, and
had to put up with a kick instead.”
Pic turned and looked reproachfully at Dolly. “Now
I alluz suspicioned dat ar' cow wor a kin' ob a rebel
beast,” said he. “Dere ain't no surer way fer to make
her ugly w'en you's a milkin' dan ter whistle Yankee
Doodle; bud ef yer pipe up Dixie, she'll let down as
good as gole. T'oder night I got so mad I licked her
wid thirteen stripes, an' den gib her thirteen punches wid
a hoe-handle, ter go fer stars; but I don' see as it done
any good.”
“You must try compromise. I'm afraid, Pic. But
now come up here, and we'll consult a little.”
While Pic clambers laboriously into the haymow, we
will cross the irregular space between the barn and the
rambling old farm-house to which it belonged, and make
some acquaintance with its inmates.
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The level rays of the morning sun, crowding through the
one eastern window, deluged the wide kitchen with light,
danced a little scornfully among the coarse breakfast
service upon the table, rioted gleefully in and out of Dora's
chestnut curls, as she knelt upon the hearth carefully
stirring the contents of the saucepan, and rested at last
with a loving radiance upon the pale fingers and smooth,
think locks of the invalid who reclined upon the couch
beside the fire.
“There, mother,” said the girl, as she started to her
feet, and carried the saucepan to the sink, “I reckon
you'll say your gruel is first rate to-day. There ain't a
lump in it.”
“You're a darling little nurse, Dora,” said Mrs. Darley,
while her eyes rested lovingly upon the straight,
firm figure and noble head of her daughter.
“Only twelve years old, but almost a woman for
strength and handiness,” murmured she, thoughtfully.
“What's that, mother?” asked Dora from the other
end of the room.
“Where did father and Tom go, Dora?” asked the
mother, faintly.
“Father went to mill with Whitefoot, and Tom went
up to the wood-lot with the oxen, to fetch home some
wood, — we've hardly a stick, — and Pic has got to reap
all day; we couldn't spare him, any way.”
“When will Tom come home?” inquired Mrs. Darley,
a little anxiously.
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“Not till night, I expect. It's a good distance, and
the oxen won't hurry much, you know. He took a luncheon
with him.”
“I'm sorry,” murmured the invalid.
“Why, mother? Do you want to see Tom?”
“Not just now; but I don't like to have him away
from home so far. I feel as if you'd ought to know, my
dear little girl, that your mother is going to leave you.
My strength fails all the time, and to-day I feel very low.
I can't tell just when it's coming, Dora; but I know it
will be soon; and I must bid you all good by first, or
I couldn't go happy.”
“Mother!” burst from the girl's lips, as she came hastily
to her side, and knelt to meet the offered embrace.
In a few moments, however, the self-restraint that circumstances
had imposed upon the child's habit until it
had become second nature, asserted itself, and Dora
gently extricated herself from her mother's arms, and
rose to her feet, saying, —
“You'll feel stronger, mammy dear, when you've had
something to eat. I'll bring the gruel.”
Then, after she had placed a chair and a pillow at her
mother's back, she brought the little tray, covered with a
damask napkin, and holding the one china cup and silver
spoon of the meagre household. Dora waited silently
until the invalid began to sip the delicate gruel with
apparent relish, and then she walked away to the
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window. In vain the gay sunshine beat upon the face now
turned toward it. A deadly pallor had killed the roses
on cheek and lip, and in the steadfast gray eyes lay a
depth of unchildish sorrow that no sunlight could soften
into soothing tears. This strange child, who never complained
and almost never wept, concealed a capacity of
suffering beneath that quiet exterior, unknown even to
the dying mother, who built so hopefully upon the undue
maturity of her darling's nature.
Dora, fighting desperately with this terrible new grief
that had so suddenly fallen upon her, did not notice,
although her eyes mechanically rested upon him, the
uncouth figure of a man, who, while limping across the
yard, vainly sought to attract her notice, and beckon her
to the outside of the house. This man was a middleaged
negro, intensely black, and most curiously misshapen, —
his right leg being an inch or more shorter
than the other, while the shoulder upon the same side of
his body was as much higher than the left, and all the
features on the right side of his face were comically
twisted upward. In fact, the idea suggested by the
whole figure was, that some giant, in a playful mood, had
seized it by the two feet, and, while pulling the left one
down, had pushed the right one up, giving an upward
tendency to that whole side of the body.
This strange being was named Epictetus; but this
name, too long for common use, had been shortened into
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Picter, and occasionally Pic. He was the sole retainer
of the house of Darley, and clung to its decaying fortunes
with the tenacity of his race and temperament.
Just now he was particularly desirous of a moment's
conversation with his young mistress before entering the
house; but, finding it impossible to attract her notice, he
limped on to the back door, and presently entered the
kitchen.
Dora, aroused by the click of the heavy latch, came
immediately to meet him, anxious to prevent his disturbing
her mother with questions or complaints; for Mrs.
Darley had steadfastly stood between the slave and many
a threatened injustice or cruelty on his master's part.
“What is it, Picter?” asked Dora, softly.
“O, Missy Dora, honey, what's you s'pose we's gwine
to do 'bout dis yer bizness?”
“What is it — what's the matter, Picter?”
“W'y, here's dis yer feller — wait now, lemme go ax
mist's 'bout it. She'll fix um better nor de Queen o'
Sheby could.”
“Well, there she is; but don't plague her about anything
that can be helped, Uncle Pic, for she's not so well
to-day.”
With these words, Dora abruptly turned away, and
began to clear the table, her lips assuming a painful
compression.
Picter pulled off his old straw hat, and coming close
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up to his mistress's couch, bent down and began to speak
to her in a low, agitated voice. As he proceeded, Mrs.
Darley also became moved, and presently called, —
“Dora!”
Dora came directly, and stood beside her mother,
smoothing her hair, and glancing rather reproachfully at
Picter, who had disturbed her thus.
“Dora, Picter says that there is a poor, wounded
Union soldier in the barn, who has got away from some
of the rebels, who had taken him prisoner, and is trying
to get back to his regiment. He hid himself in our barn
last night, and meant to stay there all day, but Picter
found him. He is very hungry and tired, and his wound
has never been done up, or anything. Isn't it dreadful,
Dora?”
“Yes, mother,” said the girl, in a low voice, while her
eyes brightened, and the color deepened on her cheek.
“But, mother, ain't you glad he came to us instead of
anywhere else about here?”
“Yes, dear child, we will do our very best for him;
I knew you would feel so,” said Mrs. Darley, answering
the meaning rather than the words of her daughter's remark.
“But you know,” added she, hesitatingly, “father
doesn't feel as we do about the war.”
Dora paused a moment, and then said, decidedly, —
“Well, mother, I feel the way you do about everything,
and the way you feel, is the right way.”
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Mrs. Darley looked relieved. She was not a strong
woman, either of body or mind, and this was by no
means the first time she had indirectly asked counsel of
her little daughter in the troubles that beset her life.
“Then, Picter,” said she, joyfully, “you may go and
bring him in.”
“I know'd you'd say it, mist's!” exclaimed the negro,
joyfully, as he stumped away through the back door.
“Now, Dora, go to my lower bureau-drawer, and get
that bundle of old linen at the right-hand end, and bring
the bottle of liniment from the cupboard. Now pour
some warm water into the wash-basin, and put it in the
sink, and bring a fine towel.”
“All ready, mother.”
“Smart girl! Well, next you may get him some
breakfast. Make a little fresh tea, and set out the cold
meat, and some bread and butter. Then boil a couple
of fresh eggs. Here he comes.”
The door opened, and Picter stood aside to allow the
stranger to enter first.
He was a tall, slender young man, or rather lad, for
he was but a little more than twenty years of age, with
a face that might be handsome, but was just now too
pale, and haggard, and blood-stained, for beauty. The
fair hair, too, was clotted and stiffened with blood, and
the white handkerchief bound about his head was soaked
with it. He wore the uniform of a federal officer; but
every garment was torn, soiled, and battle-stained.
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Mrs. Darley uttered a cry of dismay and pity. Dora
stood still and looked at him as she had looked at the
sun a half hour before. The young man advanced painfully,
but without embarrassment, to Mrs. Darley's couch.
“You are very good, madam,” said he, “to send for
me. I only asked some food, and leave to rest through
the day in your barn.”
“We would not leave you there. I have a son myself.
He may some day be in your case.”
“In the same good cause?” asked the soldier, with
animation.
Mrs. Darley shook her head sadly.
“I am afraid not. The border states are full of divided
households. The old Scripture curse has come upon us.”
“Pardon me,” said the young man, faintly, as he sank
into the chair offered by Picter. “It is very hard upon
you who lie as it were between the two armies.”
“God only knows how hard,” said Mrs. Darley,
mournfully. “But,” added she, immediately, “I am forgetting
all that I ought to remember first. There is
some water and a towel. You had better sit down, and
let my little girl take that handkerchief off your head,
and then, after you have bathed it, she will do it up with
some liniment. I am sure it will feel better for it. Then
you must have a good breakfast, and after that you had
better go to bed up stairs, and try to sleep till night.
After dark Picter will show you the road North, or
wherever you want to go.”
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The young man rose, and held out his hand to the
kind woman who thus endangered her own prosperity,
perhaps her life even, for a stranger and for his cause.
“I cannot thank you as I ought for this kindness,”
said he, in a broken voice. “But, if I ever see my
mother again, I shall tell her of you, and she shall thank
you as only she can. She would do as you are doing.”
“Some time perhaps she will,” said the invalid, feebly.
“Now, Dora, come and help the gentleman. She can
remove the bandage better than you can, sir, because
she can see it.”
In a short time, by the help of plenty of warm water,
soap, and a towel, the young stranger presented a much
less ghastly appearance; and when Dora had deftly
bound on the cool, clean bandage, soaked in healing liniment,
he declared that he felt himself a different man.
“Sit down now and eat,” said Mrs. Darley, smiling.
“Picter, you must go and keep watch round the house,
and if you see any one coming, let us know. Dora,
pour some tea for — what shall we call you, sir?”
“They call me Captain Karl at home,” said the young
man, laughing; “and perhaps I had better not tell you
any more of my name. So, if you are questioned about
me by my true title, you can say you never heard it.”
“Then, Captain Karl, sit down at the table, and help
yourself. I'm sorry we've nothing better to offer.”
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CHAPTER II.
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Picter, detailed by his mistress as a scout, went about
the duty somewhat unwillingly. He would have preferred
to lurk in the farther end of the great kitchen, and feast
his eyes and ears with the presence of the federal soldier,
whom he looked upon as in a large degree his own property
by right of discovery.
He found reason, however, to congratulate himself
upon his prompt obedience, when, in limping across the
yard toward the barn, he met a lank, ill-looking fellow,
by name Joe Sykes, coming out of it.
This Sykes was one of Mr. Darley's nearest neighbors,
and one of the bitterest rebels in the whole South. He
was also, as Picter well knew, a hard and cruel master to
his negroes and his family, and was consequently hated
by all the colored people within the circle of his reputation.
Although intimate with her husband, this man
was so displeasing to Mrs. Darley, that she had plainly
intimated to him that his presence was disagreeable, and
he now very rarely entered the house.
“Hallo, Pic,” growled this worthy gentleman, as the
negro approached. “Who've you got to your house?”
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“Got, Mas'r Sykes?” inquired Picter, with an air of
intense innocence. “We've got all de folks.”
“Is your master in?”
“Mas'r? Well, no, mas'r ain't in; but mist's and Missy
Dora dere. Mist's ain't bery well dis yer mornin', an'
she layin' abed. Got any arrand for her, Mas'r Sykes?”
“No,” snarled Sykes. “Who was that went across
from the barn to the house with you about ten minutes
ago, you black cuss?”
“'Bout ten minute ago,” repeated Picter, leaning on
the hoe he had been handling, and appearing to consider
the question very gravely. “Well, now, Mas'r Sykes,
you go agin larnin' niggers any sort o' ting, dey say.
Now, dat all right I s'pose, else Mas'r Sykes 'ouldn't go
fer it. But now jes see here, mas'r. Ef a nigger ain't
neber been taught nuffin', how's he gwine to tell nuffin'?”
“What do you mean, you old fool?”
“W'y, mas'r axes me who went crost dis yer yard 'bout
ten minute ago. Now, niggers hain't got no call to know
what's o'clock, yer den say; den how's dis nigger gwine
to know how much is ten minute?”
Mr. Sykes looked at the sable logician with a curious
expression of bewildered anger, but found no better reply
to make than an oath, which, being neither pleasing in
itself nor appropriate to the subject, we will omit.
“Who's in your house now, then?” asked Sykes,
angrily, after he had thus relieved his mind.
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“Well, dere's mist's. Now, Mas'r Sykes, I feel
worried 'bout mist's. She's mighty porely dese times.'
Pears like some days she gwine to drop right off de
hooks, an'—”
“Never mind your mistress, you blockhead; who's she
got with her?”
“Wid her. W'y, she got Missy Dora. Dat chile ain't
neber fur off from her mammy. Spee's dere ain't no
more sich gals 'bout here, any way. — What, is yer
gwine, Mas'r Sykes? Won't yer step in an' ax for mist's?
Missy Dora gib you all de 'tic'lars 'bout her healf.—
Gosh! now dat feller gone off powerful mad wid dis yer
pore ignorant critter. Wish't I know'd how ter talk to
a gen'l'man better. Ho, ho, ho!”
Picter indulged for a few moments in a congratulatory
chuckle, but then became suddenly grave.
“Yer ole fool,” said he severely to himself. “Can't
yer do nuffin' but stan' cacklin' here like de rooster w'en
de ole hen lay a egg? Dat feller won't neber rest till
he's got some one ter come an' help him peek inter all our
cubboards an' tater kittles arter dat Yankee. Pore feller,
he's got to trot. Won't git dat nice all-day sleep mist's
tole for. Wish't ole Pic could get wounded an' go ter
bed up sta'rs all day.”
Shambling across the yard in a purposeless sort of way,
Picter stopped to gather an armful of wood, in case he
should be watched, and carried it in a leisurely manner
into the kitchen.
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No sooner, however, was the door safely closed behind
him, and the wooden bar dropped, than the old negro
flung down his wood upon the hearth, and inquired, —
“Mas'r cap'n, how yer like to hab a call from de
neighbors roun' here?”
Captain Karl started to his feet, and carried his hand
to his empty scabbard.
“What do you mean, Picter?” asked Mrs. Darley,
hurriedly. “Is there danger?”
“Dat old Sykes ben trailin' roun' here, an' want fer
know who come cross from de barn to de house long
o' me jes now.”
“You did not tell him, Picter!”
“Dis nigger ain't quite a fool yit, mist's. But I
couldn' pull de wool ober he eyes so fur but what he
t'ought he seed de leetle end ob de rat's tail, an' he smell
him powerful strong. So he went off to git seben oder
debils wusser dan hisself, I spec.”
“I must go at once,” exclaimed Captain Karl. “But
whither?” added he, bitterly.
Mrs. Darley, Dora, and Picter looked at each other and
at him. The mother was the first to speak.
“Picter, you know the place where that poor fellow
was hid last summer so long.”
“Yes, mist's,” said the negro, gloomily.
“You will not be afraid to trust this gentleman with
the secret of it?”
“Not ef you say so, mist's.”
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“You need not be afraid. I pledge you my honor that
your secret shall be safely kept,” exclaimed Captain Karl.
“Dunno wot you'll see an' hear dar,” said Picter, while
his face lost a shade or two of its rich coffee color.
“Why?” asked the officer, anxiously.
“A pore boy dat dis ole Sykes licked mos' to def got
away an' hid dere, an' arter a w'ile he died,” said the
negro, in a hard, savage voice.
“Shocking. But no one knew where he was hid?”
“No one but dem as helped him.”
“Negroes?”
“Yes, mas'r.”
“I will trust them,” cried the captain, joyously. “I
should not be afraid to let every negro in the South know
my hiding-place, and that's more than I would say for the
white men even of my own Massachusetts.”
“Mas'r, I's proud to sarve ye,” said Picter, straightening
his poor back to the utmost.
“Dora, put up as much food as they can carry; and
you had better take a blanket or comforter, Captain Karl.
You may have to stay a day or two in the mountains,”
said Mrs. Darley, anxiously.
“A small blanket, if you will be so kind, would indeed
be a luxury,” said the soldier, smiling; “and I will leave
it behind me for Picter to bring back. But will not you
get into trouble yourself, if it is known that you have
helped a Union officer in this manner?”
“Perhaps. But that is a matter we cannot control.
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No one will hurt me or this little girl, however, and Mr.
Darley is too well known as a secessionist to suffer in
his property. A few hard words will be all, so far as we
are concerned. But Picter—”
She paused and looked troubled.
“Yes, they will try to force the truth from him if
possible. Will your husband allow him to be ill used?”
Mrs. Darley shook her head.
“The faithful fellow must not be exposed to such a
risk. What can be done?”
“I will go alone,” said Captain Karl, firmly. “Picter
will give me directions, and I dare say I can find the spot
you mention. If not, I will hide somewhere among the
mountains until I can go forward upon my journey.”
“No; you would be found, or you would die of hunger
and exposure. Picter shall go with you, and he shall not
come back, — that is, if there is any danger. Before
night I shall know if Sykes has suspected enough to
bring the Vigilance Committee upon us. If they come,
they would think nothing of torturing a negro to death on
the chance of catching a federal officer.
“After dark, Picter, come carefully back until you can
see this house. If all is safe there shall be a light in Miss
Dora's room, up stairs. You know which it is?”
“Yes, mist's.”
“But if I think any one means to harm you for what
we have done to-day, there will be no light up stairs, and
you will go back to Captain Karl.”
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“An' whar 'll I go arter dat, mist's?” asked the negro,
in a voice husky with emotion, and the sudden hope that
the words of his mistress had aroused in his heart.
“To the North, to freedom, Picter,” said Mrs. Darley,
solemnly. “I have been thinking of you for a good
while, Picter. I am going fast to another home than
this. There would be no one to protect you from — many
things. Your master is going to join the rebel army,
and, I suppose, would either sell you or take you with
him. You deserve better than that, Picter, and you shall
have it. If you come back this time I will contrive your
escape before I die; but perhaps if you go now, Captain
Karl can help you after you reach the Union army.”
“I can, and will,” said the captain, eagerly. “Let
him come with me, if you have really made up your mind
to send him away, and I will charge myself with his welfare.”
“Let it be so then,” said Mrs. Darley, faintly; “and
I thank the Lord, that has opened a way for him, and for
you, too, for he will help you in your escape in a great
many ways.”
At this moment Picter, who had stood rolling his great
eyes from the face of one speaker to the other in a sort
of bewildered ecstasy, suddenly limped forward, and fell
upon his knees beside his mistress.
Seizing her pale and trembling hand, he pressed his
great lips reverently upon it, and sobbed out, —
“De Lord bress you, mist's. De Lord bress you an'
-- 025 --
[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
keep you. An' ef you's r'ally a gwine, it's cause de
angels is lonesome fer ye. I didn' spect it, mist's; I
nebber spected fer ter be free till I got to heben.”
“But I have tried to be kind to you here, Picter, and
so have the children,” said Mrs. Darley, a little hurt,
after all, that her servant should be so entirely overjoyed
at leaving her forever.
“Yes, mist's, yu's ben raal good alluz, and missy, too.
Nobbuddy couldn' be better off ef dey'd got to be a slave
dan I's ben long o' yer, mist's; but mist's dear, 'tain't de
same ting, no how. De bestest off slave 's wusser off den
de mis'ablest free man.”
“Don't come back, at any rate, Picter. I never knew
you cared so much, or you should have gone long ago.
Remember, you are not to come back, on any account.
Dora, bring my purse, and give it to Uncle Picter. I'm
sorry it's so little, but it's all I have. And now you must
really go as fast as you can, captain. I have done very
wrong to keep you so long. Here are the basket and the
blanket. Good by, sir, and take care of Picter for me.”
“You may depend upon me for that, Mrs. Darley. I
shall never forget your kindness. Good by, madam.
Good by, Miss Dora.”
He shook hands with the mother, hurriedly kissed the
child's forehead, and was gone, followed by Picter, who
laughed and cried by turns in such a manner as to make
his farewell speeches rather unintelligible.
-- 026 --
CHAPTER III.
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
Two or three hours after the departure of the fugitives
passed quietly over — quietly, that is, as to events; but
Mrs. Darley had been so agitated and tired with the
excitement of the morning that she could not get over it,
and Dora was far more alarmed than she confessed at
the alternate fever and deathly faintness that her mother
vainly tried to conceal. Whatever the child could do
was done, although with few words; nor did the little
housemaid neglect to prepare dinner for her father at the
usual time, although she secretly feared his return home
in a temper ill suited to a pleasant repast.
A little after noon, the sound of hurried feet was heard
outside the door, and Mr. Darley entered with rude
violence, followed by Sykes and another man of the
same stamp.
Mrs. Darley closed her eyes, and turned very pale.
Dora went to her side, and taking her hand, turned a
keen, defiant gaze upon the strangers. At her father
she did not glance.
“Mary, what man came here this morning about eight
o'clock?” asked Darley, sternly.
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His wife made no answer, nor did she unclose her eyes.
“Mother is very sick indeed to-day, father. She isn't
able to talk at all,” said Dora, firmly.
“Well, you're not sick, Miss Pert. Answer for her.”
“I can't. It disturbs her to hear talking. Do go
away, father, and take these men. Poor mother!”
“Just tell me this, Dora. Did a man come here this
morning?” persisted Darley, impatiently, although he
lowered his voice, and cast an anxious glance at his
wife's deathly face.
“A man? There's no one about, father, but mother
and me. There's no man here.”
“Well, but there has been. I see a feller come in'
long o' yer old nigger. I see him myself,” broke in
Joe Sykes, pushing himself forward.
Dora glanced scornfully at the speaker, and made no
reply.
“Come, Do, tell me if such a man came, and who he
was, and where he's gone, and then we won't plague
you and mother any more,” said Darley, in the coaxing
tone that long experience had taught him was the easiest
method of reaching his daughter's heart.
“There was a man came to the door, and asked for
something to eat, this morning, father. I gave him
something, and he went away. I don't know where he's
gone, or who he was, and I can't tell anything more
about him. Now, please, father, will you take these men
away, and let poor mother rest?”
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[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
“She don't know anything about him,” said Darley,
turning to his companions. “I didn't suppose she did in
the first place. Come, let's quit.”
“Well, that old nigger knows ef the gal don't,” persisted
Sykes. “He wouldn't ha' been so sarcy to me ef
he hadn't know'd somethin' more'n he let on. Let's go
see what he has to say 'bout it.”
“All right. You may talk to him as ha'sh as you're
a mind to,” said Mr. Darley, leading the way to the
door, and evidently glad to relieve his wife and daughter
of the annoyance of the examination by shifting it to
shoulders so well used to burdens as those of poor Picter.
Left alone, Mrs. Darley broke into a fit of convulsive
weeping, and Dora vainly tried to comfort her.
While she was still bending over the couch, the kitchen
door was again opened, and Darley's voice harshly inquired, —
“Where's Picter, Dora?”
“I don't know where he is, father.”
“Haven't you sent him away?”
“No, father, I have not.”
“Well, haven't you, Mary? What in the world are
you crying so about?”
“O, father, mother is very sick indeed. How can
you worry her so?”
Half angry, half ashamed, Mr. Darley drew back his
head, muttering inaudibly some remark about a “saucy
young one,” and went back to his companions.
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After a short consultation all three rode away together,
and Dora at last had the pleasure of seeing her mother
drop into a troubled sleep.
This lasted until about four o'clock, when Mr. Darley
returned alone, but in a much more violent mood than
he had been at noon. He had been drinking pretty
freely with his companions, who had not spared some
taunts as to his being afraid of his wife and daughter,
and intimations that Mrs. Darley knew very well where
the Yankee officer was, and might be made to tell if her
husband could muster sufficient spirit to insist upon it.
More than this, Mr. Darley had become anxious regarding
Picter's prolonged absence, knowing, as he did,
his wife's wish to give the slave his freedom; and he had
returned home determined to learn the exact truth as to
the occurrences of the morning.
The invalid, suddenly aroused from sleep, was naturally
nervous and bewildered; and Mr. Darley, finding
her answers still less satisfactory than in the morning,
soon became very angry and abusive. Not satisfied with
what could be said upon the subject in hand, he went
back to various matters of disagreement between himself
and his wife in former times, principally connected with
the abolitionist sentiments that Mrs. Darley had occasionally
expressed, and the horror she had not concealed at
certain cruelties and excesses among Mr. Darley's chosen
friends and associates.
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[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
The consequence of this violence was, that the sick
woman became terribly agitated, and was finally seized
with nervous spasms, that seemed likely to end her life at
once. The sight of her sufferings, and Dora's indignant
expostulations, at last aroused a feeling of shame and
remorse in the husband's nature, and he hurried away to
send the doctor, and to bring Mrs. Wilson, a married
sister of his own, who lived at a distance of two miles.
Before they arrived, however, the invalid had grown
so much calmer, under Dora's eager but judicious care,
that the doctor, after attentively examining her condition,
merely prescribed a composing draught, and hurried
away to another patient. As Mr. Darley attended him to
the door, however, the gruff old physician briefly said, —
“That woman'll die any minute — go right out like a
candle. All you can do for her is to keep her quiet and
comfortable. Don't agitate her about anything.”
Mr. Darley stood on the doorstep, looking after the
doctor's sulky, with a very uncomfortable feeling about
his throat. He was really as fond of his wife as a selfish
and depraved man could be; he had, indeed, been passionately
in love with her when he tempted her to run away
from her father's house with him, and the doctor's warning
sounded to him very much like a reproach.
Presently he went quietly into the house, and sat down
by the fire, with his head leaning on his hand. Dora,
looking keenly at him as she went in and out of the
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
bedroom, pitied her father, and yet could not but be
glad at the thought that while thus preoccupied, he
would not be likely to ask any more questions about
Picter.
Mrs. Wilson, a sharp, bustling, managing sort of woman,
so soon as she arrived, took possession of the invalid,
and ordered everything about her in her own fashion.
Sometimes these fashions were not Dora's; and in these
cases the child quietly pursued her own way, in spite of
her aunt's peremptory advice to the contrary.
“Mother likes it this way,” was her simple reply
when her aunt crossly inquired why she had altered the
arrangement of the window curtains that Mrs. Wilson
had carefully pinned together, and that Dora now looped
back to admit the soft western light.
“Little girls shouldn't think they know more than
them that's older than they be,” said Mrs. Wilson,
frowning.
“But I do know more about mother, because I'm more
used to her than any one else is,” said Dora, simply.
“Dora, child,” said Mrs. Darley, feebly, “you've
been in the house all day. Go now and take a little run
while aunt sits with me. Go meet Tom.”
“I'd rather stay with you, mother.”
“No, Dora; I want you to go. I really do.”
“Well, then, I will,” said the child; and putting a little
shawl about her, she stole softly out at the back door.
-- 032 --
CHAPTER IV.
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
About a mile from the farm-house, at the same hour,
and coming towards it, a stout lad of sixteen years
trudged along beside his ox-team, bending low his head
to shield it in some measure from the eddying whirls
of sand dashed into his eyes, his nose, his mouth, and
almost through his very skin by the keen north-east wind
that came sweeping down the gorges of the Alleghany
Mountains, driving every drifting thing before it.
Tom Darley — for it was he — stopped and turned his
back for a moment, and while he wiped his eyes upon
the sleeve of his blue frock, said aloud, —
“Pesky wind! Any one might know it came from
Yankee land, it's so mean and ugly.”
Then, somewhat comforted by this expression of his
feelings, he ran a few steps to overtake the oxen, and
walked along at their heads, whistling “Dixie,” while
the wind, shrilly piping a sort of gigantic Yankee Doodle,
seemed defying the boy to an unequal contest.
Presently, the road, after skirting a high hill, the lowest
step, in fact, of the mountain range, entered a little
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
wood, whose close-set evergreen trees made a very effectual
barrier to the sweep of the wind.
Once more Tom paused to draw his breath and wipe
his eyes, and was again moving on, when a little figure
suddenly dropped down beside him, from the crest of a
huge bowlder at the road-side.
Tom started back in considerable alarm. His first
impression was of a panther or wildcat. In the next
moment he perceived who it really was, and exclaimed, —
“Hallo, Do, is that you? How came you here, and
what makes you jump out on a fellow that way?”
“I came to meet you, Tom,” said Dora, putting her
hand caressingly upon his arm.
Such a movement was so unusual in the undemonstrative
girl, that her brother looked down at her in some
surprise.
“What's the matter then? You've been crying —
haven't you, little goose?” asked he, with rough kindness.
“O, Tom, there's a horrid time at home,” burst out
Dora, and then stopped with her lips close shut together
to keep down the rising sob; for whatever Tom might
suspect, Dora would have suffered almost anything before
she would have let him see her cry.
“What's up now?” asked Tom, anxiously.
“Mother's worse. We've had the doctor!”
“That's too bad. I'm real sorry, I do declare,” said
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
the boy in awkward sorrow. “How did you come to
leave her, Dora?”
“Aunt Wilson's with her, and she sent me away. She
told me to come and meet you. I reckon she wanted to
talk to aunt.”
The brother and sister walked on in silence for a little
while. Then Dora said, mysteriously, —
“And Picter's gone. Dear old Uncle Pic — we shan't
have him to play with us ever again.”
“Picter gone! Where's he gone?” asked Tom,
wonderingly.
“Mother gave him leave to go, only you mustn't say
anything about it to father.”
“Gave him leave to run away?”
“Yes, for fear of father.”
“Come, Dora, begin at the beginning, and tell me your
story. I can't make anything of it this way.”
So Dora did as she was bidden, and in a brief, distinct
manner related all the events of the day. The only thing
she omitted to mention was the refuge of Picter and the
captain. This she concealed, partly because the cave was
Picter's secret, partly because she did not quite trust
Tom's sympathy with the fugitives, and his first words
gave her reason to congratulate herself on her prudence.
“I wish I had been about home this morning,” said
Tom, bringing down his ox-goad upon poor Bright's
neck.
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
“Why, Tom?”
“I guess that fellow wouldn't have got off so nicely.”
“You wouldn't have tried to give him up to be put in
jail and kept ever so many years, perhaps, and his wound
never even washed — would you, Tom?” asked Dora,
indignantly.
“Of course I would. Ain't he a Yankee? and ain't
the Yankees trying all they can to shut our men up in
their prisons, or kill them outright? or if they don't do
either of those, to make slaves of us here at home?”
“I don't believe it, Tom, and I don't believe you know
better than mother about it. And she did all she could
for the Yankee captain.”
“Mother's a first-rate woman, Dora, and I'll lick any
fellow that says there's a better inside the state line; but,
Do, she's a woman, and women don't know about these
things, same as men do.”
“How is it with boys?” asked Dora, slyly.
“The boys hear the men talk, and they learn the right
thing. But women only think about one thing at a
time; and if a man has curly hair and a cut on his head,
they'll do the same by him as they would by their own
brothers, and never remember that this very fellow
they're nursing and cuddling up has come here on purpose
to kill their brothers.”
“Well, you won't try to get them taken again — will
you, Tom? You know I told you for a secret.”
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
Tom walked silently on for a while, whistling to himself,
and examining the end of his goad; at last he said,
rather surlily,—
“No, I don't know as I shall, now that mother has
helped them off. But if I'd got sight of that fellow this
morning—”
“Never mind what you would have done if something
had happened that didn't happen. You've promised not
to tell, and that's all.”
“No, I didn't promise not to tell. I said I wouldn't
try to have them caught. But if father asks me if I
know anything about it, I ain't going to lie, and say I
don't.”
“No, of course you can't,” said Dora, sadly.
“Besides, I think father'd ought to know about Pic,”
continued Tom. “Mother's had her way, and given him
his liberty, right or wrong, and I think father had at
least ought to be told how he's gone.”
“Do you?” asked Dora, thoughtfully.
“Of course I do. But I ain't a telltale, nor I don't
want to get mother and you into trouble. So I shan't
say anything if I can help it, and maybe mother will
make up her mind to tell for herself. I'd be glad if she
would.”
“Perhaps she will; but she can tell best whether she
ought to or not.”
To this the young advocate of male supremacy made
no reply, and presently Dora said, —
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
“At any rate, you can't tell where they're gone, because
you don't know.”
“That's so,” said Tom; “and I wouldn't advise you
to tell me.”
“I ain't going to,” returned Dora, shrewdly. “But
here we are at home, and I must run in to get supper
ready. Come in as quick as you can.”
“As quick as I've put up the cattle and given them
their supper. After that I've got to milk, I suppose.
You see I shall have to do Picter's work now, besides
my own.”
“I'll help you all I can,” said Dora, gayly, as she ran
into the house. But she smiled no longer, when, on entering
the house, she found her father still seated by the
fireplace, his face buried in his hands, while her aunt
moved about the kitchen with noisy efforts at quiet, making
preparation for supper.
“Well, child,” began she, when Dora appeared, “you
seem to take it easy, any way. Where've you been
trapsing, I'd like to know, and who'd ye think was doing
up your work for ye?”
“Mother told me to go and meet Tom, and I've been,”
said Dora, quietly. “And you needn't have done anything
about supper, aunt; I shall have it all ready at
six o'clock.”
“Massy! How peart we be!” exclaimed Mrs. Wilson.
“You know a heap more than ever your granny
did — don't ye, child?”
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
To this address Dora made no reply, but went steadily
about her preparations for supper, quietly undoing, as she
proceeded, nearly everything her aunt had done.
Mrs. Wilson, after grimly watching her a few moments,
went and sat down by her brother.
“John,” began she, in the whining and high-pitched
voice many persons seem to consider essential to the
proper treatment of mournful or religious subjects, —
“John, I suppose you know there's a awful visitation
a hanging over ye. Mary ain't no better than a dead
woman, and I shouldn't wonder a mite if she was took
afore another morning.”
Mr. Darley groaned aloud.
“Yes, I know it's awful,” recommenced his comforter,
“to be took right out o' your warm bed as it
might be, and buried up in the cold ground. It makes
a body's flesh creep to think on't; now don't it? But
then it's what we've all got to come to. There ain't no
gittin' red on't, do what you will. It's her turn to-day,
and it may be your'n or mine to-morrow. It's an
awful judgment, sartain.”
During this speech Dora had stood motionless, her
eyes fixed, half in horror, half in surprise, upon her aunt's
face. When she had done, she came up to her father,
and putting her arms about his neck, said softly, —
“It won't be mother that will die and be buried up in
the ground, father dear. It will only just be her body,
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
and her soul is going to live in heaven with Jesus. And
if we do just as well as ever we can, we shall go there
too, when God is willing to let us, and perhaps see her
again.”
“Child, who told you this?” asked the father, hoarsely.
“Mother told me; and it is all true, every word of
it, for she read it out of the Bible to me,” said Dora,
triumphantly.
Mr. Darley, without uncovering his face, laid one arm
about the child's waist. It was the first time that Dora
remembered such an act; for besides her own shy and
reserved habits, she had for a year or two plainly shown
by manner, if not by words, her shame and indignation
at her father's intemperate and violent habits.
Occasionally, too, he had ill-treated her mother, when
angry and intoxicated; and this was something that Dora
could scarcely endure in silence. Mr. Darley had seen
and resented this silent protest on the part of his own
child, and after a while the father and daughter had
come to have as little as possible to do with each other.
Now, however, all this was forgotten in the common
sorrow that had fallen upon them; and as Dora felt her
father's arm about her waist, she drew his head upon her
bosom, and kissed his forehead.
Mrs. Wilson's harsh voice indignantly interposed.
“Well, brother, I must say, if you're going to let a
saucy young one like that teach you religion, you're a
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
bigger fool than I take you for. My sakes! I'd like to
catch one of my gals speaking up to me the way she's
done ever since I stepped my foot inside o' that door.
She's reg'lar spilte, that child is; an' I guess you'll find
your hands full when you come to have her on 'em all
alone.”
At this moment the feeble voice of the invalid was
heard calling Dora, and the child sprang away to obey
the summons.
-- 041 --
CHAPTER V.
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
After supper, Mrs. Wilson said that she must go
home for a while, but would come back and stay the
night with her sister-in-law, who, she again prophesied,
might “drop off most any minute.”
No one opposed her departure. In fact, Dora and
Tom watched it with silent joy, while their father hardly
noticed it.
So soon as the evening work was done, the children
went in to sit with their mother. Mrs. Darley seemed
very much better. Her cheeks burned with a hectic
color, and her eyes were bright with fever. She felt
strong enough to sit up in her bed with pillows behind
her, and Tom rather boisterously expressed his delighted
belief that she was “going to get smart again right off.”
Dora said nothing, but her face was very pale, her
eyes very large and bright, her lips very firmly shut.
She had watched the different stages of her mother's
disease, too narrowly to be deceived. Nor did Mrs.
Darley herself believe for a moment that this sudden
rally was other than a fatal symptom. She knew that
her hour had come, and she was ready to meet it with
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
Christian hope and trust. But she was very glad that
this temporary strength had been given her, for she had
many things to say to her children, and had feared that
she should not be able.
She spoke first to them of the subjects most important
at all times, and now naturally uppermost in her own
mind. She tried her very best to make them feel that
the approaching change she was to undergo was neither
a misfortune nor a punishment, but a sure and blessed
change from a world of sin and sorrow to one all joy
and peace, for such as were fitted for it.
She spoke long and earnestly upon these matters, and
neither of her young hearers ever quite forgot the solemn
and beautiful truths she uttered.
But the mother did not forget that she was to leave her
children in this world, perhaps for many years, and she
desired to point out for them that path through its perils
that scemed to her the safest.”
“Is the door closed, Tom?” asked she, hesitatingly,
after a short silence.
“Yes, mother,” said the boy.
“I have been thinking, Tom, that when I am gone,
and when your father knows that Uncle Pic is gone for
always, he will very likely enter the army.”
“Perhaps so, mother,” said Tom, leaning his arm
against the wall, and hiding his face upon it.
“Perhaps he will want you to go too, my dear boy,
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
and I have always taught you to obey your father above
all things, except to obey God.”
“I know it, mother,” sobbed poor Tom.
“And I say the same now,” continued the mother,
feebly, for her strength was failing. “But O, my dear
boy, I cannot bear to think of your joining these rebels.
Remember that I was a New England girl. I lived for
twenty years among free men, and I have never learned
to love slavery.
“I have a sister—at least I had; but it is a great many
years since I heard from her. In fact, I never had but
one letter, and that was just after I came here. I cried
so much over that, and was so homesick for weeks afterwards,
that I think your father destroyed any others that
came. At least, I wrote and wrote, and never got an
answer. I never dared write to my father, for Lucy
told me how terribly angry he was when I ran away.
But, Tom, if you and Dora could go to her, I know she
would give my children a home, and put you both in
the way of doing something better than to fight for a rebellion.
“That letter, Dora, is in my bureau drawer, at the
bottom of the little box where I keep my trinkets. All
that I have of such things, dear, are yours now. Take
the letter, and keep it. Perhaps some day it will help
you to find your aunt Lucy. I cannot tell either of you
to leave your father, if he will keep you with him; but
you know now what I wish.
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
“I had rather, Tom, that you died fighting for freedom,
than lived and rose to the highest rank in the rebel army.
“Dora, comfort and darling of my life, I could die
content if I only knew that you would grow up in the
home of a good and pious New England woman, such as
I am sure my sister is.
“Now kiss me, my darlings, kiss me once again, —
and once again, — and then ask your poor father to come
in and see me, while you stay out there. And, Dora, if
aunt Wilson comes back, ask her to please to sit down
with you a little while. I want to see father all alone.”
The children obeyed, and for the next hour no sound
was heard in the kitchen except Tom's heavy sobs, as he
lay stretched upon the settle, crying out his last boy's
tears, the loud ticking of the clock, and the low murmur
of voices from the bedroom.
Up and down the kitchen softly paced Dora's little
figure, her face white as ashes, except where dark rings
had formed beneath her eyes, her hands knotted and
twisted in each other, her lips pressed firmly together,
her unswerving gaze bent steadily before her. It was a
dumb anguish, as rare as strange in a child's heart, or
on a child's face.
Thus did Mrs. Wilson find her when she returned, and
even her coarse nature recoiled from a grief so terrible
and so uncomplaining.
She went softly towards the bedroom door. Dora
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
interposed, and pointing to a chair, said, in a low, strange
voice, —
“Mother is talking with father, now. Please to sit
down until he comes out. She said so.”
Mrs. Wilson silently obeyed, and taking out a spotted
red and white cotton pocket handkerchief, she began to
cry in a snuffling, demonstrative manner.
So passed another hour, and then Mr. Darley opened
the bedroom door, and said, in a choked voice, —
“Come, children; come sister: she's going.”
Midnight closed the scene. A mortal had died to
earth, an angel been born to heaven.
-- 046 --
CHAPTER VI.
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
The day after Mrs. Darley's funeral, her sister-in-law
made her appearance at the farm-house with a mind
made up to business.
“Well, John,” began she, as soon as the preliminary
greetings were over, “Cephas says you told him this
morning you was going to enlist. Is that so?”
“Well, yes, I think some of it,” said Mr. Darley,
slowly. “You see Picter's gone.”
“Hain't you never heerd nothing from that nigger?”
asked Mrs. Wilson, indignantly.
“No; nor I don't expect to,” returned her brother,
concealing what he really did know, from an instinctive
desire to avoid the comments Mrs. Wilson would be sure
to make upon his wife's conduct.
“H'm. Run away, I suppose,” suggested the lady.
“Like enough it was he helped off that Yankee officer
that they was looking for round here. Joe Sykes said
all along he knew 'twas him that he see cutting acrost
from the barn to the house here. On'y Mary was so
sick that day that there wan't no good asking questions
of her nor the gal.”
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
“Yes, we'd something else to care for, before another
morning, than Yankees or niggers either,” said Darley,
gloomily.
“But,” pursued Mrs. Wilson, “that ain't what we
was saying. If you've made up your mind to jine the
army, what you going to do with the children?”
“Well, I've thought about that too,” returned her
brother; “and I've concluded to take Tom along with
me. He's sixteen years old, I believe, and as stout and
handy as any man. He'll do first rate, and I shall keep
him under my own hand.”
“But the gal, brother?”
“Well, I some thought of asking you to take her,
Polly. She's smart as a steel trap, and can earn her
salt anywheres —”
“She's too smart for me by half,” broke in Mrs. Wilson.
“A sassier young one I never did see; but it's
partly the fault of her bringing up, and she hadn't ought
to be give over without a try. I expected you'd say
just what you have said, John; and I'll tell you plain
just what I've made up my mind to do.
“I ain't a going to have no half-way works now. I
ain't a going to have the gal come to my house to be
company, and set with her hands in her lap all day. Nor
I ain't a going to have her, at the fust quick word, fly up
into my face like a young wildeat. Nor yet I ain't going
to have her, just as I've got her broke in and trained
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
some, go kiting off to live long o' some one else, whether
it's you or another.
“Now, what I'll do is this. I'll take the child, and
treat her just 'xactly like my own gals from fust to last;
and I shall have just the same power over her as I have
over them. I'll do well by her, and I'll make her do
well by me, if I know myself.”
“Well, sister, that's a good offer, and I thank you
kind for it, I'm sure,” began Mr. Darley; but his sister
interrupted him.
“Wait a bit,” said she, dryly; “I ain't one of them
as does something for nothing, quite. It's a resky business
and a costly business, this bringing up a gal, and
doing for her, and I'm a poor woman. But if you'll give
me your house'l stuff to boot, and Mary's clothes and
fallals, why, I'll say done.”
“You mean all that's in the house here?” asked
Darley.
“Yes; 'tain't much, nor 'twouldn't fetch much at auction, '
specially these times; but some of it'd come awful
handy over to our house, and some on't I could store
away against the gals get merried. Dora'll come in for
her full share, you may depend.”
“Yes, she'd ought to do that,” said Mr. Darley, reluctantly.
“And as for Mary's clothes, why, I think
the child had ought to have them, any way.”
“And so she shall, some of them; but there's some
-- 049 --
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that wouldn't suit her no way, though they'd do fust rate
for me. Men don't know nothing about sech things, and
you'd better leave it all to me. I shan't wrong the gal,
you may depend.”
“No, Polly, I don't s'pose you would. Nobody'd be
like to wrong a poor little motherless gal that was their
own flesh and blood. But I'm afraid Dora'll kind o' miss
home fashions. She's been used to having her own way,
pretty much, here at home, especially since her mother's
been laid up.”
“Yes; and in another year she'd ha' been spilte outright.
It's a chance, now, if she can be brought round.”
“O, I guess tain't quite so bad as that, Polly,” said
Mr. Darley, good-humoredly. “I guess she's a pretty
good sort of a gal yet. And I ain't going to give her up
neither. When my time's out I shall come and board
with you. You'll agree to take me?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” assented Mrs. Wilson, somewhat
ungraciously.
“And if I should ever get a home again, marrying or
any other way, why, I shall want her back; and, since
you're so sharp, I'll agree to let you keep all the stuff you
get with her, and, maybe, give you a present to boot.”
“Well, we can talk about that when the time comes,”
said Mrs. Wilson. “It's all settled now.”
“Yes, I reckon,” assented her brother, rather doubtfully
-- 050 --
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At this moment a light foot came down the stairs into
the kitchen, and Dora herself appeared, looking very pale
and worn, but quite calm. She greeted her aunt quietly,
and went about some little household matter in her usual
steady manner.
“Come here, my gal,” said her father, holding out his
hand.
She went directly and stood beside him, her slender
hand resting lightly upon his shoulder. He put his arm
kindly about her.
“Here's your aunt, Dora, is going to let you come and
live with her, while Tom and I are gone to the war.
She's going to be real good and kind to you, and you'll
be the best girl that ever was to her; now won't you,
Dora?”
The child's face grew paler still, and her eyes lifted
themselves sharply to her aunt's face. She read there no
more promise than she had expected.
“How long am I to stay there, father?” asked she,
moving a little closer to his side.
“O, I don't know,” returned Mr. Darley, evasively.
“I expect I shall stay in the army till they fight it out;
and that won't be to-morrow, nor next week.”
“And when you are through, you will come for me
again?” questioned Dora.
Mr. Darley hesitated, and his sister answered for
him, —
-- 051 --
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“Now, John, what's the use of licking the devil round
the stump that way? The gal might as well know fust
as last that she's coming to me for good and all. Your
mother's dead, Dora, and 'tain't likely your father'll be
settled ag'in, — at any rate, not right away, — and he's
give you to me, to do for just as if you was my own;
and that's all about it.”
Without a word, Dora turned away and went into her
mother's bedroom, closing and buttoning the door after
her. There, all alone, upon the bed where her dear
mother had died, she silently wept the first tears she had
shed since that loss came upon her. But hers were not
the tears that soften and comfort tender hearts; they
were bitter, despairing tears, and they left her who shed
them determined and desperate.
“I was afraid she wouldn't like it,” said Mr. Darley,
in a tone of regret, when he was alone with his sister.
“Temper, that's all,” replied Mrs. Wilson, sharply.
“She's spilte, and that's all that's to be said. But she'll
come to after a while, when she finds she can't help
herself.”
“Maybe; but you ain't going to be ha'sh with the
child, Polly. I won't have that,” said the father, anxiously.
“Don't you worry. I shan't eat her up, you needn't
believe,” sniffed the indignant matron; and Mr. Darley
tried to think all was satisfactorily arranged.
-- 052 --
CHAPTER VII.
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
A few weeks more, and Mr. Darley's arrangements
for selling his farm and stock had been made, and he
had enlisted with his son in the rebel army.
Tom had not forgotten his mother's last wishes; but
although he was extremely fond of her, and had been
very much affected by her death, he still secretly held the
idea common to the class of men with whom he had been
bred, that a woman's opinions upon matters of public
interest were hardly worth the attention of the sterner
sex, and were necessarily feeble and one-sided. He did
not now express this opinion to Dora, through respect
for his mother's memory; but she perceived that he
still held it, and was secretly indignant with him for doing
so.
Then, Tom had his father's direct command to oppose
to his mother's conditional wishes, and she had distinctly
said that she would not have him disobey his father; but
perhaps more than all the rest, Tom, who was as ardent
and as ignorant a politician as most lads, sided strongly,
in his own mind, with the secessionists.
Part of all this argument in favor of enlisting beside
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
his father, the boy repeated to his sister as they were
returning from a long Sunday afternoon walk a few days
before the sale of the old home.
Dora listened attentively, and without interruption, till
he had finished. Then she said, —
“Well, Tom, you must do as you like, or rather as
you think you ought to, and I shall do the same.”
“What do you mean, Dora? What can you do except
to stay quiet with aunt Wilson till we get back?”
“I don't think I shall stay with aunt Wilson a great
while,” said Dora, quietly.
“But you must, poor little Do,” said her brother,
compassionately. “I don't suppose it will be very jolly,
and I'm afraid you'll miss the old home a good deal.
But you stay quiet, like a good girl, till I get back, and
if aunt Wilson don't treat you well, I'll —”
He paused a little, doubtfully, and a quick smile shot
across the little pale face beside him.
“What will you do to aunt Wilson if she don't treat
me well?” asked Dora, merrily.
“Well, I can't do much to her, maybe, but I'll give
her boy Dick the darnedest licking he ever got in his life,
I'll be bound.”
Dora laughed outright.
“You dear old Tom,” said she, “and what good
would that do me? Do you think aunt would treat me
any the better for it?”
-- 054 --
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“Well, it would do me some good if it didn't you,”
muttered Tom, half ashamed of his comical threat.
“No, dear Tom,” continued Dora, while the smile
died off her face, and gave place to the look of patient
sternness, if it may so be called, that was fast becoming
habitual to it; “such ways as that are only good to
laugh about. But I know just as well as I want to that
I shan't be able to live at aunt Wilson's, though I'm
going to try a little while, because it's father that's put
me there. And if I find that I can't stand it —”
“Well, what will you do then, poor little girl?” asked
Tom.
“I don't just know myself,” said Dora, thoughtfully;
“and if I did, I don't think I should tell you, because
you might try to stop me; but I shall contrive some way
or other to get to Massachusetts, and find mother's sister
that she told us of.”
“Aunt Lucy? Yes, I remember. Did you find the
letter mother told about?”
“No!” exclaimed Dora, indignantly. “Aunt Wilson
went and took all the things out of the drawers the
very day after the funeral; and I suppose she read the
letter, and then burnt it up, for when I asked her about
it she wouldn't tell me, nor she wouldn't let me look
among mother's things. She has taken all that was in
the bureau, and carried it off to her own house.”
“What, to keep?”
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
“I suppose so. She told me everything that was in
the house was hers now, and I had no more right to
meddle with anything than any one else had.”
“But mother said that all she had was yours!” exclaimed
Tom, indignantly.
“I know it. I don't care for clothes, nor ribbons, and
such things; but I should have liked to have them because
they were mother's, and I dare say I should have
given almost all of them to aunt. I would only have
cared to keep the things I have seen mother wear most.
But now I haven't anything at all to call my own.”
“It's awful mean, and I ain't going to stand it,” said
Tom, wrathfully; “I'll talk to father about it.”
“No, Tom, there's no use in that. Father knows,
and he thinks it's all right, or else he can't help it. He
couldn't do anything, and there's no good in getting him
into a quarrel with aunt Wilson. Don't worry. I shall
take care of myself some way. I'm used to it, you know.
As for the things, I don't care much; but I wish I could
get hold of that letter.”
“O, Ma'am Spite burnt it up, I reckon, just because
she thought you'd like to have it.”
At this moment the children reached home, and the
conversation ended.
A few days after, the farm and stock were sold at
auction, and Mr. Darley, with Tom, set out for the town
of Monterey, where he intended volunteering.
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
Dora went home with her aunt, who had caused all
the furniture of the Darley homestead to be removed to
her own house, where, as she had said to her brother, it
added very much to the somewhat scanty comfort of her
arrangements.
For a day or two matters went very peacefully. Mrs.
Wilson, feeling, perhaps, some touch of pity for the motherless
child, forbore to press her either with labor or
discipline; and Dora, on the other hand, exerted herself
to do all she could, and in the way that she supposed
most likely to be agreeable to her aunt.
But at last came Monday, that terrible day to the
households of short-tempered wives who have their own
work to do. Jane and Louisa, Mrs. Wilson's daughters,
always cased themselves, upon Monday morning, in a
triple armor of sullen endurance and covert opposition to
their mother's tyranny, promising themselves and each
other to escape from it at the very earliest opportunity.
On this particular Monday Mrs. Wilson contrived to
make herself more disagreeable and oppressive than
usual. Nothing done by Jane, Louisa, or Dora was
well done. Each in turn found herself reproached with
laziness, stupidity, and that most comprehensive of
household crimes, called “shiftlessness.”
The daughters, well hardened to this periodical outpouring
of sentiment, bore it, as usual, in sulky silence,
varied with gestures, glances, muttered comments, and
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
when their mother was absent, with open expressions of
discontent and rebellion.
But Dora, accustomed to her own mother's mild and
affectionate rule, to commands so gentle that they seemed
like requests, and to an authority as undoubted as it was
unobtrusive, looked on at her aunt's domestic management
with undisguised astonishment, merged in silent
but indignant protest as she found herself becoming an
equal sharer with her cousins in their mother's abuse.
She was silent, to be sure, and, as the day passed on,
grew still more so; nor did she join in any of the mutinous
gestures and whispered comments that sufficed for
the relief of the other girls; but one accustomed to her
face and manner would have read in the kindling eyes,
pallid cheeks, and rigid mouth a gathering storm, whether
of grief or anger, as much beyond the usual scope of
a twelve years' temper as was the power of concealing it.
Evening came. Jane and Louisa cleared away the
supper dishes, and put the cheerless kitchen to rights,
while Dora, under her aunt's supervision, folded and
sprinkled the clothes.
A large sheet came under the child's hands, and rather
than ask help of her aunt, who had left her for a moment,
she attempted to fold it alone, succeeding, as she thought,
very well; but just as she was laying it in the basket
Mrs. Wilson returned, and catching it out again, flung it
on the table.
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
“What sort o' way to fold a sheet 's that?” asked she,
contemptuously; “you're so plaguy smart I s'pose you
couldn't wait for me to take holt o' the end, and so ye
just wabbed it up any way, to call it done. I don't think
much o' slickin' over work that way. It's my fashion to
go through it.”
Dora made no reply; but as her aunt unrolled, with
a jerk, the smoothly folded sheet, she took hold of one
end, and helped to refold it. This was nearly done,
when, with a snap and a jerk, intended to straighten it,
Mrs. Wilson twitched the sheet out of Dora's hands, and
it fell upon the dirty floor between them.
“You great fool!” shouted Mrs. Wilson; and catching
up the sheet with both hands, she struck Dora a
swinging blow with it in her face.
“Ye did that o' purpose, ye know ye did, 'cause you
was mad at having to fold it over.”
“I did not,” said Dora's voice, in an ominous tone,
while her eyes were raised steadily to her aunt's face.
“Say I lie, do ye!” screamed the angry woman.
“You impudent trollop, I'll teach ye to sarce me that
way. You open your head agin, an' see if ye don't get
fits.”
To this Dora made no reply in words, but her looks
were too expressive to be misunderstood, and her aunt,
after a moment's pause, continued, —
“Now I ain't a goin' to have ye stand there lookin' as
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
if ye'd eat me up. I can tell ye what it is, miss, the best
thing for you to do is to go right ter work and unlarn all
them pretty ways ye've been brought up in. They won't
set well here, I can tell ye. Yer mother was as weak as
water, and as silly about you as a hen with one chick;
but I ain't no sech a fool.”
“My mother was not a fool, nor silly, nor weak. You
don't know anything about her, and I wish you wouldn't
talk about her,” said Dora, firmly and quietly.
“Hity-tity, ma'am!” cried Mrs. Wilson, furiously.
“Do ye know who yer talkin' to? Do ye see that 'ere
stick over the fireplace? Well, I can tell ye now that
you and it will be like to git putty well acquainted before
many more minits, ef ye don't down on yer knees
and beg my pardon. Tell ye what, gal, I'm bound to
tame ye down; that's partly what I took ye for, and it's
jest as well to begin now as any time. We'll soon see,
miss, who's the boss o' this shanty.”
“I'll bet my money on the old gray mare;
Will anybody bet on the filly?”
sang Dick Wilson, a lad of eighteen, who, being now too
big to be beaten by his mother, revenged himself by insolence
for the injustice and tyranny she had exercised over
his childhood.
The sins of the parents are, indeed, visited on the children;
but also they rebound heavily to punish the source
whence they came.
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
“You, Dick, clear out o' this. Clear, I say, or I'll
scald ye, same 's I would a dog,” screamed Mrs.
Wilson.
“Don't ye git riled, old lady. Tain't good for yer
stummick,” drawled Dick, without rising. “And as
for Do, I reckon you'd better let her alone. She ain't
used to our lovin' little ways here, and tain't best ter give
her too big a dose ter once. Clear, little un,” continued
he, pointing with his thumb to the open stairs leading to
the loft where all the girls slept together.
Mrs. Wilson, glaring from one to the other, remained
for a moment irresolute whether to first attack son or
niece; and Dora, without waiting for her to decide,
walked quietly across the kitchen and up the stairs,
leaving mother and son to a short but spirited battle of
words, ending in Dick rushing off to “the grocery” at
the cross roads, declaring, as he slammed the door behind
him, that he wished he could go to Bedlam to live, instead
of such a house as his own.
-- 061 --
CHAPTER VIII.
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
That night, when all was dark and quiet, both within
and without the house, a slender little figure came gliding
down the stairs and across the kitchen.
With a noiseless hand she slipped back the wooden
bolt, unlatched the heavy door, and crept out into the
starless night.
It was Dora, who, with a little bundle of clothes in her
hand, and her mother's Bible in her bosom, was leaving
behind her the only home she could call her own, and
going out into the wide world to seek a better one.
Her future course remained perfectly undecided, except
that she intended to travel North as fast as possible,
and hoped in some way to find out that aunt Lucy, of
whom she did not even know the full name and place of
abode, but whom she already loved for her mother's sake.
First of all, however, she determined to go and say
good by to the old house where she had been born and
passed her whole life, except these last unhappy days,
and also to her mother's grave.
Walking hastily on, and congratulating herself upon
the darkness, she soon reached the house, which was
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
still untenanted, and sat down for a moment upon the
stone step of the kitchen door where she and Tom had
been used to sit and eat their supper together, through
all their happy childhood.
“And now he is a rebel, and gone to fight, and perhaps
he will be killed,” thought Dora, sadly. Presently
she took the little Bible from her bosom, and kneeling
upon the old step with it tightly clasped in her hands,
she prayed simply and fervently to the Father of the
fatherless, that he would guard her dear brother, and her
father, and herself from all evil and sin, and that in his
own good time he would bring them all home to live
with the beloved mother who had gone before.
After this, the little girl felt so much happier and
safer, that she was sure there must be angels about her,
sent by her heavenly Father to comfort and sustain her.
“Perhaps mother herself is here,” thought Dora; and
her eager eyes glanced around as if she might really see
that dear face shining upon her out of the darkness.
But such sights are not for mortal eyes, and Dora
herself soon faintly smiled at her own fanciful hope.
After a few moments she arose, and lightly kissing the
closed door of the dear old home, she took up her little
bundle, and went slowly down the path.
Near the barn she almost stumbled over a dark figure
crouching upon the ground.
“Who's that?” cried she, involuntarily.
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
“Gosh, Missy Dory, be dat you?” exclaimed a well-known
voice, as the figure straightened itself, as far as
was possible.
“Picter! Why, Picter, can it be you?”
“Me mysel', missy, an' proper glad to see lilly missy
agin,” replied the negro, warmly.
“Well, but, Uncle Pic, how came you here, and where
are you going?”
“I's tell you all 'bout it, missy, fas' I can, for 'twon't
do fer me to stay long in dese yer diggins. I's come out
on furlough, as we calls it in de army.”
“O, you're in the army, then?” asked Dora, with a
roguish smile.
“Yes, missy, I is. An' you see we's in camp jes'
now, 'bout fifty mile from here, an' gwine ter stop a spell.
We's moved furder off dan we was when me an' de
captin got back, and so I t'ou't 'fore we moved on agin,
I'd borry a hoss, and come back to de ole place for
sumfin' dat I forgot dat mornin'. An' so yer mammy's
dead, poor lilly missy?”
“Yes, Picter. How did you know?”
“Lor, missy, I's seen some of our folks 'bout here, an'
got all de news. An' I was gwine ter try fer ter see
you 'fore I wented back, 'cause I t'ou't mabbe you wasn'
jist happy down dere, an' I was gwine to see if ole Picter,
that yer mammy gib his freedom to, couldn' do sumfin''
bout it.”
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
“I am not living at aunt Wilson's now,” said Dora,
quietly. “I have left there.”
“Lef' dah! An' whar's ye gwine, missy?” asked
Picter, in much astonishment.
“I don't know. Only I am going North, where my
mother's folks live. Perhaps I shall find some of them.”
“Yer pore lilly gal!” exclaimed Pic, with a world of
tender pity in his coarse voice.
“Why don't you come with me, Picter?” asked Dora,
suddenly, as the idea flashed upon her mind. “You
want to go to the North, of course, and very likely, when
I find my aunt, she will take you to live with her, too.
Won't that be nice?”
“But, lilly missy, how's we gwine fer ter find yer
aunty? Do ye know whar she live?”
“No, Picter, nor I don't know her name, except
Lucy; but I guess she lives in Massachusetts. She used
to when mother was married.”
Epictetus pondered the proposition with a gravity
worthy of his namesake. At last he spoke, as one who
has made up his mind:—
“Lilly missy, ter go an' look in a big place, like Masserchusetts,
for a woman named Lucy, 'ould be jis' like
looking in the mowin' for las' year's snow. 'Twouldn't
be no use, no how. But now yer wait a minit, an' I'll
tell yer how we'll fix it.
“Dese yer sojers dat I's wid, come from de Norf,
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
an' some of 'em from Masserchusetts. De cap'n dat
was to our house dat morning, he's a Masserchusetts man,
an' come down here with one of dere regiments, but
when de oders went home, he stopped, an' has been
fighting 'long o' dese yer fellers.
“Now, missy, yer come 'long back wid me to de
camp, an' I'll take keer on ye dere whiles we stop, an'
w'en dey goes Norf, w'y, we'll go 'long too. What yer
tink o' dat yer for an ole nig's plan, now?”
“That will do, Picter, very well, I should think,” said
Dora, composedly. “When shall we go?”
“Right off, now, lilly missy. 'Twon't do fer dis
chile to be cotched in dese diggins, as I said afore.
Tell trufe, lilly missy, I only come fer de ole stockin'.”
“What old stocking?” asked Dora, wonderingly.
“W'y, missy, de ole feller has been pickin' up de
coppers ebery chance he get, dis many a long year, an'
t'ought one dese yer fine days mabbe mas'r take 'em all
an' gib him his freedom. Den, when mist's say, `Go, ole
Pic,' all to a sudden t'oder day, ebery ting seem turned
upside down, and de silly ole nig scamper off widout so
much as tink 'bout de ole stockin' hangin' up in de barn.”
“And so you came back to get it?” asked Dora, rather
impatiently, for she longed to begin her journey.
“Yis, missy, I's come back fer get it; dat part
my arrant, to be sure. Bud den, 'sides dat, I wanted
know how lilly missy gittin' 'long, an' wedder de coppers
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
'ould do some good to she. 'Cause, missy, w'en mist's
gib me my freedom right out o' han', it 'ould look orful
mean fer me to carry off all de coppers, too, and neber
ax wedder lilly missy could help herse'f some way wid
dem.”
“O, thank you, Uncle Pic,” exclaimed Dora, hastily.
“But of course I would not for the world take one of
them away from you. And how did you know, before
you came, that I was at aunt Wilson's?”
“Lor's, missy, 'twas passed along to me, same as all
de news is.”
“But how, Picter?”
“Well, missy, de col'ud folks dey don't hab no newspapers
nor books, so dey takes a heap o' pains to git de
news roun' by word o' mouf. Dey meets nights, an' dey
tells eberyt'in' dey know, an' dey has ways, missy, heaps
o' ways. Bud now I's all ready for travellin' ef you is.”
“I am in a great hurry to start, Pic.”
“Sho! be you, lilly missy? Den I's mos' afeard you
has'n' be'n ober an' above contented to your aunty's.
Pore lilly lamb. Well, ole Pic's gwine ter see ter ye
now, an' dere shan't nebber no one take ye away from
him without you says so you'se'f. Now I jes' go to de barn
a minit, an' git my lilly bundle, an' den we goes.”
Picter stole cautiously away through the darkness, and
Dora strained her eyes to distinguish once more the dim
outline of her old home vaguely drawn against the gloomy
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
sky. The night wind moaned drearily around its gables,
and a whip-poor-will perched upon the tree that swept
the roof to chant his mournful cry.
Dora shivered nervously, and murmured, “This isn't
home any longer, and aunt's house isn't either. I haven't
any home, now; but the Lord and mother will take care
of me just the same — so I don't care.”
“H'yar we be, missy,” whispered Picter's hoarse voice,
as he rejoined his new charge. “Now we's all ready to
put, I reckon.”
“Do you know the way, Pic, when it's so dark?”
“Neber you fear fer dat, missy. De ole nig fin' he
way 'bout, ef it be darker dan ten black cats shuck up in
one bag. Den, back here a piece I's got a hoss, a fus'
rater, too, dat dey lend me up to de camp. De cap'n
tell 'em trust de ole nig same as dey would hese'f.”
“Do you mean the captain that was at our house?”
asked Dora, who was now tripping along beside the old
negro in the direction of the mountains.
“De berry same, missy. He name Cap'n Windsor —
Charley Windsor. Don' you min' he tole us ter call 'im
Cap'n Karl? Dat de same name as Charley.”
“Yes; and I was real glad afterwards that I didn't
know his true name, for they asked me, you know.”
“No, I didn't know 'bout dat. I heerd dat dey got
wind roun' here dat a Yankee officer got away, an' dey
was rampin' roun' like mad, lookin' fer 'im; an' ole
mas'r was some 'spected, I heerd.”
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“Father suspected! Why, he brought Joe Sykes and
some other men to our house to look, and to ask mother
and me questions.”
“Yes, yes, chile, I knows all 'bout dat. Dem fellers is
part ob de Wigilance Committee, an' mas'r had to fotch'
em to he house wedder he like it or not. Den dey tole
him he'd better 'list after mist's died, an' so he did.”
“And did you hear all that before you came back?”
“Not all, missy. I seed a boy las' night, w'en I was
comin' dis way, dat telled me part. He b'longs to one o'
dem Wigilances, an' so heerd de whole story.”
“Poor father!” murmured Dora.
“Well, missy, I reckon he didn' want much drivin' to
go inter de army. He used ter talk 'bout it by spells, an'
say he'd a mind fer ter go.”
“Yes, I know it,” said Dora, sadly.
“Golly! How dark he am here 'mong de hills. Can't
hardly make out de way, now we's lef' de road, but
reckon we's right so fer,” muttered Pic.
“Where are we going first, Picter? Where shall we
find the horse?” asked Dora, a little anxiously.
“Fin' 'im in he paster, missy. I lef' 'im dah as snug
as a bug in a rug, an' de Bible say, `Safe bind, safe find;'
so I boun' him safe 'nouf, I tell ee.”
“O, no, Picter, that isn't in the Bible,” said Dora,
quite scandalized at the idea.
“Ain't it, now, missy? Well, I heern mist's say so
-- 069 --
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one day, an' I t'ou't she alluz talk out o' de Bible. Anyways,
dem's good words, else she wouldn't say dem.”
To this Dora made no reply, and Picter was now too
deeply engrossed in making out their path among the
rocks, fallen trees, hillocks, and ravines of the mountain
side, to continue the conversation.
Nearly an hour had passed, and the little girl was becoming
quite tired, when Picter stopped short at the foot
of a large oak tree, and said, triumphantly, —
“Here we is, Missy Dora.”
“Where? I don't see anything but trees, Picter.”
“No more you wouldn' if 'twas cl'ar as noonday,
honey; an' now, you couldn' see de king's palace ef 'twas
straight afore ye. Bud dis chile knows all 'bout it.”
While speaking, the negro had been carefully removing
some brush and broken branches, which, had it been
light enough to see them, would have appeared to have
naturally drifted in between the old oak and a high
cliff of mingled rock and gravel just behind it. Under
these appeared a large round stone, lying as it might
have lain ever since it first became loosened from the
face of the cliff in some frosty spring, and rolled to its
present position.
But Picter, after casting a searching look into the
darkness surrounding him, applied his strength to this
rock, and soon displacing it, showed that it acted as cover
to the mouth of a tunnel perhaps two feet in diameter,
penetrating the face of the cliff at an acute angle.
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“Why, how came that hole there, and where does it
go to?” asked Dora, in astonishment.
“He come dere trew much tribberlation an' hard
work, an' he go to de lan' o' promise. A kin' ob a short
cut ter freedom, dis yer is,” returned Pic, cheerfully.
“Now, den, gib us you lilly paw, missy.”
Dora, without hesitation, put her hand in that of Picter,
who, after lifting her over the brush and the rock,
set her down at the entrance to the tunnel.
“Dere, missy, git down on you han's an' kneeses, an'
creep right frew. I's comin' right arter, soon's I fix up
de brush an' stuff fer ter hide de op'nin'. Has ter be
mighty keerful 'bout dat.”
With fearless obedience, Dora did as directed, and
crept forward some feet into the tunnel, where she paused
until the negro had arranged the disguises of his curious
refuge to his mind.
“Dere, honey,” said he, at length, “now we's all
right, I reckon. You jis' go ahead till you gits to de
end ob dis yer hole. 'Tain't so mighty long, arter all,
an' de lan' ob promise is waitin' fer us at t'oder end.”
The child made no reply. Indeed, the close air and
heavy darkness of the place rendered the mere act of
breathing a difficult one, and she had neither strength nor
courage for speech.
Keeping on as she was told, it was not many minutes,
however, before a waft of fresher air touched her panting
-- --
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-- --
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lips, and presently a dim light, at some distance in front,
refreshed her aching eyes. Still creeping forward, she
came at last to the end of the tunnel, and rising cautiously
to her feet, stood beneath the sombre sky in what appeared
to be a small, deep valley surrounded on every
side by overhanging cliffs.
“Here we be, missy!” exclaimed Picter, exultantly,
as he stood beside her. “Now gib me you han' again,
an' I'll fotch you to de cabin.”
Putting her hand in his, Dora was silently led across a
little space of grass, to where, beneath the impending
brow of one of the crags, a rude hut had been constructed
of boughs and small trunks of trees. The door was
closed, but yielded to Pic's hand.
“Dere's nobbuddy here. Reckon Scip's gone right'
long,” muttered her, leading in his little companion, and
carefully closing the door behind them.
“Now you set right down on dis yer log, missy, an'
we'm hab a fire an' suffin' to eat 'fore you kin say Jack
Robberson,” continued he, cheerily; and Dora, tired,
faint, and somewhat frightened at her strange situation,
obeyed without a word.
Groping his way to the fireplace at the back of the
hut, the negro drew together some half-burned brands,
added to them from a pile of brush at the side of the fireplace,
lighted them with a match from his pocket, and
soon had a cheery fire crackling up the chimney.
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“De smoke goes off in de cracks ob de rocks some
way. You can't neber see it f'um below,” explained he,
turning round to look at Dora, who sat huddled up in
the spot where she had first sunk.
“Pore lilly missy. You's all beat out, an' yore cheeks
is as white as you' han's. Come right up to de fire an'
warm ye, honey. You's awful tired now, isn' you?”
“A little tired, Uncle Pic. But I shall soon be rested
now. What a funny sort of place this is!”
“I'll bet you 'tis, missy. To-morrer we'll look roun'
an' see it. Now, here's some beef an' some bread I lef'
here w'en I comed along. Dem's Yankee vittles, missy.
Tell you, dis chile neber tasted nuffin' sweeter dan de
first mou'ful of Yankee beef, dat he eat in de Union camp.”
“And I shall like it, too, Picter,” said Dora, earnestly;
“for I'm going to be a Yankee all the rest of my life,
after once we get among them.”
“Dat right, honey; you an' Pic cl'ar Yankee f'um dis
minit. Now, chile, here's you bed in dis corner, an'
here's de bery branket dat mist's gib to Cap'n Karl dat
mornin' all handy fer ter wrop ye up.
“Now, missy, you 'member dat it tells in de Bible'
bout how you mus' heave you corn-dodgers inter de
water, an' arter a while dey'll turn up loaves ob w'ite
bread if so be as you has bin good to dem dat stood in
need o' kin'ness.”
“I guess you mean, `Cast thy bread upon the waters,
-- 073 --
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and after many days it shall return to thee again' — don't
you?” asked Dora, doubtfully.
“Mabbe de words is fix some sich way; but I's got de
meanin' fus' rate, 'cause mist's tole me all 'bout it; an'
now see, honey, how it's come true 'bout dis yer branket.
Mist's had lots on 'em, an' 'twan't no more dan a corn-dodger
fer her ter gib; bud now it's come back to her
darter w'en she hain't got no oder mortial rag fer ter
wrop herse'f in, an' now it's ekill to a thumpin' big loaf
o' w'ite bread.”
Dora laughed at this queer Scripture reading, and
wrapping herself in the blanket, lay down upon her leafy
bed, where soon she slept as soundly and as sweetly as
if she had still been beneath her father's roof.
As for Picter, he curled himself up almost in the fireplace,
and soon snored portentously.
-- 074 --
CHAPTER IX.
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
The next morning the weary child slept until Picter
gently shook her by the shoulder, and called her to arise.
“O, good morning, Uncle Pic,” said she, smiling, as
she sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Is it late?”
“Well, missy, not so berry late, I reckon, dough I
hasn' got my goold watch on dis mornin'; but breaksus
is all ready, an' a fus' rate one, too, honey.”
“Is it? What have we got?” asked Dora, merrily, as
she jumped up and came towards the fire.
“Mos' eberyting, honey. Fus' place dere's de soup
made out o' beef an' hard tack. Dat mighty good w'en
it ain't too salt; and I's freshened my beef a heap. Den
dere's taters roasted, an' dere's a hoe-cake bake, an' dere's
coffee bilin', wid sugar in it.”
“Why, Uncle Pic, where did you get all these things?”
asked the astonished child.
“Well, honey, de beef, an' de coffee, an' de sugar, I
fotcht from camp, an' de taters an' de corn for de hoe-cake
I 'fistercated las' night.”
“Did what, Pic?”
“'Fistercated, honey. Dat's a bran'-new Yankee word
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
dat I larn in camp. I can't zackly splain de meanin'
on't, but I understands it fus' rate, an' it's an oncommon
handy kin' of a word.”
Picter chuckled to himself as he lifted the tin kettle of
soup off the fire, and Dora, giving up the attempt to
understand his joke, inquired,—
“Where can I wash my face, Uncle Pic?”
“Dere, now,” cried the negro, in a sort of delighted
admiration, “dat's what I calls de effec' ob a good eddication.
Here dis bressed lamb gits up in de mornin', an'
wot does she ax fer fust? Her breaksus? Not a bit
on't. She axes fer water to wash her purty lilly face.
Now dat cl'ar buckra. De nigger picaninnies isn't up
to dat.”
“Why, Uncle Pic, don't you always wash your face
in the morning?”
“Alluz, alluz, chile — w'en it handy, an' when I tink
ob it, an' de water ain't too cole, an' I ain't too much
druv up. Bud now I 'spec you an' you mammy wash'
um face ebery single day.”
“Why, yes, of course, Picter. I thought everybody
alive did.”
“Bress de pore lilly child! An' she wor gwine all'
lone to look fur aunt Lucy in de Norf, and didn' know
no more 'bout de worl' dan dat ar. Well, well, de Bible
say dat Hebbenly Marster takes keer to temper de win'
to de shorn lamb, an' I spec he will to dis one.”
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“I don't think that's in the Bible, Pic,” said Dora,
doubtfully.
“Lors, chile, dere's no sasserfying ye, ye're so curus,”
retorted Pic good-naturedly. “But you come long o'
me, missy, an' I'll show you de baf-room.”
Taking the coffee-pail off the fire, lest it should boil
over in his absence, Picter led the way out into the
open air.
Looking about her with some curiosity, Dora saw that
she was, as she supposed, in a very deep and narrow
valley, hardly more, indeed, than a deep cleft near the
summit of a mountain. A narrow strip of verdure ran
through it; at one end was the opening through which
they had entered, and at the other was the only break in
the rocky wall that rose around it to a height of from
twenty to fifty feet. This break, or, as it may more
properly be described, this slight division between two
toppling crags, served as a loophole from whence the
fugitives might command a very extended view of the surrounding
country. At their feet arose a little bubbling
spring, which, after filling its deep, rocky basin, sparkled
away in a stream, that, after a course of only a few feet,
fell over the edge of the precipice, which seemed to have
yawned asunder to allow it room to pass.
Looking carefully down the dashing little waterfall,
Dora saw that some twenty feet below her lay another
little glen, similar in size and shape to that where she
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stood. Through this the waters of the fall, collecting
themselves after their leap, danced gayly along until they
reached its lower end, when they made their way through
another cañon so narrow as to leave no room except for
their bed, and so sinuous that no one standing at either
end could possibly catch a glimpse of the other. The
passage was further obstructed at the present time by a
good-sized pine tree, which had been cut down and
dragged into the bed of the stream.
This little valley, thus fortified, thus watered, and well
provided with herbage, was “the pasture” of which Pic
had spoken when asked where he had left the horse;
and here, at the moment when Dora looked down from
her mountain eyry, a fine, strong looking animal of that
description was indulging in a roll upon the dewy grass
by way of performing his morning toilet.
“And how do we get down there, Pic?” asked Dora,
after taking a long survey of the little valley, the horse,
the sparkling stream, and the grand view of mountain
scenery that stretched away for miles before her.
“Well, dat ruffer a bodder, missy,” acknowledged
Pic. “You see I t'ou't we was comin' in de same way
we come out, an' den I was goin' roun' to fotch out de
hoss t'oder way. But now I spects we'm bof got to
scrabble down behin' de fall.”
“Behind the fall!” echoed Dora.
“Yes, honey. See here, now: dere's a chance to put
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[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
you foot on dis yer ledge just b'low here, an' den you
stick you fin'ers an' toes in mighty tight, an' gits down
to dat ar nex' one, an' den you kin' o' sidle along an' git
right in 'hind de water; an' so you keeps workin' down,
one step to a time, till you lan's to de bottom. T'ink you
kin do't, lilly missy?”
“Yes, I reckon I can,” said Dora, bravely, though she
turned a little pale as she carefully scanned the slippery
and dizzy path pointed out to her.
“Yer'll have to pull off yer shoe an' 'tockin', missy,”
resumed Pic, “an' I's 'fraid you'll git orful wet. I's
mighty sorry, honey, fer to ax you ter do sich a thin',
bud dere ain't no oder way.”
“No, I see there isn't, Picter; and I dare say it won't
be half so bad as it looks. I'll try, any way,” said Dora,
bravely.
“Bress you heart, honey! You jes' as brave as a
lion, an' jes' as purty as a lamb; an' now you jes' wash
you lilly face here to de sprin', an ole Pic 'll go see to
de breaksus.”
-- 079 --
CHAPTER X.
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
The breakfast was a merry meal, and proved excellent
in quality. When it was finished, Dora insisted on
washing the few utensils and scouring them as clean as
she could, although Pic grumbled at both operations as
useless labor, and added, as a final argument, —
“'Sides, dey ain't use to it, and w'en dey gits it once
dey'll olluz be spectin' ob it, an' be jes' like dat ole hoss
doctor's darters in de Bible, dat was olluz singin' out,
`Gib! Gib!' so I spec's dere poor daddy had to go
roun' nights an' pizen de hosses, so's to cure 'em up nex'
day and get de pay fer doin' it.”
“Why, Pic!” exclaimed Dora, pausing in her labor
upon the coffee-kettle, and looking up at the negro's
grotesque face. “What makes you call it a horse
doctor? It says `horse leech' in the Bible.”
“Well, chile, I ax mas'r one day what a leech mean,
an' he say it mean doctor; so hoss leech mean hoss
doctor — don' you see?”
“Why, I don't believe that is it,” said Dora, meditatively.
“But, any way,” continued she, shaking the
heavy chestnut curls out of her eyes, “I'll scour the
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kettles now, if they cry, `Give, give' ever so loud to-morrow.”
“Well, den, de pore ole nig mus' take holt too, I
specs,” said Picter, grumbling good-naturedly, as he
grasped his great paw full of ashes, and began to scour
lustily at the soup-kettle.
“Ah, ha, Pic! That was the real reason you thought
it wasn't best for me to do them,” laughed Dora; “you
didn't want to help.”
“Well, chile, dis ole nig 'ud full as lieves rest afore
de fire, an' dat's a fac', an' he kin' o' hate ter see lilly
missy's pooty hands all grimmed up wid ashes an' soot,
jes' like ole Dinah's. But dat all go wid washin' yore
face ebery mornin'. Can't be help, I specs, w'en a body
has had a eddication. Dey's buckra ways, I reckons.”
By the time the vessels were thoroughly scoured and
washed, Pic declared that it was time for dinner, and he
proceeded to cook all the remainder of the provisions,
that Dora and he might not only eat at that time, but
have something to carry as support in the long night
march before them.
Dinner over, and the vessels once more cleansed and
set aside, Pic suggested that they should each take a nap,
and sleep, if possible, until the time should come to start
upon their journey.
Dora consented, and lay down upon her bed of leaves,
while Picter, as before, curled himself beside the hearth,
and was in a few moments fast asleep.
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But Dora could not so easily seize irregular repose
For an hour or more she lay almost motionless, watching
the fitful firelight that played among the projections
and recesses of the irregular walls a fantastic game of
“I spy.” Then the fire went down, and only curls of
thin blue smoke arose from its embers.
Dora softly arose, and was about to lay more wood
upon the fire, when a distant sound arrested her attention.
It was a confused noise, and Dora could not
determine whether it came from the direction of the
waterfall, or the tunnel through which they had entered
the valley. But it appeared to be approaching, and as
any unusual sound was a subject of alarm to the fugitives,
Dora hastened to arouse Picter.
“Eh, what? What's 'e matter, chile? Tain't time yit
to be movin'. Let 'e ole feller sleep a leetly long'r,”
muttered the negro, lazily, as he turned upon the other
side and prepared to drop off again.
“But, Picter, Uncle Pic, I say, there's something
coming; there's danger, perhaps.”
“Somefin' comin'! Danger!” repeated Picter, starting
to his feet and rubbing his eyes. “Whar! whar's
de danger, missy? Reckon you foolin' you ole uncle,
honey, ain't you! 'Fraid he obersleep hese'f.”
“No, no, indeed, Picter. Just listen now — there,
what is that sound in the tunnel?”
Picter now listened anxiously enough, for the sounds
-- 082 --
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growing louder every minute, evidently came from the
direction of the tunnel. Carefully leaving the cabin, he
crossed the little glade to the entrance of the subterranean
passage, and stood for some minutes with his neck
outstretched and his ears alert, while his eyes wildly
rolled first towards the hut and Dora's watchful little
figure standing in the doorway, and then within the
gloomy chasm at whose entrance he stood.
Presently he softly entered the tunnel, and disappeared
from sight.
A few minutes passed, and Dora, almost holding her
breath from anxiety, softly approached the dark passage,
and peered within. She saw nothing; but in another
moment Picter noiselessly crept to her side, and hoarsely
whispered, —
“'Tis de Philistums, honey! Dey is upon us, an' dis
ole fool 'ould ha' laid still till dey come an' cut off ebery
ha'ar he's got, same's dey did to Samson, ef 't hadn' been
for lilly missy. But de wus ob de whole is, dey's got a
dog. Spec dey's been way down to Pete Flanders, and
borried his'n. Dere ain't no one else 'bout here has got
one —”
“No one got a dog?”
“Not a bloodhoun', missy. Dat's what dey's got up
dah. I knows his bay. It's diff'ent from any oder dog.
Spec God made all de dogs, and de debil made bloodhoun's.
Don' know else how it happen dat he's de only
one dat'll eat a nigger.”
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“But, Pic, we ain't going to stay here and wait for
them — are we?” said Dora, impatiently. “Come, let us
go to the waterfall, and get out on the ledge, and then,
when they are in the tunnel here, we can climb down to
where the horse is, and so get off. I can climb any
where that you can, I know. Come, here's the bundle
of food — we must take that. Why don't you start,
Pic?”
The negro looked at her with admiring wonder.
“Lors, now,” said he, “how many pooty lilly gals, I
won'er, 'ould talk dat a way, sich a time as dis. Mos'
all on 'em would screech an' holler fit to kill deyse'fs,
an' let all de folks out dah know jes' who's inside here.
Dis is what comes o' eddication, I reckon.”
“But, Pic, I say,” reiterated Dora, almost angrily,
“why don't you do something?”
“W'y, honey, 'tain't time yet. Dat's w'y. Ef dem
fools up dah sen's in de dog — golly, dey's done it a'
ready.”
Dropping to his hands and knees, Pic began to creep
up the tunnel as he spoke, and Dora followed more cautiously.
About half way, as well as she could judge,
she overtook him lying motionless and listening intently.
The sounds now distinctly heard were the voices of men
talking eagerly, and the occasional hoarse sound of a
muffled howl from the hound.
“Dey's muzzlin' him. I 'specs dey knows you's in
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
here, and doesn' want he should t'ar ye. Dey doesn'
muzzle um w'en dey's chasin' niggers,” muttered Picter.
“Well, what are you going to do? He'll be down
here in a minute, and the men after him. Can't I do
something — can't you tell me, Picter?”
“Put out you han', missy. Here, dis way.”
Dora did as directed, and found that the tunnel beyond
Pic's position was closed by a barrier, made apparently
of small saplings, bound together closely with
withes.
“But this won't stop him long,” whispered she; “he'll
jump at it till he knocks it down, or at any rate till the
men come up. It won't stop them.”
“Wait, den, honey. Feel here, now.”
“A rope — two ropes! What are they for?”
“Now I'll tell you, missy. W'en dat howlin', tearin'
debil up dah gets to dis gate, he'll be as mad as hops,
an' he'll howl, an' yelp, an' run back'ards and for'ards.
Bud dat ain't de wust dat'll happen to um; fer w'en he
begins to do dat ar', dis chile will pull de rope, jus' like
um hangman pull de leetly cord dat let de drop fall, an'
wow! whar dat debil's pup fin' hese'f den?”
“Why, what will happen to him, Pic?”
“Jes you wait a lilly minit, missy, an' you'll see,”
replied the negro, who had all the taste of his race for
melodrama, and did not intend to spoil the grand “effect”
he was preparing, by describing it beforehand.
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Dora was too breathless and too excited to insist upon
an explanation, and waited silently beside Pic, grasping
the hurdle with one cold little hand, and listening with
both her ears.
The voices above, confused by the distance into one
hoarse sound, reverberated sullenly along the sides of
the tunnel; but no single voice or words could be distinguished.
The hound bayed no longer, but his fierce
growl was distinctly audible. All at once a sudden shout
was heard, followed by a profound silence.
Then came the patter of the dog's feet, mingled with
exultant yelps, as he pressed forward upon the scent.
He was evidently approaching fast.
“Now, den, chile. Here um debil, an' hear um
mas'r hangmana' ready for um,” whispered Picter, hoarsely,
as he grasped the ropes in either hand, and braced
his foot against the centre of the hurdle.
The hound reached the spot. He paused a moment,
whining impatiently, and running from side to side.
Then scenting his prey close at hand, he became furious,
bounding against the gate with all his force, growling
fiercely, and tearing at the ground with his paws.
Through the hurdle Dora could see the red gleam of his
eyeballs, and smell his fetid breath.
“Dat right, you debil dog,” muttered the negro, in
great excitement. “Dat de way to dance; golly! Don'
dis chile want to see yer dancin' roun' in de fire down
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
b'low dah, whar you's gwine! Specs, dough, yer'll be
ter home dah, 'long wid you daddy. Dat's it! Scratch
um groun'; tear 'im wid you paw! Don' you jes' wish'
twas ole nig you war tearin'! Now, den, trot back a
leetly mite, take fresh start! Dat's it; now um time fer
mas'r hangman! He-o!”
As he uttered the last exclamation, Picter, bracing his
foot afresh, pulled suddenly and strongly at the two ropes
twisted about his brawny hands.
A crash, a heavy fall, the rattle and plunge of an avalanche
of stones and earth, accompanied by suffocating
clouds of dust, followed the action.
A yelp of agony, a smothered whine from the hound,
ensued, and then all was still, and even darker than
before.
Picter seized Dora by the arm, and hurried her back
into the open air, where they were pursued by the pungent
dust of the earth-fall.
“Dah! Tank de Lor' dat all done safe!” gasped
Picter, as he sank upon the withered grass. “Now we'm
got noffin' ter do but wait till dem folks is gone, and den
get out t'oder way.”
“But if they find the other way?” whispered Dora,
after they were safe once more in the hut, with the door
closed.
“Dey won't, chile. Dey neber 'ud ha' foun' dis, on'y
fer de houn'. T'oder way, de houn'couldn' help um if
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
dey had him, cause it's trough runnin' water. An' I
reckon dat houn' won't neber t'ar down a nigger agin,
not if he was clost afore 'im.”
“What was it, Picter? What did the ropes do?”
asked Dora, with a sort of breathless terror in her
voice.
“Well, honey, w'en dis place was fix up fer a sort
o' refuge fer us poor col'ud folks, eber so long ago, we
t'aut like enough some day we might be tracked in wid
houn's. An' so, in de tunnel, we fix a kin' ob trap-door
ober head, wid lots o' dirt an' big stones atop, an' big
sticks a holdin' it up underneaf. Den we tied ropes to
de foot o' dem big sticks, an' fix de gate jes' dis side ob
de trap.
“So w'en I went up fus' time, an' foun' out w'at was
to pay, I jes' put up de gate, an' fotch de ends ob de ropes
trew. So den, w'en de ole houn' wor jes' about under
de middle, I gib um hangman pull, an' wow! down he
come ker-smash, de trap fus', an' all de stones an' dirt
atop. Reckon dat dog am flatter dan a hoe-cake 'bout
dis time. Hi! I'd like 'o look at um.”
“O, Picter, how can you!” cried Dora, in horror.
“Can what, missy? Kill um?”
“No, that was all right. But to want to see him
now.”
“W'y not den, missy. I hate um like de bery debil
hese'f. I kill um; I want ter see um dead, an' kick um
a leetly bit p'raps.”
-- 088 --
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“But, Pic, how can you want to see him all mashed
and mangled as he is? O, I wouldn't look at him for a
hundred dollars.”
“Wouldn' you now? Lors, dat kin' o' curus. Dat
goes 'long wid washin' you face, and scourin' de coffee-kettle,
I specs. Buckra ways, all buckra ways,” said
Picter, looking at Dora with the same sort of admiring
wonder that he frequently displayed for her.
“Well, nigger ways is good enough fer ole Pic, but
he like to see buckra ways in lilly missy. Dat all right,
I specs.”
“O, yes, that's all right, Uncle Pic; but don't you
think there's any danger at all now?” asked the child,
rather anxiously.
“No, honey. Dey couldn' fin' out de oder way, not
if dey was lookin' a week; not even if dey got inter de
hosses' paster down by de waterfall, fer yer can't see
noffin' w'en yer look up from de foot.”
“Well, then, we have only to wait till these men have
gone, and it is dark.”
“Dat's um, honey. Now, s'pose yer tell ole Pic some
ob dem pooty stories yer mammy use ter tell you an'
Mas'r Tom in de winter ebenin's.”
“Well, I will. Or, Picter, wouldn't you rather have
me read a little to you out of the Bible? I have got
mother's own little Bible here in my bosom.”
“Yes, missy, I like dat fus' rate. Dere ain't no stories
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
ekill to dem in de Bible, arter all. I like um jes' as well
as fairy story.”
“You ought to like them better, Picter,” said Dora,
earnestly, “because they are all true, and it is God's
own book, the Bible is.”
“Lors, yes, missy, I know dat. I knows heaps 'bout
de Bible — lots o' pooty sayin's out ob it. Read me 'bout
Dan'l in de lion den, missy. Spec's dat ar houn' wus
dan any dem lions. Wouldn' ha' cotcht 'im lettin' Dan'l
alone!”
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CHAPTER XI.
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
We must now go back for a few hours to the dawning
of the day whose evening found Dora in the mountain
cabin, reading the story of Daniel to old Pic.
When Mrs. Wilson shrilly summoned her daughters to
arise, she called Dora's name with the rest.
“Dora ain't here,” sleepily replied Louisa.
“Ain't there! Where is she, then?”
“I don't know, I'm sure.”
“Don't you know, Jane?”
“No, ma'am.”
“She's gone out, I reckon. The door's unbolted,”
suggested Sam, one of the younger boys, who had risen
early to go fishing.
“Gone a walkin' for her health 'fore breakfast, I reckon,'
sneered Mrs. Wilson. “Ef she ain't back pooty
soon, I can tell her she'll get more walk than breakfast.
I don't believe in no such ways.”
The breakfast passed, and was cleared away. Mrs.
Wilson's displeasure at her niece's absence became a sort
of angry alarm, as the day went on, and brought no
tidings of her. Just before noon, Sam, returning from
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his fishing, brought to his mother a little bow of cherry-colored
ribbon.
“There's the bow Dora had pinned on her gown yesterday—
ain't it?” drawled he.
“Yes, I b'lieve so. Whar'd ye git it?” asked Mrs.
Wilson.
“In the yard of their old house. I come acrost it
coming from the brook, and 'bout half way I see this in
the path, and fetched it home. Ain't she got back
yet?”
“No,” said his mother, slowly, as she stood with her
eyes fixed upon the bit of ribbon.
“So she went up to the old house all 'lone, 'fore light.
Where'd she go next, I'd like to know,” said she to herself.
“Whar's your daddy, Sam, and whar's Dick
loafing now, when he might be o' some use?”
“They're coming up to the house, ma'am, this minit,
and a strange man and a big dog 'long with 'em.”
Mrs. Wilson peeped out at the window.
“It's Pete Flanders and his hound,” said she. “I
s'pose dad's brought him home to dinner; and here's the
vittles won't be done this half hour. 'Clare for't, I wish
Cephas 'ud let me know 'fore he brings folks home.”
The men now entered, and Mr. Wilson somewhat
sheepishly informed his wife that Mr. Flanders would
stay to dinner with them.
The dame went through some form of welcome, not of
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the heartiest, and then proceeded, with the help of her
daughters, to lay the table and dish the dinner.
When they were seated, she mentioned her anxiety at
Dora's prolonged absence, and also the clew to her
movements given by the cherry-colored bow.
“We can track her from that spot easy enough with
old Vixen,” said Flanders, eagerly.
“The hound? But he'd hurt her,” said Mrs. Wilson,
dubiously.
“Lord, ma'am, we'd muzzle him. He couldn't hurt
a babby then, 'cept by knockin' of it down.”
“You could hold him in a leash too, last part of the
way, couldn't you?” asked Dick.
“'Course I could. The gal shan't get hurt, and perhaps
we shall kill both birds with the same stone.”
“What two birds?” Mrs. Wilson inquired; and her
husband and his guest went on to tell her that Scipio,
one of Joe Sykes's “niggers,” had run away on the preceding
night, and that Joe had asked Mr. Wilson to go
after Flanders and his dog to hunt him. Arriving at
Wilson's house just at dinner time, they had stopped
there first.
More than this, Dick Wilson, who had been over at
Mr. Sykes's house in the morning, said that one of the
boys upon the place had been overheard saying to another
that he “reckoned Scip had gone off with Pic
Darley;” but though the lad had been strictly
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examined, and finally put to the torture of the lash to make
him confess that he had seen Picter, nothing could be
extorted from him more than that he “thought like
enough Pic had been round,” but did not know it certainly.
“I never see anything like the imperdence of niggers
nowadays,” remarked Mr. Flanders, indignantly.
“There ain't no gittin' at the truth, no how, 'thout you
cut it right out o' their hides.”
“Golly! I reckon you'd 'a thought Joe cut deep
enough inter that boy's hide this morning, but he didn't
come to the truth,” drawled Dick.
“That's cause there wan't no truth in him, I expect,”
said Louisa, with the air of one who utters a witticism.
“Truth,” chimed in her mother, “I'll put all the truth
you'll find in a nigger inter my right eye, and shan't go
blind with it nuther. I never b'lieve a word they say,
and I tell 'em so straight out.”
“It's no wonder they lie to you then,” growled Dick,
who was quite willing to argue against himself for the
sake of opposing his mother.
Dinner was now ended, and the men and dog all hurried
away to Joe Sykes's house, to begin the exciting
slave-hunt that they had prepared for.
But no clew could be gained to the starting-point of
the fugitive, who was, indeed, at that moment snugly
concealed in the great barn, having judged it best to
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wait there until the pursuit, that he well knew would be
vigorously conducted, should be over, and the country
quiet, when he intended to steal away.
This little plan it may be as well to mention, was
afterwards carried out with perfect success, and the
“boy” (aged about forty) escaped to the Union lines,
and some time afterwards carried a musket at the battle
of Milliken's Bend.
The hunt, so far as he was concerned, was an entire
failure; but Mr. Flanders, determined to lose no opportunity
of turning an honest penny, now offered his services
to Mr. Wilson at a reduced rate, for, as he facetiously
remarked, —
“Chillen is alluz half price, you know.”
“Well, I don't suppose you'll have to travel very far,”
replied Mr. Wilson, who was incapable of taking even
so mild a joke as that offered by the slave-hunter.
“And if old Pic has been about, it's as likely as any
way that he'd harbor at the old place; and maybe Dora
went there to meet him, and they've took off together,”
suggested Dick, who had been in a brown study ever
since dinner-time.
This idea was hailed by his companions as little short
of inspiration, and Dick received various rough compliments
upon the brilliancy and penetration of his mind.
“Waal, it takes some eyesight to see inter the middle
of a millstone, that's certain; but then, when you git to
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[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
thinking, why, sometimes it seems as if you could figger
out most anything,” returned the lad, with a modest
pride, very refreshing to behold.
“Waal, let's git to work. It'll be sundown one o'
these days,” interposed Flanders, who felt that his own
importance must not be suffered to fade out of the public
mind.
The party accordingly adjourned to the spot where
Sam Wilson had picked up the little bow. Here a shoe
of Dora's was given the dog to smell of, and he was then
laid upon the scent.
This he immediately lifted, and set off at such speed
that the men could hardly keep him in sight.
Dick again suggested that he should be held in leash
or muzzled; but the slave-hunter objected that either of
these measures would retard the chase, and that there
could be no danger, as the child would not be in the open
road within a few miles of home.
“She'll be hid up somewhere—in a cave, or up a
tree, or somewheres like that, where Vixen couldn't
reach her. Besides, if the nigger's with her, we don't
want the hound muzzled, and Vixen wouldn't tech a
white gal; she knows better'n that, 'specially when there's
nigger to be got. She's trained fust rate, that dog is,
though I say it as shouldn't say it,” said Mr. Flanders,
modestly.
“Well,” retorted Dick, drawing a revolver from his
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[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
breast pocket, “all I've got to say is, that I'm going to
keep at that dog's heels, and if he offers to touch Dora,
supposing we find her, I shall just put a bullet through
his head for you.”
“Reckon you'd better not do that, young man, 'thout
you've got fifty dollars in your other pocket. That dog
ain't to be shot for nothing.”
“Nor my cousin ain't going to be worried like that
poor wench of Sykes's that you caught two year ago for
him. She died 'fore they got her home, she did.”
“Yes, that was kind o' unfortnit,” said Flanders, in a
lower voice. “But the fool might 'a clim a tree or sunthin',
and got out of his way. Wha' 'd she want to stop
right on the ground for?”
“I don' know nothing 'bout that, but this I do know.
If that dog flies at Dora, it'll be the last fly he'll ever
make,” returned Dick, emphatically, as he set off after
the dog, on a long lope, that could evidently be kept up
by so active a young fellow as Dick for a long period.
The others followed more slowly, two or three on
horseback, the less fortunate on foot.
The hound mutely followed the trail of the fugitives in
all its many windings, and Dick mentally concluded, from
its irregular and capricious course, that it had been
traversed in the darkness of night.
“Poor little Do,” thought he, “I wonder if she wa'n't
scart. I 'most hope old Pic was with her. By George,
-- --
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-- --
[figure description] 452EAF. Image of a group of men, in what looks like a posse, following a
hunting dog who is straining on his leash.[end figure description]
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
if he is, and she seems to care about him, I'll give him a
chance to make off before the others come up.”
This benevolent intention was still fresh in the young
man's mind, when the hound stopped beneath the old
oak, concealing the entrance to the tunnel, and uttered
an impatient howl, followed by a furious bark.
“She's tree'd 'em!” exclaimed Dick, hurrying up,
and looking eagerly into the tree.
“Say, Dora!” called he softly, “if you're up there,
speak quick. No one ain't going to hurt you while I'm
round, and if you've got Pic with you, I'll give him a
chance to get off before the rest come up.”
To this proposal there was, of course, no reply, and
Dick now perceived that the dog was tearing at the
brush and broken branches wedged between the rock and
tree. He at once concluded that there must be a cave in
this rock, and that the brush concealed its entrance. He
hastened to drag away the obstructions, but, to his great
surprise, the face of the cliff was perfectly smooth and
unbroken. The dog also appeared somewhat puzzled,
but still persisted in clinging to the little space between
the oak and the cliff, and whimpering with impatience at
not finding it possible to pursue the trail.
The rest of the party now came up, and the united
wisdom of the whole finally succeeded in solving the
problem. The large stone was pushed aside, the tunnel
discovered, and every one drew back a little, expecting
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a shot or desperate charge from within, for all were now
agreed that the little girl could not be alone.
Nothing of the kind happened, however, and after a
moment or two, Dick boldly advanced, and looked into
the opening.
“Golly, that's curious!” exclaimed he. “There's a
hole here jist like a fox-hole. I reckon they've burrowed
down and hid since they heard us outside.”
All now crowded forward to look, and for some moments
nothing was to be heard but a confused wrangle
of voices, each one suggesting his own opinion or advice,
and rudely contradicting that of every one else.
“Waal, they're in there safe enough,” said Flanders,
at length; “now who's going down to fetch 'em out? I
can p'int to a man as ain't. I hain't got no fancy fer
havin' my throat cut by a nigger in a dark hole like
this'n. I'll send in the pup if you say so, or you may
go yourself, young man, sence you're so tender of the
gal getting scared.”
Dick, without reply, advanced a little way into the
tunnel, and called repeatedly to Dora, promising safety
and protection both then and at home if she would only
come out to him, and suggesting that if she refused, the
dog would next be sent to summon her, and might prove
a less considerate messenger than himself.
To this artful harangue there was naturally no reply,
as none of it reached the ears of any one but the speaker,
and Dick presently reappeared, somewhat disappointed.
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“There's no one there,” said he, sulkily. “The dog
has got off the right scent, and been trailing a fox or a
badger, I reckon.”
“Foxes and badgers ain't so curus about shutting
their front doors when they go to bed,” sneered Flanders.
“The stuff's blow'd in sence the hole was given up,
I reckon,” said Dick, hastily.
“My dawg don't run on a last year's trail of a fox or
badger, when he's sot on the fresh trail of a human,”
said Flanders, with offended dignity.
“Muzzle the hound, and send him in, Flanders,” interposed
Wilson. “He'll soon tell us what's inside.
To this proposition, after some further discussion,
every one agreed; and Vixen, after a little encouragement
from her master, plunged into the tunnel and disappeared.
The men followed cautiously, and paused before
they had quite lost sight of daylight.
The muffled cries of the dog soon announced that she
had met with some obstacle; but before the listeners had
decided upon the nature of this, the sudden rush and
crash of Picter's land avalanche, and the clouds of dust
accompanying it, drove them tumultuously from the
entrance; nor did one of them care to reënter it, even
to ascertain the fate of the hound, whose loss Flanders
loudly and somewhat indignantly lamented.
A long and heated discussion of these events,
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continued even after the party were seated in friendly conclave
at “the grocery,” where they spent the evening, resulted
in the almost unanimous conclusion that Dora and Picter
had been hidden in the cave, which was supposed to be
of small extent, and that upon the approach of the dog,
they had made some effort to escape by climbing its
sides, that had brought the whole down upon their heads,
burying themselves and the hound in a common grave.
So Mrs. Wilson entered into undisturbed possession
of the orphan's heritage, and did not find it so satisfactory
as she had expected.
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CHAPTER XII.
[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
“Dat mighty pooty story, missy; but I reckon dem
lions had got a bite ob sumfin' 'fore Dan'l was frowed in,
or they wouldn't ha' been so 'commodatin' as ter hold off
till de ole king change he mind.”
“Why, Picter, it was a miracle that made them,” explained
Dora, earnestly.
“Meracle, missy? Well, it seems to dis ole fool dat
meracles mos'ly has got two sides to 'em; an' some folks,
mos'ly chillen an' women, on'y look to one side, whilst
we dat am men folks 'sider bof.”
Dora, rather offended both at the incredulity and the
line of argument, said nothing, but, turning over the
leaves of her Bible, read here and there a verse to herself.
Picter watched her furtively for a while, and then
added, coaxingly, —
“Bud, den, missy, yore mammy tole me once dat we
wasn' to be saved by our own wisdom, bud by faith; so,
p'r'aps, after all, you stan's a better chance dan I does.”
To Picter's surprise, Dora abruptly closed her book,
and laughed outright — a merry, girlish laugh, such as
had not come from her pale lips for many a week before;
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[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]
but the idea of Picter's wisdom standing in the way of
his spiritual advancement, struck her as an uncommonly
funny one.
“Well, dear old Uncle Pic,” said she, after a moment
of merriment, “if your wisdom will get us safely out of
this valley, and to the Union camp, I won't ask it to do
any more. We can talk about Daniel and the lions
another time.”
“Yes, missy, I specs 'tis 'bout time to be movin',”
replied Pic, with such readiness one would almost have
suspected him to be glad of an excuse for withdrawing
from the argument.
Dora, with a quiet smile, occupied herself in putting
together the things they were to carry with them, and
leaving the cabin in such order as must have much surprised
the next comer.
Pic, meantime, went out to reconnoitre, and at the
end of about half an hour returned with a beaming countenance.
“All right, missy,” said he, joyfully. “Dey's cl'ared,
horse, foot, an' dragons, as we says in de army. We're
all right now; bud it's comin' on awful cold, an' you
mus' take de branket to wrop roun' your lilly shoul'ers.
Tell 'e what, missy; 'tain't a loaf, bud a hull bakin' o'
white bread we's a gittin' fer dat corn-cake yer mammy
frowed inter de water w'en she gib 'um branket to Captain
Charley.”
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[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
“Well, then, I'll put it on for a shawl; but what will
you do, Pic? Won't you be cold?”
“Neber fear fer dis chile, missy. I got big sojer
coat, dat one ob our fellers pick up arter de battle ob de
Elk Water. De ole rebs didn' stay to pack up dey trunks
dat time, dey lef' in sech a hurry. Now here's de saddle
for de ole hoss. Guess I'll frow it down fus'.”
“And here are the bread and meat in this bundle, and
there are some cold roasted sweet potatoes. Shall we
want them, do you think?”
“Lors, yis, missy, dem's fus' rate; I'd like to eat ha'f
a dozen dis bressed minit. Here, I'll put dem in my
pocket, an' you can carry de bundle till I gits red o' dis
saddle, — after dat I'll take it; and de branket we'll frow'
long o' de saddle. We don' want noffin' to carry w'en
we gits to scram'lin' down dem rocks.”
All was now ready for departure, and Picter, after
standing at the door a few minutes to listen for any
alarming sound, announced that all was safe; and, carefully
closing the door of the cabin, he proceeded, followed
by Dora, to the edge of the cliff, and threw down into
the valley the various articles carried by each, including
Dora's shoes and stockings and Picter's brogans.
He then stepped down to the first ledge, and, so soon as
his feet were set upon the second, directed Dora to follow,
he remaining near enough to help and protect her
very considerably in the perilous descent. The child,
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[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
with neither complaint nor exclamation of any kind, did
exactly as she was bid; and, after ten or fifteen minutes
of anxious exertion, the two found themselves in safety
upon the dry ground at the foot of the fall.
“Now, den, missy, dat's all ober, an' you's de bestest
lilly lady in dese U-nited State fer doin' it so nice and
quiet. I's 'fraid you'd holler; an' dat 'ud ha' scared me,
and spilte us bof. Now, here's de branket, an' you jes'
wrop youse'f all up in it, an' set down here till I gits de
hoss ready. Isn' you awful wet?”
“No, I'm not very wet; but I wan't to see how you'll
catch the horse. I don't believe you can,” said Dora,
slyly.
“Dat 'cause you don' know, chile,” said Picter, a little
indignantly. “Dere ain't no bother 'bout cotchin' dis
yer hoss, any way, w'en dis yer nigger is de one to
cotch um.”
So saying, Picter picked up the bridle, which he had
thrown down with the saddle, and marched directly up
to the horse, who had left off feeding, and stood with
head erect watching him.
“Here, ole Jump, I's gwine to put on yer bridle, now.
Specs yer hasn' had sech a bellyful sence yer come to de
war, 'fore. Now's de time to pay for it, ole boy.”
But Jump, although he may have agreed with his temporary
master's opinion as to the abundance of his two
days' feast, was disposed to differ with him as to the
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[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
propriety of leaving it. As Picter boldly approached, bridle
in hand, Jump, with a wild snort, suddenly wheeled,
and lashed out with his hind legs in a decidedly dangerous
manner.
“W'y, you ole cuss!” exclaimed Picter in great wrath,
as he sprang backward to escape the kick. “Am dat
all de manners you got, arter I's been so good to ye?
Jes' you wait till I gits back ter camp, and see if I
doesn' borry de biggest pa'r o' spurs dere is goin', an'
ride ye up an' down dat mountain till ye hollers, `Nuff
said.”'
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Dora, gleefully. “O, Pic,
you'll kill me right out! O, Pic! the horse hallooing
`Nuff said'! Do the Yankee horses talk, Picter?”
“Don't ee, missy, don't!” expostulated Picter, almost
crossly. “How can I talk sense w'en you keeps a'
stractin' my 'tention? You jes' creep inter de tree dah,
out de way, chile. Mabbe de ole fool 'll go ter kickin'
dat way nex'.”
“But why don't you catch him, Picter, the same way
you always do? I thought there wasn't any bother about
it, you said,” continued Dora, mischievously, while she
nestled herself into the branches of the pine that closed
the passage.
To this little jibe Pic made no reply, while, with alternate
threats and coaxing, he applied himself seriously to
the task of catching the horse.
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But Jump, on this occasion if never before, made good
his claim to his peculiar name, and indulged in a series
of leaps, curvets, plunges, rearings, and prancings, that
would have done credit to a mustang of the prairies.
At last, however, he seemed suddenly to consider that
this course, although pleasant at the time, might not be
of advantage to his future comfort, when he should
finally be obliged to submit to the halter; or else he had
become tired of the performance. At any rate, he all
at once stood still, and allowed Picter to approach and
put the bridle over his head without making the slightest
resistance.
“Now, den, you ole brack debil!” exclaimed the
wrathful negro, so soon as he could gather breath enough
to speak. “W'at you spec I's gwine to do wid ye, now?
You 'sarve to hab ebery bone you's got broke inter
twenty t'ousan' pieces, an' hab yer skin all cut off ob
dem arterwards; an' I's a great mind ter do it.”
“But how should we get to the camp, if you did, Picter?”
asked a merry voice from the pine tree.
“Shore 'nough, chile; an', arter all, de pore beast
didn' mean no harm; but lors, how he did cut up! Real
r'dic'lous, now, wa'n't it?” replied the good-natured negro,
in whose mind the laughable side of the little skirmish
between himself and Jump had already overcome the annoyance,
and before he had finished buckling the saddlegirths
he was obliged to stop and roll on the grass in a
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paroxysm of laughter at the memory of some of the
horse's gambols.
Dora joined in the laugh, but presently recalled to
Picter's attention the necessity of getting started, at least,
upon their journey, before it should be quite dark, as the
first miles of their road lay through the forest, and among
the mountains, where it would be very easy to get lost,
especially by night.
“Neber fear, missy; de star gwine to be orful bright,
an' dey's jes' de same as hebenly guide-boards, 'specially
to us cullud folks, dat couldn' read de guide-board, an'
can read de stars, 'specially de norf star. Spec dat star
was made o' purpose ter help de poor niggers to dere
freedom. How many Gospels is dere in de New Tes'ament,
missy?”
“Four.”
“Well, de norf star makes five; and seein' dat, makes
it easy to berieve all the res',” said Picter, meditatively.
“Come, then, Uncle Pic, let's set out to travel towards
it,” replied Dora, gently.
“Dat you, missy. We's trabellin' for de norf star, all
ob us, brack an' w'ite; fer dere's many a mas'r an'
mist's dat don' git dere freedom till dey's trabelled clear
off de earth, an' git 'mongst de stars. Yore own mammy
was one o' dat sort, honey.”
“Don't let us talk about that, Picter,” said Dora, softly;
for although she knew, even better than the negro, that
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her mother's married life and associations had been little
better than bondage, she felt it a profanation and an indelicacy
to speak of it, or even to allow the faithful old
servant to do so.
Picter, with native tact, understood her feeling, and
made no reply.
The horse was now ready, and the pine tree being
thrown aside, he quietly allowed himself to be led through
the bed of the stream, and into the valley that lay beyond.
Dora followed, and sat down upon the bank to put on
again her shoes and stockings.
“Now then, Uncle Pic, all ready for the line of
march,” said she gayly, as she sprang to her feet.
“All ready, honey,” replied the negro, lifting her to
an extemporized pillion behind the saddle, and then
heavily mounting himself.
“Now den, ole Jump! Hol' fas', missy!” and through
the clear twilight of the October evening the weatherbeaten
old slave and the slender, bright-eyed little girl
set out together to travel towards the north star.
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CHAPTER XIII.
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“You never have told me yet where we are going,
Picter,” said Dora, as they jogged along at an easy rate.
“Where is the Yankee camp?”
“On de top of what dey call Cheat Mountain, chile,”
said Pic, with much importance. “W'en me an' Cap'n
Charley got away, he tol' me dat we should fin' some
sojers dah, dough I b'lieve dey wasn't de ones dat he
rightly belong to; but he ain't in no rig'lar comp'ny jes'
now, 'cause his'n has gone home. Bud he 'scribed de
place to me, an' I know'd how to get dere fus' rate, an'
showed um de way.”
“And are there many soldiers there?”
“Heaps on em, chile. Dey isn't all in one camp, you
knows, but ebery rigimint by hese'f. Our rigimint is de—
Ohio. Dat's de one dey put Cap'n Charley into, soon's
we got dah.”
“And what do you do, Picter? Do you fight?”
“Well, no, honey, I hasn' done any fightin' yit. I
helps do de cookin' mos'ly, so fur. 'Tain't no use fer
sojers try to fight we'n dey starvin'; so I reckon de
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feller dat does de cookin' is, af'er all, de one dat wins de
battle, fer 'twould be lost shore widout him.”
“To be sure it would,” assented Dora, smiling.
“They ought to call you general, at least, Picter.”
“Well, honey, I's 'fraid my wirtue is more pertic'lar
dan general, so fur,” said Pic. “Bud now, missy, I
wants to tell yer sumfin'. S'posin' we meets one ob de
rebels, or any one but a Linkum sojer, we's got ter 'xplain
who we is, an' what we'm about. Now, I reck'n dis
yer'll be de safes' story, 'sides not bein' any lie. I'll tell
um you's my lilly mist's; dat my ole mist's is done gone
dead, an' my mas'r fightin' in de army; an' my mist's,'
fore she died, said dat de chile was to go lib long ob her
aunty, jes' leetly way norf ob here. Den dey'll ax fer
pass, mabbe, an' you'll speak up real peart an' say, `What
fer my nigger want a pass, when he got his mist's 'long
wid him. He my sarvent, an' trabelin' 'long o' me.
Dat's 'nough.”'
“Well, that's all true enough, Picter; but it would
be deceiving them to tell it,” said Dora, rather doubtfully.
“'Ceivin', missy! Lord, ef we don't have ter do no
wus deceivin' dan dat ar, 'fore we gits to camp, we'm
lucky fellers; dat all I got to say. Why, yore own mammy'
ud lie up hill an' down, 'fore she'd let you be took
now, an' kerried back, let alone ole Pic.”
“Do you think so, Picter?”
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“I knows it, missy. It say in de Bible dat de end
justerfy de means.”
“O, no, Pic; that isn't in the Bible at all,” said Dora,
decidedly.
“Well, if 'tain't, it oughter be, fer it's de truf,” asserted
Picter, doggedly. “Now mind, honey, an' tell de story
straight, an' face it out dat it's de truf right frew, fer ef
we'm took, dey'll kerry you back to your aunty Wilson,
an' poor ole Pic, dat comed back a purpose to fotch ye
away, will git licked to def, p'raps.”
“O, Picter, how horrid! Yes, I am sure mother would
think it was worse to let that happen, than to deceive the
rebels. But I don't want to tell any lies.”
“Neber fear, missy; I'll do all de lyin' fer bof ob us.'
Twon't hurt me a mite.”
Dora, instead of replying, fell into a puzzled reverie
upon the question of speaking the exact truth at all times,
and under all circumstances, and longed, as she had
longed many a time before, to be able to go to her dear
mother's side, and lay all her doubts and troubles before
her.
The night went on. The great constellations rose,
climbed the summit of the heavens, and sank. The air
grew chill and heavy, and the eyes of the poor, tired
child dropped together with weariness. Laying her head
upon Picter's broad shoulders, and clinging to his belt,
she slept soundly, wrapped in her blanket, and was
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sweetly dreaming of home and mother, when she was
suddenly aroused by the halt of the horse, and a stern
voice demanding, —
“Who goes there?”
“Now fer it! Missy, missy, wake up, an' git yer wits
about ye,” whispered Pic hoarsely, and in the same
breath answered aloud to the challenge, —
“Lor, mas'r sojer, 'taint on'y mist's an' me.”
“Who is your mistress? Let her speak,” said the
sentinel, after a little pause.
“Miss Jones her name. She right here on de hoss'
long o' me.”
“What do you want, Miss Jones, in this camp?”
asked the sentinel, courteously.
“I don't want anything in camp,” replied Dora,
steadily. “I am travelling to the northern part of the
state with my servant, and we didn't know of a camp
about here.”
“Why, that's a child's voice,” exclaimed the sentinel,
abruptly. “How old are you, Miss Jones?”
“Twelve years old.”
“And travelling alone at night with this negro! How's
that?” asked the man, suspiciously, as he peered through
the dim, gray light of dawn at the horse and riders.
“We are in a hurry, and wished to travel part of the
way to-night, and have got a little out of our way, I suppose,”
said Dora, quietly.
“H'm. Well, you can't pass this way without the
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countersign, and I think the colonel had better talk with
you a little before you go back. I shall be relieved in a
few minutes, and then I'll take you to him.”
“We'm much obleege,” ventured Pic; “but 'tain't a bit
wuf while to bother the kunnel 'bout us, an' we'm in
most a awful hurry. Ef dis yer ain't de way, we'll jes'
go back a piece, an' fin' anoder road.”
“Halt, there! If you go either backward or forward
a step, I'll shoot you, you black scoundrel!” exclaimed
the soldier, sternly. “I think, for my part, your story
is a very queer one, and I shall detain you for examination.”
“Don't say any more, Pic,” whispered Dora, softly.
“By and by you can turn suddenly, and be off before
he can shoot.”
Her advice was cut short by another order from the
sentinel.
“Dismount, boy, and tie your horse to this tree. Then
stand out in the road in sight.”
“Neber fear, missy; we'll fool 'em yet,” whispered
Picter, hastily, as he slowly obeyed so far as to dismount;
but the knot with which he tied Jump to the sapling indicated
by the sentinel was such that a single pull at the
bridle would loosen it and although he posted himself in
the middle of the road, it was with every muscle ready
for a spring to the horse's back, should any opportunity
of escape present itself.
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None, however, appeared. The sentinel never for a
moment relaxed his vigilance, and the cold, gray light of
the morning gleamed warningly from the barrel of his
musket. He did not make any further remark, and
when Pic, unable to long remain silent, attempted to
enter into conversation, he was sternly ordered to “hold
his tongue.”
A long half hour passed, and then approaching footsteps
were heard, and the challenge, “Who goes there?”
was returned by the countersign, “Confederacy,” as
“the relief” came up, and after a hurried glance at the
prisoners, made some inquiries of his comrade concerning
them.
The latter in a low voice explained his suspicions and
his intention of taking them immediately to “the bridge,”
that the question of their detention might be decided by
the colonel.
“The colonel ain't there now; he's gone back to
camp,” said the new comer.
“Well, I suppose the captain will send them up. I
shall report to him, at any rate. Come then, boy, untie
your nag, and lead him along; or stop — I'll lead him,
and you go in front. Right along this path. Step!”
Picter, without reply, shambled along in the direction
indicated, followed by the young soldier, leading Jump,
with Dora sitting erect and indignant in the saddle.
The morning had now fully opened, clear and beautiful.
Through the thin foliage of the wood the little girl
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presently caught the blue sparkle of running water, and a
rippling murmur as of a stream at hand.
It was, though Dora did not know it, Green Brier
River, and their guide was a vidette from a rebel company
stationed at the bridge across it, to watch for the
federal troops, of whose approach the rebel general had
been warned some hours previously.
Emerging from the wood at some little distance from
the bridge, the prisoners caught one glance of the sparkling
stream, the winding mountain road beyond it, and
of dark lines of gray-coated men drawn up at the end
of the bridge nearest to them, in position to defend it.
All this they saw in the first instant; in the next their
eyes were blinded by a blaze of fire from the mouths of
a hundred muskets, while the sulphurous smoke and
deafening rattle of their breath stunned and suffocated
them.
Captor and captured started back instinctively to the
shelter of the trees, for, as if it were the echo of the
first, another crash of musketry pealed from the other
side of the river, another flashing cloud of fire and smoke
filled the air, while over their heads, and among the
trees at either hand, pattered and whistled the leaden
hail born of that portentous cloud. Wild shouts, near
at hand and farther off, next arose upon the air, mingled
with the ring of many feet as they rushed across
the bridge. All passed in a single moment. In the
next the sentinel exclaimed eagerly, —
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“The Yankees, by thunder!” and, dropping the bridle
of the horse, he rushed forward to join the fray.
“Now's de time, missy,” exclaimed Picter, eagerly,
as he darted forward and caught the rein before Jump
had time to plunge away, as he evidently wished to do.
“Now what we's to do is to git out ob de way ob all
han's, till de fight's ober, an' den jine our own men.”
“Quick then, Pic. Mount before me; that other man
behind us, the guard, will be up in a minute; he'll hear
the firing.”
“To be shore he will; here we be. Now den.”
Turning the horse's head directly into the woods,
Picter soon put himself and his companion out of reach
or sight of the combatants; but curiosity as to the event
of the fight so strongly pressed him, that he was no
sooner in safety than he abandoned the reins to Dora,
while he hastily climbed a tall chestnut tree, and finally
got a view of the bridge.
“Hooray!” exclaimed he so soon as his eyes rested
upon the scene. “Dat's you, Yanks. Gib it um! Lor,
how dey does come peltin' down on 'em! Dat's it; pour
it in, hot and heavy, blue-coats! Now dey feels it; now
dey squirms! At 'em, boys! Hit um agin; hole dah
noses down to de grin'stone, an' gib um anoder turn o' de
handle. Dat's it! Hooray, now! Dere dey runs!
Now dey scampers! Foot it, ole gray-backs! Run yer
pootiest! Let out den! Prick 'em up, boys, wid de
baggonets! Show um de way to make time! O, golly!
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if dis yer ain't a bressed sight, den I didn' neber see
one, on'y it didn' las' long enough; deys all out o' sight
now, ebery moder's son ob 'em, de gray-coats heavin'
away dey coats, an' guns, an' knapsacks, like as dey
didn' neber expec' to want noffin' more in dis worl'.
Spec a good many on 'em won't. Golly! dere'll be pickin's
fer somebody dere, I reckon.”
With a sigh for the unattainable plunder, ending in a
chuckle at the success of the side he had espoused in the
quarrel, Picter came slowly down out of the chestnut
tree, and again mounted in front of Dora, who had sat
with flushed face and gleaming eyes, drinking in the
somewhat fragmentary description of the skirmish to be
gathered from the negro's exclamations.
“O, Picter,” said she, breathlessly, when he was
again beside her, “will there be more fighting? will there
be a real battle? O, Pic, can't you take me somewhere
to see it?”
“Would you like 'o see it, chile? Wouldn' ye be
scar't nor noffin'?” eagerly demanded Pic, who was
every bit as anxious to see the fight as herself, and who
was glad to find an excuse in her own wishes for lingering
with the little girl in a scene of possible danger, and
certain horror, should a general battle ensue.
“Scar't! no indeed!” cried Dora. “Do make haste,
and get somewhere where we can see the whole.”
“Lors, honey, who'd tink of a pooty leetly gal wantin'
ter see a big fight, wif lots o' men a bleedin' an' a dyin'
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all 'bout her. You'd be right for a sojer's wife, missy,
to help take care ob de pore wounded fellers in de hospital.”
“And so I will,” cried Dora, with enthusiasm. “I am
not old enough to be a soldier's wife, but I will be the
sister or the daughter of every soldier that I can help.
There will be men wounded in this very battle — won't
there, Pic?”
“Dere will dat, missy.”
“Well, I will take care of them. You will see how
handy I can be with sick folks. Mother always said I
was a born nurse.”
“Specs you's born fer eberyting dat's good an' comfor'ble,
honey,” said the negro, turning round to look
lovingly into her glowing face.
“But now we must get where we can see something,
Pic. Do you know anything about the fight, who it is,
and what they are trying to do?”
“Dey's our fellers from Cheat Mountain, ob course,”
said Picter, confidently. “Wedder part or de whole I
couldn' say, an' I specs dey's come down dis mornin' to
clean out a rebel hole dat dey calls Camp Bartow, some'eres
here on dis Green Brier River. I was talkin' long
wid a berry 'telligent feller, fer a nigger, t'oder day;
he'd been scoutin' roun' here, an' he know'd all 'bout it.
But our gen'ral couldn' make up he mind to trus' a nigger's
story, so he sent de lightes' complected feller in de
brigade to see if Jonas (dat's de nigger) had tole right;
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but de foxy head got took, or shor — didn' neber come
back, any way. Den anoder feller, a doctor dat lives
roun' here, up an' said he'd go; but he's got orful tanned
dis summer ridin' a hossback, an' I don' know wedder
de gen'ral took him or not. Specs he'll hab to sen' to
Richmon' arter some creturs dey had dere makin' a show
on 'em. Dey called 'em Albinos, an' dey was jes' as white
as snow. Dem's de fellers to spy out a rebel camp.”
“Well, and did this Jonas tell you where Camp Bartow
is, so that you can find it?” asked Dora, eagerly.
“Yis, honey. It's on de side ob a mountain called
Buffler Hill.”
“Buffalo Hill? Why there aren't any buffaloes about
here.”
“Might 'a ben once, honey, ef dere isn' now. Any
ways, dat's what dey calls it; an' de rebels has frowed up
fortifications, an' dug trenches, an' mounted big guns
dere, 'nough to kill de whole Yankee nation if dey dares
to 'tack 'em. Least, dat what dey say.”
“And what do you say, Picter?”
“I says de rebels is biggest at sayin', bud de Yankees
is de fellers fer doin',” said Picter, emphatically. “So
now, honey, we'll jes' skirt roun' here in de woods, an'
git ober dis big hill afore us, an' den, if I rec'lect de lay
ob de lan', we shall see Buffler Hill an' de whole ob de
fun.”
“Make haste, then; I hear guns now!”
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CHAPTER XIV.
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Keeping carefully concealed among the trees and
brush covering the irregular surface of the country, Picter
pushed rapidly forward in the direction taken by the
rebels in their flight from the bridge. A few scattering
shots occasionally broke the calm of the morning; but
nothing as yet indicated a general engagement, and Pic
began to have misgivings that the event was to prove
him but a false prophet, and that the battle he had so
pompously announced would, after all, turn out only a
skirmish.
He accordingly attempted to save himself from the
ignominy of confessing a mistake, by an operation known
in naval language as “laying an anchor to the windward,”
and upon the turf as “hedging.”
“De gen'ral wasn' gwine ter make much ob a fight
jes' now,” said he, carelessly. “All we wants is ter
look roun' a leetly mite, an' see how de rebs is fixed.
Fac', I don' know as dere'll be much fightin' 'bout it any
way. Shouldn' wonder if we drawed off, now we'm
made um run, an' come back 'noder day to finish wid
um.”
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“That's too bad,” said Dora, quite disappointed. “I
thought you said they were going to clear out Camp
Bartow, Picter. That would be a fight.”
“An' so we am, chile; we'm gwine ter cl'ar it out as
clean as yore lilly han', bud wedder we do it to-day or
to-morrer I couldn' say. It wasn' quite decided w'en I
comed away. Dis yer is w'at we calls a armed reconnoissance,
dis is,” replied Pic, his complacency fully
restored by the sonorous military phrase he had so fortunately
recollected.
“O,” said Dora, a little dubiously, “is it?”
“Yes, chile. You'll know all 'bout dese yer 'fairs one
dese days, ef we stops in camp. You can't 'xpect ter all
ter once, dough. It took me some time myse'f fore I
made it all out.”
“There! Here we are at the top of the hill,” cried
Dora, joyfully. “But we can't see anything for the
trees. You must lead the horse down to the edge of the
wood, Picter. The hill will be cleared part way up.”
“I reckon so, missy; dey mos'ly is. Golly! if dis
chile had got a farm roun' here, de fus' ting he'd do 'ould
be ter git a big rollin' pin an' roll it out flat. It's all ups
an' downs now, like de top ob a huckleberry pie. Specs,
dough I's made ter walk roun' dese oneven places, same
as de kangaroos mist's tole 'bout one day. Dey's got
two short leg an' two long leg, an' so's I.”
“You haven't four legs, Pic,” laughed Dora.
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“Well, missy, two on 'em's arms, to be sure; but den
it's pooty much'e same ting. Now, den, de trees am
gittin' thin. Don' yer see de cl'arin' down b'low? We'm
can't go much furder. It's a massy dat Jump an' I is
brack, an' you face, honey, dough it's w'ite 'nough, is so
leetly, dat ef dey sees us dey'll tink it's on'y a white posy
growin' up here.”
“But this white blanket, Picter, I'll take it off and
roll it up.”
“Will you be warm 'nough, missy, widout it?”
“O, yes. I am too warm now. Then, my gray dress
won't show at all, and you can strap the blanket behind
the saddle here for me to sit on.”
“Golly! What a han' you is fer plannin', missy!
Jes' as smart an' quick's a steel trap. Specs de gen'ral 'll
hab you up to help 'em in de council. Take keer you
don' git sunburned, dough, else all yore smartness won't
be no 'count.”
They had by this time reached the limit of the forest
covering the crest of the high hill they had just crossed.
The land, for about half the height on the side they
had now gained, was cleared for cultivation, and Picter
carefully concealed the horse, with Dora still upon his
back, in a dense clump of young oaks and chestnuts that
encroached a little upon the field below. Through their
foliage, thinned by early frosts, she could obtain an unobstructed
view of the scene in the valley.
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For his own part, Picter, after tying the horse securely,
climbed into the top of an enormous white pine, just
upon the edge of the forest, and crouched there like a
remarkably large specimen of the ravens, that are poetically
alleged to attend battle-fields.
“There, missy,” said he, cautiously, when finally settled
to his mind, “now we'm as comf'able as de big
bugs in de show boxes at de Richmon' play-house, an'
all de fun dere is to be seed we'll see, widout eber
stirrin' a foot; fer dat's Buffler Hill right acrost de valley,
an' all dem shiny w'ite spots is tents, an' dem lines
ob light-colored dirt is umbankments, wid cannon atop
ob 'em, an' dem critters dat's swarmin' in an' out an' all
roun', same as de black ants does w'en a boy sticks a'
ole in de hill, is rebels. Hullo! see dem fellers trottin'
up de hill an' goin' in? Dey's de ones we jes' druv
away from de bridge, I reckon. Wonder if de leetly
feller dat was so perlite to us is dere.”
“O, Picter! Isn't it a splendid sight!” exclaimed
Dora, clasping her little hands, while her face turned
pale, and her luminous eyes flashed with excitement.
It was indeed a glorious picture. At their feet lay a
broad valley, its surface broken with hillocks and wooded
knolls, with patches of cultivated land at intervals, relieved
by broad tracts of forest.
Curving in and out, among these woods and hills, the
clear waters of the Green Brier sparkled and glittered in
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the morning sunshine, like the blade of King Arthur's
sword Excalibur, when it flashed from the hand of the
good knight Bedivere, to sink forever in the lake.
Beyond the valley rose abruptly high hills, steep acclivities,
that should have been mountains, had not the
gray peaks of the Alleghanies risen grandly above and
beyond them, frowning down in stern sterility upon their
softly-rounded summits. Far away, where a cone-like
crest cut sharply upon the clear blue of heaven, a shining
thread of light wound down the mountain side, as if the
parched granite had cracked in a long, zigzag seam,
and the eternal fires within gleamed through. It was
the stream of the waterfall and the cave, transformed by
the sunshine to a stream of glancing light.
Near at hand, in fact little more than half a mile distant,
as the crow flies, rose the steep eminence known as
Buffalo Hill. As Picter had faithfully repeated from the
narration of his friend, the scout, this hill-side camp had
been carefully fortified by the rebels with terraced batteries,
rifle-pits, and embankments.
The defences, beginning near the foot of the hill, extended
quite up to the summit, which was crowned with
heavy woodland.
Through the valley, close by the base of Buffalo Hill,
and up into the mountains beyond, ran a road known as
the Staunton turnpike.
Following this line of road, some half mile to the
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right of the position chosen by Picter, Dora's eyes fell
upon a dark, motionless mass lying near the highway,
and surmounted by innumerable little glancing points.
A close inspection satisfied her that this was a body of
soldiers, with the sunshine flashing from their bayonets.
She pointed them out to Picter.
“Yes, chile, I sees 'em; dere'll be a fight, a'rter all.
But, Lord sabe us, what's dat?”
“Where, Picter?”
“Down here, jes' a leetle dis side ob dem fellers.
Don' you see, all dese figgers squattin' down 'hind de
fence and de brush, and den ober dis side de road,'
mongst de trees on dat leetly hill? Dey's hidin', dat's
cl'ar, an' dey' waitin' fer dem oder fellers.”
“And they must be rebels, because they're between
the rebel camp and those other soldiers.”
“Yes, yes, so dey is, chile. Well, I reckon you's got
de right pig by de ear now. Dey's rebels, an' dey's
ambushed dere, to wait for our sojers dat's stan'in' still
up dere. W'y don't dey come 'long, I wonder.”
“See! There's some more.”
As Dora spoke, a small body of horsemen appeared at
the head of the valley, riding rapidly towards the stationary
troops, their plumes waving and accoutrements
flashing in the sun.
“Dat's de gen'l wid his staff an' escort ob cabalry,”
cried Picter, eagerly. “Golly! if dem rebels makes out
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to cotch him, de fat's all in de fire, an' de skillet cracked.
Wow! He'll ride right in amongst 'em.”
“No; he's turning off. He's going over to the troops
that have been waiting there. I guess they were waiting
for him.”
“Waitin' fer orders. Yis, ob course dey was. I
could ha' tole you dat, chile,” said Picter, jealously.
“Yes, see,” continued Dora, breathlessly. “He points
forward with his sword; I can see the sun glance along
the blade; he means that they are to go. There, see,
they are starting! Not all, though; it's only a small
part, and they are spreading all out.”
“Dey calls dat deployin',” interposed Pic.
“They move very carefully, and carry their bayonets
out in front, as if — There, see, see, Picter! they have
come right upon that clump of trees, where the rebels
are hiding thickest. O, see the guns flash! Hear the
shots! They are running back a little! Now, see,
they stop behind that wall! The rebels don't follow.”
“Reckon dey don't. 'Ould you follow a hornet inter
his nes'? Now den, look a' dah. De gen'l an' de oder
ossifers runnin' roun' like mad, an' de sojers steppin' out—
dey's all gwine now — de hull bilin' on 'em. Guess
um rebs 'll hab to cl'ar out o' dat, 'bout de quickest.
High O, Jack! Dat's de way! Hooray for de Union
an' de Hoosier boys!”
The cause of this last exclamation was a grand rush
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of the whole regiment, so intently watched by Picter and
Dora, in the direction of the ambushed enemy. The
company deployed as skirmishers had, on discovering the
enemy, — nearly a thousand strong, — given him a volley,
and then, falling back, had waited for the support of their
comrades. This had been given upon the instant, and
the whole regiment, dashing forward with loud cheers
and flaunting colors, charged so impetuously upon their
opponents, that the rebels, hardly pausing to return the
first volley, broke and fled, hotly pursued by the excited
victors.
One large body rushed across the valley in the direction
of their camp, followed by a part of the federals,
from whose waving lines flashed continually the blaze
of the muskets, loaded as they ran; and at every flash
fell a dead or wounded foeman.
The remainder of the rebels, consisting principally of
those who had been concealed among the timber to the
left of the road, fled precipitately up the mountains,
stanchly followed by the Union men, firing incessantly
in spite of the difficulties of the ground, or, when so fortunate
as to overtake the fugitives, engaging in breathless
hand-to-hand conflicts, as terrible as they were brief.
In the valley calmly sat the general and his staff,
pennon and plumes softly waving in the golden autumn
air, their horses prancing and pawing with excitement,
trappings and accoutrements flashing again to the dancing
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sunbeams. It was the fair outside of the battle picture,
whose grim reverse was to be found among those bloody
thickets on the mountain side, and in the laurel swamp
across the valley, where the right wing of the rebels was
overtaken, and received a withering volley from their
pursuers, who then slowly retired to their post.
The other companies were also recalled from the hills,
which they had entirely cleared of the rebels, who were
by this time safely sheltered in their intrenchments, except
the prisoners, some few wounded, who were presently
to be cared for by the victors, and the many who
lay stiffening in their blood, with wide, ghastly eyes
frozen in their last look of pain and horror.
A battery of flying artillery now dashed down the
road, past the hill where Picter and Dora had taken post,
and, pausing directly in the enemy's front, unlimbered
its guns and opened fire. At the same time the regiment
which had cleared the road for it, and which was now
recognized by Picter as the Indiana Fourteenth, moved
rapidly forward and took post upon the hill-side in its
rear. Another battery occupied a point near the ambush
whence the rebels had been driven, and a single gun,
commanded by the gallant Daum in person, rattled defiantly
up to a position on the left of the Indiana men, and
boldly opened fire.
The rebels, although they had retreated so nimbly in
the field, were brave within their intrenchments, and
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vigorously returned the fire of the federal artillery from
their lower line of batteries, where were mounted seven
guns. These, however, were badly served, and wildly
aimed. Most of the first shot fell short of the mark,
and many others were fired above it.
The roar of artillery now became continuous, as the
batteries of the Union force loaded and fired without
pause, and often six or eight of the reports were simultaneous.
The rebels, on their side, kept up nearly an equal
fire, and, in noise at least, their execution was equal to
that of their opponents.
Across the valley rolled the heavy volumes of smoke,
swept before a light breeze, and from the mountain sides
echoed and reëchoed, in grand reiteration, the thunder of
the cannon, while the earth trembled beneath the heavy
reverberation.
Suddenly from the mountain camp rose one, two, three
rockets, in quick succession, sweeping up into the clear
sky, exploding, and fading away, unheard and almost
unnoticed in the wild tumult of the battle.
“Now, now, gen'l, do you see dat ar'?” muttered
Picter, uneasily. “Dat means somefin', shore. Dey
doesn't feel like lettin' off fire-crackers fer fun, up dah,
I'll bet a cent. Like as not dere's more on 'em comin',
an' dem rockets means, `Hurry up you cakes!' Gosh!
Reckon de ole man didn' see it, or he wouldn' set so easy
in him saddle.”
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But the general did see and understand the signal,
almost as clearly as Picter himself, and in a few moments
long lines of infantry were to be seen glancing in and out
among the hill-side trees, as they deployed left and right,
far upon either wing, to guard the Union batteries from
a flank movement of the enemy, or his expected reenforcements.
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Meantime most of the rebels' guns had been either
dismounted or silenced; but one piece continued to fire,
and, having at last got the range, began to do some execution,
taking off with one of its balls the arm of an
artillery man, and with the next killing outright a gunner
of the same corps.
At this sight, a young fellow attached to Daum's gun,
who had never before been under fire, became panic-stricken,
and turned to fly; but the choleric captain pursued,
overtook, and stopped him, and, in spite of the poor
boy's piteous cries, and protestations that he should
certainly be killed with the next shot, drove him relentlessly
back to his gun with a shower of blows from the
flat of his sword, and a storm of reproaches and opprobrium
as the reward of his cowardice.
“Golly!” remarked Picter from his tree, whence he
had watched this little incident with great attention.
“Dey say, `Honesty de bes' policy;' but, for my part, I
tink courage de bes' policy fer us sojers. Might as well
stan' you chance o' bein' shot as to be licked to def wid
a sword, an' den be called coward all de res' you life.”
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“Look, look, Picter!” said Dora, in a low, excited
voice.
“Look whar', honey?”
“On the road coming down from the mountains, there
behind the rebel camp. The others are coming. That
is what the rockets meant!”
“Lor' 'a' massy, so dey be! How dey comes peltin'
down de hill! an' see de cannon a shinin', an' de horses
a galloppin'! Dere be four, five, rijiments, for sart'in.
Hark! Hear de ole fools a hootin' and singin' out'
hin' dere mud-banks! Tinks dey's got us now, shore.
Dat shows how scar't dey was, any way. Reckon dey'd
better wait now, till dey's out o' de woods, 'fore dey
begins ter holler dat-a-way. Reckon dey'll fin' dey's
got more dan dere match, if dey has got 'forcements.
So's we got 'forcements, an' plenty ob 'em too, if we was
a min' to fotch 'em up. 'Tain't our way, dough, to turn
up all han's to drive a leetly yaller dog out de door-yard,
even if he has got a bull-pup to help him. Holler away—
won't ye?”
Thus grumbled Epictetus, forgetting, in his alarm and
anger at the sight of powerful reënforcements to the
enemy, the calm dignity befitting a namesake of the old
Greek philosopher and moralist.
But his sneers and boasts met with no response, for
Dora, his only possible auditor, was absorbed in watching
the glittering line of bayonets descending the
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mountain road, and filing into the intrenchments of the rebel
camp, where they were received with vociferous cheers
of welcome, ringing loud and clear above the sterner
sounds of battle.
The new pieces were quickly placed in position upon
the upper line of fortifications, and opened fire amid renewed
cheers upon the part of the besieged. These,
however, were of short duration, for the federal batteries
reopened, after their brief rest, with renewed energy, and
soon proved that both their guns and their practice were
better than those of their enemy.
“What for de fools want ter aim so high? Dere
ain't noffin' to shoot up here 'cept we,” muttered Picter,
uneasily, as a round shot fell into the field a few hundred
yards below his position.
The next moment a shell, rising in a bold curve from
the new battery, swept across the sky with a shrill scream
to be remembered but not described, and finally swooped
down, like some horrible bird of prey, upon the little
grove where Dora was concealed.
“O! O! De Lord in heben sabe us! O, missy! O,
de Lord!” yelled Picter, clinging to his own tree, while,
with blanched face and starting eyeballs, he watched the
iron death that now lay directly behind Jump's hind feet,
its smoking fuse threatening instant destruction to the
whole party.
Dora, without speaking, slipped from her saddle. “It's
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a shell—isn't it? Is it that fire in the string that blows it
up?” asked she, hurriedly.
“Yis, yis; it'll go in a secon'! Run, missy, run fer
de woods!” gasped Picter, beginning to come down the
pine tree as fast as his limbs, paralyzed by fear, would
permit.
Before he could reach the ground, however, Dora had
seized the smouldering end of the fuse in the skirt of her
woollen dress, and held it firmly compressed in her hand,
as she knelt beside the shell, with pallid face and eyes
dilated with excitement.
“O, de Lord! O, honey, chile! You leetly fool!
You bressed leetly angel!” stammered Picter, quite unconscious
of what he said, as he staggered back against
the bole of the pine tree.
“It's out,” said Dora, quietly, as she unclasped her
hand, and pointed to the black end of the fuse, charred
down to the very surface of the shell.
“O! O! O! missy!” gasped Picter again, as he sank
upon the ground, and, hiding his face in his folded arm,
began to cry lustily.
Dora looked at him a moment, then looked at the
shell, but said never a word. It was only by her marble
face and shining eyes that one could have guessed how
much was stirring within that little heart. When she
did speak, it was very quietly.
“Perhaps we'd better go away from here, Pic. They
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seem to be firing at the battery just below us, and all the
balls go over it. There is another falling in the field
just down here.”
“Go 'way from dis, says you!” exclaimed Picter,
almost angry at the child's coolness. “Course we will,'
thout we's ready to be blowed inter kin'dom come 'thout
stoppin' fer make our wills. Should ha' been dere now
if dat 'ere fuss had been de proper len'f. Reckon de
shells we's frowin' up dere can't be pinched out like um
candle snuff.”
While speaking, Picter had hastily loosed Jump's
bridle from the sapling where it had been tied, and replaced
Dora upon his back.
He now led him up into the woods, and as quickly as
possible placed the brow of the hill between himself and
the enemy. So soon as they were in safety, however,
the negro paused, and seemed to consider.
“Dey came from dat-a-way,” muttered he, pointing in
a northerly direction. “An' by keepin' roun' dat way
we shall fall in wid some ob 'em gwine back. I reckon
de fight's 'bout played out, an' 'tain't wuff w'ile to try fer
see any more dis time.”
“Let us get round where the wounded men have been
carried, Uncle Pic,” said Dora, decidedly. “I want to
see if I can't do something for them.”
“Well, honey, de amberlances'll be in de rear, an' I'
spect dat we shall get at dat by keepin' right 'long dis
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way. I daresn' go down in de road fer fear of meetin'
some ob de rebels skulkin' roun' de back way to dey
camp. Dey'd be sure to shoot a nigger dat didn' b'long
to deyse'fs, ef dey should meet him now, dey's so mad.”
“Then keep along here in the woods, but do make
haste,” said Dora, impatiently. “O, Picter, I never
shall forget, when our guns left off firing that time, just
before the other rebels came up, how the horrid groans
and screams of the wounded men over in their trenches
seemed to fill the whole air.”
“Yis, missy, I hear um,” replied Pic, with an animation
that was not wholly horror. “Golly! I reckon we
gib some on 'em fits.”
“But, Pic, do they have doctors, and nurses, and comfortable
beds over there?” asked Dora, piteously.
“Reckon so, missy; bud I 'xpect mos' o' de fellers
dat got hit with de sugar-plums we frowed 'em to-day,
won't neber want no doctor. We doesn' fire shells wid
tails as long as de pussy-cat's.”
“But those that groaned so horribly were only wounded,
not dead,” persisted Dora.
“Good for um lay an' groan a leetly while, an' 'flect
on dey sins, 'fore dey die. Like ter fill dem trenches
right in wid quick-lime, an' finish 'em off,” said Picter,
with a curious mingling of recklessness and ferocity in
his tone.
“Picter, I don't like to have you talk that way,” said
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Dora, seriously, as she fixed one of her steady glances on
his face.
“'Xcuse me, missy,” said the negro, his glowing eyes
falling before hers. “I know dat ain't de way dey talks
in de Bible; bud you knows, missy, we niggers doesn'
hab de buckra ways 'bout some fings. Now you washes
you face in de mornin', an' forgib you enemy ebery day;
but my fader come from Afriky, an' use to go fight an'
kill he enemy ebery chance he git, an' den eat 'em up.”
“Eat them up!” echoed Dora, in horror.
“Sart'in, missy. Dat de way he eddicate; an' I
don' s'pose he wash his face hardly neber, 'cause dey
didn' hab no water where he lib. So you see, missy,
we diff'ent.”
“But, Picter, your father died when you were a little
boy, and you have always been taught just as I have.
You are a Christian, you know, Pic, and your father
wasn't.”
“Yis, missy; bud I's de son ob my own daddy fer all
dat. De Bible says dat de wil'-cat can't change he fur,
nor de nigger wash hese'f w'ite.”
“Well, never mind,” said Dora, after a few minutes
of puzzled thought, “whether you are just like me or not;
you're a dear, kind old uncle, and never was cross or
ugly to me, or any one else, that I know of; so it don't
make so much difference what you say.”
“Dat's it, missy. It's de doin', an' not de sayin', dat's
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de mos' importance, mist's use to say; an' w'en I talks
de way you doesn' like, honey, you mus' 'flect dat it's
on'y de ole nigger daddy dat's talkin', an' dat it'll be
Uncle Pic dat'll do de doin'.”
Dora laughed, and perfect harmony was once more
restored between the two.
For nearly an hour Picter pursued the course he had
adopted, as likely to bring him to the rear of the federal
army, keeping all the time within the shelter of the
woods, and below the crest of the hills.
He now, however, judged it time to keep up a little
so as to intersect the high road, along which it was probable
the troops would make their line of march in returning
to their encampment.
Striking a ravine between two of the hills dividing the
valley from their own position, the negro cautiously followed
it up, until, nearing the edge of the woodland, he
hitched the bridle to a tree, and went forward to reconnoitre.
In a few moments he returned with far less precaution.
“All right, missy,” said he, gleefully. “We'm hit
jes' on de right spot. Here's de amberlances an' de
surgeons, an' de Twenty — Ohier; dat's our own rijimint,
you 'member, all in a heap. De res' ob de army
is marchin' ahead, an' we'm waitin' ter fotch up de rear,
I reckon, from de looks. Come, ole hoss, step 'long —
will ye?”
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In a few moments Dora found herself upon the edge
of the wood, and only a few hundred feet from a line
of ambulances already nearly filled with wounded men,
whose groans attested the severity of their sufferings.
A surgeon and his assistant, distinguished by their
green sashes, stood close at hand, their faces pale, their
hands stained with blood. Their work had been severe,
for wounded rebels had shared equally with federal soldiers
in their care and attention.
A party of men carrying stretchers were slowly moving
up the valley. Beyond them stood the Ohio regiment,
to which Picter considered himself attached, drawn
up in a solid phalanx, ready to close the rear of the retreating
army, when the hospital train should be prepared
to precede them.
Several officers were standing around the surgeon,
talking with him and each other, and in the shade of
the trees sat or lay men slightly wounded, or suffering
from heat and exhaustion.
Picter, after a slight pause, walked boldly up to the
group of officers, still leading Jump with Dora upon his
back.
“Hullo! What have we here?” cried a young captain,
who had just asked for a strip of sticking-plaster to
apply to a slight bayonet scratch upon his beardless
cheek.
“Here's our prince of sable cooks and strategists,
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come back with some sort of mountain elf to bear him
company. Who is it, Picter?”
“Sarvent, Cap'n Bruff,” said Picter, passing him with
a military salute, and keeping on towards the surgeon.
“Well, Picter,” said that gentleman, carelessly,
“where did you drop from?”
“I's been off wid a furlough, doctor,” said the negro,
modestly. “An' dis yer young lady is my leetly mist's,
an' she'm gwine to de Norf by an' by, long wid us, an'
I'd like 'o keep her wid me in camp till we goes. She
jes' wild now, to come an' help you take care dese yere
pore fellers. Made me fotch her straight ter you.”
“Ah!” said the surgeon, benevolently, as he glanced
again at Dora, and smiled. “So you'd like to be an
army nurse, my dear, would you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Dora, meeting his eyes in an unabashed,
earnest manner, that made the kindly surgeon
smile again.
“Well, you look like a brave little girl, who would
do all she was able. But it's rough work this.”
“May I help you now?” asked Dora, eagerly, as she
slipped down from Jump's back, and went close up to her
new friend.
“What is your name, child?”
“Dora, sir. Dora Darley.”
“And how old are you?”
“Twelve, sir.”
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The surgeon would evidently have asked more questions,
but the party of men detailed to bring in the
wounded and dead now came up, and his attention was
immediately absorbed in his fresh cares.
Before turning away, however, he said, hurriedly,
“Dora, if you like to, you may fill this canteen from
the brook down there, and carry water to the wounded
men in those ambulances. They are always thirsty,
poor fellows.”
Dora eagerly hastened to do as she was bid, and with
some help from Picter, soon supplied the occupants of
the ambulances with all the water they chose to drink.
Murmured thanks and blessings repaid the kindness.
Dora then approached the exhausted groups beneath
the trees.
“Will you have some water?” asked she, gently, of a
grizzled veteran, suffering from a blow on the head,
given by the breech of a dying rebel's musket.
“Ah, thin, an' it's one of the `good people' has
started up out o' these woods — isn't it?” murmured the
Irishman, opening his aching eyes.
“Ye ould fool,” retorted a comrade, who had just
thrown himself upon the grass to rest for a few moments,
“there ain't none o' them kind in 'Meriky. They all
stay to home in the owld country, like sensible little men.
This purty little gal is a runaway rebel, come in wid the
nagur there.”
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Relieved by this explanation from the fear of an enchanted
draught, private O'Sullivan drained the canteen
offered him, and returned it with a “Blissin' on yer
purty face, my darlint!”
Dora, delighted with her new office, next approached,
with a shy, serious grace, the lines of soldiers, who,
most of them, looked hot and tired after their exertions
of the forenoon, although they stood steadily to their
ranks, ready at any instant to repel the most unexpected
attack on the part of the enemy, who might, very possibly,
attempt to harass the rear of the army they had not
dared to meet openly in the field.
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CHAPTER XVI.
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“May I give the men some water, please, sir?”
asked Dora of the first officer she approached.
“Yes, my child, if you will give me some too,” said
the major, — for he it was, — with a pleasant smile.
Dora filled the cup from a bucket that Picter had found
in one of the ambulances, and offered it with a quaint
little courtesy.
The major drank eagerly.
“I didn't know I was so thirsty,” said he. “What
a nice little vivandière you make, my dear! What is
your name?”
“Dora Darley, sir.”
“And where did you come from?”
“I came here with Picter. I am going North with the
Twenty — Ohio regiment, to find my aunt,” said Dora,
simply.
“The dickens you are! You're a cool little body, any
way,” exclaimed the officer, looking at her with an expression
of amused surprise.
“Do you hear this, colonel?” continued he, as his
superior officer came up to speak with him.
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“What is it, major?”
“Why, here's a young lady, who says her name is
Dora Darley, and that she came here under the escort of
Picter, to travel North with the regiment.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the colonel, smiling slightly, but
fixing his eyes somewhat sharply upon the child, who
blushed a little as she noticed the attentive eyes and ears,
and the quizzical smiles, of the group of officers now surrounding
her. But, after a slightly troubled glance
around the circle of strangers, her clear eyes sought the
grave and kindly face of the colonel, and rested there.
“And how came you to think of joining this regiment,
little one?” asked he, at length, in a softer voice.
“Because Picter belongs to it, and so does — somebody
I know,” replied Dora, hesitating a little as she
remembered that her mother's visitor had said that
“Captain Karl” was only a home name.
“And who is Picter?” pursued the colonel.
“Picter! Don't you know Picter, sir? Why, he belongs
to this regiment. He's— O, there he is!”
She pointed, as she spoke, to the negro, who, finding
that his little mistress was about to have an interview
with the higher powers, had modestly shrouded himself
from observation behind the group of officers.
“It's a contraband, that has been cooking for the men
for the last few weeks, colonel,” explained the captain of
Co. B., in an apologetic sort of manner.
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“Indeed! Is their cuisine so elaborate in its arrangements
that they have to employ a professional?” asked
the colonel, a little sarcastically.
“He was going North, but Captain Karl brought him
here,” interposed Dora, rather hastily, as if anxious to
explain that her old friend had not attached himself to
the regiment uninvited.
“And who is Captain Karl?” asked the colonel again.
“That isn't his name; not all his name, at least. He
is — O, there he is!” cried Dora, joyfully, as she caught
sight of her friend advancing down the valley at the head
of his company, who had been detailed to make a final
search in the thickets on the hill-side for any wounded
who might have been concealed there, and overlooked.
“What! Captain Windsor?” asked the colonel.
“Yes, sir. He was a prisoner, and was at our house,
and Picter showed him the way.”
“O, ho! Yes, indeed, I have heard that story from
the captain himself, and I remember now about the black
fellow. Windsor asked to have him attached to the regiment
in some fashion, and I told him to set him to help
the cook. Bless my soul! I had forgotten all about it.
And so you belong to the good woman who took care of
the poor boy, and set him forward on his way?”
“It was mother, sir,” said Dora, with the old straitness
settling upon her lips.
“And how came mother to send you after him, child?”
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“She is dead, sir,” said Dora, softly.
“Tut, tut! is it so? And where are the rest of your
family, my poor little maid?”
“My father and brother are in the rebel army, sir,
and my aunt was not kind; so I went away from her.”
“Went away — how?”
“In the night, with Picter. Mother didn't want us
to be rebels. She told me to go away to the North as
soon as I could,” said Dora, anxiously, for a little cloud
had settled upon the colonel's brow. It cleared now,
however.
“So mother didn't want you to be a rebel, eh?”
asked he.
“No, sir. Nor I didn't want to myself.”
“What, you are a Union girl, then?”
“Yes, sir. I'm Union all through,” asseverated Dora
so earnestly, that a smile went round the circle of attentive
listeners.
“That's right, Dora. You said your name was Dora—
didn't you?”
“Yes, sir; Dora Darley.”
“Dora Darling, I shall feel inclined to call you,” said
the colonel, pleasantly. “And if you are going to join
the regiment, I shall give you the rank of vivandière.
Would you like that?”
“What is that, sir?” asked Dora, gravely.
“You will have to do just what you have been doing
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now — carry water to all the wounded men after a battle,
and bring relief to them, if they are unable to seek it.
Then you can help in the hospital a good deal, I dare
say, and there will be a good many ways of making
yourself useful to the sick and wounded. I shall give
you into the chaplain's care, and he will tell you what to
do. Would you like it?”
“O, yes, sir! That is just what I should like better
than anything,” cried Dora, with shining eyes and joyful
smile.
“All right, then. — Attention!” The colonel, taking
Dora by the hand, led her a few paces back, so that she
might be seen by the whole regiment. Every eye was
fixed upon her. “Boys,” said the colonel, pleasantly,
“here is Dora Darling, who is for the future to act as
vivandière of this regiment. Remember that every man
of you is bound to guard and protect her as if she were
his own daughter or sister. She is, in fact, the daughter
of the regiment so long as she remains with it, and
longer, if you choose. I place her in your care.”
“Three cheers for Dora Darling, the daughter of the
regiment!” suggested the major, gayly; and three hearty
cheers went up from the smiling ranks.
“And three cheers for Colonel Blank, the father of the
regiment!” added a veteran sergeant, stepping forward
in his place.
The salute to the deservedly popular colonel was given
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even more enthusiastically than that to the adopted
daughter.
“And now three for the battle of Green Brier, my
lads, and then we must be moving,” said the colonel, as
he affably saluted the regiment in acknowledgment of the
compliment.
“But, after all, the men have had no water,” murmured
Dora to Picter, as, in the bustle of “falling in,”
she found herself again beside him.
“No more dey hasn', but dey's got a wandieer, an'
dat's mos' de same ting,” said Picter, grimly; for the
poor old fellow had found his pride in his little mistress's
sudden promotion and adoption sadly checked by the
reflection that, now she had a thousand new friends, she
would hardly remember the one humble old one, who
had, but an hour before, felt as if she were almost his
own.
With feminine intuition Dora perceived the jealous
pang, with feminine tact she relieved it.
“They are very good, Pic, aren't they, to give us both
something to do while we stay with them? We shall
often talk of them after we are settled at home there in
the North.”
“Bress de lamb! She won't neber forgit nobody dat
she's sot by,” replied Pic, rather irrelevantly.
“The vivandière is to ride in ambulance No. 3,” said
an orderly, hastening up to Dora, and smiling pleasantly
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as he pointed to the wagon. “It's the colonel's orders.
Picter, you'll have to foot it with the rest of us, I expect.”
“I'm got my hoss in de wood dah, t'ank you, sah!”
returned Picter, with much majesty; and, as the laughing
orderly fell back to his station, the negro led Dora to
her appointed chariot, helped her to a seat beside the
driver, and then scuttled off to the woods, where he had
left the redoubtable Jump snatching a hasty lunch from
the short, sweet, mountain grass.
A few minutes later, the last files of the rear guard
disappeared from the beautiful valley, and the occupants
of Camp Bartow were left once more in peace, with only
their shattered works and dead or wounded comrades to
remind them of their late unpleasant visitors.
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CHAPTER XVII.
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Colonel Blank did not forget his promise of putting
Dora under the care and instruction of the chaplain of
his regiment; and the morning after her arrival in camp
she was summoned to the colonel's tent, to be introduced
to the Rev. Mr. Brown, commonly called, among the
somewhat unruly members of his flock, Fight-and-pray,
from a tradition that he had been found, on the occasion
of a sudden surprise by the enemy, crouching behind a
stone wall within aiming distance, and loading and firing
with a promptness and exactness that no amount of drill
could have improved.
In person the chaplain was tall, broad-shouldered, and
athletic, with a face more manly than handsome, and a
manner more earnest than polished. The men almost
adored him; his brother officers were divided into two
classes, one of ardent friends, the other of sneering enemies;
no one regarded the Rev. Mr. Brown with indifference
or contempt.
“Here is our new daughter, parson,” said the colonel,
as Dora, deserted at the door of the tent by the orderly
who had brought her, entered alone and came slowly
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forward. “This is Mr. Brown, Dora, who is going to
be so kind as to look after you a little while we remain
here. He is your spiritual father, child, although of the
church militant, and as ready with his weapon, on occasion,
as any of us poor sinners.”
“Don't puzzle her, Blank,” whispered the chaplain
hastily to the colonel, who ranked first in the class of
ardent friends above alluded to. “Don't make her afraid
of us. Come here, my dear,” continued he aloud,
extending a cordial hand to meet Dora's somewhat
backward one.
“So you have come to help me a little in the hospital?”
asked he, kindly, as he seated the child on a
camp stool beside him.
“Yes, sir,” said Dora, rather coldly; and then her
eyes, hitherto downcast, rose slowly to the level of his
face, and calmly, not boldly, rested there long enough
to fully scan its lines and expression.
“He isn't handsome, but he looks real good, and as
if he knew more than almost any one,” was the thought
that shaped itself in Dora's mind as she kept her steady
eyes fixed upon the somewhat rugged face, that at last
blushed like a boy's beneath her scrutiny.
“Ma foi, cette demoiselle vous fait grand'attention,
mon beau garçon,”* said the colonel, laughing.
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“Chut! C'est enfant d'àpres nature. N'effrayez
pas,”* retorted the chaplain, recovering his self-possession.
“And perhaps you will like to study a little with me,
when we have time,” continued the chaplain, who all
this time had looked at Dora as steadily as she at him.
A sudden color flashed over the child's face, not, as with
the sturdy chaplain, from diffidence, but from the sudden
spring of hope and joy.
“O, sir,” cried she, “will you teach me?” I want
so to know things.”
“Things? What things?” laughed her new friend.
“Everything,” returned Dora, with confident resolve
in her voice.
“Then you feel ready to set yourself to work to learn
everything, supposing I allow myself able to teach it to
you?” asked Mr. Brown, still smiling.
“Yes. I think I never should be tired of learning.
I don't know anything now,” said Dora, thoughtfully.
“So far advanced as that!” exclaimed the chaplain.
“Well, if you are going to be so untiring, we shall
have our hands full, for I will never be the first to cry,
`Enough!' So, now, if Colonel Blank will excuse us,
we will go to the hospital for a while, and then begin
our course of study.”
“But don't try to learn everything in one day, my
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Fille du Régiment, or we may lose our little vivandière
before we have even seen her in service. By the way, I
must look up some sort of uniform for her.”
Passing from the tent of the colonel, Mr. Brown, holding
Dora's hand within his own, now led her toward a
large pavilion a little without the camp, made by the
combination of several tents into one, the curtains between
being looped up for air, or lowered for warmth, as
occasion might require. Along the sides of this pavilion
lay two long ranges of pallets spread upon the floor,
which had been roughly boarded, or, more properly
speaking, logged, from the neighboring forest.
Another row of beds down the middle of the pavilion
was also nearly filled with wounded or diseased sufferers;
for many of the prisoners taken upon the previous evening
had been wounded, and were now placed side by
side, and attended with the same care as the Union
soldiers.
The surgeons passed busily from bed to bed, followed
by attendants with bandages, basins, clean garments,
and food. The chaplain's smiling face grew earnest as
the sights and sounds of suffering that filled the place
smote upon eye and ear.
“Here is enough to be done, Dora,” said he, cheerfully.
“Let us set ourselves to work. You had better
wash this poor fellow's face and hands. The nurses have
no time to attend to him, with all these wounds to look
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after. He is a fever patient, and has been here some
days. Melvin, you can give your basin and towel to
this girl — can you not? and bring another for yourself.”
The attendant immediately complied with this request,
and Dora went to work so deftly and so tenderly, that
the chaplain, after watching her a moment or two, said
cheerily, —
“Yes, you will do nicely. After you have finished
with him, you can get more water from the pail out
there, and go to the next. All at this end of the tent
are convalescents, whom you can attend as well as a surgeon.
When you wish to know anything more, you can
come to me.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Dora, softly, as she leaned
tenderly over the poor fever patient, who was moaning
out a petition for water.
Mr. Brown watched again while the youthful nurse
raised the heavy head, and carefully placed the cup to
the eager lips. Then once more saying, —
“Yes, you will do nicely, my child,” he turned away
to seek the spot where his strong arm and brave words
might best uphold the shrinking sufferers groaning beneath
the surgeon's sharp remedies.
Noon came, and Dora, hastening from the kitchen tent
with a bowl of broth for a poor fellow who had confided
to her that he was “just about starving for his dinner,”
was met by the chaplain, who had been looking for her.
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“Come, Dora Darling,” said he, after a scrutinizing
glance at her pale face and disordered dress, “I think
you have done enough for once. I will not have you
tire yourself out the first day. Come to my tent, and
I shall send you some dinner there. I am sorry I
cannot ask you to dine with me; but I do not keep
a table by myself, and do not wish to take you to the
mess-table. You will want to arrange your dress a
little before dinner, I suppose. Where are your quarters?”
“Sir?”
“Where did you sleep last night?”
“In the cooking tent, sir. Picter made me a bed
there with some blankets.”
“You must have another place. I will see to it before
night. Meantime you shall come to my tent, or rather
wait here a few minutes till I have washed my own
hands, and then I will send for you.”
He laughed as he went away, and Dora remained in a
happy reverie upon her new life and new friends, until
the chaplain's servant came to summon her to the tent
which Mr. Brown had left for her occupation while he
was at dinner. The servant, having pointed out the
toilet apparatus, which had been scrupulously re-arranged
for her, withdrew, after promising to return with some
dinner in a few minutes.
Dora, with a new care for her appearance, hastened to
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remove the stains of her late occupation from hands and
arms, to bathe her heated face, and scrupulously arrange
her luxuriant and waving hair. Then she looked down
at her torn and travel-stained dress, and hoped that the
colonel would not forget his intention to provide a new
one for her.
“Picter thinks I am so wonderfully neat! I wonder
if he ever looked at Mr. Brown's hands, and nails, and
teeth, and hair,” thought simple little Dora, wistfully examining
herself in the bit of looking-glass taken from
the chaplain's dressing-case, and hung up for her accommodation.
She was still engaged in this amusement when the servant,
whose name was Hepburn, reëntered the tent with
some dinner upon a little tray. He set it upon the camp
table with the remark, —
“Mr. Brown sent you this, miss, from the colonel's
table.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Dora, turning away from the
glass with a very unusual color burning in her cheeks.
“I ain't only Mr. Brown's man, miss,” said the man,
smiling a little at the title given him. “Is there anything
more that I can get for you?”
“No, I thank you. Do you belong to the regiment?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Then don't say miss to me. I'm the daughter of
the regiment,” said Dora, with a little laugh.
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“Yes, miss, I know it,” said Hepburn. “And we're
all proud and glad to have you our daughter; but Mr.
Brown said I was to call you Miss Dora, and that the
colonel wanted all the men to do the same.”
“O,” said Dora, thoughtfully, “then I suppose you
must. Do you know what they call them generally?”
“What, Miss Dora?”
“Why, what the colonel said I was to be — a vivandero,
I believe,” said Dora, coloring again with the fear
of committing a blunder.
“Vivandière, I think they call it, miss.”
“Well, how do the soldiers speak to them generally?”
“I don't know, miss. I never knew a regiment that
had one, though I know some of them do.”
“Well, I suppose, if Mr. Brown says so, it is right;
but no one ever called me miss, before,” said Dora,
thoughtfully, as she seated herself and began to eat.
Hepburn, after waiting a moment to see if he could
do anything more, withdrew to assure his mess-mates
that the little vivandière was a darling by nature as
well as by name, and that he, for one, would stick by
her just the same as if she was his own sister.
After dinner, Mr. Brown, returning to the tent, found
his little charge somewhat impatiently awaiting him.
“Well, Dora,” said he, gayly, “are you all ready for
the Greek Grammar, or shall we begin with German?”
“I think sir, if you will let me, I had rather go back
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to the hospital, and see if all the men have had their dinner.
I know there were a good many who wanted some when
I came away,” said Dora, earnestly.
Mr. Brown looked at her attentively, and then took
from his trunk a little volume of illustrated poems.
The plates were artistic in design and exquisite in execution,
and Mr. Brown, carelessly opening the book,
placed it in Dora's hand, saying, in an off hand manner, —
“Well, we will go in a few minutes. There are some
pictures for you to look at.”
“O, thank you, sir!” said the child, as she eagerly,
but carefully, grasped the book.
Mr. Brown, taking another, sat down to watch her.
The engraving to which he had accidentally opened represented
King Arthur floating alone upon the haunted
lake, whence uprose the arm “clothed in white samite,
mystic, wonderful,” extending towards his grasp the magic
sword Excalibur.
An air of romance, of chivalry, of knightly prowess
clung about not only the figure of the king, but was expressed
in all his surroundings, — in the prow of his boat,
carved to the likeness of the dragon's head — in the bold
sweep of the shore — in the transparent waters, where
the dim outline of the mermaid's figure melted undistinguishably
into the ripple of the wave — in the gemmed
hilt of the wonderful sword, whence dripped the
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sparkling drops, as it uprose to meet the extended hand of
the great Pendragon.
Dora looked at it eagerly for a moment, and then
raised her eyes inquiringly to the chaplain's face. He
met and answered the look smilingly.
“Do you wonder what it means?”
“Yes, sir. Will you please tell me?”
“Certainly I will.” And in a few, clear, sparkling
phrases the chaplain related the outline of Arthur's story,
particularly the scene represented in the picture.
Dora listened, not with her ears alone, but with her
eyes, her parted lips, her deepening color, her whole lithe
body. She was charmed and absorbed as only a child
on the verge of maturity, to whose youth has been denied
all knowledge of such matters, can be, when the world
of romance and story is first opened to her bewildered
vision.
Suddenly, however, her attention wavered. She closed
the book, and rising, stood waiting until the chaplain
should have finished speaking.
“What is it?” asked Mr. Brown, breaking off abruptly
in the middle of a most interesting account of
the Round Table. “Are you tired of my story?”
“O, no, indeed, sir,” cried Dora, with such unaffected
earnestness, that the chaplain smiled. “I could listen all
night and all to-morrow to it; but, sir, you know those
men haven't had their dinner.”
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“Well, on the next page there is another picture that
shows the last scene of Arthur's life. Don't you want
to look at that, and hear a little about it before you
go?”
Dora glanced wistfully at the book, still in her hand,
then stepped resolutely forward, and laid it upon the
table, saying, at the same time, —
“If you had just as lief, sir, I had rather hear about
it another time.”
“But suppose, Dora, I can't tell you about it another
time?” asked the chaplain, intent upon trying the child's
resolution to the extent.
Dora looked steadily into the grave face, where was
to be read no leniency of purpose.
“I think you will, sir,” said she boldly, at length.
“But if I won't?”
“Then, sir, I think I had better go without the pictures
than the men without their dinner,” said the girl,
with a little sigh, as she turned to leave the tent.
“Wait a moment; I am coming too,” said Mr. Brown,
briefly; and as he carefully deposited the book in its
place, he smiled, and whispered to himself, “You'll do,
my little heroine.”
But the chaplain was too wise to spoil by praise the unconsciousness
of merit that gave such a charm to the little
act of self-sacrifice, and as he walked along with Dora
towards the hospital, he only said, —
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“Yes; duty comes before pleasure, or should do so,
at even a greater cost than the story of King Arthur.”
“Good morning, or afternoon, if you have dined,
Brown,” called a cheery voice from behind.
“Good afternoon, Windsor,” said the chaplain, turning
to meet the young captain, who was hastening after him.
“You were coming to see me?”
“Not you exactly, but this young lady, who is an old
friend of mine. You have not forgotten me, Miss Dora—
have you?”
“No, sir; you are Captain Karl,” said Dora, gravely.
The two officers smiled, and Captain Windsor answered, —
“So I am, Dora. Captain Karl to you and my little
sister and brother at home, and one or two other good
friends far away just now. I knew you in a moment last
night, but could not get a chance to speak to you, although
I am sure you heard me cheer when the colonel proposed
you as `Daughter of the Regiment;' now, didn't you?”
“They all cheered, you know, Captain Karl,” said
Dora, hesitatingly, evidently afraid of hurting her new
friend's feelings by confessing that she had not distinguished
his voice from the rest.
“But I louder than any one else,” persisted the captain,
with a twinkle of the bright blue eyes. “Now confess
that you noticed one particularly clear and sonorous
note above the general shout, and wondered whose it was.”
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“You was very kind to try so hard,” said Dora, with
a simple pity in her voice that quite turned the intended
jest against its perpetrator.
“Yes, Windsor,” said the chaplain, gravely, “it was
wrong of you to make such an effort. You might have
injured yourself seriously.”
Captain Karl colored a little, but answered the chaplain's
satirical smile with a gay laugh.
“La Fille du Régiment has an able ally in its chaplain,”
said he, merrily. “And where are you going now?”
“To the hospital. We are volunteer aids on the staff
of nurses,” replied Mr. Brown, in the same tone. “But
if you will come to my tent after parade, I shall be happy
to see you; and so will Dora, I do not doubt.”
“Au revoir, then. I don't affect hospital sights and
sounds when I can be of no use;” and the young man
sauntered away, twisting his fair mustache, and humming
a soldier's air.
“That boy has the making of a fine man in him, if he
learns that little maxim I just quoted, Dora,” said Mr.
Brown, as he held aside the flap of the tent door for her
to enter first.
“What maxim, sir?” asked Dora, a little puzzled.
“Now let us see who wants some dinner?” replied
the chaplain, with a smile.
eaf452n1* By my faith, this young lady is very much taken with you, my
handsome fellow.
eaf452n2* Hush! She is a child of nature. Do not alarm her.
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CHAPTER XVIII.
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After this, for several weeks, the little vivandière led
a very active life. There were many wounded and sick
men in the hospital, who needed almost incessant care;
and the soldier nurses, overwearied and overburdened
as they were, found themselves very glad to accept the
services so eagerly offered by Dora.
In fact, so little care or pity had the child for herself,
that Mr. Brown was frequently obliged to interfere with
an authority that she never thought of resisting, and force
her to take time for rest or recreation. For regular study
there was, as yet, no opportunity; but the chaplain had
with him a few well-selected books, and was able to borrow
others, so that there was always something for Dora
either to read to herself, or to hear Mr. Brown read aloud
for her instruction or amusement. The story of King
Arthur, and that of many a knightly hero of that and
later ages, had been fully told, with such comments and
explanations as gave the child subject for thoughts and
dreams far beyond the scope of the mere narrative.
The chaplain, with delight not unmingled with a certain
awe, beheld a mind, developing beneath his teachings,
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of no ordinary vigor and grasp — a mind of such activity
and constant thirst for information, that he hardly dared
keep pace with its demand, while it was protected from
undue severity by a vivid and graceful fancy.
But this fine intellect was not Dora's greatest charm in
her teacher's eyes. Mrs. Darley, although she had been
unable to give her daughter the education she had never
herself received, had labored zealously and constantly to
make her good; and these efforts, seconded by the child's
own nature, had been so successful, that to be true, self-denying,
patient, and industrious, were as inevitable with
Dora as her breath. And even Mr. Brown, a man in
whose strong nature the good often conquered the evil
only after a fierce struggle, stood more than once rebuked
before the rectitude and conscientiousness of the child,
who, in her turn, looked upon the chaplain as the incarnation
of human virtue and wisdom.
Captain Karl also was soon a fast friend and favorite
of Dora, who always greeted his approach with one of
the merry smiles that had been becoming far more frequent
upon her face than they were in the old time, when care
and sorrow had formed so large a portion of her life. To
tell the truth, the young captain and the vivandière were
quite as much playfellows as friends, and might have been
seen, in many a clear twilight, building little dams in the
brook just without the camp, or playing at ball, or even
catch-who-catch-can, upon the mountain side.
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With the men Dora was a universal favorite, although,
partly in obedience to a hint from Mr. Brown, partly
from a native sense of propriety, she mingled but little
with them, and never familiarly.
It soon, however, became an established custom, that
every Sunday afternoon, as many as could gather around
her, either in the hospital tent or out of doors, collected
to listen while the child's sweet and clear voice read out
some chapters in the New Testament, and then led in a
simple hymn.
After this was over, the soldiers felt privileged to
approach, and hold a little talk with their “daughter,”
as they delighted to call her; and it was good to see how
even the coarsest of them softened his voice, and chose
his phrases as fitly as he might, to suit the ear and mind
of the grave little girl, who spoke to each so simply and
so gently, and yet impressed all with a sense of her
womanly purity and dignity.
“Arrah, thin, an' it's like `the dochter,' that the Howly
Vargin was, when she was a gurrl,” said Pat Maloney,
on one of these occasions to his neighbor, honest Sam
Ryder, who answered, with gruff emotion, —
“I don't know nothing about your holy virgin, but I
had a little sister that died when I was a boy, and `the
daughter' always makes me think of her.”
“Good night, thin, an' Hivin's blissin' on yer purty
head, Dora Darlint,” exclaimed Pat, as Dora, in passing
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out, gave him her hand in turn, with a kindly, “Good
night, Maloney.”
Nor were these expressions the only proofs of the
affection felt by the regiment for its daughter.
A small tent communicating with the hospital pavilion
had been appropriated as the vivandière's quarters, and
this was almost filled with gifts of one sort and another
from Dora's six hundred or more fathers.
Not only had the tent been neatly floored by one of the
carpenters, of whom there were several, but a piece of
canvas had been nailed over the boards by way of carpet.
The bedstead, table, and chair had been manufactured and
ornamented with much labor and some taste for her express
use, and the bed was warmly piled with blankets
contributed by one and another honest fellow who “really
did not care for it at all.”
Pictures, and trinkets carved of wood or bone, hung
upon the canvas walls, or lay upon the table; and Dora
might have covered every one of her slender fingers with
the gutta percha rings, some of them inlaid with pearl or
silver, constantly bestowed upon her.
The colonel had not forgotten his promise to find a
costume for his little vivandière, but it proved to be a
matter of some difficulty to do so.
From the sutler's stores were provided a supply of
blue cloth, and thread, needles, and buttons, and Dora
shaped for herself a short, full skirt, belted sack, and
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Turkish trousers; but both head and feet seemed likely
to remain bare, as neither shoes nor cap of the proper
size were to be found, or could easily be procured.
But private John Slocum had been born a Yankee, and
bred a shoemaker, and after two or three days of hard
work he brought forward a neat little pair of high balmoral
boots manufactured out of the cast-off pair of a
cavalry captain, and presented them to Dora, with a
sheepish intimation that, —
“They'll do, maybe, to keep you from stubbing your
toes off raound these ere woodsey places.”
Then private Joe Billings, who did not often like to
remember that he had been a tailor before he was a
soldier, went to work and made a jaunty little red cap
gayly trimmed with gold braid, out of some odds and
ends of finery from the officers' quarters, and as the
season advanced and the days grew chill, the same martial
tailor fashioned a short cloak of dark-blue cloth
trimmed with a broad red stripe, and fastened down the
front with military buttons, that left nothing to be desired,
either in the way of elegance or comfort.
To this costume was to be added, in time of action, a
stout leathern belt circling the trim waist of the vivandi
ère, and upholding a small keg of water at one side,
balanced by a flask of spirits and a tin cup at the other.
She was also provided with a bottle of pungent smelling
salts, and another of hartshorn, to be administered to men
fainting from pain and exhaustion.
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She was, moreover, allowed rations from the colonel's
mess table, and might eat them in her own quarters.
It was a strange life for a little girl, but a very comfortable
and happy one.
Only one person was dissatisfied with the new order
of things; and this was Picter, who jealously felt that his
charge had been taken out of his hands, and removed far
beyond his reach. To be sure, Dora made every effort
to prove that she retained the same affection and confidence
she had always felt for her humble friend, and
often went herself to look for him, besides urging him to
come to the hospital and see her. Picter received all
advances of this sort gratefully, but incredulously.
“Don' bodder youse'f 'bout me, missy,” he would
often say. “It ain't in nater dat you don want ole
nigger chasin' roun' arter you, now dat you's got ossifers,
an' men, an' de parson hese'f, to wait 'pon ye.”
“But none of them are like you, Picter. None of
them was my mother's old friend and servant, nor it
wasn't one of them who brought me away from the
place where I was so unhappy, to this, where I am so
happy.”
“Yes, missy, I s'pecs you is. Happy 'nough now
widout ole Pic. Well, de ole feller'll go back to de pots
an' pans; ain't fit company for missy.”
Dora felt this discontent of her retainer very acutely,
and tried, whenever she could, to dispel it; but besides
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Picter's own obstinacy, she was very often prevented from
seeing him by the engrossing nature of her own business.
Most of the hospital patients were now recovering
from their wounds, and were in that condition when
careful nursing and cheerful occupation were of more
importance than the surgeon's visits. At the head of
this convalescent department stood the chaplain and
Dora, not by actual appointment, but by a sort of general
consent, including their own; and both found quite
enough to fill hands, minds, and time, during the hours
to which Mr. Brown endeavored to confine their attendance,
for he wisely insisted on reserving time sufficient
for rest, exercise, and food, both for himself and his
pupil.
Among Dora's most requiring patients was a young
Kentucky artilleryman, who had been dangerously
wounded in the head by a piece of shell. For many
days his life had been despaired of; and after he began
to rally a little, it was necessary to perform a severe
operation, that completely prostrated his strength, and
left him, for more than a week, in a condition of stupor
from which it was considered doubtful if he ever aroused.
His name was Merlin, and both Dora and Mr. Brown
had taken the greatest interest in his case, and attended
him with the most unwearied care.
At last the surgeon pronounced a favorable change
to have taken place, and one day, after a long
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examination, both of the wound and the general condition of the
patient, he said, —
“There, Miss Dora, I give this case into your hands
now. Nothing more is required but nursing, light food,
and an occasional tonic draught. Let me know if there
is any change, but I think he will do.”
It was, therefore, to Merlin especially, that Dora's
first visit in the morning and last at night were paid, and
he began steadily to improve. As consciousness returned,
however, a settled melancholy became apparent, and baffled
all the little arts of the young nurse to vanquish it.
In vain she read interesting stories beside his pillow, repeated
bits of camp news and rumors, or tried to draw
him into conversation. Merlin answered always respectfully
and promptly, but never questioned, or smiled, or
evinced any interest in the doings of his fellow-soldiers.
“He will never get well until he is in better spirits,”
said she, sadly, to the surgeon, who rallied her upon the
slow convalesence of her patient.
“I'm afraid he's a shirk, and don't want to go back to
quarters and rations,” said the doctor, as he passed on,
without waiting to hear Dora's eager disclaimer.
The next morning, however, as soon as she entered the
hospital, the young nurse perceived that some great change
had taken place in her languid patient. He had partially
risen, so as to lean upon one elbow, and his flushed face
and glittering eyes were turned eagerly towards the
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canvas partition, that in these cold autumnal days was kept
lowered between the different tents, that, as has been explained,
were connected to form the hospital.
“What is the matter, Merlin? What do you hear?”
asked Dora, anxiously, as she hastened to his side.
“Who's that?” asked the gunner, hoarsely, as he
turned his blood-shotten eyes for a moment towards her.
“Who? What do you mean?”
“There! That voice — whose is it?”
Dora listened in her turn, and soon distinguished a
deep tone rising above the confusion of the place, in the
wild accents of delirium.
“You mean that poor fellow who is out of his head—
don't you? There! the one who is singing?”
“Yes. Who is it?” fiercely demanded Merlin.
“It is a poor rebel, who was dreadfully wounded by a
sabre cut across his forehead,” said Dora, soothingly.
“He has been moved into the next tent this morning,
because we are not going to use the third one any more
at present.”
“What's his name?” asked Merlin, in the same sharp
voice.
“We don't know. He hadn't anything marked about
him, and he hasn't been conscious since he came in.
What are you looking for? Can't I help you?”
“I want my clothes. I want something to put on
right away,” returned Merlin, impatiently, as he looked
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from side to side, and pushed the bed-clothes nervously
away.
“But you mustn't; you can't be dressed for a good
many days yet. Do lie still, please do, or I shall have
to call one of the nurses,” pleaded Dora, almost tearfully,
for the man's agitation filled her with dismay, contrasting,
as it did, with the perfect apathy he had hitherto
exhibited.
“But I must, I tell you,” persisted he. “I must
know what that fellow's name is, at least. Hadn't he
anything about him with his name on it?”
“No, nothing at all.”
“Well, wasn't there anything — anything else, — I
mean anything that some of his folks might have given
him — a picture, or such?” asked Merlin, nervously,
while his wasted hand still grasped the bed-coverings, as
if determined to throw them aside.
Dora looked at him steadily, and turned a little pale.
“If you will lie down quietly, and let me cover you up,
I will tell you,” said she, decidedly.
Merlin hesitated a moment, and then sank back upon
his pillow.
“The man in there had a picture in his pocket-book, a
photograph of a young lady,” said Dora, slowly. “Do
you want to see it?”
“Yes, of course I do; right away, as quick as you
can get it!” exclaimed Merlin, imperiously.
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“But I cannot get it at all, or do anything about it,
unless you will promise to lie perfectly still in bed here,
and not even ask for your clothes again until the doctor
says you may sit up,” said Dora, decidedly.
The Kentuckian muttered an oath, and tossed himself
over with his back to Dora, who stood looking pityingly,
and yet firmly, at him. As he did not stir, however, she
turned to the inmate of the next bed, and began to make
him comfortable for the day. Presently she felt her skirt
plucked from behind. Turning instantly, she found
Merlin again leaning upon his elbow, and regarding her
with a sort of impatient submission of manner.
“Say,” began he, as soon as she turned towards him,
“will you get me that picture if I won't ask for my
clothes till you're ready to let me get up?”
“You must promise, besides, to stay quietly in your
bed, and not toss about so,” stipulated Dora.
“Well, I will.”
“You promise?”
“Yes.”
“Then I will get you the picture as soon as I have
done washing Lynn's face. It won't be long.”
“Hurry up, then, for mercy's sake!” entreated the
Kentuckian, restraining the stronger expression that had
risen to his lips, out of deference to his nurse.
In a few moments, Dora, having finished bathing poor
Lynn's feverish face, tripped away to the other tent,
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where she knew Mr. Brown was now to be found, and
rapidly repeating to him the events of the morning, she
asked for the photograph, which, with other property
belonging to wounded prisoners, had been placed under
the chaplain's charge.
“Here it is, since you promised it to him,” said Mr.
Brown, rather reluctantly. “But I am afraid it will
lead to mischief.”
He turned away without explanation, and Dora, slowly
returning to her patient, wondered what the chaplain
could have meant.
“She doesn't look as if she could do mischief,” thought
the child, looking at the photograph. It was the vignette
of a beautiful young girl, with a somewhat timid expression
in her large eyes, and an undecided mouth.
The curling hair was tied back from the low brow with
a ribbon, whose ends floated down upon the plump
neck.
As Dora approached Merlin's couch, he eagerly extended
his hand. She placed the picture in it, and waited
a moment for some exclamation, or remark, to show
whether the face was the one he had prepared himself to
see. But the Kentuckian uttered neither comment nor
ejaculation. Not even the lines of his face betrayed the
emotions beneath the surface. Lying perfectly motionless
upon his back, with the picture steadily held before
his eyes, he looked at it intently moment after moment,
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until Dora turned to attend to her other duties. When
she returned, some time afterwards, he had not moved;
and when, an hour later, she again visited him, the picture
had disappeared, and the patient slept, or appeared
to sleep.
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CHAPTER XIX.
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During the rest of the day Dora kept a constant watch
upon the Kentuckian, for, in spite of his promises, she
felt an uneasy consciousness that all was not as quiet
with him as he wished her to believe.
When her hour of liberty in the afternoon arrived, she
sought Mr. Brown, who was reading in his tent, and told
him that she feared Merlin had some plan in his mind
with regard to the prisoner whose voice had moved him
so strangely, and begged him to go into the hospital before
night and question him. Mr. Brown promised to do
so, and then, seeing that Dora looked pale and tired, he
bade her put on her cloak and come to walk with him.
Dora gladly obeyed, and, as they strolled along the
mountain side, Mr. Brown began to talk with her of matters
that soon carried her beyond the present weariness.
Speaking first of the traces of fortification that the present
war will leave all over the land, to be the wonder of
coming generations, he went back to the centuries of the
past, and told how in Ohio and all over the West are to
be found traces of battles mightier than ours, of fortifications
that might include a dozen of our own, of relics left
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behind in the disappearance of a mighty people, whose
grand works survive, when even tradition holds no echo
of the workers' name or race.
Mr. Brown, who was a determined antiquary, grew
enthusiastic as he talked, and Dora listened with more
avidity to this marvellous, true story than she had to the
romantic legends of Arthur and his knights.
Both teacher and pupil became so engrossed as quite
to forget where they were, and the danger of straying far
from camp, when, as they paused a moment to look at
the western sky, where the last glory of the sunset was
fading away, the sharp crack of a rifle rung through the
stillness, and a little puff of smoke rose lazily from a
dense thicket some distance below them in the valley.
The sharp whistle of the ball cut the air, at the same
instant, so close to the chaplain's head, that he felt the
slight current made by its motion.
“What — O, who is that?” cried Dora, as a dark
figure seemed to spring out of the earth a little distance
from her side, and bound forward to the thicket. “Why,
it's Picter — isn't it?” added she, as, even in the brief
glance she caught of the figure, she noticed the peculiar
motion of the limbs.
“Was it? But what is going on now? Stay here,
Dora, or, rather, crouch behind this stump, and keep
close, while I go to see — ”
“But you haven't any gun, or anything!” cried Dora,
holding the chaplain fast.
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“I am armed; I have a pistol. Let me go, child!
You must, really. Keep yourself hidden.”
As Mr. Brown spoke, he released himself from Dora's
grasp, and, drawing a pistol from an inside pocket,
bounded down the hill.
Without a moment's hesitation the child followed, and
arrived at the thicket just as Mr. Brown stooped over a
writhing mass of matter, which might, so far as eyes
were to be trusted, have been two bears struggling in a
death hug. Human voices, however, were to be heard
in panting exclamations, oaths, and menaces, but the
only articulate sounds were in Picter's gruff tones.
“Take dat, den!” panted he, raising high above his
head a knife whose blade gleamed faintly in the twilight.
But the blow never fell, for, quick as thought, his unseen
adversary, releasing his own right hand from the negro's
grasp, dashed it so heavily into his face as to prostrate
him to the ground, while at the same moment he leaped
to his feet, and darted into the forest, pursued by a ball
from the chaplain's pistol.
Picter slowly rose to his feet, wiping from his eyes the
blood that trickled into them from a cut upon his forehead.
“De ole cuss,” muttered he, “knockin' open a pusson's
head as ef 'twor a mushmillion! Wait till I cotch
ye again, mas'r, dat's all!”
“Who was it, Picter? Did you know him?” asked
Dora, breathlessly, while the chaplain inquired, —
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“How came you out here, Picter, so providentially?”
“O, de Lor', mas'r an' missy, how's I gwine to tell
eberyting all to once, an' all de extry stars dat was lef'
over arter de sky was full, a dancin' 'fore my eyes, an' in
an' out ob my pore ole head dis bressed minute?” asked
Picter, with some asperity, as he reseated himself upon
the ground.
“Poor Uncle Pic! It is too bad. Come up to the
hospital as quick as you can, and I will do up your hurt.
Is there any other except this on your forehead?”
“Dunno, missy. Don' you bodder youse'f 'bout de
ole nigger. He noffin' but ole fool arter all.”
“No, you're not, Picter, and you don't believe it yourself,”
said Dora, laughing. “But come, let us go
home.”
“Yes, it is quite time. Our friend may return at any
moment, and his next aim may be truer,” said Mr.
Brown, peering sharply into the forest beyond where
they were standing.
“He tried to shoot you — didn't he?” asked Dora,
anxiously.
“Yes, I suppose so,” said the chaplain, coolly.
“Course he did. Didn' want fer touch missy,” muttered
Picter, who was now following them up the hill.
“But how came you down here all ready to defend
us?” asked Mr. Brown, soothingly; for he had learned to
understand the poor fellow's crabbed jealousy of all his
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young mistress's new friends, and liked him the better
for it.
“Wasn' tryin' to 'fend no one but lilly missy,” growled
Picter. “I seed her a trabellin' off down here long
wid parson, an' t'out parson had lef' he gun to home:
didn' know he got lilly gun in the pocket. Den I knowed
de rebs kep' a comin' roun' fer spy out what we's a doin',
an' t'out like 'nough dey pick up missy an' de parson, an'
carry dey off 'fore dey had time fer holler. So I took
um knife, an' comed along arter 'em. Didn' come in
sight, fer missy 'ouldn't want fer talk wid stupid ole nigger
w'en she got buckra gen'leman to talk wid. So de
mis'able ole feller he creep an' crawl long jes' like de
pore dog arter he mas'r gib him lickin' an' tell he go'
long home. An w'en missy set down on de log, an'
parson 'tan' an' talk 'fore her, den dis nigger lay 'till an'
look at dem, till de gun go `crack' down here in de
brush, an' de ball go singin' up clost to missy head.
Tou't fust 'twas her dey was shootin' at, but now I
knows it wasn'.”
“How do you know, Picter?” asked Mr. Brown,
stopping, and looking earnestly at him.
“Can't tell, mas'r parson. On'y I reckon 'twor you,
an' not missy, dey wanted,” said the negro, doggedly.
Arrived at the camp, Mr. Brown went to speak to
Merlin, as Dora had requested; and she insisted upon
Picter's coming with her into the outer hospital tent, now
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left unoccupied by patients, while she sought from the
surgeon some plaster and a bandage to dress his wound.
The negro reluctantly obeyed, and Dora, after bathing
the cut, and applying the plaster, bandaged it so neatly
and so tenderly, that, as the patient emphatically declared,
it was “better dan a whole head.”
“That's nice. Now, Pic, you had better go to bed,
and try to sleep. I dare say your head aches — doesn't
it?” asked the little nurse, kindly.
“Not half so bad as it had oughter,” replied Pic, penitently.
“'Clare to mas'r, Missy Dora, it 'nough ter
make a hedgehog 'shamed ob hese'f, ter see how good
you is ter dis mis'able ole cross-grain nigger. W'y
doesn' you up an tell him. `You ole fool, does you s'pec a
young madam like me is gwine to 'sociate wid a nigger?
I's got oder fish a fryin' in my pan dese times.' But,'
stead o' dat, you's jest as pleasant an' as pooty to him
now, as you was dem days in de cave, an' in de ole times
w'en he use to fix up swings an' seesaws in de barn, fer
you an' mas'r Tom.”
“And I am just as fond of you, Picter,” said Dora,
eagerly. “And I wouldn't say any such thing as you
just told me to, for anything. Of course my time is
very much taken up now, and you wouldn't want me to
come and sit round in the kitchen with the men.”
“Course I shouldn', honey. Wouldn' hab it no way.”
“Well, then, you must come and see me, Pic; and I
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wish you would make it a rule to come every afternoon
at three o'clock, and stay a few minutes with me before
I go to Mr. Brown.”
“T'ank you, missy. S'pecs dat parson mons'ous wise
gen'l'man — isn't he?” asked Pic, with a little return of
jealous envy.
“O, yes. He is the wisest and the best person I ever
knew or thought of. You ought to hear him talk about
the Bible and heaven, and those things. Why don't you
ask him to tell you about it Pic? He would in a
minute.”
“He wouldn' want 'pend he time on ole fool like dis
yer,” grumbled Pic.
“He wouldn't call you that, and you wouldn't feel so,
after you had talked with him.”
“Should like 'o talk wid him 'bout dem tings fus' rate,
ef he'd hab de patience,” said Pic, doubtfully.
“O, he is never out of patience, or out of temper.
I've tried him awfully, I'm so ignorant, and he's always
just so good.”
“S'pecs you an' I's diff'ent sort o' scholars, missy,”
said Pic, with a short laugh; “but I'll try to cotch de
parson w'en he'm not so busy, an' ax him —”
“What will you ask him? There's no time like the
present,” said a sonorous voice behind them; and Mr.
Brown smilingly entered the tent.
“O Lor'! Dey say dat de ole gen'l'man is alluz near
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when you's a talkin' 'bout him,” blurted out Pic, and
then hastily added, —
“Ax you pardon, fer sure, mas'r; I didn' mean ter
call you de debil.”
“It isn't a wise thing to talk much about that individual,
Picter. You never can tell how near he may be
to you,” said the chaplain, with a sort of merry gravity.
“But now you had better come with me, and ask me
whatever it was you intended to. Dora, I advise you to
go to your own quarters now, and get some sleep.”
“I jes' want fer tell missy somefin', mas'r, and den I
come right 'long,” said Picter, hesitatingly.
“Very well. I will wait a moment outside. Good
night, my child.”
“Good night, sir.”
Picter waited until the curtain had fallen behind the
chaplain, and then, approaching close to Dora, he whispered, —
“Dat ar' feller in de brush wor Dick Wilson, if dis
chile knows anything.”
“What, my cousin, Dick?”
“Yis, missy. Night, missy
Before Dora could reply, the negro was gone.
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CHAPTER XX.
[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]
Startled by Picter's sudden and brief communication,
Dora remained for some time seated where he had
left her, while her mind rapidly reviewed the very little
that she knew of her cousin Dick, and weighed the
probabilities of his being in the position of Mr. Brown's
attempted assassin, and of his possible motive in making
such an attempt.
Wearied, at last, of useless conjecture, the young girl
rose to visit her patients in the adjoining tents, before
seeking her own little nook, which communicated with
the outer hospital tent, where she now was.
In the second tent were the wounded rebel prisoners,
many of whom had before this recovered sufficiently to
be forwarded to Beverly jail, and from thence to Columbus,
where they were retained as exchanges for the federal
prisoners.
In one corner lay the stalwart fellow whose delirious
cries in the morning had so agitated Merlin.
Almost a giant in stature, he was of a swarthy and
forbidding countenance, and so violent at times in his
language and behavior, that the surgeon and chaplain
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had forbidden Dora attempting to do anything for
him.
Since morning, however, a favorable change had taken
place in his condition, and he was now perfectly sane
and quiet, although much exhausted.
As Dora timidly paused near his bed, he faintly asked
for some water. She gave it him at once, saying kindly,
as she held the cup to his lips, —
“You feel better, now — don't you?”
“Yes. I reckon I've been pretty sick.”
“Yes, very sick. You have not had your senses at
all since you were wounded.”
“What sort of a wound is it?”
“A cut on your head from a sabre bayonet, the doctor
said.”
“I was in the ambush,” murmured the man, dreamily.
“I'm glad you are better. You'd better go to sleep
now,” said Dora, moving away.
“Hold on a minute. Be you a Yankee, or do you
belong round here?”
“Neither. I was born in Virginia, but I belong to a
federal regiment. I'm the vivandière,” said Dora, inwardly
hoping her hearer would not suspect how proud
she felt of the rank. “What is your name? We don't
know what to call you,” continued she, timidly, as the
man lay staring at her with his bold black eyes.
“My name's Judson, — Bob Judson, — and I ain't
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ashamed to tell it to any one,” said the rebel, half defiantly.
“I'm glad of it. Good night,” returned Dora, hastily,
as she moved away.
A few moments later, she found herself beside Merlin's
bed. He was lying broad awake, and apparently
perfectly quiet; but his cheeks had a feverish glow upon
them, and his eyes a glitter, ominous to the young
nurse.
“You are not so well to-night,” said she, laying her
hand upon his forehead. “You are feverish. I will
bathe your face, and give you some of the drops to make
you sleep — shan't I?”
“No; I don't want anything at all, miss. I shall
go to sleep as soon as it's quiet here,” said the young
man, briefly.
Dora looked at him again. She noticed that one hand
was beneath his pillow, as if concealing something.
“It's the picture,” thought she, “and the other man
will be asking for it soon. I must get it.”
But a second thought suggested that it would be cruel
and unwise to deprive Merlin of what he appeared to
value so much, at this particular time, when a disturbance
or disappointment might break up his whole night's
rest, and seriously injure his health. She therefore
resolved to let the picture remain till morning, and with
a kind good night, left her patient to himself.
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Retiring to her own tent, Dora dropped the curtain,
undressed, and after repeating her prayers as simply and
innocently as she had been wont to do at her mother's
knee, she composed herself to sleep.
But, although tired both in body and mind, she could
not rest. No sooner was she in quiet and darkness, than
fancy surrounded her with vague shapes of harm, and
whispered still vaguer warnings of danger to herself or
others close at hand. She thought again of Dick, and
wearied herself with conjectures as to his intentions
towards her and the chaplain, until at last she almost
fancied he was concealed in the very camp, and might at
any moment start up beside her bed, ready to murder
her as she lay, or drag her back a prisoner to his mother's
home.
Reasoning herself out of these idle terrors, Dora next
thought of Merlin, and his animosity to the rebel named
Judson; and she soon convinced herself that this, although
concealed, was quite as vehement now as in the
morning, when it had been so plainly shown.
As these fears and doubts pressed upon her mind,
Dora became more and more uneasy, until at last she
noiselessly rose from her bed, slipped on a part of her
clothing, stole softly out of her little cell across the empty
outer tent of the hospital, and slightly drawing away the
curtain between it and the second apartment, peeped in.
All was quiet, and by the feeble light of the night
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taper, Dora could see that Judson was sleeping calmly
in the corner, with his left arm thrown up above his
swarthy face.
The patients were all so comfortable now, that only
one attendant was thought necessary for both rooms
during the night, and he was at present in the inner one.
The curtains were lowered between the two tents, and
Dora, moving as noiselessly as a spirit, passed through
the second, and peeped within the third. At the upper
end sat the nurse soundly sleeping, with his head upon
the table, where burned the night lamp. The sick men
were all quiet, and Merlin lay apparently in a heavy
sleep.
Dora stood silently beside the nurse, with intent to
wake him; but as she heard his deep breathing, and saw
how soundly he slept, her purpose changed.
“I am not sleepy,” said she to herself, “and he is,
poor fellow! I will sit here a little while, and not wake
him until I am ready to go to bed again.”
So Dora seated herself upon a box in the corner, and
leaning back against a bale of blankets, began her lonely
watch. For nearly an hour her senses remained as alert
as at the first; but then her eyelids began to droop; her
head rested against the comfortable cushion behind it;
the silent and dimly lighted tent, with its rows of sleeping
patients, grew indistinct and confused to her sight;
and Dora slept.
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Not for long, however. Of a sudden, a thrill shot
through her frame, an indistinct horror seized upon her
even through her slumber, and while suddenly arousing
her mind to its full consciousness, laid a paralyzing
hand upon her bodily senses.
Through her half-opened eyelids she saw again the
tent, the sleepers, the nurse, still sleeping heavily with
the taper burning dimly beside him. She saw the covering
of one bed thrown aside, and a man's figure cautiously
arising from it. This man was Merlin; and Dora
watched as in a dream, while with slow, deliberate
movement he rose upright, steadied himself a moment on
his feet, as if to try his strength, glanced keenly at her
and at the nurse, and then drew from under his pillow a
long bright knife, or dirk.
Still as in a dream, Dora remembered that this knife
had formed part of the Kentuckian's accoutrements removed
when he was placed in bed the morning after the
battle, and she dimly wondered how he had regained
possession of it.
After a cautious pause, the gaunt figure began to move
silently and swiftly across the tent to where the curtain,
still looped aside, showed the interior of the second tent,
with the corner bed full in sight, where lay the stalwart
figure of the wonded rebel as Dora had last seen him,
his left arm thrown above his head, and his face upturned.
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[figure description] Page 190.[end figure description]
Noiselessly as a panther the ghost-like figure of the
Kentuckian crept towards this corner, and, as he moved,
Dora caught the glancing rays of pale light reflected from
the blade in his hand.
The nurse beside her stirred in his sleep, muttered a
few words, and heavily turned his head.
The gliding figure in the next room paused, looked
uneasily over his shoulder, at the same time thrusting
the knife into his bosom. But the break in the nurse's
dream was slight, and he presently slept again, as
soundly as before. Assured of this, Merlin crept noiselessly
forward; and now he stood beside his rival's bed,
stooping low to scan his features, while his right hand
stealthily emerged from his bosom, and again the yellow
light glanced shiveringly off the blade.
With a cautious movement the assassin drew down
the bed covering, and lightly placed his left hand upon
the breast of the sleeping man, as if to discover the
exact position of the heart, while the knife slowly rose
to the level of his head.
But at this awful sight — at this crisis in the history
of two men, both of whose lives hung upon the event
of the next moment — the frozen trance that had held
Dora enchained suddenly dissolved. With a mighty
effort she sprang to her feet, rushed through the two
tents, and as Merlin, startled by the light sound of her
approach, turned his head, she seized his uplifted arm in
both her hands, and steadily confronted him.
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ill man, clutching a knife and about to kill him.[end figure description]
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For a moment the man glared angrily at this child
who dared to throw herself between him and his purpose,
and struggled impatiently with her clinging grasp. But,
as his eyes met those true and steady ones, fixed in reproachful
horror upon him, his own wavered and fell,
the uplifted arm sank to his side, and his mouth lost the
hard, fierce curve it had held.
Then Dora, feeling her power without reasoning upon
it, said, in a low voice, —
“Give me the knife, Merlin.”
After an instant's hesitation, the man obeyed. Throwing
it upon the bed behind them, the girl motioned forward,
and, still clinging to his arm, led her captive to
the division curtain, and, pointing to his bed, whispered, —
“Go and lie down before the nurse wakes.”
Without reply, Merlin did as he was bid; and Dora
after returning to secure the knife, roused the nurse,
telling him that she had kept watch for him through the
last two hours, and now was going to her own quarters.
The man, mortified at this mild reproof, was profuse
in apologies, and was so evidently determined to keep
himself awake during the rest of his watch, that Dora
felt quite safe in leaving matters under his charge.
As she passed out of the tent, Merlin called to her,
appealingly, to speak with him a moment; but Dora
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only shook her head in reply. A natural horror of the
contemplated deed, and of the man himself, had already
replaced the calm courage that had enabled her to confront
him, and it seemed to her as if she could never be
willing to approach him again.
In the second tent she paused a moment to replace the
covering over Judson's broad breast, wondering, as she
did so, if no ugly dream, no dim horror, such as had
assailed herself, had waked in this man's mind, to warn
him of the horrible danger that had so closely overshadowed
him.
But Dora's light touch effected what the hand of the
murderer had not; and as she drew the blanket around
his shoulders, the man stirred, opened his wide black
eyes, and, with a pleasant smile, murmured, —
“I'm coming, Nelly,” and then dropped asleep again.
Dora, creeping away to her own little bed, wondered
if Nelly was the original of the photograph so valued by
both these men, and also what Nelly would have said
and thought, could she have known the events of the last
hour; and then, utterly exhausted by fatigue, agitation,
and anxiety, she threw herself upon her bed, and slept
heavily through the few remaining hours of night.
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CHAPTER XXI.
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The next morning, when Dora awoke with an aching
head and heavy eyes, she recalled the occurrences of the
past night as a horrible dream, and smiled at the feeling of
terror that had accompanied her first moment of consciousness;
but the smile vanished when, as she sprang to her
feet, the long dirk dropped from her dress, and fell rattling
to the floor. Sinking upon the edge of the bed,
Dora fixed her eyes upon it, and gradually recalled the
whole chain of events connected with it.
Her first impulse was to go at once to Mr. Brown, and
tell him the story, relying upon his judgment to do whatever
should be best for both men; but when, after a hasty
toilet, the young nurse looked for a moment into the hospital
before going out, she found so many matters awaiting
her attention, that she was unable to get away until
after the hour when she knew the chaplain would be engaged
in his own duties: she was, therefore, obliged to
defer seeing him in private until evening; for, although
he regularly came into the hospital at a stated hour both
morning and afternoon, there would then be no opportunity
for conversation.
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When Dora, in her rounds, found herself approaching
Merlin's bed, she hesitated, and shrank back. The eyes
of the sick man caught the movement, and a deep flush
of mortification covered his face, while he humbly said, —
“Good morning, Miss Dora.”
“Good morning, Merlin. Can I do anything for you
this morning?” replied Dora, coldly, and without her
usual smile.
“If it isn't too much trouble, would you bathe my
head and face a little; I feel pretty hot,” said the man,
in an apologetic sort of way.
“Yes, I will come in a moment,” returned Dora, readily,
although in the same constrained manner.
From the outer room she brought some warm water,
mixed with spirit, and applied herself to the task before
her, gently and carefully, but in perfect silence.
Presently Merlin said, softly, —
“I want, ever so much, to tell you something, Miss
Dora. Can I?”
“Yes, if it will be of any use to you,” said Dora, hesitatingly;
for she had just done the bathing, and was
longing to get away.
“Can any one hear, do you suppose?”
“No; this next bed is empty, and Robbins is fast
asleep. No one can hear, if you speak low.”
“If you will comb my hair while I talk, they won't
think strange of your stopping so long with me,” suggested
Merlin.
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“Well, I will comb your hair; but I can't stop a great
while, for I haven't been all round yet; and when I have,
I am going to read to Sherman and Phillips a little
while.”
“I'll try not to be long; but I do want to tell you
about it, Miss Dora, for I can't bear you should think I
am such a villain as I'm afraid you do.”
He paused and looked up, but Dora averted her eyes,
and made no answer to his appealing tone.
Merlin sighed heavily, and went on in a low voice: —
“Rob Judson and me are neighbor's sons, and was
both raised on the banks of the Kentucky River, two or
three hundred miles west of here. We played together
when we was boys, and when we got older we went
shooting and rowing in one another's company, and was
great friends, as young men's friendships go. By and by
he went off to New Orleans with a load of cotton for his
father, and stopped there two or three years trading,
and one thing and another. When his father died, he
came home and took the place, being the only child they
had.
“By this time my sister Susan, that was a little girl
when Rob went away, had got grown up into as pretty a
young woman as was in them parts, though she was always
kind of slender and delicate. Well, Rob and she
took a great fancy to one another, and was always walking,
or riding, or going out on the river, and keeping
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company some way. Our folks liked it well enough, and
he hadn't any one to object; so they called themselves
engaged, and Sue began to get ready to be married.
“Just at this time a sister of mother's died, and left
one girl — all the child she had — to our care. She had
been living in Massachusetts, and it was from there that
Nelly wrote, and said that her mother was gone, and had
left a letter for my mother, which she sent along with
her own.
“Mother said, right off, that she must come and live
with her, and be a child to her in the room of Sue when
she got married. Father hadn't no objections to make,
and, of course, I hadn't; so I was sent off to fetch her.
I stopped a little while in Andover, when I got there,
along with the folks where Nelly was, so that before we
begun our travels we had got real well acquainted, and
before we got to Kentucky I was regularly smashed with
her, and she seemed to like me about first rate.
“After we got home I couldn't do anything but just
hang round after Nelly, and was a good deal more attentive
to her than Rob was to Sue all along. The old folks
laughed some, and Sue and my younger brother were always
poking fun at us; but we didn't care. I had got
Nelly to say she'd have me when her year's mourning for
her mother was out, and my father had agreed to make
over a part of the farm to me, and let me carry on the rest
for him; and so we was all fixed comfortable — at least
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it seemed so; but we wasn't long in finding out that
trouble hadn't died out.
“In the first place, we lost mother; and that was a
hard matter to pull through for all of us. Then Sue said
she wouldn't be married for a year from the day she
buried her mother, any how; and so it was concluded
that my wedding should be put off too, and all of us be
married the same day, and till then the two girls would
keep house together.
“Just after this I was called to Cincinnati on business,
and stopped there some months, making arrangements for
my farming operations, and seeing to affairs generally.
This was only a year ago, or less, and the folks in Cincinnati
was all up about the war. I went to all the meetings,
and got quite wrought up about it, and was more
than three quarters of a mind to enlist and fight for the
good old Union that had kept me and mine in peace and
plenty ever since old Peter Merlin followed on after
Boone, and settled in Kentucky. But when I was all
ready to put down my name, I'd think of Nelly, and if I
should get killed before my three years was out, what
would she do then? So, after a while, I concluded to go
home, and talk the matter over with her and the folks. I
hadn't said anything about it in my letters; in fact I
hadn't written many letters about anything, nor Nelly
hadn't written often to me. But neither of us were very
good at it; so I didn't think strange of it.
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“Well, I got home, quite unexpected, late in the afternoon
of a first-rate October day, and ran into the house
all ready to hug and kiss both the girls, and old dad, too,
for that matter. But there wer'n't no one in the lower
part of the house, and so I went up stairs. The door of
Sue's chamber was locked, and, even when I told who it
was, she was some time in opening it. The first look I
got at her I saw she'd been crying. I gave her a good
hug and kiss, and then I asked where was Nelly.
“`Out walking with Rob,' says Sue.
“`And why didn't you go too?'
“`Cause they didn't want me,' says she, choking down
another crying fit.
“Well, I thought these was curious kind of proceedings;
but I didn't mean to get mad for nothing; so I kind
of pooh, poohed at Sue for being jealous, and talked about
other matters, reckoning that if there was any trouble in
the wind I shouldn't be long of finding it out.
“After a while Rob and Nellie came back. They said
they was mighty glad to see me home, and said I'd ought
to have let them know I was coming, so's they might
have stopped to home and seen me.
“I was as pleasant and chatty as they was, and any
one would have thought all was going first rate amongst
us; but I knew well enough that all Sue's laugh and talk
was made up, and that she rather, by half, have a good
cry than to speak a word; and I couldn't but feel as if
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Rob and Nelly were kind of flustered and conscious
when they first saw me, and had been trying ever since
to pull the wool over my eyes with their pretty speeches.
“Then, as for myself, I didn't naturally feel very
sprightly when I had all these ideas working in my head,
though I wasn't going to let any of 'em see how 'twas
with me.
“After a while father come in, and set down, and I
begun to talk about the war with him; but I soon found
I'd got the wrong pig by the ear. The old man was a
out and out secesh; and when I said something about
enlisting on the Union side, he swore the worst kind that
if I did he'd never see my face again.
“Then Rob he come over to where we was setting,
and father and he begun to talk a way that riz my dander
right up. I hadn't never thought nor cared much
about such things till I heard so much of them in Cincinnati,
and so I didn't really know how father was likely
to go when it come to the pinch; and as for Rob, though
he used to talk rather on the Southern side, I had no
idea he was going to be so bitter about it as he come
out now.
“Well, we all got pretty well heat up in the argooment;
but we didn't come to no conclusion, and Rob
went off home.
“I wanted to set up a while, and have a chat with
Nelly; but she slipped off along with Sue, and I went to
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bed a good deal less chipper than I had felt coming
home.
“After this, for a week or two I staid round, not
saying a great deal to any one, but keeping up a great
thinking. I watched Rob and Nelly close enough; but
they didn't see that I did, and after a while they began
to show out pretty plain. Whenever they could, they'd
slip and sly round, and get together for a walk or a row,
or to set round in the garden and on the river bank.
Then they'd try to brass it out that they'd met by accident;
but any fool could see how it really was.
“Still I didn't say anything, but lay low, and kept
dark, watching for what would come next. All this
time, while they were getting careless, and I was getting
mad, poor little Sue was just breaking her heart in her
own quiet way. She wasn't never a rugged body, and
mother had always took care of her most as if she was a
baby; and after mother died, the girl seemed for a while
as if she'd die too of fretting after her. But then she
took to Rob kinder than ever, and seemed to feel as if he
was going to be father and mother, and husband and
all, to her. But now — well, when I looked at her pale
face and great, shiny eyes, and heard her sigh, and saw
her put her hand over her heart, as she looked after her
lover and my girl walking off together, it would seem
to me as if I could draw a bead on that fellow with a
good will.
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“At last there came a day that settled up matters for
all hands of us, except the reckoning between Judson
and me; that's to come yet.
“Father had got to go to Lancaster to court, and
calculated to be away all night. I advised Sue to go
along with him for the change, and to freshen her up a
bit. Nelly thought, too, that she'd better go, and told
her she'd have a chance to buy some of her wedding fixings.
To that Sue didn't say a word; but she looked in
Nelly's face till I thought the girl's cheeks would have
blazed right out. She didn't say no more, but went up
to her own room, and I guess took her turn at crying a
spell. As for Sue, she only sighed in that broken-hearted
fashion, as she looked after her, and then said, —
“`I needn't go to Lancaster to be out of the way,
Harry. They don't mind where I am.'
“I made as if I didn't take her meaning, and laughed
at her feeling in any one's way because she was poorly;
but I still urged her to go to Lancaster, till finally she
agreed, and before noon father and she set off. After dinner,
I took my gun, and said I was going out to look for
partridges. Nelly didn't say much; but I knew, by her
looks, it suited her plans to have me go; and when she
asked me, kind of careless, which way I was going, I
told her right directly contrary to the way I really meant
to take.
“I walked away as brisk as could be, for I knew she'd
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be a watching; but as soon as I'd got well out of sight
in the woods, I took the back track, and got round close
to the house again, though not the side I had started
from. When I'd got a good stand, I fixed myself in a
tree to watch for the game that I thought would be along.
“Sure enough, in about half an hour, I see Rob Judson
riding up to the door as bold as brass, and sending
his horse round to the stable. He went into the house,
and staid so long that I began to be afraid he'd do all
his courting there, and I shouldn't have a chance to say
the little word I wanted to in the matter.
“But, after a spell, I see them come out, and stroll
round the garden a few minutes, and then they headed
for the woods, right exactly at the spot where I was
waiting for 'em. They walked very slow, and as soon
as they was well in the woods, they set down to have a
good cosy chat. As luck would have it, they chose a
tree right next to the one where I was roosting, and I
could hear every word they said.
“It wan't very nice kind of talk for me to listen to,
nor it ain't the kind I'd want to tell over to you, Miss
Dora; but it let me into the whole state of matters
between them two, and that was what I wanted to find
out. I listened till I was fairly sick at my stomach, and
then I just let myself down, with my gun in my hand,
and stood afore 'em.
“Nell screeched and turned as white as a sheet, and
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Rob looked as if he didn't feel overly comfortable, 'specially
when he looked at my rifle, and thought of his own
three miles off at home.
“I looked at 'em both a spell, and then I says, without
any bluster, —
“`I hain't got any remarks to make to neither one of
you. All I want to know is, how soon you can marry
this girl, Rob Judson, and take her out of the house
where my sister lives.'
“The fellow scowled, and he twisted, and he tried to
laugh; and at last he sort of mumbled out that he didn't
know as he had ever said anything about marrying of
her. He thought I calculated to do that.
“That sort of talk riz my temper right up. I didn't
make any bluster, though. I felt too bad for that. I
just put a new cap on my rifle, and struck the ramrod
down on the bullet I'd put in when I started. Rob
watched me as a trapped wolf watches the hunter that's
loading for a shot at him; but he didn't speak, and
when I'd got through, I just says quietly, —
“`Robert Judson, that girl is my cousin, and, whatever
tricks she's played on me, I ain't going to see any
man make a fool of her. You take this here piece of
paper and pencil, and write down a promise to marry
her and take her home just as soon as the matter can be
fixed. Then you sign your name, and swear to keep it
fair and square. Come, I'm a waiting.'
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“`And s'pose I won't do it?' says he, a trying to get
up a little spunk.
“Then just as sure as God's in heaven I'll put this
bullet through your head before you're a minute older,”
says I, calm and still, and tapping on my rifle. Rob he
looked at me a minute, and I reckon he see that I meant
just what I said, for, after shifting round a little and
looking all sorts of ways, he blurts out, —
“`Well, give us the paper.'
“I tossed him a letter that I had in my pocket, and a
pencil, and then I said over what he was to write down,
and see him sign it. Then I made him repeat an oath
that would make your hair stand on end if I was to tell
it to you, that he'd keep to his agreement, and I put the
paper back in my pocket.
“`Now,' says I, `go back to the house, and get your
horse about the quickest; and don't you never show your
face there but once more, and that'll be when you come
after this girl. That needn't be three days from now.
As for you, Nell, I'll let you stop in the house till then,
for the sake of your mother, that was sister to my mother;
but don't you speak one single word to Sue, if you know
what's good for yourself. You're not fit company for
her, and you've done her harm enough already. I hope
you feel as if you'd made a good return for the way she
and her mother have always treated you. But I ain't
going to twit, and I shan't never speak about this again
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to you nor no one else. If you two hold your own
tongues, there's no need of any one but us three knowing
that I had to help you to a husband with my rifle.'
“I had turned away when I got through speaking,
and was walking off, when I heard a kind of a rush; and
first I knew there was Nelly on the ground at my feet,
a clinging round my knees and sobbing so's she couldn't
hardly speak. I reckoned she felt ashamed of herself,
and kind of cut by my ha'sh words; and so I says, in a
softer sort of way, —
“`Get up, Nell. I won't say no more; and bimeby,
like enough, I shan't feel so bad as I do now.'
“`But I don't want to marry him,' says she, most
choking with her sobs. `You're twice the man that he is,
and I think more of you every way. I won't have a
feller that is scared into taking me. I like you, Harry,
better than I ever did, and I don't want to lose you.
Can't you make it up no way?'
“I looked down at the girl a kneeling and a clinging
there, with her sweet, pretty face turned up, and all her
curls a tangling round her neck, and I couldn't but feel
it strange, Miss Dora, that I'd got over all fancy for her,
so that I'd as soon have took a snake in my arms as her.
She was handsome, and I reckon she never looked handsomer
than that minute; and she was awfully in airnest—
that was plain enough to see; but as for making up, as
she called it, I wouldn't, nor I couldn't, have done it if
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she'd been the only woman left under the canopy. But
I pitied her, and I couldn't feel so wrathy with her as I
had done, when I see her so kind of broken. So I says,
very gentle, —
“`No, Nelly, you can't never be nothing to me again.
I'm rough and rude, I know; but I never could love any
woman that wasn't just as particular in her ways as the
first lady in the land should be. I'm awful sorry for
you, and for myself, and more'n all for poor Susan, who's
been the most wronged after all, and is the least able to
stand it. But what's done can't be undone nohow; and
the way I've fixed it, is, I think, the best for all parties.
“`Get up, Nelly, and go home now, and remember
what I said about keeping out of Sue's way. The sight
of you will about kill her after this day's work.'
“`But ain't I never to see her, or you, or uncle any
more, after I am married?' asks Nelly.
“`Not at present. By and by, perhaps, when time
has sort of healed up our hearts, and you've proved by
your life that you are really truly sorry for the doings of
this last three months, perhaps we may all come together
again in a sort of way. Blood is thicker than
water, and we shan't forget that you are our cousin.
But just now, you'll see the sense of keeping yourself
pretty much out of sight of poor Sue, at least, and if
Judson knows what's good for himself, he'll do the same.'
I turned off into the woods with that, and wandered
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about till after dark. When I got home, Nelly was up
in her own room, and she didn't come down all the
next day.
“But, Miss Dora, ain't you tired of my talk by this
time?”
“No, Merlin, not in the least; but I am neglecting other
things to listen to you. I must go now for a while; but
this afternoon, when the men have all had dinner, I should
like ever so much to hear the rest. Won't you try and
sleep now?”
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CHAPTER XXII.
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A few hours later, Dora, having seen all her patients
comfortably disposed for their afternoon's rest or recreation,
seated herself by Merlin's bed, with some sewing,
and told him she was all ready to hear the rest of the
story he had begun in the morning.
“Well, Miss Dora, I think it's very kind of you to
care about it, but it's a great relief to me to tell it,” said
Merlin. “And as long as you're willing I'll keep right
on, and tell you the whole.
“After father and Sue got home, I told them, as careless
as I could, that Nelly and I had had a falling out,
and that I had advised her to marry Rob Judson if Sue
would give him up; and I reckoned they had pretty much
made up their minds to take my advice.
“Then there was a time. Father he stormed and
swore, and laid it all off on me for quarrelling with
Nelly, who was a great pet of his'n, and then he turned
right round and said Sue had a better right to her
own fellow than any other girl, and she shouldn't give
him up without she was a mind to. Then he turned to
speak to her, and there she was, fainted dead away in her
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chair. We thought she was dead, and we didn't get any
life into her for more than an hour. When she come to,
she called me, and questioned me up so close, she got
pretty near the whole story out of me; and then she
kissed me, and asked me never to leave her while she
lived. She said it wouldn't be for long, and it wasn't;
but if it had been a lifetime I'd have stopped.
“She took to her bed that very day, and she never
got up again. Miss Dora, they tell about angels looking
all white and shiny, as if they give off light of themselves.
Well, that was the way that girl looked. It
seemed as if her soul was shining right through her
body; and I don't believe she'd need to look any different
in heaven from what she did them last weeks of her
life.
“She didn't seem unhappy, nor she didn't seem to
care any longer about Rob, or the things that had tried
her so when she was about. She never asked for Nelly,
nor spoke her name, no more than if there wasn't such a
person, nor I to her.
“A couple of days after the flare-up, Judson came and
took Nell to a justice's house, about five mile from ours,
and they was married. Father went with them to see
that all was done regular; and somehow or other Rob
and he patched up a sort of peace, and father used afterwards
to go there considerable.
“I didn't know much about his doings, however, being
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mostly took up with Sue. It wasn't much that I could
do for the poor girl; but she liked having me with her,
and there was nothing I wouldn't have been glad to do
to please her.
“She didn't suffer much, and her thoughts seemed
mostly took up with the happiness she was going to, and
the hopes of being with mother again. She never said
nothing like complaining but once, and then it was, —
“`They've killed my body, Harry, but that will only
give me back to dear mother, and we shall live forever
with Christ and each other.'
“At last she died.”
Merlin paused, and hid his face a moment. Dora
softly placed her hand on his, but said nothing, and after
a few moments the Kentuckian resumed his story.
“When we'd buried Sue, I began to think about myself
again. As for settling down to the care of a farm,
with only father for a family, and Judson and his wife
living not a mile away, I couldn't do it nohow; and after
thinking the matter over every way that I could fix it, I
told the old gentleman that I was going into the army.
He was just as bitter about it as he was before, and finally
told me to give in to secession, or leave his house for
good and all.
“I took a night to think of it, and in the morning I
told him I was ready to go, and asked him to shake
hands, and say good by. The poor old man swore, and
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then he cried, and said how his wife and his daughter
was dead, and now his only son was deserting him.
“I told him that was to be as he said; that if he
cared for my company, I'd stay as long as he wanted me,
if he wouldn't say anything about secession, for that I
should never join that party as long as I had the use of
my senses.
“That made him mad again; and he told me to begone,
and said he knew where to find a son and a
daughter, too, that would be better to him than his own
flesh and blood.
“I knew who he meant, but I didn't care for myself,
though I was kind of cut that he should talk about Nelly
taking the place of Sue to him; so I didn't stop for any
more talk, but went off that very morning.
“I knew there was a company mustering in Princeton,
pretty near twenty miles from where I lived, and I
went right away there to enlist.
“After a few weeks we were ready to join the regiment,
and I went over to take a last look at the old place,
and see if father and I couldn't part on better terms.
“I hadn't more than got into the village near where
our place was, when I met the old doctor that had always
been to our house, and he, looking at me mighty sharp,
asked where I come from, and if I'd heard the news. I
told him where I'd been, and what I'd been about, and
asked him what news he meant. Before he answered,
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he made me get into his chaise, and drove off right out
of town. When we was well on the road, he told me
that only the night before a party of guerrillas had made
a sudden sweep on our place, and driven off the hogs and
cattle, seized the horses, and whatever provisions they
could find, and was off to the mountains before any force
could be got to resist them. But the heavy part of the
news was, that my poor old father had most likely been
shot, and his body burned in the house. All that could
be known was from the darkeys, and they was so scared
they didn't know what they saw and what they didn't.
“The most likely story, however, was, that father
locked the doors and fired out of his window at the fellows
when he heard them breaking into the barn, and
they fired back at him. Any way nothing more was
seen of him; and when the guerrillas had got their
plunder together, some of them set fire to the house
out of clear deviltry, and rode away by the light of it;
and before anything could be done to save it, the whole
place was no more than a heap of ashes, and most likely
my father's ashes mixed up with that of his home.”
“How dreadful!” exclaimed Dora.
“Yes, it was that,” said the Kentuckian, emphatically.
“But there's more a coming that's about as bad, as
far as deviltry goes. It was out of revenge, I suppose,
for my threatening to shoot him unless he married Nelly,
that Rob Judson undertook to say that it was me who
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led them guerrillas, and shot my own father; and I think
it was about as mean a lie as Satan ever put into the
mouth of one of his children.”
“Did he say so?” asked Dora, in horror.
“Yes, he did, and swore that he recognized me, when
he met the troop riding away. He told all round that I
hadn't joined any regular troops, but was one of these
that fought either side or any side, when there was plunder
or mischief to be got, and that no doubt I had led
these men to my father's house partly to steal, and partly
because I was mad at being turned out of doors. Any
way, about half the village believed him; and my life
wouldn't have been safe if I'd been seen in town while
the excitement lasted. The doctor said, too, that he
didn't treat Nelly kind, nor as he'd ought to, and that
she was dreadful changed from what I'd known her.”
Merlin paused, and a black scowl settled on his face.
Dora looked at him timidly, and sought for the right
thing to say; but she could not, in her heart, wonder at
the resentment that his next words betrayed.
“There's my sister's broken heart, and my father's
life, and poor Nell's peace and comfort, and all the best
of my own hopes and happiness that fellow has stole
away from me. His miserable life wouldn't begin to
pay the debt; but it's all I could get, and when I left
town that morning, afraid to show my face in the village
where I had grown up, and all for no fault of my own,
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I swore that if ever I had the chance I'd take that life
as I would that of a wild beast.
“I served out my time with the Kentucky regiment,
and then I entered this Ohio one, and I've fought through
pretty nigh all the battles that's been fought in this part
of the country; but though, ever since I heard that Judson
had enlisted, I've been on the lookout for him, I never
come acrost him, till, yesterday morning, I heard his voice
in the next room there, and knew it was him. Then you
got me the picture, and I knew Nelly as soon as I see
her, and my mind was made up in a minute. But I saw
you was on the lookout for me, and I kept quiet till you
should be abed and asleep.”
“How did you get that knife?” interposed Dora.
“I asked the nurse for it to look at to see if it was
rusted; then I put it out of sight, and he forgot it.”
“Merlin, are you sorry I stopped you?”
The young man hesitated.
“No, Miss Dora, I don't know as I am. Now that
I've told you all about it, I don't feel near so bitter as
when I had it all shut up in my own heart. It had got
to have some sort of let out, and if I had told you in the
first place, I don't believe I should have made up my
mind to do as I did last night. I don't feel like it now,
any way.”
“I'm so glad of that! and I'm glad you told me all
about it, for I don't feel now as I did about you,” said
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Dora, simply. “But I want to tell Mr. Brown, and ask
him to talk with you, and, perhaps, with Judson. I know
you hadn't ought to feel the way you do to him; but I
don't know how to tell you so as to make you see it, and
Mr. Brown can. Will you let him talk with you?”
“Yes, if you say so,” said Merlin, rather reluctantly.
“But I wasn't never much of a hand for parsons. I'd
rather hear you talk.”
“But I can't talk as he can, and he isn't a bit like a
parson. I am going now to read to him, and I shall tell
him all about you. Perhaps he'll come in to-night.”
“Thank you, Miss Dora. You know better than me
about it,” said Merlin, wearily.
The little nurse's quick eye caught the symptom.
“You have talked too much,” said she; “you must go
right to sleep now, and get a good nap before supper.
Mind me, now. Good by.”
“Good by, miss. I wish your name was Sue.”
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CHAPTER XXIII.
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A few days after these events, Dora stood, one pleasant
afternoon, in the door of the hospital tent, looking
wistfully out over the golden-brown hills and brilliant
forest. She was tired, and not quite well, and was just
wondering whether Mr. Brown would ask her to take a
walk with him, and whether, if he did not, she might go
with Picter, when a gay voice called her by name, and
Captain Karl rode up on a fine spirited horse.
“Mademoiselle la Vivandière looks moped this afternoon,”
said he. “Don't she want a little excursion into
the country?”
“Yes, indeed,” cried Dora, eagerly; “but how do you
mean, Captain Karl?”
“Why, I am going with a part of my company to escort
a foraging party, who are proposing to help a secesh
farmer, about five miles from here, get in his crop of
corn. If you'll come along, you shall have a seat in one
of the wagons, or a horse, if you like to ride.”
“O, how splendid! I'll ride on horseback, if you'd
just as lief.”
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“Just exactly, and rather, because you can ride with
me. Aren't you afraid of a horse?”
“I reckon I'm not. I've always ridden, ever since
I was a little girl.”
“And can you `reckon' how long that is?” asked
Captain Widsor, with a quizzical smile.
Dora colored hotly, for she was becoming keenly sensitive
to her little inaccuracies of language and deportment
and had, indeed, corrected most of them under the
gentle hints of her kind friend the chaplain. Captain
Karl's ridicule, however, was quite a different matter;
and she felt more disposed to resent than profit by it.
“I think I had better not go to ride until I have asked
Mr. Brown,” said she, carefully. “I will go and see
him now.”
Captain Karl sprang off his horse, and walked along
beside her.
“Don't be dignified, Dora Darling,” said he, with a
merry smile. “Remember that I'm the very earliest
friend you made in the regiment, and the only one who
ever came to call on you at your own home. You're not
going to be cross with me for laughing at you a little—
are you?”
“No, Captain Karl,” said Dora, stopping short, and
putting out her hand to be shaken; “you were quite
right, and I was very silly to mind, only I hate to be
wrong about anything.”
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“Well, it's not often that you are. Come, what's the
use of hunting up the chaplain? I know just as well as
he about the safety, or the propriety, or whatever it is,
that you're doubting about. You're not afraid to go
without leave, I suppose — are you?”
“No,” replied Dora, promptly. “Of course I don't
have to ask leave, only I like to tell Mr. Brown what I
am going to do.”
“O, well, you can tell me this time. He isn't in, I
know; I saw him walking off with the colonel about half
an hour ago.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Here's Hepburn, however. Hepburn, is Mr.
Brown in?”
“No, sir, I believe not,” said the man, saluting respectfully.
“Where is he gone, Hepburn? do you know?” asked
Dora, eagerly.
“No, Miss Dora, not exactly; but I think he and the
colonel went to look at the north works. I heard them
speak of it.”
“Well, we can't go out there,” exclaimed Captain
Windsor, impatiently. “I ought to be off in ten minutes,
at the outside. Come, Dora, don't be foolish about it.
I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't right.”
“Well, I will go,” said Dora, still rather doubtfully.
“That's right,” cried Windsor, regaining his pleasant
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smile. “Hepburn, run to the stables, and get that little
white nag I was trying this morning when you were down
there. I said then it was a regular lady's horse, although
I'm afraid, Dora, you won't be able to ride lady fashion for
want of a side-saddle; but vivandières never ride on side-saddles.”
“I never had a side-saddle; so I can do better without
than with it,” said Dora, skipping along gleefully; for
the idea of a fresh, free gallop in the bracing autumnal
air set all her blood tingling, and revived an instinct of
her nature stigmatized by her aunt Wilson as “tomboy,”
and by her mother as “wild.”
“Come, now, that looks like having a good time, Dora
Darling,” laughed Captain Karl. “Here we are,” continued
he, as Hepburn brought up the horse. “Isn't it a
jolly little nag? I'll speak to the colonel, and have him
kept for your own use. Give me your foot; now, then,
up you go! Here's the rein. You sit like an angel.
Now we must trot, for the train has started this half an
hour, and we must get to the head of it before the fighting
begins.”
“Do you expect a fight?” asked Dora, a little anxiously.
“Why, I don't know,” said her companion, looking at
her with a mocking smile. “Are you frightened?”
“O, no, not at all,” replied she, seriously. “I was
only thinking what a pity I didn't put on my belt with
the flasks and things.”
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“O, that was it! You are all ready for action, then?”
“Yes, indeed; why, that is what we expect when we
enter the army — isn't it?” said Dora so seriously that
Captain Karl burst out laughing.
“O, you funny little thing!” cried he, “you make me
laugh so I shall certainly die some day if I see much of
you.”
“And shan't you if you don't?” asked the vivandière,
pouting a little.
“Not in the same way, mademoiselle. If I lose you
I shall die of crying instead of laughing — dissolve, instead
of exhaling; that will be the difference. But,
hillo! see here! we are going to meet both our masters
at once; and while I shall catch it for not having started
sooner, you will fare just as badly for having started
at all.”
“Mr. Brown is not my master; and I am not at all
afraid of `catching it,' as you call it, from him or any
one else,” said Dora, proudly.
“Nonsense, Do! You know that you are as much
afraid of him as possible, and that if he looks black at
your going, you will turn right about, and trot meekly
back to quarters. And I have got into my scrape entirely
from anxiety to take you with me.”
“I shan't turn back and leave you,” said Dora, decidedly.
“Not if the parson says you must?” asked Windsor,
mischievously.
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“There's no must about it. He has no right to say
must,” replied Dora, pettishly.
There was no time for her companion to reply, as the
two parties had now approached near enough to speak.
Colonel Blank, frowning a little as his eyes fell upon
his recreant officer, pulled out his watch, and said, after
a glance at it, —
“I believe you were to start at three, Captain Windsor.
It is now half past.”
“Yes, sir,” said Captain Karl, respectfully saluting;
“I have been detained, but shall soon overtake my command,
who set forward at the appointed hour under
charge of Lieutenant Fosdick.”
“I believe there were no orders for the vivandière to
accompany the expedition,” continued Colonel Blank,
glancing at Dora rather disapprovingly.
“No, sir; but I supposed there would be no objection,”
said the captain, with an assured air.
Whatever the colonel replied, as he passed on, was lost
to Dora, for Mr. Brown at this moment laid his hand
upon her horse's neck, and asked pleasantly, but yet in a
tone that the girl fancied somewhat arbitrary, —
“Why, where are you going now, my child?”
“I am going with Captain Karl, sir, to take a ride.”
“But where?”
“We are going to protect the foragers, I believe, sir.”
“And who is going to protect you, my child, if you
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meet the enemy? I think it is hardly a safe expedition
for you, Dora. Suppose you make an excuse to Captain
Windsor, and come back with me to camp. I will get a
horse, and ride with you, if you wish.”
“Thank you, sir; but I think I will go with Captain
Karl,” said Dora, resolutely, as she caught the eye of
her companion, who was looking pleadingly at her from
behind the chaplain.
“But, Dora,” continued Mr. Brown, speaking a little
lower, “it seems to me hardly proper for you to go off
in this manner, with no protector but so young a man,
who will, besides, be too busy to look after you, in case
of an attack. And I do not fancy your style of horse-manship
either.”
Dora's cheeks flamed, and the tears rushed to her eyes.
She longed to submit to the judgment of her friend, and
yet she could not bear the appearance of submission, under
the mocking eyes of Captain Karl. The chaplain
anxiously watched her face, and saw there the struggle
between pride and duty. He feared that the former was
about to conquer, and her first embarrassed words confirmed
the fear.
“I always rode so at home, sir; and I think Captain
Karl can take care of me.”
“Come, Dora, I must be off,” interposed the captain,
hurriedly, as Colonel Blank paused and looked around.
“Never fear, Mr. Brown, for your pupil. I shall take
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the best of care of her; and in fact you know I am one
of her adoptive fathers.”
The chaplain said no more, but Dora caught the disapproving
expression of his face as he turned away; and
had it not been for very shame, she would have turned
her horse's head, and hastened after him to make her submission.
Her companion seemed to have received a much less
serious impression from the interview, and as they pushed
their horses into a rapid trot, he said, gayly, —
“Well, Dora Darling, we rubbed through that scrape
better than I expected. The old man will have had his
dinner before we get back, and I shall be received with
open arms; that is, if I am successful, as I intend to be.”
“What old man?” asked Dora, shortly.
“Why, the colonel, of course, little goosie. I don't
call the parson `old man.”'
“Nor the colonel isn't old, either,” persisted Dora.
“What of that? You are very critical to-day, mademoiselle.
We always call the colonel `old man,' just as
we call our papas `the governor' at home.”
“I never called my father `governor.”'
“I dare say not. Girls don't, I suppose, because to
be a young woman's father, is not to govern-her. Boys
are more tractable, you know.”
“I shouldn't think they'd like to call any one `governor,'
if they are,” said Dora, positively.
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“Why not, you delicious little innocent?”
“Because I should hate any one that didn't leave me
any choice about minding him; and if he had a right to
make me mind, I should want to keep it out of sight.”
“You dreadful rebel!” cried Captain Karl, in affected
horror. “Do you hate the chaplain, then?”
“No, because he has no power over me. If he had
been able to say I must and should go back with him to-day,
and I had gone, I am afraid I should have hated
him.”
“Then you came with me just to show that you were
your own mistress?”
“I don't know. Was it?” asked Dora, with a look
of mortification.
“To be sure it was. Not very flattering to either of
us — is it?”
“But that wasn't all. I wanted first to go, because I
thought it would be pleasant; and then —”
“Well, then, after you met Brown, what made you
keep on?” persisted the captain, maliciously.
“Well,” began Dora, doubtfully, “I think it was
partly because you said I wouldn't.”
“That's a great deal better than the other reason, to
be sure! Why don't you say you came because you had
a mind to, and was afraid of being laughed at if you
didn't?”
Dora made no reply; but, as she rode along, she made
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a firm resolution to confess to Mr. Brown, on her return,
the weakness and folly of her course, as she now viewed
it, and in future to be careful, in escaping from the wise
control of one friend, not to become the slave of another's
ridicule.
From this reverie she was suddenly aroused by the
voice of her companion, saying, rather anxiously, —
“What under the canopy has become of those fellows?
This is the road the scout described as the nearest, and
the one I told Fosdick to take. But we ought to have
overtaken them by this time.”
“The road doesn't look as if they had just passed,
either,” said Dora.
“Don't it? That's a regular mountaineer's thought,
little Do. We must have missed some turn or fork, and
must face about and look for the right road.”
“Perhaps this one may lead where we want to go, and
we can meet the company on the spot.”
“Let me see. About ten miles from camp due north
was the direction, and we have certainly ridden eight. I
think I should know the place from the description that
fellow gave of it. A long red farm-house between two
hills, with a range of barns across the valley. The secesh
that owns it had contracted to supply a rebel cavalry
corps somewhere towards Monterey, and has just stuffed
his barns. Won't it be jolly to empty them for him?”
“Well, do you think we shall reach the place this way?”
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asked Dora, finding that her companion continued his
course.
“Yes; I don't see how we can help it. We are travelling
due north, and when our hour is up, I shall expect
to see the farm-house looming up right across the road.”
“Here's a long hill before us. Perhaps we shall see
it from the top.”
“I shouldn't wonder if we did. Come, hurry up your
nag, and see who will be there first.”
Dora lightly struck her horse with the switch cut for
her by Captain Karl, and scampered along beside the tall
charger ridden by that officer, very much as the Black
Prince may have attempted to keep pace on his scrubby
little pony with his captive, King John of France,
mounted upon his noble war horse.
Unequal, however, as the race might seem, it terminated
in the arrival of the contestants at their goal in the
same moment, and Dora was in the midst of some triumphant
remarks upon the subject, when she was doubly
interrupted; first, by the captain's exclamation of,
“There's the farm, and there are our fellows,” and
secondly, by a pistol shot from the thicket close beside the
road, that sent a ball humming close above Windsor's
head.
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CHAPTER XXIV.
[figure description] Page 227.[end figure description]
The hill, so merrily surmounted by Dora and her
friend Captain Karl, proved to be one of those in whose
valley lay the long red farm-house, with its range of barns,
where the foraging party expected to meet with their
booty.
The immediate vicinity of the house was still as peaceful
and solitary as if no army had ever invaded its neighborhood;
but winding out from a gorge at the left of the
hill where they stood, the observers had at once remarked
a line of armed men and mule wagons, recognized by
both as the train Captain Windsor was supposed to be
conducting.
The pleasure and relief from anxiety that this sight
should naturally have given to that negligent officer, was,
however, somewhat marred, as we have already mentioned,
by the unexpected salute given him from the
thicket.
“Pelt down the hill, Dora, as fast as you can! I shall
follow,” cried he. “No use in stopping to look for
guerrillas.”
He struck Dora's horse, as he spoke, with his sheathed
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sword; and as the beast struck into a canter, he put spurs
to his own horse, and followed, pistol in hand.
Not half way down the hill, however, a volley of bullets
overtook them, and Dora's spirited little nag, with a
rear and a plunge, fell dead beneath her.
Extricating herself as quickly as possible from the
stirrups, the undaunted girl sprang to her feet, exclaiming, —
“Never mind! I'm not hurt! Take me up, Captain
Karl, behind you.”
Captain Windsor, reining up his horse with some difficulty,
stooped to give his hand to the vivandière, but
reeled so much in the action that it was with difficulty
he retained his own seat. Looking up in his face, Dora
uttered a sharp exclamation of horror.
A bullet intended for the brain of the young officer
had glanced along his forehead, leaving a ghastly furrow,
whence trickling drops of blood rained down across his
pallid face.
“Nonsense! It's no more than a scratch,” exclaimed
he, hearing, rather than seeing, Dora's consternation;
“only it makes me a little sickish to stoop. Grasp my
leg, and climb up behind me as fast as you can. I'm
afraid I can't help you.”
Dora tried to obey him, but the spirited horse, already
excited by the sound and smell of gunpowder, reared
and curvetted too much to enable her to do so.
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“Never mind!” cried she, at last. “Go by yourself,
Captain Karl. They won't hurt me if I'm alone, and
you can send up men to rescue me. Go! O, do go
quick! They will kill you if you stay.”
Captain Karl replied by springing, or rather sliding,
from his horse.
“Get up, now,” said he, dashing the blood from his
eyes, and kneeling on one knee, that Dora might make a
step of the other, while at the same time he kept a heavy
hand upon the horse's bit.
“Did you think, Do, I was mean enough to get you
into this scrape, and then shirk off and leave you in it?
Come, hurry yourself, child. Those fellows will be
down upon us in a second.”
“But you?” asked Dora, with her foot upon the captain's
knee, her hand upon his shoulder.
“O, I shall get up in front of you,” said the young
man, hurriedly; but, as the words left his mouth, a fresh
discharge of bullets flew from the copse, and Captain
Karl's left arm fell shattered to his side, while another
ball cut through his hat and entered the horse's neck.
The animal, released from his master's hold, and frantic
with rage and pain, uttered a wild scream, and
plunged madly down the hill.
At the same moment two men broke from the thicket,
and ran towards them.
“Stand off!” cried Captain Karl, raising the pistol
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he had fortunately retained in his right hand. “I have
six deaths here, and you'll be sure of two of them if you
come one step nearer. Crouch down close behind me,
Dora,” added he, softly, as the men paused in evident
surprise.
“Thought the — Yankee was done for. I put a
bullet through his head, any way,” cried one of them.
“There, there they are!” whispered Dora, excitedly.
“Our own men, Captain Karl; they're charging up hill
at the double quick.”
“They'd need to if they mean to save their valuable
captain,” said Windsor, coolly. “Our friends are loading
again. I say,” continued he, raising his voice and
his pistol at the same time, “stop that, or I fire. No
loading. Throw down your arms, and come forward;
you are my prisoners. Quick, or you're dead men.”
The rebels, completely stupefied at the audacity of the
demand, halted, looked at one another, and burst into a
laugh. Then, after consulting in a whisper for a moment,
they darted into the thicket in different directions,
and so suddenly, that, although Windsor fired at the same
instant, he was unable to arrest either.
“They've hidden to re-load,” muttered he, faintly.
“They'll be back in a minute. God send our fellows up
in time. What are you doing, Dora? Down, this
minute.”
The vivandière, rising calmly to her feet, stood between
her friend and his enemies.
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“They won't hurt me,” said she, quietly. “I know
one of them. They won't fire at you for fear of shooting
me.”
“Dora, I won't have it! Fall behind, this moment,
or I swear I'll follow those fellows and meet death half
way. Do you imagine I'll screen myself behind a little
girl? Fall behind, this instant, I say.”
Dora turned and looked at him in some little doubt as
to the propriety of opposing her own judgment to such
vehement commands; but the rebels, catching sight of
the head of the advancing column, who were struggling
up the wooded hill-side without having discovered the
road, now rushed from their concealment, firing as they
advanced.
Captain Windsor returned the fire; but pain and loss
of blood had wasted his strength, and his shots flew
wide.
“We want the girl. Give up the girl, and we'll quit.
We don't care for finishing you off,” cried one of the
rebels, rushing forward and seizing Dora's dress as he
spoke.
Without reply, Captain Windsor fired his remaining
barrel full into the face of the ruffian, who staggered
back and fell lifeless. Then, drawing his sword, and
sharply ordering Dora to stand behind him, the brave
young soldier, wounded, bleeding, exhausted, stood at
bay with so lion-like a port, that the remaining rebel
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wavered, glanced at the approaching soldiery, who, afraid
to fire upon the group, were now rushing forward for a
bayonet charge, and then, with a sullen curse, sprang
backward into the bushes.
“Thank God!” muttered Captain Karl, as he sank
to the ground, while his men, with angry menaces, darted
forward in pursuit.
Dora kneeled beside the wounded man, almost as pale
as himself.
“It's a pity you didn't bring the canteen, after all,”
whispered he, with a faint smile; “though, if I'd any
idea of such a shindy as this, I shouldn't have brought
you. What will the parson say now?”
“O, never mind me; only I'm so sorry to have nothing
to give you!”
“The worst of it is, one of those last bullets went
through my leg,” muttered Captain Karl, writhing and
grimacing with pain. “Only a flesh wound, I hope; but
I don't think I could stand on it, or mount a horse.”
“You'll have to be carried in one of the forage
wagons,” said Dora, quietly; “and I shall go with you,
and take care of you. Here comes Lieutenant Fosdick.
You can tell him all about it.”
“Well, Fosdick, you didn't catch him?”
“No, sir,” said the lieutenant, saluting. “But you
seem to have settled one of them pretty effectually.”
“Yes, poor fellow! He wouldn't hear to reason, and
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keep out of range of my pistol, and so naturally came
to grief. Let some of them carry him down to the farm-house
there. Like enough they are his friends, or will
know who they are. And let the teams begin to load at
once. I'll lie here with little Dora, to watch lest the
robin redbreasts come and prematurely cover me up.”
“You had better let the men make a litter and carry
you down to the valley, sir,” suggested the lieutenant.
“You will be out of danger of any return of the guerrillas
then, and I suppose, of course, we are to return that
way.”
“Very well. Do as you choose,” was the feeble reply.
“Dora, child, I suspect you had better tie your
handkerchief round my arm, above this bullet hole,
unless you wish to carry nothing but a squeezed lemonpeel
back to camp, in place of your friend. At this rate
my supply of blood can't last long.”
Dora quietly and quickly did as she was bid, nor even
uttered an exclamation of horror as she deftly cut away
the blood-soaked sleeves from the wounded arm, and
laid bare the ghastly wound. Before she had finished,
Captain Karl had fainted.
“How glad I am the hartshorn is in my pocket!” said
Dora, firmly, as she noticed this. “Mr. Fosdick, will
you please send a man for some water from the farm-house,
as fast as possible, and help me lay the captain
down flat? You may fan him, please, with your hat.”
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The lieutenant, who was rather a stupid and undecided
young fellow, stared a little at the peremptory tone
adopted by the little vivandière, but hastened to obey her
orders, or rather comply with her requests, as speedily as
possible. The result of their efforts was so fortunate,
that by the time the litter was ready, Captain Karl was
so far recovered as to sneer very vivaciously at himself
for needing such a conveyance, and especially for his
effeminacy in swooning.
“I never shall dare ride out again without you to
protect me, Dora Darling,” said he. “But I'm in hopes
that in time you'll make a man of me, by your own
example.”
“Now lie down, please, Captain Karl,” returned the
little nurse, busily, “for we are just going to set out
with you for the wagons. And I wouldn't talk any more
till we get there, because it tires you.”
“Not to mention my hearers,” suggested the captain,
as he sank back upon the pillow of leaves, hastily
arranged by Dora, at one end of the rude litter.
The forage wagons were already loaded when the
little procession from the hill-top reached the valley, and
the whole party set forth immediately on their return to
camp, where they arrived late, weary, and saddened by
the misfortune of their beloved young commander.
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CHAPTER XXV.
[figure description] Page 235.[end figure description]
Notwithstanding her sympathy in his sufferings,
Dora could not but find it pleasant to have Captain Karl
an inmate of the hospital, where his gay good humor and
merry mode of viewing both his own and others' misfortunes
quite changed the character of the place. His
wounds were by no means dangerous, and seemed likely
to heal with little trouble or delay; so that, after a week
had passed, he declared himself, in confidence, to the
chaplain, “as well as ever, and only shirking so as to
stay in hospital and help Dora on.”
To him, as well as to Mr. Brown, the little nurse had
repeated the story confided to her by Merlin, and both
gentlemen had promised to do all that was possible to
bring about a better state of feeling between the Kentuckians.
Each proceeded in his own way, and each
produced his own effect; for while Merlin listened with
respectful attention to the chaplain's clear and earnest
arguments in favor of a Christian spirit of forgiveness
even of the bitterest wrongs and insults, Judson found it
impossible to resist Captain Karl's half humorous and
all informal exhortations to confess that he had behaved
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himself very ill both to Merlin and his relatives, and had
fully justified the deep indignation entertained towards
him by the former. Of the terrible justice he had so
narrowly escaped at the hands of Merlin, the captain did
not speak; partly because he feared to excite a resentment
that would defeat his own purpose, and partly because
Dora so earnestly desired to have her own share
in the event kept from Judson's knowledge. The child,
contrary to her habit, had taken a violent antipathy to
this big black-bearded man, of whom Merlin had told
such unpleasant stories; and as her duties never now led
her to address him, she seldom approached the corner
where he still lay.
Presently, however, a deeper anxiety than any connected
with either of these men, took possession of the
little girl's affectionate heart.
One day, after Captain Karl had been placed upon the
convalescent list, and was well enough to amuse himself,
at least a part of the time, Dora left the hospital for an
hour or two, and, after wandering about for a little while,
went into the chaplain's tent, to ask permission to go on
with a book of his, that she had begun to read several
weeks before.
Mr. Brown, after a few kind inquiries and remarks,
handed her the volume of Eastern Travels for which she
asked, and invited her to seat herself upon a sort of lounge,
manufactured by the ingenious Hepburn, to read it.
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Dora, absorbed in tales of harems, fountains, yashmaks,
and other wonders, to her as great as those of the
Arabian Nights, hardly looked up when Colonel Blank
entered the tent, and so soon as she had returned his
careless greeting, buried herself again in the charmed
volume, and for another half hour was conscious of nothing
outside it. At the end of that time, however, her
attention was suddenly aroused by the mention of her
own name. She glanced up abstractedly. Both gentlemen,
sitting with their backs toward her, had become
entirely forgetful of her presence, and were now discussing
Captain Windsor's conduct in the slight skirmish
where he had been wounded. The chaplain was apparently
defending his friend, and trying to soften the displeasure
that the colonel loudly expressed. The sentence
that attracted the attention of the vivandière was this: —
“And taking Dora with him, besides causing him to
disobey orders as to the hour of starting, was altogether
out of rule. I never intended the child to be exposed in
that sort of way. No, sir, there's nothing to be said in
extenuation of such acts of insubordination and carelessness.
Captain Windsor richly deserves to be degraded;
it would be no more than an adequate punishment.”
“Pardon me, colonel, if I disagree with you. The
lad is high-spirited, proud, and sensitive. He was not,
at the time, nor is he now, aware of the severe construction
you placed upon his negligence. Would it not be
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better, by a friendly admonition in private, to show him
your views and his own errors, than by undue harshness
to alienate him from his commander, and possibly lose to
the service of the country one of her bravest defenders?
After all, we must remember he is himself the greatest
sufferer from his disobedience.”
“As it happens, yes. But it might very well have
chanced that the whole command should have been surprised,
and cut off, with that little sap of a lieutenant at
their head, while the man whose business it was to lead
them, was maundering about the country roads, trying
races with the vivandière. No, sir, a severe public
reprimand, in face of the regiment, is as light a punishment
as such criminal negligence deserves, and he shall
have it the first day he appears in public, as sure as my
name is Blank.”
“I am very sorry — ” began the chaplain; but before
he could finish the sentence the door flap of the tent was
thrust aside, and two officers entered, with the purpose,
apparently, of making a call.
Colonel Blank, with an expression of annoyance at
the interruption, rose from his seat, and, after briefly
returning the salutations of the two captains, left the
tent.
Dora, gliding quietly behind the chaplain, also made
her retreat, unobserved by him, until, just as she disappeared,
one of the guests exclaimed, —
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“Hullo! Is that a brownie, or our little vivandière,
Brown?”
“It is Dora Darling. She has been reading here for
the last hour,” said the chaplain, suddenly remembering
that the girl must have heard the conversation between
himself and the colonel, and wishing that he had
seen her in time to give a warning against repeating it.
A second thought, however, assured him of Dora's caution
and delicate sense of honor, and he seated himself
to entertain his guests with his usual easy cordiality of
manner.
Dora, meanwhile, as soon as she found herself in the
open air, hurried after the colonel, who was striding
away toward the outskirts of the camp, for his evening
promenade.
“Colonel Blank!” exclaimed the vivandière, quickening
her step almost to a run.
The colonel paused and looked around. “Dora Darling!
And what do you want, my daughter?” asked
he, kindly, as the child stood beside him, and raised her
grave eyes to his face.
“I want to talk with you, sir,” said Dora, with a little
hesitation, for the exact form of her petition was by no
means clear in her own mind.
“Come, then, along with me, and we will talk and
walk at the same time. I know what you want, already.
It's a splendid red, blue, and white ribbon, to wear
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baldric-wise across your shoulder, with your flask fastened to
its lower end. Now, isn't that it?”
“No, sir,” said Dora, a little indignantly.
“No! Well, then you want a little drum, such as the
vivandière in `La Fille du Régiment' is got up with.
I've thought of it before, Dora Darling, but I concluded
it would only be in your way; and I can't think of any
use for it, except to summon aid in case you were captured
or lost, and for that I've something far prettier to
give you. It's a silver whistle, Dora, such as boatswains
use on board men-of-war. It was given me by a friend
in the navy, who found it on board a rebel gunboat that
he helped capture. I was looking at it the other day,
and thinking I would give it to you some time. Come
up to my tent to-night, and you shall have it. Now,
isn't that better than the drum?”
“Yes, sir, it would be very nice; but it wasn't a drum
that I was going to ask for.”
“Not a drum, and not a baldric!” cried the colonel,
with an affectation of great surprise. “Then it must be
sugar-plums; and those I have not to give you. There
are none nearer than Monterey, I am afraid; and even
there it's likely enough the graybacks will have eaten
them all up. Shall I take the town, and find out
about it?”
“It isn't any such thing as that, sir,” said Dora, seriously,
for she had now recovered all her usual
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determination, and was rather annoyed than amused at the colonel's
raillery.
“What is it, then? I am at the end of my wits, and
can guess nothing further.”
“I want you to forgive Captain Karl — Captain Windsor,
I mean,” said Dora, bluntly.
The colonel dropped her hand, and looked both surprised
and displeased.
“What do you know of my intentions regarding Captain
Windsor?” asked he.
“I heard what you were saying, just now, to Mr.
Brown.”
“What! you were listening — were you?” exclaimed
the colonel.
“No, sir. I never listen to things people say when
they think they are alone; but you saw me in the tent;
you spoke to me when you came in. I didn't hide away.
I just sat still.”
“And what made you keep so quiet that we forgot all
about you? Wasn't it so as to listen?” demanded the
colonel, the corner of his mouth quivering with a suppressed
smile as he glanced at the crimson cheek, flashing
eyes, and straightened figure of the little maid.
“No, indeed, sir. I was reading `The Howadji in
Syria,' and I forgot where I was, entirely, until I heard
you say `Dora;' and then I looked up, and you went on
about Captain Karl, saying — ”
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“Never mind about Captain Karl, child. It is never
well for little girls to meddle in the affairs of other people,
especially people older and wiser than themselves. I am
glad you were not an intentional listener to our conversation,
for nothing is meaner than to try to overhear
what is not intended for you; and I have only my own
carelessness to blame. In future, however, you must
speak or show yourself when you see that people have
forgotten you, and are discussing private matters in your
presence. Now I advise you to go back to the `Howadji,'
and leave regimental discipline to me.”
“But, sir, Captain Karl wasn't to blame,” persisted
Dora, in spite of the colonel's frown. “He meant to go
with the company; but we lost our way, and I advised
him to keep right on, instead of turning back to look for
the men.”
“And did you and he understand that I had delegated
the command of the expedition to you, my dear?” inquired
the colonel, grimly.
“No, sir. He meant to mind what you had told him,
and I only wanted to help him do so. We both thought
we should find the company quicker by keeping on than
by turning back.”
“And what prevented him from taking the right road
at first?”
“The guide was with the company, sir, and they were
out of sight before we set out.”
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“Indeed! And pray why did Captain Windsor wait
until his command was out of sight before he set out to
lead it?”
The colonel smiled sarcastically, as he made this inquiry,
and Dora again colored deeply, but nevertheless
answered with courage, —
“Because, sir, he waited to ask me to go, and then to
get a horse for me, and then you kept us a few minutes—”
“And don't you know, child, that a soldier on duty
has no right to neglect or swerve from that duty ever so
slightly, and that many a brave fellow has lost life and
honor for a smaller disobedience than this?”
“There's no danger of Captain Karl losing his life?”
asked Dora, quickly, and with whitened cheek.
“No, not this time; but if you are his friend, Dora
Darling, you will advise him not to risk as much another
time.”
“But what will happen to him now? I mean, what
do you think you will do?”
“What do I think I will do? That's an odd question;
it sounds as if it was you, and not I, who know what I
will do.”
Dora made no reply, and as the colonel looked sharply
into her face, her eyes met his with a look of steadfast
determination.
“What are you thinking, Dora?”
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“I am waiting, sir.”
“Waiting for what?”
“To know what you will do, so as to know what I
shall do.”
“O, then you intend to take action in the matter—do
you?” asked Colonel Blank, ironically.
“Yes, sir.”
“And what will you do if I administer a public reprimand
to your hero? That is the mildest course contemplated.”
“I will speak as soon as you are done, and say that
you are wrong, for it was I, and not Captain Karl, who
was to blame, and should be reprimanded.”
“You'll do that — will you?” asked the colonel, in
great surprise.
“Yes, sir.”
“And what do you think I will do to you after such
an act of insubordination, of mutiny, in fact?”
“You will do nothing, sir; for before I stop I shall
bid good by to the men, and tell them all that I cannot
be the daughter of the regiment any longer, because I
cannot be the daughter of its colonel.”
“Then I'll have you and Captain Karl drummed out
of camp together to the Rogue's March!” exclaimed
Colonel Blank, in comic wrath.
“I don't think you'd give such an order, sir; and if
you did, the drummers wouldn't mind you. Nobody
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would ever like you again, if you even spoke of such a
thing.”
The colonel turned, and looked down at the slight,
bright-eyed girl who thus dared to reprove and warn
him. She was very pale, and trembled with nervous
excitement; but her front was radiant with truth and
courage, and her lips were set in the look that Joan of
Are might have worn as she walked to her death for the
cause she had espoused.
Colonel Blank read the high heart in that fair young
face; and, man like, longed to prove it.
“Come, then, girl,” said he, with affected harshness,
“it is you, after all, who are responsible for this breach
of discipline; it is, therefore, you who should be punished.
Say that I excuse Captain Windsor from all consequences
of his fault, — will you bear them for him?”
“Can I? May I? What will be done to me?” asked
the vivandière, earnestly, while a faint flush of mingled
eagerness and apprehension stained her cheek.
“Of course you may, if it's right you should. And
as for what the penalty shall be — ” The colonel paused
to furtively watch the anxious but unwavering face.
“Let me see. A public reprimand would hardly be
sufficient in your case. A little girl doesn't mind being
reproved, as a man does. You might be shut up in the
guard-house two or three days on bread and water.
You'd be alone at night, and have no light, you know.”
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“I shouldn't mind that at all, sir, or the bread and
water either,” exclaimed the young heroine.
“No; a better plan would be to send you back to that
aunt whom you told me of. The woman you ran away
from, I mean. I'll send you back to her.”
The look of anxiety deepened into one of horror.
“O, sir, won't anything else do?”
“No. If you take other people's burdens on your
own shoulders, you must expect to bear them. But you
have your choice still. You may either suffer for Captain
Windsor in this manner, or you may leave his affair
in my hands, as you would better have done from the
first. You needn't hurry. Come to my tent in an hour,
and let me know.”
“Stop, sir, please; I'd rather tell you now. My
mind is quite made up, and will not change. I will go
back to aunt Wilson.”
“You will? But how can I be sure you will go to
her, even if you leave camp?”
“Because I shall promise to do so,” said the child,
simply.
Colonel Blank looked again at his vivandière, with
keen and suspicious eyes; but on that placid brow, and
in those lustrous eyes, lay no shade of duplicity — on those
still lips no coward's tremor. And still, man like, he
searched her heart.
“I shall send back Picter at the same time,” said he.
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[figure description] Page 247.[end figure description]
It will be better for you to have a companion, and he's
not of much use here.”
“No, indeed, sir, I wouldn't take him on any account.
He's a servant, you know, and they'd treat him dreadfully
if he went back. It would be very, very cruel.
You'll not do that, sir — will you?”
“Yes. If you go, he shall go; and I'll send you
both under a flag to camp Bartow, so as to be sure Pic
don't run away on the road,” said the colonel, savagely.
Dora looked at him with indignant astonishment.
“Why will you do so?” asked she; “Picter has done
no harm.”
“No, but you have. I return him to punish you.”
“But that isn't fair at all,” cried Dora, passionately.
“You can do as you like about me; if you're not satisfied
with sending me to my aunt, you may shut me up in the
guard-house first, but you haven't the least right in the
world to meddle with Pic, and you shan't.”
“And — I — shan't! Did I understand you to say
those words, vivandière?” inquired the colonel, drawing
himself up in simulated anger.
“Yes, sir, I did say so. It wasn't proper, and I
shouldn't have said it if I had been the daughter of the
regiment still; but now — ”
“No; the daughter of the regiment never says `shan't'
to the colonel.”
A merry quaver in the voice struck on Dora's ear.
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She looked up quickly, but the face of the colonel was as
cold and stern as before.
“Now, Dora,” said he, slowly, “suppose that I conclude
to do just this thing: to send you and Picter to the
first rebel station, and let Captain Windsor go free.
What can you do about it, and what will you say about
it? Stop, now, and think.”
“I don't want to think, sir. I don't suppose I could
do anything to prevent it, because you are a strong man,
with a great many soldiers to do all you tell them to.
But God is just as much stronger than you, as you are
than me; and he will never, never let you be so wicked
and so cruel, or, if he does, he will punish you for it.
O, sir, you can do nothing half so bad to Picter or to me,
as the feelings God will put in your heart will be to you.”
“What sort of feelings, Dora?”
“Shame and sorrow; and, O, such a dreadful wish
that you could go back and do it over, and such a dreadful
feeling that you never can!”
“What do you know of such remorse as this, child?”
asked the colonel, in astonishment, as he marked the intensity
of emotion in the young face uplifted to his own.
“I killed my linnet because he wouldn't eat out of my
hand,” said Dora, in a low, quick voice, while her eyes
sank, and the color burned fiercely upon all her face.
“And you feel that way about it?” persisted the
colonel.
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“Yes, sir. I don't think I could ever have been happy
any more; but after a while, when I had asked and
asked, and mother had asked for me, God forgave me.”
“How did you know that?”
“O, by my feelings. I knew right off.”
“And I suppose He would forgive me too, after a
while,” suggested the colonel.
Dora solemnly shook her head.
“I don't think so, sir. Picter is a man, and a man is
a great deal more than a linnet—”
“Cela dépend,” murmured the colonel.
“What, sir?”
“Nothing, child.”
“You'll not send Picter back?” recommenced Dora,
in a moment.
“I'll think of it.”
“Please tell me now.”
“And why now?”
“I should like to know, if you please, sir.”
“So that you may warn him, and help him off?”
Dora made no reply.
“Come, child, the truth. Was that what you meant
to do?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you dare tell me of it, you audacious mutineer.
Do you know the brightest idea I ever had in my life?”
“No, sir.”
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“It was changing your name to Dora Darling. Now,
be off with you to your hospital, and say not one word
about this to any one before to-morrow morning. I will
let you know my decision in the course of the evening.
Promise me sacredly to be silent.”
“I promise, sir,” said Dora, raising her eyes to his.
“Good by, then;” and the colonel, with a beaming
smile, turned abruptly away to resume his walk, while
Dora, sorely puzzled, returned to the hospital.
An hour or two later the vivandière received, at the
hands of the colonel's orderly, a little package containing
a handsome silver whistle, wrapped in a bit of paper bearing
this inscription:—
“The Reward of Mutiny.”
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CHAPTER XXVI.
[figure description] Page 251.[end figure description]
Dora easily understood from the colonel's present,
with its accompanying legend, that he cherished no very
severe intentions with regard either to her or her friends.
Indeed, in thinking over her conversation with him,
she came to the conclusion that he had all along exaggerated
the danger and his resentment, for the purpose of
inducing her to argue against him. Why he should have
taken the trouble to do this she could not understand; but
as one day passed after another, and she found that neither
Captain Karl, Pic, nor herself met with any untoward
fate, she was quite ready to dismiss her fears and
mentally thank the colonel for his forbearance, with no
further attempt to understand it.
Captain Karl was now so entirely recovered as to resume
his regular duties and his own quarters, as was
also the private Merlin, while Judson had been forwarded
to the depot of rebel prisoners at Columbus.
Before leaving hospital the rebel Kentuckian had sought
an interview with Merlin, and the two men finally parted,
if not in renewed friendship, at least in mutual forgiveness
and kindly feeling.
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Dora was now left with no especial object of interest
under her charge, although she attended to those who
remained with the same zeal and patient kindness she
had always shown. The hours in the chaplain's tent
and those spent in the open air were now, however, more
precious than ever, and she gradually extended her rambles,
even when quite alone, considerably beyond the
precincts of the camp.
One afternoon, as he stepped from the door of the
hospital, intending to go to Mr. Brown for permission to
read a little, she encountered Picter, looking very mysterious,
and somewhat puzzled.
“I's jes' gwine ter see ye, missy,” said he, in a cautious
tone.
“Was you, Pic? Well, walk along with me to Mr.
Brown's tent, and we can talk as we go.”
“Le's go a leetle furder out o' camp. I doesn' know
who's long ears may be a harkin' roun' here.”
“Well, come this way, then,” assented Dora, good-humoredly,
as she turned down a narrow lane between
the tents, leading to the outskirts of the camp.
Picter walked beside her, apparently buried in the
deepest of reveries.
“Well, Uncle Pic, what have you got to tell me?”
asked Dora, at length, finding the silence not likely to be
broken by her companion.
“Well, missy, I doesn' jus'ly know myse'f. I doesn
understan' de matter; dat am de truf.”
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“If it is something about me, you had better tell right
out all you know, and perhaps I can help you to understand
it,” suggested Dora.
“Dat ar's de berry idee dat fotcht me here, missy, an'
yit I doesn' know but I's an old fool to pay any 'tention
to de matter at all. Well, honey, de long an' de short ob
it is, ef we 'cludes it's a sell, w'y, we needn' go.”
“Go where, Pic?”
“Lookin' arter Mas'r Tom.”
“Tom! Have you heard from him?”
“Can't tell 'xactly, missy. Las' night—or rudder
dis mornin'—de guard foun' a brack feller prowlin'
roun' dis yer camp, dat, bein' 'terrogated, said he'd come
to see Picter Darley. So de guard send him long to de
cook-house up dah, an' w'en I gits up dis mornin' I foun'
um waitin' for me. It wor a boy 'bout as ole as you'se'f,
an' he gibs his name as Bony party. But dat's all nonsense,
fer I's seed a many parties as was bonier dan he,
dat didn' make no 'count of it. Now dere was a feller
dat dey called de livin' skilumton—”
“But what did this boy say about Tom?”
“W'y, he came roun' kin' of 'sterious, an' waited till
we was alone 'fore he let on what was his bizness any
way. Den he wanted to know was you in de camp now.
I ax w'y did he want to know. He say he got arrant
fer ye from you brudder. I say, `Gib dat arrant to me,
an' I carry it to de young missus.' `No,' says Bony
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[figure description] Page 254.[end figure description]
party, `I wants ter see her myse'f; I's got a letter fur'
er.' `A letter from who?' says I. `From her own
brudder,' says he; `an' if she misses o' gittin' it, she
won't neber forgib herse'f de longest day she hab to lib.'
`Well,' says I, `if I fotches you to her, an' dere's any
diviltry in your arrant, I reckon you'll fin' de shortes' day
you hab to lib is too long, for I'll fill it jes' as full o' torment
for ye as an egg is full o' meat.' Den he sot to
swearin' he wa'n't up to no tricks, an' swore so hard I'
bout made up my mind not to trus' a word he said; but
den he showed me de letter, an' dough I couldn' read um,
I t'ou't dere mus' be sumfin' buckra 'bout it, dere wor
sech a power o' curlykews to de ends o' de long-tail letters,
an' sech a big splurge under de name dat was at de
bottom.”
“But was that name Tom Darley?” asked Dora,
eagerly.
“Dunno, missy; nor I couldn' 'suade Bony party to
lemme hab de letter to fotch to you. Says he ain't gwine
to deliber it to no one but you'se'f.”
“Well, where is he? Why don't you bring him to
me?”
“Den, agin, he say he couldn' stop anoder night, an'
he mus' git outside de camp right d'rectly while he could;
but he'd be waitin' fer you, jus' at sunset, out by de ole
dead pine on de edge ob de wood.”
“And the sun is just setting now! Dear me, Picter,
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why couldn't you have told me faster? Perhaps it isn't
too late though, if I go as quick as I can.”
“But I isn't cl'ar in my min' dat we'd best go at all,
missy.”
“There's no need of your going, Pic, but I shall certainly.
Tom wouldn't have taken so much pains to send
to me, unless there was something important to tell. I
wouldn't fail to go for anything.”
“An' won't ye ax de parson, or de cap'n, or some ob
dem dat knows more'n we does?”
“I would, but there's no time. See, the sun is half
down; there isn't a moment to lose. But I'm not afraid
to go alone; you stay here till I come back.”
“Guess dere's room in de noose fer my neck if dere is
fer yours, chile,” returned Pic, doggedly, as he quickened
his shambling gait to keep pace with the fleet footsteps of
the girl.
They soon passed beyond the precincts of the camp,
and struck into a wild ravine leading down the mountain,
and into the heart of the thick wood at its base.
“There is the blasted pine,” said Dora, after a silent
walk of nearly half a mile.
“Yes, an' orful lonesome it looks,” muttered Pic, with
a visible tremor in his voice. “Reckon dat's de place
whar Ole Nick hol' his council wid Jeff an' de res' ob his
sarvents in de 'federacy. Reckon, arter all, missy, we'd
bes' back out o' dis yer scrape 'fore it's too late.”
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“I'm not afraid. Don't shiver so, Pic,” replied Dora,
rather nervously, as she paused to look about her.
The scene was indeed a savage one. The sides of the
ravine, converging towards its lower end, were as precipitous
and bare of vegetation as the walls of a prison.
Overhead, the stormy sky hung low, with great masses
of thunder-cloud resting, apparently, upon the crags at
either hand. Below, the dense wood looked black and
forbidding, while the rising wind moaned fitfully among
its branches. In front of all stood the giant pine, its
scathed skeleton showing ghastly white against the dark
background of the forest.
The negro, impressible as are all his race, stood still,
and shuddered again.
“Don' like de look o' dat place, missy. Dere won't
be no luck in going any nigher dat tree, dat's sartin.
T'ou't I see somefin' brack a-peekin' out dis berry minit.”
“And didn't we come here to meet a black man, you
silly old Pic?” asked Dora, impatiently. “Come, it
will be dark in a minute or two.”
“Dat'll jes suit de powers o' darkness dat ha'nts dis
yer place,” groaned Pic. “How does yer know but dat
ar Bony party was de debil hese'f? De Bible say he go
roun' like a roarin' lion a lookin' arter he prey.”
“Well, this Bonaparte wasn't a roaring lion—was
he?”
“Donno, missy. I neber seed one—p'raps he was
widout my 'ceivin' it,” said Pic, doubtfully.
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Dora made no reply, but walked steadily on toward
the wood, followed, at a little distance, by the trembling
Picter.
As they approached the pine, a figure suddenly glided
from behind it, and came to meet them.
“Go 'long wid ye, Satan!” yelled Picter, taking to his
heels without an instant's delay; “yer hain't cotch dis
chile jes' yet.”
Dora paused, and turned a little pale; for the negro
who now approached presented so repulsive an appearance
that Picter's panic extended, in some degree, to his
stouter-hearted mistress.
The face, intensely black in color and brutal in form,
was disfigured by the loss of an eye, and of a part of the
upper lip, leaving the gleaming teeth uncovered. More
than this, the expression was at once servile and savage,
although now overlaid with an assumption of deferential
good nature.
“Glad to see you, mistress,” said the new comer,
glibly. “I was most afraid that foolish nigger wouldn't
give you the message, and Mas'r Darley would be awful
disappointed not to see you.”
“You have a letter from him for me—haven't you?”
asked Dora, coldly.
“Yes, miss; here it is. I had my orders not to give
it into no hands but just your'n.”
“Yes; wait a moment till I read it.” And Dora,
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anxiously unfolding the soiled paper, read with some difficulty,
by the faint light, the following words: —
“Dear Dora: I'm going further South with my regiment.
I have been sick, and am not very well now, and
don't believe I will ever come back. I'd like ever so
much to see you before I go, more especially because I
think I never will see you again. I darsn't come inside
the pickets, but this fellow will bring you to me to-night,
if you'll come. Do come, for I want to see you badly.
“Your brother, Tom.”
Dora read the note twice through, and then slowly
folded it.
“Wha's de news, missy?” asked a voice at her elbow.
“O, you've come back, Pic,” said she, smiling a little.
“I thought you'd run away.”
“Run 'way, missy! I s'prised you should t'ink dat
way ob yore ole uncle. I jes' 'tired a few steps so's not
ter oberhear yore 'munications wid dis gen'l'man.”
“O, that was it? Well, Pic, this is a letter from poor
Tom; and he's here in the woods somewhere, waiting
for me; and I must go and speak to him. He's sick, and
he's going away off with his regiment, and, perhaps,
may never come back. I am going to meet him now.”
“Is you sot on it, missy?”
“Yes, Pic, I've made up my mind.”
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“Well, honey, I tole yer 'fore we sot out dat ef yer
was sot on puttin' yore head inter de lion mouf, he'd hev
to stretch he jaws wide 'nough ter take in ole Pic's poll
long wid it. De Bible say de servent hain't got no call
ter be wiser den his mas'r; an' ef my mist's is a min' ter
act like a plaguy fool, I ain't a gwine ter be no wiser.”
“Then you will come, too?”
“Yis, missy. Go 'head, Bony party; fotch us inter
yer mas'r's jaws as fas' as you can leg it.”
“Go on, Bonaparte; we're all ready,” added Dora,
who felt much comforted, in spite of his grumbling, with
Picter's resolution to accompany her.
Bonaparte, on the contrary, looked as if he found the
company of the negro superfluous; but he made no comment,
and, at Dora's command, he struck immediately
into the wood, and rapidly led the party into its very
depths.
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CHAPTER XXVII.
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The fading twilight, although barely sufficient to show
the little party their path among the trees, was yet enough
to bring out a thousand grotesque forms and shadows
among the gnarled old trunks and tangled thickets, so
that total darkness would have been less frightful, while,
in addition to the moaning and howling of the wind, their
ears were now assailed by the cries of numerous night
birds and the smaller beasts of prey, who still roam these
mountain regions.
Picter, keeping close to his young mistress, ceased not
to mutter gloomy prognostics of their approaching fate,
mingled with reproaches upon her wilfulness in placing
herself and him in such a situation.
“Don't, Pic,” said Dora at last; “we can't make it
any pleasanter by talking about it. Let us wait and see;
or you, if you like, may go any minute.”
“Now, honey, chile, what for ye go talkin' to ole nigger
like dat?” inquired Pic, reproachfully. “I's ready
to go to de wuss place you eber hearn tell of, if you's a
mind fer to lead de way. But sence I gib up chawin'
terbacker, I's got a orful habit o' chawin' words. I's
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gittin ter be a reg'lar ole scold, an' I reckon it's de wuss
habit o' de two. I's been layin' out fer ter go inter de
woods arter some spruce gum to set my teeth inter; 'spec
it'll sweeten my temper 'mazin'.”
At this moment Bonaparte stopped, and whistled
shrilly three times, with an interval between each. The
signal was answered from a short distance, and two figures
were presently seen advancing through the gloom of
the wood. Bonaparte stepped forward, and spoke in a
low voice to the taller of the two men, who then advanced
toward Dora, saying, —
“Well, Miss Do, so you've come back to see your
friends — have you?”
“Dick! But where is Tom?”
“O, he's up to the camp, safe enough.”
“Why didn't he come to meet me?”
“Well, he was busy, I expect; or else he didn't know
you was going to be here.”
“But, Dick, what do you mean? Tom wrote to me
to come. It is to meet him that I am here!” exclaimed
Dora, in much agitation.
“I know it, sis,” replied Dick, putting an arm about
her waist, and taking her hand in his; “but, you see,
Tom's ideas didn't fay in with mine, no how. I saw you,
the other night, on the hill up there, sitting with a chap I
took for the parson of the regiment.”
“Dick, it was you, then.”
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“Yes, it was me; and I set out to shoot him and carry
you off then; but that black scoundrel there pretty nigh
turned the tables on me. You'll catch it, you old black
cuss, when I get you home.”
This parenthesis, addressed to Picter, who was following
close to Dora, with a guard on each side, met with no
response, the luckless philosopher being, for the moment,
so overwhelmed with mortification, terror, and surprise,
as to have lost the use of his nimble tongue.
“And is Tom really in your camp? and where is
father? and where are you taking me?” asked Dora,
indignantly.
“Don't get mad, sis, and I'll tell you all about it
as fast as I can,” retorted her cousin, carelessly. “I
told Tom, who is `really in camp,' that I'd come
upon you while I was scouting round the Yankee camp,
and that I meant to try to get hold of you. But the fellow
fired right up, and said you shouldn't be touched — that
you'd as good a right to choose your side as we had, and
that you'd explained the whole matter to him before you
parted.”
“Dear Tom!” murmured Dora.
“Well, it's more dear Dora than `dear Tom' with
me,” returned Dick. “So, when I found he wouldn't
have anything to do with catching you, I set my wits to
work to do it for myself. Think I made out pretty well—
don't you?”
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“Then it was you who wrote the note; and you sent
that negro to bring me here! It was all a trap, a bad,
mean lie, and it was you that did it!” cried Dora, passionately.
“Just so, missy. But there's no use in raving and
tearing out your hair about it. If I ain't your brother,
I'm your cousin, and that's most the same; and I ain't
going to let no one hurt you, any way. I'm only going to carry you home to ma'am, and let her keep you till
the war's over, and you're a little older; and then I reckon
I shall take you for my old woman. I like you first rate,
Do, and home didn't seem like home after you run away.
It wasn't anything but you brought me here; and I didn't
enlist regular, because I always meant to leave any time
when I found you out. I'm a sort of a scout and runner
to the confederate general up here on Alleghany, but I
don't live in camp, though I draw rations. I've got a
cabin down here a piece, and this fellow Clarkson and
his nigger Bonaparte live with me.”
“Is there where you're carrying me now?” asked
Dora, faintly.
“Just so. To-morrow I shall go and bid the general
good by for a few days, and tell him not to break his
heart before I get back; and then I shall take you home,
and tell ma'am, if she knows what's good for herself, to
treat you a little better than she did last time. There
shan't no one hurt a hair of your pretty little head, Do,
not while I've got the heart of a man in my body.”
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The last words were spoken with more feeling than
Dick Wilson had ever before been known to exhibit; but
Dora still indignantly shook off the arm he again tried to
put around her.
“It's very fine to talk about not letting any one hurt
me,” said she. “But it's you that are doing me all the
harm you can at this very minute. If you really care to
make me happy, why don't you send me back to my
friends?”
“I'm taking you to your friends; I'm your best friend
myself,” interposed Dick.
“No rebel is a friend of mine,” exclaimed the vivandi
ère, proudly; “I am the daughter of a Union regiment.”
“And the sister and cousin of rebel soldiers,” said
Dick, slyly.
“I won't give up my brother as a brother, but I don't
love him as a rebel; and as for cousins, I care no more
for them than for any other rebels,” retorted Dora, hotly,
adding, in the next breath, “but father; you don't speak
of him. Where is father?”
“Dead.”
“Dead! When, and how?” asked Dora, in a voice
of horror.
“He died of camp fever soon after he joined. I didn't
know it till I saw Tom. You know, Do, it's what we've
all got to come to, one time or another,” began Dick,
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trying to remember some of the remarks he had heard his
mother use on similar occasions; but his cousin gently
interrupted him.
“Yes; I know. Please don't talk about it, Dick, just
now.”
“Certain I won't, if you don't want me to,” assented
the lad, considerably relieved; and not another word was
exchanged between them until the party reached the door
of a small and hastily constructed shanty on the edge of
the wood.
From within the closed door was heard a hoarse
bark.
“Lope's on hand,” remarked the man called Clarkson.
“Yes; I expect he wants something to eat,” returned
Dick, opening the door.
A large gray animal bounded out as he did so, and
leaped upon Clarkson with a joyful whine, suddenly
changed to a savage growl, as he caught sight of the
strangers.
“Hebenly Mas'r, what dat?” exclaimed Pic, dodging
behind Bonaparte, while Dora sprang to her cousin's
side.
“Don't be scart, Do,” said Dick; “Lope's an ugly fellow
enough to strangers, but he won't touch you while
we're round. You mustn't try to stir out of the cabin by
yourself, though.”
“What is it, Dick?”
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“A wolf, child. Just such a one as eat up Red Riding
Hood and her grandmother, in the story book.”
“But how came he here? Is he tame?”
“As tame as it's the nature of the beast to be. I
reckon they never turn into lambs, do what you will with
them. Clarkson brought him up from a whelp, and he
minds him pretty well. The rest of us don't trouble him
much.”
“Walk in, miss. Bony, you and this other darky
fetch in some wood for a fire, and get some supper about
the quickest. I'm as hungry as the — as a wolf,” said
Clarkson, laughing loudly at the joke intended by his
companion.
The laugh was obsequiously echoed by Bony, while
Picter preserved a solemn and somewhat contemptuous
expression. The negroes then returned a few rods into
the forest to collect firewood, while Dora and Clarkson
followed Dick into the cabin.
“Sit down on this log, Do,” said the latter, as he led
her to a seat. “The old shanty ain't much of a parlor,
but we'll do the best we can for you while you stay.”
A cheerful fire soon blazed upon the hearth, and Bonaparte,
with some unwilling help from Picter, prepared
over it a stew of chickens, salt pork, army biscuit, onions
and potatoes, liberally seasoned with shreds of dried peppers
and sweet herbs.
A pot of coffee, with sugar boiled in it, but no cream,
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completed the repast; and as soon as it was placed upon
the table, Clarkson, Dick, and Dora sat down, while the
two negroes and Lope remained in the background, hungrily
watching the progress of the meal.
The stew was savory, the coffee potent, and Dora made
a far better supper than she would have supposed possible,
under the circumstances. As her body became refreshed,
her courage and energy revived, and when she rose from
the table it was with a firm, though undeveloped, intention
to make her escape with Picter from the hut before
morning.
A deep growl from Lope, as she walked towards the
door with the intention of looking out, warned her of one
of the obstacles to her attempt.
“Be quiet, you brute! He won't touch you, miss,
without you was trying to get away,” said Clarkson,
significantly. “Now, boys,” continued he to the negroes,
“fall to, and polish off the bones; and you, Bony, see
that Lope gets something. Not too much, though; he's
got to watch to-night.”
Picter and Dora exchanged a glance, and the quick wit
of each divined the thoughts of the other.
Dora, returning towards the fire, contrived to stumble
as she passed behind the log where Picter was now seated
at supper, and saved herself from a fall by catching at
his shoulder. As she did so, she softly whispered, —
“Keep awake.”
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“Take keer, missy. Keep your eyes wide open,
honey,” said Picter aloud, as he put out his hand to help
her to her feet. Dora, with a quick pressure of the hand,
signified that she comprehended the double meaning of
the words, and then, fearful of attracting attention, she
passed on, and seated herself beside the fire, with her
back to the room.
“There's a shake-down in the loft for you, Do,” said
her cousin, seating himself beside her. “I got it all
ready before I went after you.”
“You was very sure of finding me,” said Dora, rather
bitterly.
“Yes; I reckoned I'd put a sure bait in the trap,”
said Dick, complacently.
“I'm afraid it was your own bed up stairs — wasn't
it?” asked Dora, presently.
“No. Clarkson and I mostly camp down here by the
fire, when we ain't out all night on the scout. The nigger
has slept up there, generally, but I put your bed at
the other end of the loft, and there ain't none of the same
things on it.”
“And where is he going to sleep?” asked Dora, carelessly.
“Out in a kind of lean-to we put up, to keep a horse
in occasionally. There ain't any horse there now, and
he and Pic can have all the straw to themselves,” said
Dick, yawning.
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Dora had now learned nearly all that she wished to
know. One point, however, remained unsettled, and
after a pause, she said, carelessly, —
“I should think that wolf would run away in the
night if you turn him out loose.”
“No, he don't. He knows too well where he gets
fed. He never goes far from home.”
The heart of the brave girl sank, as she glanced at
the glaring eyes of the wolf, who was now gnawing the
bones thrown to him in a corner by Bonaparte, whose
method of clearing the table was more rapid than nice.
“He looks pretty ugly,” said she, almost unconsciously.
“Ugly enough, any one would find him that came
round the shanty nights. Clarkson has trained him so's
he's better than any watch dog, and fiercer too,” returned
Dick, significantly.
Dora sat for a few moments longer, looking thoughtfully
at the fire, and then signified her desire to retire.
Her cousin, lighting a torch, preceded her up the ladder
leading to an unfinished and windowless loft, where
he showed, with some exultation, a comfortable looking
bed in one corner, heaped high with dried leaves and
branches of sweet fern, overspread by a large army
blanket.
“There, Do. I fixed your bed myself, and I reckon
you might find a worse one by looking sharp here
amongst the mountains.”
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“It's very nice, Dick, and I'm much obliged to you,”
replied Dora, looking sharply about the place.
“There's no one else to be here — is there?” added
she.
“No. And if you're a mind to, you may push that
board over the trap after I'm gone. I shall take away
the ladder, any way. `Safe bind, safe find,' you know.”
“Well. You had better go down now, at any rate,”
said Dora, rather petulantly; for she was both alarmed
and provoked to find that she was thus to be deprived of
the only apparent means of exit from her prison.
Dick grinned significantly as he placed the torch upright
in a knot-hole of the rude floor.
“Good night,” said he. “I'll stick up the ladder time
enough for you to come down to breakfast.”
So soon as the head of her cousin had disappeared
through the trap, Dora pushed the piece of plank, serving
as a door, into its place, listened to hear the ladder
withdrawn, and then sat down to meditate upon the
escape she was still determined to effect.
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CHAPTER XXVIII.
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At the end of ten minutes of reflection, Dora suddenly
thrust her hand into the pocket of her cloak, then
into one after the other of those in her skirt, and finally
from that of her jacket drew a stout, double-bladed knife,
a present to the little vivandière from one of her numerous
friends among the men.
“Good!” whispered she; “I was afraid I had left it
at home. That will do, I know. But where can I
begin?”
Placing her eye at one of the cracks of the floor, the
prisoner next reconnoitred the position of her jailers.
Clarkson had already thrown himself on the floor,
wrapped in his blanket, and was soundly sleeping; but
Dick had resumed his seat beside the fire, and seemed
resolved to watch.
Dora noiselessly regained the bed of leaves where she
had been sitting, and drawing from it the thick double
blanket, proceeded to cut it into strips of about a foot in
width, and six feet or more in length. Carefully tying
these together in square knots, Dora found herself possessed
of a strong band of woollen, twenty-four feet in
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length. At this she looked for a while with much satisfaction,
and then, coiling it upon her right arm, she
nestled herself into her nest of leaves, and resigned herself
to wait until Dick should be tired of his watch and
fall asleep. That he should keep awake all night after his
long and active day, she considered impossible, although
she herself felt confident of being able to do so. And
while confirming for the hundredth time her resolution to
resist, at all events, the drowsiness stealing over her, the
poor little maid fell fast asleep.
In about an hour, however, she suddenly awoke, gasping
for breath, and in total darkness, except where one
angry spot of fire close beside her couch glared up at
her like the eye of a wild beast. It was the resinous
torch burned down to the strip of leather placed around
it as a safeguard, and expiring amid volumes of smoke
combined from both wood and leather.
Dora's quick wits soon recovered from the bewilderment
of her sudden awakening, and she rapidly and
noiselessly extinguished the torch before thinking of anything
else. Her next care was to ascertain her cousin's
condition; but the room below was now in total darkness,
and no sound was audible except the regular breath
of the sleepers; for a few moments of attentive listening
satisfied Dora that these must be at least two in number.
Before going to sleep, Dora had not failed to carefully
note the position of her bed in reference to the other
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parts of the loft, and mentally resolve upon her precise
plan of action. She now, therefore, felt her way carefully
along the rough wall until she reached the chimney.
This chimney, following the usual traditions of backwoods
architecture, was built upon the outside of the
house; but all along the line of contact, the boards of
the slight shanty had so shrivelled and warped under the
influence of the unequal heat, as to leave large cracks,
through which the rough stones of the chimney were
plainly visible. Below one of the largest of these cracks,
Dora's sharp eyes had noticed that the wood was already
considerably decayed, from the combined effect of heat
and moisture; and at this spot she had resolved to make
her desperate attempt to escape.
With the strongest blade of her pocket-knife she now
began cutting away the soft pine as rapidly, and at the
same time as cautiously, as possible, often pausing to listen
for any movement below, as well as to take breath
for renewed effort. The work soon became laborious,
and the progress seemed painfully slow; but still the
little hands toiled bravely on, and the stout heart beat
higher and higher, as through the increasing aperture
the pure night air stole sweetly in, and the bright stars
looked encouragement.
An hour passed thus, and Dora, trembling from
fatigue and excitement, saw that this part of her task
was ended. The hole was of ample size to allow her
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slender figure to pass, and was not more than half the
length of her rope from the ground.
The next step was to fasten this rope, or rather band,
securely inside. To do this, Dora returned to her bed,
and standing upon it, felt carefully along the wall for a
stout hook that she had noticed driven there, probably by
Bonaparte for some purpose of his own. To this she
firmly attached one end of the strip of woollen still
wound upon her arm, and satisfied herself that both
were strong enough to bear more weight than she should
impose upon them. She next made her cloak into a
bundle, and tying it to the other end of the strip, lowered
it silently to the ground, and then, creeping through
the hole, commenced her own descent. This was soon
accomplished, although not without pain and terror, and
Dora, with a throbbing heart, found herself once more
at liberty. Detaching her cloak from the rope, she next
cut off the latter as high up as she could reach, thinking
it might prove useful in releasing Picter, whom she was
resolved not to leave behind.
Gliding cautiously round the end of the house, she
approached the shed where she had been told he was
to spend the night. The door stood partially open, and
as Dora came in sight, the ungainly form of the negro
was seen in the starlight, creeping cautiously out to meet
her.
“Bress you, missy, so you done got cl'ar widout de
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help of dis ole feller,” whispered he, joyfully. “I's ben
hard to work myse'f, an' hain't but jes' got frew, else I'd'
a been roun' ter help ye. Now, come; we'm got to make
tracks 'fore mornin.”
“Yes, come, as fast as you can. That horrid wolf
may be after us any minute,” replied Dora, in the same
tone, looking fearfully about her.
“Hi! Guess dat ar varmint ain't gwine ter trouble us
much. I 'sposed ob him,” chuckled the negro. “An'
here's toder varmint, de one what turned agin he own
kind, an' led anoder nigger into a trap,” continued Pic,
severely, as he stooped to raise on his broad shoulders a
shapeless mass of something lying under a tree at some
little distance from the hovel.
“Why, what is that?” asked Dora, in great astonishment.
“De varmint called Bony party, missy,” grunted Picter,
as he settled his load upon his back.
“Now, come 'long, missy. I know de way fus' rate.
Tell yer, dis chil' kept he eye skun w'en dey was fotchin'
us in; an' while de star shine dis a way, dey'll be better
dan daylight fer show de path.”
“But what are you going to do with this poor fellow,
Pic? And why don't he move or call out?” asked Dora,
pityingly, as they moved rapidly forward among the trees.
“I's gwine to make a 'xample ob him ter all traitors,
missy,” said the negro, sternly. “An' he don't sing out,
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nor squirm, 'cause he tied up jes' like a lamb for de
sla'ter, as de good book say, on'y dis ar am more of a
young wolf dan a lamb. An' as fer singin' out, he got
he mouf too full ob stick to 'varse much.”
“But, Picter, what do you mean by making an example
of him? You mustn't kill him.”
“Yes, I will, missy, sure an' sartain,” replied Pic,
decidedly. “I hain't got no pinion ob de breed, an'
I ain't gwine ter hab it kep' up. De nigger dat 'ould
sell anoder nigger ter be licked to def, as dem Wilsons'
ould 'a licked me, am too mean ter sell ter a Georgy
trader, an I's a gwine ter red the aarth on him.”
“Picter, I never, never will consent to your killing this
man in cold blood. I forbid it!” exclaimed Dora, pausing,
and speaking in a more peremptory tone than she
had ever used before.
Picter jogged doggedly on, and made no reply. With
a bound Dora overtook him, and laid a hand upon his
arm.
“Stop, and answer me, Picter, before we go any
farther. Will you give up your plan of killing this
man?”
“No, missy,” replied the negro. “I hates ter go agin
ye any way; but dis time I's made up my min' what ter
do, an' I reckon I'll 'bide by it.”
“And you will murder him?”
“I'll exercute him for a traitor, missy.”
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“Then my mind is made up, too. I shall go straight
back to the shanty, call Dick and the other man, and tell
them just where you are and what you are going to do.
They'll chase you, and perhaps kill you, and they'll keep
me; but it is all I can do to prevent this murder, and I
shall do it. Speak quick, and say if you keep the same
mind. In a minute it will be too late.”
As she spoke, she sprang backward, and stood out of
reach, and out of sight of the negro, who, pausing where
he stood, in the middle of a little star-lit glade, looked
anxiously back at her.
“Now, missy,” began he, coaxingly, as he caught sight
of a slender figure within the shadow of the wood,
“wha's de use ob good frien's like we fallin' out dis
fashion? I wasn' gwine ter 'spatch de feller 'fore you
face an' eyes. I'll wait till we gets nigh home, an' den
you'll go 'long forrad an' neber know noffin' 'bout w'at
comd ob 'im.”
“No, Picter. You must promise me not to hurt him
in any way, and to let him go as soon as is safe for ourselves,
or I shall do as I said,” returned Dora, firmly.
“Now, chile, dat's w'at I calls contrairy. W'at diff'ence
does it make ter you weder dere's a Bony party
more or a Bony party less in de worl'? You won't neber
see him agin.”
“No; but I shall see you, Picter, and I never could
bear to look at you, or speak to you, or even think of
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you, if you did this cruel, dreadful thing. I should
almost hate you, Picter.”
“Sho! Should you dat, missy?” inquired the negro,
with more concern than he had yet exhibited. “Dat'
ould make old Pic feel awful bad.”
“And so it would make me feel bad; but it would be
so, I am sure. I couldn't help it,” said Dora, earnestly.
Pic dropped his burden to the ground, and Dora now
saw by the feeble light that the unfortunate captive had
been enveloped in some large cloth or bag completely
shrouding the outline of his form.
“Missy, I's got sumfin' ter say to you,” began Pic,
limping towards the spot where she stood.
“Wait, then, and promise not to try to catch me, before
you come any nearer.”
“Lor', missy, I hasn't got no f'outs ob it. All I wants
is a 'sultation.”
“You promise not to touch me?”
“Yes, missy, I promises.”
“Well, then, what is it?” asked the girl, allowing
her companion to approach close to her.
“W'y, missy, we can make a kin' ob a compermise, I
reckon. Sence you's so dead sot agin it, I'll gib up takin'
de life ob de varmint, but I wants ter gib him a scare
dat 'll be mos' as bad, I reckon.”
“What is it?”
“You'll see, missy. I hasn' jes' made up my own
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min'; but I'll promise, sure an' fas', dat I won't kill
him.”
“Well,” said Dora, reluctantly, “you must promise
that, at any rate, and if the other plan is cruel, you must
change it.”
“We shan't quarrel 'bout it, missy; but it won't do
ter stop here much longer. We'll go ahead a piece, an
w'en de daylight's up I'll 'spose ob him.”
Picter, as he spoke, bent over the burden at his feet,
and began to raise it upon his shoulders, when he was
interrupted by a low exclamation from Dora.
“Wha's de matter, chile? Am dey comin'?”
“What is that noise? Hark! There it is again!”
Both listened eagerly, and through the hushed air of
the forest night was distinctly heard the sound of a large
body brushing through the undergrowth in the direction
of the hut. This was suddenly interrupted by a snarling
bark, followed by an angry howl.
“It's the wolf!” exclaimed Dora, in much alarm.
Picter let fall the unwiedly burden already upon his
shoulders, and crouched in terror beside it.
“O Lor'!” gasped he. “It's he ghos', fer sure. It's
a comin' fer ha'nt us, an' I's noffin' bud a pore ole sinner
as full ob handles fer de debil as a hedgehog 's full ob
quills. I shan't neber get shet ob him in dis worl', dat's
cl'ar.”
“Nonsense, Pic. There ain't any such thing as a
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wolf's ghost,” exclaimed Dora, impatiently. “Either
Lope wasn't really killed, or it's some other wolf. Any
way, he's coming after us. Hark!”
The sounds of pursuit indeed indicated that the animal,
whatever he might be, was close at hand; but still
Picter remained crouched in the middle of the little glade,
a victim to superstitious terror.
“I hung de varmint wid my own han's,” muttered he.
“Cotcht um nappin,' an got um noose roun' um neck'
fore he'd time 'o say he prayers. Strung um up, tie um
rope, an' now —”
“But, Pic, we must defend ourselves! Quick! he's
here! Haven't you any knife or anything?” cried Dora,
springing to the negro's side, and seizing him by the arm.
“No knife, no gun, no silber bullet. Wha's de use o'
fightin' de debil, missy?” groaned he.
Dora, without further parley, hastily untied the cloak
that she carried in a bundle over her shoulder, and
opened the strongest blade of the knife which had once
before that night done her so good service.
“If you won't do anything but talk that way, I shall
have to fight the wolf myself,” said she, quietly.
“'Tain't no wolf, missy; bud I'll do de bes' I can agin
it,” said Pic, gloomily, as he struggled to his feet and
grasped more firmly a stout oaken cudgel that he had
appropriated at the shanty.
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CHAPTER XXIX.
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“Look there!” exclaimed Dora, in a low voice, pointing
to the thicket where she had been standing a moment
before. Out of the darkness now glared two balls of
greenish light, shifting uneasily as the eyes of a human
being met their furtive glance. The next instant they
were gone.
“He'm gittin' roun' to 'tack us in de back,” suggested
Pic, beginning to feel a little ashamed of his panic.
“Turn your face that way, and put your back to
mine,” said Dora, hurriedly. “Take this knife, if you
haven't any, and I'll hold my cloak ready, if he springs,
to blind him till you can catch him by the collar — he's
got a collar.”
“If he Lope, he got collar, an' plaguy tight neck
hankercher, 'sides, fer I fitted um wid one not more'n a
hour ago,” mumbled Picter, doing as he was ordered.
“Stan' on dis yer karkidge ob de Bony party, missy;
it'll make you more my height.”
“No, indeed, Picter. The poor creature must be
nearly smothered now. Haven't you any sort of
weapon?”
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“Dare, now! Here's de ole knife, shore 'nough.
T'out I'd los' um.”
“I'm so glad! Quick! He'll be on us in a minute!
O, Pic!”
This cry of terror was extorted from the stout heart
of the vivandière, by the sudden movement of the wolf,
which, after entirely skirting the little glade, and finding
no opportunity of springing upon his prey at unawares,
broke into open fury, and, dashing through the underbrush,
stood open-mouthed and eager-eyed before them,
growling and snapping his fangs, while yet hesitating to
make the direct attack.
“Um ghos' couldn' make sech a debil ob a noise wid
um teef,” whispered Pic.
The creature, opening wide his jaws, uttered a savage
howl, and dashed across the glade so close to the little
group, that his long hair brushed Dora's dress. Darting
back as suddenly, he made a savage leap at her throat,
and would have seized it, had not the vivandière, with a
sudden and decided movement, enveloped the head and
neck of the beast in the folds of the cloak held ready
upon both her arms for this very purpose.
The wolf, growling and snapping furiously, bounded
backwards, and sought to tear away the covering with
his paws; but Dora, twining her arms convulsively about
his neck, cried, breathlessly, —
“O, Pic, Pic, be quick! Kill him before he gets
away.”
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With an inarticulate howl, as ferocious and as cruel as
that of the wolf himself, the negro threw himself heavily
upon the creature, and plunged his long sheath-knife
again and again into his body. With a dying struggle,
the wolf tore himself out of Dora's grasp, leaped wildly
up, and fell lifeless at her feet.
Picter snatched away the cloak, and bent over the
carcass.
“Look a' here, now!” said he, seizing an end of rope
that dangled from its neck, “dere's de berry noose dat I
lay roun' 'im neck up dere in de shanty. De ole sarpent
cut hese'f down somehow, or p'raps de debil did it
for um. Won'er how many libes he got, any way.
Reckon we'll make shore work ob him dis time. Cut
he head off.”
Deliberately seating himself astride the body of the
wolf, Picter proceeded to carry his idea into effect.
Presently he raised aloft the gory head, and viewing it
complacently by the starlight, said, —
“Dere, now. See ef dat 'll hole you quiet till we gits
inter camp. 'Specs it 'll git growed agin as soon as dat.”
Dora, meantime, had retreated to the edge of the wood,
and seated herself beneath a large tree. The danger
over, strength and courage failed her together, and in
the darkness she did not check the tears that rained
down her pallid cheeks.
“Missy! Whar be you, missy? Want ter see um
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head ob Ole Nick? De Bible say we'm got ter cut off
whateber part 's de wickedes', les' we git souse, hide an
horns, inter de brimstone pon'; so's I's bin a doin' de bes'
I could fer dis yer sinner, wid cuttin' off he head. Reckon,
dough, dat won' sabe 'im.”
“Make haste, Pic, and let us get away from here,”
said Dora, faintly.
“Golly, den, I reckon you neber say a wiser word
dan dat,” exclaimed the negro, throwing down the head
of the wolf, and hastily thrusting the bloody knife into
his pocket.
“De Philustums 'll be down on us 'fore long, any way,
an' we got two free mile afore us yet.”
“Don't carry that poor boy any further. Leave him
here till his master comes up. He's punished enough by
what he's gone through already,” expostulated Dora, as
Pic began, groaningly, to raise his helpless captive once
more upon his shoulders.
“Not if I knows it, missy. I's got my min' sot on
settlin' 'counts wid dis yer fellow my own fashion; an'
I'll tote um from dis ter Jericho, 'fore I let um go;'
twon' hender us none, missy. See ef I don' trabel as
fas' as yore pore lilly feet can foller, Bony party an' all.”
Dora, too much exhausted by her late struggle for any
further dispute, said no more; and Picter, having at last
arranged his load satisfactorily, struck into the woods at
a pace really incredible to one unacquainted with his
immense strength and endurance.
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Dora, lightly treading in his footsteps, kept close behind,
glancing occasionally over her shoulder with a
nervous terror of pursuit.
An hour passed, and the gray light of dawn came
creeping down through the bare branches of the trees,
bringing a chill blast from the north. Borne upon it
came the distant sound of the reveillé from the federal
camp.
“Hark! Hear dat, den, missy! Don' dat soun' like
welcome home?”
“Indeed it does, Pic; and I begin to remember the
trees and rocks about here.”
“Yes, we'm mos' dere; but dere's somefin' to 'tend
to 'fore we goes inter camp.”
“You're not to do anything cruel to that boy, you
know,” expostulated Dora.
“Lor's, missy, don' be so ten'er ob dis ole cuss!” exclaimed
Picter, petulantly. “Don' de Bible hese'f say
de lab'rer's got a right to he wages; an' ef I hasn'
aarned de right to 'spose ob dis varmint, totin' 'im all dis
way on my own back, w'y, we'll gib in de good book
made a lilly mustake w'en it said that ar.”
Dora was still meditating upon this bit of special
pleading, uncertain just how to answer it, when Picter's
voice once more aroused her.
“Dere, missy, you knows dis yer, I reckon.”
Looking about her, Dora uttered a joyful assent.
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Before her lay the desolate gorge, closed by the blasted
pine where she and Picter had kept the rendezvous with
Bonaparte, resulting in their capture.
The negro hastily advanced till he stood beneath the
pine, and then, with a groan of relief, allowed the body
of the unfortunate Bonaparte to slip to the ground.
“Dere!” exclaimed he, straightening his back as far
as practicable, and taking a long breath. “Reckon I feels
now like dat ar feller mist's read 'bout in de Bible one
day, dat was a footin' it for de hebenly city, but was
awful hindered wid a big pack he'd got to tote 'long
wid'im; but, 'fore he know'd it, he come to a gate or
sumfin' dat was 'chanted, I reckon, for de ole pack tumbled
off, an' warn't neber seen no more.”
“Why, Pic — that's in Pilgrim's Progress; it isn't
the Bible.”
“Neber min', honey; it's jes' as good for a lusteration
ob my meanin',” returned the negro, pompously. “I
axed mist's what was in dat feller's pack ter make it so
orful heavy. She tole me 'twor sin, an' dat dere wan't
noffin' in dis worl' so back-breakin' fer a feller to tote as
sin. Now, if dis yer,” — and Pic gave the unhappy
Bonaparte a contemptuous kick, — “if dis yer ain't a
bundle o' sin right cl'ar frew, I's a bigger fool dan I
t'out fer, an dere ain't no two ways 'bout de diffikil'y o'
totin' 'um. Now, missy, I won'er ef I couldn' trive ter
jes' hitch all de lilly sins I's got inside o' me, on ter dis
big bunch o' sin, an' so 'spose ob 'em all ter once.”
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“I'm more afraid, Pic, that you'll do something that
will add to your own sins. Do untie him now, and let
him breathe. We're so close to our own camp there's no
danger.”
“Dat ar's jes what I's layin' out ter do, missy,” said
Pic, rather resentfully, as he took out his knife, and
slowly cut away the piece of bagging wound around
the body of his captive to make it more easy of transportation.
This covering removed, showed the unfortunate fellow's
limbs securely trussed, much after the fashion of
a fowl prepared for roasting, and confined in place by
sundry pieces of rope, which Pic now proceeded to sever.
He then placed the captive upon his feet, his back leaning
against the old pine.
Dora, for the first time, caught a glance at his face,
and uttered an exclamation of mingled pity and terror as
she did so. A bit of stick, placed across the mouth by
way of gag, was carefully secured by a bandage tied at
the back of the head. Above this, the large, bloodshotten
eyes rolled with wild ferocity over the whole scene, resting
at last in angry terror upon the stolid features of
Pic. The deep color of the skin, blanched and sodden
by fatigue mingled with apprehension, offered a sufficient
contrast to a ghastly streak of blood oozing from a cut
upon the head.
“Pic!” exclaimed Dora, passionately, “it is too
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bad! I declare you shan't torment this poor creature
any more; he's half dead already, and wounded, besides.
Let him go; or, if you won't do that, bring him into
camp, and give him up.”
“Yes, an' see 'im slinkin' off, nex' day, wid all de
news ob de camp, to de enemy. Ain't sech an ole fool
as dat, missy. Wait lilly minit, till I blin' he ugly eyes,
an' I'll 'xplain de needcessity ob exercutin' justice wid'
im.”
Taking a long strip of the matting, Pic, as he spoke,
tied it carefully over his captive's eyes, and then secured
his arms behind his back, and tied his ankles together.
“Dere, Bony party, you jes' stan' still, an' tink ober de'
niquities ob your life lilly minit, an' by de time I's got
back, I reckon you'll tank me kin'ly for my 'tention in
reddin' you ob it.”
A smothered growl from the captive responded to this
recommendation, and Pic, laughing inaudibly, beckoned
Dora to withdraw a few paces with him from the tree.
“Now, missy,” began he, when they were out of earshot
of the unfortunate Bonaparte, “I'll 'xplain de plan
right straight out, an' den I spec's you'll lemme 'lone
w'ile I carries um out. I's gwine ter make dat feller tink
he's got ter be strung up, an' den I's gwine ter leave 'im
to 'flect 'pon it, w'ile we'm gone fer our breaksus. Arter
dat, I's gwine to fotch 'im inter camp, an' let de gen'l hab'
im fer a specimen darkey to sen' to de Norf. Dis is de
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on'y one I eber seed dat comes up to he idees ob w'at a
darkey'd ought ter be like.”
“And is that all the harm you mean to do him, really
and truly, Picter?”
“Yes, missy. Hopes yer ken trus' yer ole uncle fer
not tell lies to yer, honey.”
“O, yes, Picter. If you say so, I believe it, certainly,”
said Dora, hurriedly. “I will sit down here, and wait
for you. Hark! There's the drum again.”
“Reckon it's parade. Dey'll be sen'in' out a 'tachment
fer look up de wandyeer pooty soon. I's got ter
hurry up my cakes, I reckon.”
“Yes, make haste; I want to get into camp.”
“We'll hurry all we can, missy; but dese matters ob
life an' death's 'mazin' solemn 'fairs,” replied Pic, in a
very distinct voice, as he re-approached his captive.
“Now, Bony party, ef you's all ready, I is. Don'
s'pose you's got more dan half frew 'flecting on de sins
ob you life, but you'd better skip de res', and come to de
cap-sheaf one, ob playin' spy an' traitor 'gainst 'noder
nigger, all ter help on white folks dat 'spises an' hates us
bof. Bony party, you can 'ford to be hung here, for
w'en you gits whar you's gwine, Satan'll make you one
ob de big bugs ob de kin'dom. Dat ar las' sin was jes'
arter his own heart, an' yore shore ob your reward.”
While speaking, Pic had carefully knotted together the
lengths of rope used in trussing his captive for
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transportation, and constructed a running noose at one end.
This he adjusted to Bonaparte's neck, drawing it so
closely as to be very perceptible to the wearer, but not
so as to choke him.
“Dere, now, be patien' lilly minit lon'er, an' you'll see
dat dis nigger, dat you was gwine ter 'liber to de tormenters,
knows how to be massiful as well as jus'. I's
gwine to min' de good book, dat say we hasn' no right
ter kill de body, an' sen' de soul to hell all ter once. I's
gwine ter fix it so dat you can go jes' w'en you's a min'
ter, an' tell yer mas'r down dere dat yer come 'cause yer
lub 'im so well yer couldn' stop way any lon'er. Now,
den, reckon dis yer'll do.”
While speaking, Pic had been searching the edge of
the wood for a stout sapling of suitable length for his
purpose. Having selected one, he proceeded to cut it off
at the root, and then trimmed the top, so as to leave an
elastic pole, about three inches in diameter at the base,
and ten feet in length. Resting the stouter end upon a
rock beneath the pine tree, he laid the other in the fork
of a young oak, about six feet distant.
“Dere, Bony party, you jes' step up on dat ar roos'.
Lucky you's bar'fut — isn' it? Golly! I forgot you leg
tied. Now, den, up you goes! Kin' o' hard to balance
youse'f — ain't it? Reckon you'll hab to take lessons ob
de ole rooster, on'y dere ain't no time lef'. Now, Bony
party, lis'en to de serious 'vice ob a frien'. You jes' clinch
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you toe tight roun' dat ar pole, an' 'tan' 'till as if you wor
froze; fer jes' de minit you tumble off, dat ar neckercher
o' yourn 'll git so tight I 'fraid it 'll be 'mazin' oncomferble,
fer I's gwine ter pull de rope tight, an' tie um to
mighty stout lilly tree back dere — looks ef 'twor sot a
purpose.”
And in fact, Picter, after throwing the end of the rope
over the lowest limb of the pine, drew it so tight as to
slightly pull upon the neck of the trembling captive, and
then turned it once about the stem of the little tree whose
position pleased him so well, but neglected to secure it.
“Now, Bony party, I's got ter be gwine, an' I bids
yer good by. Don' hurry youse'f 'bout steppin' off de
pole; you's welcome to roos' dere jes' as lon' as you's a
mind ter; an' I hopes you'll profit by de 'tunity for 'flection.
My 'spec's to yer mas'r.”
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CHAPTER XXX.
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Picter, walking backward up the glen, absorbed in
admiration of his own ingenious mode of torture, was
startled by a hurried cry from Dora.
“Picter, Picter, I say! Hurry! run! They're coming!”
“Whar? Who does you see, missy?” gasped the bewildered
negro, as he suddenly faced about, and saw his
young mistress flying up the ravine as fast as she could
get over the ground.
“The men — I saw the guns — they're in the — wood—
coming after us. Run! run!” panted Dora, without
slackening her speed.
Lumbering along as swiftly as he could, Pic followed
in her flying footsteps, but, keeping his head turned over
his shoulder, tumbled over a loose stone, and measured
his length upon the ground. At the same instant a rifle
ball whistled through the air where his head would have
been had he remained upright.
Dora stopped, saw that her old friend had fallen,
wounded or dead, as she supposed, and rushed back as
fast as she had fled.
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“Go 'long, missy,” whispered the prostrate negro,
without stirring. “I isn' hurt; bud dey'll tink I's done
fer, an' won't min' me agin. Dey won't shoot you, bud
dey'll cotch you ef you waits. Cl'ar, I tell yer, 'fore dey
comes up.”
“O, Pic, I can't. They'll bayonet you, perhaps, even
if they do think you're dead. Can't you run?”
“No; dey'd on'y shoot agin, an' p'raps hit. Cl'ar,
honey. It's de bes' for bof.”
Dora, in an agony of doubt and terror, looked down
the ravine. Clarkson and Dick were bursting from the
underbrush just beyond the old pine, beneath which Bonaparte
still stood trembling, and, with a fierce cry of
triumph, were rushing towards them.
“I won't leave you, Picter — they're coming fast,”
said she, hoarsely.
At that moment the sound of horses' hoofs, ringing in
regular order along the rocky path crossing the head of
the ravine, struck upon the ears of both.
“Dere's de picket gwine out — holler, missy! Screech
yer pooties'!” exclaimed Pic, in an under tone.
Dora, without reply, snatched from her bosom the
silver whistle given her by Colonel Blank, and blew
through it a shrill succession of sounds in the order
agreed upon between her and Captain Karl, as a signal
of danger.
A loud shout responded from above, and a savage
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curse from below, as the piercing sounds and their meaning
reached the ears of the federal soldiers and the rebel
scouts at the same moment.
To both Dora replied with a triumphant blast upon the
whistle, as the well-known faces of a score or so of her
friends, headed by Captain Karl and the chaplain, appeared
at the head of the ravine. But the joyous sound
had not died away before the crack of two rifles from the
wood below responded angrily, and two men fell wounded
to the earth.
“Sergeant Brazer, take a couple of files of men, and
see after those fellows,” said the captain, hastily. “Fosdick,
have these poor lads carried to the hospital. — Now,
Dora Darling, tell me, this minute, how you came here,
and where you've been, and how you dared give us such
a fright. We were just going to look after you, and the
whole regiment would have gone with us, if they'd got
leave.”
But Dora, who first had laughed and then tried to
speak, when she found herself once more in safety, was
now crying as if her heart would break. Even her elastic
courage and endurance were exhausted by the scenes
of the night and morning, and the heroine gave place to
the little girl, who longed for nothing so much as her
mother's arms.
Mr. Brown quietly seated himself upon the ground beside
her, and drew her head upon his breast. “Lie there,
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Dora Darling, and cry all you will,” whispered he, tenderly.
Captain Karl posted himself at the other side, and Pic
jealously crept up to the feet of his little mistress; but
the child clung close to the strong heart so full of love
for her, and was comforted.
“Come, then, Pic, you shall tell the story,” said
Captain Karl, somewhat impatiently. “Where under
heaven have you both been, and how came you here
just now?”
Picter, nothing loath to narrate a tale where himself
played so conspicuous a part, commenced his narration
in a pompous style, considerably modified, as he went on,
by Captain Karl's frank comments upon his want of
judgment in falling into the trap, and in lingering upon
his escape until he came near being recaptured.
Dora, who gradually recovered her self-possession,
defended her sable ally with spirit, and Pic himself was
voluble in explanation and argument; so that the story
was not yet finished when Sergeant Brazer returned,
bringing the unfortunate Bonaparte as prisoner, and
reporting that he could find no trace of the rebel scouts.
Lieutenant Fosdick also reported the wounded soldiers
safely lodged in the hospital.
“Then I must go and take care of them,” said Dora,
springing to her feet.
“Will you have my horse, Dora Darling? I shall be
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most happy to relinquish him, and will put you on into
the bargain.”
“No, I thank you, Captain Karl,” said Dora, blushing
brightly as her eyes met Mr. Brown's. “I had enough
of riding the other day, when we went foraging,” added
she, laughing.
“And I should have had altogether too much of it if
you hadn't been along, Do. `I reckon,' as we say here
in Virginia, you saved my life that time.”
“By `being along'? They don't say that in Virginia,
any way,” retorted Dora, mischievously.
“Nettle! When you live in New York with me,
you'll add `being along' to `reckon.”'
“But I'm not going to live in New York with you.
I'm going to Massachusetts when we're mustered out,”
said Dora.
“`When we're mustered out!' For goodness' sake,
chaplain, hear that midget talk!” exclaimed Captain
Karl.
“What do you think of going to Ohio to live with me,
Dora, when that time comes?” asked the chaplain,
pleasantly.
Dora glanced shyly from one to the other.
“I'd like best to live with the aunt I'm going to look
for, and have you both come and see me very often,”
said she.
“You little coquette! You want to secure us both,
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do you, and keep your own liberty? There's the feminine
element cropping out with a vengeance!” exclaimed
the gay young captain. But Mr. Brown looked a little
disturbed at the turn given to the conversation, and Dora,
blushing angrily, made no reply.
“We're apt to forget what a little girl you are, after
all, Dora,” said the chaplain, pleasantly, as they reached
the entrance to the hospital, “you are so womanly in
many things.”
“And so manly in many more,” added Captain Windsor,
with a mocking salute, as he passed on.
Dora's eyes filled again with tears as she hastily sought
her own little tent; but when, a few moments later, she
reappeared, and went about her customary duties, her
face had resumed its usual sunny calm, and her manner
its wonted steadfastness.
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CHAPTER XXXI.
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“Good news, Dora Darling! The best of news!
Come out here, and you shall know it,” cried Captain
Windsor at the door of the vivandière's tent, one cold
morning, some weeks after the adventure narrated in the
last chapter.
“What is it that makes you so glad?” asked Dora,
smilingly, as she made her appearance fully dressed.
“It's a secret, you know; though, like most army secrets,
every one in this camp, and probably as many in
the rebel camp, know all about it; but, just for form's
sake, I'll whisper it in your ear, and you mustn't tell it
to any one else.”
“I won't tell,” promised Dora, seriously.
“Don't; unless, indeed, you find some one who hasn't
heard it. But, hark! we're going to have a crack at the
graybacks, and a lot of us have got the colonel to promise
to take you.”
“Into action? O, good!”
“He didn't want to; but we asked him, What's the
use of having a vivandière, if she's not to go to the scene
of action? And we've all vowed to take the best of care,
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and the chaplain is to have special charge of you, and
you're to ride in an ambulance, and the old man says
you're not to come within range till the shindy's over.”
“O, but I must! I'm going to help the wounded men
all the time, you know.”
“I know; yes, and I know, too, you'll catch it if you
don't obey orders, miss. It's as much as ever you've got
leave to go at all; and I swore till I was black in the
face that you should be kept out of harm's way. Are
you going to make me prejure myself?”
“You shouldn't promise for other people, and it's very
wrong to swear about anything,” said Dora, solemnly.
“But, my dear little parsoness, this kind of oath is
only wrong when it is broken; so, if you get yourself
into mischief, you will not only suffer in your own proper
person, but will bring deathless torment upon me for
false swearing — don't you see?”
“And I am to put on my flask, and water-keg, and all
the things?”
“Do you call that an answer to my elaborate argument,
you provoking creature? Yes, you're to be rigged
out in all your traps, not forgetting the whistle. That's
the order, by the way, and I was intrusted with it officially,
though you may think my style of delivery somewhat
unofficial.”
“And when is it to be?”
“One would think, to look at you, we were talking of
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a dance, or a picnic. Are all girls such bloodthirsty
little creatures?”
“O, Captain Karl, that's not kind! I'm not bloodthirsty
a bit.”
“Now, Do, are you quite certain about that? Don't
you really enjoy dropping a rebel, and seeing him kick?”
“Captain Karl!”
“Well, it was you, any way, that put Picter up to
rigging that poor nigger to the pine tree, that day, and
leaving him there to scare himself to death.”
“Indeed it wasn't! I begged and prayed him to let
him go,” said Dora, indignantly.
“Tell that to the marines! He's escaped — did you
know it?”
“Who, Bonaparte?”
“The bony party, as Pic calls him. Yes, he's escaped;
but whether North or South, is more than I can
tell. Pic vows he'll shoot him the minute he claps eyes
on him, if he should ever be so blessed again.”
“I hope he won't be, then.”
“O, you want to keep him for yourself — do you?
Well, perhaps we shall fall in with him to-day.”
“Is it to-day? Why didn't you say so sooner?” exclaimed
Dora.
“Time enough, young woman. Don't be in too great
a hurry. We don't move till somewhere near noon, and
it's only eight o'clock now. You're to report to the
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chaplain as soon as you're ready, however. I suppose
he's going to use the spare time in giving you good
advice, and reading you a tract or two.”
“Don't laugh at Mr. Brown, Captain Karl. I don't
like it,” said Dora, seriously.
“Laugh at him! I'd as soon laugh at a black-manea
lion. I'm awfully afraid of him — didn't you know it?
Almost as much afraid as I am of you.”
“I believe there's nothing you are afraid of, good nor
bad,” said Dora, petulantly.
“Yes, there is. I'm afraid of teasing Dora Darling
till I come to the end of her patience; so I'm going to
stop short and take myself off. Au revoir.”
“Does that mean good by?”
“It means good by till I see you again.”
“O! Then I'll say in English, Good by till I see you
again.”
Captain Karl, with a laugh, and a feint of boxing the
ears of his saucy playmate, left the tent, and strode
merrily away, singing, —
“O, saw ye the lass with the bonny blue een?”
while Dora hastened to pay a short visit to each of her
few patients before making herself ready for the excursion.
A few hours later, a column of two thousand men
wound slowly down the mountain side, with pennons
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waving, banners drooping, horses prancing, accoutrements
flashing in the wintry sunshine, while the musicians
pealed forth a triumphal march, until the welkin
rang responsive to the strains of hope and exultation.
In the rear of this brave array came a train of ambulances—
sad memorials of the price that must be paid
before these brave hearts should return as conquerors.
In one of these ambulances rode Dora Darling, doomed,
sorely against her will, to this ignominious conveyance,
instead of her own sturdy little feet. But the colonel
was inexorable. “If the vivandière is to go at all, she
must go in an ambulance,” said he; and no one dared
dispute his law. So Dora was fain to sit in silence, or
to chat with the chance visitors who, once in a while,
rode up beside her carriage, or begged a seat within, if
they chanced to be of the infantry.
Mr. Brown came more than once, and so did Captain
Karl, although the visits of the latter officer had rather
the air of a stolen pleasure, and Dora noticed that he
often looked anxiously forward to the head of the column,
where Colonel Blank's stately figure rode steadily on,
leading the van of the long array.
“I'm afraid you oughtn't to be here, by your looks,
Captain Karl,” said Dora, mischievously, at last.
“Do I look like a truant?”
“Very much.”
“Well, it is true that the old man said I had better
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keep away from you on this expedition, lest we should
both turn up at Monterey, or some other rebel settlement,
and the whole command would have to leave all to go
and rescue us.”
“Did the colonel give you an order not to talk with
me?” asked Dora, anxiously.
“O, no, — only a sort of jocose warning; but his jokes
are always rather leonine; one doesn't care to have them
carried too far.”
“You had better not come to me, then. I shouldn't
like to have to beg you off again.”
“Beg me off, you little mischief! What does that
mean?”
“Indeed, I shan't tell you. It's my secret, and I'm
not going to share it. But see — the column is halted.
Make haste back to your place, bad boy.”
Captain Windsor, with a grimace of annoyance, obeyed
the counsel of his little friend, and when Colonel Blank,
riding slowly down the column, came opposite Company
Z, its youthful commander stood with military precision
at his appointed station.
A short halt for rest was now allowed, and a company
from the — Ohio was deployed for skirmishers, although
the scouts had reported the rebels entirely withdrawn
from the vicinity of Cheat Mountain.
Dora gladly took the opportunity of escaping from her
moving prison, and scrambled gayly up the steep hill
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under which her ambulance had halted, looking for nuts
and wild flowers. Under a great chestnut she found a
group of her own men, among them Merlin, feasting
upon such spoils as the squirrels had left to them.
The vivandière was greeted with cordial exclamations
of welcome, and while Merlin spread his great-coat for a
seat, his comrades collected all the chestnuts they could
lay hands on, and poured into her lap.
Dora laughingly protested against thus depriving her
friends of their treat; but, as the readiest spokesman
of the party eagerly said for the rest, it did them all
far more good to see “the daughter” eat chestnuts,
than to feast on roast turkey themselves.
Dora, in turn, insisted that they should at least partake
with her; and the men, throwing themselves upon the
grass, surrounded her with an admiring circle, where
quiet jokes and modest laughter from the courtiers mingled
with sage bits of counsel, or information from the
little queen.
Suddenly, with a glitter of embroidery, a jangle of
scabbards, a nodding of plumes, a group of staff officers
appeared upon the scene, accompanied by Colonel Blank,
who, pausing in his conversation as his eyes fell upon
the merry circle, frowned and bit his mustache.
“Upon my word,” lisped a fair-haired aide-de-camp,
raising his glass to look at Dora, “these fellows are
more fortunate than their betters. What sunburnt beauty
have we here?”
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“It is the vivandière of my regiment, Lieutenant Cyprus,”
said Colonel Blank, so haughtily that the young
fellow, dropping his eye-glass and his flippant manner at
once, merely bowed a reply, and strolled away.
“I have heard of the vivandière of the Twenty —
Ohio,” said, courteously, a fine-looking, gray-haired cavalry
officer. “Will you introduce her, colonel?”
“Certainly, captain. Men, return to your lines, and
be ready to fall in directly. Dora, come here. This is
Dora Darling, Captain Bracken.”
“I am glad to see you, my dear,” said the elder officer,
kindly extending his hand. “I have heard of your
attachment to the Union cause, and the good service
you have done our wounded soldiers, and I am glad also
to thank you, in behalf of all Union men, for your devotion
to the cause.”
“Thank you, sir, for saying so; but it's only a little
that I can do compared with what you and the other
leaders are doing,” said Dora, with shy self-possession.
“Did you ever read about the mouse and the lion, my
dear?” asked the captain, smiling.
“No, sir. Mr. Brown hasn't many books here, and I
never had any others. It doesn't tell about a mouse and
lion in any of them, I think.”
“Well, you must ask Mr. Brown to tell you about it,
when he has time. And what do you expect to do at
Camp Baldwin to-day?”
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“Is that where we are going, sir?”
“Yes. We are expecting to reconnoitre there much
after the fashion of the other day at Camp Bartow.”
“There will be fighting, then?”
“I hope so.”
“Then there will be wounded men, and I shall carry
them water and spirits; and if they are faint I shall give
them hartshorn, and let them smell at the salts, and so
keep them up till the surgeons come. That is what they
have me for.”
“O, that is what they have you for! And aren't
you proud of holding so prominent a position?”
“I have nothing to be proud of, sir, for I have not
had a chance to do anything yet,” said Dora, modestly.
“Well, my daughter, I think you will have before the
day is out,” said the captain, good-humoredly. “But
mind that you keep out of the way of danger.”
“I can't do that, sir.”
“And why not?”
“Because, then I couldn't do any good, sir.”
“It won't do any good to yourself to get shot. You
must remember that you have to take care of yourself
first of all.”
Dora's eyes flashed.
“If you really thought so, sir, you wouldn't be here
to-day. That isn't the rule for a soldier.”
“But you're not a soldier, my little girl,” persisted the
captain, laughing.
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“No, sir; but I'm not a coward, and it is only a
coward who would leave his duty undone for fear of
getting hurt.”
“And it's only a very brave and true-hearted little
girl who could fill your place, Dora Darling.”
“I'm afraid I don't half fill it myself,” said Dora,
simply.
“Good by for the present, my dear, and remember, at
least, that we who fill important positions have no right
to be other than careful of our lives. The Twenty —
could ill spare their vivandière.”
“Good by, sir,” said Dora, saluting with military
precision.
“Take care of that girl,” Colonel Blank, said the elder
officer, as they moved away. “She's an original, and a
very valuable one, too; a beauty, with all the rest.”
“Beauty is her smallest charm in my eyes,” said the
colonel, enthusiastically. “She is meant for something
better than camp life. I am thinking of sending her
home to my wife for a daughter. We have none of our
own.”
“Not till the war is over. She has a `vocation' for
heroism, evidently. You musn't deprive her of her opportunities.”
“I don't like to have her so much with the men,” said
the colonel, discontentedly.
“It's the very thing many of them need,” replied the
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captain, gravely. “A humanizing influence may be the
saving of many a wild fellow among them, and no influence
is stronger than that of a young and enthusiastic
woman.”
“Dora is not a woman.”
“It is hard to remember that, when one hears her
talk; and she is of woman's stature already.”
“Still she is but fourteen, and is yet young enough to
be taught all that she lacks. I shall certainly adopt her
as my own daughter,” rejoined the colonel, decidedly, his
previous vague desire suddenly strengthened into a purpose
by his friend's admiration of its object.
The order to fall in was now given, and the column
was soon in motion. An hour later it wound into the
valley of the Green Brier, and Dora, with intense interest,
identified the scene of the battle she had witnessed
some months before.
“There is where the rebels lay in ambush, and just
here is where our men stood waiting for General Reynolds
to come up,” said she to the driver of the ambulance;
“and up there was Loomis's battery, and there was,
Howe's; and O, do you remember how Captain Daum
took his one gun away up there, and how the poor little
German ran away, and Captain Daum whipped him with
his sword? — And now we come in sight of Buffalo Hill.
I never knew, till last night, that the rebels had left their
camp there. Why did they, do you suppose?”
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“I guess they was too scart to stop any longer,”
drawled the driver, with a triumphant grin upon his
broad face.
“And up there is where Pic, and I, and poor old Jump
were hiding in the woods. Poor Jump! he took cold
that night, I'm afraid, for he died a few weeks ago,”
added Dora, mournfully.
“The hosses fares as well as the men, only their
widers don't get no pinsions. That's all the odds,” said
the man, a little bitterly.
“O, but the men are fighting for their country, and for
liberty, and for glory, you know. They come to the war,
and go through all sorts of things, because they know it's
right, and they couldn't be happy to stay away; and the
horses, poor things, just come because they can't help it.
So they are to be pitied a great deal more than the men—
don't you see?” argued Dora, enthusiastically.
“Don' know as I do. I didn't come for none of those
things, and I guess there ain't many as did.”
“Why, what else did you come for?” asked the vivandi
ère, incredulously.
“I come for thirteen dollars a month, rations, clothes,
and four hundred dollars bounty,” replied the driver,
stolidly; “and I guess, miss, that's about all the glory
the most of them fellers trudging along there expect or
care for.”
“I'm sorry you think so, but I don't believe you're
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right,” said Dora, rather loftily; and after that she made
no more conversation with her escort.
Passing over the field of the previous battle, the Union
forces marched without opposition to the foot of the hill
that at their last visit had bristled with hostile bayonets,
and launched flames and death upon them from a
score of iron throats. Camp Bartow lay beneath the
wintry sky, silent and deserted, the lonely burial-ground
of many a malignant traitor, and many a deluded follower
of men more subtle and more wicked than himself.
Again the federal force was halted, and this time
within the deserted camp. It was now eight o'clock in
the evening, and the wearied troops were allowed ample
time for rest and refreshment, although no fires were allowed,
as the expedition was intended to be kept as secret
as possible, until it should reach its destination, now generally
known to be Camp Baldwin, the rebel fortified
stronghold upon the summit of Mount Alleghany. To this
place the garrison of Camp Bartow had withdrawn soon
after the battle of Green Brier, and had there been reenforced,
so that the present garrison was estimated at
from two to three thousand men.
To oppose this force, General Milroy led, as has already
been stated, about two thousand Union troops, and the
plan of operation was now declared.
The Ninth Indiana and Second Virginia regiments,
comprising about half the force, received orders to march
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along the river side upon the old “Greenbank road,”
with the purpose of attacking the enemy upon his left,
while the Ohio regiments, with the Thirteenth Indiana
and Bracken's cavalry, were to keep the Staunton turnpike
until reaching a position where they could take the
enemy upon his right, and coöperate with their comrades
on the left.
The different regiments were hardly detailed for these
two divisions, when the order came to march, and was
immediately obeyed by the Ohio and Indiana boys, accompanied
by the dauntless Bracken cavalry.
An hour later the other division followed them, and
Camp Bartow was left once more to the foxes, and the
owls, and the lonely winter night.
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CHAPTER XXXII.
[figure description] Page 312.[end figure description]
The cheerless dawn broke at last, and Dora, shivering
as she wrapped her cloak about her, jumped impatiently
from the ambulance.
“What are we waiting for?” asked she, at length, of
the driver, after wandering about for a few minutes, in
the vain effort to restore her chilled circulation, and gain
some clew to the provoking detention that was causing
an impatient murmur all along the line.
“Don't know, miss, but guess it's so that the rebs shall
be sure to find out we're a coming, and get breakfast
cooked all ready.”
“Dora!” said a low voice at her elbow.
“Captain Karl — is it you?”
“Yes; I've run back to see how you were getting on
in this confounded chilly place.”
“I'm a little cold, but it's no great matter,” said Dora,
cheerfully. “What are we waiting for?”
“To hear something from those other fellows. A scout
has just come in to say the road is all blocked up with
timber, and the last three miles of their route is just like
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crawling up a wall. They won't be in for the fight, any
way; so I don't see the use of stopping here. We might
as well go ahead, and gather our own laurels, without
regard to theirs.”
“What a pity! But they knew the road would be
steep, I suppose.”
“Yes, but they couldn't know of the timber, 'cause
why, the graybacks have just cut it. Secret expedition
indeed! I'll bet my head to a China orange they've been
standing to their guns all night waiting for us, and are
as disgusted at this delay as I am.”
“It's getting lighter, any way. Hark! There's
firing ahead.”
“Yes. Our advance has met their pickets, I suppose.
Well, there's no more use in trying to keep dark; I suppose
we may go in now.”
And, in fact, the order to march followed Captain
Karl's last words so instantly, that he had hardly time to
regain his company before it was in motion.
Leaving the road, the division now began ascending
the steep and wooded mountain, over rocks and briers,
pitfalls and felled timber, for about a mile, when it was
again halted in the skirt of a wood, with the enemy's
camp in full view.
The general commanding, who had remained with this
division, now perceived that he must commence the attack
single-handed, as there was no appearance of the
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other force, and the rebels were drawn up within their
lines in battle array.
A company of the Indiana men were deployed upon
the right, and one of the Ohio volunteers upon the left.
Among these was Merlin, who, finding himself at the
extremity of the line, and hidden among brushwood from
observation, either of the enemy or his own comrades,
resolved to imitate, in some degree, the hero of Bunker
Hill, who was found “fighting upon his own hook.”
Creeping cautiously forward to the edge of the woods,
he found himself within a hundred yards of one of the
cabins within the fortification, and noticed, with some
indignation, a rebel officer standing in the doorway, and
haranguing his men vehemently, emphasizing his remarks
by contemptuous gestures towards the federal force.
Carefully raising his rifle, Merlin took deliberate aim,
and was just about to pull the trigger, when the slight
noise of cocking a piece arrested his attention, and,
glancing aside, he caught the glitter of a pair of eyes
sighting along a clouded barrel, at about half the distance
from him that he was from the officer.
A single glance was sufficient, and the Kentuckian
dropped prostrate behind the log he had used for a rest,
just as the flash and “ping” of the rifle heralded the
ball meant for his brain, but now whizzing harmlessly
some eighteen inches above it. A rebel sharpshooter
had evidently been seized with the same idea as
Merlin, and was merely halting on his path to glory and
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the Union forces to give a quietus to the venturous Kentuckian.
Creeping along to the end of his log, Merlin very
slowly and carefully peered around it. The experiment
had nearly been a fatal one, for another bullet whistled
so close to his head as to cut his hair.
“Come, then, we'll have it out,” muttered he, looking
about him for a cover that would allow of more motion
than the small log where he now lay.
Close behind him rose a giant chestnut, with wide,
gnarled trunk, capable of concealing three men of Merlin's
slender figure. He immediately decided to reach
this; but it was necessary, first, to draw the rebel's fire,
and make the transit while he was reloading. Lying flat
upon his back, and holding his hat upon a short stick
lying conveniently at hand, he very gently raised it until
the crown was just above the edge of the log, then suddenly
dodged it down as if panic-stricken, and again
cautiously raised it. But the rebel sharpshooter was not
to be cheated by so old an artifice as this, and shouted
indignantly, —
“You needn't try to come the gum game over this old'
coon, you cussed Yankee!”
“Reckon I ain't afraid to meet you face to face, if
that's your game,” shouted Merlin in reply, and suddenly
sprang to his feet, but at the farther extremity of the log
from that where he had shown the hat. As he rose he
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made a spring diagonally back, that brought him abreast
of the chestnut, and the same instant he was sheltered
behind it. The rebel bullet cut the bark from the tree as
he disappeared, and the marksman shouted angrily, —
“Yes, you can jump about like a squ'rr'l; but you
hain't got the heart of one, for all your talk.”
Without reply, Merlin, peering round the trunk of his
tree, took a rapid aim, and fired at the spot where he
supposed his enemy to be hidden, although he could not
be certain, as the latter had disappeared to reload.
A contemptuous laugh replied to him.
“Did you see a fox or sumthin' over there, stranger?”
inquired the voice.
Merlin was too busy in reloading to reply. As he
drove home the ball, he glanced again toward the thicket,
sure that his antagonist would now be taking another
aim. His eye caught the gleam of the clouded barrel,
and, as the flash blazed from its mouth, Merlin, quick as
light, sprang to the other side of the tree, and fired at
the spot where the little cloud of smoke was hardly yet
beginning to ascend.
A loud cry, succeeded by a stifled groan, told that the
hasty aim had been a true one.
Merlin paused to reload his rifle, and then cautiously
approached the thicket. Parting the thick underbrush,
he discovered his antagonist crouching to the ground and
pressing both hands upon his throat, while a spasm of
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agony distorted his features. But no sooner did the head
of the Kentuckian appear above the bushes, than the fellow,
springing to his feet with a pistol in his hand, discharged
it full in his face, roaring out, —
“Take that, and go to —, you — Yankee!”
The pistol snapped, but did not explode. Quick as
thought descended the breech of Merlin's gun, dashing
the weapon from the hands of his enemy, and nearly prostrating
him to the earth. With a howl of rage, he drew
from his belt a bowie knife, and rushed forward. Dropping
his rifle, the Kentuckian snatched a similar weapon
from its sheath, and braced himself to receive the attack.
So furious was the onset of the rebel, that Merlin's slender
figure went down before it, and both men rolled upon
the earth, silent now, except for an occasional snarl of
rage from the rebel, and the deep-drawn breaths of the
other, whose first impulse was to act upon the defensive.
Presently, however, a sharp thrill shot through his frame,
as the knife of the rebel entered his side, and, failing to
reach the heart, glanced along a rib, inflicting a painful,
though not dangerous, wound. The sting of this wound,
the feeling of his own blood gushing over his hands, the
sight of the fell triumph in the face of his enemy, roused
at last the sleeping devil in Merlin's heart. The blood
rushed to his head, and sung through his brain; a red
glare filled his eyes; the same bloodthirsty rage seized
upon him that had led him in the hospital to the side of
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Judson's bed; and all thought of self-defence, all lingering
instinct of mercy, was swept away before it. With
a wild cry, he wrenched his arm out of the rebel's grasp,
seized him relentlessly by the throat, and, even while
bearing him to the earth, stabbed him to the heart, and
repeated the blow again and again, until only a motionless
corpse lay beneath him.
Perceiving this at length, the Kentuckian rose to his
feet, and wiped his forehead. The frenzy passed away,
and he looked gloomily down at the lifeless form so lately
full of vigor and animosity.
“Well, he'd 'a done for me, if I hadn't for him; but I
don't like this business, any way; it makes a man feel
more like a devil than a human.”
Turning the body upon its back, Merlin decently
straightened the limbs, and laid the man's own cap over
the rigid face, and his rifle at his side.
“Don't like this privateering. Reckon I'll stop in the
ranks, and drop 'em at long range, after this,” muttered
he, picking up his own gun, and creeping out of the
thicket as stealthily as a murderer might. And through
that day, and upon many another stricken field, Harry
Merlin fought manfully and well: he ever avoided individual
contests; ever remembered, to his dying day, the
look upon that dead man's face as he lay stiffening in the
lonely thicket, his heart's blood reddening the grass beneath
him.
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CHAPTER XXXIII.
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Meanwhile the battle raged with alternating success.
Four times the rebels charged with ferocious determination
upon the little band of Union men, and as often were
repulsed with frightful slaughter. But still no sound
denoted that an attack had commenced upon the other
side of the camp, and the enemy had evidently been
heavily reënforced since the federal spies had reported
his numbers. The odds were terrific in favor of the
rebels, and only a spirit of chivalrous bravery, and a
determination not to desert the comrades who might at
any moment come into action, justified the continuance
of the combat.
A hurried consultation among the leaders of the division
was held. Colonel Blank, heated, blood-stained,
and grimly despairing, announced the necessity of falling
back.
“There is no sign that Moody and Owens are even
within hearing. I have sent out scouts, who can bring
no tidings of them. These fellows outnumber us four to
one, and have their line of cabins as cover, while we are
fully exposed. Our ammunition is nearly expended, and
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I see no possibility of continuing the struggle, although I
am not used to be the first to cry, `Enough.' Even now
I will head a charge upon those lines, and do the best
I may before I am cut down, if you and the men will
follow.”
“What's to be gained by it? We can't expect to take
the place by storm with this handful of men,” responded
the leader of the Indiana corps.
“Of course not. The only gain would be a very sufficient
escort of rebels to the other world. I should be
sorry if our fellows did not average three apiece.”
“We all know your courage, colonel,” interposed the
gallant cavalry captain; “but foolhardiness is not courage;
and if no more's to be done here, we must make up
our minds to withdraw. We have had three hours of it
already, and the other division is evidently to be of no
use to-day.”
“Here they come! We won't run before them! Receive
this charge, and when they draw off, I will order
the retreat!” exclaimed the colonel, hurriedly; and each
officer hastened to sustain his own command.
On came the rebels with shouts and curses. Steady
as a rocky shore stood the Union men to receive them.
The distance lessened, and yet each withheld his fire —
the federals to save their scanty ammunition, the rebels
from bravado. A hundred feet alone separated the
lines: eyes met the glare of hostile eyeballs, curses and
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taunts became articulate, and the blood of the silent
Northerners boiled within their veins.
“Fire!”
“Fire!”
And along either line moved a writhing serpent of
flame, as a thousand rifles gave up their contents in a
breath. Men fell, on either side, as fall the autumn
leaves when the north wind smites them in its wrath;
but none quailed. The Union men in their turn charged,
with bayonets fixed, and vengeance in their eyes. Resistlessly
they bore down upon the rebel line, that faltered,
broke, retreated; and many a traitor fell stabbed
in the back as he fled towards the shelter of his camp.
“Forward, my boys! Follow them up! Remember
Manassas! Remember Guyandotte! Give it them
while we have the chance.”
So shouted, at the head of his men, Captain Karl,
himself far in advance, his fair hair blowing backward
in the keen wind, his blue eyes flashing, his face pallid
with excitement, his clinched sword gleaming above his
uncovered head.
A hoarse shout of mingled enthusiasm and revenge
answered his appeal, as the men dashed forward in his
footsteps.
Many of them had shared the disgraceful rout of
Manassas; several had lost their nearest friends in the
massacre of Guyandotte; the rest had heard and read
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of the rebel atrocities on both fields; the cool northern
blood was stirred to frenzy, and it was not a company of
men, but of heroes, who followed the springing lead of
that fair young Viking.
The guns were empty, but the keen sabre bayonets
remained, and Company Z charged through the rebel
line as they might through a hedge of roses.
“Stop, you confounded cowards! Don't you dare
face us on your own ground?” roared Captain Karl,
while his men scattered right and left, adroitly cutting
off the retreat of their flying foes.
“Who said coward?” cried a deep voice, as a tall
young fellow extricated himself from a knot of retreating
rebels, and turned to face his taunting pursuer.
“Here's the man who said it,” contemptuously retorted
Captain Karl, aiming a furious blow at the other's
head.
“You're a liar, then!” shouted the swarthy young
rebel, as he adroitly parried the blow with his gun-barrel,
and then thrust with his bayonet at the captain's
heart.
A sidelong spring evaded the attack, and the next
instant Captain Karl dashed the pommel of his broken
sword into the face of his antagonist, and pinioning him
with his arms, loudly demanded a surrender.
“I'll see you — first,” panted the rebel, struggling
to reach his knife. But, with a dexterous movement,
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Captain Karl laid him prostrate at his feet, and in the
same instant, himself snatched the knife from the rebel's
belt, and holding it to his throat, again offered quarter.
The reply was a movement so sudden and so energetic,
that Captain Karl suddenly found himself dragged to the
ground, disarmed, and at the mercy of his antagonist,
who, with a grim smile, flashed the glittering blade above
his head, and with his eye measured its deadly aim.
Too proud to ask for quarter, the young hero looked
sternly up at the unrelenting face bent over him, and in
his heart bade good by to earth and life. Blood from a
deep wound in the rebel's throat dropped down, and
plashed upon the face of the Union soldier.
“Coward, am I?” exclaimed the victor. “There's
one for that! And here's one for this cut in my throat.”
With the first words the knife descended across the
captain's cheek; at the next it was poised above his
heart, when a piercing voice cried, —
“Tom! Tom Darley! O, stop!”
Without relaxing his grasp, the rebel turned an astonished
face towards the direction of the sound.
A tall, slight figure, in a dress half womanly, half
soldierly, was flying towards him, with eager eyes, pallid
lips, and outstretched arms.
“Dora!” exclaimed he, softly.
“Tom, it's I. Tom, it's your own sister! O, Tom,
let him go!”
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Her arms were tight about his neck, her face pressed
close to his, her gasping appeal sobbing in his ear, —
“O, Tom, if you kill him, you'll kill me.”
“Dora! Why, how came you here?”
“Move! move off his chest. Tom, you've killed him;
you've killed my own dear Captain Karl!”
“Here, you reb, you're my prisoner. What's this!
Killed our captain? Wish't I'd shot you in the first place.
Run to the woods, Miss Dora, and send out a couple of
men for his body. I'll bring on this —”
“No, no! we'll bring him now. Tom, you'll help, —
won't you? For my sake, Tom; and you'll promise not
to escape till we get to the ambulance — won't you? He's
my brother, Simpson!”
“Your brother, miss? More's the pity,” said the soldier,
bluntly. “Well, catch hold there, if you're going
to, lad, and keep your parole, if you don't want to find
what's inside this six-shooter of mine. It's loaded, I
promise you. I guess, by the looks of your neck, though,
you don't feel very spry.”
Tom, whose warlike mood had received a check in
the sudden appearance of his sister, and who was also
somewhat faint from the profuse bleeding of the wound
in his throat, gave a sullen promise to make no attempt
to escape; and the two men, raising the inanimate body
of the young captain, bore it hurriedly to the shelter of
the woods. Already the leaders of the different
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commands were rallying them for the retreat, and Dora had
barely time to make sure that life yet lingered in the
frame of her wounded hero, when he was again raised
between two men, and borne down the mountain side to
the ambulance.
Repressing her own inclination to follow him, Dora
devoted herself to searching the tangled thickets of the
wood for wounded sufferers who were likely to be overlooked,
giving them refreshment and comfort, and summoning
to their aid some one of the parties detailed to
carry away the wounded and dead. Many a fainting
soldier of the Union, many a helpless sufferer, owed his
life that day to the exertions of the bright-eyed girl, who
heeded no danger, shunned no fatigue, nerved herself to
endure all fearful sights, that she might fulfil the noble
duty she had undertaken.
She was still bending over a poor boy mortally
wounded in the breast, to whose dying lips she held the
water they so madly craved, when Mr. Brown stood
beside her, and laid a hand upon her head.
“Dora, why did you leave the spot where I placed
you? I have been very anxious,” said he, with tender
severity.
“I saw men lying wounded nearer the enemy, and I
went to give them help. O, Mr. Brown! This poor
boy!”
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“He is dying. Let me hold his head. Do not look
at him.”
Softly laying the poor convulsed frame upon the turf,
the chaplain knelt beside it, praying fervently and silently
for the brave young spirit, that each throe set free, and,
when all was over, beckoned to a party of ambulance
men, who would carry it away for Christian sepulture.
Then taking Dora's hand, he led her away.
“You saw wounded men; but I told you to remain in
safety where you were until I gave you permission to go
to them. I went forward to see if the enemy persisted
in his attack at that point, because, if so, I would not
have you put yourself in the way. When I came back
you were gone; and much of the good that I might
have done to-day has gone undone, because I was seeking
for you.”
“That was wrong, I think,” said Dora, abstractedly.
“What was wrong?”
“To be looking for me instead of helping the wounded
soldiers. It wasn't half so much matter for one girl as
for hundreds of men.”
“Dora, it was more matter to me what had become
of you, than the fate of both armies together,” said the
chaplain, impetuously.
Dora looked up with astonishment at the noble face
bent towards her, the traces of strong emotion on all its
lineaments, tear-drops actually glistening in the eyes.
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“I didn't know you cared so much about me, sir,”
said she, simply.
“I care more than you think,” replied the chaplain,
recovering with an effort his usual manner.
“Now tell me how it happened that you disobeyed me
so entirely; for I hear that you were seen in the very
heart of the battle.”
“I went forward a little from the rock where you left
me, to carry drink to some men wounded by a cannon-ball,
not a great way from me. Then I saw others, a
great many others, and I went to them all, and then
filled my cask again at a brook I found. Then I was
going back, and I heard a great shouting among the rebels,
and knew they were coming on, and I wanted to see
the charge; so I ran forward to the top of a little hill,
just behind our men. I kept behind a tree, — indeed, I
did, sir, — and was very careful, till all at once I saw
Captain Karl dashing forward at the head of his company;
and he looked so glorious, sir! O, I think not
one of those knights of the Round Table ever looked
more knightly! And the men rushed after him, and
went right through the rebels, scattering them every way.
Then they all broke up, and fought in little groups of
two and three together, and Captain Karl —”
“Always that boy!” muttered the chaplain.
“He chased after the rebels,” pursued Dora, without
heeding the exclamation; “and all at once one of them
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turned round, and faced him. Mr. Brown, it was my
brother Tom!”
“Well, what then?”
“Then they fought. I don't know about that part,
for I felt so; and I set out to run and stop them; but it
seemed as if a cannon-ball was tied to each of my feet.
I was so very, very eager to get there in time, I could
hardly stir. But I did get there: I got there just as
Tom had lifted his arm; and Captain Karl lay quite
still; and in the next minute the knife would have come
down — O, Mr. Brown, I can't tell any more.”
Wrenching her hand out of the chaplain's grasp, Dora
hurried on before him; nor did he again see her face
until they reached the ambulance train, where the vivandi
ère found immediate and full employment.
Captain Karl, with his wounds dressed, and sitting upright,
greeted his little friend after his usual merry fashion.
“Dora Darling, is it you? Next time I'm attacked, I
shall sing out, not, `I'll tell my big brother,' but, `I'll tell
my little sister.' Did any one ever see such a spooney
fellow as I am, though? The minute I'm hurt, I faint
just like a girl. A girl, though! I wish to Heaven
most of the men I know had your pluck, Dora — girl
though you are!”
“You're not badly hurt, then, after all?” asked Dora,
anxiously. “I thought you were killed at first.”
“Thank you. You took it coolly enough, then. What
has become of that big ruffian you picked off of me? I
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was just going when you came up, and couldn't see what
way you pitched in: all I knew was, that it was you, and
that I was sure of protection. You've no idea what a
relief I found it, to be able to drop off comfortably, leaving
my affairs in such good hands.”
Dora could not respond to the laugh that rang so
merrily from the captain's pale lips.
“It was my brother that you were fighting with,”
said she, gravely.
“Your brother! Why, Dora Darling, I'm ever so
glad neither of us killed the other, it would have made
you feel so sorry.”
Dora looked at him without reply for a moment, then
briefly said, —
“You don't know much about it, Captain Karl. Now
I'm going to see Tom.”
But Dora found her brother sullen, and disinclined for
conversation. He was much chagrined at being taken
prisoner, declaring that he would rather have been shot
upon the field. The wound in his throat was deep and
painful, and the bruise lent him by the pummel of the
captain's sword had resulted in a racking headache. Altogether,
Tom was very poor company; and Dora, after
vainly trying to render him more comfortable, was fain
to offer her services elsewhere.
The first division, exhausted, dispirited, and without
ammunition, were now re-formed in column, ready for
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retreat, when a scattering fire, upon the crest of the
mountain, announced that the comrades whose failure
to coöperate with them had, as all felt, lost the day to
the Union forces, were at last engaged single-handed
with the enemy.
To help them was now impossible, and an order was
despatched to their comrades intimating that retreat was
the only course left open to either division. This counsel,
so repugnant to the hearts of the brave leaders, was
not immediately followed; but, after a dodging, unsatisfactory
engagement of several hours, it was seen to be
the inevitable termination of the affair; and the second
division sullenly and reluctantly drew off the bloody
field, bringing their dead and wounded with them, and
leaving traces of their prowess in many a rebel corpse,
or maimed and wounded sufferer.
At noon the whole force was again in motion, and,
some hours later, reëntered their own works, neither
jubilant nor despairing; for, although the Stars and Bars
still waved over Camp Baldwin, the number of its defenders
had been considerably lessened by that morning's
work, and the Union soldiers had for seven hours sustained
a close combat with an enemy outnumbering
them as three to one. Indeed, as Sergeant Brazer pithily
observed, —
“It might have been better, and it might have been
worse; but if fighting's a man's trade, he can't have too
much of it, whichever way it turns.”
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CHAPTER XXXIV.
[figure description] Page 331.[end figure description]
Captain Windsor and Tom Darley were both placed
in the hospital, although in different divisions, and Dora
paid assiduous attention to both.
The captain's wounds were, in themselves, slight; but
his constitution, more nervous than enduring, had become
seriously impaired from the effects of his former wounds,
and from the exposure and fatigue which he delighted to
share with the hardiest of his men. He was, therefore,
earnestly recommended by the surgeon, and by Colonel
Blank, to accept a furlough, and go home to be nursed
back to health and strength.
This advice the captain received with unalloyed disgust,
and only consented to think seriously of it on finding
that he gained no strength under hospital treatment,
but, in fact, declined from day to day.
“You must be gone from here before winter fairly sets
in, or they'll leave your bones on this mountain, my
lad,” was the surgeon's parting counsel at the end of a
long conversation with his patient.
Captain Karl lay silent for some time, and then called
to Dora, —
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“Come here, darling, and tell me what I'm to do.
I've got to be such a worthless fellow, they won't keep
me here any longer, even with you to back me up. The
doctor says I must go home, and the colonel threatens to
send me as a prisoner if I won't go on my own accord.
They say I'll die here.”
“O, then, go, do go, as soon as you can, dear Captain
Karl.”
“I'll go fast enough. You needn't be in such a hurry
to be rid of me; and please don't frighten me out of my
senses with that indignant look, because I've something
to say. I'm not fit to travel alone any more than a baby—
now, am I? Suppose the horses were to run away, or
the cars smash up, or some one leave a window open on
my back; and how under the sun could I tell how much
sugar I like in my tea?”
Dora smiled faintly.
“Your servant is a smart fellow — isn't he?”
“Well enough. But I want some one who knows
more than any servant — more than I do myself. Dora
Darling, if I can't have you to go with me, I'll stay here
and die, and then I'll haunt you every night.”
Dora stared at him speechlessly.
“Me!” exclaimed she.
“Certainly; why not? I've always meant to take
you home with me, when I went, for a present to my
mother and sister. The only trouble I foresee is, that,
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if it is a possible thing to do it, they will spoil you out
and out; or, failing in that, will kill you with kindness.
However, we must risk it.”
“Please tell me seriously what you mean, Captain
Karl.”
“Well, then, seriously, Dora, I mean to ask you to
go home to my dear good mother, to be another daughter
to her, and a sister to Marnie and me for the rest of your
natural life. It is the warmest wish of my heart, Dora
Darling, and I think, possibly enough, may make the
difference of life and death to me upon my journey.”
“But your mother don't know —”
“Don't she, though? Haven't I told her all about
you, and about your going foraging with me the other
day, and about your ways with the men, and all? and
didn't she say in her very last letter that I was to do as
seemed best to myself about bringing you home, and that
if I adopted you as my sister, you should be a daughter
to her? Now, then, Miss Sceptic!”
“Did she really and truly say that?” asked Dora,
flushing all over, as a sudden vision of a home, a mother,
a sister, and her dear Captain Karl for a brother, rose
before her mental vision.
“Really and truly, dear little Do,” said the young
soldier, tenderly. “And now promise to be ready to go
with me, and then I'll be off to sleep — I'm so tired
talking.”
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“I oughtn't to have let you,” said Dora, with much
concern. “Don't say one word more, but shut your
eyes, and I will smooth your hair till you sleep. We
will talk about the rest after you wake up. I must think
about it, and talk with Mr. Brown before I can make up
my mind. Only I will tell you now how very, very
kind I think it of you and your dear mother to want to
have me come; and I shall never forget it as long as I
live. There, I shan't speak again, nor you mustn't.”
“Sing, then,” murmured the young man; and the sweet
girl voice softly crooned a lullaby until the fevered lips
of the invalid parted in the smile of a happy dream, and
his little nurse, screening his eyes from the light, crept
softly away, to think of what he had said.
In the outer tent she met the chaplain.
“Mr. Brown, I should like so much to talk with you a
little.”
“Come, then. I was just looking for you, to propose
a walk. It is cold, but it will do you good.”
“Thank you, sir. Wait a moment, please, till I get
my cloak and cap.”
A few moments later found teacher and pupil briskly
walking along the outer line of fortification, in their
progress around the camp.
“Captain Karl is going home,” began Dora, abruptly,
as she found her companion waiting for her to begin the
conversation.
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“I am glad to hear it,” said Mr. Brown, heartily.
Dora paused a little.
“Why, sir?” asked she, at length.
“Because it is the best thing he can do for himself,
and I shall feel easier as to your safety. He is always
leading you into danger.”
“I don't think you like Captain Karl as well as he
deserves, Mr. Brown,” said Dora, impetuously.
“Don't you, indeed? And are you so much better
judge than I of what he deserves?” asked the chaplain,
coldly.
“Yes, sir, I think I am.”
“Dora, you are in danger of becoming self-conceited,
and a little too free in criticising the conduct and judgment
of those older than yourself,” said Mr. Brown,
severely.
“I am sorry you think so, sir; but you asked me if I
knew better about Captain Karl than you, and I thought
I did. Shouldn't I answer truly?”
“Why, yes. But you shouldn't think so.”
“I heard you say once, sir, that free thought was more
precious than free speech,” said Dora, demurely.
The chaplain bit his lip.
“Well, tell me how it is you have formed so much
juster an estimate of Captain Windsor's character than
I have been able to.”
“I think, sir, it is because I like him. And besides I
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think he feels as if you expected people to — to look up
to you, and speak differently from what young men generally
do to each other, and so he feels more like talking
in his wild way than ever. Then I think you don't like
it that he isn't more careful, and treats you just as he
does Captain Hunt, or any of the rest of them; and so
you both keep feeling wrong when you are together, and
so don't like each other.”
“You're making me out rather a prig, Dora,” said the
chaplain, smiling, and coloring a little.
“I don't know what that is, sir. But I wish you liked
Captain Karl better, because I like you both so much,
and want to have you friends.”
“Well, we won't say any more about it now. What
were you going to tell me?”
“Why, it was about him, sir. He is going home, and
he wants me to go with him, and be his sister. His
mother has written to give him leave to bring me, and he
says perhaps he won't live unless he has me to take care
of him.”
“Go home with him, to remain always?” exclaimed
the chaplain, stopping short, and looking at Dora in a
terrified sort of way.
“Yes, sir. His mother to be my mother, and his sister
my sister.”
“And he —?”
“Why, he would be my brother.”
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“And you, Dora, what is your own inclination in the
matter?”
“I should like so much to go, sir — to have a home
and family again; and I know I should love them all!
But how can I leave the soldiers? I am the daughter
of the regiment, and if I can do it any good, I have no
more right to leave it than the colonel has. Isn't it so,
Mr. Brown?”
“Yes, dear child, it is so. And you can do — you are
doing — inconceivable good among these men. My influence,
indeed, is secondary to your own. It would be
a cruel loss, a wicked deprivation to them, for you to go
away.”
He paused, too much agitated to say more. Dora
walked by his side a few moments in silence, and then
said, quietly, —
“If it is so, I will stay.”
“And not the men alone, Dora. I — what should I do
without my dear little friend, my scholar, my right hand
in all good works that I have done here? You will not
leave me, Dora?”
“O, Mr. Brown, am I all that?”
“All that, and more, Dora Darling; far more than I
can tell you now. I never thought of your leaving us, or
I would have spoken sooner; but I, too, have my plan for
you — a plan that has been maturing in my mind for
many weeks. I have no mother to take you to, no sister
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to offer you as a companion; but I myself, Dora, will be
to you brother, father, guardian, all that a man may be
to the most precious charge God could give him, if only
you will let me. My home, as I have told you, is in a
little village of Ohio. My parishioners allowed me to
leave them for this service at my earnest request, but
they expect me back to live among them for life. There
is an excellent woman, a woman who has been to me
like a mother, among them. In her charge I will place
you for a while, and I myself will watch over and educate
you. I will develop the strong, pure nature that
God has given you. I will train you to such womanhood
as the world has seldom witnessed. Dora, I startle you
with my vehemence, but you cannot yet understand how
this plan has become a part of my whole future. I have
been thinking of it day and night for weeks, and only
waited for a quiet hour to tell you of it. Dora, you will
not disappoint me so bitterly?”
The chaplain uttered the last words imploringly, and
seizing Dora's hands, stood looking eagerly into her face.
But Dora did not raise her eyes to his. Her lips were
compressed, and her face was very pale. It was a crisis
in her life, and she felt it painfully. At last she drew
away her hands, and said sorrowfully, —
“You are both so very good to me! and how can I
bear to say no to either?”
“Surely, Dora, you cannot esteem this thoughtless lad
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as safe or true a guardian for you, as I?” asked the
chaplain, bitterly.
“No, sir. You would do me a great deal more good
than he could. But I think I could do him more good
than I could you.”
“That, Dora, is not for you to know. Some day you
will understand better what I cannot now explain.”
“Please, sir, let us not talk any more about it now.
I will think of it to-night, and to-morrow I can tell better,
perhaps.”
“Very well, dear child. Pray for guidance, and it will
be given you.”
“I shall, sir,” said Dora, softly.
“Good night, then.”
“Good night, sir. O, Mr. Brown, you know Picter
must go with me wherever I go. I have the care of
him.”
The chaplain smiled.
“Yes, indeed,” said he. “That is understood.”
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CHAPTER XXXV.
[figure description] Page 340.[end figure description]
When Dora returned to the hospital, she found her
brother impatiently awaiting her.
“Come into your own tent, Dora,” said he, in a low
voice. “I have something to tell you.”
“Go in and wait for me, Tom. I must just look
round the hospital first. I am glad you are so much
better to-day; but you must go to bed as soon as you
have done talking to me.”
“Make haste, Do. That's a good girl.”
In about half an hour, the vivandière, having finished
her rounds, entered her own quarters, where she found
her brother impatiently awaiting her.
“What a time you have been!” exclaimed he. “But
now sit down here and listen, for you've got to help me,
somehow or other.”
“Well, Tom, tell me how.”
“Why, I've just heard that a lot of us are to be sent
off to-morrow to Columbus to be put in jail, or sent to
some of those northern forts, and die of fever and
starving, like so many niggers in a slave-pen,” exclaimed
Tom, vehemently, although in a low voice.
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“O, Tom! And you are one of them?”
“Yes. I'm well enough to be discharged from the
hospital, and prison 's the next thing for me. But, Dora,
I'll die first. Sooner than go to rot in one of those
northern jails, I'll shoot myself.”
“Don't, Tom, don't talk so.”
“I feel so, any way; but if I can escape, I shan't need
to do either.”
Dora said nothing, but looked very serious.
“Yes,” continued Tom, glancing keenly at her, “I
know it's bad for you in one way to help me off; but
in another way it's your duty. You was my sister long
enough before either of us even heard of rebels or Union
men. You wouldn't sacrifice your own flesh and blood
to a notion — would you, Dora?”
“O, Tom, don't call it a notion. Yes, I would willingly
give my own life to do good to the Union side;
but to give yours —”
“Yes, that's just it,” broke in Tom, eagerly. “If
you don't help me off, it's just the same as if you gave
up my life; for I swear I'll kill myself sooner than go
to jail.”
“Tom, you are very wicked to say so.”
“You'll find I'll be wicked enough to do it, as well as
say it,” retorted her brother, doggedly.
“But, Tom, I am trusted with everything. They all
know that I am as loyal as a true-born Northerner, and I
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am never watched nor questioned. How can I be so
mean as to betray such trust?”
“That's the very thing that makes it easy for you.
You could help me off, and never be suspected. Now, I
dare say you know the pass-word for to-night — don't
you?”
“Yes; and I would no more make a bad use of it
than I would kill myself.”
“Or me?”
“Tom, don't try me so!”
“Remember, Dora, that mother told you never to forget
that you and I were all she had, and to hold together
through life, whatever happened.”
“But, Tom, mother was no rebel, nor she didn't want
you to be.”
“And if she was here to-night, would she tell you to
kill me because I have been one?” asked Tom, bitterly.
“If she were here! O, mother, if only you were
here!” moaned Dora, sinking on her knees beside the
bed, and hiding her face.
“But she isn't; and I have neither mother nor sister to
save me from destruction. Well, it will be over soon.”
And Tom was moodily leaving the tent, when Dora
called him back.
“Wait, Tom, wait. I can't tell yet; but you mustn't
leave me so. Tell me, if you go, will you join the rebel
army again?”
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“Yes, I suppose so,” said the lad, sullenly.
“Then I have no right, if you were twice my brother,
to set you free. But, Tom, if you will promise me sacredly,
if you will call mother to listen to your promise,
never to fight against the Union, but to go North, and find
some quiet work, and wait there till I come, or if you
will enter our army —”
“That I won't do!” hastily interposed Tom. “I'm
no turncoat, and ain't going to sell one kind of liberty to
get another.”
“Well, will you do the first, if I will help you off?”
“Will you help me off, if I will?”
“Yes, Tom, I will,” said Dora, in a very low voice.
“All right. I'll agree; and no one need ever know
that you had any hand in the matter.”
“I will see to myself, Tom. You needn't think again
about that,” said his sister, sadly. “Now tell me what
your plan is.”
“Why, it was just to get out of this camp, and then to
strike for Monterey, or Camp Baldwin. But you say
I'm to go North.”
“Yes, you've got to promise that.”
“Well, then, you must settle where I'm to head for.
I don't know anything about it.”
Dora remained a few minutes buried in gloomy reflection.
“O, Tom,” said she, at length, “you have need to
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make good use of your life after this, for I am giving my
own for it.”
“How! What do you mean, Do?”
“No matter. I don't want to make much of it, only
to make you feel that you ought to do right after you get
your liberty.”
“I will, Dora. I promise to do just as you'd like to
have me,” said Tom, earnestly.
“Then wait here while I go and see some one. Be
patient; I will come as soon as I can.”
“All right. I'll wait.”
Softly leaving the tent, Dora entered the hospital, and
silently moved through the ranks of sleeping men, until
she reached Captain Karl's bed, placed by itself at the
upper end. As she had expected, he was awake, waiting
for her to bid him good night.
“Captain Karl,” said Dora, sitting down close to his
pillow, “you said that you would be my brother if I
came to live with you.”
“So I did, darling. What then?”
“That shows that you are willing to do a great deal
for me.”
“And so I am — a great deal.”
“Well, then, what I am going to ask is, will you do it
in another way?”
“Do it? Do what, you little Sphinx?”
“Show that you love me as well as if you were my
brother.”
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“Explain, Dora. I don't know what you are driving
at,” demanded Captain Karl, uneasily.
“I am going to ask a very, very great favor of you;
and if you will grant it, instead of all you offered me just
now, I will be so grateful!”
“Speak out, mouse. It'll have to be a hard matter
that I won't undertake to please you.”
“It is a hard matter — a very hard matter. Captain
Karl, my brother Tom is a prisoner here, you know.”
“Yes.”
“And they are going to send him away with some
others, to-morrow, to be put in prison.”
“I know, Dora. I'm real sorry for you —”
“Wait a minute, please. Tom hates to go so, you
can't think; he says he'll die first, and I know he'll
do what he says. He must escape, and you must help
him.”
“I help him! I'll be hanged if I do!” exclaimed the
captain, indignantly.
“I didn't mean actually help him to escape, but help
him after he gets North,” said Dora, timidly.
“North! What's he going North for?”
“I told him, if I helped him off, he must promise never
to fight against the Union any more, but to stay at the
North and work there until I came. But he doesn't know
where to go, or what to do; he has no friends, and no
money, and I have none to give him; but I thought
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perhaps you would help him for my sake, and instead of
helping me.”
“I wasn't proposing to help you, as you call it, out of
benevolence, but because I want you, for my own sake, to
live in my home,” said the captain, in rather an annoyed
tone.
“But if you care so much as that for me, you ought
to care a little for my only brother,” said Dora,
naively.
“Especially since he introduced himself to me so
amiably the other day,” suggested the captain. “However,
that's neither here nor there. I bear no malice,
and hope he don't; and as for helping him with money,
he's as welcome to what I can spare as he is to the free
air of the North. But I can't do anything more, Dora,
I am really afraid. And as for your changing your plan
of coming home with me, I won't listen to it. Your proposed
bargain is a very comical one, to say the least.
You ask me to turn traitor to my country by helping
off a prisoner of war, and, as a reward, you promise to
deprive me of the one thing I'm determined not to do
without.”
“But money is not enough, Captain Karl,” persisted
Dora. “You must tell him where to go, and give him
a letter to some one who will set him to work. I don't
want him idling round, and getting into mischief.”
“You wise little woman! You're fifty if you're a
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[figure description] Page 347.[end figure description]
day. If this precious brother had half your sense, he
wouldn't be where he is to-day.”
“Will you, Captain Karl?”
“Will I what, fair Pertinacity, as Sir Percie Shafton
would style you?”
“Will you give him a letter to some friend of yours,
and tell him where to go?”
“Why, Do, that's aiding and abetting his escape. I
can't, child, with any show of honor.”
“Dear, dear, what shall I do? No one will help me,
and I can't do it all alone!” exclaimed the poor girl,
hiding her face upon the pillow.
“Now, darling, don't speak that way, and don't, for
Heaven's sake, lose your courage and coolness. If you
do you will destroy my pet ideal.”
Dora raised her head.
“I don't know what you mean, Captain Karl; but
since you cannot help me, I won't disturb you any longer.
Good night, sir.”
“Good! Now we have Joan of Arc again. Stop a
minute. If I help you in this matter, will you promise,
sure and fast, to go with me next week?”
“No, Captain Karl.”
“No? Well, that's cool. But you don't say you
won't?”
“I don't say anything. It won't be for me to decide.”
“For whom then?”
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[figure description] Page 348.[end figure description]
“I'd rather not tell you.”
“Strange girl! Do you wish to go with me?”
“Very much. But perhaps I ought to go somewhere
else, and perhaps I shan't be allowed to do either.”
“Will you tell me what you mean?”
“Not now. Will you help my brother, or not?”
“O, you horrid little vampire! Won't you be easy
till you have dragged the confession from my soul that I
can deny you nothing?”
“Then you will help him?”
“I'll help you; and if that is the way you elect, why,
that is the way I must follow.”
“Captain Karl, I will never forget it — never.”
“Only mind this. I'll give you the money, and the
direction, and the letter to a friend of mine in Massachusetts,
who will place your brother in the way of taking
care of himself; but I won't see him, or have anything
more to do with him than just this. I'm a fool and a
rascal to do so much; but I do it for you, Dora, and I
couldn't help doing it, if it was worse, when you ask it
so earnestly.”
“If I could ever do anything for you, or some one
you love, you would find that I know how much this is,”
faltered Dora.
“Much or little, I'll do it for you, little girl.”
“But he must go to-night. They will be sent away
to-morrow,” said Dora, uneasily.
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[figure description] Page 349.[end figure description]
“To be sure. Well, here's my note-book. I will dictate,
and you may write a few lines to Mr. —. Then
I have money here. Now listen, and I will tell you
exactly the course he must take to get out of the lines,
and the route he had best travel afterward.”
Half an hour later Dora returned to her own quarters,
with a heart curiously divided between hope and regret,
shame and exultation.
She found Tom very uneasy at her prolonged absence,
and his joy at the success of her mission was proportionately
great. Kissing his sister affectionately, he lavished
praise and thanks upon her, and promised in the most
solemn manner to obey her wishes, and those of his
mother, to the very letter, in the conduct of his future
life.
“If you will only remember that, Tom, I shan't mind,”
said Dora, sadly.
“Shan't mind what, Do?”
“No matter now, Tom.”
-- 350 --
CHAPTER XXXVI.
[figure description] Page 350.[end figure description]
The next morning, when the prisoners were mustered
for departure, Thomas Darley was nowhere to be found.
Inquiries and search were of no avail, and the train
finally started without him.
That afternoon Colonel Blank was informed, by his
orderly, that the vivandière requested an interview with him.
“Show her in, Reynolds, immediately. Well, Miss
Dora, so you have come to see me. Take a seat.”
“Can I see you alone, sir?” asked Dora, timidly, as
she glanced at one or two officers, who were looking at
a map upon the table.
“Certainly. Come into this room,” said the colonel,
in some surprise, as he raised the flap of the adjoining
tent.
“What is it, my dear,” continued he, kindly, seeing
that the vivandière, pale and agitated, could hardly bring
herself to speak.
“Colonel Blank, I have done something wrong, and I
have come to tell you of it.”
“I am very sorry for that, Dora,” said the colonel,
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[figure description] Page 351.[end figure description]
gravely, as he placed her upon a seat, and took one himself.
“What is your offence?”
“I gave my brother the countersign last night, and I
helped him to escape from the hospital.”
“You did?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dora, I could not have believed you guilty of such
teachery,” said the colonel, very severely.
“He was my brother, sir. My mother told us to hold
together. He would have died if he had gone to prison.”
“If we had known there was a traitor in the camp,
we might have guarded against this. How did you get
the countersign?”
“I heard one of the men tell another, when I was
coming home last night.”
“You probably asked it of him.”
“I am not a liar, sir.”
“I am not so sure of that, after what you tell me,”
said the colonel, harshly.
“That is because you don't know me, sir,” replied
Dora, with quiet pride.
“I find, indeed, that I do not know you. I thought
you were to be trusted anywhere, and with any charge.
I find I have mistaken you entirely.
“Why have you come here now?” continued he, after
a pause, which Dora had not attempted to break.
“To tell you this, sir.”
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[figure description] Page 352.[end figure description]
“Of course. But why do you come to tell me?”
“That you might punish me in any way you think
best, sir.”
“Then you acknowledge yourself worthy of punishment?”
“Yes, sir; I intended to bear the penalty when I
did it.”
“What penalty?”
“I don't know, sir. Whatever you choose.”
The colonel paced the length of his tent a dozen times,
and then returned to look with a sort of angry relenting
at the culprit sitting so motionless, with drooping head
and folded hands.
“Where has your brother gone?” asked he.
“Out of the state, sir. He has made a solemn promise
never to fight on the rebel side again.”
“To whom?”
“To me, sir.”
“O, you paroled him — did you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Dora, simply.
“And why couldn't he wait, and be paroled by government,
or, at the worst, exchanged after a few
months?”
“He said it would kill him to be shut up in jail. He
has always lived such a free sort of life, I really think it
would. And he said he would kill himself before he
got there.”
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[figure description] Page 353.[end figure description]
“Poh!” said the colonel, contemptuously.
“You don't know Tom, sir, any more than you
do me. We never, either of us, say what we don't
mean.”
“Well, well. And where is he going, and what is he
going to do?”
“I can't tell anything more about it, sir. I told you
that, because I wanted you to know he isn't a rebel any
more. I wouldn't have let him go if he had been going
to fight against us ever again.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Very sure, sir. I told him so.”
“Well, that makes a difference, to be sure. And you
think his word is to be depended on?”
“Yes, indeed, sir.”
“And does no one but you know anything about it?”
asked the colonel, sharply.
“If you please, sir, I can't answer any questions except
just about myself.”
“O, then it was a conspiracy!”
“It is I who am the one to be punished, sir.”
“You trust to my good nature. You think I won't
actually take any notice of your offence,” said the colonel,
suspiciously.
“No, sir; I expected you would be angrier than you
are, and punish me severely.”
“How?”
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[figure description] Page 354.[end figure description]
“I couldn't tell how. Perhaps I should be sent to
Columbus, to prison, in my brother's place.”
“You deserve it.”
“Very likely, sir.”
“I think I shall dismiss you from your appointment as
vivandière. Even though I may excuse you personally,
I should not do my duty as an officer to keep a convicted
spy and traitor in my camp.”
“Spy and traitor!” murmured Dora, in a tone of
horror.
“Certainly.”
“Not a spy, sir.”
“How did you overhear the countersign?”
“Accidentally, upon my word, sir.”
“Well, a traitor you certainly are, and you must
leave the regiment.”
“And will you tell the men I am a traitor and a
spy?” asked Dora, raising a face of agony to her stern
judge.
“Perhaps.”
“O, sir!”
“You said you could bear the penalty.”
“I can, sir. Where shall you send me?”
“I shall send you, Dora, to my own home in Ohio, to
the care of my wife. This offence of yours is unpardonable
in a vivandière, but in a warm-hearted little girl it is
easily orgiven. Do you understand me, Dora? You
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[figure description] Page 355.[end figure description]
must leave the regiment, but you shall be the daughter
of its colonel for the rest of your life. I have intended
this for some time.”
“But now, sir, when you have just called me those
dreadful names — ” faltered Dora.
“Perhaps I spoke a little more harshly than I felt,
Dora; and I repeat, the same qualities are not essential
in a young girl and an army official. I forgive you,
and I will conceal your fault from every one. I will not
even take measures to discover your accomplices, — for
you must have had them, — and I will love you and care
for you as a father, as long as you continue to deserve it.
Do you accept my offer?”
Had a bomb from Camp Baldwin exploded in his tent,
Colonel Blank could not have been more astonished than
by the answer of the vivandière.
“I thank you very, very much, sir; I do, indeed; but
I cannot accept.”
“Cannot accept! Upon my word, girl! And why,
pray?”
“Don't be angry, sir. I am not ungrateful, but Captain
Windsor's mother has sent for me to come and live
with her, and Mr. Brown wants very much that I should
go home with him.”
“And which are you going with?”
“I don't know, sir. I thought, if you was satisfied
with only sending me away, I would ask you to be so
kind as to advise me.”
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[figure description] Page 356.[end figure description]
“But, Dora, I want you myself, and I have written to
my wife to say that I should bring you when I came.”
“But the others asked me first, sir.”
“And you had rather go with them?”
“I know them better than I do you, sir,” faltered
Dora.
Again the colonel thoughtfully paced the tent. Returning,
he laid his hand on Dora's head.
“I am very sorry, indeed, my child,” said he, kindly,
“that I must give up this plan that I have thought so
much about; but I will try to be neither selfish nor tyrannical.
Go with whichever friend you really think will be
the best guardian for you; but remember that, as long as
I live, you are my adopted daughter, and I shall always
be ready to help or advise you.”
He offered her his hand, and Dora carried it to her
lips.
“You are so very, very kind, sir,” murmured she.
“Captain Windsor is going home on sick leave in the
course of a few days,” said the colonel, thoughtfully.
“You might go with him; or, if you decide to accept
Mr. Brown's invitation, I will stretch a point of discipline,
and retain you in your present office until our term
of service expires, which will not now be long. What do
you decide on doing?”
“May I go or stay, just as I please?”
“Yes, I said so.”
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[figure description] Page 357.[end figure description]
“Then, sir, I think I will go home with Captain
Karl, to take care of him on the journey, and while he is
sick. Then, when Mr. Brown goes home, if he wants
me, really and truly, as much as he said, I will go to
him, because he is all alone in the world, just like me,
and Captain Karl has his mother and sister.”
“Very sensible. But why did you ask first whether
you might go or stay, as you chose?”
“Because, sir,” said the vivandière, with quiet pride,
“if I had been sent away from here for a punishment, I
would not have gone to either of them.”
“Why not? You would have needed their protection
all the more.”
“Yes, sir; but I shouldn't feel right to go in that way.
I should feel as if they only took me out of pity, and as
if, perhaps, they wouldn't have, if I had had any other
home.”
“And what would you have done in that case?”
“I should have taken Picter, and gone to the North
by myself, looking for my aunt,” said Dora, confidently.
Colonel Blank looked at the child with mingled admiration
and regret.
“I am sorry you won't say no to both of them, and
come home with me,” said he. “You are a very odd
girl, with your childish simplicity and your womanly
self-respect. You know so little of the world, and yet
are so fearless of confronting it!”
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[figure description] Page 358.[end figure description]
“I am not afraid, because nobody has ever tried to
harm me.”
“Well, my child, go and think over your plans a little,
not forgetting that my own offer remains open to you;
and whatever you decide upon, I shall give you every
assistance in my power in carrying it out.”
“Thank you, sir, very much indeed. Good morning.”
“Good morning, Dora Darling.”
-- 359 --
CHAPTER XXXVII.
[figure description] Page 359.[end figure description]
In leaving the colonel's tent, Dora encountered Picter,
limping along with a gun over his shoulder.
“I'm glad I met you, Pic,” said she, turning and
walking along beside him. “I have something to tell
you.”
“Wha's it?”
“We're going North, Pic — you and I — in the course
of a very few days.”
“Don' say so, honey! Dat good news, any way.
How's we gwine?”
“With Captain Karl. He's going home because he's
so poorly, and he wants us to go and take care of him.”
“An' is we gwine ter stop dere alluz?” asked Pic,
rather coolly.
“No, I suppose not. I don't know yet, Pic, and you
musn't say a word about it to any one; but I think
very likely, when the regiment goes home, Mr. Brown
will want us to come to Ohio, and live with him.”
“Dat's it, missy. Dat's de ticket. I goes for libin'
long wid de parson. Cap'n Charlie, he mighty funny
gen'l'man; de fust rates comp'ny dat eber I seed; but
-- 360 --
[figure description] Page 360.[end figure description]
de parson on'erstan's better. Get a heap ob t'outs out'n'
im ebery time I sees 'im.”
“Have you talked much with him, Picter?” asked
Dora, with a suppressed smile.
“Lor', yes, missy. Dat day you fus' 'vised me fer
talk wid 'im, he tuck me 'long to he tent, an' 'varsed so
sensible an' pooty I felt 's if I'd growd a inch 'fore I lef''
im. Didn' hab no jokes, an' kin' o' makin' fun way, wid'
im, like Cap'n Charlie, but jes' talk right off ser'ous,
same's he'd talk to a w'ite gen'l'man. Made ole nigger
feel's ef he wor some 'count in de worl', arter all.”
“But what did he talk about?”
“'Bout hebenly matters, mos'ly, missy. Gib me some
new idees; tell yer, he did dat, honey.”
“And you've talked since with him?”
“Lots o' times. He alluz jes' so patien' an' good-natured,
neber makin' fun, nor showin' off he buckra ways
on pore ole darkey, dat don' know noffin'. Knows w'en
he's treated right, dough, jes' as well as a lighter complected
feller.”
Dora's face glowed.
“Yes, Mr. Brown is a different man from the rest of
the world,” said she, softly.
“No truer word dan dat in de Bible, missy. Reckon
he's he one dat'll sign de pass for bof ob us ter trabel de
dark road. Satan's paterole can' tech us, ef we gits a
line from 'im fer pertection.”
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[figure description] Page 361.[end figure description]
“Yes, Pic, you are right,” said Dora, thoughtfully
“To live with him will be the wisest, but the merriest
would be Captain Karl's home.”
“Merry 'nough,” grunted Pic. “So's de cracklin' o'
thorns underneaf de pot merry 'nough; bud fer good stiddy
fire ter cook yer vittles, or warm yer berry heart to
de middle, gib me good solid oak. Now, dat ar's de
parson.”
“Heart of oak,” murmured Dora.
“Well, missy, I's all ready w'en you is. 'Spec's I'll
see yer ag'in to-night or 'morrer mornin'. I's gwine out
in de woods a piece jes' now, an'll say, Mornin', fer'
twon't do ter let de scouts get 'noder crack at yore lilly
head.”
“Where are you going, Pic?”
“O, jes' out here a piece. Mornin', missy.”
“Good morning, Pic,” said Dora, dubiously; for she
recognized in the eye of her old retainer a certain gleam
that, experience warned her, foreboded mischief.
Returning to the hospital, she found Captain Karl
dressed for the day, and impatiently awaiting her appearance.
He was about to return to his own quarters,
having hitherto preferred the hospital, that he might
enjoy Dora's nursing. Now, however, the surgeon
insisted that purer air, and more quiet, would be his
best remedies, until he could set out upon his homeward
journey; and he only awaited Dora's return to
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[figure description] Page 362.[end figure description]
bid her good by, or, rather, to solicit her company to
his quarters.
“Just to make it seem a bit cheerful at first,” pleaded
he. “And you must stay with me all you can. No one
else needs you as I do,” added he, somewhat querulously.
“Now, tell me, if you have got through your mysteries,
are you going home with me? because, if not, I've made
up my mind not to go myself.”
“Wait till we get settled in your own quarters, and
then I will tell you all about it,” said Dora, smilingly, as
she busied herself in wrapping the invalid from the keen
air he was about to encounter.
Having seen him comfortably disposed upon his own
bed, and having dismissed the nurse and servant who had
supported him during the short walk, Dora sat down beside
her patient, and while gently caressing his hair with
her fingers, told him all the incidents of the morning,
and her own decision as to her future movements.
“You're a darling Dora, as well as a Dora Darling,”
said the captain, putting the little hand to his lips: “I
began to be afraid you were going to slip through my
fingers, somehow, though you wouldn't have found it an
easy matter to accomplish, I can tell you. As for your
going to the parson by and by, that's all bosh. Once
under my mother's roof, it'll be a hard fight to get
away again, you'll find. However, we needn't bother
about that now. And so the old man thought to play
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judge after the fashion of the fox with the crows —
did he?”
“How was that?”
“Don't you know? Why, they were quarrelling over
a bit of cheese, and referred the matter to the fox, who
settled it at once by gobbling up the cheese, just as the
colonel wanted to gobble you.”
“But whichever crow gets it will gobble it all the
same; so the poor cheese is lost, any way,” suggested
Dora, archly.
“Yes, swallowed down, appropriated, assimilated,
what you will; you may be sure the crow known as
Captain Karl is too wise a bird to let go, once he has his
clutches on you.”
“Well, now I am going to find Mr. Brown, and tell
him. Perhaps I shall come to see you again, after
dinner.”
“Bother Mr. Brown! Stay here; I want you —”
But Dora, with a merry nod, was already gone; and
the captain, after a good-natured growl of disappointment,
had no alternative but to lie and think of a certain
little secret of his own, and the happy days awaiting
them both at home, until he fell fast asleep, and continued
his air castles in his dreams.
Dora, meantime, found the chaplain in his tent, and
after confiding to him the story of her brother's evasion,
that she might not escape whatever censure her share in
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it might elicit from him, she repeated her conversation
with the colonel, and her own decision.
Mr. Brown listened attentively, and when she had
done, said, —
“You have done well, Dora. I say nothing of your
connivance at your brother's escape. As you are to
leave the army at once, it is not worth while to insist
upon questions of army discipline; and your future life
will not probably bring a similar emergency. Your
proposition to accompany Captain Windsor home is humane
and wise; for, with Colonel Blank's ideas upon
this matter, I should not feel it advisable to retain you in
his camp. But remember, Dora, that you promise to
come to me whenever I am again at home, and at liberty
to devote myself as I would wish to your education. I
shall not say now how much that promise is to me, nor
how much I build upon it; but remember that it is a
promise.”
“Yes, sir, it is a promise,” said Dora, with a little
solemn air that brought a smile to the grave face of her
companion.
“I see that you feel its weight,” said he. “And now
run away; for I am busy with my sermon.”
Late that night Dora was aroused from deep slumber
by a scratching on the outside of her tent. Starting up,
she exclaimed, —
“Who's that? What's the matter?”
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“'Sh, missy. 'Tain't no one but ole Pic. T'out I jes'
stop an' tell yer he'm done fer.”
“Who's done for? What do you mean, Pic?”
“De Bony party, missy. He done fer, shore, dis
time.”
“What, killed?”
“Reckon he's dat, missy. Heern tell wid one ob our
scouts he wor 'long wid a picket, 'hout half way from
here to de place whar de rebs is. So I t'out I'd bes' go
an' exercute dat jus'ice dat I got disapp'inted ov t'oder
time, 'specially as I reck'nd we'd be movin' 'fore long.
So I tuck de ole rifle an' jogged along inter de woods a
piece, foun' our own pickets, got d'rections whar de rebs
was, crep' up, an' shore 'nough, seed dat feller skinnin' a
rabbit 'fore de fire, innercent as a turkle dub. T'out I'd
wait till 'e got de rabbit skun, 'cause dey say onfinished
work ha'nts yer in t'oder worl', an' as he rips it off an'
frows it down, I jes' squints 'long de bar'l, pull 'e trigger,
an' golly, missy, it'd do yer good fer see dat feller
kick.”
“Did you really shoot him, Picter?”
“No two ways 'bout it, missy. Jus'ice am exercuted
dis time, shore, an' so's de nigger.”
“Picter, I am very much shocked, and very angry, too.
It was murder, and nothing else. Go away, directly;
and in the morning tell Mr. Brown about it, and see what
he will say,” exclaimed Dora, indignantly.
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“Now, honey, chile, don' 'e talk dat ar way to poor
ole uncle,” began Pic, soothingly; but Dora interrupted
him.
“No, don't say any more. I don't like you, Picter,
and I don't want to talk any longer. I'm going to sleep,
and shan't answer again, whatever you say.”
“Ain't no use sayin' noffin', den,” retorted Pic, offended
in his turn, and with no further attempt at conversation,
he withdrew to his own quarters; nor did Dora
again see him until the morning of their departure for
the North.
But neither then, nor at any subsequent period, did
either allude to this, the subject of their only disagreement;
nor did Pic think it necessary to obey the recommendation
of his young mistress, to submit his course for
judgment to the chaplain.
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CHAPTER XXXVIII.
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It is now necessary to pass in silence over the space
of several weeks, leaving to the imagination of the
reader the demonstrations of love and regret offered by
the brave boys of the Ohio Twenty — to their “daughter,”
who, in bidding them farewell, assured each in turn
that she should never forget her relation to the regiment,
nor consider it severed, as long as she lived; and each
one was invited to call upon her for service, or remembrance,
whenever he might find it pleasant to do so.
To the same vivid imagination must also be left the
incidents of the long journey between Cheat Mountain
summit and the quiet village in Massachusetts where
Captain Windsor's mother and sister awaited his return,
and cordially welcomed his adopted sister for his
sake.
But of matters subsequent to her arrival at Mrs.
Windsor's home, we will let Dora speak for herself, in an
extract from a long letter written by her to Mr. Brown,
directly after becoming settled in her new abode.
After detailing the journey, and speaking of Captain
Karl's renovated health she goes on to say, —
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“And now, Mr. Brown, I am going to tell you something
so surprising, that I can hardly believe it myself.
Only think of Captain Karl's mother being my own dear
mother's sister, the very aunt Lucy that I have so long
wanted to find! And only think, too, that Charlie (that's
what we call Captain Karl almost always here) knew all
the time, or suspected, at least; because, when he wrote to
his mother about me, and said my name was Dora Darling,
she wrote back word that her sister married a man
named Darley, and told him to inquire if it wasn't the same
name. Then he took up my little Bible one day, when I
had been reading to him, and saw mother's name, `Mary
Lee,' written in it; and his own mother's name was Lucy
Lee; so he knew then right off. But he made believe to
his mother that he didn't know; and he never said a word
to me; but he says, if I had concluded not to go with
him, he should have told me, though he didn't want to,
because he wanted to surprise us both.
“And sure enough we were surprised, when, pretty soon
after we got home, Charlie asked me for my Bible, and
gave it to his mother, and asked her if ever she saw it
before. Aunt Lucy turned just as pale, — you can't think
how pale, — and looked in a sort of wild way at him and
at me!
“Then Charley nodded his head and laughed (I think
he laughed so as to keep from crying), and said, —
“`All right, mother. Dora is the daughter of the
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Mary Lee who owned that book before she married Mr.
Darley.'
“Then aunt Lucy hugged me and kissed me so much!
and she cried; but I was too much amazed to cry, and
Marnie — that's Charley's sister — hugged me and kissed
me too; and O, Mr. Brown, I was so happy, so dreadfully
happy, it seemed as if my heart would break.
“And now we are all getting used to each other, and
quieting down a little, it is still pleasanter, and I am to
go to school with Marnie directly.
“But, dear Mr. Brown, they won't hear a word about
my going to live with you; and aunt Lucy says you must
get a parish here instead, or, at any rate, must come and
make us a nice long visit as soon as your time in the
army is out. Please do come, and we will talk about it
then. I haven't forgotten that I promised to come, if
you wanted me; and I shall do whatever you think best,
after you have talked with aunt Lucy.
“Picter lives here; and he is to have a little house,
and take care of our garden, and work for other people
when he wants to. But we shall always take care of
him, of course. He is very happy, and sends his `'spec's
to Mas'r Brown,' with a great many wishes to see and
hear you talk again.
“My brother Tom has been placed on a farm in the
western part of this state, and is doing very well indeed
there; but I think he wants to go into the army again,
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on the right side this time. I hope he will make up his
mind to do so. It makes me feel a little bad that Charley
doesn't want to have me see Tom often, and doesn't want
him to live any nearer us. I know, now, one of the
reasons he was so unwilling to help him come North.
He doesn't like him a bit, and I am so sorry!
“And now, dear Mr. Brown, I must say good by.
Please give my love to Colonel Blank, and tell him about
my new friends. And give my love to all the men,
please, when they come together Sunday afternoon to
hear you read. I miss doing that very much, though I
am going to have a Sunday school class. But it seems
very small and still here, after the camp. Good by, dear
Mr. Brown.
“I am your affectionate daughter,
“Dora.”
As the chaplain finished reading this letter, and placed
it carefully away, he smiled a smile of tender determination.
“I won't be robbed of my ewe lamb by any claim of
kindred, or custom,” said he, softly. “She shall come
to me yet, of her own free will, and no man shall put us
asunder.”
THE END.
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Austin, Jane G. (Jane Goodwin), 1831-1894 [1865], Dora darling: the daughter of the regiment. (J.E. Tilton and Company, Boston) [word count] [eaf452T].
