CHAPTER VII.
The next few days passed somewhat gloomily. Eager interest centred inthe daily paper from New Orleans. The _Times_ in those days was "run"entirely in the interest of a strong faction not inaptly termed"carpet-baggers." Few of the Republican party of the white element hadbeen natives and property-owners in the State before the war. All of thecolored race, most of them at least, had been residents perhaps, butheld as property rather than as property-owners. The _Picayune_, alwaysthe representative of the old _regime_ in the South, was naturally thejournal which found its way into our distant household. Its pictures ofaffairs in the Crescent City were startling beyond question, and itscolumns were filled with grave portent of riot, insurrection, andbloodshed.
Judge Summers was visibly worried by its reports. Harrod looked gloomyand ill at ease; Pauline very grave; Kitty picturesquely doleful. All,however, seemed to relax no effort to make me feel at home and"entertained," but the evident cloud overshadowed me. I began to want toget away.
If all New Orleans were swept by the flames, my personal losses would beslight; but the small library I owned would be an excuse. My confidencethat neither side would set fire to anything was only equalled by thatwhich I felt that both would join forces to put it out if they did. Fortwo years we had been having just the same exhilarating experiences, andit never came to burning anything but a little powder. Sometimes oneside, sometimes another would raise a huge mob, and with much pomp andparade, with much blatant speech-making and wide publication of theirintentions, would march noisily through the streets towards some publicbuilding, at that moment held by the opposite party, avowedly for thepurpose of taking it by force of arms. The first year there had beensome desultory shooting, but no casualties to speak of. The second therehad been less damage, though far more display; for by this time therewere three parties in the field. Then, however, Uncle Sam assumed the_role_ of peace-maker; sent a general thither with his staff (giving hima major-general's title and a major's force), with vague orders as towhat he was to do, as I chanced to know, beyond keeping the peace andupholding the law and the constituted authorities. As three partiesclaimed to be the "constituted authorities," it seemed embarrassing attimes to tell which to uphold. Washington officials declined to decidefor him, so the veteran soldier hit on the happy expedient of upholdingthe party that was attacked. This put him squarely in the right so faras keeping the peace was concerned; for whichever crowd sallied forth towhip the other, invariably found a small battalion of bayonets, or onone occasion a solitary aide-de-camp representing the United States.They would not "fire on the flag"; so retired to thunder at one anotherthrough the press. But it put him squarely in the wrong where settlingthe question for good and all was concerned. So long as the factionsfelt sure they would not be allowed to fight, the more they talked aboutdoing it; and the real sufferers were the patient, plodding infantryofficers and men, who were kept trudging up and down, night and day,from town to barracks. They were tired, hungry, jaded-looking fellowsthat winter. I had called three of them into my room one chill morningafter they had been standing all night on the curbstones of theState-house waiting for an attack they knew would never come; warmedthem up with coffee or cocktails as they might prefer; then one of themopened his heart.
"This whole thing is the most infernal farce," said he. "Ten to one thetrue way to stop it is to send us miles away and let them get at oneanother. The Lord knows I'd afford them every encouragement. They don'twant to fight. If old General Fitz Blazes would only send me with mycompany _behind_ instead of between these howling idiots they'devaporate quick enough."
Well I recalled every bit of this! It was when the "radical" party wassplit up into local factions, each demanding the State-house--and theTreasury; but--things were different now. The old residents, thebusiness men, the representative citizens of the city had stood thatsort of thing just as long as human endurance and their ebbing pursescould stand it. They now had organized and risen against the perturbedState authorities; and when that class of men began shooting somebodywas going to be hurt. As yet nothing aggressive had been done; but theRepublican government was tottering on its Louisiana throne, andappealed for aid. This it was that was sending troops from alldirections to the Crescent City. I decided to go and protect my laresand penates, trivial though they might be.
To my relief, yet surprise, the moment I mentioned this to ColonelSummers his face lighted up with an expression of delight.
"Mr. Brandon, we'll go together, and as soon as you like."
Noticing my evident surprise, he added, "To tell the truth I ought togo, and at once. Will you come into father's library and let meexplain?"
Assenting, as a matter of course, I followed him. Pauline was seated byher father's side as we entered, writing, as she often did, from hisdictation.
"Father," broke in the colonel, abruptly, "we can spare you all thatwork. Mr. Brandon tells me he has decided to go at once to New Orleans.I will go with him, and take the papers."
The judge rose somewhat slowly--anxiety had told on him very much in thelast day or two--and greeted me with his old-fashioned courtesy.
"It is a source of great regret to me--to us all--that you should leaveus; yet you have doubtless anxieties, as indeed I have,--greatones,--and I wish it were in my power to go myself; but that cannot be,for a fortnight at least; and by that time, as things are looking now,it may be too late,--it may be too late. My son will tell you----" hebroke off suddenly.
Miss Summers had risen; her sweet, thoroughbred face had grown a littlepaler of late, and she stood anxiously regarding her father, but sayingnot a word. For some moments we sat in general conversation; then,noticing how tired the judge was looking, I rose, saying it was time tomake preparations.
Two hours later, the old carriage rattled up to the steps. The colonelstood aside, holding some final consultation with his father. MissSummers, with a blush that was vastly becoming to her, handed me aletter for the major. "As yet, you know, Major Vinton has not been ableto send me his New Orleans address. They are barely there by this time;but you were so incautious as to offer to take anything to him, so Iburden you with this."
Kitty Carrington was looking on with wistful eyes.
"And you, little lady? what note or message will you intrust to me?"
She had smoothed back her bright hair. She was looking again as she hadthe night she begged to play nurse over our unconscious Mars. She lookedolder, graver, but so gentle, so patient in the trouble that had comeinto her young life. Whatever that trouble might have been _I_ could notsay. There was something very pathetic about the slender little figureas she stood there.
For all answer to my question, she shook her head, smiling rather sadly,yet striving to throw archness into her accompanying gesture. The faintshrug of her pretty shoulders, the forward movement of her hands, withopen and extended palms,--something so Southern in it all. I could nothelp noting it. Possibly I stared, as previous confessions indicate thatI had that adventurous night in the cars.
My rudeness caused her to turn sharply away with heightened color.
Then came general good-byes, good speeds, good lucks, promises towrite,--those promises, like so many others, made only to be broken. Weclambered into the carriage. Already the driver was gathering his whipand reins; had "chucked" to his sleepy team. Harrod was sitting on theside nearest the group on the steps; I craning my neck forward for alast look at them. Kitty was eagerly bending forward; her lips parted,her eyes dilated, her fingers working nervously. Already the wheels hadbegun to crunch through the gravel, when with sudden movement she dartedlike a bird down the steps.
"_Harrod!_" she cried.
"Hold on, driver," was the response, as he bent to the doorway to meether.
Standing on tiptoe, her tiny white hands clutching his arm, a vividcolor shooting over her face, her eyes one moment nervously,apprehensively, reproachfully glancing at me, plainly saying, "Pleasedon't listen," then, raised to his bronzed, tender face, as he bent eartowa
rds her lips in response to the evident appeal. She rapidlywhispered half a dozen words. "_Do_ you understand? _Sure_ youunderstand?" she questioned eagerly, as now she leaned back, looking upinto his eyes.
He bent still farther, kissed her forehead. "Sure," he nodded. "Sure."
Then back she sprang. Crack went the whip, and we rolled away towardsthe gate.
Looking back, my eyes took in for the last time the old home; and thepicture lingers with me, will live with me to the end of my lonely life.The red-gold light of the setting sun streamed in all its glory on thesouthern front of the quaint plantation house. The tangled shrubbery,the sombre line of the dense forest beyond the fields, the vines andtendrils that clung about the gallery railing and the wooden pillars,the low-hanging eaves, the moss-covered line of porch-roof,--all weretinged, gilded, gleaming here and there with the warmth and glow of thegladness-giving rays. The windows above blazed with their reflectedglory. Even old Blondo's curly hide and Jake Biggs's woolly pate gaineda lustre they never knew before. All around the evidences of approachingdecay and present dilapidation, so general throughout the bright sunnySouth years after the war, all around the homeliest objects, thewheelbarrow and garden tools, there clung a tinge of gladness inanswering homage to the declining king of day; but, central figures ofall, the trio we left upon the steps, _they_ fairly stood in a halo ofmellow gold. The gray-haired gentleman waving his thin hand in partingsalutation; the noble, womanly girl at his side, half supporting, halfleaning upon him; and on the lower stair, kissing her hand, waving herdainty kerchief, her eyes dancing, her cheeks aflame, her white teethflashing through the parted lips, her fragile form all radiance, allsweet, glowing, girlish beauty, stood Kitty Carrington; she who but amoment before had seemed so patiently sad.
"Did you ever see anything prettier?" I gasped, as at last the windingroadway hid them from our sight.
"Kitty, Brandon?--she's a darling!" was the warm-hearted answer.
That was precisely my opinion.
All the way into Sandbrook I was tortured with curiosity to know thepurport of the mysterious parting whisper. It would not do to letColonel Summers suspect that of me; neither would it answer to propoundany question. We had much to talk of that is of no interest and has nobearing on our story, but it kept us employed until we reached thestation.
Our train was due at 7.45, going west, the same hour at which the troopshad left. Their single passenger-car and the four freight-cars on whichtheir horses were carried had been coupled to the regular train. Theyhad gone, we learned, to Grand Junction; thence down the MississippiCentral. The station-master was an old army friend of the colonel's. Hereceived us with all courtesy, and immediately asked us into his ownlittle office.
"Reckon you'd best just make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen; thattrain's nigh onto two hours late, near as I can make it."
"Two hours late! Why, that will ruin our connection!" exclaimed Harrod.
"They're going to try and make the Central wait over," was the answer,"but I'd bet high on our being later'n we think for. Once a fellow getsoff his schedule on this road, he's more apt to be losing all the timethan gaining."
The colonel and I looked at each other a moment in some dismay. Quandarythough it was, there was nothing for it but to wait, and wait we did,two--three hours. The darkness grew intense back towards the Tennessee;the loungers in the waiting-room or platform in groups of two or three,rose, yawned, stretched themselves, "'Lowed t'warn't no use waitin';could see the derned train any other night just as well," and tookthemselves and their tobacco-juice off. The lights across the way,beyond the tracks, died out one by one, until only those two were leftwhich represented the rival saloons, still keeping open for thepresumable benefit of some prowler hoping to get trusted for a drink.Finally only the station-master and ourselves were left, all drowsy, butthe former still seated, with his one remaining hand close to histelegraph instrument. Still no news of the train. I began to doze.
It could not have been more than ten or fifteen minutes before theclicking of the instrument aroused me. Having long since ceased to carewhether the train now came or not, since we had heard by nine that theCentral would not wait, I only sleepily gazed at the operator. Thecolonel had gone asleep, and the sound did not awake him. But anothermoment the expression on the face of the man sitting so intently overhis table aroused me to eagerness. At first professionally indifferent,it grew suddenly clouded; then a look of keen distress came upon it ashe quickly glanced around at his old comrade.
I involuntarily sprang up and approached the table. He had written halfthe message, then dropped pencil and hammered away at the key.
"For him," said he, with a backward jerk of the head to indicate thecolonel.
It seemed an endless time before he could get the thing straightened outand the message written.
"Please wake him," said he.
I gently shook Harrod's shoulder. He started up with soldierlypromptitude.
"Train coming?" he asked, as he began gathering his traps.
"Not yet, colonel. It's news from the boys, the cavalry."
"Got to New Orleans all right?"
"Got there; but--read for yourself."
With a face that paled even in the dim light of the station, and lipsthat trembled under his moustache, the colonel read, handed it to mewithout a word, and turned away.
This was the message:
"NEW ORLEANS, Tuesday.
"COLONEL H. SUMMERS, Sandbrook Station, M. and C. R. R., Alabama.
"Arrived yesterday. Vinton dangerously ill; delirious. Post surgeons in charge. If possible, come.
"FRANK AMORY."
Then we three looked at one another with faces sad and blanched. Harrodwas the first to speak.
"May I take your horse, Billy?"
"Yes, and the house and barn if it'll help."
"Then I'm off for home at once, for Pauline."
The delay of that train was a blessing in disguise.