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 ROMANTIC DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS 
 
 Written by 
 
 JOHN WP3TZLAIJ. 
 
 SOLE PROPRIETOR, EHIL WETZLAU. 
 
 BELLEVILLE, ILL. 
 
 Copyrighted March 2d, 1898. "^^ 
 
 >. ^^< OF coNe^:: 
 
 ii APR 4 -1898 
 
 2nd COPV 
 1898. 
 
. AP A' 
 
 o040 
 
 TMP92-007575 
 
Cast of Characters : 
 
 Mr. Walker, Planter from Kentucky. 
 
 George, His Son. 
 
 Mr. Wallwood, Planter from South Carolina. 
 
 Marie, His Daughter. 
 
 Westerlaw, Planter. 
 
 Stevens, Planter. 
 
 Mr. Johnston, Stranger from Baltimore. 
 
 General commanding before Petersburg. 
 
 Adjutant. 
 
 Corporal. 
 
 First Soldier. 
 
 Second Soldier. 
 
 Mother Sally, ^ 
 
 William, Her Son, Slaves of Walker. 
 
 Ball, Negro Boy, J 
 
 ?,^^' \ Slaves of Wallwood. 
 Mark, J 
 
 Frank, Negro Slave. 
 
 Negroes, Soldiers, Etc. 
 
SCENE PLOT, 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 An open i)lace. To the left, a dwellini^ with portieo. To right, entrance 
 to garden. In the rear, garden wall partly hidden by trees. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Library with doors on each side. Change. Same as Act I. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Kooni with windows each side centre door. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Camp. Guns standing in p3'ramids. Kettles hanging over lire. Soldiers 
 
 lying around. 
 
 Time of action: Campaign, 1800. 
 Wallwood and daughter visit Walker. During visit. Wallwood tries to 
 induce Walker to join tlie Kebel cause, but is met by a prompt refusal. An- 
 gered at this, he breaks off all communication with him, and wants his 
 daughter to do the same, but she publicly betrothes herself with Walker's 
 son, George. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Time: Two years later. 
 
 Scene at Walhvood's home. He has lost nearly everj'thing, even his 
 
 blockade-runner Floyd, and is on the verge of ruin. Westerlaw, a planter, 
 
 asks for his daughter's hand, and Wallwood gives his consent to save himself. 
 
 Marie refuses him. and in a quarrel defies her father. 
 
 Change. 
 A band of guerillas has attacked a neighbor of Walker's. The latter goes 
 to his rescue, but is nearly killed himself. William, his slave, cuts him out. 
 and is set free with the rest of the slaves on the return. Sally sees the pris- 
 oner they have captured, and. recognizing in him the murderer of her 
 parents, shoots him dead. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Time: Two years later. 
 Wallwood is visited by a stranger from Baltimore, a friend of Booth's, 
 with whom he makes arrangements to murder Lincoln and his Cabinet. 
 George arrives at the plantation in response to a note from Marie, who has 
 been deceived by her father in inviting him. Wallwood. the stranger, and 
 Westerlaw have overpowered George, and are going to lynch him. when the 
 negroes, headed b}^ Ben. set George free and bind the others. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Time: One year later. 
 Camp before Petersl)urg. Wallwood is captured as a spy and sentenced 
 to be shot. Marie, who is visiting George, recognizes him and makes a strong 
 plea for his release. But in vain, and as the shots which execute her father 
 are heard, she falls fainting to the ground. 
 
ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — William and Sally. 
 
 William {winding a lorea(h) — Well, this will make a pretty 
 wreath. These red flowers look so well with these greens. The 
 young master will be pleased to find the room decorated, which 
 his bride is to occupy. I wonder how she looks, and if she is 
 as kind as the young master. 
 
 Sally {entering witli flowers) — Well, I have brought still 
 more flowers, almost stripping the whole garden. Hurry up, 
 William, so that we will be able to finish this, otherwise they 
 will surprise us, and spoil our happy plan ; therefore, hurry up. 
 
 William — O, mother, don't you see how busy I am. I should 
 think one could see by my industry, that it is for my young 
 master, for whom I am winding these wreathes, for I love him 
 above all. 
 
 Sally — Yes ; and he merits it, too, as well as his father. 
 When one sees how other masters treat their slaves, we cannot 
 thank Heaven enough for our master. 
 
 William — That's so. And had we no wish for liberty and 
 self-thought, we would be happy. For our master is good to 
 us, and tries to make up for the crime that his race committed 
 when they forced the chains on us. 
 
 Sally — Be quiet, my son. I often enough hear you complain 
 about our fate, while I praise Heaven for it, 
 
 William — Give thanks ? Give thanks, that we are slaves ? 
 
 Sally — We are that, certainly. Yet, how easy do we have 
 it under our master. 
 
 William — Yes ; he is good to us, and I love him as much as 
 you do, but the wish for liberty I cannot, therefore, smother. 
 The young bird leaves its downy nest and travels to foreign 
 countries. Him I would follow to admire Gods, beautiful 
 country outside from these scenes. 
 
 Sally — Yes, yes ; the world is too narrow for our youth. But 
 the old folks love the soil on which their cradle stood, and like 
 best to shade themselves under the tree they knew as a shrub. 
 
_4 — 
 
 William — That is not always the case. You likewise were not 
 born here, but in South Carolina. Would you wish to return? 
 
 Sally — No ; the earth where I was born is red with the blood 
 of my parents, and only with terror can I think of my childhood. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Enter Frank, (^carrying a small cask of wine) — God be with 
 you. My master here sends Mr. Walker a small cask of wine 
 to welcome his guests. 
 
 Sally — This will please Mr. Walker very much. Set it 
 down here, Frank. 
 
 William — Well, Frank, what's the news? 
 
 Frank, {sorrow fully) — Hm, news it is, even if it is not good. 
 
 William— How so ? Tell us ! 
 
 Frank — You know my brother Tom, who is at Planter 
 Brown's? Now, Marie loves him as he does her. But the 
 overseer has also cast an eye on her, and because she would 
 not submit to him, he made my brother suffer for her refusal. 
 He had him whipped day after day if he committed any mis- 
 take or not, so that his wounds had no chance to heal. He 
 ran away, but was soon run down by the dogs. Only yester- 
 day they brought him back. O, God, who can describe his 
 looks. The beasts had torn the flesh from his limbs, but in 
 spite of this he was whipped. Our master had us driven there, 
 so that we should take an example at this devilish act. My 
 poor brother, Tom ! 
 
 Sally — Be quiet ! Be quiet ! You stir up old wounds. 
 
 Frank — Does the story excite your fears already ? You ought 
 to have seen my poor brother yourself, and hear his screams of 
 pain. But no mercy was shown him. They beat and beat 
 until his senseless form fell to the ground. 
 
 Sally {staring in front of herself) — O, father, I see your 
 bloody corpse. 
 
 Frank — How, Mother Sally ? Your father? 
 
 Sallv — Died under the lash for the same cause. 
 
 Frank— What ? Mr. Walker did 
 
 Sally — Walker; do not wrong this man, who was an angel 
 to me. I was born in South Carolina, on the plantation of a 
 devil named Stevens. In the same manner as your brother 
 Tom, mv father was persecuted until he ran away. He was 
 

 captured with the aid of the dogs, and dragged fainting into the 
 yard. In vain did my mother pray in the dust before him; in 
 vain did I clasp my hands round Stevens' knees. With his 
 foot he spurned me from himself, and shouted: "Give me the 
 whip! I will drive these fainting fits out of the dog," and ap- 
 plied the lash, though the blood squirted towards him with 
 every blow, and beat, when my father was already a corpse. 
 My mother fell fainting upon the dead body of her husband, 
 and when she came to, they tore her away from the corpse, a 
 raving maniac. O, this fearful laughter still quakes through 
 my soul. 
 
 William — No farther, mother. Spare yourself. 
 
 Sally — Do you believe, the pain gives way when the tongue 
 is silent ? 
 
 Frank — Go on. Mother Sally, your grief is balm for mine. 
 
 Sally — My mother became quieter. No complaint again 
 passed her lips. Not a tear rolled from her staring, sunken 
 eyes. No watch was kept upon her movements, and if so, a 
 very irregular one. All thought that she had been restored to 
 her senses. One night a horrible cry awoke us from our sleep. 
 I jumped up, and ran to the bed of my mother; it was empty. 
 I tore open the door of our hut. O, God, what a sight struck 
 my eyes. The manor was in flames, and on its roof stood my 
 demented mother, a burning torch in her hand. She was 
 laughing, that a cold chill ran down my back. "Stevens," 
 she cried, "you murderer of my husband, you, I curse, and as 
 true as your house, eaten up by these fiames, will crumble in 
 ashes, just so true, if there be a righteous God in the Heavens 
 above, will you fall as a victim at the hands of my child." 
 The building caved in, burying my afflicted mother under its 
 smoldering ruins. ( Covers her face with both haiids.) 
 
 Frank — Horrible ! 
 
 William — Why am I not free, so that I might undertake 
 your revenge ? 
 
 Sally — Be calm, my son ; think not of revenge. If God will 
 fulfill the curse of my mother, he will so decree ; it is in His 
 power. I crave for no revenge. 
 
 Frank — Poor vSally ; how came you to leave the villian, and 
 fall into the hands of that kind Walker ? 
 
 Sally — I was still a child, about ten years of age, when I 
 lost my parents, and still did grief tug at my young life. I was 
 
— r> — 
 
 not sick, yet, every day I felt nearer the grave. Stevens kept 
 out of my way ; was it his conscience, was it my peaked face, 
 or was it the cnrse of my mother, that filled him with terror of 
 me, I cannot tell. One day, Mr. Walker, who was traveling 
 through the neighborhood, stopped in, and happened to notice 
 me crying on the hill under which they had hastily buried my 
 father. He stopped and asked me if I was sick, and why I 
 cried. His kindness awakened my confidence in him, and 
 sobbingly I told him of the fate of my parents. He was 
 touched, for in vain did he try to hide a tear from me; this 
 interest, this sympath\- for a jjoor, orphaned negro child. O, 
 who can tell, what took place within me ; my grief was broken 
 and for the first time did I feel that I was a creature of God. 
 
 Frank— Well, and Mr. Walker? 
 
 Sally — Asked me if I would like to go with him. Heaven 
 itself lay in this question for me. The future was smiling 
 kindly to me. I had no words of thanks, but took his hand 
 and wet it with tears. He went to Stevens, who was glad to 
 make the sale. In an hour's time, I left the plantation with 
 my new master. 
 
 Frank — Here you met a different class of people, for Mr. 
 Walker is known on all plantations, as a kind and noble man. 
 
 Sally — I became satisfied with my fate ; here is where I 
 found what I had never known before — kind treatment ! 
 
 Frank — Yes, yes; I was often surprised, when I was here, 
 to see both I\Ir. Walker and his son treat you like a member of 
 the family. 
 
 William — The young master calls you mother, like I do. 
 
 Sally — He lost his own when yet a mere child. With my love 
 I tried to make amends. He grew to manhood under my care. 
 
 Frank — Yet, I cannot understand, when I see your calmness, 
 that such a terrible past lies behind you. 
 
 Sally — Be satisfied ; then also will calmness come unto you. 
 
 Frank — Calmness ! With me ? No ! I have not the inherited 
 revenge of a mother, but the revenge of my whole race. And, 
 by God, if I can cool it 
 
 Sally — Fie! Who has such thoughts? For such thoughts 
 bring misfortune. He, who thinks of revenge, offends God, 
 for He alone is judge. 
 
 Frank — Then we are worse than the beast, which can revenge 
 itself with its teeth, its claws. Are we not at the mercv of 
 
— 7 — 
 
 every passion ? Are we protected by religion ? x\re laws framed 
 for ns ? Are we not dependent npon onrselves ? If my whole 
 race thonglit as I did, we would wade through blood either to 
 liberty or to the gallows. If I become able to revenge my 
 brother's disgrace, I swear 
 
 Sally — Go, young man, and tame this fury, that will other- 
 wise ruin you. Ask God to temper your feelings {takes tlie 
 flowers). Now, go, Frank; your long stay may bring you 
 punishment. \^Exit into house. 
 
 Frank — I will jump over the fence, and take a short cut. 
 Will your master stay away long ? 
 
 William — I don't know ; he and his son drove to the station 
 to meet a ]\Ir. Wallwood and daughter, who come to pay us a 
 visit. We have bound wreathes to decorate the young lady's 
 room. 
 
 Frank — Yes; we wind flowers for them, they thorns for us ; 
 may God change it. Good-bye, William; will you pay my 
 poor brother Tom a visit next Sunday, if he is still alive ? 
 
 William (giving Jiim his hand) — I will certainly come ; I will 
 ask my master to allow me to bring him something strength- 
 ening. 
 
 Frank — Yes, you are a friend, and stick to your race. I am 
 certain that we may depend upon you, if anything turns up. 
 
 William — Maybe, not as you mean. I will not offer my 
 hand to rebellion. 
 
 Frank — You could deny your race, because you have it better 
 than we ? 
 
 William — I feel your misfortune, as well as mine ; I miss 
 liberty, as well as you, and my whole race does. But, can I 
 wrong m}' mother? Could I reward the man, who has always 
 been kind to me, with a bad act? And is it not craziness what 
 you are plotting ? Where are you free in America ? 
 
 Frank — In Canada ! 
 
 William — Have you wings ? Only then can you get there. 
 Take an example at your brother. Go, and greet the others ; 
 and, like my mother, do I beg you to have patience. 
 
 Frank — Patience ! Patience ! Poor Tom ! How well do I see, 
 that there is no help for us. \^Exit. 
 
 William (alone) — The poor bear nnich. (iod give them 
 strength ! 
 
ScKNE III. — William ; vSally comes out of the house. 
 
 Sally — Hurry up, WilHaui, the waorou is crossing the bridge. 
 Run ! Open the gate ! 
 
 William — Back so soon ; they drove very fast. \_Exit. 
 
 Sally {alone) — Thank God, the room is in order. It was 
 high time. It will please the young master, when he sees the 
 room of his bride so beautifully decorated. I did what I could 
 to make her entry into this house a pleasant one. God will, 
 that it lead to happiness. Here is this cask of wine, which 
 Frank brought. Hm, that ought to have been carried into the 
 cellar. Hm, nothing but the fate of poor Tom made William 
 forget to put it away. No wonder, did it not worry me so, 
 that I again lived through the terrors of my childhood, and 
 tears came to those old eyes. O, Heavenly Father, how many 
 sacrifices from vour race will this countrv \&i demand ? 
 
 Scene IV. — Sally; Walker; Wallwood ; George, leading 
 Marie; William, following. 
 
 Walker — Welcome, Mr. Wallwood ; welcome, young lady ; 
 and may your stay here be a pleasant one. Ho ! William, take 
 care of the horses, and bring the trunks into the rooms intend- 
 ed for our guests. \^Exit William.'] Well, Mother Sally, how 
 fares the kitchen ? Have you provided for us ? 
 
 Sally — I hope, sir, that you will be satisfied, if you have 
 but a little patience. It is not yet quite ten o'clock. 
 
 Walker — We have driven very fast then, 
 
 Wallwood — This delay is just to my liking, as we breakfasted 
 at the last station. 
 
 Walker — Well, may I ask you to enter the house, and make 
 yourself at home. 
 
 Wallwood — How would it be to remain out here in the open 
 air. The air is delightful, and the trees give sufficient shade. 
 
 Walker — As you wish it ; and, young lady, if ^-ou are also 
 satisfied, I beg to remove your wraps. 
 
 Marie — With j^leasure, if you will allow me. 
 
 George — I beg you to entrust me with your hat and shawl. 
 
 Marie — Do you know how to take care of such delicate 
 thino-s ? 
 
— 9 — 
 
 George — I will concentrate my whole attention npon it ; I 
 know% snch things are looked npon as sacred by the ladies. 
 
 Marie — Certainly, as with the men, snnff-box and cigars. 
 {Hands Jiim Jiat Olid sliaivl.) Well, who will catch hold of a 
 hat in such a manner? You are spoiling the bouquet. 
 
 George — Aha, now, I've got the right place. A person al- 
 ways learns more and more. 
 
 Sally {wants to take the tilings) — Will you allow me, young 
 master ? 
 
 George — O, Mother Sally, what are you thinking of. Leave 
 such a weighty matter to profane hands. 
 
 Marie (laughing) — I hope you will place a guard over them. 
 George — At least, lock and key shall guard them. 
 
 [Exit into house. 
 
 Walker — Young lady, we beg for your company. 
 
 {Sally placing chair for her.) 
 
 Marie — No, you good soul, bring me that chair. 
 
 {Sally does it.) 
 
 Walker — Aha ; this one will be reserved for the custodion of 
 the hat ! 
 
 Marie — Not more than right ; he, who takes care of our 
 finery, shall not be forgotten. 
 
 George {comes back) — Now, that is finished and done away 
 with . 
 
 Marie — As an expression of my thanks, stands this chair for 
 you ; rest yourself after your hardship. 
 
 George — And sun myself in the mild rays ? Immediately, 
 
 Sally {nudging him) — Young master, a word with you. 
 
 George {going to her) — Well, what do you wish. Mother 
 Sally ? 
 
 Sally (ivhisjjering) — Why don't you show the young lady 
 her room ? I decorated it a little, and would like to have her 
 see it before the flowers become withered. 
 
 George — Ah! See! That's what I call mindfulness! Well, 
 well, we will take a look at it. 
 
 Marie — What secrets have you there ? 
 
 George (sitting down) — We are engaged in a conspiracy. 
 
 jMarie — It appears so. 
 
— 10 — 
 
 Sally {to Walker) — Mr. Harley sent a small cask of wine, 
 and, as he said, to welcome the guests. 
 
 Walker — Well, that was good of him. It reminds me, too, 
 that we are sitting here without a drink. William, bring up a 
 few bottles out of the cellar. Then you can bottle off this cask. 
 Friend Harley keeps a good brand. [^Exit 8 ally into Jiouse. 
 
 Walker — Now, young people, do not speak with the eyes 
 only, as we two liave long ago forgotten that language. Set 
 vour tongues into motion, so that we may also be able to take 
 part in your conversation. 
 
 George — The tongue generally is silent when the eye is so 
 agreeably occupied. 
 
 Wallwood — Enough of this! Tell me, Marie, how do you 
 like this part of the country ? 
 
 Walker — You ask this question too soon, for now that rogue, 
 Cupid, is sitting on every blade. 
 
 Marie — And without Cupid, this place pleases me. 
 
 Walker — This region will merit your thanks, if you make 
 the same remark in two years from now. 
 
 George — You have not seen much of Kentucky }'et ; your 
 trip was short and rapid. 
 
 Marie — But I was pleased with what I did see. 
 
 Wallwood — Yes ; the soil is good ; the plantations all look 
 well. One can see that wealth reigns here. How many head 
 have you ? 
 
 Walker — I do not understand you. 
 
 Wallwood — I mean, how much black property have you? 
 
 Walker — O, yes ; I have thirty negroes. 
 
 Wallwood — Hm, not very much ; still, a living can be made 
 from them if they are worked judiciously. 
 
 Walker — I have more than I need ; I am not seeking a 
 fortune. 
 
 Wallwood — That is wrong ! Each must strive to gain riches. 
 For he, who has wealth, may speak ; only he, who has money, 
 is in the right. 
 
 Walker — Those are not exactly my sentiments. 
 
 Wallwood — You should prepare for the future ; buy more 
 negroes, now, while they are still cheap; soon, we may have 
 to pay twice the amount. 
 
— 11 — 
 
 Walker — I believe, that they will soon drop to zero, as the 
 latest move in political circles seems to indicate. 
 Walhvood — Explain yourself. 
 
 Walker — Well, I believe, that the whole institution will soon 
 fall out with the spirit of the times. 
 
 Walhvood — We'll see about that ; we will see, if we can't 
 muzzle this spirit. 
 
 Walker — I wish you luck to your undertaking. 
 Marie — If our fathers are getting into politics, we might as 
 well leave them to themselves. 
 
 George — You're right ! Come, and I will show you your room. 
 \_E liter William, bringing ivine and glasses. 
 
 Walker — Stay, children! We will drop politics. 
 Wall wood — Pshaw ! Let them go, so that we can at least 
 have a sensible conversation. 
 
 Marie — WHiich is impossible in our presence, I sujjpose ? We 
 thank you ! 
 
 Walker — Hold ! First take a glass of wine. 
 
 [ William Jills the glasses; then takes up cask and walks 
 into the house. 
 
 Walker — Walhvood, touch glasses for good friendship. 
 Young lady, I drink to your health, and may you always feel 
 as well and happy here, as your heart may wish. 
 
 George — And may your feelings towards me never change 
 from what they are to-day, is my wish. , 
 
 Marie — And that I may always occupy that jjosition in youi: 
 heart, which your love has awarded me, is my wish and am- 
 bition. S^All touch glasses and drink. 
 
 Wallwood — Enough ! Enough ! Betake yourselves away ! 
 
 Marie — Papa ! I see the change of air has not affected your 
 gallantry ! 
 
 George — Come, Marie, I will show you through the park. 
 
 Marie — When we will walk on roses. 
 
 George — Could I but strew your path through life with roses ! 
 
 Marie — Still, there would be many thorns. [^Exit arm in arm. 
 
 Wallwood — Thank God ! The air is cleared. Now, we can 
 talk business. 
 
 Walker — Business ? What kind of business ? 
 
— 12 — 
 
 Wallwood — You see, I am very thorough in all matters, and 
 class every event as business. When, about four years ago, 
 your son was traveling through South Carolina, he, on the 
 strength of a previous acquaintance, paid me a visit. Although 
 I barely remembered your name, I gave him a most cordial 
 welcome. Don't be offended, as it is thirty years since we 
 accidentally met in Washington. 
 
 Walker — It undoubtedly is so long ago. Well ? And- 
 
 Wallwood — I soon noticed that both he and my daughter 
 were struck with each other ; I did not interfere, and acted as 
 if I noticed nothing. After he left, a constant correspondence 
 sprang up ; letters being received and sent off daily. A few 
 weeks ago, he asked for my daughter's hand. He was accept- 
 ed ; that is, conditionally, and I made up my mind to journey 
 hither. As the saying goes, "what the eye sees, the heart is 
 compelled to believe." 
 
 Walker — If you mean in regards to my son's character, I 
 can vouch for that. 
 
 Wallwood — Character ! Fudge ! He is a gentleman like you 
 and I ; that signifies little ! 
 
 Walker — I thought, that character was a 
 
 Wallwood — Secondary matter! With me, possession is what 
 counts. 
 
 Walker — As to that, I am not poor; my son is my sole heir. 
 Wallwood — What do you call not being poor? 
 Walker — You get at the matter thoroughly. 
 
 Wallwood {wlio is re-fiUing and einpfying his glass in the 
 meanti^ne) — That is my motto. 
 
 Walker — Well, my property is free from debt, besides which 
 I have $20,000.00 cash.. 
 
 Wallwood — Hm, that will do for the start. The young 
 people must see to it, that they advance. And, when do you 
 propose to turn all over to your son ? 
 
 Walker — Turn it over? What belongs to me, belongs to him 
 without my formally turning it over to him. 
 
 Wallwood — Well, that will have to do for the present; I 
 have another reason for speaking with you, but we will put 
 that off till later. I will give my daughter 
 
 Walker — Have I asked you, what you are going to give her? 
 
— 13 — 
 
 Wallwood — That is unnecessary. I will give my daughter 
 nothing direct. What is set aside for her, will be put out on 
 interest. Everything must be taken into consideration. 
 
 Walker — Your suspicions are becoming insulting. If you 
 think so badly of my son, as to imagine that he would forget 
 himself so far as to rob his wife of her dowery, why 
 
 Wallwood — I think badly of every one, until I have been 
 convinced of the contrary. 
 
 Walker — With me, it is just the opposite. 
 Wallwood — That's bad for you. 
 
 Scene VII. — Marie, George, Sally. 
 
 Marie — My room is beaiitiful and decorated like a ball-room ; 
 shall we return to our fathers, or shall we linger along ? 
 George — I await your commands. 
 
 Wallwood — Begone ! We are deeply interested in business. 
 Marie — Business? Well, well! Are you selling out? 
 Wallwood — Something like it ! 
 
 George — If that's the case, I should suggest a promenade 
 through the woods. 
 
 Marie — I am satisfied. But I would like to cover my head ; 
 worthy keeper of the wardrobe, my hat ! 
 George — With or without trimmings? 
 Marie — You may keep the shawl as a sign of my favor. 
 George — Very well. \_Exit into house. 
 
 Marie — Well, Mr. Walker, your son shows good material for 
 a handsome husband. As yet, he obeys every sign and com- 
 mand. 
 
 Walker — I believe you ; when love commands. 
 
 Marie — Love? That's correct, and to it I have sworn, and I 
 will never take a furlough ! 
 
 Walker — Correct, my child ! Man lives but to love. 
 Wallwood — Man lives but to transmit. 
 
 Enter George, witli Marie's hat — Here it is, and, as I hope, 
 artistically handled. 
 
 Marie — Very good ; we will now release our papas from our 
 presence. 
 
 Wallwood — I am anxiously awaiting the fact. 
 
— 14 — 
 
 Marie— Papa Walker, are all papas as gallant as mine ? 
 
 Walker — All are, at least, not so outspoken. 
 
 Marie — Well, then, I may hope to tarry longer with you in 
 the future. 
 
 Walker — You will ever be welcome. 
 
 Marie — Enough ! The hat is donned ; the track is clear ; now 
 may the path through life begin ! 
 
 George {offering his arm) — And at your side, one wishes 
 that it may never end ! IBoth exit. 
 
 Scene VIII. Wallwood ; Walker. 
 
 'Vail wood {looking after them) — That you would chatter till 
 you turned black in the face ! 
 
 Walker — That is the golden dream of youth ; we have also 
 dreamt it. 
 
 Wallwood — Not I ; I only thought of the real ; I never both- 
 ered about dreams. 
 
 Walker — Then you have denied yourself the best part of 
 your life. 
 
 Wallwood — Fudge ! Stuff ! But now to more important mat- 
 ters ! A time is coming, that demands serious thought. 
 
 Walker — Do you mean the presidential election ? 
 
 Wallwood — Yes. The South is too weak. Our friends in 
 the North are disrupted. As we will not support him, Douglas 
 has no hope. For Breckenridge I fear the same fate, as the 
 supporters of Douglas hate him. Fillmore, as small as the 
 number of his supporters may be, is still one of us, but weakens 
 our cause, against which these damn Republicans stand like a 
 stone wall. What will be done? 
 
 Walker — More than likely, they will elect their candidate. 
 
 Wallwood— Well ? And what then ? 
 
 Walker — There is nothing for us to do, but submit ! Tlie 
 majority rules ; that is the law ! 
 
 Wallwood — Law ! Law ! And when the law fails to please 
 us, it ceases to be the law ! 
 
 Walker — Friend ! You are seeing visions, which I do not 
 understand. 
 
 W^allwood — You will soon understand me. I tell you, great 
 events are in preparation. Great work is being done. If these 
 
— 15 — 
 
 Republicans win during the next campaign, South Carolina 
 will secede from the Union. A secret understanding pervades 
 the Southern States, and all will secede with her. 
 
 Walker — By God, you surprise me ! Are you plotting treason? 
 
 Wallwood — Treason ! AVliere can you find treason ? Shall we 
 allow ourselves to be despoiled of our rights ? Shall we allow 
 our property to be confiscated ? 
 
 Walker — Who will despoil us of our rights ? Who will con- 
 fiscate our property ? 
 
 Wallwood — Have they not hindered us in our right by refus- 
 ing us permission to take our property into Kansas ? Has not 
 John Brown shown what they are driving at ? 
 
 Walker — Shall the Union be responsible for the deeds of the 
 individual ? Or, did she hinder you, when you let this same 
 individual die on the gallows ? 
 
 Wallwood — What do I hear? You are taking sides against me? 
 
 M-^alker — I stand, where I always stood, and where I always 
 will stand ; I stand by the law, and the flag of my country ! 
 
 Wallwood — Were you not interested as we are, I would no 
 longer trust you ; but in this case, your own advantage will 
 urge you into our ranks. When we secede, we will have a 
 well-drilled and well-armed army at our disposal, and before 
 the Yankees can arm themselves, we will be masters of Wash- 
 ington ! 
 
 Walker — I yet hope, that this will not occur. What grounds 
 have you for such a monstrous proceeding ? 
 
 Wallwood — What grounds? By God, you are no Southerner 
 to ask this question ! 
 
 Walker — I am a Southerner, and ask this question. The 
 Constitution grants state sovereignty. Within our boundaries 
 we live up to the laws that we frame. The free states them- 
 selves deliver up our runaway slaves. What more do you want? 
 
 Wallwood — We want the Territories ; we want the power ; 
 we are in the minority; this must be changed. The South is 
 ordained to rule in this country, and God damn, it shall ! You 
 sit in the Legislature ! You see, that is the real cause, that 
 brings me here. And to influence you, I sacrifice my child. 
 Work for our plan in the Legislature. It will be an easy mat- 
 ter for you to gain supporters, as our interests are yours also. 
 Kentucky must unite with us ! 
 
— 16 — 
 
 Walker — And you have elected ine to do this ? Yoii would 
 make me a traitor? You would have me sully the Constitution, 
 which our fathers have handed down to us? By God! Did I 
 not honor you as a guest, I w^ould speak in another strain. 
 
 Wallwood — You stand as an enemy against us ! 
 
 Walker — He, who is an enemy of my country, is also an 
 enemy of mine. And take my word, I will do wdiat's in my 
 power to shield Kentucky from your treason. And if our 
 State, may God prevent it, should try to stand by you, I would 
 be the first to train the cannons onto the Rebels ! 
 
 Wallwood — You are a damned Abolitionist ! 
 
 Walker — I am a citizen of this glorious Republic, and as 
 such, I know my duty! Not the clod, but the United States is 
 our country ! And he, who participates in treason against his 
 country ; he, who baits citizen against citizen, is more con- 
 temptible than he who robs the church. 
 
 Wallwood — Ha ! And to this brood should I give up my 
 child ? 
 
 Scp:ne IX. — George; Marie. 
 
 Marie — It is becoming exceedingly lively here ; has the wine 
 gone to your heads ? 
 
 Walker (ivilhout nof icing her) — If you insist upon partici- 
 pating in this treason, you will be unable to escape the punish- 
 ment. You will be unable to shatter the Union, but you will 
 ruin your own happiness. Your teeming fields will be turned 
 into dreary deserts, your cities and villages reduced to ruins, 
 and the blood of thousands, whom you will draw into this 
 struggle, will be put upon your heads. 
 
 George — My God, my father! 
 
 Marie — What is the matter here ? 
 
 Wallwood (pulling her toivards him) — Away from these men, 
 their breath is poisonous ! 
 
 Walker — Monsters ! You would destroy the peace of your 
 country, on account of an institution, which poisons the very 
 air in which it breathes ! Look at Russia, the land of darkness, 
 the spirit of the times is breaking its way. And here, in our 
 free country, you would try to hinder its flight ? 
 
 Wallwood — By God ! Had we but you in South Carolina, I 
 would have them lynch you ! 
 
— 17 — 
 
 ^Valker — But now you are standing upon my land and soil, 
 upon which you have set foot as my guest, and for this reason 
 you may be thankful that you depart as a free man. Here, 
 William ! Hitch up the horses ! 
 
 Wallwood — Yes ; away from this house, in which this con- 
 founded abolitionism reigns. The air becomes oppressive. 
 
 Walker — This house was not built to harbor traitors ! 
 
 George — Father ! For God's sake ! You are destroying my 
 life's happiness ! 
 
 Walker — You well know, my son, how much to me your 
 happiness is ; but, can I obtain it for )-ou, through treason to 
 our country ? 
 
 George — Who demands this ? 
 
 Walker — This man, who is stirring up an intercine war ! 
 This man, who would make a Rebel of me. 
 
 George — How, Wallwood ! Do you mean it ? Are you think- 
 ing of treason ? 
 
 Wallwood — In the name of the devil, call it what yon will ! 
 We would have the South free and independent from this in- 
 fested Union, that spreads its poison across our boundaries. 
 
 (jeorge — You would disrupt the Union ? This grand work of 
 our fathers would you despoil ? You would call down on your- 
 self the curse of this and the after- world ? 
 
 Wallwood — Enough ! What need is there to bandy words ? 
 We are done with each other forever ! 
 
 \_Enter Sally at door. 
 
 George — Maybe not as you think ! I know how to honor the 
 duties of a child. Go with him, and, if God will, we will meet 
 again. 
 
 Marie — Father ! Listen to the supplications of my deathly 
 fear. Do not sacrifice your child on account of your thick- 
 headedness. Give myself to him who owns my heart ! 
 
 Wallwood — Him ? Rather to the meanest negro on my plan- 
 tation ! 
 
 Marie — I embrace your knee ; by my life, by my love to you, 
 I beseech thee, be reconciled, otherwise you break my heart! 
 
 Wallwood — Get up ! Cursed be each tear that falls on his 
 account ! 
 
 Marie — O, father! You would not make your child unhappy? 
 Let yourself be mollified I 
 
— 18 — 
 
 Wallwood — Mollified ! I swear it here, rather would I see 
 you iu the grave, thau staudiug at the altar with this man ! 
 
 Marie — Well, then, and I too swear, and may God forget me 
 if I break this oath, I swear to be true unto death. See here, 
 before your eyes, cruel father, will I engage myself to him 
 with this kiss. { Kisses him.) 
 
 George — The union of two hearts is sealed ! Dare to tear as- 
 under what God and love have united ! 
 
 Wallwood — Come here, ungrateful child ; I will make you 
 regret this hour ! 
 
 William — The carriage awaits. 
 
 Wallwood — Let us be off ! 
 
 George — Marie, remember your oath. 
 
 Marie — Yours in life as in death ! 
 
 [George sinks to his father s breast. 
 
 Walker — Courage, poor son, God will aid you. 
 
 Wallwood (grasping his daughter's arm) — Shall I drag you 
 into the carriage ? 
 
 Marie — Be strong, George ! Remember your betrothed ! 
 
 W aXXwoodi {kicl-ing William) — Away, you black dog ; bring 
 us away from this spot! {Drags his daughter ivith him.) 
 
 Sally {in the door-way) — That is the free America! 
 
— 19 — 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 ScENK I. — Wallwood's Library in South Carolina ; Room 
 with side doors. 
 
 Ben {sneaks in and listens at door) — She is not in the room • 
 everything is quiet ; she must be in the garden. {Looking out 
 of window.) Just so; she is walking about with bowed "head 
 and wet eyes. Grief seems to be tugging at her heart, but I 
 have never heard her complain. Often, when I saw her so 
 sorrowful, a gleam of pity wanted to steal upon me. — Pity with 
 our oppressors ? Ben! Think of your wife and child, and re- 
 joice that these tyrants must also suffer ! Is it not the only 
 comfort you have ? I was satisfied with scanty meals and hard 
 work, for, after the heat and hard work of the day, came eve- 
 ning, and I was happy in the possession of my wife, my child. 
 But these monsters ! What are to them the sorrows of a negro ? 
 For money, they will tear the wife from the side of her hus- 
 band, the child from the breast of the mother. They will 
 laugh at tears, and the complaints will be silenced by the lash. 
 Oh ! My wife ! My poor child ! 
 
 Scene II. — Enter Mark. 
 
 Mark — Is the master not here ? {Lays a paper on the table. ) 
 Ben — He is not yet back from Richmond, where he went 
 yesterday. 
 
 Mark — Ah, and in the meantime this paper for him arrives 
 from Richmond. 
 
 Ben — Put it down there. (Carefully.) Have you been able 
 to find out anything about the war ? 
 
 Mark — That is impossible in this house ; our master is silent 
 the daughter takes no interest in it, and, if a stranger calls off 
 and on, the master sends us out into the field. 
 
 Ben — Yes, they are very careful and keep strict watch on us. 
 
 Mark — Tomy, a slave of our neighbor, came over last night 
 and knocked at my door. He was digging trenches in Rich- 
 mond. While he was there, he sneaked up on two officers and 
 overheard their conversation. New Orleans has been taken as 
 well as Doneldson and Nashville. The only thing wanted is 
 that they capture Vicksburg and Port Hudson. We would 
 then be split in half. I do not understand this. 
 
— 20 — 
 
 Ben — Keep on ! Keep on ! 
 
 Mark — There is no more to tell. Tomy had to get away, so 
 as not to be discovered. Many of the enemy's prisoners shonld 
 be kept in Richmond. 
 
 Ben — Enemies ! Do you call them enemies ? 
 Mark — That is what the master calls them. 
 
 Ben He, who is his enemy, is our friend. No matter what 
 
 they mav say about these Yankees, I know better, what they 
 want. You see, while I was still in North Carolina, I was one 
 day working in the garden. The master and a stranger were 
 walking in the garden, and I heard the stranger say: "These 
 damn Yankees will not rest until the last slave is set free ; they 
 would best like to have a negro for President at once." My 
 master at this moment caught sight of me, and tipped his 
 friend the wink. Well, and these same Yankees are now the 
 so-called enemies. Could I only fight in their rank ; by God, 
 there would be no braver soldier ! 
 
 Mark — Not so, Ben ; I am satisfied to remain here, since 
 Tomy told me how the prisoners live in Richmond. Even if 
 we have hard work, we get enough to eat and our night's rest. 
 Our master must also clothe us, and we are free Sundays. 
 
 Ben — Free ! Like the ox in the stable, where the yoke does 
 not bear down on him. O, were I free, as I wish it, you would 
 hear from me. 
 
 Mark — You would run away ? 
 Ben — No, but I would revenge myself ! 
 Mark — Revenge yourself ? On our master ? 
 Ben — If this one would be sufficient for my revenge, do you 
 think he would yet be alive ? No ! I could bathe myself in 
 their blood to cool my sorrow ! When they tore me away from 
 my wife and child, and sold me into this state, when I heard 
 the screams of my wife, and my heart nearly burst with grief, 
 my strength was kept up by the thought, "You must revenge 
 yourself." Since that time I can think of nothing else. My 
 life is for sale, only, I cannot agree upon the price for which 
 to sell it. Ha ! I would like to strike them a blow from which 
 the entire brood would bleed to death ! 
 
 Mark — Terrible! Go, go! You frighten me! 
 
 Ben — Often have I thought of sneaking into Richmond, to 
 set the city on fire, to blow up their magazine, and bury them 
 with mvself under the ruins. 
 
— 21 — 
 
 Mark — Well, they have taken good care to prevent this. As 
 Toniy told me, not one of ns can go ungnarded from house to 
 house. 
 
 Ben — I will not yet give up hope ; the day will come when 
 I will settle my account with them ! 
 
 Mark — Do not put yourself into danger. That I will be 
 silent, you know. But be secret, even with our people. Now 
 come, the others are already sitting at the table, and I am very 
 hungry. 
 
 Ben — Well, go and eat, for you live only to eat ! 
 
 Mark — I thought everybody did that. As one cannot eat 
 without living, so can no one live without eating. Do not 
 forget to deliver the paper to the master. \_Exit. 
 
 Ben {alone witli the paper) — If one could only read, one 
 could now find out how matters stand. But they raise us like 
 animals. Only one thing puzzles me, they let us know of the 
 good of religion, they promise us heaven and its joys. Does 
 slavery exist in heaven also ? Or, are they not afraid to share 
 their heavenly joys with us? {Looking out of windoio.) The 
 master ! He is in a hurry ! 
 
 Scene III. — Enter Wallwood. 
 
 Wallwood {suspiciously) — What are you doing here alone? 
 
 Ben — I brought this paper, which Mr. Haid sent from Rich- 
 mond. 
 
 Wallwood — Where is my daughter ? 
 
 Ben — I saw her in the garden. 
 
 Wallwood — Then call her, and betake yourself to work ! 
 
 Ben {muttering as he ivaJks off) — Here's news! If one could 
 but overhear it ! 
 
 Wallwood (/r/o??,e) — Damned news! New Orleans captured, 
 as well as Nashville and Doneldson ; and Siegel, this damned 
 Dutchman, is defeating us in Arkansas. These Yankees, damn 
 it, seem to stamp armies out of the very ground ! Their com- 
 merce is flourishing, while ours is ruined. Our o-old is o-oiup- 
 to foreign countries, while the value of our paper sinks daily ; 
 where will that end? {Takes paper.) Only one piece of good 
 news! My ship has successfully run the blockade. Captain 
 Blond is a man after my heart. My steamer "Floyd" is a 
 great ship. {Beading.) Theatres! Concerts! Balls! just keep 
 on dancing, you Yankees ! Ah! {7'eading.) Latest dispatches 
 
— 22 — 
 
 from the seat of war: On the 4th of April, McClellan with 
 120,000 men landed at Yorktown. Jnst come on, we will give 
 yon a welcome ! On the 6th and 7th, bloody fighting at Pitts- 
 bnrg Landing ; the Union army under Grant victorious. On 
 the same day, Foote captured the important position. Island 
 No. 10. On the 8th, the blockade-runner "Floyd," Captain 
 Blond, with a cargo of cotton for England, was captured on the 
 high seas by the Weet ! My ship, damn it, my ship! Will 
 everything break down over me ? My ship ! I am ruined ! But, 
 courage ! Courage ! Can nothing be saved ? 
 
 Scene IV.— Enter Marie. 
 
 Marie — You back already ? I did not expect you to-day ! 
 
 Wallwood — Richmond is not just now the centre of gaiety, 
 where one would make a long stay. Things look dark ; the 
 Yankees are giving us a lot of trouble. Our harbors are block- 
 aded ; our commerce is ruined. 
 
 Marie — O, Walker, how terribly true were your prophesies ! 
 
 Wallwood — Not a word about this traitor ! Damn it, not a 
 word of him ! I have spoken a weighty word with the Presi- 
 dent. This will never do! More spirit must be infused into 
 these affairs. We must spread terror among these Yankees, if 
 we will conquer them. 
 
 Marie — God ! How much blood has been spilt, and all on 
 account of this egotism ? 
 
 Wallwood — Egotism ! You unthinking child ! Do not come 
 to me with the ideas which you have imbibed from those people 
 in Kentucky. 
 
 Marie — And should I approve of the fact, that the happiness 
 of millions has been destroyed ? That thousands of men have 
 been sacrified, in order that the authority of a few individuals 
 might be established. I could not answer for it before God. 
 
 Wallwood — Every war demands its sacrifices. He, who has 
 the entirety in view, cannot spare the individual. And do we 
 spare ourselves ? I was a rich man ; that is my past. I loaned 
 my money to the government ; if we lose, I am ruined. My 
 ship {shows her the newspaper)^ read, is lost. On the high seas 
 did they capture it, and still I stand by our cause. I would not 
 move an inch, even if the Yankees already stood in Richmond. 
 
 Marie — Your plantations will become deserts ; your cities 
 and villages will be in ruins. 
 
— 23 — 
 
 Wall wood — The daiinied prophesy of that old scoundrel. 
 But, patience! We will yet fulfill it! By his Satanic majesty, I 
 would myself shoulder a musket and place myself in the rank 
 and file, if they would march onto Kentucky, to revenge my- 
 self on that brood. 
 
 Marie — God wdll take care to prevent it. 
 
 Wallwood — O, yonder scoundrel has still a place in your 
 heart, but, damn it, I will drive him out of it ! 
 
 Marie — Do not flatter yourself. I have engaged myself to 
 him ; I am bound to him with a holy oath. You may break 
 my heart, but you can never break the love within it. 
 
 Wallwood — Away ! Away ! You stain of dishonor on my 
 name. From now on, you will learn to know to me. Your 
 father is dead ; now, you will obey your master, Marie. 
 
 Marie — A father I have never found in you, as my love has 
 in vain tried to find. My mother long reposes in her grave, 
 and I now stand as an orphan in my young life. I am depend- 
 ent upon myself only, upon myself and my love. This gives 
 me strength ; with it, and within it, I exist. Now storm, and 
 see, if you will be able to break down my strength. 
 
 Wallwood — I shall, damn it, and if it be with your life ! 
 
 Marie — O, God, why do you bind the child to him, whom 
 you refuse the heart of a father? \_Exit. 
 
 Wallwood {alone) — The devil ! But I will get done with you 
 after the more important matters are settled. My ship is lost ; 
 so is my wealth. Hold! No one knows of it. Hm, I might 
 still be saved from ruin. But I will have to bestir myself, else 
 all will be over. Who ? Horway, hm, the old fox, he will not 
 walk into the trap; he is too careful. Lant ? He would be 
 stupid enough, but he has not enough money. To Richmond? 
 That will be useless ; they will have received the news. Hm, 
 hm, to whom shall I go ? {Loohing out of windoiv.) Who 
 comes there ? Westerlaw ? That is just the man ! Some good 
 star must have brought him hither. {Hides 2jaj)er.) If the 
 devil has not already sent him some Yankee nevv^spaper ! 
 
 Scene V. — Enter Westerlaw. 
 
 Wallwood {meets Jiwi) — Welcome, welcome; my dear Wes- 
 terlaw ! 
 
 Westerlaw — How are you, Mr. W^allwood ? 
 
 Wallwood — Well, friend, what brings you? Good news? 
 
— 24 — 
 
 Wcsterlaw — Tliat is at present somewhat scarce. New Or- 
 leans is captured. 
 
 Wallwood — I know it ; I upbraided Davis yesterday for not 
 defending the Mississippi better. Such an important position 
 for us ! 
 
 Westerlaw — I cannot reproach him for that ; New Orleans 
 was strongly defended. Who in the world ever thought, that 
 the old lion, Farragut, could pass Forts Philip and Jackson? 
 It is the only event of its kind chronicled in history. 
 
 Wallwood — That is what Davis thought, and as he said, that 
 he thought they would now l)e likeh' to capture Richmond. 
 
 Westerlaw — Well, I do not think, that they are so anxious 
 to get into Richmond just yet. But the fall of New Orleans 
 will cause bad results. If they mass their whole force on the 
 Mississippi now, they will divide our states in half. 
 
 Wallwood — Vicksburg, friend, spoils this plan. You will 
 see that they will cut their teeth at Vicksburg. 
 
 Westerlaw — It was a hard blow to our cause, that we lost 
 Maryland, Missouri and Kentuck)-. 
 
 Wallwood — Maryland would have been captured by the first 
 onset ; it is too thinly populated. Those devils, the Germans, 
 have taken Missouri from us, and Kentucky wavered so long 
 in its neutrality, siding first with our, then with the other side, 
 until our enemies managed to gain control. I know that scoun- 
 drel Walker, who undoubtedly carries part of the blame. 
 
 Westerlaw — What plan has Davis now ? 
 
 Wallwood — His plan is a good one to my knowledge. Mc- 
 Clellan with 120,000 men is at Yorktown. He must be anni- 
 hilated. That will open the way to Maryland, Washington 
 and Pennsylvania. This is the plan, wdiich Lee is to carry out. 
 
 Westerlaw — It is a good plan, and Lee is the right man to 
 carry it out. There remains but the main task of how to anni- 
 hilate these 120,000 men. 
 
 Wallwood — I advised Davis to let nothing remain undone. 
 All forces must be put to work. Our friends in the East and 
 West must be aroused, be it with gold or be it with promises. 
 Bands must be organized to burn down the cities. The Yan- 
 kees must be terrorized. Then will our hands be free. And 
 believe me, England and France are only awaiting a decisive 
 blow to be struck by us, when they will recognize us. If we 
 will be able to do this, we will be masters of the situation, and 
 we will dictate the la^v. 
 
— 25 — 
 
 Westerlaw — Our ambassadors, whom that Yankee Wilson 
 captured on board a British ship, were given up to England by 
 Seward. 
 
 Wallwood — That's just it ; that's what I regret. I huzzaed 
 when I heard that they were captured, and hoped that their 
 release would be refused. 
 
 Westerlaw — How so ? Are IMason and Slidell your enemies ? 
 
 Wallwood — On the contrary, they are my friends. 
 
 Westerlaw — And still you wished that they remain prisoners? 
 I do not understand you. 
 
 Wallwood — I wished it, because England would become em- 
 broiled with these Yankees on account of the insult offered to 
 their flag. This would be more welcome than recognition to us. 
 
 Westerlaw — I do not believe that anything serious would 
 have been the outcome. It would have rained words, for Eng- 
 land is renowned for that. Old Bull might have rattled with 
 his sword, but hardly would he have drawn it, for it is hard to 
 embroil that mercenary race. 
 
 Wallwood — Let it go at that. Who knows but that France 
 might not have taken a hand. For, believe me, these specu- 
 lative Yankees are a thorn in the eye of Napoleon, as well as 
 in the eye of greedy England. They are befriended to us be- 
 cause we are no haberdashers, and they also need our cotton. 
 
 Westerlaw — Yes ; there should be a great scarcity of it in 
 both countries, since its export has been hemmed, 
 
 Wallwood — That's it. And that is the cause of the great 
 rise in its price. 
 
 Westerlaw — We have a surplus. But this damned blockade ! 
 
 Wallwood — Yes, I am glad that my ship got safely through, 
 and is safe on the high seas. You know, my "Floyd." The 
 cargo will bring a nice little sum, don't you think so? 
 
 Westerlaw — I wish you luck. 
 
 Wallwood — You know, the cargo ; what do you think it 
 might bring ? 
 
 Westerlaw — As I know the price fairly well, it will be an 
 easy matter to figure it out. 
 
 Wallwood — And out there they pay in gold, which is ad- 
 vancing daily here. 
 
 Westerlaw — Yes, it is becoming scarce, and those who have 
 any hold to it. 
 
— 26 — 
 
 Wallwood — I want to make you a proposition. I always like 
 to make a deal, and I am also sliort of money just now. I have 
 loaned too much of it to the government. Purchase the ship 
 as well as its cargo from me. You will find me cheap. 
 
 Westerlaw — I will not enter into any business transaction 
 just now. I have another plan. 
 
 Wallwood — You will be sure to find me cheap. 
 
 Westerlaw — As I said before, I will not enter into any busi- 
 ness transactions whatsoever. 
 
 Wallwood {urging Jiim) — Well, then, participate as a part- 
 ner; we will share the profits as well as the losses, share and 
 share alike. Give me your hand, and we will make out the 
 necessary papers. 
 
 Westerlaw — I must also decline this. As I have said before, 
 I have another plan. 
 
 Wallwood {to himself) — Damn it! I am lost! 
 
 Westerlaw — The cause of my visit is, as you would have it, 
 a matter of business. I have taken a large contract for supplies 
 for the army. The contract is good, and will undoubtedly pay 
 its owner. There is much work, which one cannot entrust to 
 strangers. A partner would reduce the profits. I have, there- 
 fore, decided to wed. My wife can oversee house and planta- 
 tion and the magazines, while I give my undivided attention 
 to the business. 
 
 Wallwood — You are proceeding in the right course, if you 
 make a good choice. 
 
 Westerlaw — I have reviewed my entire feminine acquaint- 
 ance, and have decided upon your daughter. 
 
 Wallwood — Upon my daughter ? 
 
 Westerlaw — Yes, and I have come to get your opinion. 
 
 Wallwood — I feel myself highly honored. You are a rich 
 man, and I see no objection to yourself. 
 
 Westerlaw — Then let us bring the matter to a climax at 
 once, for my time is valuable. 
 
 Wallwood — Just as you wish. Hm, my daughter will un- 
 doubtedly act coy. You know how girls will act. A bit of 
 romance is also upon her mind. 
 
 Westerlaw — That is a small matter, for she will not so easily 
 refuse a man like myself. 
 
 Wallwood-^I would not advise her to do so. Marie ! Marie I 
 
— 27 — 
 
 Westerlaw — She knows me and my possessions as well as 
 you do. 
 
 Wallwood — Who should not know the rich Westerlaw ? 
 
 Scene VI. — Enter Marie. 
 
 Marie — Did you call me, father ? 
 Wallwood — Here ! Mr. Westerlaw ! 
 Marie {dropping a curtsy) — May you be welcome, 
 Westerlaw — My young lady, I take pleasure of assuring you 
 of my esteem. 
 
 Wallwood — The gentleman has paid us a visit, and wishes a 
 word with you. 
 
 Marie — With me ? I do not know 
 
 Westerlaw — I flatter myself, that my possessions as well as 
 myself are not unknown to you. 
 
 Marie — We see each other often ; you can almost be consid- 
 ered one of our neighbors. 
 
 Westerlaw — You do not catch my meaning; I would, that 
 we should become more intimately acquainted. 
 
 Marie — I do not know on what account you should wish it. 
 
 Westerlaw — Maybe the greatest, the most ardent, if you 
 would allow. 
 
 Wallwood — I always like the shortest way. To be plain, 
 Mr. Westerlaw is here to ask for your hand, which I have 
 promised him. 
 
 Marie — You cannot do that, for this hand is not free. Mr. 
 Westerlaw, my father likes the shortest way. I will also be 
 plain. I must refuse your proposal, honorable as it is, for I 
 am already a bride. 
 
 Wallwood — That's a damn lie ! You are not a bride! Did I 
 give my word ? 
 
 Marie — I did ! In the j^resence of God ! 
 
 Wallwood — Here stands the bridegroom, otherwise, damn it! 
 
 Marie — With your permission I gave my heart to the man 
 you now hate, because he would not allow you to make a 
 traitor of him. Out of revenge, you broke your word. What 
 did the happiness of your child signify to you ? I do not com- 
 plain ; not a tear shows you my sorrow, for that tear would 
 delight )'ou ; my complaints be but fuel for your hate. No 
 
— 28 — 
 
 love entreats you for this man to whom this heart belongs. 
 But I swear it, that you shall not bind nie to any other ! 
 
 Wallwood — You defy me on account of that scoundrel ? 
 
 Marie — On account of the man whom you now hate, because 
 he wanted to hinder you from drawing your country, your 
 people, into ruin. For that honorable man, who, forgetting 
 his happiness, reminded me of the duties of childhood, that I, 
 by God, am now sorry I fulfilled. 
 
 Wallwood {draiving a dagger) — You damned 
 
 Marie — Here is my heart ! Strike ! You will not miss it ! 
 The love of a father will be no obstacle ! Strike ! You do not 
 frighten me ! 
 
 Westerlaw — Matters are becoming uncomfortable. 
 
 Marie — Mr. Westerlaw, I will let it with you ; if, after what 
 you have heard, you will still persist in your demand, will it 
 be consistent with your honor, with your character ? 
 
 Wallwood — By the devil ! You shall obey ! 
 
 Westerlaw — You may thank the dress of a lady that I did 
 not hear that. A gentlemen must have some regard for the 
 sex. Adieu, Mr. Wallwood, I will undoubtedly find another 
 bride. {Starts to go.) 
 
 Wallwood — Hold ! Westerlaw ! Hold ! She must consent ! 
 Hold, I say ! 
 
 Marie — God give me strength to bear it ! [_Exit into next room. 
 
 CHANGE.— Same as First Act. 
 Scene VH.— Sally and Ball. 
 
 Sally — Come here, child; don't be afraid; here we are safe. 
 
 Ball — Don't you hear how they are shooting? 
 
 Sally — Yes ; God protect our people ! 
 
 Ball — Mother Sally, why are they shooting? 
 
 Sally — A band of guerillas has entered the State. They 
 practice murder and destruction, and every other vice. 
 
 Ball — What kind of people are they ? 
 
 Sally — An army of thieves and murderers. They have fallen 
 upon our neighbor, and practice every known cruelty. Frank, 
 who was in the field with the horses, came riding like the 
 wind and brought the news. Our master aroused his men and 
 hurried over there ; they are now fighting with them. 
 
— 29 — 
 
 Ball — Why don't they whip such people? 
 
 Sally — The lash is not intended for them ; for them grows 
 wood and hemp. 
 
 Ball — Do they hurt more ? 
 
 Sally — It works better with them anyway. 
 
 Ball — Why did these people come here ? 
 
 Sally — To steal, to murder, to burn down our houses. 
 
 Ball — Did we hurt them in any way ? 
 
 Sally — No. But what do they ask, who often do not spare 
 their own friends. 
 
 Ball — O, that is wrong ! I will tell Mr. Walker not to allow it. 
 Sally — He and his son are there with our people to punish 
 them. 
 
 Ball — Is my father and William there also ? 
 Sally— Yes. 
 
 Ball — They will, no doubt, defeat them. 
 Sally — May God ordain it ! 
 
 Ball — Has my father such a gun, like those soldiers on the 
 picture inside ? 
 
 Sally — Yes ; the master has armed them. 
 
 Ball — Father must keep that gun, so that I may learn to 
 shoot. When I am a man, I want to be a soldier. 
 
 Sally — Poor child, you cannot do that. 
 
 Ball — I cannot do that ? Will I not soon become a man ? 
 
 Sally — You will become a man without being free. You 
 were born to be a slave. 
 
 Ball — That's bad ; I would rather be a soldier. Mother Sally, 
 couldn't you have arranged it, that I would have been born a 
 soldier ? 
 
 Sally — No ; for that, you would have to have a white skin 
 like our master. God made you black, consequently you must 
 be a slave. 
 
 Ball — God could have also made me white ; he might have 
 known that otherwise I could not have been a soldier. 
 
 Sally — Be quiet, my child, what God does is well. Listen! 
 Voices! They are coming nearer! Come in, and let us pray to 
 God, that he protect our people. 
 
 Ball — If I could only fight with them ; I would shoot them 
 all down ! S^Exithoth. 
 
-ao- 
 
 SCENE VIII. — Walker; Slaves; Stevens. 
 
 Walker — Well, that band of robbers is broken np ; my son 
 and the others are pursning the fugitives. William, you are 
 wounded ; I will send for the doctor. 
 
 William (ivhose head is hound uj)) — Not necessary, master; 
 the wound is not dangerous and will heal up of itself. 
 
 Walker — With this wound you have saved my life. All of 
 you have acted like men. Already, my son and I were sur- 
 rounded by this gang of cut-throats. You cut your way through 
 to us and made us victors. Stay as long as you wish with me, 
 but if you would try your fortune elsewhere, go, with God, I 
 make you free. 
 
 Negroes — Free ! Hurrah ! Three cheers for Mr. Walker ! 
 Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! 
 
 Prisoner — Mr. Walker, you are a gentleman. I am also the 
 owner of a plantation like you. War often mixes us up with 
 matters, in which we do not always agree. He, who once 
 joins a cause, has not to wish, but to obey. Nor can the indi- 
 vidual be made responsible for the deed, that the whole de- 
 mands. Therefore, give me also my freedom. 
 
 Walker — You free ? Wretch ! Had you been a soldier, cap- 
 tured in open warfare, you would find protection in this house. 
 Now, you are but a thief, incendiary and miirderer. You fall 
 upon the unarmed, spare neither wife nor child. The weak, 
 old man you strike down, only to cool your thirst for blood. 
 You are not bound by any oath to support your flag ; you do 
 not recognize any command. You do not fight for principle ; 
 you destroy. And murder but to kill, to steal. Your shame 
 be upon you ; and shame be upon the government, which allows 
 such a fiendish proceeding. Were I not as human as I am, by 
 God, von would already be suspended between heaven and 
 earth. But still, in the scoundrel, in the murderer, do I honor 
 the man, and allow the law to pursue its course. Boys, guard 
 him, while I make out my report. I will turn him over to the 
 military court. 
 
 William — Well, boys, we are free ! My chest would burst at 
 the thought. My wish has been granted, by God, Now, 
 mother, you have a happy child ! 
 
 Negroes — We always fared well under our master, but, still, 
 libertv is better vet ! 
 
— 31 — 
 
 Scene IX.— Enter Sally. 
 
 Sally — O, God! William, you are wounded! 
 
 William — I feel nothing of my wound ! Mother, we are free ! 
 
 Sally — Free ? 
 
 Negroes — Yes ; William has saved the master's life by this 
 wound, and for this our master has set us free. 
 
 Sally— William ! You did this ? 
 
 Negroes — Yes ; William through himself between, as yonder 
 man tried to split the master's head. {Pointing to jinsoner.) 
 
 Sally — God be praised, that He allowed you to do it ! 
 
 Turns to prisoner and utters a sJirieh. All stand siaprised. 
 
 Sally — Stevens ! Do you remember me ? 
 
 Stevens — You know my name ? 
 
 Sally — Do you remember that negro girl Sally, whose father 
 you whipped to death ? Don't you see his bloody corpse under 
 your lash ? 
 
 Prisoner {terrified) — Sally! 
 
 Sally — Do you not see my crazy mother on the burning roof? 
 Do you not hear her curse: "As true as this house, destroyed 
 by the flames, will crumble to ashes, so true, if there be a just 
 God in heaven, will you fall as a victim at the hands of my 
 child." God is just! He himself leads you to judgment. 
 {Site grasps one of the negroes guns.) 
 
 William — Mother, what are you doing ? 
 
 Sally — What God commands! (Shoots tJie p)risoner, ivho falls 
 to the ground. ) 
 
 Scene X.— Enter Walker. 
 
 Walker — What is the matter? {Espies the prisoner.) Ha! 
 Who did this ? 
 
 Sally {raising her right hand, calmly,) — God! Through this 
 hand ! 
 
 Curtain. 
 
— 32 — 
 
 ACT in. 
 
 ScKNE 1. — Same as Act II. ; Wallwoocr.s House. 
 
 Ben (snrakmr/ into room) — Something is going on here, and 
 I must know what it is! By the devil, I must know what it is. 
 The master is going around with a triumphant look ; it is as if 
 hell was written upon his grinning face. His daughter, for 
 the first time in years, has such a joyful air ; her eyes are 
 sparkling with joy. AVhat is going on here? I must know, if 
 joy would again make its home here, and if so, I must try to 
 scare it away. Their sorrow is my only comfort. Still, the 
 daughter is kind ; I believe, I could bear it to see her happy. 
 But he, that devil, who bought me! He, wdio, laughing, tore 
 me away from my wife, to him shall joy remain unknown on 
 this earth ! Could I but hear them! (Listens at the door.) I 
 must see what's going on; I can't hear a word; even in their 
 joy they do not forget their caution. Listen ! They are moving 
 their chairs. \_Exit liurriedly through the centre. 
 
 Scene II. — Wall wood ; Marie. 
 
 Marie — Who would have thought it ; I am still in a dream ! 
 
 Wallwood — The messenger has gone long ago ; you wrote 
 him not to let us wait, did you not? 
 
 Marie — Don't be uneasy ; his heart commands dispatch. But 
 tell me, dear father, what good spirit has come over you, that 
 has changed you so? When I saw you today, so kind, as I 
 have never before seen you, so loving and friendly, it seemed 
 to me as if you were mocking my heart — as if it were cruelty, 
 which insulted my grief. 
 
 Wallwood — You will soon be convinced of something better, 
 
 Marie — I am that now, for you have again given your con- 
 sent to my happiness. On your wish did I write to my George. 
 I feel ashamed, that I have been so cold, yes, even disobedient 
 to you. But, now all will be changed ; I will divide my love 
 between yourself and George. 
 
 Wallwood — Yes, yes ; it will find itself. 
 
 Marie — But tell me, dear father, what caused this change? 
 To me my joy is so doubtful, so surprising. 
 
 Wallwood — You know, our cause will undoubtedly fail, and 
 there remains but little hope. Thereupon, I thought it would 
 be better that we made peace. 
 
— 33 — 
 
 Marie — Peace ? Yes ; peace ! May God grant it ! 
 Wallwood — And above all, I wanted to reconcile yon. 
 Marie — Yon will see at my love, that yon have a thankful 
 daughter. 
 
 Wallwood — You wrote him that he should come alone, so as 
 not to attract attention, did you not? 
 
 Marie — Yes, I wrote him ; but, dear father, we wall go with 
 him ; we will remove to Kentucky, won't we. Yon are poor, 
 as you have often told me. That matters nothing, as George 
 has enough to provide for both of us. Old Mr. Walker, I 
 guarantee you, will be glad to have you. 
 
 Wallwood — I believe it. 
 
 Marie — You are so cold, while my heart is nearly bursting 
 with joy. 
 
 Wallwood — With me it is internally. 
 
 Marie — And how came you to know that George is serving 
 with this corps ? 
 
 Wallwood — I saw him myself. 
 
 Marie {joyously) — How? You have spoken to him? 
 
 Wallwood — Not exactly ; I saw him at a distance. 
 
 Marie — Oh! Had you but spoken with him, he would have 
 been pleased to know that you are so changed. How heartily 
 would he have embraced you ! 
 
 Wallwood — I w^anted to defer it until later. 
 
 Marie — That you disagreed with him at that time will be for- 
 gotten when you give him your hand ; I know his heart. 
 
 Wallwood — I will give him my hand, you may depend upon it. 
 
 Marie — I wrote him that you now see your error, that you 
 now feel that he was right at that time. 
 
 Wallwood — Certainly ; he was right ! 
 
 Marie — O, God, how happy I am ! How happily we will now 
 live ! How easy it will be for me to cheer up l)oth you and Mr. 
 Walker, and brighten your old age ! 
 
 Wallwood — If he will only come. 
 
 Marie — He will come ! He will come ! My heart tells me so ! 
 But why did we not go to meet him ? In my joyfnlness I did 
 not think of it ! Why are we here yet ? Come ; let us hurry ! 
 
 Wallwood — I first wanted to be convinced of his opinion. 
 
— 34 — 
 
 Marie — I will guarantee for that. God ! I do but now re- 
 member, that he is in the enemy's country! He comes alone! 
 If an accident should befall him ? 
 
 Wall wood — Be quiet! Our troops are far away, while his 
 corps is but a few miles from here. 
 
 Marie — I had not thought of that ; what would be an easy 
 matter for us, is a difScult one for him. O, this anxiety will 
 kill me ! 
 
 Wallwood — You are a woman, who sees ghosts everywhere. 
 
 Marie — O, let us hurry to meet him ; we have fast horses ; 
 we can be there before he leaves the camp. 
 
 Wallwood — Why not ? That would make a nice mess ! 
 
 Marie — And why ? We are known throughout this region ; 
 no one will dare to stop us. And where George stands, we 
 will be safe. 
 
 Wallwood — That may be so, but how would we get back ? 
 And nuich remains here to be done. You will leave with him 
 immediately ; I will follow later ; that will be better. Just let 
 him come. 
 
 Marie — Dear father, I would not like to hurt your feelings 
 with my fear, especially today, when you are making me so 
 happy. But cannot I allay my fears, while the thought that 
 my note may prove his destruction, is incessantly on my mind. 
 
 Wallwood — Were he only here ; you would soon be quieted. 
 Hm, did you in your note hint, that we might return with him? 
 
 Marie — I wrote that I hoped that our united loves might 
 coax you to accompany us. 
 
 Wallwood — That was good ! That ought to bring him ! 
 
 Marie — Dear father, let us go to meet him. 
 
 Wallwood — That's impossible ! Don't bother me any more ! 
 
 Marie — God forbid that I should bother you, now, where you 
 are such a dear, good father. And, so as not to call your dis- 
 pleasure down on me, through my fears, I will go into the 
 corner room, where I can see a long stretch of the road. I will 
 not step under your eyes again until I can see my George in 
 your arms. Adieu, my dear, dear father! How happy I am in 
 your own and his love. [Exit through centre. 
 
 Wallwood (alone) — Go! You will soon be convinced of my 
 love ! If he is as easily fooled as you are, my plan will be suc- 
 cessful. I wonder, if I should tell her now that I am not her 
 
— 35 — 
 
 father ; that she was born before I learned to know her mother ! 
 And tliat only on account of her mother's wealth did I consent 
 to cover her dishonor with my name. Until now the secret 
 was in.iperative, for otherwise she might have appeared as the 
 rightful heir. But now, since I am poor, this cause is unfound- 
 ed. No one but her aunt knows of this matter, and her silence 
 I have secured by a terrible oath. Hm ! Hold! Would it not 
 be better to keep the secret a while longer ? If that scoundrel 
 is put out of the way, all hope will die within her breast, and 
 with it her will. She will then be a toy in her father's hand, 
 and will be easily led by him. I will then be able to force her 
 to marry that rich Westerlaw, and then I will be able to rehab- 
 iliate myself with his money. If I were to disclose the secret, 
 I would myself sever the ties by which she holds herself bound 
 to me. She would then plot for revenge of the murder of her 
 love and herself become a menace to me, for she is very firm of 
 purpose. {Loads a pistol.) Above all, we must prepare our- 
 selves for the reception. One does not know how he will ap- 
 pear ; such a thing as this comes handy in case of emergency. 
 'Twas against my plan, if I could rely on my other help. 
 
 Scene III. — Enter Ben. 
 Wallwood {hides the weajjon) — What do you want here? 
 Ben — A stranger wishes to speak to you, master. 
 Wallwood — Hm ! Bid him enter. 
 Ben — Yes, master. \_Exit. 
 
 Wallwood — Can it be him ? It is hard to believe that she has 
 not seen him. 
 
 Scene IV. — Enter Stranger. 
 
 Wallwood {for himself) — A strange face! {Aloud) You wish 
 to see me ? 
 
 Stranger — If you are Mr. Wallwood. 
 
 Wallwood — I am, and what do you wish ? But, be seated ! 
 Above all, I would like to know your name? 
 
 Stranger — That has nothing to do with the case. In matters 
 like mine, it is not always safe to carry your name on the tip 
 of your tongue. 
 
 Wallwood — Strange ; to satisfy you, I can assure you, that 
 we are alone. 
 
 Stranger — That is well ; but in regards to the name it mat- 
 ters nothing. 
 
— 36 — 
 
 Wall wood— Well, then, proceed! 
 
 Stranger— You have corresponded with a young man in 
 Washington ? 
 
 Wallwood — Who told you so ? 
 
 Stranger— He himself ; he showed me your letters, that I 
 might read them. 
 
 Wallwood — Then you are an intimate friend of his, and refuse 
 to let me, his most intimate friend, know your name. 
 
 Stranger — That may come, when we learn to know each 
 other better. It is a matter of principle with me, not to give 
 my name in such matters. But I have news that might be of 
 some interest to yourself. 
 
 Wallwood — And that should be ? 
 
 Stranger — On the 8th inst., Lincoln was re-elected for the 
 second t'erm as Presipent of the United States. 
 
 Wallwood {jumping up) — Damn it! Are you sure that }OU 
 have reliable information ? 
 
 Stranger — With my own eyes ; in every paper. 
 
 Wallwood — Are you from Washington ? 
 
 Stranger — From Baltimore. 
 
 Wallwood — How did you manage to get through the lines? 
 
 Stranger — That's a mere nothing when you deal with people 
 like myself. 
 
 Wallv^ood — I do not yet know the reason of your coming 
 here, as I cannot well accept the re-election of Lincoln as the 
 same. 
 
 Stranger — Last year I was hired by your agent in New York, 
 and during the riots from July 13th to 17th I did what I could. 
 
 Wallwood — Alas, the object in view was not attained. 
 
 Stranger — When all was lost, I had to flee ; I was not pur- 
 sued, as no one knew my name. You see, how necessary such 
 caution is ? I went to Washington, where I found your agent. 
 Through him I became acquainted with Booth, and became so 
 intimate with him, that he allowed me to read your letters. 
 He tried to enlist me to support an important plan, which, as 
 he told me, he had spoken about to you in Richmond. 
 
 Wallwood — Hni, Booth, have you nothing in writing from 
 him ? 
 
 Strano-er — Do you take me for such a blockhead to carry 
 such important documents around with me ? And you may de- 
 
— 37 — 
 
 peiicl oil my word, Booth is the right man for your undertaking. 
 
 Wallwood — Do you think so ? 
 
 Stranger — And the late election demands the undertakine. 
 
 Wallwood — Certainly ! Certainly ! You say that Booth is the 
 right man ? What does he want of you ? 
 
 Stranger — Hm, there is more to do; there are still more on 
 the list. 
 
 Wallwood — I see you are initiated. There is no further use 
 for caution. 
 
 Stranger — Booth is watching like a lynx for his chance, and 
 does not allow his victim to get out of his siHit. 
 
 Wallwood — And did he not entrust you with a verbal message? 
 
 Stranger — Nothing more than that he would keep his word 
 as a man. 
 
 Wallwood — Enough ! Enough ! And you 
 
 Stranger — I wanted to convince myself above all what the 
 affair might bring. 
 
 Wallwood — You may believe 
 
 Stranger — In a case like this, I believe only what I see. I 
 am not a crank like my friend Booth, but prefer to see my way 
 clear. First the price, then the work. You then know for 
 what you are carrying your hide to the market. 
 
 Wallwood — You may be assured of the highest reward. 
 
 Stranger — Those are the words of your agent ; if I wanted to 
 depend upon them, I would have spared the trip hither. 
 
 Wallwood — I swear that you 
 
 Stranger — I have sworn the oath of allegiance to the Union 
 no less than three times, and you don't think that I will trust 
 your oath any more than my own. 
 
 Wallwood — How do you mean? You don't expect us to pay 
 you in advance ? 
 
 Stranger — That is more than I expect. But you deposit 
 $40,000 in the Bank of England, and send the papers to your 
 agent. He then, in my presence, delivers them to a mutual 
 friend in Canada, and they belong to me when the deed is done. 
 
 Wallwood — Hm, hm. Think of the sum ! 
 
 Stranger — Does it seem too high for my head ? 
 
 Wallwood — Did you not in New York 
 
 Stranger — That was different ! There were a thousand ave- 
 
lilies open for escape. The whole affair did not bring me over 
 $500. But against what Booth intends to do now, it was mere 
 child's play. 
 
 Wallwood — But, remember the circumstances! Remember 
 the blockade ! 
 
 Stranger — That is very simple. You go direct to your ene- 
 mies, and give out that you are a fleeing Unionist, and swear 
 the oath of fealty. Then proceed to New York or Baltimore, 
 and from either point you can safely ship the money to Europe. 
 
 Wallwood — There we will have to pay in gold ? 
 
 Stranger — That's understood ! Or, do you think that I would 
 risk my head for that paper money of yours ? 
 
 Wallwood — That will be a too roundabout way of proceeding, 
 and takes too much time. I should think, that if the Govern- 
 ment Bank at Richmond guarantees the amount, that it will 
 be as safe as in London. Besides, when you have fulfilled your 
 contract, you will most likely flee in this direction, won't you ? 
 For where would you be safer ? 
 
 Stranger — That is not certain. The way to Canada is free 
 from soldiers. 
 
 Wallwood — We must go to Richmond to conclude this mat- 
 ter, as I am not able to do it myself. 
 
 Stranger — Let us loose no time, then. 
 
 Wallwood — Hold ! Hold ! I have a little job to do here ; why. 
 Hell, I can use your assistance. 
 
 Stranger — And for what ? 
 
 Wallwood — Well, listen! I have a daughter. But, listen! A 
 carriage! (Hurries (o windoiv.) Yes; that's friend Westerlaw ; 
 but he comes all alone ! 
 
 Stranger — What sort of a man is he ? 
 
 Wallwood — My friend and confederate. 
 
 Stranger — If he is not actively engaged in this matter, I 
 pray you, not to speak of our agreement. 
 
 Wallwood — If you wish it ; but there is no danger. 
 
 Stranger — The less people know of this, the better the secret 
 will be kept. 
 
 Wallwood — Enough ! Enough ! But still ! 
 
— 39 — 
 
 Scene V. — Enter Westerlaw. 
 
 Wallwood — Welcome, welcome, friend. But why alone? 
 
 Westerlaw — Mr. Wheeler is traveling ; my overseer is sick ; 
 and so I was the only one left that was invited. 
 
 Wallwood — Good ; as through accident, we have another 
 friend here. 
 
 Westerlaw — AVhom do I greet in this gentleman ? 
 
 Wallwood^This is Mr. 
 
 Stranger {quickly) — Johnston; at your service. 
 
 Westerlaw — Pleased to meet you. Are you related with our 
 brave Johnston ? 
 
 Stranger — The General ? I would feel highly honored if I 
 were ! 
 
 Wallwood — Well, friends, listen! Our time is short, and we 
 must come to the point. ( To Westerlaw): I invited him hither 
 that you might be revenged ; upon the man who insulted you. 
 
 Westerlaw — And who should that be ? 
 
 Wallwood — You do not know him and have never seen him. 
 
 Westerlaw — And still I should have been insulted by him ? 
 
 Wallwood — Not by him, but on his account. You will recol- 
 lect, that while you were courting my daughter, how the dis- 
 agreeable affair terminated, and that she refused your offer on 
 account of a young man. This man is from Kentucky, a 
 Southerner like we, and is serving as an officer with the Yan- 
 kees. His father alone is to blame, that his state did not make 
 common cause with us, for he is a damned abolitionist, as well 
 as his son. Now, I was out scouting yesterday, and saw the 
 fellow in uniform with the corps that has taken up its quarters a 
 few miles from here. I, thereupon, planned to get him into mine 
 and your hands. Through seeming acquiescence to her choice, 
 I persuaded my daughter to write him and invite him here, and 
 I am expecting him every minute. For this reason, I asked 
 you to come with your men. For myself alone, it would have 
 been no easy task, as the negroes cannot now be depended 
 upon; those days are past. As luck would have it, this friend 
 has also put in his appearance. 
 
 Westerlaw — Yes ; but I am unarmed. 
 
 Wallwood — There shall be no struggle. 
 
 Ben is seen listening at window. 
 
— 40 — 
 
 Wallwood — After we have the fellow transported, she will 
 become your wife. 
 
 VVesterlaw — If it were only over. 
 
 Wallwood — We are three against one. I will send the negroes 
 to the fields ; we will then be undisturbed. 
 
 Westerlaw — What shall we do? One must sacrifice himself 
 for his country 
 
 Stranger (laughing) — x\nd for love! 
 
 Wallwood {rising) — I am going to send off the negroes now. 
 
 Ben disap2)cars from the unndow. 
 
 Stranger — Have you heard from him that he will come? 
 
 Wallwood — No, the messenger is not back yet ; I depend on 
 his love for my daughter. 
 
 Stranger — The matter is not certain ! 
 
 Wallwood — I have good hopes. My daughter is sitting up- 
 stairs at the window, and will let us know^ when he is in sight. 
 Just keep quiet, so that she will notice nothing. I will be 
 back immediately. \_Exit. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 Westerlaw — Did you come from Richmond, Mr. Johnson? 
 
 Stranger — No, sir, from Baltimore. I was scouting. 
 
 Westerlaw — Well, what is the latest news? 
 
 Stranger — Lots of news, but not very good. Lincoln is re- 
 elected. 
 
 Westerlaw — The devil ! 
 
 Stranger — And the eyes of friend and foe are turned upon 
 Sherman. His march through Georgia 
 
 Wallwood — Do they know in Baltimore wdiat his intentions 
 are? 
 
 Stranger — No one knows, but he and Grant ; I don't believe 
 that they in Washington, or that his own Generals know it. 
 
 Westerlaw — That is just the trouble with this Grant ! Before 
 this, we knew the Yankees' plans before they knew them at 
 headquarters, and we could prevent their carrying out. Now 
 all is changed. This throng moves in all directions, and when 
 one thinks their object has been discovered, and prepares to 
 defeat it, the devils are on the other side. Through his man- 
 uevering he has been able to hide his real object. 
 
— 41 — 
 
 Stranger — That's it. Great things will have to be clone to 
 turn the tide in our favor, 
 
 Westerlaw — One must not lose hope ; we, too, have our 
 armies, and Lee. 
 
 Marie's voice on ilie oulside — He comes, father, he comes! 
 Stranger — What's that? 
 
 Westerlaw — The daughter's voice ; undoubtedly, the anx- 
 iously awaited one is coming. 
 
 Stranger — Well, the job will now soon begin. 
 
 Scene VII. — Enter Wall wood. 
 
 Wallwood [hunyivg) — He comes! Now, friends, hurry into 
 this room ; I will not let you wait too long. The negroes are 
 out of the way ; the enemy is here ; now can revenge have full 
 sway ! 
 
 Westerlaw — Well, come on, Mr. Johnston ! 
 
 Stranger and Westerlaw go into next room. 
 
 Wallwood {alone) — Now, friend Walker, the hour has come 
 in which I hope to strike your heart. Ha ! How the thought of 
 your despair refreshes me ! And that you may know whose 
 hand directed it ! I myself did send you the message ! 
 
 Scene VIII. — Enter George and Marie. 
 
 George's uniforin is hid by mantle. 
 
 Marie {entering) — Father, here is my dear George! 
 
 George — Accept my hearty greeting, friend Wallwood. O, 
 how happy I am, to again give you my hand as a friend. 
 
 Wallwood — I too ! I too ! Now make yourself at home ; take 
 off your things ! 
 
 George — The time is too short for that, as our corps will 
 strike camp in a few hours. 
 
 Wallwood — Yes, yes ; you must strengthen yourself. 
 
 George — My dear friend, that is imj^ossible. Some accident 
 might also overtake me, and, though I am among friends, still 
 I am in the enemy's country. By God, only Marie could have 
 induced me to take this step. 
 
 Wallwood — She will thank you for it. But now, do me the 
 honor and take off your things ; I will stand the consequences. 
 
— 42 — 
 
 Marie — Well, then, George, take off your things, and if for 
 a short time only. 
 
 Wallwood — We will return with you at once. 
 
 Marie — O, you dear, dear father ! 
 
 George — You mean it ; then let me embrace you as my father ! 
 
 Wallwood — First take off your things. 
 
 George — Let it be so, but I pray you hurry (takes off cloak). 
 
 Wallwood — Certainly! Hm, you are well armed. 
 
 George — Remember, I am in the enemy's country. 
 
 Wallwood (removing the pistols) — Give them to me, and now 
 make yourself at home. 
 
 Marie — Come here, George ! The love that strengthens the 
 hero shall now disarm him. ( Takes his sivord.) 
 
 Wallwood — That's right, my child! {Hastily takes the 
 sivord. ) Now, go and put your things in order. 
 
 Marie — That shall be done at once. Friend Cupid shall 
 help me pack. \_Exit. 
 
 Wallwood — These are fine weapons ; with these you have 
 undoubtedly brought down many a Southerner. 
 
 George — They have been of good service to me. 
 
 Wallwood — And they undoubtedly will be in the future. 
 ( Takes iveapons into next room . ) 
 
 George — Where are you taking them? Why don't you leave 
 them here ? One never knows {folloivs him). 
 
 Wallwood (hastily re-entering room and slainming door) — 
 Don't worry ! They might be in our way ; and now, let us 
 talk. What are your next plans for operation ? 
 
 George — I do not know. With us, no officer knows what is 
 going on before he receives his instructions. 
 
 Wallwood — Yes, yes ; Grant is very cautious. 
 
 George — That is good. But now, dear father, hurry. 
 
 Wallwood — Immediately ; but I want to introduce you to a 
 couple of friends. 
 
 George — What ! You are not alone ? 
 
 Wallwood — Rest assured ; they are just as good Union men 
 as I am. (Calling):' Comt out, my friends. 
 
 Westeiiaiv and /Stranger stej) out of next room. 
 
-43 — 
 
 Wallwood — Mr. Westerlaw! Mr. Johnston! Here stands the 
 hero, whom my daughter has chosen. I hope, you will make 
 friends with each other. 
 
 Westerlaw — I have the honor (holds out his hand). 
 Stranger — Pleased to meet you (holds out his hand). 
 George gives each his hand. 
 
 Wallwood (attacks him from the rear and shouts) — Hold fast! 
 Stranger and Westerlaw grasp each of his hands with both of 
 theirs. 
 
 George — What does this mean ? 
 
 Wallwood — That is, so one should not overheat himself by 
 struggling. 
 
 George — Wallwood ! You would 
 
 Wallwood — Of my opinion you shall at once be convinced. 
 Careless fool, do you not remember my oath in Kentucky? 
 
 George — You have disgraced the name of father ! You have 
 played with the happiness of a life ! You have used this holy 
 feeling for this villainy ! If you all are not sneaking murderers, 
 give me my weapons and let me fight like a man ! 
 
 Wallwood — Fight ! With you ! We will extinguish your love 
 for fighting at once! Outside, on yonder tree, is the place 
 where you can cool your heatedness. ( Throwing a roj^e over 
 him.) You shall not die like a man, but end disgracefully at 
 the rope. 
 
 George — Ha ! You cowardly curs ! ( Tries to liberate himself. ) 
 Westerlaw — Be quick ! He is breaking my arm ! 
 
 Scene IX. — Enter Marie. 
 
 Marie — What is the matter here ? Ha ! Georg-e ! 
 George — A scoundrelly trick of yonder man, whom you till 
 now called father. 
 
 Marie — For God's sake, father ! You could No! No! It 
 
 is impossible ! 
 
 Wallwood — Be quiet ! I will hang him in front of your win- 
 dow ; there you can exchange your vows with him. 
 
 Marie — Father, when nature created you, she disgraced her- 
 self ! Not father, but murderer, is what my heart calls you. 
 With unhallowed hand you have cut asunder the holy tie that 
 bound me with you. And now, you scoundrels, back ! You do 
 not know the frenzy of a woman! (/Stai-ts towards them.) 
 
— 44 — 
 
 WsiWwood (drawing his pistol) — Back! Or this bullet will 
 pierce the fellow's heart! And now, my friends, out with him 
 to yonder tree. 
 
 Scene X. — Ben sneaks in, followed by the other negroes. 
 
 Marie {like crazy) — God! Have you no angels to save us 
 from these devils ? 
 
 Ben {tal^es away WalhvoocFs jnstol) — Hold, you cur! Not so 
 fast ! We have still to settle our accounts ! 
 
 Marie — God is with us ! 
 
 Wallwood — You black dog ! 
 
 Ben (covering him with pistol) — Let us first see who pays the 
 reckoning. Brothers, bind the scoundrels ! 
 
 Negroes hind Westerlaw, Stranger and Walhvood. 
 
 Ben — Now, take them outside to the tree, which they in- 
 tended for him, and build a fire under them, that they will not 
 catch cold. 
 
 Georo-e — Hold, friends, hold! I thank you for saving my 
 life, but do not disgrace this honorable deed by such cruelty. 
 Tie them together ! 
 
 The negroes tie them together, back to back. 
 
 George — You brave fellows come with me ; I will enroll you 
 in my regiment. You can then fight against your oppressors 
 in honest, open warfare, and not with cowardly assassination, 
 like these scoundrels here. 
 
 Ben — And shall they go scotfree ? 
 
 George — They will not escape the gallows. Now, get your- 
 selves horses, and arm yourselves as well as you can. A saddle 
 for my bride ! 
 
 Ben — This gentleman's carriage (j)ointing to Westerlaiv) is 
 standing outside ; he may be so kind as to loan it to us. 
 
 George — That is for you, Marie. But come, lock up the 
 house, so that these scoundrels cannot do us any more harm. 
 ( Gets his weap)ons. ) 
 
 Ben — But may I not apply the torch ? 
 
 George — No cruelties ! What disgraces these, will not honor 
 us. lExit. 
 
 Ben (sneering) — Well, I wish you much pleasure, worthy 
 sir! lExit. 
 
 AVallwood (stamping his foot) — Damn it! — \_Ciirtain. 
 
— 45 — 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — Camp before Petersburg; Soldiers behind Scenes 
 Singing "Star Spangled Banner." 
 
 ist Soldier — They are having a high time over at our neigh- 
 bors, the 5 2d. 
 
 2d Soldier — How so ? What's going on over there ? 
 
 ist Soldier — The father and bride of their Colonel are here 
 on a visit ; I was on guard as they passed. 
 
 2d Soldier — I am surprised that they are allowed in camp. 
 
 ist Soldier — They had a pass from the Minister's ofhce. 
 
 2d Soldier — Ah ! Otherwise it would have been a very diffi- 
 cult matter, as Grant is very particular about this. 
 
 ist Soldier — Yes, the times are past where ladies come into 
 camp to have dances. 
 
 2d Soldier — That was a nice affair; but, thank God, now 
 everything is changed. 
 
 ist Soldier — If we only had this damned Petersburg behind 
 us. Time hangs heavy on my hands. 
 
 2d Soldier — Yes ; it is not exactly agreeable. A soldier's 
 life has no greater drawback than a siege like this. 
 
 ist Soldier — And yet it is but a short winter's siege, com- 
 pared with that of Sebastopol. . And the climate there, especi- 
 ally when one comes direct from Africa, as I did. 
 
 2d Soldier — From Africa ? 
 
 ist Soldier — Yes; I served in the P^oreign Legion. When 
 we came to France, the war with Russia broke out, and I went 
 through the whole business, until after the taking of Sebas- 
 topol, peace was declared, I then served under Garribaldi, and 
 fought in Italy. There was life ; it was worth while being a 
 soldier ; our entrance into Naples I will never forget. 
 
 2d Soldier — You have seen quite a bit of fighting in this 
 world. What countryman are you? 
 
 ist Soldier — I am a German. 
 
 2d Soldier — You Germans are brave soldiers ; no one can 
 deny that. 
 
 ist Soldier — The Romans found that out when Hermann de- 
 feated them in the Teutoburger Forest, and the same spirit 
 still pervades the nation. 
 
— 46- 
 
 2d Soldier — How did you get here ? 
 
 I St Soldier — From Italy I went back to Germany, and, as I 
 did not like it there any more, I came to America. Upon the 
 first call to arms I enlisted ; and when peace is declared, I am 
 going to Mexico. 
 
 2d Soldier — How long have yon to serve yet ? 
 
 I St Soldier — Three months. 
 
 2d Soldier — Well, it won't last that long here. Sherman is 
 moving np from Savannah ; Sheridan is moving on from the 
 Shenandoah Valley. I don't see how Lee can keep it up much 
 longer. And when we get him out of Petersburg and Rich- 
 mond, all will be up with him ; for those, that have not de- 
 serted him yet, will most certainly do so in the open field. 
 
 Scene II. — Corporal and Soldiers. 
 
 Corporal — Halt ! Front ! Ground arms ! Disband ! 
 
 Soldiers form j^yramids of guns. 
 
 ist Soldier — Well, Corporal, any news? 
 
 Corporal — A spy has been captured. 
 
 ist Soldier — Is that so? Where did you take him? 
 
 Corporal — Not far from our ammunition train. That negro 
 soldier, Ben, who was on guard there, discovered him. He 
 tried to capture him, but the fellow was too quick, and cut Ben 
 down just as I came up with the guard. We caught the spy 
 and brought him to headquarters. In one of his pockets he 
 carried a hand grenade, and, as I suppose, wanted to blow up 
 our magazine. 
 
 ist Soldier — Well, I guess, he has come to the end of his rope. 
 
 Corporal — Yes ; they will waste no time with him. 
 
 ist Soldier — Something must be going on at the right flank. 
 Reinforcements have been coming in all night. 
 
 Corporal — Who knows ! Grant sometimes sends the most re- 
 inforcements where he least expects to attack the enemy, just 
 to fool them. 
 
 ist Soldier — And he has often succeeded in doing so, and 
 Lee don't know now where to distinguish sham from realty. 
 
 2d Soldier — And often we are fooled the same way. 
 
 Corporal — Well, Jack, have you digested your beans already. 
 
 2d Soldier — I can feel every one of them in my stomach now. 
 
— 47 — 
 
 Corporal — You must wrap them up iu bacon ; then they will 
 slide better. 
 
 2d Soldier — Bacon ? I do not eat it ; I am a Jew. 
 
 Corporal — O, let those who sit behind the stove keep your 
 religious laws ; they were not intended for camp-life. 
 
 1st Soldier — Believe him if you will ! That fellow will eat a 
 whole hog if he can get it. The farmers in Virginia know 
 that best. 
 
 2d Soldier — That's not true ! Put a well-roasted goose by the 
 side of the bacon, and you will see that I am a Jew. I will 
 grab the goose. 
 
 Corporal — Hm, I guess, we are all that kind of Jews. 
 
 ist Soldier — I am not so particular about the fare. I don't 
 den}', that in Italy, the pine-apples tasted better than the tur- 
 nips do here. There, I preferred to chew figs and dates to the 
 beans and crackers here. But after you've got the whole busi- 
 ness into your stomach, it don't matter. But I do miss the 
 wine and whiskey. 
 
 2d Soldier — You must go to our suttler ; he always has some 
 on hand for the officers. 
 
 ist Soldier — If the Rebels would use greenbacks instead of 
 bullets, we could also patronize the suttler. 
 
 2d Soldier — I don't think that greenbacks are so plentiful 
 over there, and they can keep their paper money. I've got a 
 whole handful of the stuff in my knapsack, which I intend to 
 keep as a souvenir. I got them from one of the deserters. 
 
 ist Soldier — How many deserters came over yesterday ? 
 
 Corporal — There were 150 in the camp. 
 
 ist Soldier — If this keeps on much longer, Lee will be in 
 Petersburg all alone. 
 
 Corporal — It is no easy matter now ; they keep a strict watch 
 and the individual deserter can hardly get through. 
 
 2d Soldier — Then they will come over in companies. 
 
 Corporal — Well, the thing cannot go on much longer at this 
 rate. 
 
 ist Soldier — I hope to God, it will not. This thing makes 
 one tired. There is where the French are above us. They 
 know how to liven up camp-life. 
 
 2d Soldier — How so ? 
 
— 48 — 
 
 ist Soldier — With jilay, son,^- and dance. While we were in 
 camp before Sebastopol, we even had theatres. And there are 
 always plenty of pretty girls around. 
 
 Corporal — Well, I do not miss them. 
 
 ist Soldier — What? Are yon already callous to the feeling 
 of love ? 
 
 Corporal — No ; but I ha\-e at home m\- dear wife and two 
 children. 
 
 ist Soldier — And you left them? 
 
 Corporal — I left them at my country's call. 
 
 2d Soldier — Then you have more patriotism than I have ; I 
 went on account of the bounty. 
 
 ist Soldier — I also went on account of that, but now the 
 suttler has got it. 
 
 2d Soldier — I guess, he has the bounty money of nearly half 
 the regiment by this time. 
 
 Corporal — I left mine with my wife. 
 
 ist Soldier — I suppose then, that you do not belong to the 
 millionaires ? 
 
 Corporal — I live by the labor of my hands. 
 
 ist Soldier — Your wife is undoubtedly not living in luxury. 
 
 Corporal — I send her two-thirds of my pay ; and the citizens 
 are also doing much. 
 
 2d Soldier — Well, if one is dependent on that, it goes pretty 
 hard with him. 
 
 Corporal — Not always. I convinced myself when I was on 
 furlough. What don't our brave women all do for the hospitals 
 and prisoners ? 
 
 ist Soldier — Either of which get nothing of it. 
 
 Corporal — That's the worst of the enemy, that he lets the 
 prisoners starve. 
 
 ist Soldier — And its against the treaties of all nations. 
 
 2d Soldier — Is it so ? I could not believe it heretofore ? 
 
 Corporal — I was present at the last exchange. By God, I 
 thought my heart would stand still at the poor fellows' appear- 
 ance. {Drums heJiind scenes.) Well, what's the matter now? 
 
 ist Soldier — It may be a sally in this direction. 
 
 2d Soldier — That would make more noise. 
 
 Corporal — Fall in ! {Soldiers take guns and fall into line.) 
 
— 4'J — 
 
 Corporal — Attention I Shoulder arms ! Left oblique ! March ! 
 All viarcli off. 
 
 ScKNE III. — (leorge; Marie; Walker. 
 
 George — Do not be afraid ; they are only acting as guards 
 for the tent in which the court-martial is now being held over 
 a spy, 
 
 Marie — The poor fellow! And what will they do with him? 
 
 George — Well, he will be shot. 
 
 Marie — Horrible ! 
 
 George — The safety of the army demands this. 
 
 Walker — And in times of war, my child, the price of a 
 man's life is very low. 
 
 Marie — Oh ! This terrible war ! How much blood has not 
 already been shed ! 
 
 George — We hope, that it will not last nnich longer. My 
 time of service will soon expire, and still I expect to hear the 
 glad tidings of peace while I am wearing this coat. 
 
 Marie — May God grant it. 
 
 George — But let us go from a scene which affects you so. 
 Let us enjoy the other happiness of our meeting. What made 
 you take such a long journey at this time of the year ? 
 
 Walker — I myself advised her to do so. She endeavored to 
 deceive me with forced gaiety, but I plainly saw that some 
 secret sorrow was troubling her. 
 
 Marie — You were not deceived. You see, George, when last 
 you took me from my father's house into this camp, I thought 
 that he, by his foul deeds, had severed all ties between us. 
 But when you sent me with the negro Mark to your father's 
 plantation in Kentucky, I had time to think over the matter 
 during the journey. My father's fate stood before my mind's 
 eye continually, and yet, if he, driven by exasperation, forgot 
 the child in me, is he not )-et my father ? Other doubts were 
 also worrying me. 
 
 George — Be calm, Marie. You did your duty as long as 
 your father acted like a man, but when he tried to make you 
 the tool of my assassination, he lost the appellation of father. 
 He severed all ties between you through that crime. Had I 
 iallen in open warfare by his hand, you could have forgiven 
 him, for he would have been my opponent. Now, he has 
 
— 50 — 
 
 branded himself as an assassin, and sacrificed liis own child to 
 satisfy his passion for blood. 
 
 Walker — You are certainly wronj^, my child. The father 
 has a claim to love and respect, but his love must awaken the 
 love of the child. He must first fulfill his duty before he can 
 expect obedience from the child. If he then deny the father, 
 he himself extino^uishes this name in the heart of the child. 
 
 Georo-e — Misfortune may better him. After he has gone 
 through this strict school, he may see his error. And, if he 
 came back a new man, by God, I would never forget that you 
 bear his name ; we would again find ourselves in your heart. 
 
 Marie — O, George! 
 
 Walker — Therefore, be calm, my daughter. Let peace be 
 declared, and all will be changed. War makes those enemies, 
 who call themselves brothers in peace ; we were one people, 
 and will again be so. But now, my son, we must again depart. 
 
 George — To-day ! And why so hurriedly ? 
 
 Walker — This is no stopping-place for Marie. Who knows 
 but that to-day or to-morrow the trouble will commence. Her 
 nerves will not stand a cannonade. 
 
 .George — Marie, will you leave me so soon ? 
 
 Marie — My wish has been fulfilled. We have seen you alive 
 and hearty. May God protect you in the future. 
 
 George — I must first introduce you to our General ; etiquette 
 demands it. No doubt, he will allow me to escort you for a 
 few miles, if you insist on leaving to-day. 
 
 Walker — In God's name ! We still have a few hours' time. 
 
 George — That's lucky ! I just remembered that a detachment 
 goes back to-day for rations ; we will accompany them. 
 
 Walker — Be it so. Now, tend to your business. 
 
 George — I will first present you to the General ; then I have 
 a few minor matters to attend to. \^Exit all. 
 
 CHANGE. 
 
 ScKNE IV. — Headquarters ; General ; Adjutant. 
 
 General — Has no news from General Sheridan yet arrived ? 
 Adjutant — He is rapidly nearing the Weldon Railroad. 
 General — If this point is taken, the enemy will have to 
 evacuate or otherwise surrender. Send word to all command- 
 
— 51 — 
 
 ers to hold themselves in readiness. As soon as the enemy is 
 engaged l)y Sheridan, we will commence the attack all along 
 the line. 
 
 Adjntant — Very well, General. 
 
 General — Is there anything else ? 
 
 Adjntant — Nothing important. A spy has been captnred, 
 and is now before the conrt-martial. He is a desperate fellow, 
 and shot the guard who discovered him. 
 
 General — The trial will be short ; go and attend the same. 
 
 Adjutant — Yes, sir. 
 
 General (alone) — There lie Petersburg and Richmond, the 
 last props of the Rebels. When they fall, I calculate on sub- 
 mission. It was a long and bloody fight, and many a brave 
 man has fallen. Our time will be recorded with blood on the 
 pages of the book of history. 
 
 Scene V. — Enter Adjutant ; George, Marie, Walker, later. 
 
 Adjutant — General, Colonel Walker, of the 5 2d, whose father 
 and bride are paying him a visit, begs leave to present them to 
 you. 
 
 General — Father and bride ! How came they into camp ? 
 
 Adjutant— With a pass from the Minister. 
 
 General — Bring them to me. 
 
 [_Exit Adjutant. 
 
 General — From the minister ! They are undoubtedly people 
 of distinction. 
 
 [^Enter George, Walker, Marie. 
 
 George — General, I beg your pardon for asking for the honor 
 of introducing my father and bride to you. 
 
 General — Pleased to meet you! You come from Washington? 
 
 Walker — Originally from Kentucky. We came through 
 Washington to obtain permission to see my son. 
 
 General — So! Well, young lady, I suppose that camp-life is 
 something new to you. How do you like it? 
 
 ]y[arie — It takes my breath when I see all these weapons 
 which are trained upon our countrymen. 
 
 General — You are right. The soldier's life is indeed a hard 
 one ; especially so, when fate decrees, as does with us, that we 
 are pitted against our own citizens. 
 
— 52 — 
 
 Marie — O, our poor country ! 
 
 General — It is indeed to be pitied. But now, how long will 
 you stay here ? 
 
 Walker — But one short hour, General. 
 
 General — Yon are right. Matters are not pleasant with us 
 just now, but we hope, it will not be long before we will be at 
 home with our families. 
 
 Marie — God grant it ! 
 
 General — How are matters in Kentucky ? ■ 
 
 Walker — We have nothing more to fear from the enemy ; 
 only some few guerillas are still at large and practice ever>- 
 cruelty. 
 
 General — Yes ; these bands are the scum of this war. How 
 is it otherwise ; has trade picked up any ? 
 
 Walker — We cannot complain since the Mississippi has been 
 opened. But gold is rising in value every day, and with it 
 the necessaries of life. 
 
 General — These usurers, who make the crippled condition of 
 the country serve their owni purpose, and who, through their 
 swindling operations, are our worst enemies. 
 
 Scene VI. — Enter x^djutant. 
 
 Adjutant {Jianding over jmpers) — From the court-martial. 
 
 General {to the others) — Excuse me for a moment. 
 
 Walker — General, we do not want to intrude here. 
 
 George — Still, I have a favor to ask of you, General. 
 
 General — Well, speak out, Colonel. 
 
 George — I would like to have a four hours' furlough, so as 
 to escort my father and bride for a few miles. 
 
 General — I will give you the command of the detachment 
 which goes back for rations. You will then have protection 
 for your dear ones. 
 
 George — (jeneral, I thank you. 
 
 Walker — Accept our thanks for your kindness. 
 
 General — Go, with God ! Excuse me. 
 
 \_Exit George, Marie, WalA-er. 
 
-5a — 
 
 General (rec/r7/;/V^)r/;;r?'.s) — Hm ! A dangerous subject ! It is 
 well, that he fell into our hands, { 8 igiiH judgment.) Yon will 
 take charge of the execution. \_Exit. 
 
 Adjutant — Very well, General. [Exit. 
 
 ScENK VII. — Walker and Marie. 
 
 Walker — Here is where we should await him ; he will un- 
 doubtedly be back soon. 
 
 Marie — Could George but go home with us. 
 
 Walker — He wishes that as well as I, but it cannot be 
 thought of. 
 
 Marie — If he would ask for his release, would it not be 
 granted ? 
 
 Walker — That's impossible, my child. He has but a short 
 time to serve yet, when he wall be mustered out with his regi- 
 ment. 
 
 Marie — And why did he join the army ? 
 
 Walker — A man of honor dare not refuse when his country 
 calls him. See! How many have left wife and child to do 
 their duty as citizens. Europe is astonished over what America 
 has accomplished. A people that cleared the wilderness and 
 created states ; a people that drove the ox before the plow, and 
 were engaged in mercantile pursuits, were in one moment 
 transferred into a vast army. Armies sprang up, the like of 
 which had never been witnessed. Our merchant ships became 
 a fleet of men-of-war, before which even the haughty England 
 trembled. 
 
 DruniK behind scenes. 
 
 Marie — My God ! What is that ? 
 
 Walker — Be quiet, child ; it is nothing of importance. 
 A soldier ivalks past. 
 Walker — Eh ! What means this alarm ? 
 
 Soldier — The spy is being led onto the parade ground, where 
 he will be shot. 
 
 Marie — O, God! Father, let us go! 
 
 Walker — Where ? We must await my son here. 
 
 Marie — Let us go to his tent. 
 
 Walker — xA.nd in the meantime he may come here. No, 
 child, we must stay. 
 
— o4 — 
 
 Marie — Shall we witness the terrible scene ? 
 
 Walker — They will only pass here; here they are already. 
 
 Scene \'III. — Spy ; Guard. 
 
 ^larie ( cries onO — O, God, mv father I (Buns towards fioJ- 
 ditr.) Hold! Hold! 
 
 Adjutant (stepping forv-ard ) — What is the meaning of this? 
 
 Walker — It is her father, whom you are leading to execution. 
 
 Adjutant — Good heavens I 
 
 Marie — My father ! Let my father free I 
 
 Adjutant — The soldier has no will of his own, when the 
 command is given him. 
 
 ^larie — I will clasp him to my breast, and will not remove 
 until you have granted my favor. 
 
 Wall wood — Marie, you are beseeching for me — for him, who 
 would have annihilated you. That melts the ice around my 
 heart. Leave me, Marie, let my fate fulfill itself. This life 
 has no more pleasures for me. I fought for and will go under 
 with our cause. Live happy. Go to your aunt. Tell her, 
 that I will release her from her oath. She will tell you a 
 secret, that will calm you. Farewell. 
 
 Adjutant — Poor child, I cannot delay any longer. Mr. 
 Walker, lead the lady away. 
 
 Marie — Not without my father. ( Eruhrai-es him.) 
 
 Scene IX. — Enter George. 
 
 George — What's the matter here ? 
 
 Marie — George I Come I Come I Save my father ! 
 
 George — Your father I (Sees Walhcood.) 
 
 Marie — You must save him I God called us hither to set him 
 free. 
 
 George — Marie, come here to me. 
 
 ^larie — Nature has given me this place, and I will not for- 
 sake it alive. 
 
 Scene X. — Enter General. 
 
 General — What is going on here ? 
 Georsre — General 
 
— 00 — 
 
 Marie — General ? God has sent him I General ? 
 
 General — What do you wish ? 
 
 Marie — Him! He. who should die I He is my father I 
 
 General — What ? The spy ? 
 
 Marie — O, set him free! By all that is holy, I beseech you. 
 Give the daughter her father. 
 
 General — I am a soldier, and as such must do my duty, as 
 painful as the same may be. 
 
 Marie {kneeling before him) — Here I will lie in the dust at 
 your feet, and clasp your knee, until you grant my request. 
 
 General {siynah to Adjutant) — Do your dutv. 
 
 Adjutant and Soldiers take the pin saner quietly a.u-ay. 
 
 General — ]\Iy dear lady, arise. 
 
 ^larie — Xot until you sympathize with m\- sorrow, and give 
 me my father. 
 
 General — 'My child, what you ask is an impossibility. Xot 
 I, but the law sentences him to death. 
 
 ]\Iarie — He must not die I I will carr\- his guilt I Through 
 my running awa}-, I prompted him to revenge. 
 
 Walker — My poor daughter I 
 
 George — Marie, do not deceive yourself with such a pretext. 
 
 General — Colonel, you will conduct the lady to the carriage, 
 and escort her through the camp ; I will send the detachment 
 after you. 
 
 Marie {believing her father present) — Xo I Xo ! I will not 
 leave my father! If you have ever felt the love of a wife, or 
 basked in the smile of vour child, then restore the daughter to 
 her father. 
 
 General — You torture me. I am a soldier, and still a man. 
 But the law stands above feeling. 
 
 Marie {JiystericaUy) — If you be woman-born, if you were 
 nourished by a woman's breast, so give me my father. God is 
 
 merciful, and men cannot be so? By your hereafter, I 
 
 {starts for her father.) Ha! {She turns in the direction in which 
 he has disap2)€ared, and prepares to ritsh after him. At this 
 moment three shots are heard behind the scenes. She falls faint- 
 ing on the stage. ) 
 
 George — Marie! Marie! She is dying! {liushts towards her.) 
 
— 56 — 
 
 Walker — Fright has made Jier faint. (Iiiots to her mdc and 
 clasps her wrist. ) 
 
 General — That is the hardest lot of a soldier, when duty 
 denies us the privilege of being merciful. 
 
 Adjutant — General, the sentence has been executed. The 
 delinquent is dead. 
 
 General — The law is .satisfied, and God will help this poor 
 unfortunate. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
LIBRftRY OF CONGRESS 
 
 015 793 122 2 *