THE UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE WILMER COLLECTION 
 
 OF CIVIL WAR NOVELS 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 RICHARD H. WILMER, JR. 
 
CX)U 
 
AMONG THE GUERILLAS. 
 
Edmund Kirke's Works. 
 
 All uniform with this volume, beautifully bound in 
 cloth, price $1.50 each. 
 
 I. Among the Pines. 
 
 II. My Southern Friends. 
 
 III. Down in Tennessee. 
 
 IV. Adrift in Dixie. 
 
 V. Among the Guerillas. 
 
 VI. On the Border. (In press.) 
 
 Edmund Kirkh is a graphic wTiter. His pages do not fiimish fiction, 
 
 but absolute truth. Their stj'le is attractive and engrossing : the 
 
 dialogues are captivating to the last degree. No more 
 
 stirring writer nibs a pen among the literary 
 
 laborers of the day." 
 
 %* Copies of any of these books will be sent by mail, postage 
 free, on receipt of the price, 
 
 BY 
 
 CARLETON, PUBLISHER, 
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
AMONG THE GUERILLAS. 
 
 EDMUND KIRKE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "among THE PINES," "mY SOUTHERN FRIENDS, 
 "down in TENNESSEE," "PATRIOT BOYS AND PRISON 
 PICTURES," ETC 
 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 CARLETON, Publisher, 413 Broadway, 
 
 M DCCC Lxvr. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by 
 
 GEORGE W. CARLETON, 
 
 I the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
TO 
 
 JAMES, THE YOUNGER 
 
 602919 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 T T has become the fashion of late years to 
 ^ write the lives of great men for little boys. 
 I propose to write the life of a little man for 
 great boys, — for the million of "beardless sov- 
 ereigns " who will wield a ballot for the first 
 time at the next general election ; and for the 
 many millions of bearded freemen who have 
 done that patriotic duty these many years, but 
 whose education has not included a thorough 
 course of instruction in regard to Southern men 
 and Southern institutions, — a knowledge that 
 just now seems of much importance in view of 
 the great problem of Reconstruction which the 
 American people are called upon to solve. 
 
 My little volume takes the form of a story ; 
 but my object is not so much to write a story 
 as to draw a series of pictures of Southern life 
 and Southern people in colors so simple and yet 
 
viii Introduction. 
 
 so vivid as shall make the peculiar character- 
 istics of the various classes of the South obvious 
 to the most untutored understanding. This is 
 my principal object ; but I shall be disappoint- 
 ed if I do not tell a tale that may interest the 
 youngest reader, and, at the same time, afford 
 food for reflection to the oldest and wisest head 
 now exercising its thoughts on the great ques- 
 tion before the nation. 
 
 The task seems a simple one, but I approach 
 it with many misgivings ; for young manhood to 
 me is a sacred thing, a grand possibility, an 
 undeveloped power of almost unlimited good or 
 unlimited evil. What if some careless word of 
 mine should warp the growing good or rouse the 
 slumbering evil ! I hope that it may not ; and 
 in that hope I begin my story. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ♦— 
 
 PAGS 
 
 Introduction 9 
 
 Chapter 
 
 I. On the Battle-Ground . . . .11 
 
 II. Wounded 22 
 
 III. Prisoners 33 
 
 IV. The House in the Woods ... 47 
 V. The Captain's Story 61 
 
 VI. At the Blacksmith's 69 
 
 VII. The Slave Boy's Story 84 
 
 VIII. A Midnight Encounter .... 103 
 
 IX. Recaptured . . . . ' . . .110 
 
 X. The Captain's Dream .... 123 
 
 XL On the Road i34 
 
 XII. The old Meeting-House .... 145 
 
 XIII. A "Spiritual" Manifestation . . .167 
 
 XIV. On the Mountain by Moonlight . . 174 
 XV. The Ride of the Blacksmith . . .187 
 
 XVI. The Blacksmith among the Yankees . 199 
 XVII. At Mosby's 213 
 
X 
 
 Conteftts. 
 
 XVIII. A Strange Career 225 
 
 XIX. The Court-Martial 234 
 
 XX. The Night Attack ..... 247 
 
 XXI. Conclusion 258 
 
 XXII. The Sum of the Whole .... 266 
 
AMONG THE GUERILLAS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ON THE BATTLE-GROUND. 
 
 AS I sit down to write by this bright, blazing fire, 
 the clouds are scudding across the moon, and 
 the wind is moaning around the old house, shaking 
 the doors, and rattling the windows, and snapping 
 the branches of the great trees outside as if a young 
 tornado were cracking its whip in the court-yard. 
 On just such a night a wounded boy lay out on the 
 Wilderness battle-ground ! 
 
 You have heard of that great battle ; how two 
 hundred thousand men met in a dense forest, and 
 for two long days and nights, over w^ooded hills, 
 and through tangled valleys, and deep, rocky ra- 
 vines, surged against each other like angry waves 
 in a storm. And you have heard, too, — what is 
 very pitiful to hear, — how, when that bloody storm 
 was over, and the sun came out, dim and cold, on 
 the cheerless May morning which followed, thirty 
 
12 The Yotmg Virginian. 
 
 thousand men lay dead and dying on that awful 
 field. Amid such a host of dead and dying men, 
 you might overlook one little boy, who, all that star- 
 less Friday night, lay there wounded in the Wilder- 
 ness. I do not want you to overlook him, and 
 therefore I am going to tell you his story. 
 
 He was a bright-eyed, fair-haired boy, the only 
 son of his mother, who was a widow. He used to 
 read at home of how boys had gone to the war, how 
 they had been in the great battles, and how great 
 generals had praised them ; and he longed to go 
 to the war too, and to do something to make him- 
 self as famous as the boy who fought on the Rap- 
 pahannock. For a long time his mother was deaf 
 to his entreaties, — and he would not go without 
 her consent ; but at last, when a friend of his fa- 
 ther raised a company of hundred-days men in his 
 native town, she let him join as a drummer-boy in 
 the regiment. 
 
 The only battle he was in was the terrible one in 
 the Wilderness. His regiment shared in the first 
 day's fight, but he escaped unharmed ; and all that 25 
 night, though tired and hungry, went about in the 
 woods carrying water to the wounded. The next 
 morning he snatched a few hours' sleep, and that 
 and a good breakfast refreshed him greatly. At 
 
 Or 
 
On the Battlc-Ground. 13 
 
 ten o'clock his regiment moved, and it kept moving 
 and fighting all the day, until the sun went down ; 
 but, though a hundred of his comrades had fallen 
 around him, he remained unhurt. 
 
 The shadows were deepening into darkness, and 
 the night was hanging its lanterns up in the sky, 
 when the weary men threw themselves on the ground 
 to rest. Overcome with fatigue, he too lay down, 
 and, giving one thought to his mother at home, and 
 another to his Father in heaven, fell fast asleep. 
 Suddenly the sharp rattle of musketry and the deaf- 
 ening roar of cannon sounded along the lines, and 
 five thousand Rebels rushed out upon them. Sur- 
 prised and panic-stricken, our men broke and fled ; 
 and, roused by the terrible uproar, James — that 
 was his name — sprang to his feet, but only in time 
 to catch in his arms his Captain, who was falling. 
 He was shot through and through by a minie ball. 
 
 The boy laid him gently on the ground, took his 
 head tenderly in his lap, and listened to the last 
 words he had to send to his wife and children. Mean- 
 while, yelling like demons, the Rebels came on, and 
 passed them. Then James could have escaped to 
 the woods, but he would not leave his father's friend 
 when he was dying. 
 
 Soon our men rallied, and in turn drove the enemy. 
 
14 TJie Young Virginian. 
 
 Slowly and sullenly the Rebels fell back to the little 
 hill on which James and his friend were lying. There 
 they made a stand, and for half an hour fought des- 
 perately, but were at last overborne and forced back 
 again. As they were on the eve of retreating, a tall, 
 ragged ruffian came up to James, and demanded the 
 watch and money of the Captain. 
 
 " You will not rob a dying man ? " said the boy, 
 looking up to him imploringly. 
 
 "Wall, I woan't!" was the Rebel's brutal reply, as 
 he aimed his bayonet straight at the Captain's heart. 
 
 By a quick, dexterous movement, James parried 
 the blow; but, turning suddenly on the poor boy, 
 the ruffian, with another thrust of his bayonet, ran 
 him directly through the body. His head sunk back 
 to the ground, and he fainted. 
 
 How long he lay there unconscious he does not 
 know, but when he came to himself the moon had 
 gone down, and the stars had disappeared, and thick, 
 black clouds v,-ere filling all the sky. It did not 
 rain, but the cold wind moaned among the trees, 
 and chilled him through and through. He tried to 
 rise, but a sharp pain came in ^his side, and for the 
 first time he thought of his wound. Passing his hand 
 to it, he found it clotted with blood. The cold air 
 had stopped the bleeding, and thus saved his life. 
 
On the Battle-Ground. 15 
 
 Though the bayonet had gone clear through him, 
 the hurt was not mortal, for no vital part was in- 
 jured. 
 
 He thought of the Captain, and spoke his name ; 
 but no answer came. Then he reached out his hand 
 to find him. He was there, but his face was cold, — 
 colder than the cold night that was about them. He 
 was dead. 
 
 The wounded lay all around ; and all this while 
 their cries and groans, as they called piteously for 
 water, or moaned aloud in their agony, came to his 
 ear, and went to his very soul. He had heard their 
 cries the night before, as he crept about among them 
 in the thick woods ; but then they had not sounded 
 so sad, so pitiful, as now, and that night was not 
 so cold, so dark, so cheerless as this was. Soon he 
 knew the full extent of their agony. An intolerable 
 thirst came upon him. Hot, melted lead seemed 
 to run along his veins, and a burning heat, as of a 
 fire of hot coals kindling in his side, almost con- 
 sumed him. He cried out for help, but no help 
 came, — for water, but still he thirsted. Then he 
 prayed, — prayed to the Good Father, who he knew 
 was looking pitifully down on him through the thick 
 darkness, to come and help him. 
 
 And He came. He always comes to those who 
 
1 6 The You7ig Virgmiait. 
 
 ask for Him. Soon the clouds grew darker, the 
 wind rose higher, and the rain — the cooling, sooth- 
 ing, grateful rain — poured down in torrents. It wet 
 him through and through, but it eased his pain, cooled 
 the fever in his blood, and he slept ! In all that cold 
 and pelting storm he slept ! 
 
 It was broad day when he awoke. The sun was 
 shining dimly through the thick masses of gray clouds 
 which floated in the sky, but the wind had gone down, 
 and the rain was over. The moans of the wounded 
 still came to him ; but they were not so frequent, nor 
 so terrible, as they were the night before. Many 
 had found relief from the rain, and many had ceased 
 moaning forever. 
 
 He could not rise, but after long and painful 
 effort he succeeded in turning over on his side. 
 Then he had a view of the scene around him. He 
 lay near the summit qf a gentle hill, at whose base 
 a little brook was flowing. At the north it was 
 crowned with a dense growth of oaks and pines and 
 cedar thickets, but at the south and west it sloped 
 away into waving meadows and pleasant cornfields, 
 already green with the opening beauty of spring. 
 Beyond the meadows were other hills, and knolls, 
 and rocky heights, all covered with an almost im- 
 penetrable forest; and there the hardest fighting of 
 
On the Battle-Groiuid. ly 
 
 those terrible days was done. A narrow road, bor- 
 dered by a worm-fence, wound around the foot of 
 the hill, and led to a large mansion standing half 
 hidden in a grove of oaks and elms, not half a mile 
 away. Before this mansion were pleasant lawns and 
 gardens, and in its rear a score or more of little 
 negro houses, whose whitewashed walls were gleam- 
 ing in the sun. This was the plantation — so James 
 afterwards learned — of Major Lucy, one of those 
 men whose bad ambition brought the late dreadful 
 war on our country. 
 
 The scene was very beautiful, and, looking at it, 
 James forgot for a moment the darker picture, drawn 
 in blood, on the grass around him. But there it 
 was. Broken muskets, torn knapsacks, overturned 
 caissons, wounded horses snorting in agony, and 
 fair-haired boys and gray-haired men mangled and 
 bleeding, — some piled in heaps, and some stretched 
 out singly to die, — lay all over that green hillside ! 
 Here and there a crippled soldier was creeping about 
 among the wounded, and, close by, a stalwart, gray- 
 haired man, the blood dripping from his dangling 
 sleeve, was wrapping a blue-eyed, pale-faced boy in 
 his blanket. "Don't cry, Freddy," he said; "you 
 shan't be cold ! Your mother '11 soon be here ! " 
 But the boy gave no answer, for — he was dead! 
 
 B 
 
iS The Young Virginian. 
 
 " He don't hear you," said James. " He is n't 
 cold now ! " 
 
 "I 'm afraid he is, — he said he was. Oh! if his 
 mother knew he was here ! 't would break her heart, 
 — break her heart!" moaned the man, still wrap- 
 ping the blanket about the boy. 
 
 James closed his eyes to shut out the painful 
 scene, and the thought of his own mother came to 
 him. Would it not break her heart to know that 
 he was wounded ? to hear, perhaps, that he was 
 dead ? He must not die ; for her sake, he must not 
 die ! One only could help him, and so he prayed. 
 Again he prayed that the Good Father would come 
 to him, and again the Good Father came. 
 
 " What is ye a-doin' yere, honey, — a little one loike 
 ye ? " asked a kind voice at his side. 
 
 He looked up. It was an old black woman, 
 dressed in a faded woollen gown, a red and yellow 
 turban, and a pair of flesh-colored stockings which 
 Nature herself had given her. She was very short, 
 almost as broad as she was long, and had a face as 
 large round as the moon, — and it looked very much 
 like the moon when shining through a black cloud ; 
 for, though darker than midnight, it was all over 
 light, — that kind of light which shines through the 
 faces of good people. 
 
On The Battlc-GroHJui. 19 
 
 " I am wounded ; I want water," said the boy, 
 feebly. 
 
 "Ye shill hab it, honey," said the woman, giving 
 him some from a bucket she had set on the ground. 
 
 " Give some to my lad," cried the man who sat by 
 the dead boy ; " he's been crying for it all night, — 
 all night ! Did n't you hear him ? " 
 
 " No, I did n't, massa. I hain't been yere more 'n 
 a hour, and a tousand 's a heap fur one ole 'ooman ter 
 'tend on," replied the negress, filling a gourd from the 
 bucket, and going with it to the dead boy. 
 
 She stooped down and held the water to his lips, 
 but in a moment started back, and cried out in a 
 frightened way, — " He 'm dead ! He can't drink no 
 more ! " 
 
 "He isn't dead!" yelled the man, fiercely; '^ he 
 sha'n't die ! Give me the water, old woman." 
 
 With a trembling hand he tried to give it to his 
 son. He held it to the boy's lips for a moment, 
 then, dropping the gourd and sinking to the 
 ground, cried out — "It'll kill his mother, — kill 
 his mother ! Oh ! oh ! " 
 
 " He 'm better off, massa," said the woman, in a 
 voice full of pity ; " he 'm whar he can drink foreber 
 ob de bery water ob life." 
 
 " Go away, go away, old woman, — don't speak 
 
20 The Voting Virginian. 
 
 to me ! " moaned the man, throwing his arms around 
 the body of the boy, and burying his face in the 
 blanket he had wrapped about him. 
 
 Brushing her tears away with her apron, the woman 
 turned to James, and said, — " Whar is ye hurted, 
 honey? Leff aunty see." 
 
 The boy opened his jacket, and showed her his 
 side. She could not see the wound, for the blood had 
 glued his shirt, and even his waistcoat, to his body ; 
 but she said, kindly, — " Don't fret, honey. 'T ain't 
 nuffin ter hurt, — it '11 soon be well. Ole Katy '11 
 borrer a blanket or so frum some o' dese as is done 
 dead, and git ye warm ; and den, when she 's gub'n a 
 little more water ter de firsty ones, she '11 take a keer 
 ob you, — she will, honey; so neber you far." 
 
 She went away, but soon came again with the 
 blankets, and wrapping two about him, and putting 
 another under his head, said, — " Dar, honey, now 
 you '11 be warm ; and neber you keer ef ole Katy hab 
 borrer'd de blankets. Dey '11 neber want 'em darselfs ; 
 and she knows it '11 do dar bery souls good, eben 
 whar dey is, ter know you 's got 'em. So neber keer, 
 and gwo ter sleep, — dat 's a good chile. Aunty '11 
 be yere agin in a jiffin." 
 
 James thanked the good woman, and, closing his 
 eyes again, soon fell asleep. The sun was right over 
 
On the Battle-Gronnd. 21 
 
 his head, when old Katy awoke him, and said,— 
 " Now, honey. Aunty 's ready now. She '11 tote you 
 off ter de plantation, and hab you all well in less nur 
 no time, she will ; fur massa Is 'way, and dar hainlt no 
 'un dar now ter say she sha*n't." 
 
 " You can't carry me ; I 'm too heavy, Aunty," said 
 James, making a faint effort to smile. 
 
 « Carr>' you ! Why, honey chile, ole Katy could 
 tote a big man, forty times so heaby as you is, ef dey 
 was only a hurted so bad as you." 
 
 Taking him up, then, as if he had been a bag of 
 feathers, she laid his head over her shoulder, and 
 cuddling him close to her bosom, carried him off to 
 the large mansion he had seen in the distance. 
 
22 The Young Virginian. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 # 
 
 WOUNDED. 
 
 THE house to which the aged negress bore the 
 wounded boy was a square, antiquated mansion, 
 originally something in the fashion of the old farm- 
 houses of New England. The hand of improvement, 
 however, had been busy with it, until it had assumed 
 the appearance of a country clown, who, above his 
 own coarse brogans and homespun trousers, is wear- 
 ing the stove-pipe hat, fancy waistcoat, and " long-tail 
 blue" of some city gentleman. For a house, it had 
 the oddest-looking face you ever saw. Its nose was a 
 porch as ugly and prominent as the beak of President 
 Tyler ; and its eyes were wide, sleepy windows, which 
 seemed to leer at you in a half-comic, half-wicked 
 way. One of its ears was a round protuberance, 
 something like the pole "sugar-loaves" the Indians 
 live in ; the other, a square box resembling the sen- 
 try-houses in which watchmen hive of stormy nights. 
 Just above its nose, a narrow strip of weather-board- 
 ing answered for a forehead ; and right over this, a 
 huge pigeon-coop rose up in the air Uke the top-knot 
 
Wounded. 23 
 
 worn in pictures by that " old public functionary," 
 Mr. Buchanan. The rim of its hat was a huge beam, 
 apparently the keel of some ship gone to roost, and 
 its crown a cupola, half carried away by a cannon- 
 shot, and looking for all the world like a dilapidated 
 beaver, which had been pelted by the storms of a 
 dozen hard winters. The whole of its roof, in fact, 
 looked like the hull of a vessel stove in amidships, 
 and turned bottom upwards ; and, with its truncated 
 gables, reminded one of those down-east craft, which 
 an old sea-captain used to tell me, when I was a 
 boy, were built by the mile, and sawed off at the ends 
 so as to suit any market. 
 
 But, notwithstanding these odd features, the old 
 house had a most cosey and comfortable air about 
 it. Great trees were growing before its door-way, and 
 Virginia creepers and honeysuckles were clambering 
 over its brown walls and wide windows, filling the 
 yard with fragrance, and hiding with their blooming 
 beauty at least one half of its grotesque ugliness. 
 
 Pausing to rest awhile on its door-step, old Katy 
 entered the broad hall, and bore James into the 
 "sugar-loaf" projection of which I have spoken. It 
 was a little 2ilcove built off from the library, and fur- 
 nished with a few chairs, a wash-stand, and a low 
 bed covered with a patchwork counterpane. On this 
 
24 The Young Virginian. 
 
 bed the old woman laid the wounded boy ; and then, 
 sinking into a chair, and wiping the perspiration from 
 her face, said to him, " You 's little, honey, but you 's 
 heaby, — right heaby fur sich a ole 'ooman ter tote 
 as I is." 
 
 " I know I am. Aunty," said the boy, to whom the 
 long walk had brought great pain, and who now be- 
 gan to feel deathly sick and faint. " You might as 
 well have let me die there." 
 
 " Die, honey ! " cried the old negress, springing 
 to her feet as nimbly as if she had been a young 
 girl ; " you hain't a gwine ter die, — ole Katy woan't 
 lefF you do dat, nohow." 
 
 James looked at her with a wear}^, but grateful 
 look, as, undoing his jacket and waistcoat, she wet 
 his shirt with a dampened cloth, and tried to remove 
 it from his wound. The long w^alk — old Kat}''s gait 
 was a swaying movement, nearly as rough as a horse's 
 trot — had set the wound to bleeding afresh, so the 
 shirt came away without any trouble, and she saw the 
 deep, wide gash in the boy's side. The bayonet had 
 entered his body at the outer edge of the ribs, just 
 above the hip, and, going clear through, had come 
 out at his back, making a ghastly wouncT. It seemed 
 all but impossible to keep the precious life from 
 oozing away through such a frightful rent ; but, cov- 
 
Wounded. 25 
 
 ering it hastily with the cloth, the old woman said to 
 James in a cheerful way : " 'Tain't nuffin', honey, — 
 nuffin' ter hurt. Ole Katy 's seed a heap ob wuss 
 ones nur dat ; and dey 's gwine 'bout now, as well as 
 dey eber was. You '11 be ober it right soon. But 
 you muss keep quiet, honey, and not grebe nor worry 
 after nuffin' ; fur ef you does, de feber mought git in 
 dar, and ef dat ar fire onct got ter burnin' right 
 smart, dar 's no tellin' but it might bum you right 
 up, spite of all de water in de worle." 
 
 The pain of his wound did not prevent the boy 
 from smiling at the idea of being put out like a house 
 on fire ; but he made no reply, and the old negress, 
 gently drawing off his pantaloons and shoes, said 
 again,^in a cheerful tone : " Now, honey, keep bery 
 quiet, and Aunty '11 go fur de ice. Dar 's plenty 
 ob dat 'bout de house. She '11 bind it on ter de 
 hurt, till it 'm so cold you '11 tink you 'm layin' out 
 on de frosty ground right in de middle ob winter." 
 
 She went away, but soon returned with the ice. 
 Binding it about his wound, she brushed the long 
 hair from the boy's face; and then, bending down, 
 kissed his forehead. 
 
 " You won't mind a pore ole brack 'ooman doin' 
 dat, honey," she said. " She can't holp it ; case 
 you looks jest Uke her own Robby, dat 's loss and 
 2 
 
26 The Young Virginian. 
 
 gone, — loss and gone ! Only he 'm a little more 
 tanned nur you, — a little more tanned, — dat 's all." 
 
 " And you had a son ! " said James, opening his 
 eyes, and looking up pleasantly at the old woman ; 
 "I hope he is n't dead." 
 
 " No, he hain't dead honey, — not dead ; but he 'm 
 loss and gone, — loss and gone from ole Katy, — 
 foreber ! Oh ! oh ! " and the poor woman swayed 
 her body back and forth on her chair, and moaned 
 piteously. 
 
 "I 'm sorry, — very sorry, Aunty," said James, 
 raising his hand to brush away his tears. " One so 
 good as you should have no trouble." 
 
 " But I hain't good, honey ; and you mussn't be 
 sorr}^, — you mussn't be nuffin', only quiet, and gwo ter 
 sleep. Ole Katy woan't talk no more." In a moment, 
 however, she added : " Hab you a mudder, honey?" 
 
 " Yes, Aunty, and I 'm all she has in the world." 
 
 "And hab she eber teached you ter pray?" 
 
 "Yes. I pray every morning and night. You 
 came to me because I prayed." 
 
 " I done dat, honey ! De good Lord send me 
 case you ax him, 5'ou may be shore ! And, maybe, 
 ef we ax him now, he '11 make you well. I knows 
 young massa say 'tain't no use ter pray, — dat de Lord 
 neber change, and do all his business arter fix' laws ; 
 
Wounded. 27 
 
 but r reckon one o' dem laws am dat we muss pray. 
 I s'pose it clars away de tick clouds dat am 'tween 
 us and de angels, so dey kin see whar we am, and 
 what we wants, and come close down and holp us. 
 And, honey, we '11 pray now, and maybe de good 
 Lord will send de angels, and make you well." 
 
 Kneeling, then, on the floor by the side of the bed, 
 she prayed to Him who is her Father and our Fa- 
 ther, — her God and our God. It was a low, simple, 
 humble prayer, but it reached the ear of Heaven, 
 and brought the angels down. 
 
 It was eight days before James could sit up, and 
 day and night, during all of that time, old Katy 
 watched by him. Every few hours she changed the 
 bandage, and bound fresh ice upon his wound ; and 
 that was all she did, — but it saved his life. The 
 only danger was from inflammation, — the ice and 
 a low diet kept that down, and his young and vigor- 
 ous constitution did the rest At the end of a fort- 
 night, leaning on the arm of the old negress, he 
 walked out into the garden and sat down in a lit- 
 tle arbor, in full view of the recent battle-ground. 
 It was a clear, mild morning in May, but a dark 
 cloud overhung the little hill, as though the smoke 
 of the great conflict had not yet cleared away, but, 
 with all its tale of blood and horror, was still go- 
 
28 TJie Young Virginian. 
 
 ing up to heaven. And what a tale it was ! Brothers 
 butchered by brothers, fathers slaughtered by sons, 
 and all to further the bad ambition of a few worth- 
 less men, — so few that one might count them on 
 the fingers of his two hands ! 
 
 " And what became of the wounded after the bat- 
 tle, Aunty ? " asked James, as the sight of the grassy 
 field, trodden down by many feet, and still reddened, 
 here and there, with the blood of the slain, brought 
 the awful scene all freshly to his mind. " You have 
 n't told me that." (She had forbidden him to talk, 
 for she knew that his recovery depended almost 
 entirely on his being kept free from excitement.) 
 
 " The dead ones was buried, honey, and the 
 wounded toted off by de graybacks, de evenin' and 
 mornin' arter I brung you away from dar. De Se- 
 cesh hab de field, ye sees, at lass ; and dey tuck 
 all de Nordern folks as was leff, pris'ners." 
 
 " And what became of the poor man who wanted 
 water for his son ? Do you know, Aunty ? " 
 
 " When I wus a gwine on de hill, arter you go 
 asleep in de house, I seed him a wrappin' up de 
 little boy, and totein him off ter de woods. I ax 
 him whar he wus gwine, and he look at me wid a 
 strange, wild look, and say nuffin', only, ' Home — 
 home.' He look so bery wild, and so fierce loike, 
 
Wotmdcd. 29 
 
 dat I reckon he wus crazed, — clean gone. De lass 
 I seed o' him, he wus gwine stret up Norf, — wid 
 the little chi,le in his arms." 
 
 " Poor man ! " exclaimed the boy. " How many 
 have fared worse than I have ! " 
 
 " A heap, honey. I knows a heap o' big folks wuss 
 off nur eben ole Katy." 
 
 "And you say that, Aunty, — you, who are a slave, 
 and have lost your — " He checked himself, for a 
 look of pain came upon the face of the old negress. 
 It was gone in a moment, and then, in a low, chant- 
 ing tone, — broken and wild at times, but touching 
 and sad, as the strange music of the far-off land she 
 came from, — she told him something of what her 
 life had been. 
 
 Her Robby, — her last one, — had been taken 
 away, she said, to the hot fields, where the serpents 
 sting, and the fevers breed, and the black man goes 
 to die. All were gone, — all her children, — stolen, 
 sold away, before they knew the Lord, or the good 
 thing from the evil. Sold ! because her master owed 
 gambling debts, and her mistress loved the diamond 
 toys that adorn the hair and deck the fingers ! But 
 one she begged, — the mother of the boy, — and 
 she grew up pure as the snow before it leaves the 
 clouds. Pure as the snow, but "young massa" came. 
 
30 TJie Young ViJ'ginian. 
 
 and the snow fell — down to the ground — soiled like 
 the snow we tread on. She tired him then ; and he 
 sold her to be a trader's thing. But the boy was left, 
 — " young massa's " child, — the boy he promised 
 her forever. She brought him up, taught him to 
 read, and set the whole world by him. Then the 
 troubles came, — the dark hour before the morning. 
 She felt them in the air, and knew why all the storm 
 was brewing. It broke her heart, but she sent him 
 away to the Union lines, to grow up there a free 
 man. The Northern general drove him back, and 
 then — " young massa" sold him to work and starve 
 and faint and die among the swamps of Georgia. 
 And now — they all were gone ! All were lost, — 
 but the Lord was left. He had heard her cr}', — 
 was coming now, with vengeance in his great right 
 hand, to lift the lowly from the earth, and bring the 
 mighty down. 
 
 Her last words were spoken with an energy that 
 startled James. In his cold Northern home he had 
 learned little of her warm Southern race, in whose 
 veins a fire is slumbering which, if justice be not 
 done them, will yet again set this nation ablaze. 
 
 The plantation, and old Katy too, belonged to 
 Major Lucy, a prominent man in that part of Vir- 
 ginia, who, at its very outbreak, joined the great 
 
Woimded. 3 1 
 
 Rebellion. He was away with Lee's army when 
 Grant crossed the Rapidan, but he no sooner heard 
 of that event than he repaired to his home, and re- 
 moved his slaves and more valuable property to 
 the far South. Old Katy he left behind, partly be- 
 cause she refused to go, and partly because he thought 
 she might somewhat protect his house from the North- 
 ern soldiers, who, he supposed, would soon be in that 
 region. For this reason the old negress was alone in 
 the great mansion, and to this fact James owed his 
 preservation ; for, though her white owners might have 
 given him hospitable care, they would not have shown 
 him the devoted attention which she had, and that it 
 was which saved his life. 
 
 While James was so very sick old Katy had slept 
 in his little room, but now that he was out of all 
 danger, and rapidly recovering, she made her bed 
 in the large library leading from it; leaving, however, 
 the door ajar at night, so she could at once hear the 
 slightest sound. Every evening she took the great 
 Bible from a shelf in this library, and read, generally 
 from the Psalms, or Isaiah, — that poem grander than 
 the Iliad, or any which poet yet has written ; and one 
 night, about a fortnight after they were first together 
 in the garden, she read to him the fifteenth and six- 
 teenth chapters of that book, and then said : " Moab, 
 
32 The Young Virginian. 
 
 honey, am dis Southern land, dat am 'laid waste, 
 and brought ter silence,' case it hab 'oppressed His 
 people and turned away from His testimonies.' But 
 de Lord say yere dat widin' free yars it shill be 
 brought low, and its glory be contemned; and de 
 remnant shill be bery small and feeble ; but den 
 dey shill take counsel, execute judgment, and let 
 de outcasts dwell widin' dem." 
 
 " I hope it won't be three years, Aunty," said 
 James. " That 's an awful long while to wait." 
 
 " It 'pears long ter you, honey, but ole Katy hab 
 waited a'most all har life, — eber sence she come 
 ober in de slave-ship ; and now all she ask ob de 
 Lord am ter leff her see dat day. And she know 
 he will ! 'case he hab took har eberyting else, — 
 eberyting, — eben har little Robby." 
 
 " No ! He has n't, Granny ! Robby 's here, just 
 as good as new." 
 
 Engaged as they were in conversation, they had 
 not observed a comely lad, taller than James, who 
 a moment before had entered the room. As he 
 spoke, old Katy sprang to her feet, let the Bible fall 
 to the floor, and, with a wild erf, threw her arms 
 about him. 
 
Prisoners. 33 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 PRISONERS. 
 
 THE new-comer was a lad of not more than eigh- 
 teen ; with a clear, oUve skin, glossy black hair, 
 a lithe, well-knit frame, and straight, European fea- 
 tures. He wore a tattered hat, untanned brogans, 
 and motley uniform of gray and brown, badly torn 
 and out at the knees and elbows ; but, though so 
 meanly clad, there was about him that indefinable 
 something which denotes good-breeding, and which 
 showed that his blood had flowed in the veins of half 
 a dozen manly ancestors. 
 
 When her first outburst of joy was over, the old 
 negress plied the quadroon boy with questions : 
 " Whar did you come from, Robby > How did you 
 git yere?" she said. 
 
 It was the oft-told tale ; two hundred years old, 
 and yet new only yesterday; but never again to 
 be told in this free country. 
 
 When sold away by his father, rather more than 
 a year before, Robby was taken to a rice plantation 
 not far from Savannah. There, though unused to any 
 
34 ^^^^ Young Virginian. 
 
 but the lightest labor, he was set at work in the wet 
 fields, and given tasks altogether unsuited to one of 
 his strength. His condition was very desolate, for 
 he was without friends, and many weary miles away 
 from his home and his grandmother ; but the good 
 old woman had taught him to pray, and every morn 
 ing and evening, and often at midday, leaning on his 
 hoe in the hot sun, he would lay his hard lot before 
 the Great Father. This gave him hope and com- 
 fort ; for at such times he would fancy he heard voices 
 all about him, — voices of the good spirits that peo- 
 ple the air, and live in the bright heavens above us, 
 bidding him be strong, and of good courage, for 
 deliverance was coming. This to us is idle super- 
 stition, but to the slave boy the voices were real ; 
 and so they have been to thousands of his race. 
 Toiling in the rice-field, stretched upon the whipping- 
 rack, and standing on the auction-block, they have 
 thought they heard them, sounding in their hearts 
 as if they were the very echoes of heaven. 
 
 But whether the voices were real or not, they gave 
 the slave boy strength to do his work, and bear his 
 burdens. Yet days, and weeks, and months went 
 by, and no help came ; and his fare grew worse, and 
 his tasks harder. At last his strength and health 
 gave way, and he lagged behind in hoeing his row ; 
 
Prisoners. 35 
 
 and finally, one day, fell down in the field exhausted. 
 His hot flesh and glazing eye told that the fever 
 was on him ; but the brutal overseer ordered him to 
 the whipping-post, and there, his arms drawn above 
 his head, and his feet tied to the stake, his back was 
 ploughed with the terrible lashes. Nature could not 
 hold out, and he was taken down, insensible and 
 delirious. 
 
 The next he remembered was being in a pleasant 
 room in the great mansion. The good mistress, 
 hearing of his illness, had ordered him conveyed 
 there ; and there he was cared for until he recovered. 
 Then, one day, his young master came home from 
 the army, wounded. Robby was set to attend on 
 him ; and when the young man rejoined his regiment, 
 the slave boy was taken along as his body-servant. 
 So it came about that he was again in Virginia. He 
 had been in all the recent battles and marches, and 
 once was only four miles from the mansion ; but no 
 opportunity had occurred of his escaping, till a few 
 days before. Then, in a night attack on his regiment, 
 he stole off in the darkness, and, though forty miles 
 away, managed, by hiding in the houses of friendly 
 blacks by day, and travelling only at night, to get 
 back to his grandmother. 
 
 " De good Lord guided you, honey, you may be 
 
36 The You7ig Virgi?iian. 
 
 shore," said old Katy, when the slave boy finished 
 his story : " De whippin' was de bery ting fur you ; 
 and so it am allers, — what 'pears de bery wuss, and 
 de hardest ter bar, am de bery best, and jest what we 
 can't git 'long widout, no how, De good Lord, he 
 know dat ! He 'm allers de kindest, when he seem 
 de mos' cruel ; and allers de nighest, when he seem 
 de furderest way off." 
 
 The two boys soon became fast friends. After a 
 while, the wound of James healed, and he could 
 walk about ; but it was a long while before he re- 
 gained his full strength. This detained him at the 
 plantation, and with Robert he roamed the woods 
 and hills around the old mansion, and soon became 
 so attached to the slave boy, that he urged him and 
 old Katy to go with him to his home in Ohio. At 
 first the old negress refused ; but when she saw her 
 grandson's anxiety to go, she consented. 
 
 But it was a hard struggle to her. Though the 
 old plantation had been the scene of untold sorrow 
 to herself and her children, she clung to it as if it 
 were a snug corner of the garden of Eden. And so 
 it is with all of her race. The poorest plantation 
 slave, whose life is only one round of hopeless days 
 and weary nights, loves his mean hut of logs, with 
 its earth floor, and wretched patch of corn and col- 
 
Prisoners. 37 
 
 lards, more than we love our comfortable homes, 
 and all their cheerful surroundings. Those who would 
 tear him from this rude home, and plant him in some 
 new and strange country, are his worst enemies. He 
 cannot bear removal. The graceful elm will grow 
 in any soil ; but the scraggy oak strikes its roots 
 deep in the earth, and, nine 'times out of' ten, dies 
 when transplanted. So would it be with the black 
 man. 
 
 May had rolled away into June, and June had 
 gone with all the other Junes before James was really 
 strong, and old Katy fully prepared for the long 
 journey. She at last got together a few clothes and 
 a small store of provisions, and was about ready to 
 set out, but then an event occurred which frustrated 
 her plans, and threw upon her meek shoulders a 
 heavier load than any which even they had yet been 
 strengthened to bear. 
 
 Towards the close of a beautiful day late in July, 
 the clattering of hoofs was heard in the court-yard 
 of the old mansion, and, going hastily to the wm- 
 dows, old Katy and her companions saw a score or 
 more of cavalrymen, in great slouched hats, and blue 
 uniforms, dismounting near the doorway. 
 
 " Hurrah ! " shouted James, as he caught sight of 
 the glorious color which drapes the sky in beauty. 
 
38 The Young Virginian. 
 
 and lends the hue of heaven to even the wretched 
 stuff made by the shoddy mills ; " they are our own 
 men, — Ohio boys ! Hurrah ! " 
 
 " No, honey," said old Katy, dejectedly, after a 
 long pause, and a long look at the strange soldiery, 
 "dey 'm Mosby's men! Run, Robby, — ter the corn- 
 crib ! Run ! Dey 'm arter you ! Hide away in de 
 loft till dey 'm gone ! Granny '11 fotch you suffin' 
 ter eat. Ef she can't, — lib on de corn ! Run ! " 
 
 "Blood," it is said, "is thicker than water"; and, 
 in her anxiety for the last of her kin, old Katy may 
 have forgotten the danger to the friendless Union 
 lad at her side ; and who can blame her if she did 
 forget it? What had she ever received from any of 
 his race, that should make her in such a moment 
 think of him ? 
 
 Robby darted away, but not a second too soon ; 
 for as he disappeared from the room, the library door 
 swung open, and a dozen tall, bearded men, in rusty 
 regimentals and mud-incrusted cavalry-boots, with 
 great spurs jangling at their heels, and heavy sword- 
 blades clanking on the floor at their every step, en- 
 tered the room. 
 
 Quarters and supper ; quick, old woman ! " cried 
 the leader, throwing himself into a chair, and toss- 
 ing his hat upon the centre-table. " We 're almost 
 starved." 
 
P lis oners. 39 
 
 " AVe 'se nuffin', — nuffin' fur sich gemmen ^as you 
 is," said old Katy, with something of an emphasis 
 on the last words. 
 
 "You lie, you black Venus. Get us supper at 
 once, or we '11 make a meal of you f' said the cav- 
 alryman, striking his sword a heavy blow on the 
 floor. 
 
 With no manifestation of alarm the old woman 
 quietly said there was nothing in the house except 
 a little corn and a little jerked beef; but if the 
 trooper's delicate palate could relish such viands, 
 he was welcome to them. With a loud oath he 
 cried out, " Hurry it up, hurry it up ; any fare will 
 do for starving men." 
 
 James meanwhile had slunk away into his little 
 room, where he hoped to remain unobserved ; but 
 when the meal was about over, he heard the voice 
 of the leader calling out : " Where is the little fel- 
 low in blue? Bring him out, I want to see him." 
 
 Old Katy g^ve no answer ; but, knowing con- 
 cealment ^o be impossible, James stepped boldly 
 forward, and said : " I am here, sir." 
 
 "You are not Major Lucy's son, — who are you?" 
 asked the trooper. 
 
 " I 'm an Ohio boy, sir," replied James, coolly 
 but respectfully. 
 
40 * The Youn^ VirH?naft. 
 
 i> ' "'^> 
 
 "An Ohio boy!" shouted the officer, bringing 
 his hand down heavily upon the table. "A young 
 Yankee whelp ? " 
 
 "I am a Yankee, sir, — not a whelp. In Ohio 
 we think none are dogs but traitors," answered the 
 lad, the angr)^ blood mounting to his face, and his 
 voice -ringing out clear and strong as the notes of a 
 bugle. 
 
 Amazed by the boldness of the boy, the trooper 
 dropped his fork, and said, in a milder tone : " You 
 're an impudent young devil. But — do you know 
 what we do with Yankee boys out here ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir. Some you shoot down from behind 
 fences, — some you hang after they surrender; but 
 you never whip us in a fair fight, unless you are two 
 to our one." 
 
 Springing to his feet and grasping the boy by the 
 arm, the trooper pulled him upon his knee, saying 
 as he did so : " You 're the bravest little fellow I 
 ever knew. You 're worth any two men in my com- 
 pany. You must enlist with me." ^ 
 
 " 'List wid you, Cap'n Thompson ! " cried old Katy, 
 who Jiad listened with breathless interest to the con- 
 versation. " And you had a mudder, Cap'n, and 
 you wus a litde boy onct jess like him ! 'List wid 
 youl " 
 
Prisoners. 4 1 
 
 " And why not, Aunty ? " said the Captain, ap- 
 parently surprised at the old woman's recognition. 
 " If I had a regiment of such boys, I 'd drive 
 Grant into the Potomac. 
 
 " But you can t mean to tuck him, Cap'n ! He 
 hab a mudder, — a pore, lone mudder, and he'm jess 
 agwine ter har, Cap'n, — jess agwine ter har, and 
 she 'm jess a spectin' him, case he hab jess wrote 
 ter her. I 'se been a nussin' him all o' dis time 
 fur dat, — eber sence de big battle, when he was 
 hurted so bad ; you can't mean ter tuck him wid 
 you, Cap'n, — you can't mean dat ! " 
 
 " I do mean that, so you shut up, old woman, 
 and bring in some blankets for the men. The boy 
 and I will sleep in this bed." 
 
 Remonstrance and entreaty, she saw, would be 
 alike unavailing, and, with a hea\'y heart, old Katy set 
 about preparing quarters for the soldiers. Two of 
 them were to mount guard in the court-yard ; half 
 a dozen to " camp out" in the barns ; and the remain- 
 der to sleep on the floor in the library. This dis- 
 position of his men the officer preferred to their 
 distribution in the beds about the house, because 
 it would enable them to act together in case of 
 attack ; and of that there was some danger, for 
 even at that distance from Grant's army, small 
 
42 The Young Vh'ginian. 
 
 parties of Union troops occasionally appeared in 
 pursuit of forage or the numerous bands of gue- 
 rillas that hung about our lines of communication. 
 
 The men, in ransacking the house, having come 
 upon some bottles of whiskey, a huge tankard of 
 hot punch was soon steaming on the centre-table, 
 and then began a scene of wild debauch such as 
 James, in his short experience of camp life, had 
 never witnessed. In the midst of it, the sergeant 
 of the squad and another soldier entered the room, 
 bearing between them a huge sack, which kicked 
 and struggled as if it held a young alligator. Toss- 
 ing it lightly upon a lounge in the corner, the Ser- 
 geant said to the Captain, " I say, Cap'n, I say, what 
 ar' the value uv corn in the cob?" 
 
 " About twice what you '11 get for it," answered 
 the Captain, without turning round. " I tell you 
 again, if you touch anything of the Major's except 
 his w^hiskey, I '11 break your heads." 
 
 "But this ar' whiskey, — the sort thet's good ter 
 take," replied the Sergeant, laughing, and giving the 
 bag a gentle kick. 
 
 There was a slight movement among the corn, and 
 a low, stifled scream from old Katy, as the Captain 
 grasped the bag by the neck, and drew Robby out 
 upon the floor, his black hair powdered with flour, 
 
Prisoners. 43 
 
 and his olive complexion whiter than that of the 
 ghost in Hamlet. But his face was not white with 
 fear. His black eyes glowered on the Captain with 
 the look of a wild beast about to spring on its prey. 
 All the fierce passions of his race seemed to be awake 
 within him. Perhaps he saw again the deadly rice- 
 swamp, perhaps felt again the terrible lashes ; and 
 would rather die than go back,— but would die 
 wreaking vengeance on his enemies. This may or 
 may not have been the cause of his emotion ; but 
 some terrible passion flashed from his eyes, and 
 glowed on his every feature. The Captain saw it, 
 for he shouted as he caught the glance of the boy, 
 « Bracelets, bracelets here for this young hyena 1 " 
 
 It took the united strength of two men to hand- 
 cuff the boy ; but when he was finally secured, the 
 Captain said, in a tone of more respect than he was 
 accustomed to show to slave people : " Well, my 
 young cub, who are you?" 
 
 The boy gave him a defiant look, but made no 
 answer ; old Katy, however, who all this while had 
 stood by, apparently stupified by the great calamity 
 which had befallen her, cried out, falling at his feet, 
 and clasping his knees : — 
 
 " He 'm my chile, Cap'n, — Massa Robby's chile, 
 — poor Hannah's chile, — dat you bought away from 
 
44 The Young Virgifiian. 
 
 young Massa, so many years ago ! O, doan't you 
 tuck him, Cap'n ; doan't you, — he 'm all I'm got, 
 all I'm got." 
 
 The words came thick and husky ; they seemed 
 to wellnigh strangle the old woman ; and, bending 
 down, she wept convulsively. 
 
 She may have touched some painful chord in the 
 Captain's memory, or his frequent potations may 
 have mellowed his nature ; whichever it was, his 
 voice had a strange softness as he said, " I might 
 have known it ! He has her face, and her eye, — 
 and what an eye ! " • 
 
 " O, save him, Cap'n. Doan't you tuck him away, 
 he 'm all I 'm got ! " again cried the old negress, en- 
 couraged by the altered tone of the trooper. 
 
 " Who does he belong to ? " he asked, lifting her 
 somewhat tenderly from the floor. 
 
 "Not ter massa, — massa sole him down ter Georg}^, 
 ter de rice-swamps ; but he 'm got away, and O Cap'n ! 
 doan't you, doan't you leff dem tote him dar agin ! " 
 
 " Sold him to the rice-swarmps ! His own blood ; 
 and he a white man 1 " said the trooper. Turning 
 then to his men, he added, " Boys, he has no owner 
 — that we know of, so he belongs to us. What 
 will you take for your share of him ? " 
 
 " We doan't know, Cap'n," answered the Sergeant, 
 
Prisoners. 45 
 
 who had captured the corn, " Nigs is sca'ce ; we hain't 
 kotched 'nuft' o' late ter pay fur the drinks ; and he 's 
 a loikely boy. I reckon he '"s wuth two thousand." 
 
 " Two thousand ! He is n't worth two hundred. 
 He has legs and knows it." 
 
 " I reckon ! " said the Sergeant, laughing ; " an* 
 bein 's he 's got legs, an' ye wants him, we '11 say 
 fifteen hundred." 
 
 The Captain turned away, with an angry gesture, 
 and then said to old Katy in a low tone, " I have n't 
 so much money in the world. I can't help you, 
 Aunty." 
 
 " O, you kin, Cap'n ! " she cried, sinking again 
 to the floor. " You 's only ter say de word, — dey 
 muss mine you. O, say it, Cap'n, — say it ! and 
 de Lord will bress you." 
 
 " I can't, — only the Colonel can say it I'll make 
 him, if I can." 
 
 "You can't, Cap'n. You hain't de chile's mud- 
 der ! O, lefif me gwo ter de Cunnel ! He '11 do 
 it, ef / ax him." 
 
 " He 'd only laugh at you, Aunty. If /can't make 
 him, nobody can. I '11 try." Resuming then his 
 usual manner, he added, "Now, go. We want to 
 turn in." 
 
 As old Katy left the room, the trooper filled a glass 
 
46 The Young Virginian. 
 
 brimming full with the punch, and gulping it down 
 with an unsteady hand, turned to the slave boy, who 
 all this while had looked on, an apparently indiffer- 
 ent spectator of the scene. Scanning him for a 
 moment from head to foot, he said : — 
 
 " I don't like to see your mother's son tied in that 
 fashion. She was the truest woman that ever lived. 
 Her word given, she would have died sooner than 
 break it. Will you get away, if I take off the brace- 
 lets.?" 
 
 " No, not to night," answered the boy. 
 
 "Some of you, take them off," said the Captain. 
 "Now, men, turn in"; — and soon all in the room were 
 locked in that deep slumber which, like the blessed 
 rain, falls on the just and the unjust, — all but the 
 slave boy. He lay awake revolving plans which 
 many of his race, maddened by wrongs like his, have, 
 ere now, wrought out into action. 
 
The House in the Woods. 47 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE WOODS. 
 
 I SHALL not attempt to describe the parting be- 
 tween the slave boy and his grandmother on 
 the following morning. Seated on the doorstep of 
 the mansion, her hands clasped across her knees, 
 her eyes streaming with tears, the aged negress gazed 
 after the departing rangers as they wound slowly 
 down the road, as if her last earthly hope was going 
 with them. But one of them lingered behind, and 
 now approached her. It was the Captain. 
 
 *' Don't feel so badly, Aunty," he said. " I loved 
 that boy's mother: I caused her death; but I 
 loved her as if she had been my wife. I will do 
 all I can to get him free." 
 
 Old Katy turned her eyes to his face; and then 
 said : " De Lord yeres you, Cap'n Thompson ! As 
 you 'spect mercy in de great day, keep you' word ! " 
 
 " I will. Let God deal with me as I deal with 
 
 him." 
 
 Instinctively he uncovered his head as he said 
 this, and then, putting spurs to his horse, rode rap- 
 idly after his men. 
 
48 The Young Virginian. 
 
 The road taken by the rangers was at first a mere 
 bridle-path, which picked its tangled way over rocks 
 and stumps at the back of the mansion, but soon 
 emerged into a broad thoroughfare, winding along 
 over high hills and level plains dotted here and there 
 with blossoming orchards, pleasant mansions, and 
 little clusters of negro-houses, and covered every- 
 where with waving fields of wheat and corn, all clad 
 in the beautiful garments of summer. Beyond this 
 open country were dense forests and rocky heights ; 
 and far away to the westward the landscape faded 
 into long mountain ranges, on which the clouds, 
 not yet aroused from their morning nap, were sleep- 
 ing peacefully in the sun. 
 
 Pausing on the summit of one of the nearest 
 hills, the Captain halted his troop, and, drawing out 
 a field-glass, took a long survey of the horizon. 
 Turning then to one of his men, he said, "Are 
 you sure we 're on the right road ? " 
 
 " Shore, Cap'n," answered the man. " Clap yer 
 eye ter the glass ag'in, and look over yon patch o' 
 timber. Look sharp, and ye '11 see the sign : ' Hos- 
 ses shod, and cattle farrid, by Miles Holley, vet- 
 eran surgeon.' " 
 
 "Your eyes are good!" rejoined Thompson, "per- 
 haps you can see the camp." 
 
TJic House iti the Woods. 49 
 
 "P'raps I mought, with ycr glass," answered the 
 man, dryly. 
 
 The Captain handed him the instrument, and the 
 other took a long sweep with it to the westward. 
 "Do you see it?" asked the trooper, after a while. 
 
 "See it! In course I does, — with one o' these 
 things I could see the man in the moon. Clap yer 
 own eye to 't onct more, Cap'n, and look squar inter 
 that cloud ag'in the sky, and tell me ef ye don't see 
 the Gunnel's tent, all dressed out in pine sprigs and 
 laurel leaves, like a meetin'-house at Christmas ; and 
 I reckon it mought pass fur a meetin'-house toll'able 
 easy, fur a serious-minded man could yere more 
 Scriptur' thar nur anywhar in creation." 
 
 " It is a saintly place," rejoined the Captain, laugh- 
 ing, and beginning to realize that the man was play- 
 ing upon him ; " but I don't see it. How far away 
 may it be?" 
 
 "Twenty-five miles as the crow flies, — thirty by 
 the road we 've got to travel." 
 
 "Well, your eyes are good! Perhaps you can 
 see the Colonel himself." 
 
 "P'raps I mought, — let me try ag'in," answered 
 the man. 
 
 The Captain again gave him the instrument, and, 
 imitating his gesture, the man swept it along the 
 3 '> 
 
50 The Young Virginian. 
 
 horizon, looking first in the direction of the camp, 
 but letting it rest much longer over the blacksmith's 
 shop. 
 
 "Do you see him?" asked the officer. 
 
 " See him ! " echoed the other, removing the glass 
 from his eye ; " ye mought as well s'pect ter see a 
 honest man in a bushwhacker's boots, as the Gun- 
 nel in sech a fixin' as this ar'. My eyes did n't cost 
 half so much as the blasted thing, but I would n't 
 swop 'em for forty on. it." 
 
 "How far away is the blacksmith's?" 
 
 " It mought be six mile over the tree-tops, — it 'r 
 eight as the road runs. Ye 'd better make it fifty." 
 
 " Why fifty ? " 
 
 " To git thar arter dark. Old foxes don't sleep 
 in the daytime." 
 
 " But I reckon twenty men can take him, if he 
 does happen to be awake." 
 
 "Not if he eyes ye a-comin'. Ye 'd better halt 
 till sundown. He moughtent see ye arter dark, for 
 he hain't no glass like yourn." 
 
 There was good sense in the counsel of the sol- 
 dier ; and, directing him to lead the way to a se- 
 cluded camping-ground, the Captain turned his horse, 
 and followed him into a narrow opening in the 
 timber. 
 
The House in the Woods. 51 
 
 The guide was a young man, apparently not more 
 than twenty, and, though wearing, Hke the others, 
 the uniform of a priv-ate soldier, had a look of su- 
 perior intelligence. The badinage he had used in 
 addressing the Captain was evidently assumed ; for 
 beneath his careless exterior there was an earnest- 
 ness almost amounting to anxiety, which would not 
 have escaped the notice of a close observer. But 
 the Captain was absorbed in memories awakened 
 by the capture of the slave boy, and this circum- 
 stance escaped his attention. 
 
 They had entered a narrow bridle-path, when, sud- 
 denly clapping spurs to his horse, the guide rode 
 rapidly forward. He was fast disappearing among 
 the trees, when the officer shouted, in a voice that 
 made the woods ring : " Halt ! halt ! or I '11 put 
 a bullet through you ! " The man was not out of 
 range, and, drawing up his horse, he waited until 
 the Captain came up with him. 
 
 " You ride as if you meant to get somewhere before 
 sundown," said the Captain. " Let me tell you, 
 my man, to mind, or you '11 have an ounce of cold 
 lead for dinner." 
 
 "Ye allers ride at that gait," answered the man, 
 sulkily. "Ye kin go as slow as ye loikes when ye 
 gits to the camp-ground." 
 
52 The Yoiuig Virginian. 
 
 "And where may that be?" 
 
 " Wharsomever ye loikes, — right in the high-road, — 
 thar 's no use layin' low ef ye hollers in that fashion." 
 
 "Come, my fine fellow, keep a civil tongue in 
 your head," said the Captain, tapping the handle 
 of his pistol. " I 've not known you long enough 
 to trust you far out of sight." 
 
 " When ye know me better, ye '11 lam I 'm as 
 good a Reb as ye is. I stand by my State and my 
 friends — ter the death," answered the man, looking 
 the officer squarely in the face. 
 
 " Well ; I reckon you 're all right. I know you 
 volunteered ; and that ought to be proof of it. But 
 where do you propose to take us?" 
 
 "About the half o' three miles inter the timber. 
 The nags '11 want water, and thar's a spring thar," 
 said the man. " It 's a clarin' ; with a 'ooman, and 
 a short dozen o' tow-head chillen ; but I reckon they 
 won't do us no hurt, if we keeps an eye on 'em." 
 
 "You seem to know this region," responded the 
 Captain. 
 
 " I orter," said the man, " I use' ter work along 
 o' old Miles. I reckon thet 's how the Cunnel come 
 ter send me ter guide ye." 
 
 " O yes ! I see," said the trooper ; " well, push on." 
 
 The soldier led the way at a slower pace, and in a 
 
The House in the U^oods. 53 
 
 short half-hour they were at the clearing. It was a 
 half-dozen acres of unfenced land, planted in corn 
 and potatoes, and surrounded by a dense forest of 
 oak, pine, and hickory, among which a thick under- 
 brush was growing. In the centre of the opening, 
 and about two hundred yards from the narrow bridle- 
 path, by which the troop had come, was a small cabin 
 of half-decayed logs, with a clay chimney, going up 
 on the outside ; and a plank roof, made tight by a 
 coating of pine leaves, held down by rope-strands 
 interlaced between the timbers. A small rivulet, fed 
 by the spring of which the guide had spoken, and a 
 freckled-faced woman and four or five wretched look- 
 ing children, seemed the only moving things about 
 the premises ; but James thought he saw, as they 
 approached, a suit of brownish butternuts gliding 
 away among the underbrush. The woman, who was 
 clad in a gown of worn homespun, and the children, 
 who were scarcely clad at all, were hoeing among the 
 corn and potatoes. They must have heard the tramp 
 of the horses before the troopers emerged from the 
 forest ; but they scarcely looked up until the Captain 
 said in a free, cordial way, " My good woman, we 
 have stopped to rid you of some of your waste water ; 
 you seem to have a plenty of it." 
 
 " Ye 's welcome ter it," answered the woman, paus- 
 
54 The Yoiiiig Virginian. 
 
 ing in her work, and turning to the officer. Her dull, 
 stolid face brightened up at the sight of his uniform ; 
 and she added, in a more hearty, assured tone, 
 " Ye 's very welcome, — welcome ter all we has ; it 
 hain't much, but I loikes yer colors. 
 
 " That shows you 're a woman of sense," replied the 
 trooper, jocosely ; " but we '11 rob you of nothing but 
 a little water for our horses, and a little fire for our 
 dinners. Those seem about the only things you have 
 to spare." 
 
 " We is pore, sir ; but pore folks hain't no showin' 
 in this kentr)'. I yere they has in yourn," responded 
 the woman, mistaking the stolen blue of the Rebels 
 for the true blue of the Yankees. 
 
 " O yes," said the Captain, keeping up the decep- 
 tion. " We give ever}- poor couple a farm and a 
 feather-bed ; and every second boy has a chance to 
 be President." 
 
 " I never yered o' thet," answered the woman, 
 with an incredulous smile. " Ef it 'r so, 't would do 
 fur us ter live thar, for we hes five, sayin' nothin' 
 uv John ; and he 's the biggest boy among 'em." 
 
 " And John is your husband t Is he in the Union 
 army ? " 
 
 " No ; he war com scripted by the Rebs, but he 
 got away. They kotched him, and come nigh ter 
 
TJic House in tJic Woods. 55 
 
 a-hangin' on him ; but, finarly, as they wanted men, 
 they let him off with a brandin'. They did n't make 
 much out o' thet, for he 's away ag'in ; but they 
 won't kotch him this time, — he'll die fust." 
 
 " Where is he now ? " asked the officer, in a quick, 
 changed voice. 
 
 "I — doan't know — not exactly — but he hain't 
 more 'n a hundred mile from yere." 
 
 " Don't he help you about the place ? You can't 
 have planted and hoed all this corn." 
 
 " No. I hain't ; the chillen has holped some ; 
 and John, too, when thar war n't no goorillas round. 
 When thar was he 's laid out in the timber." 
 
 " And he 's in the timber now } " asked the Captain, 
 with increasing interest. 
 
 The woman was about to answer, when she caught 
 a glance of the guide, which forced her words back 
 unspoken. The latter had gone with the rest of the 
 troop to the spring to water the horses ; and now, 
 returning dismounted, said to the officer, " Hain't ye 
 a-gwine ter post pickets, Cap'n?" The Yankees 
 mought come onter us." 
 
 With a great oath the Captain cried out in a rage : 
 " A moment more, and I 'd have had this woman's 
 husband. He 's an infernal traitor." 
 
 The guide made no reply ; but the woman said, in 
 
$6 The Young Virgifiian. 
 
 a tone of keen, cutting scorn, " He 's nary traitor, — 
 he 's a honest man, — but I reckon them as gits inter 
 a false coat ter trap pore wimmin ter betray thar hus- 
 bands, ar wus nur traitors, — they's mean 'nuff ter 
 trade in niggers." 
 
 Without answering a word the Captain rode off 
 towards the spring. 
 
 James and Robert had ridden from the mansion 
 behind two of the troopers, and, dismounting when 
 the cavalcade first halted, had stood near the Cap- 
 tain during the whole of this interview. They were 
 following him towards the spring, when they heard 
 the woman say to the guide : " So, this ar what yer 
 state-rights has brung ye ter — a murderin' honest 
 folks in the does o' yer kentry ! " 
 
 "No hard words, Ruth," answered the guide; 
 "I'm doin' what I think 's right; John hain't doin' 
 no more. But, I 've jest done ye a good turn, and 
 I wants ye ter do me another." 
 
 ""WTiat ar it?" asked the woman, in a softened 
 tone, her face brightening. " I '11 do ye arythin' I 
 kin." 4 
 
 "We're arter old Miles, — we'll be thar by sun- 
 down, — he must know we 're a comin'." 
 
 " I understand, — John '11 do it, — God bless ye, 
 Jake ! Ye hain't half so bad as I thort ye." 
 
The House in the Woods. 57 
 
 The last words were spoken in low, guarded tones ; 
 but the keen ear of the slave boy caught them dis- 
 tinctly, as with James he walked on towards the 
 spring. The troopers had removed their animals to 
 the shade of the wood ; and the Captain was watering 
 his horse alone at the little rivulet when the two 
 prisoners approached him. " What did they say to 
 each other?" he asked them, 
 
 " She taunted him with fighting against his coun- 
 try," answered James, looking the Rebel steadily in 
 the face. 
 
 " Is that all ? " asked the Captain ; who more than 
 half suspected that the guide's suggestion about the 
 pickets was intended to give warning to the woman. 
 
 "All that I heard," replied the boy, and he spoke 
 truly ; but Robert had already told him the remain- 
 der. 
 
 " Did you hear anything more ? " asked the trooper, 
 turning to Robert. 
 
 " If I did, I should not tell you^^' answered the 
 slave boy, his lip trembling with some strange emo- 
 tion. 
 
 The trooper's face flushed ; but he said, coolly, 
 "Be careful, boy. I promised your grandmother to 
 stand by you, and I shall. But do not anger me. 
 I am your best friend." 
 
58 The Young Virginian. 
 
 " My friend ! " cried Robert, his lip now quivering 
 as you have seen the magnetic needle when over- 
 shadowed by a thunder-cloud. " You killed my 
 mother ! " 
 
 The trooper's face grew suddenly pale, and in 
 broken words he said : " What do you know about 
 your mother?" 
 
 " I know you owned her, and stole away her chil- 
 dren as fast as they were born ; and when she began 
 to love the little good that is in you, you broke 
 her heart by selling her to a wretched trader, to be 
 — you know what. I knew all this the moment I 
 saw your face, Robert Thompson ! " 
 
 Some remorseful memories must have crowded on 
 the trooper's brain ; for he grew even paler, and his 
 lip twitched convulsively, as he said : " I did her 
 wrong; I would undo what I can of it by befriend- 
 ing you." 
 
 Robert m.ade a step or two forward, and his face 
 took on a fierce look, as he answered : " You can't 
 undo it. I 'd take nothing at your hands, but — 
 your life. That I 'd have now, if I had a weap- 
 on!" 
 
 These words, spoken in a tone which sent a shiver 
 through the white boy, seemed to recall the trooper 
 to himself With more of his usual manner, he 
 
The House in the Woods. 59 
 
 said : " Boy, to-night, when we are at the black- 
 smith's, you slip away; and — never let me see you 
 again," 
 
 " I shall go when I can ; but not at your bidding," 
 answered Robert, turning on his heel, and walking 
 away as if he were playing a part in some blood 
 and thunder drama. 
 
 The Captain made no reply ; but as James turned 
 to follow the slave boy, he said to him : " My boy, 
 say nothing of this, and to-night get him away ; you 
 may go yourself, if you will." 
 
 " I will tr)' to, sir," answered James. 
 
 As they went on towards the edge of the woods, 
 the Captain suddenly laid his hand on the boy's 
 shoulder, and, fixing on him a strange look, said : 
 " / was once just such a brave, innocent boy as 
 you are." 
 
 " And what made you do wrong ? " asked the boy, 
 looking up in the man's face. 
 
 "Drink, — cursed drink. If I'd been sober, I'd 
 never have sold his mother." 
 
 " But you sold the children ? " said James, in a 
 hesitating way. 
 
 " No, no, I did not ! I sent them North, gave 
 them all I had ; and that made me too poor to buy 
 her back." 
 
6o The Yoimg Virginian. 
 
 " I 'm sorry, very sorry," said the boy. " I hope 
 you '11 not always feel so badly as you do now." 
 
 For a moment a look of pain came on the troop- 
 er's face ; it was gone soon, and then he said, in his 
 usual way, "Let us say no more about it. Get 
 him away to-night, — don't fail." 
 
The Captains Story. 6i 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE captain's STORY. 
 
 PICKETS being stationed up and down the road 
 to guard against surprise, the troopers gathered 
 in little knots among the trees, and whiled the time 
 away in card-playing, quoit-pitching, and other equally 
 elevating and useful employments. Robert sat in 
 the midst of one of the groups, looking vacantly on 
 at the players ; and the Captain walked apart, seem- 
 ingly unconscious of what was passing around him. 
 
 He was a man of about forty, above the medium 
 height, with a closely knit, sinewy frame, an erect, 
 easy carriage, and the air of one accustomed to a 
 life much above the one he was living. His face 
 was deeply furrowed with dissipation, and his hair 
 thickly streaked with gray ; but his large, roving eye 
 was what held the attention of the white boy, who 
 sat near by on the trunk of a fallen tree. It 
 moved about with a restless, uneasy motion,— now 
 sinking back into itself, like an expiring flame, and 
 now blazing up, as you have seen a black coal 
 when fanned by the wind. Some dark history, writ- 
 
62 The Young Virginian. 
 
 ten on the man's soul, was flashing out in the 
 changing Hght of his eyes, — teUing the boy that 
 "they who sow the wind shall reap the whirlwind," 
 — they who commit crime shall feel retribution. 
 
 For a full hour the man walked thus, in silence j 
 then he came and sat down by the boy, on the trunk 
 of the fallen tree. After a while he said : " Have 
 you a mother, boy ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered James, " at home in Ohio." 
 
 " And is she like you ? " 
 
 " They say she is ; only she 's a great deal better 
 than I am." 
 
 " Better ? If I had only had a mother, I might 
 have been the man you will be." 
 
 " And did n't you have one ? " asked James. 
 
 "No. She died when I was born. I lost my 
 father, too, before I can remember. He left me 
 very rich, with a large plantation, and a great many 
 slaves. The slaves pampered and petted me ; and 
 I had all the money I could spend. No one checked 
 or guided me ; and so I grew up wayward, head- 
 strong, and dissipated. I was expelled from college 
 when I was twenty, and then plunged into debauch- 
 ery. Before I was thirty I had squandered all T 
 had; and then I took to gambling for a living. I 
 won largely one night of Major Lucy ; and he paid 
 
TJie Captains Story. 63 
 
 me with that boy's mother. I meant to have sold 
 her; but I saw the good that was in her, and kept 
 her for myself. She was half black ; but I loved 
 her. I could n't help it, for she was all truth and 
 goodness ; and I had n't found those things in other 
 women. She wanted me to give up gaming, and 
 go to the Free States. I would have done it; but 
 I did n't know how to work, and thought we should 
 only starve ; besides, I was a gentleman, bred up 
 to think work degrading. We lived together ten 
 years ; and though I led a bad, reckless life, there 
 were times when, with her, I was happy. But I got 
 on a long debauch, the brandy maddened me, and 
 I gambled her away. You know the rest, — the boy 
 has told you. It has made me what I am, — a ru- 
 ined, lost man." 
 
 Neither spoke for a time. At last the boy said : 
 "I don't think you were so much to blame. A 
 Southerner once came to our place and did some 
 very bad things. Mother told me about it ; and 
 she said she pitied more than she blamed him. She 
 said he had been brought up where they call bad 
 things good, and that had warped his nature ; so 
 he could n't be expected to do as well as we. She 
 thought that we, perhaps, are no better, for the light 
 we have, than your folks are." 
 
64 The Young Virginian, 
 
 "And did your mother say that?" asked the 
 trooper ; " do you think she would say that of me ? " 
 
 " I know she would, — I know she would pity 
 you more than I do ; for she 's a great deal better 
 than I am." 
 
 A long silence again followed. It was broken by 
 the trooper. "If I should go North with you, do 
 you think your mother would let me, once in a while, 
 see you and her?" 
 
 " O yes ! I 'm sure she would." 
 
 "And could I get work there?" 
 
 " O yes ! You could tend in a store, — I have 
 done it, — or you could do writing. There 's plenty 
 to do, so many have gone to the war." 
 
 "I would do anything, — cut wood, haul a hand- 
 cart, — anything to be near some one who would 
 help me — help me to be a better man than I am." 
 
 "I know mother would do it. Ever)-body says 
 they're better for knowing her," answered the boy, 
 earnestly. 
 
 "I can believe it, if she is like you. It was the 
 goodness I saw in you that made me want to have 
 you with me. I thought I could make you love me ; 
 and you would keep the fiends away ; and so I might 
 become a better, happier man than I am." 
 
 The boy's eyes filled as he answered : " You seem 
 
The Captains Story. 65 
 
 very wretched, but you don't believe that fiends are 
 
 about you ! " 
 
 « Believe it boy ? I know it ! " exclaimed the Cap- 
 tain, the strange look that James had noticed at the 
 spring coming again on his face. "I have seen 
 them. I see them every night. Every night they 
 come about me, and-i"//^ is among them, beckon- 
 ing me to go with her. Once, I thought, she yelled 
 in my ear, ^ am come — come to take you down — 
 down to the fire you built for me.' And then I 
 thought she seized me and dragged me down, — 
 down through hot clouds and blazing fires, — millions 
 of miles below. I struggled to get away, but could 
 not i and then, for the first time in thirty years, I 
 prayed ; and a great hand reached down out of the 
 clouds and tore her away, and so for the time saved 
 
 me." 
 
 " It was the hand of God ! " exclaimed the boy. 
 
 " No, boy ; it was the hand of a fiend. It only 
 kept me for greater torment. Every night she came 
 and dragged me farther and farther down, and every 
 night the same hand reached out and saved me ; but 
 every night it let me go lower and lower. People 
 said it was a dream, and I was crazy. But it was not 
 a dream, I was not crazy. It was real,— real as 
 hell. It was hell ! Some people say that God pun- 
 
66 The Young Virginian. 
 
 ishes us before our time by lifting the veil between 
 this life and that. It is true. He has done it to 
 me ! " and he paused, his lip quivering, and his eye 
 fixed on the vacant air before him. The boy's blood 
 ran cold, and he could not speak. After a time, in a 
 more subdued voice, the trooper went on. 
 
 " And so I am going now, not with one great 
 plunge, but dragged down and struggling back, 
 and dragged down and struggling back ; and at every 
 fall going lower and lower, as I once saw a man go 
 over a cliff on the Blue Ridge. He caught on a jut- 
 ting rock, and, clutching at the cedars, drew himself 
 up, and then fell back and drew himself up, and fell 
 back again ; and so did twenty times, till at last his 
 hold gave way, and he went down — four hundred 
 feet ! — never to rise again ! " 
 
 As the Captain said this, he drew a flask from his 
 pocket, and took a long draught of its contents. 
 
 " Ah ! now I see," cried the boy. " It is the 
 whiskey that makes you see these things." 
 
 '' No, it is not," said the trooper. " It keeps them 
 away. When I don't drink they come about me till 
 I 'm almost mad. I should kill myself at such times, 
 if it were n't for this." 
 
 "It is the whiskey," replied the boy, "I know. 
 Mother has told me all about it. It disorders your 
 
The Captains Stay. 67 
 
 brain and nerves ; and so, in your dreams, when your 
 reason is asleep, you fancy all kinds of horrid things. 
 Mother says the nerves are the piano the mind plays 
 on ; when they are out of tune, they make dreadful 
 sounds that drive us crazy, and sometimes make us 
 
 murder." 
 
 " But these things come to me when I am awake, 
 and I have seen her in broad day. I saw her when 
 that boy talked to me at the spring, as plain as I see 
 
 you now." 
 
 '' That only shows that your nerves are badly shat- 
 tered.* You have drunk so much, and so long, that 
 it has clouded your reason. I know, it 's so. It is 
 delirium tremens/ A young man had it in our town. 
 Mother was with him when he died; and he told 
 her he was in the horrid place, with the fiends all 
 about him ; but they were n't about him, for mother 
 was there, and nothing bad ever came where she 
 
 was. 
 
 It may be so, —it may be so," said the Captam. 
 " I wish I could believe it, then there might be some 
 
 hope for me." 
 
 "There is hope for you," answered the boy. 
 " There is hope for every one, even for the worst. 
 Mother says God loves the worst the best of all, 
 if they only try to turn round. Did n't he leave the 
 
68 The Young Virghiian. 
 
 good son at home, and go out to meet the prodigal, 
 when he was yet a great way off; and did n't he fall 
 on his neck and kiss him, and put on him the best 
 robe, and kill for him the fatted calf? So he '11 do 
 for you, if you only turn round." 
 
 The boy's clear eye was swimming with tears as 
 he said this. I have seen such natures — natures 
 like open cisterns — catching all the rain that falls 
 from the heavens, and holding it in their souls for 
 whoever is aweary, whoever is athirst. 
 
 After a long silence, the Captain said : " I will 
 go home with you, and get away from this wretched 
 life I am living \ but I must first go back to 
 Mosby. He has trusted me with work he has 
 his heart on, and he has always stood by 7fie. I 
 am an officer ; we can slip away in the night at 
 any time, and be within the Union lines in a dozen 
 hours. But see that the boy gets away at the black- 
 smith's. So long as he stays, his mother is always 
 before me." 
 
T 
 
 At the BlacksmitJis. 69 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 AT THE blacksmith's. 
 
 HE road, at first a mere bridle-path, in which 
 two horsemen could not ride abreast, widened, 
 when it started northward ft-om the little cabin, into 
 a wagon-track overgrown with grass, and overarched 
 with the broad branches of the oaks and maples 
 which grew along its border. In this road fhe 
 troop, half an hour later, wound slowly along, on 
 their way to the blacksmith's. 
 
 The sun was just sinking below the trees, gilding 
 their tops with the glow it cast on the western 
 clouds, when they ascended a little hill overlooking 
 the smithy, and halted to take a look at the 
 ground below them. It was a farm of about a 
 hundred acres, hemmed in with woods, and inter- 
 sected by three roads, crossing each other so as to 
 form a triangle in the centre of the clearing. This 
 triangle contained something less than a dozen 
 acres, covered with huge oaks and pines, standing 
 far apart, and overgrown with the thick, tall grass 
 peculiar to that part of Virginia. Midway along 
 9 
 
70 The Young Virgiiiian. 
 
 one of these roads, right where a dense forest 
 lined its other side, stood the blacksmith's house, 
 barn, and workshop. The shop, which was close 
 upon the highway, was a dilapidated structure of 
 logs, with a broad plank door, and a huge clay 
 chimney, going up on the outside, in the fashion of 
 the country ; but the house, which was located far- 
 ther back from the road, was a substantial framed 
 dwelling, covered with clapboards, and surrounded 
 with a broad, open piazza. It evidently was the 
 home of a man tolerably well-to-do in the world, 
 but not of sufficient social importance to be digni- 
 fied with the name of "planter." 
 
 As the troop drew up on the brow of the hill, 
 the Captain turned his horse, and, his face wear- 
 ing no trace of the strong emotion vrhich had so 
 recently clouded it, he said to the guide, — 
 
 " This, then, is the blacksmith's ? I have seen 
 the place before, — this same month, fifteen years 
 ago." 
 
 " It 'r' been yere twice that long, Cap'n ; and 
 the shop longer ; and old Miles hes been in 'em," 
 answered the guide, scanning the house intently, as 
 if he would penetrate the blank walls, and fathom 
 the hidden life within. 
 
 " I remember him, — a worthy man. He gave me 
 
At tJic BlacksmitUs. 71 
 
 a night's shelter when — once when I came to see 
 the Major?" 
 
 " He ar' a. worthy man, Cap'n ! " said the guide, 
 warmly ; " just as decent a 'un as the Lord ever 
 put breath inter." 
 
 "And yet he is a traitor. What made him that? 
 Does n't he own slaves ? " 
 
 " He done it ; two or three, 'fore our folks stole 
 'em ; but he 's allers hed the notion that the kentry 
 ar' uverythin', and old Virginny nothin'. Thet 's 
 all thar is agin him ; for he 'm the honestest, biggest- 
 hearted old man ye uver know'd on. Thar hain't 
 ten men in ten miles o' this, as would n't risk thar 
 lives ter save old Miles from a halter, traitor or no 
 traitor." 
 
 " And he 's been giving information to the enemy, 
 the Colonel says." 
 
 " Yas," answered the guide ; " so they says. Spy- 
 in' fur the Yanks ; and it 'r' sartin he jined 'em, and 
 fit agin us in the Wilderness." 
 
 "And how does he happen to be at home; w^hy 
 did n't he stay with the Yankees ? " 
 
 "Wall, ye sees the old man he hed three boys. 
 Two on 'em jined the Unions ter the beginning o' 
 the war, and got killed. Thet wellnigh done him 
 up, for he allers sot a heap on his boys ; but he 
 
72 TJie Young Virgi)iian. 
 
 hed one left, a little chunk uv a feller, only fifteen. 
 Him he sot more on nur he did on all the rest, 
 'case he wur a sort o' chile o' his old age. Wall, 
 ye knows the Gunnel smoked his doin's, and tried 
 ter tuck him 'fore Grant come down this way, and 
 did n't ; fur, ye sees, some o' the neighbors got 
 warnin' ter the old man, and he laid out in the woods. 
 He could n't live long in that way, bein' 's uvery 'un 
 know'd him, and mought peach on him ony time ; 
 so, when Grant came down yere, he jined the Yanks 
 right open. Wall, Freddy had toted his feed ter him 
 in the woods ; and when his father went off, the boy 
 follored, unbeknown ter him or his mother. He 
 kept on his track, and come up on him ter the army ; 
 and in the battle he, too, war killed. Thet took 
 all that old Miles hed, and, the whole turgether, 
 made him sort o' crazy. He put the boy over his 
 shoulder, and brung him home ter his mother. It 
 come hard on her ; but it did n't bend her loike it 
 done him, 'case she hes the kind o' eyes thet look 
 clar through the clouds, and see the sun allers 
 a shinin' on tother side o' Jordan. They buried 
 him, right thar, whar ye see the roses a-growin' " ; 
 and, dashing away a tear, the guide pointed to a 
 little plat of flowers just at the right of the door- 
 way. 
 
At the BlacksmitJts. 73 
 
 After a time he continued, " He war a oncommon 
 boy, — more loike a gal nur a boy, — and he loved 
 the old man beyont tellin' ; that made him go arter 
 him." And he brushed away another tear. "It 
 makes me a gal ter talk on it ; fur, I toted him 
 'fore he could go, larned him ter walk, and used 
 allers to sleep with him arter he was a-weaned from 
 his mother." 
 
 A slight choking was in the Captain's voice, as 
 he said, " Then you lived a long time with the black- 
 smith ? " 
 
 " Long ! " echoed the guide. " He tuck me a 
 mere chunk uv a boy, brung me up, and was a father 
 to me ! " 
 
 The Captain's face grew suddenly red, and, turn- 
 ing on the guide, he said, in a voice that might have 
 been heard a mile away, " A father to you ! and 
 you are betraying him ! Get out of my sight ; go 
 away, or my pistol will go off of itself" 
 
 Without a word, the guide rode off among the 
 trees. As he did so, a woman's face suddenly ap- 
 peared in the door-way of the blacksmith's house, 
 and, as suddenly disappeared. A moment later, a 
 white cloth was seen flying from one of the upper 
 windows. 
 
 " Der ye see, Cap'n .? " said the Sergeant, who 
 4 
 
74 ^/^^' Young Virginian. 
 
 trafficked in corn, and kept the run of the negro 
 market, " they doan't see us fur the leaves ; but 
 they 's yered yer shoutin', and is guvin' some one 
 warnin'." 
 
 " I see," answered the Captain ; " that proves the 
 blacksmith is outside. I 'm not very sorry ; for since 
 I 've learned who he is, I have n't much stomach for 
 catching him," 
 
 " Hain't it more loikely that he 's friends lyin' out, 
 as he is axin' ter holp him ? " asked the Sergeant. 
 
 " Well, it may be ; and we 'd better reconnoitre the 
 roads, and beat the bushes opposite the house. A 
 half dozen men in that underbrush could give us a 
 good deal of trouble." 
 
 " While we is doin' thet, moughtent the old fox, ef 
 he 's in the house, slip through our fingers ? " asked 
 the subaltern. 
 
 "Yes, he might." 
 
 " Thar, see ! " now shouted the Sergeant, " they 's 
 wavin' the rag from the scuttle. Thar 's men out- 
 side, as sartin as preachin'. We mought as well 
 look for a needle in a hayrick, as for them fellers 
 'mong the bushes ; so s'pose we post oursel's round 
 the house, on all the roads, so as ter hem 'em in ter 
 the openin' (the timbered triangle about the house), 
 and not close down till it 'r right dark ? Thar '11 be no 
 
At tJie BlacksmitJis. 75 
 
 moon till on tcr midnight, and the clouds '11 hinder 
 the starlight ; so the fellers can't git no sight on ter 
 us with thar shootin'-irons." 
 
 "Your advice is good, Sergeant," answered the 
 Captain ; and concealment being longer useless, the 
 troop emerged from the cover of the trees, and gal- 
 loped openly down the hill. Turning off about five 
 hundred yards to the north of the house, they rode 
 rapidly round the triangle, and dropping men at 
 short distances, soon had a cordon of troopers com- 
 pletely encircling the dwelling of the blacksmith. 
 Against the wood opposite the house no one was 
 stationed, for at that point was the apprehended dan- 
 ger ; but escape from the building was impossible, 
 as every one of the four sides was within range of 
 half a score of carbines. 
 
 So the troop remained for a full hour, while the 
 twilight deepened into night, and the thick shadows 
 gathered round the lonely dwelling. Gradually they 
 closed down upon it, each one keeping in view the 
 dim outline of his nearest comrade, and drawing 
 nearer to it, and to the house, as both grew faint and 
 fainter in the darkness. At last, they had advanced 
 to within two hundred yards of the dwelling, and word 
 was given to " close in." This done, the Captain 
 approached the doorway. 
 
76 The Young Virginiaji. 
 
 A single candle was burning in the sitting-room, 
 and by its light he saw a solitary woman sitting be- 
 side a small table. An open book was before her ; 
 but her eyes were off the page, and a look of harrow- 
 ing suspense w^as on her features. She started, when 
 she heard his demand for admission ; but answered 
 the summons promptly. She was neatly clad in 
 homespun, had a thin, pale face, and, though not 
 above forty-five, hair that was as white as the fields 
 in mid-wdnter. 
 
 "We want your husband. Madam," said the Cap- 
 tain, as the woman made her appearance at the 
 doorway. 
 
 " He is not here, sir," she answered, calmly. 
 
 "When did he go away?" 
 
 " Not far from noon to-day. I do not look for his 
 returning." 
 
 " You don't mean that he has forsaken you ? " 
 
 " O no, sir ! We both intend to go where we can 
 end our days in peace, — away from this land of crime 
 and bloodshed. You have taken all our children, you 
 are welcome to our property ; we only ask leave to 
 go." 
 
 "You ought to have it," answered the Captain. 
 " If I could have my way, you should ; but I have 
 orders to arrest your husband, and I am a soldier, 
 Madam, I must obey." 
 
At the Blacksmith's. yy 
 
 " I don't blame you, sir, but you '11 not find him 
 here." 
 
 "I believe what you say," said the Captain, "but 
 I ought to search the house. Do you object to it.** " 
 
 " Not in the least," answered the woman, " search 
 all the buildings. He is gone, as I tell y(^." 
 
 " Two of you, here," said the Captain, turning to 
 his men, "go through the house, two others to the 
 barn and the smithy, and mind, on your lives, touch 
 nothing." 
 
 While the men went about executing this order, 
 the Sergeant said, in the hearing of the woman, 
 " Yer remember the Cunnel's orders, Cap'n, — ter 
 burn the housen if we did n't kotch the old traitor ? " 
 
 "Yes," answered the trooper, "but I won't burn 
 a house over a woman's head, when nothing is to be 
 gained by it. If the Colonel wants it done, let him 
 send some one else." 
 
 " Foller orders, Cap'n," cried two or three of the 
 men, w^hose faces were hid by the darkness. "The 
 Cunnel will raise with all on us, ef ye doan't." 
 
 "Well, let him, I won't do it," said the Captain, 
 firmly. 
 
 " I thank you, sir,." said the woman, " but don't let 
 pity for me get you into trouble. It is only a few 
 days that I shall stay here ; and I wouW as soon 
 
y8 The Young Virginian. 
 
 the house were burned. The sight of it is painful 
 to me ; out of it all my children have gone to be — 
 murdered." 
 
 The Captain answered kindly : " I shall not do it, 
 Madam. I would like to help you to get away; but 
 I can't. JBft not remain longer in the damp air." 
 
 The woman thanked him, and went within; and a 
 moment afterwards the two troopers came out, re- 
 porting that no one was secreted on the premises. 
 
 "As I expected," said the Captain, walking to- 
 wards the outbuildings, near which the two boys 
 were stationed under guard of a cavalryman. James 
 was standing near the man, and Robert was mounted 
 on a horse which the soldier held by the bridle. 
 
 "Are they through the search.?" asked the Cap- 
 tain. 
 
 " Not yet, Cap'n," answered the man ; " I reckon 
 they won't wake up nuthtn' more 'n rats." 
 
 " Perhaps not ; but you go in and hurr}' them up, 
 — I '11 stay by the horses." 
 
 The man dismounted, and handing the bridles to 
 the Captain, hurried away. As soon as he was gone 
 the latter said, in a low tone, to James, " Now is your 
 time, get him away " ; and dropping the reins he 
 followed the soldier towards the barn. James turned 
 towards the slave boy; but the latter needed no 
 
At the BlacksmitJis. . 79 
 
 prompting. The soldier had no sooner gone away 
 tlian, seizing a pistol from the holster, he slid to the 
 ground ; and now, as James turned to where he was 
 hidden behind the outside horse, he said in a loud 
 whisper, " Come, we can get away, follow me." 
 
 The white boy instinctively let fall the reins, and 
 followed, as the other bounded away in the darkness. 
 Freedom, to a prisoner the dearest of all earthly 
 things, was right before him. It gave wings to his 
 feet, but, suddenly, .as he ran, something seemed to 
 say to him, "The Captain trusts you. Should you 
 leave him now?" As he thought of this his pace 
 slackened ; then he paused, and then turned about 
 and ran rapidly back to the horses. The faithful ani- 
 mals, more faithful than he, stood where he had left 
 them. He had scarcely again taken the reins when 
 the Captain strode rapidly towards him. 
 
 " Is he gone ? " he said, in a quick, eager way. 
 " Ah ! I see ! Thank God. He is off my con- 
 science ! " 
 
 Soon the men emerged from the barn ; and as 
 the last one turned to close the door, he cried out, 
 " See, Cap'n ! the house ! it 'r afire ! " 
 
 Where James and the Captain stood the view of 
 the house was shut off by the intervening barn ; 
 but as the man spoke, they rushed to the corner 
 
8o • TJic^ Young Virginian. 
 
 of the building, and looked towards the dwelling. 
 Its whole after-part was ablaze ! Bursting from the 
 windows of the second story, the flames were 
 mounting the walls, creeping up the roof, and fast 
 tingeing the dark night with the deep glow of sun- 
 rise. The w^oman, her face wearing a tranquil 
 look, stood near the doorway; and as the Captain 
 was entering the house, she said to him, "Don't 
 go in, sir ! It 's already beyond saving ; let it 
 burn." 
 
 "We can save some of the furniture," he an- 
 swered. " Here, men, dismount ! Four of you stay 
 by the horses, the rest — into the house. Get out 
 all you can ! " 
 
 Carpets and feather-beds soon came on tiptoe 
 out of the doorw-ays, and picture-frames, looking- 
 glasses, and crocker)'-ware tumbled pell-mell out of 
 the windows ; and in fifteen minutes, the larger por- 
 tion of the blacksmith's household goods were scat- 
 tered in disordered heaps about the court-yard. 
 The fire had then gained such headway, that the 
 dwelling was one mass of flame. Dancing along 
 the eaves, leaping above the roof, and tossing its 
 arms up to the black sky, it let down a -shower of 
 red rain, and then, gathering in a crimson cloud, 
 floated off" far away over the forest. Soon the roof 
 
A^ the BlacksmitJis. 8 1 
 
 and rafters tumbled in, and then a blazing skeleton 
 was all that was left of the blacksmith's dwelling. 
 
 "You are without shelter," said the Captain to 
 the woman : " mount my horse, and we '11 take you 
 wherever you like." 
 
 " No, no : the nearest house is a mile away," she 
 answered, " I will walk." 
 
 " I insist on taking you," replied the Captain ; 
 and then, turning to the rest, he added, "Mount, 
 men, now we '11 be off." 
 
 The troop had mounted, and the Captain, stand- 
 ing between his horse and the burning building, 
 was helping the woman upon the pommel of his 
 own saddle, when from the wood opposite the road 
 came the dull report of a shot-gun, followed by the 
 sharper crack of a rifle. Two of the troopers 
 rolled upon the ground, wounded ; and, quick as 
 thought, the Captain bounded into his saddle, cry- 
 ing out, "Back, men, to the opening behind the 
 barn. Every one of you to a tree, and give them 
 what they send." 
 
 As they wheeled their horses, the w^oman said in 
 a low tone, " It 's Miles ! Cling close to me. 
 Captain, and he won't hit you. 
 
 Ping ! ping ! came the rifle-shots, — five times in 
 rapid firing, and five horses or men rolled to the 
 4* F 
 
82 TJie Yoimg Vii'gijiian. 
 
 ground, wounded or dying. Among them, was the 
 poor fellow behind whom James was riding, and, 
 grasping the reins, the boy pressed on with the rest 
 into the timbered opening. "There's only two," — 
 shouted the Captain, "a shot-gun and a Spencer 
 rifle ! Quick, men ! dismount, and we '11 have 
 them." 
 
 Even as the Captain spoke, a bright flash and 
 a sharp crack came from the shadow of the smithy, 
 not forty feet away. His horse made a mad leap 
 into the air, then a step or two forward it staggered, 
 and then fell heavily to the ground. The woman 
 was thrown at the first bound, but the Captain, 
 wounded and unable to disengage his limbs, went 
 down with the maddened animal. A dozen men 
 sprang to the ground, and by main force pulled 
 away the dying horse ; and then the boy lifted the 
 head of the fallen man, saying, "Are you much hurt?" 
 
 " O yes ! " he gasped ; " to death ! But run, boy, 
 run!" 
 
 "I can't leave you now," said James. 
 
 " You can' t do me — any good, — run ! " The 
 trooper's words came short and faint; his hand 
 closed on the boy's tightly; his eyes grew fixed 
 and glassy; and then his head dropped heavily to 
 the ground. 
 
At the BlacksmitJis. S3 
 
 insr 
 
 "He is dead!" shrieked the woman, kneel 
 down and parting the long, gray hair from his fore- 
 head. 
 
 "Dead!" cried the Sergeant; and "Dead!" 
 echoed the men, gathering round in the dim light 
 of the burning house, and standing there, living 
 targets for the death-dealing rifles in the opposite 
 wood. 
 
84 The Young Virginian. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE SLAVE BOY'S STORY. 
 
 " T~>vEAD!" The word broke like a wail from 
 ^-^ the men, as they stood there, unmindful of 
 their wounded comrades, and of the rifles even then 
 levelled at their own lives ! Why was this ? What 
 was there in that man, so stained with crime, so 
 steeped in debauchery, that made them hang over 
 his body as if they had lost their only friend ? Noth- 
 ing but a soul — incrusted all over with the wrong- 
 doing of forty years, but yet — a soul. 
 
 James lingered until they lifted, the Captain from 
 the ground, and bore him to the barn as tenderly 
 as they would have borne a child ; and then, while 
 they laid him gently on a little heap of straw, he 
 walked slowly away. 
 
 He paused on the hill where the troop had halted 
 a few hours before, and looked back at the burn- 
 ing building. Lights were moving to and fro about 
 the grounds, and the frame of the blacksmith's house 
 still lifted its red arms to the midnighi sky; but 
 all was still and silent around, — silent as the grave 
 
TJie Slave Boys Story. 85 
 
 which, even then, the troopers might be scooping 
 for the body of their friend. But, where had gone 
 the man's soul ? The boy thought of this ; and as 
 he thought, he gave way to a feehng of bitter grief. 
 If in his Httle heart there was pity for that wretched 
 man, what, think you, there was in the Infinite 
 bosom, whose boundless compassion to our feeble 
 pity is as the great ocean to the smallest drop ever 
 wept by the clouds? 
 
 After a time the boy walked forward. Uncertain 
 which way to go, he paused a moment, and again 
 looked back at the burning house. The lights, which 
 had been scattered about the grounds, were now col- 
 lected in the barn, and the troopers were attending 
 on their wounded comrades, stretched there upon the 
 floor. The larger number were grouped around the 
 little bed of straw, on which he had seen them lay the 
 Captain. Kneeling beside him, they seemed to be 
 chafing his limbs, bathing his forehead, and moisten- 
 ing his lips with something one held in his hand. 
 Could it be that he was still living .'* O no ! He 
 was dead ; for soon they brought in a wide board, 
 and lifted his head, as if to lay him upon it. They 
 had only been arranging his limbs, and now were 
 about to bear him out to bury him. 
 
 The boy could look no more ; and, turning away, 
 
86 TJic Young Virginian. 
 
 he again walked forward. He had gone but a few 
 paces, when a shadow ghded from the opposite wood, 
 and came towards him. " Is he dead ? " it asked 
 in a voice eager and trembhng. 
 
 " Yes, — dead ! " answered James. 
 
 " Thank God ! " exclaimed the other, half speaking, 
 half grating the words through his closed teeth. 
 
 " What do you mean? " cried James, stepping back 
 and trying to scan the slave boy's features in the 
 darkness. 
 
 " What I say, I hated that man. I am glad he is 
 dead ! " and he laughed a bitter, hollow laugh, the 
 echo of the dark passion which, more than any 
 other, allies men to fiends. 
 
 " You should not hate him ; bad as he is, God 
 loves him." 
 
 ." Not hate the man who killed my mother with a 
 slow death ! Would you not do it ? " 
 
 The white boy hesitated before he answered : " No, 
 I think not. I should try to forgive him, — try to 
 leave him to God. The Bible says, vengeance be- 
 longs to Him." 
 
 " So it does ; but it says, too, that He makes his 
 ministers a flame of fire ! " 
 
 " Yes ; the fire, the storm, and the lightning are 
 all His ministers, but we should let Him direct them." 
 
The Slave Boys Sto)y. ^7 
 
 "I suppose He does; but the lightning doesn't 
 always strike in the right place." 
 
 " It may not seem to : but it does, — ahvays in the 
 right phue. He has suffered more than a thousand 
 
 deaths." 
 
 " Do you know that ? Are you sure of it ? " cried 
 the slave boy, quickly, eagerly. 
 
 "Yes. He told me so. He has thought he was 
 in hell, with the fiends about him ; and all because 
 he drank, and — did wrong by your mother." 
 
 "Thank God! thank God! O my mother, my 
 mother ! you are avenged ! " and even in the dark 
 night, the whhe boy thought he saw his form di- 
 late, and his arms stretch out wildly to the black 
 sky. A cold horror ran over him, — the same which 
 at the spring had chilled his blood, and made 
 his heart almost stop beating. For a while both 
 stood in the road silent ; then the white boy said : 
 "Why should you hate him so much? He did no 
 greater wrong than your own father." 
 
 " He did. I will tell you. But, come ; let us go 
 on" ; — and he clutched the other's arm with the grip 
 of an iron vice. " As soon as he is buried they will 
 follow us, — not you, but me, — for, ha! ha! my 
 blood and bones are better than yours, — they will 
 sell for something ! If he were living, there would 
 
S8 The Young Virgijiian. 
 
 be no danger, for he wanted to be rid of me. Even 
 my shadow, as it kept abreast of him on the grass, 
 was a torture to him. I saw it. It haunted him as 
 we went along the road, as if it had been the ghost 
 of my mother ! " 
 
 Again for a while they said nothing, but walked 
 slowly on in the darkness. The clouds were break- 
 ing away, and here and there a star was shining; 
 and the wind came through the trees, not noisily, 
 but in broken, stifled sobs, as if it were the angels 
 weeping over the human sorrow which the night 
 hid from the eyes of men. 
 
 At last the slave boy broke the silence. " You 
 remember," he said, "the children's quarter at the 
 plantation, — the long, iow building, with the great 
 cliimney at the end ? " 
 
 '• Yes, I was in it. Your grandmother told me you 
 lived there until your mistress took you to the man- 
 sion." 
 
 " I did. After my mother was gambled off, I was 
 kept there, — huddled half naked on its dirty floor 
 with about twenty other children, whose mothers 
 were either dead or sold away. I remember one 
 night, — a bleak winter night, when the wind shook 
 the old cabin, and the snow blew in great drifts 
 through the logs, — that, all but frozen with the in- 
 
The Slave Boys Stoiy. 89 
 
 tense cold, I tried to get at the fire. The older chil- 
 dren had crowded round it, and were keeping the 
 younger ones away ; and after bearing the cold as 
 long as I could, I asked a larger boy to let me sit 
 on the hearth before him a few minutes, — only a few 
 minutes. He refused \ and when I urged him, struck 
 me. I was only six, and he was eleven ; but the 
 blow maddened me, I grappled with him, threw him 
 to the floor, and then stamped upon him, and beat 
 him about the head and face until his best friends 
 would n't have known him. The other children, and 
 the old woman who had charge of us all, stood by 
 powerless with fear ; but the yells of the boy brought 
 the negroes from the other cabins just in time to 
 save me from doing a murder. 
 
 "One of them went for my master, — I did n't then 
 know he was my father, — and he came, and, while I 
 crouched down by the fire, listened to the stor)^ of 
 the old woman. She told it worse than it was, and 
 painted me as a young devil ; but he only said I was 
 *a chip of the old block,' took me up in his arms, 
 and carried me off to the mansion. I expected a 
 beating, but he ordered me a warm supper, and put 
 me to bed in a room with my grandmother. In the 
 morning he gave me a suit of warmer clothes, and 
 said, ' Go back to the cabin, Robby, and if a smaller 
 
90 The Yoiuig Virginian. 
 
 boy ever strikes you, don't strike him back, only 
 laugh at him ; but if a larger one does it, pitch into 
 him, and if you can't whip him, let me know and 
 I '11 have it done.' 
 
 " I told him I would, and was going away, when 
 the mistress came in and proposed I should stay at* 
 the mansion. Grandmother was cook at the great 
 house, and she had persuaded her to do this. My 
 master gave his wife a queer look, and said he had 
 wanted to take me ever since Hannah, my mother, 
 had gone away, but had not dared to propose it. 
 
 " After that, during the day, I did little chores 
 about the house for the mistress, and at night slept in 
 a room with my grandmother. The mistress was a 
 weak, silly woman, fond of show and dress ; but she 
 always treated me kindly, and so did my father when 
 she was not by; then, he never seemed to know 
 I was in the room. 
 
 " So things w^ent on for a year, when one night 
 my grandmother woke me out of a sound sleep, 
 crying and taking on as if some great thing had 
 happened. I said nothing, only listened. She was 
 on her knees asking God to bless master, because 
 he had promised never to sell me, never to part us, 
 and to let her teach me to read, so I might learn all 
 about God and heaven. She went to bed, and I 
 went to sleep while she was praying and singing. 
 
TJic Slave Boys Stoiy. 91 
 
 "I learned fast, axid very soon could read in any 
 part of the Bible., Then, one day I went into the 
 librar), where my father was alone, and he asked 
 me if I knew my letters. I told him I did, and 
 read to him a whole chapter. He gave me another 
 book ; and making me sit down close by him, said 
 very kindly, ' Now, Robby, read from this, and 
 don't be discouraged if it comes harder than the 
 Bible.' It was a volume of Shakespeare, and, right 
 off, I read nearly the whole of Othello. Then he 
 took me on his knee, and said it was a pity I 
 was n't all white ; but I must come to the library 
 whenever the mistress could spare me, and read 
 whatever I liked. I did, — passed whole days there, 
 devouring the great books, and living in a new 
 world j and no matter how busy master was, he 
 never found me in the way, and always had a 
 kind word for me. 
 
 " About a year after this — I was nearly nine — 
 he sold away his body-servant, and the mistress let 
 him take me in his place. Then I was with him 
 all the while, and he set me regular lessons out of 
 the other children's books \ and soon, though they 
 had a governess, I was ahead of them. Then he 
 took me again on his knee, and said again, and a 
 great tear was in his eye as he said it, 'Robby, 
 it 's a pity you 're not all white.' 
 
92 TJic Young Virginian, 
 
 "I went with him every\vhere, — to Richmond, 
 Washington, everywhere ; and though he was a pas- 
 sionate man, he never once struck me, or spoke to 
 me unkindly. He seemed to love me ; my grand- 
 mother doted on me, and every one was kind to 
 me : but I was not happy, for within me was a 
 ceasless yearning for something, — for the love of a 
 mother. The other children in the house and at 
 the quarters had mothers, and I longed for one 
 too ; would gladly have exchanged places with the 
 poorest field boy on the plantation, if, like him, I 
 could have laid my head on a mother's lap, and 
 wept my little griefs away. My grandmother told 
 me to pray, and then God might soften master's 
 heart, and make him buy my mother. I did so ; 
 and night after night I lay awake praying until 
 morning. But God did n't hear me. My mother 
 did not come back. Then I took to reading the 
 Bible, — reading it from end to end, over and over 
 again, to find out what I must do to bring her back ; 
 but I could find out nothing. It only told me to 
 pray; so I kept on praying, but my very heart was 
 breaking. 
 
 " One day, while I was in this mood, master came 
 into the library, and found me cr)ing bitterly. 
 * Robby, what are you crjdng about .? ' he asked, very 
 
The Slave Boys Story, 93 
 
 kindly. I told him, and went down on my knees, and 
 begged him to buy my mother. He took me up 
 gently, and said he would if he could, but he could 
 not. He had offered four times her value, but the 
 man who owned her would not part with her on 
 any terms. It was the truth, for tears were in his 
 eyes when he said it. 
 
 " Well, three years went away. We often heard of 
 my mother, but none of the family ever saw her. 
 She was going about to Richmond, Vicksburg, New 
 Orleans, everywhere, the mistress of a gambler. I 
 was old enough to know what that meant, and the 
 thought of it almost drove me crazy. 
 
 " In the house was a boy and a girl older than I, 
 and two younger boys, my half-brothers and sister. 
 The mistress was fond of society, and often made 
 great parties, at which we and the neighbors' children 
 acted in dramas and tableaux. I was only a slave 
 boy, but I always had a part, for I was the best 
 actor among them. I was so good, that master 
 would say that when I grew up I should be put 
 upon the stage, just to show the hypocritical parsons 
 that a black man is as smart as a white one. I sup- 
 pose this was owing to grandmother's father having 
 been a king. He ivas a king, ruled over thousands 
 of men, where men are free, free as the storms 
 
94 TJie Yoiuig Virginiaji. 
 
 among the mountains. My grandmother said I was 
 just like him, had his air, his ways, his very features ; 
 and that, I suppose, accounts for my being naturally 
 an actor, for kings are only actors. 
 
 " Well, one night when I was twelve years old,. — 
 I remember it as if it were yesterday, — we played 
 Othello, and I was lago. I had played the part 
 often, knew it all by heart, but never before took in 
 its meaning. He was a low, mean, skulking villain, 
 but he had a great purpose, and a great passion. 
 That passion took possession of me. It crept into 
 my veins, looked out of my eyes, and loomed up 
 before me at night, a gaunt, ghastly figure, with a 
 whetted knife always in its hand. It was Revenge ! 
 
 "One night I told my grandmother about it, and 
 she said the evil spirits had got hold of me, and I 
 must pray and read the Bible. I read the Bible, 
 read how David and the old prophets prayed God 
 to curse their enemies, and the spirits only took 
 stronger hold of me. I read, too, how God was a 
 God of vengeance, and I knew that men, and angels, 
 and' devils are only his instruments. I was a man, 
 if not in years, then in soul, and, slowly it came upon 
 me that I was God's instrument to avenge my mother 
 on the gambler. 
 
 " I said so to my grandmother ; and then, for 
 
TJie Slave Boys Story. 95 
 
 the first time, she tokl me the truth, — that my 
 master was my own father ; that he had sold my 
 mother away, and for years had used her just as 
 she was being used by the gambler. What she 
 meant to soothe me only roused me the more. I 
 had read of everything, but of nothing like that ! 
 What were Zanga's or Hamlet's wrongs to mine ? 
 It was not a father murdered, — that I could have 
 borne, — it was a mother dishonored, polluted in 
 body and soul by my own father and a wretched 
 gamester, w^ho tricked his dirty bread from greedy 
 fools, and, perhaps, bought his filthy drink with the 
 wages of her shame ! It was enough to stir the 
 blood in a beggar's veins. It stirred mine, for it 
 is the blood of kings, — of kings, I tell you ! and 
 then, two victims rose ghastly before me, — the 
 gambler, and my own father ! 
 
 " I whetted a knife, and one night I stole behind 
 him in the library. The candle cast my shadow 
 on the wall. He saw it, sprang up, and wrenched 
 the knife from my hand. I expected he would 
 kill me ; and, opening my arms, I told him to do 
 it ; for I was mad with passion. He merely locked 
 the door ; put the knife in his pocket, and pointed 
 me to a seat near him. Then he said, — and his 
 voice was as kindly as if it had been the voice 
 
96 TJic Young Virginian. 
 
 of my mother, — ' Robby, why do you try to mur- 
 der me ? ' 
 
 " I told him all, for I scorned concealment ; and 
 he said : * Poor boy ; you would kill your best friend. 
 If I were dead, you might be set at work in the 
 fields, or even sold to Georgia.' 
 
 " I told him I did not care what became of me ; 
 that if I lived I would avenge my mother. 
 
 " * But killing me won't do it, Robby,' he answered. 
 *I have done both her and you WTong, but I am 
 willing to atone for it ; willing to give any price 
 for her; to set you both free, and send you both 
 North, where you can grow up as good as any man.* 
 
 "'And why don't you do it?' I yelled, storming 
 with passion ; for I did not believe he meant what 
 he said. 
 
 "*I have told you,' he answered, 'that Thompson 
 won't sell her ; and I tell you now, that I have offered 
 him ten thousand dollars for her. I loved your 
 mother, love her still, for she is the best woman 
 I ever knew. I refused to part with her, though 
 my wife made my house almost too hot to hold me ; 
 but one night, when I was gaming, that man won 
 her from me. I was drunk ; he had drugged the 
 liquor, for I had taken only two glasses. I had to 
 pay the debt; or be pointed at as a man without 
 
TJic Slave Boys Story. 97 
 
 honor. I was weak. I had n't courage to meet the 
 shame, and I let her go. The night she went away, 
 I offered him twice her value, if he would let her 
 stay ; but he refused. I have since, several times, 
 offered ten thousand dollars for her, and — he has 
 refused it' 
 
 " I asked him if he would offer it again ; and sitting 
 down at his table he wrote a letter to the gambler. 
 He said in it that he would pay that price ; and if 
 that was not enough he would pay more, and agree 
 to set my mother free. When he had sealed and 
 directed the letter, he gave it to me to put into the 
 post-office, and then said : ' He may not accept of 
 this, Robby ; but whether he does or not, the day 
 you are eighteen you shall be free, and have enough 
 to begin life in the Free States. I would let you 
 go now, but you have hot blood in you, — you get 
 it from me and your king of a grandfather, — and 
 you need guiding. Here is your knife, you may 
 take my life if you will ; perhaps I should take yours 
 if you had wronged me as I have wronged your 
 mother.' 
 
 "I threw the knife away, fell at his feet, clasped 
 
 his knees, and begged him to forgive me. He took 
 
 me up in his arms, and, for the first time in his 
 
 hfe, kissed me. And that was my father! As he 
 
 5 G 
 
98 The Young Virginian. 
 
 was, way down at the bottom of his soul, — that was 
 my father ! " 
 
 The wind sobbed low among the trees, and the 
 new-risen moon cast a pale glow on tlie face of the 
 slave boy as he said this. Such a look James had 
 never seen on a human face. It was that of a 
 mother bending over a dead child, — grief, tender- 
 ness, despair, were all in it. 
 
 After a while he went on. 
 
 '" At the end of a -fortnight a letter came from the 
 gambler. He refused to sell my mother; said there 
 was not money enough in Virginia to buy her ; and 
 that she di^^ not want to be free ! He said that, 
 and within three years sold her, — sold her for a 
 paltry sum, and — to be a slave-trader's mistress! 
 
 "Well, the war broke out. I was seventeen, and 
 mother was two years dead, — dead, but living in 
 my dreams ; for every night she came to me, sat 
 by my bed, and with her cold, pale, sweet face, 
 smiled blessings on me ! I do not know how it 
 was, but the air she brought stilled the tempest in 
 my veins, and blunted the purpose of my life, — 
 revenge. 
 
 " But the war broke out. A great gale came dov/n 
 from the North and woke my slumbering passions. 
 The blood of my kingly fathers throbbed again to 
 
The Slave Boys Story. 99 
 
 the music of battle, and roused me to the wrongs 
 of my race. But that was not all. He — the gam- 
 bler — was among them; and I could meet him in 
 fair fight, and strike, at one blow, for my mother 
 and my people ! 
 
 " My father was a leading Rebel ; but one night 
 I went to him, and said, ' Be one year better than 
 your word, — let me go ! ' ' Where would you go ? ' 
 he asked. I told him ; and he flew into a storm of 
 passion ; poured upon me a torrent of abuse ; called 
 me traitor, renegade, miscreant, ingrate, coward, and 
 ordered me from his sight. Without a word I went, 
 — for he was my flither. My grandmother blessed 
 me, and bade me go, for she thought I was going — 
 to be a man. I was going to be a man ; but not 
 the man she meant, — the docile drudge of some 
 white-livered wretch, who ate his humble pie, and 
 chinked his greasy gold at home, while traitors were 
 tearing out the very vitals of his country. Not such 
 a man ! 
 
 "Well, I went, and the Yankee general locked 
 me up, and sent me back to my father. Why? 
 My arms are as strong, my body as straight, my 
 features as good, my skin almost as white as yours ! 
 Why? Because the hot sun had tanned my grand- 
 father's face, and at the distance of a hundred years 
 cast a shadow upon mine ! 
 
100 The Yoitfig Virginiatt. 
 
 " My father's passion was over; and he said to me, 
 as coolly as I say it to you : ' Robby, I have done 
 for you what I have done for no other of my chil- 
 dren, — educated you myself ; and I have loved 
 you better than them all. In return, you have be- 
 trayed me, and your country. You wanted to be a 
 slave, one of the meanest kind, — a Yankee slave. 
 You shall be a slave, where the thing is as bad as 
 the name." 
 
 " He kept his word. He sold me to Georgia. I 
 did not blame him ; for had I been he, I should 
 have done as he did. After the good mistress in 
 Georgia had taken me to the mansion, and the crisis 
 of my fever was over, one night — whether I was 
 waking or sleeping I do not know — I was aroused 
 by some one entering my room. The moonlight 
 came dimly through the open window, but it cast 
 no shadow. I looked up, — the air was hea\y with 
 human breath ; yet I could see nothing ; but I felt 
 — as you have felt when some one has come unseen 
 and noiselessly upon you — a human presence filling 
 all the room. Soon, as I looked, a shadow came out 
 of the opposite wall, — dim, wa\y, jagged, — the mere 
 outline of a form like nothing mortal. Slowly it 
 rounded out, slowly as if being created, and grew 
 into a moving figure, with gaunt, bony hands, long. 
 
The Slave Boys Stoiy. loi 
 
 withered arms, and red, blazing eyes that glared on 
 me with the look of a demon. A cold horror crept 
 over me, and I covered my face with the bedclothes. 
 When I looked again, a long knife was in its hand, 
 whetted and glittering. And then I saw its features. 
 They were those I had seen thousands of times in 
 my glass ; and yet, they were not mine, nor my 
 mother's, nor my kingly ancestor's \ but something 
 made up of them all. Grandmother says they are 
 all alike, but they are not. His are the midnight 
 storm, hers the evening breeze, mine — what you see 
 them. The thin, skinny hand pointed to the North ; 
 and then reached out, and offered me the knife-hilt. 
 I clutched it, and it turned into a pistol, — a large 
 navy repeater. Then the figure faded, and in its 
 place came a man on horseback. It was he, the 
 gambler ! I knew him by that likeness before my 
 grandmother spoke his name in the library ! I raised 
 the pistol, fired, and horse and rider went to the 
 ground, quivering. A dozen men sprang forward, 
 and pulled the horse away ; but he had gone down — 
 down to hell, where I sent him." 
 
 The slave boy paused, and drew the large navy 
 pistol he had taken from the holster of the trooper. 
 Holding it up a moment in the moonlight, he cried : 
 "That was months ago; but here is the repeater, 
 and yonder is the man, — all that is left of him." 
 
102 The Young Virginian. 
 
 " And you killed him ! " gasped the white boy, 
 starting back, the cold horror again running along 
 his veins. 
 
 " I did ! " cried the other in a ringing tone, his 
 dark eye glittering like burnished steel ; " if he had 
 had a thousand lives, I would have taken them all." 
 
A Midnight Encounter. 103 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A MIDNIGHT ENCOUNTER. 
 
 T T was a terrible deed, and a terrible spirit that 
 I prompted it, — the very spirit which drove the 
 bad angels to the dark abodes where is only weeping . 
 and walling forever. But, while we shudder at the 
 crime, may we not pity the criminal? May we not 
 remember his misguided life, his misdirected pas- 
 sions, his cruel wrongs, which, rankling long in his 
 soul, had at last driven him to the very verge of 
 
 madness ? 
 
 It was of this that the white bo^ thought, as he 
 turned away, and bent down his head in silence. As 
 he thought, he prayed, -the very prayer which, eigh- 
 teen hundred years ago went up from the lips of the 
 Father's best-beloved Son,- '' Forgive him; for 
 he knows not what he does ! " 
 
 The slave boy stood for a while watching his 
 companion, and saying nothing; but at last he made 
 a sudden movement. Bending his ear low to the 
 ground, he clutched the other by the arm, and, in a 
 hurried voice, said, "Come. We must go. I hear 
 the tread of horses. They are following us!" 
 
I04 TJie Yoimg Virg^inian. 
 
 The white boy turned, and, shaking off his hold, 
 said in a startled way : " Go ! quick ! Do not let 
 them take you ! Run ! run for your life ! " 
 
 " We must both run, — we 'd better take to the 
 woods. We can fast for a day or two, — by that 
 time they '11 have left the mansion," answered Rob- 
 ert, not heeding the altered manner of James. 
 
 " No, Robert," replied James, " I cannot go with 
 you. Until you see the great crime you have done, 
 we cannot be friends." 
 
 " Crime ! " echoed the slave lad, in a tone of strong 
 passion ; but in a moment, half choking back his 
 words, he added, with more of his usual manner : 
 " So be it ! I don't blame you. You don't know 
 me, — you can't know me. Your blood is stagnant 
 mud, — mine is blazing fire ! If I believed in your 
 God, I might be the tame slave that you are." 
 
 Not heeding the taunt, the white boy said : " You 
 will believe in Him, if not here, then hereafter. 1 
 shall pray that you may, and that He may forgive 
 3-ou." 
 
 " Forgive me ! " cried the other, the fierce look 
 again on his face ; " ask pardon for your own sins ; 
 don't waste your prayers on mine ! " 
 
 "You need pardon more than you know\ The 
 time will come when you will think so. But go, 
 the Rebels are upon us. Go ! " 
 
A Midnight Encounter. ■ 105 
 
 The slave boy darted into the woods, and James 
 sUink back among the underbrush which hned the 
 road, at the very moment that the horsemen as- 
 cended the little knoll on which they were standing. 
 There were but four of them,— three men and a 
 woman ; and as they came slowly forward into the 
 moonlight, the white boy saw they were not Rebels. 
 The woman's face was hidden by a deep hood ; but 
 beneath the slouched hat of the man riding beside 
 her, James detected the long gray hair, and strong, 
 furrowed features of the soldier whom he had seen 
 with the dead boy on the battle-ground. It flashed 
 upon him. He was the blacksmith ! Leaving his 
 concealment, the boy stepped out into the roadway. 
 " Halt ! " cried the man. " Who goes there ? " 
 " A friend," answered James, moving toward him. 
 " Halt, I say ! " again cried the man. " Not an- 
 other step. Who are you?" 
 
 " He 'm all right. Boss," said one of the others, 
 riding closely to the boy. " He 'm the little feller 
 as th'^e Cap'n tuck ter Major Lucy's. We 're right 
 glad you 're got away, but what is ye a-doin' yere ? " 
 
 "I started to go back to the mansion," answered 
 James, recognizing the guide; "but have altered 
 my mind. I want to get to the Union lines." 
 
 " Ye 's forty miles frum them, and thar 's a right 
 5* 
 
io6 • TJie Yoiuig Virginian. 
 
 smart chance ye '11 be took ; 'sides, I '11 bet high on 
 it, ye don't know a rod o' the way," said the man in 
 a kindly tone. 
 
 " I don't, but perhaps you '11 tell me ? " answered 
 James. 
 
 " Thar hain't no safe route, but the one the birds 
 travel — over the tree-tops. On any other road thar 
 hain't ten men, or wimmin uther, as would n't hunt 
 ye down loike a dog, ef they seed the color o' yer 
 clo'es. I don't tuck ter 'em myself; but I reckon 
 yer a loikely lad. What der ye say, Boss ? wont ye 
 tuck him along ? Ye moiight put it to my 'count." 
 
 The blacksmith had been scanning the face of the 
 boy during this conversation, and now asked, " Where 
 have I seen you, my lad t " 
 
 " On the battle-ground, near to Major Lucy's," 
 answered James. 
 
 The man started as if some unsef^n hand had 
 struck him, and then, without a word, rode rapidly 
 away, the woman following. 
 
 " Ye made him think uv Freddy. He ar' sore on 
 thet, drefful sore," said the guide. " But git ye up 
 yere, I '11 manage the Boss." 
 
 As James mounted behind the guide, he said to 
 him, "Is not that the lady I saw at the burning 
 house ? " 
 
A Midniglit Encounter. 107 
 
 " Yas. She 's staid a-nussin' the Cap'n, and thet 's 
 made us late ; we must hurry up, or he '11 git ter 
 Mosby afore I does." 
 
 " What ! Is the Captain not dead ! " exclaimed 
 James, in a loud, eager tone. 
 
 " Dead ! Why no, only wounded. The hoss 
 fallin' on him, knocked out his senses, that war all. 
 He 'U be well in a week." 
 
 " Thank God ! thank God ! " cried James. 
 
 This joyful exclamation was mingled with a smoth- 
 ered curse from the thick bushes by the roadside. 
 The guide heard it, and levelling his carbine quick 
 as thought, he cried out, " Come out o' thet, or I '11 
 fire." 
 
 The bushes swayed slightly, but gave no answer, 
 apd the man was about to fire, when the w'hite boy 
 grasped his hand, exclaiming : " Don't shoot ! He 
 is my friend ! " 
 
 " Let him come out then. I 'm at ticklish \MJck. 
 I can't hev no skulkers round." 
 
 As the guide spoke, Robert stepped into the road, 
 and, looking him coolly in the face, said, " What 
 do you want with me ? " 
 
 '' I wants to know what ye 's a doin' yere, — that 's 
 all, fur I doan't loike uther yer color or yer looks. 
 Tell me thet, or I '11 put a bullet through ye," re- 
 sponded the guide. 
 
io8 The Young Virginian. 
 
 The other horseman had ridden forward after the 
 blacksmith, and the trooper and Robby were not 
 unequally matched. Drawing the large navy repeater, 
 the latter took a step or two towards the guide, and 
 said, coolly : " Two can play at that game. But 
 I '11 answer your questions if you '11 answer mine." 
 
 "Ye knows a'ready all I keers ter keep ter my- 
 self," said the trooper, with a merry laugh, dropping 
 the muzzle of his carbine. 
 
 "And I know, too, it would cost your life, if I 
 should whisper it to Mosby," said the slave lad as 
 coolly as before. 
 
 " I reckon ! " answered the other, " but ye carn't 
 skeer me with no sich talk. I 'se counted the cost ; 
 and I reckon a man's life hain't wuth much if he 
 carn't look hisself in the face." 
 
 " You 're a true man ; I '11 not betray you," said 
 the slave boy, putting up his pistol. " Has the troop 
 started for the mountains?" 
 
 "I reckon not. They hain't loikely ter go afore 
 daylight ; they '11 hev ter borror a waggin ter tote 
 the Cap'n." 
 
 " And they '11 not get through to-morrow ? " 
 
 " No. They '11 be loikely ter camp out over night. 
 The Cap'n carn't travil fast ef he 's hurted nigh so 
 bad as the ma'am say." 
 
 "Which road will they take?" 
 
A Midnight Encounter. 109 
 
 " The stretest, I reckon ; but why on yerth does 
 ye want ter know ? " 
 
 " No matter. Who is in command now ? " 
 
 "The Sargint, in course ; the feller as sots so high 
 on niggers," answered the trooper, with a smothered 
 laugh. 
 
 " Then you '11 be followed before morning ! " 
 
 " Follered ! " echoed the guide, " why, bless yer 
 soul ! he reckons I 'm ter camp afore now. I tuck 
 a stret line fur it, and thet 's how I come outer ole 
 Miles." 
 
 " That may be ; but he knows that only two fired 
 on them, — Bursley and the blacksmith ; and he 's 
 sense enough to guess they would make at once for 
 Bursley's cabin. Lend me your horse, and I '11 stand 
 guard till you are safely away." 
 
 " Lend ye my hoss ! " echoed the guide ; " I 'd as 
 soon think o' lettin' ye kiss my sweetheart, — 'sides, 
 I must put out ter onst fur the camp. But, ye 's a 
 sensible feller, ef ye does sell by the pound. S'pose 
 ye come on ter the shanty, and tuck John's nag. 
 It b'longs ter one o' our men ; and 't won't do fur 
 John ter hev it round, but 't won't make no odds ter 
 ye; — ye 's stolen property yerself." 
 
 The slave boy assented, and a brisk half-hour's 
 walk took the party to the little log-house in the 
 clearing. 
 
no The Yoiing Virginian. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 RECAPTURED. 
 
 A BRIGHT light was shining through the logs of 
 the old cabin, and, rapping at its door, James 
 and the guide were soon admitted. A dense smoke 
 filled the apartment ; but through the thick cloud the 
 boy saw the indistinct outlines of half-a-dozen people. 
 None of them spoke until the new-comers stood in 
 the full blaze of the fire ; then a joyful cry broke 
 from a huge bundle of clothes in the corner, and 
 James felt his arms pinioned in the warm embrace 
 of old Katy. 
 
 " Am it you, honey t am it you ? " she cried, wedg- 
 ing in the words between the caresses. 
 
 " Yes, Aunty," said the boy ; " but I did n't expect 
 to find you here ! " 
 
 " I 'se sot out arter Robby," she answered. " Whar 
 am de chile ? De ma'am say he 'm got shut ob de 
 goorillas." 
 
 " He has. He is now down the road keeping 
 watch until we are safely away." 
 
 " Bress de Lord 1 bress de Lord fur dat," exclaimed 
 
Recaptured. 1 1 1 
 
 the old woman, crossing her hands on her breast, 
 and lifting her eyes upward. " It am de Lord's 
 doin's. I know'd he 'd neber leab me nur forsake 
 
 me. 
 
 She knew this, but she also knew that the Lord 
 works always by means; and, doubting the Captain's 
 ability to effect the release of her grandson, she had 
 set out, a few hours after his departnre, to walk all 
 the way to the camp of the guerillas. Mosby, she 
 had heard, was a cruel, hard-hearted man ; but she 
 felt sure he could not resist the pleading of such 
 love as hers for Robby. Where the camp was she 
 did not know; but she remembered that Bursley 
 had been in the Rebel army, and, coming to his 
 house to learn the route, had been told by his wife 
 to await his return in the morning. So it was that, 
 so late at night, she was found with the party of 
 fugitives at the old log cabin in the clearing. 
 
 The guide watched with a pleased look the meet- 
 ing between James and old Katy, and when it was 
 over, turned to the blacksmith, who was sitting on 
 a rough bench at the farther end of the room, and 
 said, " Ye '11 tuck the boy along, Boss ! He ar' a 
 
 loikely lad." 
 
 "I will," answered the other, without lifting his 
 
 eyes to the speaker. 
 
112 The Young Vh'ginian. 
 
 " Wall, it 'r' loike ye ; howsomever, I thanks ye," 
 said the guide. Then advancing a few steps, and 
 holding out his hand, he added, " I must be goin', — 
 good by." 
 
 " Not a-going to fight again for this cursed Rebel- 
 lion ! " said the blacksmith, rising suddenly to his 
 feet. " You '11 not do that, Jake ! " 
 
 " Not fur the Rebellion, Boss, — fur ole Virginny. 
 I could n't sleep o' nights ef I did n't do all I could 
 fur the ole State." 
 
 "And what has she ever done for you, or for poor 
 men like you ? " 
 
 " Nothing," answered the guide, smiling, " but 
 guv'n us a chance ter root or die." 
 
 " She has not. She has taken the bread from 
 your mouths to feed the rich man. She has cursed 
 you with a set of aristocrats who have stolen all the 
 best land, and left you only a sorry patch, just big 
 enough for your graves. That is all she has done 
 for you, and yet you fight for her ! You cannot 
 succeed. A just God \vill not uphold wickedness 
 forever; and He does not mean that the children 
 shall be as the fathers, without knowledge, without 
 morals, without religion, crushed down and trodden 
 on by a set of men who do nothing, produce nothing, 
 and only cumber the ground. Be a man, Jake. Turn 
 about. Fight for your country." 
 
Recaptured. 1 1 3 
 
 " That ar' the difference atween us, Boss," an- 
 swered the guide, gravely. " Yer kentry ar' bigger 'n 
 mine, it tucks in all creation ; mine ar' bounded by 
 Ole Virgin ny. I hate ter be at odds \vi' ye, fur I 
 loves ye and the ma'am. I feels all ye has done fur 
 me, and I hain't ongrateful. I would die fur ye. Ter 
 do ye ony good, I 'd hang willin' ter the nighest 
 tree; but — good by, God bless ye." 
 
 The blacksmith grasped his hand, his wife threw 
 her arms about his neck, and then the guide went 
 out into the darkness. 
 
 For a while all was silence, and the cloud of smoke, 
 blown again into the room by the opening of the door, 
 clearing away, James looked around the apartment. 
 It was squalid, cheerless, and comfortless in the ex- 
 treme. Its floor was a few loose plank, only half 
 covering the ground ; and its furniture, a couple of 
 tottering bedsteads, an old pine table, three or four 
 broken chairs, and the rude bench on which the 
 blacksmith and his wife were seated. A huge iron 
 pot, from which a leg of ham protruded, was hang- 
 ing over the fire ; but the rest of the cooking uten- 
 sils, which might have been packed in a soldier's 
 knapsack, were littered about the hearthstone. Five 
 saffron-hued children, asleep in one of the beds, and 
 a gaunt, half-starved, dilapidated figure, somewhat 
 
 H 
 
114 The Young Virgin ia^t. 
 
 resembling a man, sitting moodily in a corner, with 
 the others I have mentioned, were the occupants of 
 the apartment. 
 
 James was wondering how human beings — to say- 
 nothing of children — could exist in such a place, 
 when his eye caught that of the blacksmith follow- 
 ing his in its curious survey of the premises. The 
 boy looked down ; but the man said, — a singular 
 expression, half sad, half mirthful, playing over his 
 features, — " You don't have such houses at the 
 North ! " 
 
 " No, sir : not such houses. Are there many such 
 here ? " 
 
 "Many? Thousands in this valley, and along the 
 Blue Ridge. Scarcely any of our poor people, any- 
 where, have better ; and even these they don't own. 
 They belong to the aristocrats, who give them the 
 use of them and of ground enough to plant a few 
 hills of corn and potatoes, on condition that they 
 vote and fight at their bidding, — vote and fight to 
 keep themselves and their children poor and of no 
 account forever. That is the way the Rebel leaders 
 brought about Secession, and filled the Southern 
 army, — by getting the poor whites down, and hold- 
 ing them down, till — all but in name — they were 
 as much slaves as the blacks. Bursley, here, is forty 
 
Recaptured. 
 
 1 1 
 
 years old, but he can't read or write, and, until he 
 went into the army, was never out of this county in 
 his Ufe. His father, and his grandfather before him, 
 lived on this clearing, and paid their rent by voting 
 for old Lucy and young Lucy, — sold their birth- 
 right for a mess of pottage, and mighty poor pot- 
 ta^'-e at that. John did the same till about a year 
 agl He was n'l to blame, for he did n't know any 
 better; but then he remembered that he was a 
 man, and ran away ; and now they are hunting him 
 down as they would hunt a wild beast." 
 
 As the blacksmith spoke the last words, the 
 bowed figure in the corner rose, and, coming for- 
 ward, opened a tattered garment which once had 
 been a shirt, and showed the boy his naked breast 
 in the fire-light. It was of a swarthy hue, and 
 deeply ridged where the thin flesh fell away about 
 the ribs ; but over its ridges and hollows — red as 
 fire, and large as a man's hand — was the letter D, 
 scarred into it by a hot iron.* 
 
 * - Branding deserters," writes one who has seen the thing 
 done at Richmond, "is a beautiful operation, and as humane as 
 beautiful. The culiirit is fastened to a large table, and a large 
 • D ' is scarred upon his person. In other countries where this 
 punishment is inflicted, a bar of iron with a type or letter on one 
 end of it is used, which, being heated, is applied to the spot to be 
 branded But a more cruel process and instrument are employed 
 
Ii6 TJie Young Virginiari. 
 
 " This," said the man, with a grim smile, " are 
 the what I owes 'em. For every drap o' blood tliey 
 drawed yere, I 'II hev a life, as sure as thar 's a 
 God in heaven." 
 
 " It is awful," said James, turning his head away, 
 a sickly feeling coming over him. 
 
 "Awful!" echoed the blacksmith. "Which is 
 worse, — to torture the body, or starve the soul ? 
 These men have legislated the poor man out of all 
 his rights, — out of schools and churches, and so 
 kept him ignorant and degraded, made him servile 
 and dependent, without any ambition or any aspi- 
 rations for a better condition. And now they are 
 making him fight to rivet the chains upon his own 
 
 by the chivalry. A plain bar of iron, about an inch in diameter, 
 narrowed down a little at the point, is heated to incandescence, 
 and used as a sign painter would use a brush in lettering, only in 
 a very slow and bungling manner. A greasy smoke with a sick- 
 ly stench arises, accompanied with crackling sounds and the 
 groans of the victim, as the hot iron sinks deep into the flesh. 
 On pretence of rendering the mark of disgrace plain and indeli- 
 ble, but in reality to torture the unfortunate culprit, the hot iron 
 is drawn many times through the wound, making it larger and 
 deeper, until the victim, unable to endure the excruciation longer, 
 faints, and is carried away. The operation was always per- 
 formed by Keppard, the executioner of Kellogg ; probably the 
 greatest demon in human form outside of Pluto's dominions." 
 
Recaptured. \ \ 7 
 
 limbs, and to transmit his own degradation to his re- 
 motest children." 
 
 " I never heard of this before," said James. " I 
 think the North does n't understand that poor white 
 people are so much oppressed at the South." 
 
 " It don't. Of course it don't. If it did, it would 
 shed a few tears for the whites as well as for the 
 blacks ; it would take some means to get truth to these 
 people, to free them from the control of the aristocrats, 
 and fit them for the same freedom it is giving the 
 negro." 
 
 "That ar* true. Boss," said the woman of the 
 house, turning round from tending the boiling ket- 
 tle. " We is wuss off nur the niggers." 
 
 " Not worse than the slaves ? " exclaimed James. 
 
 " Wuss ? " she answered, " / reckon we is ! They 
 is keered fur when they is old ; and when thar wuck 
 ar' done, it ar^ done ; but we hain't never keered 
 fur, and our wuck hain't never done. I'se hard at 
 it uvery night arter the nigs is gone ter roost; and 
 thet 's the way wi' all the pore people round yere. 
 We gits no edication, don't know nothin', and has 
 ter wuck all our lives fur them as owns this sile. 
 That 's it. AVe has chillen, and they grows up, and 
 don't know no more, and hain't no better off nur we. 
 I reckon we i> a sight wuss off nur the niggers." 
 
Ii8 The Young Virginian. 
 
 Both spoke earnestly ; and it was plain that the 
 trials of the blacksmith had somewhat embittered 
 his feelings ; but the boy had ieen enough of South- 
 ern life to convince him that they spoke the truth. 
 And they did speak a great truth, — one which we 
 shall do well to heed. These poor whites must be 
 educated and elevated; for until they are, and are 
 emancipated from the control of the chivalry, the 
 Union will not be secure, and our country- will not 
 be really great and free. 
 
 _ But, while I am saying this, the blacksmith has 
 risen from his seat, and walked nervously up and 
 down the room. Soon, turning to John's wife, he 
 says, " Ruth, is n't the bacon almost boiled t We 
 must be twenty miles away by sunrise." 
 
 The words were scarcely spoken, when the door 
 was flung open, and Robert appeared in the door- 
 way. " Run 1 " he cried, " the Rebels are on you ! 
 Run, for your lives ! " 
 
 He disappeared as quickly as he came, and all 
 in the room sprang to their feet. No trace of his 
 recent excitement appeared on the blacksmith's face ; 
 and, as cool and collected as if going about his ordi- 
 nary pursuits, he said, " Pour the kettle of water on 
 the fire, Ruth. They mus' n't get aim at us. John, 
 bar the door ; and you, my lad, and the women folks. 
 
Recaptured, 119 
 
 go into the ^oft. Don't be afraid ; there is n't more 
 than a dozen of them, and behind these logs we 
 can keep them at bay for a twelvemonth." 
 
 " A dozen ag'in two are big odds, Boss. Ye don't 
 mean ter stand yer ground ? " said the poor white 
 man, going towards the door. 
 
 " I do," answered the blacksmith. *' I 'm too 
 old to run any more." 
 
 " Wall, Boss, then ye kin count me out," and 
 quickly opening the door, the "native" darted away 
 across Jhe clearing. 
 
 A bitter smile played on the blacksmith's face 
 for a moment ; but then, quietly barring the door, 
 he said, as if speaking to himself: "He can't be 
 blamed. What can be expected of blood that has 
 been cowed down for a centur}^" 
 
 The women had by this time gone into the attic, 
 and James stood alone by the hearth, treading out 
 the last embers of the fire. When this was done, 
 he turned to the blacksmith : " I '11 be frank with 
 you, sir," he said, " they '11 release me if they take 
 me to Mosby; but I '11 stand by you." 
 
 " W^ll, you '11 be better than John. Can you fire 
 a shot-gun ? " 
 
 " I have done it." 
 
 Handing him John's weapon, the blacksmith said : 
 
120 TJie Young Virginian. 
 
 " Stand there in the chimney-corner. Keep quiet, 
 and don't fire until I do, — then be sure of your man." 
 
 The full moon lit the clearing with a sort of dim 
 daylight ; but inside the house all now was as dark, 
 and apparently as empty, as a beggar's pocket. For 
 a while they waited in silence, and nothing but the 
 deep breath of the blacksmith broke the stillness ; 
 but soon the faint tramp of horsemen sounded far 
 down the road towards the smithy. 
 
 " They are coming, boy," he said. " Keep cool, 
 and don't fire till you are certain of a man.'-' 
 
 The sounds came nearer, and soon a dozen cavalry 
 emerged from the belt of trees which skirted the 
 clearing. A half of them turned off, as if to gain the 
 woods in the rear, ^nd the rest, dismounting, crept 
 softly towards the front of the cabin. When within 
 two hundred yards they halted, and one came nearer, 
 walking his horse by his side, and keeping under the 
 lee of the animal. Soon he paused and shouted, 
 " Ho ! In thar ! Come out, or we '11 burn the build- 
 ing." 
 
 No answer was returned, and he repeated the sum- 
 mons ; but again all was silence. He had called 
 several times, when one of the men in the rear cried 
 out, "They hear ye, Sargint. Fire into the shanty." 
 
 Resting his musket across the back of the horse, 
 
Recaptined. 121 
 
 the Sergeant fired into the window. The shot 
 brought a reply which no one Iiad expected. One 
 of the sleeping children uttered a piercing cry, and 
 an answering yell from its mother sounded from the 
 attic. 
 
 " My God ! " exclaimed the blacksmith, dropping 
 his rifle, and hurrying to the bedside. " I did not 
 think of the children ! " 
 
 The men outside were like-minded; for, careless who 
 was hit, they sent another bullet crashing through 
 the window, in the direct pathway of the first one. 
 Lifting the screaming child tenderly in his arms, the 
 blacksmith said, " Whar are you hurt, little one ? 
 Tell me, that 's a good child " ; — but a deeper scream 
 was the only answer. 
 
 By this time the mother was down the stairway, 
 the other children were awake, and all were scream- 
 ing in chorus. 
 
 " Go to the door, my lad. Tell them we surrender, 
 — these children must not be murdered," said the 
 blacksmith, still Xrj'mg to soothe the screaming little 
 one. 
 
 James did as he was bidden, and soon half a dozen 
 dark forms filled the doorway. " A light, — quick ! 
 This child is hurt ! Some of you bring a lantern," 
 said the now captive blacksmith. 
 6 
 
122 TJic You Jig Virginian. 
 
 A lantern was not among the troopers' equipments, 
 but one - of them soon kindled a pine-knot, and 
 brought it to the bedside. Hastily removing its 
 scanty clothing, they examined every square inch of 
 the child's person, and — found it as sound and as 
 round as a silver dollar. And so it is, the cry of a 
 child will do what the force of twelve men, armed 
 to the teeth, cannot accomplish. 
 
 But the boy and the blacksmith were prisoners ; 
 and between those two, who, for thirty years, had 
 lived only one life, there came a parting. I cannot 
 describe it ; for such scenes tug too hard at the 
 heart-strings. There were no cries, no tears, but a 
 short prayer, a long embrace, and then an agony of 
 silence. Noiseless but deep the broad river runs, 
 when it sinks into the dark ocean forever. 
 
TJic Captaiiis Dream. 123 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE captain's DREAM. 
 
 THE first gray of morning was streaking the east 
 when the troop rode up to the barn of the 
 blacksmith. Bidding the prisoners dismount, the 
 Sergeant led the way into the building. On a pile 
 of straw in a corner the Captain lay sleeping, his 
 face upturned in the early light, and over it a smile 
 playing, like that of a child when dreaming. Touch- 
 ing him gently on the shoulder, the Sergeant said, 
 " Cap'n, we has got the blacksmith," 
 
 He opened his eyes, raised himself on his elbow, 
 and in a half dreamy way, answered, " All right, 
 all right, I am ready." Then looking round, he 
 caught sight of James, and, holding out both his 
 hands, said, fully aroused, " What ! are you here, my 
 boy? Come to me." 
 
 James went to him, took his hands, and sat down 
 by his side. " Are you much hurt ? " he asked. 
 
 " O no ! A little bruised about the hips, that is 
 all. Meg come down rather hard, and the pain took 
 away my senses. Poor thing, she '11 never fall again, 
 I should n't care, if thev had n't killed her ! " 
 
124 1^^^^ Young Virginiafi, 
 
 " They ! " So, he was ignorant that Robert had 
 fired the bullet. 
 
 " When shall we start ? " asked the Sergeant. 
 
 " Whenever you like. When the men are rested. 
 Send breakfast to me and the boy, and take Mr. 
 Holley with you. Treat him with respect and kind- 
 ness." 
 
 "And how '11 ye travil, Cap'n?" asked the Ser- 
 geant. " Der ye think thet leg o' yourn kin mount 
 a nag?" 
 
 " I 'm afraid not, to-day. Can you get a wagon 
 and harness about here ? " 
 
 " I have them, sir," said the blacksmith, now 
 speaking for the first time since his capture. "Of 
 course you can take them, but I gladly consent to it." 
 
 " I thank you," answered the trooper, " I am sorry 
 to see you as you are, sir." 
 
 The blacksmith smiled, but made no reply, and 
 soon followed the Sergeant from the building. 
 
 When they were gone, the Captain said to James, 
 "Now, my boy, tell me where you have been, and 
 how you happened to be taken. Do you know it is 
 lucky you were, for without me you could never have 
 got to the Union lines ? " 
 
 James then told him all his adventures, except his 
 encounter with the guide, and with Robert and old 
 
TJie Captain's Dream. 125 
 
 Katy. AVhen he finished, the trooper asked, " And 
 did you see anything of the boy ? " 
 
 "Yes, he overtook me on the road to the cabin. 
 I hope he is by this time at home with his grand- 
 mother." 
 
 He hoped this, but he feared, from the questions 
 the slave boy had asked the guide in the woods, 
 that he was even then following the trooper, intent 
 on accomplishing the savage work in which he had 
 been foiled. James thought the Captain safe, sur- 
 rounded by his men ; and he did not wish to wound 
 him by disclosing the bitter feelings of Robert ; so 
 to avoid the subject he turned the conversation into 
 another channel. " What will become of the black- 
 smith ? " he asked. 
 
 " He will be hanged without judge or jury. He 
 has been a spy, and, besides, Mosby has some pri- 
 vate grudge against him. It is a pity, for he is an 
 old hero. He killed three of our men, wounded 
 another, and sent poor Meg to her long home. We 
 know that, because the man with him had only a 
 shot-gun." 
 
 " He deserves something better than death," said 
 James. " When he might have defended himself, he 
 gave up to save the lives of the children." 
 
 " I know, and I 'm sorry ; but nothing can save 
 
126 The Young Virginian. 
 
 him. Words would be wasted on Mosby. He 
 would hang him for killing the mare, if for nothing 
 else ; for he loved her as well as I did." 
 
 Again changing the conversation, — this time be- 
 cause it was painful, — James said: "I noticed her. 
 She seemed a noble animaL" 
 
 " Noble ! She was the best horse in Virginia. 
 She knew everything, and had a heart like a woman. 
 She loved me as a dog loves his master, and I loved 
 her better than some men love their children. For 
 two years we were together, day and night, summer 
 and winter; and often, when I have laid down on 
 the march in a pelting storm, she has stood over me 
 all night to keep off the rain, when every other 
 horse in the squad has been on the ground sleep- 
 ing. Twice she saved my life, and once the whole 
 battalion." 
 
 "How was that?" asked the boy, catching some 
 of the trooper's enthusiasm. 
 
 "We were on a raid into Pennsylvania, and were 
 chased by three Yankee regiments. The troop had 
 ridden hard for forty miles, and, thinking there was 
 no immediate danger, we halted just after midnight 
 to rest the men and horses. Meg then belonged to 
 Mosby; and, hitching her to a rail, he lay down in 
 a crotch of the fence, and fell asleep before I had 
 
TJic Captain's Dream. 127 
 
 dismounted. I soon noticed the mare with her 
 mouth at Mosby's throat, shaking him hard, and 
 tearing his coat into ribbons. I pulled her away ; 
 but she pawed the ground violently, and, when I 
 attempted to tie her, came at me like a hyena. See- 
 ing I could n't manage her, I woke Mosby, and 
 pointing to the breast of his coat, said, ' Colonel, in a 
 moment more Meg would have spoiled your portrait ! ' 
 He looked at his coat, then at me,, and, half asleep 
 and half dead with fatigue, roared out in a great rage, 
 ' Captain, that — that — is my horse, and this — this 
 — is my face, and I'd thank ye to — at — tend to 
 your own business.' 
 
 " I flew into a passion, and gave him a volley of 
 hard words ; but, in the midst of it, he put his ear to 
 the ground, and said : ' Hark ! What is that 1 ' I 
 bent down and listened, and, sounding far away, 
 heard the faint tread of cavalry. It was the Yan- 
 kees, and so Meg's ears saved the battalion ! When 
 we got back to Virginia, Mosby gave her to me, 
 to atone, he said, for not treating me like a gentle- 
 man." 
 
 "It is not strange you valued her highly," said 
 James, proceeding to devour a portion of the hard- 
 tack which now came in for breakfast. 
 
 " Valued her ! " echoed the trooper. " I loved her. 
 
128 The Young Virginian. 
 
 and she made a better man of me. After I lost the 
 boy's mother, I grew hard and reckless : but when 
 I got Meg, my nature seemed to soften, and there 
 came back to me some human feeling. I used to 
 let her run loose about the camp, and many a time, 
 when I have gone off by myself, and sat down over- 
 whelmed with a sense of utter wretchedness, she has 
 come to me, put her face down to mine and fondled 
 me, as if she had been my mother. At such times a 
 look so tender and pitiful would come into her eyes, 
 that I would fancy she had a human soul, and was 
 throwing her love about me, to keep off the fiends 
 that were hounding me to madness. It was not so, 
 but then I did not understand, for my eyes were shut 
 and my mind was dark ; but now I know there is a 
 great spirit in all things, which answers love with 
 love, hate with hate ; to the good gives comfort and 
 hope, to the bad only despair and a fearful looking- 
 for of retribution. You may not understand this now, 
 but you will when you are a man, and have suffered." 
 "Mother has told me so, in other words," an- 
 swered the boy. " She says that great spirit is God, 
 that he is a Father to all, loves all,^ even the worst, 
 and is always trying to do them good ; but that bad 
 men do not know it, because the evil in their hearts 
 shuts his love out, and makes Him seem to them only 
 a God of terror and vengeance." 
 
The Captains Dream. 129. 
 
 <■ It is so, boy ; and I might have been saved 
 all these years of wretchedness and sin, if some one 
 had told me of it as your mother has told you. Han- 
 nah felt it in her heart, but she did not know it with 
 her mind. I thought it was my love that held her 
 up ■ but now I see it was God's love which made her 
 so gentle, so patient, and so forgiving under all the 
 misery ray evil courses brought upon her. If I had 
 known it, my life would have been different ; but, 
 perhaps, it was better as it was ; for my experience 
 may enable me to help others. The soldier must be 
 drilled, the workman must be taught, and my life 
 may have taught me how to drag such men as I have 
 been from the mire of vice in which I have wal- 
 
 lowed." 
 
 " It has ; and you can do it," said the boy ; you 
 
 can do it ! 
 
 " I will if God gives me life and strength. I prom- 
 ised I would last night, when I laid here, supposed to 
 
 be dead." , .„ 
 
 "I thought you were dead. I watched you till 
 
 I saw the men bring in a board, as if to take you out 
 
 to be buried." 
 
 -Oyes, I remember; that was only to bolster my 
 head, so I might get the air. I knew all that hap- 
 pened, though I seemed unconscious." 
 
 6* 
 
130 The Yo7ing Virginian. 
 
 "How could that be?" 
 
 " I don't know. It was very strange, — like a 
 dream. No doubt it was a dream ; but it seemed as 
 real as anything that ever happened. As soon as I 
 fell, I felt my senses going. I spoke to you, then I 
 prayed, and then a strong hand seemed to grasp my 
 arm, as if to draw me away. I struggled, for I was 
 not willing to go ; but soon my strength gave out, 
 my senses swam, and all became darkness. I knew 
 I was not dead, for I could hear the voices of the 
 men, and soon could see them taking my body into 
 the barn ; yet I thought I was not there, but had 
 another body just like the one I had left, and was 
 floating in the air above their heads. I watched them 
 pour the brandy down my mouth, and wet my face 
 and forehead, and heard them bewail my death ; and 
 then I thought I would go back and say a kind word 
 to the poor fellows. I tried to go, but the strong 
 hand held me, and, in a moment more the clouds 
 around broke away, and there seemed about me 
 another sky and another world, all filled with happy 
 human beings. Waving fields and blossoming or- 
 chards and pleasant gardens and great woods and 
 running streams were in it ; but it was not like this 
 world any more than the sunshine is like the shadow. 
 Perhaps it was the sunshine of which this world is the 
 
TJie Captaiiis Dream. 131 
 
 shadow. Soon, I thought, a voice spoke my name, 
 and, turning round, I saw her, — the boy's mother, — 
 not as she once was, but as she is now, among the 
 angels. I shrank away, not daring to look at her ; 
 but she came to me, took me in her arms and laid 
 my head on her bosom. 
 
 " ' These many years,' she said, ' I have waited 
 for you, and soon you will come and be with me 
 forever. It is given you to see our glorious home ; 
 for in the great struggle you at last have conquered.' 
 Then she led me away past pleasant hamlets and 
 happy homes, far into the blue distance. We did 
 not walk, we did not fly, but we moved as, per- 
 haps, a thought moves, when it pierces the deep 
 heavens. Soon we reached a beautiful place, where 
 my father and mother were waiting. They welcomed 
 me with many tears, put their arms about my neck, 
 and gave me their blessing. The place was not like 
 any I had ever seen ; and yet it seemed w^hat my 
 boyish dreams had pictured of heaven. Suddenly, 
 as we stood there, I thought the ground opened be- 
 neath me, and I saw a vast ^arid plain, dotted with 
 innumerable wretched hovels. They were not like 
 houses on the earth, but were transparent, and in 
 every one a score of haggard, deathly-looking men 
 and women were gaming and carousing. My father 
 
132 The Voting Virginian. 
 
 spoke: 'They, my son/ he said, 'are what you 
 have been ; and with them Hes your work in the 
 future. Those who come up here must toil for every 
 step of their progress.' 
 
 " ' Let me go to them/ I said. ' I can feel what 
 they feel, and now can tell them what they may at- 
 tain to.' 
 
 " ' Not now,' he answered, ' your life on the earth 
 is not yet ended.' 
 
 " Then I thought the clouds closed about me, and 
 — I awoke on this heap of straw, the men all stand- 
 ing around. When I opened my eyes, they set up 
 a wild hurrah, and the Sergeant cried out, ' Glory ! 
 Hallelujah ! we thought you was gone, Capt'n ; 
 but the breath o' life is in ye, and ye '11 be good 
 yit fur forty raidin's.' 
 
 " Then I knew that I had only been dreaming." 
 
 " It was a strange dream," said James. '' Do you 
 think it had any meaning?" 
 
 " I don't know. Perhaps it w^as a glimpse into 
 the unseen, — a foreshadowing of my future. God 
 sometimes gives such things to men, but generally 
 on the approach of death ; and, somehow, I feel 
 that my life here is nearly over." 
 
 " I hope not," said the boy. " There is so much 
 you can do. You have talents and education which 
 fit you to w^ork in reforming others." 
 
The Captains Dream. I33 
 
 "I neither hope nor fear," answered the trooper. 
 "I am resigned to whatever may happen. That 
 dream has unsealed my eyes, and shown me that 
 God is all right and all goodness ; and I am con- 
 tent that he shall do with me as he will, and only 
 want to work for him, here or there, in the lowest 
 
 station." 
 
 So that wretched, sin-laden man found what all 
 the world is seeking, -rest and peace, -which no 
 one truly finds till, like him, he realizes that God is 
 "our Father." 
 
134 ^^^^ Young Virginian. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 ON THE ROAD. 
 
 THEY set out about an hour after breakfast. 
 A cavalry horse was hitched to an open spring 
 wagon, and in it — a portion of the troop going 
 before, and the remainder bringing up the rear — 
 James and the Captain rolled slowly along toward 
 Mosb'y's camp in the mountains. The Sergeant rode 
 on one side of the vehicle, and the blacksmith, 
 mounted on a blooded animal which had been the 
 property of one of the men he had killed, rode on 
 the other. His horse was tethered to the vehicle, 
 and his feet were secured by. a rope tied under the 
 saddle. 
 
 It was a beautiful day, neither hot nor cold, but 
 of that delightful temperature which gives a keen 
 zest to the mere act of living. The soft breath of 
 July stirred the grass, and the birds sang in the 
 tall trees by the wayside. A rich green mantle 
 covered the ground, and countless flowers bloomed 
 in the meadows ; but fences were uptorn, crops 
 trodden down, dwellings dismantled, and over 
 
On the Road. 135 
 
 everything hung the shadow of a great desolation. 
 The dark devil of War had passed that way, and 
 left his bloody footprint on every field, his red hand 
 on every hamlet and homestead. 
 
 About noon they passed the ruins of a large 
 mansion. Great oaks and evergreens, charred up 
 to their topmost branches, stood before its doorway, 
 and a profusion of roses, jessamines, and honey- 
 suckles, growing free and wild, made a fragrant 
 wilderness of its court-yard. 
 
 "Whose house was this?" asked the Captain of 
 the blacksmith, who till then had ridden along in 
 silence. 
 
 "Judge Burwell's. It was burned by some of 
 your men about a year ago ; and at the same time 
 they murdered two of his children." 
 
 The Captain winced a little, but answered coolly, 
 " I did n't hear of it, — I was away in Pennsylvania. 
 How was it?" 
 
 " The Judge had fled to the Union lines ; and 
 one night about twenty of your gang came to the 
 house and demanded the money and other valu- 
 ables of his family. Mrs. Burwell gave them up — 
 everything, even the wedding-ring on her finger; 
 and your men left, but only to go to the barn, 
 gather some straw, and build a fire at every corner 
 
136 TJie YoiDig Virginian. 
 
 of the building. Seven persons — three women 
 and four children — were in the house, and as 
 soon as they saw the blaze, they attempted to 
 escape from the door; but your devils ordered them 
 back with the threat of instant shooting. Mrs. Bur- 
 well, from one of the windows, begged not to be 
 burned alive, and the leader told her to come out, 
 promising her protection ; but she had no sooner 
 started than a bullet broke her arm at the elbow. 
 Seeing it was death by burning or shooting, they 
 covered themselves with beds and blankets, and at- 
 tempted to run the gauntlet. Five escaped, — the 
 three women, and two of the children, — but two 
 fine boys, who were to have upheld the old man's 
 honored name, were shot dead at the rear of the 
 mansion." 
 
 " It was a fiendish act," said the Captain ; " but, 
 I am sorry to say, I have heard of others quite as 
 bad, — quite as worthy of hanging." 
 
 The blacksmith looked at him with some surprise, 
 but only said : " It was fiendish, and unwise into 
 the bargain. If you go on at this rate, you '11 leave 
 none of the chivalry alive in Virginia." 
 
 " How so ? I thought we all were chivalry," an- 
 swered the trooper, smiling. 
 
 "Of the bogus sort, not of the genuine race. 
 
On the Road. 137 
 
 There are not twenty of the old families now left in 
 the State. Your leading men are all sprung from 
 sewers and dunghills. Jeff Davis's father ran away 
 from Tennessee, to avoid arrest for horse-stealing ; 
 Barnwell Rhett's was an Irish clodhopper; Robert 
 Toombs's, — as his name shows, — a grave-digger ; 
 and the original ancestor of the Wise family was 
 sold for a hundred pounds of tobacco to pay his 
 passage from an English prison!"* 
 
 The Captain laughed as he answered : " You are 
 treading on my corns, Mr. Holley. I profess to 
 belong to a good family ; and, seriously, you must 
 know that the South has some of the best blood in 
 the world." 
 
 "That depends on what you call good blood," 
 said the blacksmith. "I think a man none the bet- 
 ter because his grandfather happened to hold a king's 
 stirrup, or be the husband of a king's mistress." 
 
 " Perhaps not ; but breeding goes a long ways. 
 You admit it in hounds and horses, why not in men 
 and women?" 
 
 * There is more truth than poetry in these statements of the 
 blacksmith. The original document which conveyed the an- 
 cestor of the turbulent ex-Governor of Virginia to a planter for 
 enough tobacco to pay his passage from a London jail is now 
 in the library of Mr. Peter Force at Washington. 
 
138 TJie Voting Virgitiian. 
 
 "I do. An honest father makes an honest son. 
 I boast of my own blood. My father feared God, 
 paiH his debts, and made the best horse-shoes in 
 this county. Character, not station, the man, not 
 his clothes, are the things to brag about in an an- 
 cestor." 
 
 "You stole that idea from Cowper," said the Cap- 
 tain, again laughing. "You know" he said, 
 
 *My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
 From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; 
 But higher far my proud pretensions rise, — 
 The child of parents passed into the skies.' " 
 
 " That can't be said by many of the chivalry. If 
 accounts are true, few of their parents knew there 
 was any such region as heaven." 
 
 " Come, come, Mr. Holley," responded the Cap- 
 tain, gravely, "I am a good-natured man, and you 
 can say what you please ; but let us talk as we think." 
 
 " I do," answered the blacksmith. " I say what 
 I think, and should do it, if you were Jeff Davis 
 himself I know that nineteen twentieths of the 
 chivalry are sprung from beggars, thieves, and cut- 
 throats, who were transported here as paupers and 
 criminals ; and that the best blood of the South is 
 with the honest lower classes, the * mean trash,' 
 and 'poor whites,' as you call them, because they 
 
On the Road. 139 
 
 do what God meant they should do, — work for a 
 living." 
 
 "And what, in your calculation, becomes of the 
 Huguenots and Cavaliers ? " 
 
 " There were n't enough of them to salt your por- 
 ridge. About seven hundred Huguenots were sent 
 over to Virginia by King William. They founded 
 a town, and built a church, which is still standing, 
 on James River ; but within ten years they left there 
 to be rid of bad neighbors, and went into North 
 Carolina, w^here they settled on Pamlico Sound, 
 and the Neuse and Trent Rivers. About the same 
 number were sent to South Carolina by Charles 11. ; 
 and they are about all that came to this country. For 
 a century they lived by themselves, refusing to mix 
 or marry with the other planters ; and when they 
 finally did, they sunk to their level. There are now 
 not over a dozen old Huguenot names among the 
 Southern aristocracy ; the rest are where they ought 
 to be, among the honest working people. As for 
 the Cavaliers, — they were mostly seedy adventurers, 
 broken-down gentry, or portionless younger sons of 
 my Lord Played-out, who begged for his dinner. 
 They left their country for their country's good ; but 
 there w-as not a baker's dozen of them all told, — 
 not enough to do any good or any harm anywhere." 
 
140 The Young Virginian. 
 
 " You seem to talk by the book," said the Captain, 
 smiling incredulously. 
 
 " I do," answered the blacksmith. " I spent a 
 week of nights among the old books in the Judge's 
 library, expressly to get facts to floor our popinjay 
 of a representative, who used to brag about his an- 
 cestors as if they were first cousins to the Angel 
 Gabriel. I got the facts, and they floored him. I 
 tell you, the first settlers of the Sputh were a de- 
 cidedly sorry set." 
 
 "They must have been shabby enough, by your 
 showing." 
 
 " They were the very offscouring of all things. 
 The early settlers of Georgia were from the Eng- 
 lish jails and poor-houses. The promoters of Ogle- 
 thorpe's colony openly said in the English prints : 
 ' Our prisons are full of miserable men, useless to all 
 the purposes of society. What shall we do with these 
 miserable, useless, pernicious inhabitants ? We will 
 erect a new kingdom out of the refuse of our own 
 people and the subjects of neighboring nations.' 
 Nine tenths of the early settlers of South Carolina 
 were wretched, half-starved peasants from the bogs 
 of Ireland. They came over in such swarms that the 
 northern part of that country was almost depopulated. 
 And as to Virginia, for fifty years it was a penal 
 
On the Road. 141 
 
 colony, and into it was emptied all the filth of Lon- 
 don. Fifty thousand convicts came here; and one 
 half of our 'first families' to-day bear the names 
 which those men left on the records of the Old Bai- 
 ley. An English historian who wrote a hundred and 
 twenty years ago said: 'Our plantations in America, 
 New England excepted, have been generally settled, 
 first, by malcontents with the administration from 
 time to time ; second, by fraudulent debtors, as a 
 refuge from their creditors, and by convicts and crim- 
 inals who chose transportation rather than death.'* 
 The malcontents and Huguenots were the right- 
 eous men who saved this Sodom. They salted, and 
 so saved the lump ; but there were not enough of 
 them to leaven such an immense mass of filth." 
 
 "Well," said the Captain, laughing again, "you 
 have floored me, as you floored Boteler. You have 
 day and date at your fingers' ends ; so you must be 
 right. By your account, none of us can brag of our 
 ancestors ; we are all sprung from sorr>' vagabonds." 
 
 * Dr. William Douglass, 1749- Those who like to wade in 
 muddy water, and desire to trace a dirty stream to its dirty 
 source, may find something more about the origin of the 
 "chivalry" in Martin's and Hawks's Histories of North Caro- 
 lina, Carroll's South Carolina, Campbell's Virginia, and White's 
 Historical Collections of Georgia. 
 
142 TJie Young Virghiiati, 
 
 ♦ 
 
 " Not all of us. These men were the early settlers, 
 who came here first, took up the best lands, founded 
 large estates, and became the fathers of the chivalry. 
 The most of us are sprung from the later settlers, — 
 the brave, hardy, industrious Scotch, Scotch-Irish, 
 and English yeomen, who tilled the land, loved their 
 wives, taught their children, 'feared God, and kept 
 their powder dry.' You can tell one from the other 
 at this day, as easily as you can tell a Morgan horse 
 from a monkey." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " One obeys the laws, and does something ; works 
 with his hands or his head for his daily bread. The 
 other breaks all laws, and does nothing, either 
 steals or gambles for a living, or wrings it from 
 the bloody sweat of his fellows, — men who, in all 
 that God counts manhood, are as much above him 
 as the Apostle John was above the traitor Judas." 
 
 " Well, the adage is, ' Like father, like son,' — 
 there may be some truth in what you say." 
 
 " Some truth ! It is all truth. The chivalry are 
 only the felons dressed up in fine clothes, put astride 
 of a blooded horse, and loaded down with the evil 
 deeds of two centuries. They have shown the con- 
 vict's nature all through our history; and yet they, 
 the vilest white men on this planet, have ruled the 
 
On the Road, 143 
 
 South for two hundred years, and this whole country 
 for sixty." 
 
 "Thet ar* true, Mr. Holley," now said the Ser- 
 geant, who had Hstened with interest to the whole 
 of this conversation. " But this war ar' a gwine ter 
 end thet sort o' business. It '11 guv a chance ter the 
 pore man as does the wuck, and fights the battles." 
 
 " Well, it won't if your side wins," answered the 
 blacksmith. " It will tie you down, hand and foot ; 
 and you '11 not get up till doomsday." 
 
 "Ye hain't right thar, sartin," said the Sergeant, 
 smiling ; " and I reckon ye 'se wrong too 'bout whar 
 the chivalry cum frum." 
 
 " How so ? " asked the blacksmith. " Where did 
 they come from ? " 
 
 "I don't know; but I 'se yered the old darky's 
 account, and I reckon it 'r truer nur the history. 
 He says it wus this away : ' Ye sees, all de fuss folk 
 — Adam, and Eve, and Cain, and Abel, and Gen- 
 esis, and Deutetonomy, and all dem ole fellers — 
 wus brack. But Cain he kill his brudder wid a big 
 club, — his walkin'-stick, — and de Lord he kim down 
 ter see 'bout it, and he say ter Cain : " Cain, whar 
 am dy brudder?" 
 
 " ' Den Cain he put out his lip, and he say, " I 
 doan't know, — what 'm you axin' me fur ? I hain't 
 my brudder's keeper ! " 
 
144 ^^^^ Voting Virginia7i. 
 
 " ' Den de Lord he gits in 'arnest, and he stomps 
 on de groun', and he say : " Cain ! you Cain, whar 
 am dy brudder, — I say you, Cain, whar am dy brud- 
 der Abel?" 
 
 " ' Now, de way de Lord say dat frighten Cain, 
 and he turn white in de face, — whiter dan ginned 
 cotton, — dat wus de mark de Lord sot on him, — 
 and de hull race ob Cain hab been white eber sense. 
 Den Cain he wus druv out o' Paradise, and went and 
 settled in de land ob Nod ; and from dar he moved 
 inter Soufh Car'lina, and — dat 's whar all de chiv- 
 urly kim frum.' " * 
 
 A hearty laugh followed this anecdote, and it ended 
 the conversation. About an hour after nightfall the 
 troop halted for the night at an old church near a 
 cross-roads. 
 
 * This tradition, in a garbled form, found its way into print, 
 about ten years ago, in a book whose title I do not now re- 
 member. However, the Sergeant cannot be accused of plagi- 
 arism ; for I myself heard it at the South when a boy, and 
 it has been current — and widely believed — among the South- 
 ern negroes for more than a centurj'. The reader, of course, 
 will believe it or not, at his option. I simply insist that it is 
 nearer the truth than the generally received account, which 
 makes the chivalry the descendants of the Cavaliers and Hu- 
 guenots. 
 
The old Meeting-House. 145 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE OLD MEETING-HOUSE. 
 
 THE old church was on a spur of the Blue 
 Ridg-e, a few miles to the south of Flint Hill, 
 and at a point where one of the ribs of the long 
 mountain range falls away to the rolling ground below, 
 known as the Piedmont region. A circuit of country, 
 broad as the eye can take in, is there covered with 
 dense forests; and, scattered here and there among 
 them, are little openings, where nestle the rude huts 
 of the simple dwellers in that region. 
 
 They are a homespun people, knowing little of 
 books, having crude notions of life, and forcing only 
 a scanty subsistence from the woods and streams 
 with their nets and rifles, or from sorry patches of 
 corn and tobacco, with hoes as heavy as a man can 
 handle, and as old as the days of the first Abraham ; 
 but they speak the truth, practise virtue, respect one 
 another's rights, love their country — as only those 
 love it for whom it has done nothing, and may — 
 in the scales by which Infinite Justice measures 
 the""worth of men — outweigh all the chivalr>- that 
 7 J 
 
146 TJie Young Virginian, 
 
 have lived since the first CavaUer went on horse- 
 back. 
 
 It is a stony, sterile region ; but there these sim- 
 ple people lived, content and happy, until the con- 
 script officer came among them, and tore them from 
 their rude homes to do battle against their country. 
 Since their oldest man was a boy, they had come 
 every Sunday to that little church to hear the glad 
 tidings from the other world, and — the latest news 
 from this, read after service by the country parson 
 from the country newspaper; but now they were 
 scattered far and wide, some in Northern prisons, 
 and some on bloody fields, seeing this strange world 
 about which they had wondered, or sleeping the quiet 
 sleep which on this earth knows no waking. 
 
 And their fate was written on the rude buildii^ 
 where they had worshipped. It was a ruin, desolate 
 and bare as a tree which has been blasted by the 
 lightning. Its floor was uptorn, its roof partly fallen 
 in, and its battered door rusting idly on its hinges. 
 Around its peaceful walls blood had flowed, and 
 fierce men had struggled, scarring its crumbling logs 
 with deadly missiles, and doing the deeds of hell 
 within the very vestibule of heaven. 
 
 The troop alighted, and, tethering their horses 
 among the trees, entered the old building. A few 
 
The old Meeting-House. 147 
 
 rough benches were scattered about its interior, and 
 at one end was a huge chimney, at the other, a 
 low platform on which had stood the rude pulpit. 
 Spreading some blankets on this platform, the ran- 
 gers laid the Captain upon them, and then, gathering 
 some pine knots from the surrounding woods, built 
 a fire on the hearth, and over it hung a couple of 
 camp-kettles, filled with rye coffee, and borrowed 
 bacon. When the repast was ready, they clustered 
 about the fire, on the ground, or on the rough log 
 benches, and made a hearty meal, washing it down 
 with water from a spring hard by, or with a more 
 fiery fluid which they carried in the canteens that 
 were slung over their shoulders. 
 
 A few of them were of what is called at the 
 South " the better class of society " ; but much the 
 larger number were evidently young workingmen, 
 sons of honest farmers, who had been tempted to 
 this wild life by the love of adventure or the pros- 
 pect of plunder. Some of them had stolid, expres- 
 sionless faces, and some were rough and reckless 
 looking ; but nearly all seemed careless and good- 
 natured, fond of fun and frolic, and not the aban- 
 doned characters we are accustomed to think of 
 when we speak of Mosby's rangers. I suspect that 
 very few people are as bad as they are painted by 
 
148 The Yoimg Virginian. 
 
 their enemies ; and I have found, under the rough 
 exterior of some of the worst of men, often slumber- 
 ing the best feelings of humanity. 
 
 When the rangers had gathered about the blazing 
 fire, which, without giving out much heat," lit up 
 every nook and cranny of the ruined building, one 
 of them said to the blacksmith, who had thrown 
 himself on the ground in a corner, " Come yere, 
 Mr. HoUey. Hev suthin' ter eat ; ye '11 need all 
 the muscle ye kin muster afore this time ter-mor- 
 rer." 
 
 The blacksmith rose, and, coming forward slowly, 
 — for the cords had been tightened about his 
 ankles, — took a seat on one of the rough benches 
 near the Sergeant. As he came out into the fire- 
 light, the Captain noticed that his wrists also were 
 bound, and called out to the men, "Undo his 
 hands. Don't tie him as you would an ox you 
 were going to slaughter." 
 
 The blacksmith smiled at this allusion, but simply 
 thanked the trooper as the men undid the ligatures. 
 While this was being done, the man who had first 
 spoken, said to the Sergeant, — 
 
 "I say, Sargint, doan't ye remember this ole 
 meetin'-'ouse, and the brush we hed yere with the 
 Yankee calvary?" 
 
The old Meeting-House. 149 
 
 " I does. I never shill forgit it, nur the boy's 
 look, ef I lives ter be as old as Methuselah," an- 
 swered the Sergeant. 
 
 " Which one, — ourn, or the t'other ? " 
 
 " The t'other. When we come in yere ter-night, 
 while uver)'thing war dark, afore the fire war kin- 
 dled, I thort I seed him jest as plain as ef he war 
 living." 
 
 " Seed him ! Whar ? " echoed three or four voices. 
 
 " Off thar, in the corner," and — while with star- 
 tled look, every eye turned in the direction — the 
 Sergeant pointed to a ragged opening in the wall, 
 where lay a little heap of earth, on which some thin, 
 sickly grass was growing. 
 
 " Yas," said the other speaker, " thet 's whar the 
 Cap'n's lad war buried. P'r'aps the t'other one 
 haunts the place, 'case the death of thet boy guv 
 him the halter." 
 
 " How was it } Why was he hung ? " now asked 
 another of the rangers. 
 
 " Well, ye sees," said the Sergeant, " Captain Slack 
 and some thirty on us hed been a scoutin' in the 
 Valley; and one day, about two year ago, come yere 
 ter camp fur the night, jest afore sundown. We 
 did n't post no pickets, 'case we had no idee thar 
 was ary Yankees round ; but we hed n't more 'n 
 
150 The Youftg Virginia?!. 
 
 sot down ter our grub, afore fifty o' the devils 
 come outer us, stole our nags, and peppered us 
 wuss nur ye uver peppered yer bacon. Howsum- 
 uver, luckly like, we 'd took our carbines inter the 
 building, and arter the fust surprise, squatted ahind 
 the logs and guv them as good as they sent, and 
 
 — a little better. They stood up like men ; but 
 thirty ahind logs is more 'n fifty afore 'em, and 
 arter a while they skedaddled. They killed one o' 
 us, — the Captain's son ; and we winged one o' 
 them, — shot him from his nag jest as the rest 
 broke away inter the timber. He war a loikely lad, 
 
 — not more 'n seventeen, — with soft hands, a white 
 skin, and a face jest loike a 'ooman's. The hit 
 war a bad 'un, and the boy war apt ter die any- 
 how ; but the Captain went clean mad with the 
 death uv his son, and swore we should hang him. 
 I helt out ag'in it, sayin' the lad war a dyin' ; but 
 it war n't no use, it only made the Captain hurry 
 up the faster. He rigged a halter out o' the boy's 
 own bridle, and then — hung him ter the limb uv 
 a tree yonder, I holped the boy ter the tree, — 
 out o' pity I done it, — and spoke kind ter him 
 when they was a fixin' on the halter. He said no 
 words, but he guv me a look, — jest sich a look 
 as my mother guv me when she war dyin'. The 
 
The old Meeting-House, 1 5 i 
 
 same face and the same look I seed when I come 
 in yere, as plain as I seed 'era thet minnit." 
 
 " Your memory got into your eyes, Sergeant," 
 said the blacksmith. "That was all. That boy 
 died for his. country ; and those who die so, are at 
 rest after death — in heaven." 
 
 "And don't you believe the spirits of the dead 
 visit the earth } " now asked another man, — one 
 of the more intelligent looking of the troop. " What 
 are they but men ? and don't they retain the feelings 
 of men ? We linger in memory around certain 
 places j and why don't they, in person, since they 
 are disembodied, and can travel like thought, — in 
 a flash all over creation." 
 
 " All the ghosts ever heard of," answered the 
 blacksmith, "have been supposed to be spirits of 
 murdered men, haunting the spots where they were 
 murdered. That can't be, if spirits have the feel- 
 ings of men. We do not seek places where we 
 have suffered, — our memories cling to things with 
 pleasant, not with terrible associations." 
 
 " And may not the associations here be pleasant 
 to the Yankee boy ? " said the other. " Is not the 
 Sergeant here ? and did n't he speak kindly to him, 
 and stand by him when he was dying?" 
 
 " Yes," said the Sergeant, who evidently thought 
 
152 TJi.e Voting Virginian. 
 
 the vision a reality. " And, I tell ye, when I come 
 in yere, he guv me the same look — half sorry, half 
 lovin' — thet he guv me the last minit he sot eyes 
 on me." 
 
 " Pshaw ! It 's all humbug," now said another of 
 the troopers. " Fur why ? 'case the Yankee boy 
 would n't leave heaven, if he could, it's too com- 
 fortable a place ; and he could n't leave Tophet, ef 
 he would, — 'case thar 's no gittin' out o' thar, ef 
 it ar' arything loike the place I onst got inter." 
 
 " And what sort uv a place war thet ? " asked the 
 Sergeant with an uncertain sm.ile, as if curious and 
 yet fearful to hear. 
 
 "Well, ye sees, I w^us ter a camp-meetin' down 
 ter North Carolina, whar I w^us raised, and a long- 
 eared, long-haired specimen uv a critter had been a 
 sendin' all on us as did n't shout ' Glor}- ! ' sing 
 through the nose, and go inter conniption fits un- 
 der his preachin', down ter the hot place ; which he 
 said was hot a'r, hot water, hot coals, hot rocks, hot 
 lata, and hot volcanoes, all mixed together and poured 
 inter a big crater, shaped loike a tea-kettle, and big 
 as the univarse, and simmerin', and boilin', and burn- 
 in' forever. 
 
 " I laughed at the idee, fur I know'd the feller 
 did n't know no more 'bout it nur I done ; and I 
 
The old Mccting-Hoiise. 153 
 
 took my supper, and lay down ter sleep in one on 
 the tents. The supper was cold corn pone, and 
 half-sp'iled bacon, and thet, or the sarmunt, must 
 ha' sot hard on my stomach ; fur, I hed n't more 'n 
 got asleep, 'fore I woke up in the very place whar 
 the Parson had sent the sinners. Sure 'nuff, it u^ar 
 a hot place, — hotter 'n fire, and yit colder 'n Green- 
 land, and darker 'n pitch, and yit lighter 'n forty sun- 
 shines,— so light thet a pious man could ha' read 
 the Bible in it without glasses. 
 
 " All around its sides wus big holes loike ovens ; 
 and inter 'em, jest so fast. as they come in, the devils 
 wus a throwin' the sinners. One on 'em grabbed 
 me, but I fit him off, and, somehow, got round ter 
 the very middle uv the volcano." 
 
 " I kin b'lieve thet," said the Sergeant. " I 'se 
 allers said ye wus the best fighter in the troop." . 
 
 " Thanks ye, Sargint," said the man. " My fight- 
 in' powers stood me in then, no mistake; and I 
 reckon none on us, when we gits ter thet ar' place, 
 won't be sorry he b'longed ter J^Iosby's gang. The 
 practice the Gunnel guvs us '11 come right handy, 
 down thar." 
 
 No one seemed to relish the idea of pursuing his 
 vocation in so warm a latitude, and the trooper went 
 on with his dream. 
 7* 
 
154 ^f^^ Yoimg Virgijiia?z. 
 
 " Wall, as I said, somehow I got ter the middle 
 uv the place, and right thar wus a oven bigger 'n 
 all the rest, as the king devil wus a tendin'. He 
 wus a pitchin' in the miserable sinners, as fast as 
 they come along; and I could see thar arms, and 
 legs, and bodies, a-twistin' and squirmin' about in 
 the hot fire, — fryin' and roastin', but nuver burnin' 
 up, 'case, ye sees, thar flesh and blood war n't mortal. 
 Fur long I could n't git my eyes from the fire, fur 
 it charmed me loike a snake ; but at last I looked 
 round at the king devil, and — would you b'heve 
 it — it was the long-haired parson hisself! I wus 
 dumfounded fur a minnit, but then I helt out my 
 hand ter him, and says I, ' Hullo ! old Longlocks, 
 be this ye ? I thort ye wus up thar ter the camp- 
 meeting ? ' 
 
 " ' Wall, I wus,' he said, guvin' me a warm grip, 
 
 — his hand wus fire. 'I stays up thar in the day- 
 time, a-ropin' on 'em in ; but I comes down yere 
 at night ter see they gits well roasted.' 
 
 " A few more civil words passed atween us, and 
 then he grabbed me by the shoulder. I fit hard, 
 
 — ye 'd better b'leive it, — but it war n't no use. He 
 had the strength uv forty men, and, in less nur a 
 minnit, had me in the oven. The roastin' woke 
 me up, and the sweat was a-rollin' off me jest loike 
 
The old Mcetiiig-Housc. 155 
 
 a river. Well, the next day I got up in the camp- 
 meetin', and telled the dream. It broke up the 
 meetin', and thet parson — he nuver ^vus seed ag'in 
 in them parts, I reckon." 
 
 When the man ended, a suppressed laugh went 
 around the benches, but it was as low and broken 
 as the whistle of a boy when he is trying to bol- 
 ster up his courage. The wild and horrible dream, 
 or the supposed apparition of the murdered boy, 
 had worked on the untutored imaginations of those 
 ignorant men, terrifying them more than they would 
 have been willing to acknowledge. 
 
 The blacksmith was the first to break the silence 
 which followed. " It was a dreadful dream, stran- 
 ger," he said ; " but I have heard much more dread- 
 ful sermons. They have a bad effect on the minds 
 of the ignorant ; for they make them believe there 
 are such places in the universe, and that God, who 
 is all love, delights in the torment of his creatures. 
 It is not so. God is a father. He corrects us as 
 we correct our children, to reform, not to destroy 
 us. We suffer no more, here or hereafter, than is 
 needed to discipline us for the great work of life, 
 which in this world has only its beginning." 
 
 "Then ye don't b'lieve in the place the parsons 
 tell on?" said the Sergeant, drawing a long breath, 
 as if relieved of a nightmare. 
 
156 TJie Young Virginian. 
 
 "Not in a burntng lake and everlasting fire. 
 Those are figurative expressions. Bad men no doubt 
 suffer after death ; and the torment they endure is 
 probably as hard for the spirit to bear, as life in a 
 burning lake would be for the body. But God does 
 not bring it upon them. They bring it upon them- 
 selves, by living out of harmony with nature and 
 the laws of God. Take away a drunkard's drink, 
 and he will tell you he is in hell. Let a man bring 
 upon himself any severe disease, and he will sufter 
 terribly. Why? Because he has abused his body, 
 acted contrary to its laws, and so must feel the suffer- 
 ing which is the consequence of its disorder. As it 
 is with the body, so it is with the spirit; only the 
 spirit, being finer and more sensitive than the body, 
 feels more keenly and suffers more intensely." 
 
 "And what must a man do, Mr. Holley," asked 
 the Sergeant, "to keep hisself in order?" 
 
 " Act up to his highest idea of right ; set that above 
 money, friends, life, everything, — even his children. 
 He must sow what he wants to reap, and if he sows 
 good seed, he will reap a hundred-fold — in the gar- 
 den of God forever." 
 
 The old man's face took on a strange glow as he 
 said this, — a glow not of the fire-light ; and the rude 
 men around stared at him with a look of mingled 
 awe and admiration. 
 
The old Meetiitg-House. i57 
 
 "What's right ter one hain't right ter another," 
 said the Sergeant after a moment. "You and us 
 differ 'bout thet, Mr. Holley, or you would n't be 
 a-wearin' them bracelets." 
 
 "True. Every man must go by his own con- 
 science. Yours tells you it is right to fight against 
 your country ; mine tells me it is wrong, that what 
 God hath joined together no man should put asunder. 
 I am going to die for being of this opinion ; but in 
 that I reckon myself no better than you. I simply 
 give my life for what I think is right; you every 
 day risk yours for the same thing." 
 
 No one spoke for a few moments ; but after a while 
 
 the blacksmith, looking up with a quiet smile, said, 
 
 "Speaking of camp-meetings reminds me of one 
 
 I went to when I was Uttle more than a boy. It 
 
 was held in a woods not far from my father's house, 
 
 and a thousand people had been attending it all the 
 
 week; but I had not gone, for I had a prejudice 
 
 against the high-pressure religion which is usually 
 
 found at such places. I had noticed that ever}'thing 
 
 takes its time to grow, and that what comes quickly 
 
 generally goes quickly ; besides, I thought I should 
 
 be serving God quite as well by making horse-shoes 
 
 as by groaning and shouting like an organ-bellows. 
 
 But on the next Sunday, our little church was closed, 
 
158 The Young Virginian. 
 
 and, having nowhere else to go, I went to the 
 camp-meeting. 
 
 " A half-dozen preachers were on the platform, and 
 the people were scattered about under the trees, lis- 
 tening to one of them, who was holding forth in a 
 voice like a clap of thunder. 
 
 " He was a long, lank, dyspeptic-looking man, and 
 the disorder in his stomach seemed to have got 
 into his head ; for he stormed away in a terrible fash- 
 ion, using the most extravagant gestures, and lan- 
 guage that would have been thought the worst pro- 
 fanity, if spoken anywhere out of a pulpit. At first 
 he got upon the immensity of the universe, the 
 height of the mountains, the length of the rivers, 
 and the size of the great lakes, — all of which he 
 mentioned by name, — and then, at a single bound, 
 came down on the sinners. He spoke of the enor- 
 mity of sin, and the awful fate of the sinner, as 
 if the subject were pleasant to him ; and then de- 
 scribed the bad place, very much as our friend here 
 saw it in his dream. When he got down there he 
 imitated 'the cries and groans of the wucked as natu- 
 rally as if he had spent a lifetime among them. 
 
 "In the course of the sermon the larger part of 
 the people got worked up to the highest pitch of 
 excitement, and on nearly every face was the very 
 
Tlic old Meet i fig-House. 159 
 
 agony of despair. When he began, many shouted 
 ' Amen ! ' and * Praise the Lord ! ' at the end of about 
 every sentence ; but as he went on they sprang to 
 their feet, shrieking, and groaning, and crying out 
 for help, and going into all manner of writhings 
 and contortions, until at last many of them fell down 
 in a dead stupor. 
 
 "This lasted for half an hour, and by that time 
 fully a hundred whites and blacks — for all there 
 were equal — were on the ground, apparently sense- 
 less. A vague horror and dread seemed to be in 
 the air, and sweeping like a gale of wind over the 
 people, taking away their reason. I braced myself 
 against it ; but, spite of all I could do, it affected 
 me like a nightmare. 
 
 " At last the fellow sat down ; and an old, vener- 
 able man, with long, white hair, and a most benevo- 
 lent countenance, rose, and came to the front of the 
 platform. He looked around on the people for a 
 moment, and then, with a gesture of mild rebuke, 
 turned to the other preacher, and said : ' God is 
 love ; and he that loveth not knoweth not God ; 
 for God is love.' 
 
 "Then, turning again to the assemblage, he added : 
 *He doth not willingly afflict, nor grieve the chil- 
 dren of men ; but in all our afflictions he is afflicted, 
 and the chastisement of our peace is upon him.' 
 
i6o TJie Young Virginiaji. 
 
 " The effect of these words was indescribable, — 
 though it was not so much the words as the tone, 
 the look, and manner of the old man. They were 
 to the people like rain to the parched ground; or 
 like the voice of the Lord, saying to the sea, * Peace, 
 be still ! ' 
 
 "In a moment all was quiet, and he went on. 'I 
 am an old man,' he said, ' my body is almost worn 
 out; but I cannot lift an arm, or draw a breath, 
 or make a movement, that does not give me pleas- 
 ure. Why? Because God created us in love, and 
 meant we should be happy. And if he created us 
 in love, will he destroy us in anger? No, my chil- 
 dren ! His wrath abideth but for a day, — his love 
 endureth for all generations. For a little moment 
 he afflicts us, but with everlasting mercy he will 
 save us, and gather us into his kingdom forever. 
 While we sin we suffer, and the suffering is in the 
 sTnning; but put away the sin, and the suffering 
 will cease, and in its place will come the peace 
 which passeth all understanding.' 
 
 " And so the old man went on, the love he talked 
 of beaming from ever}' look of his eye, and every 
 lineament of his features, and soon every cheek was 
 wet, but every face was happy. I had heard sermons 
 before, but never any that affected me as that did. 
 
The old Meeting-House. i6i 
 
 Every word of it seemed alive ; and the love of God, 
 which before had been to me only a shadowy noth- 
 ing, became a glowing reality. 
 
 " When the old man finished he came down among 
 the people, speaking kindly to first one and then 
 another, and at last, coming to where I was seated. 
 Hardly knowing what I did, I told him what I 
 thought of the sermon. His eye lighted up, and 
 taking me by the arm he said, 'Young man, come 
 and take dinner with me.' 
 
 " I went into his tent, sat down on his blanket, 
 and ate with him. He asked me all about myself, 
 how old I was, (I was eighteen,) where I lived, and 
 what was my occupation. I told him, and then he 
 sasd, '■ Be content with your station. Paul was a 
 tent-maker, John a fisherman, and the Lord of all 
 had not where to lay his head. The poor man may 
 be of as much use in the world as the rich one. 
 Do not seek riches. Seek only to do your duty, 
 and never forget what you have heard to-day, that 
 " God is love," Fifty years ago I found it out, and 
 ever since, though I have been hungry', and thirsty, 
 and poor, and naked, I have been rich, — richer than 
 many a man who has a million,' 
 
 "The old man's kindly way put me at my ease, 
 and I asked him his name, and where he lived. He 
 
1 62 The Young Virginian. 
 
 told me, and something about his history. It was 
 old Father Jeanott ; — you have heard of him, — the 
 great evangelist, who for fifty years carried the cross 
 of Christ into every corner of this Southern country. 
 
 "He was one of the genuine chivalry. He came 
 of those Huguenots who settled on the Neuse in 
 1708, and inherited his Methodism from his mother, 
 who remembered John Wesley's passing a night at 
 her father's house, and preaching there more than 
 a century before. He engaged- in privateering on a 
 little schooner of forty tons towards the close of 
 the Revolutionary War, when he was a boy of only 
 fifteen. The schooner was chased by an English 
 cutter, and, after a hard-fought battle, was captured 
 and taken into Charleston. As he was only a boy, 
 he was allowed to go at large, and soon, aided by 
 an old negro, effected his escape. He made his 
 way to a Whig settlement on the Santee, and in a 
 few days, joined the band of Marion, the partisan 
 general of the Revolution. One of his comrades, 
 when not on duty, was always reading his Bible, and 
 in a brush with the British at Georgetown was -mor- 
 tally wounded. Jeanott helped him upon a horse, and 
 got him safely away ; but the man was dying. All 
 he could do when they laid him on the ground was 
 to gasp, * God is love,' and point to his Bible, which 
 
The old Meetmg-Hoiise. 163 
 
 was in the breast of his coat. Jeanott took it out 
 and opened it at the first chapter of John. The 
 man put his finger on the twelfth verse, smiled on 
 the boy, looked upwards, and died. 
 
 " Up to this time Jeanott had been a wild youth, 
 but this affected him as his sermon affected me. 
 He went home when the war ended, and studied 
 the Bible the trooper had left him. Soon all over 
 it he found written, 'God is love.' The thought 
 sank so deep in his soul that he wanted all the 
 world to know it ; and so he took to preaching. He 
 was sent as a missionary to the new settlements 
 in Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi, where many 
 grown men had never seen a preacher, and many 
 children had never heard "of a God, or a Redeemer. 
 Day and night for many years he worked among 
 those people. Often he waded his horse through 
 trackless swamps, or swam it across deep rivers, and 
 often laid down in the woods, with his saddle-bags 
 for a pillow, and spent the night with the reptiles 
 crawling and the wolves howling all about him. But 
 all these things he endured joyfully, 'seeing Him 
 who is invisible.' Like St. Paul, he thought his life 
 of no account, but to do the work of the Master. 
 
 " In his time, he probably preached to more peo- 
 ple than any man living; but for all his ministra- 
 
164 TJie Young Virginian. 
 
 tions he never received a dollar. His profession 
 of land-surveyor supplied his few wants, and what 
 more he earned he gave to the poor. He was a true 
 apostle of the lowly Christ, preaching his Gospel — 
 which in his mouth was really ' the glad tidings ' — • 
 to the outcast and the down-trodden, and never hold- 
 ing back the truth from any man. To the puffed- 
 up planter he would say, ' Be just, be humble, care 
 for and love those that are below you. Remember 
 they are God's children ; and look to it that you 
 receive not your good things in this life, and go 
 a-begging in the life to come.' To the poor slave he 
 would say, ' God hath made of one blood all that 
 dwell on the face of the earth. So, be not cast down ; 
 but be patient and dutiful ; for your reward will be 
 great in heaven. There all things are made even. 
 If you suffer here, so much more will you enjoy 
 hereafter.' And to the working white man he would 
 say, 'Teach your children, read your Bible, leave 
 off gaming and drinking. Be men ; for on you rests 
 the future of a great nation ; and there can be no 
 true greatness that is not founded on goodness.' 
 
 "And so he labored for fifty years. His work paid 
 as he went along ; but now the great reward is with 
 him ; for we know that they who turn many to right- 
 eousness shall shine as the stars for ever and ever. 
 
The old Meeting-House. 165 
 
 " I stayed with him till after dark, and, when I went 
 away, he put his hand on my head, and said, * Boy, 
 be a man. Spend your spare money in good books. 
 Study them and nature ; and in everjthing look for 
 God ; and remember that the noble life is the one 
 which, in little words and little ways, preaches daily 
 by the roadside.' 
 
 " That w'as nearly forty years ago, and the old 
 man has been long dead ; but his words are living 
 in me yet, and I know that I shall be welcomed by 
 him when I go to-morrow." 
 
 The blacksmith finished, and a long silence fol- 
 lowed, broken only by the low sighing of the wind, 
 and the sharp crackling of the pine-knots, which 
 now cast only a dim light over the desolate room. 
 For a time the men sat around, gazing vacantly 
 at the fire, or looking moodily out into the dark 
 woods, oppressed with feelings of pity for the good 
 man they were leading to an undeserved death ; or 
 with thoughts of the murdered boy, whose spirit, many 
 of them feared, was even then moving among them. 
 Then, one by one, they rose, and, stretching them 
 selves on the ground or on the rough benches, sank 
 into uneasy slumbers. 
 
 The low platform extended across the farther end 
 of the room, and, resting on the blankets which were 
 
1 66 TJie Young 'Virginian. 
 
 spread upon it, James and the Captain had listened 
 to the whole of this conversation. When it was 
 ended, the trooper said to the blacksmith, "Come 
 here, Mr. Holley. You can turn in alongside of us. 
 There is a blanket." 
 
 The blacksmith lay down, and soon the heavy 
 breathing of the men was the only sound to be heard 
 in the gloomy building. 
 
A ''SpirittiaV Manifestation. 167 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 A ''spiritual" manifestation. 
 
 BUT the boy did not sleep. His mind busy 
 with many thoughts, he lay watching the trem- 
 bling shadows of the low fire that still flickered on 
 the hearth, or the straggling light of the newly-risen 
 moon, which crept in through the crevices of the 
 old building. Outside a solitary sentry was riding 
 his lonely round, singing as he went, and the owls 
 and night-hawks were croaking a hoarse song in the 
 still woods, waking the dull echoes with their doleful 
 music ; but no other sounds were stirring. 
 
 At last the moonlight faded out of the boy's eyes, 
 the sounds died out of his ears, and suddenly he 
 seemed to be in a little room far away at the north- 
 ward. It was a pleasant room, with a neat carpet 
 on the floor, a bright fire on the hearth, a vase of 
 flowers on the mantle-piece, and an old clock tick- 
 ing away in the chimney-corner. Only one person 
 was in it,-— a little woman, not old, nor yet young; 
 and she was seated by a small table, busily at work, 
 knitting. She did not hear the boy, for he entered 
 
1 68 The Young Virginian. 
 
 with a step as noiseless as the tread of time, when 
 it falls on the hearts of the young and the loving. 
 It was his mother, and he would surprise her, for 
 she thought him far away, in a Southern prison. He 
 took a step or two forward, then suddenly paused ; 
 for he saw that other people were in the room talk- 
 ing with the little woman. It was strange he had 
 not seen them before, and stranger still the costume 
 they were wearing. "What a singular climate this 
 has got to be," he thought to himself, " roaring fires 
 and muslin gowns, all in one season." 
 
 There were two of the strangers, clad in white robes, 
 spotless as the untrodden snow on the mountains. 
 The boy went more closely, and then, all at once,- 
 their faces grew familiar. But, could it be? Was 
 that comely man his father ? His father, whom they 
 laid away in the ground years before, and all the 
 while had thought at rest in heaven ? And the other ? 
 was she his little sister, he thought sleeping in the 
 winter's snow, grown into a radiant woman ? The 
 boy looked again, and then, with a wild cry, sprang 
 forward. The two took him in their arms, placed 
 their hands upon his head, and bent over him as 
 if in blessing. A moment so they stood ; then the 
 darkness gathered round, and the boy woke again 
 in the old building. 
 
A ''Spiritual Manifestation. 169 
 
 As he opened his eyes in the gloomy room, he 
 heard a sound like the crackling of a branch outside, 
 near the window under which the blacksmith was 
 sleeping. It was that which had awakened him ; 
 and he turned over to woo again the beautiful vision. 
 But in a moment the sound came again, and then he 
 heard a low guarded whisper. " Hist ! hist ! " it said. 
 "Boss! Mr. Holley ! Wake up, but be dreadful 
 quiet." 
 
 The boy saw the blacksmith raise himself on his 
 elbow, and turn his ear to the open window. " Is it 
 you, Jake t " he said, so low that only the night and 
 the- boy could hear him. 
 
 " Yes," answered the whisper. " Yere 's a knife. 
 Cut yer cords; but lay low, and wait till we'se a 
 ready." 
 
 Something bright then glittered between the logs, 
 and went into the hand of the blacksmith. 
 
 " Thar 's a nag hitched ter the second tree," con- 
 tinued the voice, " but we must skeer the troop 
 away, fur some on 'em mought spy ye. Lay low, 
 till I tell ye we'se a ready." 
 
 "Yes, yes ! God bless you, Jake," and the black 
 smith stretched himself out on the platform, and 
 again breathed heavily. 
 
 Steps then seemed to move away ; and soon the 
 8 
 
I/O The Young Vii'giniajt. 
 
 boy heard sounds in the far corner where the Rebel 
 lad was buried. Hidden by the darkness which 
 shrouded that end of the building, he raised his head 
 to listen, and then the cold horror again crept over 
 him, for, standing in the open doorway, the moon- 
 light falling full on his face, was the slave boy Rob- 
 ert. The truth flashed upon him. Jake, and perhaps 
 the poor white man, had come to liberate the black- 
 smith; but he — he was there on a deadlier errand. 
 
 What should the boy do ? If he gave the alarm 
 the blacksmith would not escape, and Robert and 
 the rest might be taken j but if he kept silent, the 
 sleeping and disabled trooper would surely be mur- 
 dered. It was a fearful dilemma, and the boy asked 
 God to guide him. He lay between the blacksmith 
 and the Captain, and, in a moment reaching out his 
 hand, he touched the latter gently on the shoulder* 
 He was awake, and he whispered : " I know. I 've 
 heard it all. Keep quiet." 
 
 "But," said the boy, "there is danger. Robert — 
 is — " He said no more, for a heavy hand was at 
 his throat, choking back his words half-spoken. 
 
 "Take off your hand, Mr. Holley," whispered 
 the Captain, raising himself on his elbow. "Neither 
 the boy nor I will harm you." 
 
 The blacksmith released his hold, and sank down 
 
A ''Spiritual Matiifestation. 171 
 
 again, and the trooper looked around the silent and 
 dimly lighted apartment. In a moment his eye rested 
 on the figure in the doorway. Giving a sudden start 
 he shrunk back a little, and then the boy said, in a 
 low tone, "It was he who shot at you. He is here 
 to kill you." 
 
 The trooper bent down his head, and was silent 
 for a moment ; then he whispered to the boy, " Make 
 no noise. I am in God's hands. My life is n't worth 
 four, — those three and ^Ir. Holley's." 
 
 The figure disappeared from the doorway, and soon 
 low moans came from the grave in the far comer 
 of the building. They seemed to issue from the 
 ground, and at first were low and broken as the 
 sobs of a sleeping child ; but soon grew louder, 
 until they burst into wild wails, like the long howls 
 of hungry wolves at midnight. In an instant ever)' 
 trooper was on his feet, and every eye was bent on 
 the grave in the corner. 
 
 The Sergeant was the first to speak. " My God ! " 
 he cried, " it 'r' the boy's voice, jest as I yered him 
 screech out fur his mother^ the minnit they hung 
 him." 
 
 The words were scarcely spoken, when a bright 
 light blazed up from the hearth near the grave, and, 
 flashing across the room, went out in the darkness. 
 
1/2 The Young Virgijiian. 
 
 In a moment it blazed up again, and again went out 
 with a rumbling sound like the noise of distant 
 thunder. Meanwhile, the cries grew even more 
 wildly terrible, and the men huddled together about 
 the doorway, stupid with horror and amazement. In 
 another moment a still brighter light blazed forth, 
 and this was followed by an explosion which shook 
 the chimney to its foundations, and tumbled down 
 the rotten logs, and the larger part of the roof of 
 that end of the building. 
 
 The terror-stricken troopers fled to the woods, and 
 then a man rushed in at the opening. " Quick, Boss," 
 he cried, " thar hain't a minnit ter lose ; they '11 be 
 over the skeer, and arter us in a jiffin." 
 
 James rose to his feet when the roof fell in ; and 
 now, through the thick smoke and floating cinders 
 which filled the room, saw a dark figure creeping 
 along over the ruins towards the Captain. It seemed 
 to hold something in its hand which glittered like a 
 knife in the muffled moonlight. The boy gave a 
 wild cry, but the figure was already on the platform, 
 and with the words, ''I have you now," the knife 
 was descending into the body of the prostrate 
 trooper. Only an instant of time was between him 
 and eternity ; but in that instant the guide clutched 
 the knife-hilt, crying out, " Ye infernal villun ! This 
 ar' why ye come so willin'." 
 
A ''Spiritual" Manifestation. 173 
 
 They struggled for a moment ; but then the knife 
 fell from the slave boy's hand, and the guide tossed 
 him, as if he had been a man of cork, through the 
 open window. " Away ! " he cried, " tuck yerself 
 off, or I '11 send yer black soul whar it belongs, as 
 sure as I 'm a Christian." 
 
 In a moment more the blacksmith and the guide 
 followed ; and soon the boy heard the rapid tramp 
 of horses going down the road by which the troop 
 had come in the morning. Then turning round he 
 looked at the Captain. He was raised on his elbow, 
 but his head was bowed down, and he seemed to be 
 praying. 
 
174 The Young Virginian. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ON THE MOUNTAIN BY MOONLIGHT. 
 
 FOR a short while nothing broke the silence. 
 The boy then heard a voice outside saying, 
 "I say, Sargint, I know'd them spirits wus bogus. 
 Thar they goes on solid hoss-flesh." 
 
 "Sanders orter know,'' said another voice, "he's 
 been among the devils. But blast my eyes ef one 
 on 'em hain't the blacksmith!" 
 
 " So it ar'," shouted the Sergeant, " as sure as I 'm 
 a white man ! Mount, men ! mount ! Two or three 
 on ye stay with the Cap'n, the rest follow me. 
 Quick! or the Gunnel '11 make this kentry too hot 
 ter hold any on us." 
 
 There was a confused hurrjdng to and fro ; but 
 the horses were unsaddled, and the carbines under 
 the rubbish of the ruined -building ; and fully fifteen 
 minutes elapsed before the men were mounted, and 
 following the fugitives. 
 
 By that time the guide and the blacksmith had 
 gone three miles, and reached a narrow bridle-path 
 which led directly over the mountain. Turning into 
 
On the Mountain by Moonlight. 175 
 
 it, the guide shouted to his companion : " It goes 
 stret ter the Gunnel's camp ; but it 'r' the safest road 
 we kin travil, — they wont think ter foller." 
 
 Another three miles they rode rapidly forward, 
 then halted on a rising ground which overlooked 
 the highway. The woods were still, and the full 
 moon, now two hours high, shining through the clear 
 air, lit up the night with a glow like that you have 
 seen in the sky when the clouds have first told of 
 the coming sunrise. 
 
 Putting his hand to his ear, the guide listened. 
 *' Don't ye yere 'em, Boss ? " he said. " They hain't 
 yit got ter the turnin'." 
 
 "No," answered the blacksmith; "but by this moon 
 they '11 see our tracks as plain as by daylight. Had 
 n't we better push on, and trust to the horses ? " 
 
 " I reckon not. Yer nag hain't no bottom. It 'r' 
 the beast the ma'am rode, and thar ar' ten irr the 
 troop as, on a long stretch, hev run him all ter flin- 
 ders, — 'sides, they 're comin' nigher, and mought 
 yere our trampin'. They carn't track us on this 
 grass; and ef they turns up, we '11 jest lay low till 
 they goes by, and over the mounting." 
 
 The tramp of the horsemen came nearer, until it 
 sounded not a mile away; then the guide spoke 
 again : " It 'r' as I counted," he said, " they 're gone 
 
1/6 The Young Virgi7iian. 
 
 on ter the smithy. They reckon old foxes hain't 
 more 'n one hole. Now, Boss, we mought go on ; 
 but we 'd best walk the nags, 'case 't won't make 
 no noise, and '11 guv 'em a chance ter breathe ag'in 
 the next chase." 
 
 They rode slowly forward, and the blacksmith said, 
 " Did n't you say this path led directly to Mosby's 
 camp ? " 
 
 " It do ; but thar 's another as branches off 'bout 
 a mile above yere, and goes along the side of the 
 mounting. My idee ar' ter tuck thet, and lay out 
 in the woods till ter-morrer night, — then six mile 
 will tuck us inter the road beyont the old church ; 
 and when we gits thar, p'raps we kin see our way 
 out o' Virginny. It 'r ticklish business, fur this 
 mounting ar' alive with our men ; but I reckon we 
 kin keep our na^s out o' hearin', ef we kin git 'em 
 fur 'nuif frum the bridle-way." 
 
 " Have you seen Ruth ? " asked the blacksmith. 
 
 " Yes. I left her ahind ter John's house. She 's 
 a gwine ter set out fur Winchester in the mornin', 
 and she counts on meetin' ye thar. She know'd what 
 we went about; and I reckon she holped it along 
 with her prayin'." 
 
 " But how did you happen to go back to Burs- 
 ley's ? " 
 
Oti the Mountain by Moonlight. 177 
 
 " Wall, ye sees, that ar' black devil said he 'd 
 watch the road, — though I did n't think thar wus 
 any danger uv the Sargint follerin'. Thinkin' so, I 
 went back thet way when I left the cabin, — meanin' 
 ter tuck the path through the woods, 'fore ye come 
 ter the smithy, and so git inter the road ahead o' 
 the troop. Thet route, ye knows, ar' a right sight 
 nigher 'n the one round by Major Lucy's, and it 
 'peared ter me, ef I did n't git fust ter camp, the 
 Gunnel mought suspicion me, fur he 's keener arter 
 sich things nur a fox arter a hen-roost. So I went 
 thet way; but I hed n't gone three mile — jest ter 
 the hill whar we met the Yankee boy — 'fore I come 
 onter the darkey hid away among the bushes. He 
 halted me, and we stood thar a parleyin', when, all 
 uv a sudden, he screeched out, — he has ears keener 
 'n a hound's, — ' They 's a comin'.' 
 
 " I listened, and shore 'nuff they wus, — and so 
 nigh thet they 'd ha' seed me ef I 'd turned back 
 on the path, sartin. The feller 'peared honest, so 
 I telled him ter ride on, and guv ye warnin' ; and 
 I put inter the timber with the mar', 'bout a hun- 
 dred rods back frum the bridle-way. 
 
 " I yered 'em go by, and feelin' sort o' oneasy 'bout 
 ye, I led the mar' inter the path ag'in, and follered, 
 till I come 'in a quarter uv a mile o' the cl'arin'. Thar 
 8* L 
 
178 The Young Virginian. 
 
 I got off the nag and dumb a tree, vvhar I seed all 
 as happened. 
 
 " I seed John run from the cabin, and put fur the 
 timber ; and, when he come nigh 'nuff, I cawed loike 
 a crow, — the old sign I I'arned o' him when he used 
 ter holp us at the smithy. He know'd it in a min- 
 nit, and come ter me, and thar we sot, and — seed 
 the durned devils tuck ye, not able ter lift a hand 
 ter hinder. When ye wus gone, we come down and 
 went ter the cabin ; but afore that I 'd the whole 
 plan in my head, cl'ar up ter our turnin' inter this 
 yere bridle-way." 
 
 " It was an amazing smart plan, Jake," said the 
 blacksmith. "What put it into your head?" 
 
 " Nothin'. It sort o' flashed out, as a spark '11 
 flash out uv hot iron when ye 's a-beatin' on it I 
 war a beatin' my brain, and all ter onst out come 
 thet idee, and showed me yer way ter the Yankees, 
 cl'ar as sun-up. The Lord wus in it, Boss. I knows 
 ye say he 's in uverything as happens ; but I reckon 
 we hain't right sart'in o' thet till we finds it out by 
 a livin' on it." 
 
 " No truth is a truth until we 've lived it," said 
 the blacksmith. "But how did you come again on 
 Robert Lucy.?" 
 
 ""Why, he come hisself ter the cabin. Ye sees, 
 
On the Moiintaiii by Moou light. 179 
 
 when we 'd gone back, and was a-talkin' over the 
 thing with the ma'am, the yaller boy comed in, and 
 yered the story. He tuck ter it right zealous, and 
 offered ter jine us; but the old aunty she made a 
 time. She said nothin' good 'ud come on his gwine : 
 and tuck on in a drefful way. Howso'ver, he did n't 
 mind her no more 'n ef he 'd been the yerth, and 
 she a gale o' wind, — though he war a durned sight 
 more loike a gale o' wind nur she war. The very 
 devil 'peared ter ha' got inter him, and — ye seed 
 it got out at the old meetin'-house." 
 
 " But what has he against that Captain ? " 
 
 " I don't know. He said nothin' ter us 'bout him, 
 — only that he used ter own his mother." 
 
 " Ah ! I thought I had met the man before ; and 
 now I remember. He came to my house with the 
 woman long ago, — before you lived with me. He 
 had just bought her of Major Lucy. They had 
 some words about the trade, and the Major drove 
 him from the mansion in the edge of the evening, 
 and they had nowhere to sleep over night. If tales 
 are true, he 's a hard customer ; and yet he don't 
 seem to be a very bad man." 
 
 *' I nuver seed much on him," said the guide. 
 " He 's ginerally off on detached duty. Them as 
 knows him says he drinks loike a fish, and, onst in 
 
l8o The Young Virginian. 
 
 2l while, gits desput reckless ; but they reckon he 's 
 a heart somewhar 'bout him." 
 
 " Well ; you all set out from the cabin ? " 
 
 "Yes. I hed no time ter parley; so I telled the 
 yaller boy ter come, or not, as he loiked, and put 
 out. He come, and we follered not two miles ahind 
 o' ye till we got ter the bridle-way as comes out 
 ter old man Flanders's. We tuck thet, and struck 
 the high-road just about mornin' ; and then put on 
 and got ter the old church hours afore ye." 
 
 " And what made you think of going to the meet- 
 ing-house "i " 
 
 "Thet was a part o' the plan as come ter me. 
 I know'd ye 'd hev ter pass it anyhow, 'case uv the 
 wagon; and, when I looked at it, it stood ter rea- 
 son the troop would halt thar; fur ye nuver 
 know'd one o' Mosby's men on a tramp ter camp 
 in a woods or a house, when a church war in a 
 hour's ridin'. When we got thar, we tethered the 
 nags in the timbered holler, and arter thet went 
 round the old shanty and talked over the plan ter- 
 gether. Then Bursley backed out. When we stood 
 face ter face with the thing, it sort o' cowed him ; 
 but I don't know as I kin blame him. He has a 
 wife and chillen, and thet makes his life wuth 
 more 'n a common man's." 
 
On the Mountain by Moonlight. 18 1 
 
 "And it was desperate business, Jake," said the 
 blacksmith ; " but Bursley is only like the rest of 
 his class. Their spirits are broken ; all manhood 
 has been crushed out of them by the very men you 
 are fighting for." 
 
 " As I war a-fightin' fur, Boss. My fightin' days 
 is over. Arter this, ef I should show my face in 
 these diggin's, I reckon 't would be took, framed, 
 and hung ter the limb uv a tree, so quick 't would 
 make my head swim." 
 
 " Then you '11 go with me ? " 
 
 " Yes, Boss. We '11 live or die tergether." 
 
 They had now entered the upper bridle-path, and 
 in a few minutes the guide resumed his narrative. 
 
 " Well," he said, " as I war sayin', Bursley backed 
 out, and went off, leavin' the nag ahind fur ye, as 
 we 'd lotted on from the beginnin'. Then I seed 
 what the Lord meant by the yaller boy's comin' 
 along ; fur I could n't ha' got on without him no 
 how. Ye sees thar had ter be two, — one ter sing 
 base, and the t' other treble, — one 'ter howl, and 
 t' other ter put in the thunder." 
 
 " And you did it well," said the blacksmith, laugh 
 ing. " I never heard such howling since I was cre- 
 ated." 
 
 "Nur I. I thort myself it war the Devil, — and 
 
1 82 TJie Young Virginian. 
 
 I reckon that boy ar' nigh o' kin ter the old fel- 
 ler." 
 
 "Then he did it?" 
 
 "Yes, he done it. Ye sees; it war this a way. 
 Thar, by the boy's grave, ye knows, ar' a place whar 
 the logs has broke loose, and bulged out'ards. I 
 know'd the shanty war thort ter be haunted, and 
 that the Sargint, and nigh all o' the men, war mighty 
 superstitious. So we determined ter hide thar by 
 the grave, under the bulgin' logs, and, when all war 
 still, begin ter howl loike sperrets, and let powder 
 down the old chimney loike the devil. 'T was 
 awful hard ter keep the yaller boy still ; and I thort 
 he 'd a flung all the fat in the fire at the first go ; 
 but, lucky loike, he did n't, and it all wuck'd jest 
 as slick as a new bellows." 
 
 " How did it like to miscarry ? " 
 
 " Why, when they 'd brung ye inter the buildin', 
 and war a lightin' the fire, he poked his head up 
 afore I know'd it. I hauled him back in a second ; 
 but, in thet second, the Sargint seed him, and I 
 thought we was goners." 
 
 "And the Sergeant took his face for that of the 
 boy they had murdered?" 
 
 " Jest so, — as the Lord would hev it. Then 
 he telled the story ; and that woke up the men's 
 
On the Mountain by Moonlight. 183 
 
 "Well, it worked well; but you ran an immense 
 risk in giving me warning. Both the Captain and 
 the Yankee boy heard you." 
 
 " Yered me ! Yered me, and did n't let on ! 
 What on yerth could ha' come o^r 'em?" 
 
 "The Providence that is over all. He made the 
 soil, and knows what seed to plant in it. He made 
 that man's soul, and knew it could be touched with 
 
 pity." 
 
 "Well, I reckon it war touched with Sanders's 
 dream. He wanted ter keep out o' the fire. Ha! 
 
 ha!" 
 
 "Fear is a poor motive for a good action. The 
 Captain is too intelligent a man to believe in such 
 things." 
 
 " Well, p'raps he ar' ; but I 'm durned ef the man's 
 'count o' the hot place did n't make me shiver. I 
 war ' hotter 'n fire, and colder 'n Greenland,' by turns, 
 and all ter onst, all over. But I reckon we 'se come 
 'bout fur 'nuff. Had n't we best be a luckin' up a 
 roost 'mong the timber?" 
 
 The blacksmith assented ; and the guide, dismount- 
 ing and leaving his horse standing in the road, nar- 
 rowly inspected the woods on both sides of the bridle- 
 way. They had come about two miles along a path 
 running parallel with the high-road leading to the 
 
184 The Young Virgmian. 
 
 ruined church, and were in the midst of a forest 
 of oaks and pines, among which stunted cedars and 
 a thick underbrush were growing. The guide went 
 into the woods, but in a few moments burst out of 
 the underbrush, cr^ng out, " Don't ye yere 'em, Boss ! 
 The devils hev tracked us up the bridle-way ! " 
 
 The blacksmith listened, and heard sounds, as 
 of a dozen horsemen coming rapidly up the moun- 
 tain. " We must take to the woods," he said, quickly. 
 
 " No, no ! Thet '11 nuver do, 7iow. They 'd scour 
 every inch of the timber. They know we has n't 
 gone ter camp ; and thar 's nar}^ turn-off but this ; 
 so they'll be sure ter tuck it. We must put ahead. 
 Thar 's a bridge over a right deep branch, a mile 
 beyont; we '11 cut thet away, and then make as 
 many mile as we kin afore daylight." 
 
 They dashed rapidly forward. A fallen tree was 
 in the way, but they cleared it at a bound, and were 
 at the bridge twenty minutes in advance of their 
 pursuers. It was only a foot-way, — a few rough 
 planks nailed loosely to two cross-timbers, spanning 
 a ravine about twenty feet wide and forty deep. 
 Its sides were perpendicular rocks, and in its bed 
 a shallow stream — in winter a foaming torrent — 
 was flowing. 
 
 If those planks could be removed, the fugitives 
 
On the Mountain by Moonlight. 185 
 
 would gain a long hour on the rangers ; for the lat- 
 ter would have to circle back to the old church, and 
 take a new start, and the distance round was ten 
 miles by the fleetest horse in Virginia. They sprang 
 to the ground, and bent all their strength to the 
 work. The blacksmith was a Hercules ; but he had 
 but one arm, and his only tool was the guide's car- 
 bine. Fully five minutes elapsed before the first 
 plank was loosened from its fastenings ; but the next 
 came up more quickly, for the beam of the bridge 
 served as a fulcrum. The stock of the carbine then 
 gave way; but the barrel was left, and the black- 
 smith's hand was in ; and soon the planks went down 
 the ravine, as snow-flakes go down a winter whirl- 
 wind. In fifteen minutes the flooring was cleared 
 away, and the blacksmith crawled back along one 
 of the cross-timbers. A minute or two was con- 
 sumed in catching his horse, which was not so docile 
 as the guide's, and then they mounted; but then 
 the rangers were upon them, and a bullet, whistling 
 over their heads, lodged among the timber. They 
 put spurs to their nags; but in a moment another 
 bullet cut the air, and the guide's mare leaped madly 
 forward, staggered a step or two, and then fell across 
 the bridle-way. The guide went down with her. 
 
 " Quick, Jake ! On to my horse ! " cried the black- 
 smith. 
 
1 86 The Yoinig Vii'ginian. 
 
 The guide tried to rise but could not. "My leg 
 ar' broke," he said. " Go, Boss, they '11 fire ag'in, 
 the nag '11 save me from the bullets." 
 
 He lay under the lee of the animal. The rangers 
 were at the edge of the ravine, not a hundred yards 
 away, but the Sergeant had ordered them to "stop 
 firin'." 
 
 The blacksmith dismounted, and leading his horse 
 to the guide attempted to lift him from the ground ; 
 but the guide said, " No, Boss. Yer nag would n't 
 tote us two, five mile, no how. Go, I beg o' ye, go." 
 
 " I can't leave you, Jake," answered the blacksmith. 
 
 But some of the rangers had dismounted, and were 
 then creeping across on the beams of the bridge. 
 
 " Don't ye see ? " said the guide. " Think uv the 
 ma'am ! Go." 
 
 The blacksmith hesitated no longer, but bounded 
 upon the back of his horse, saying, " Good by ! 
 God bless ye, Jake ! " 
 
 " God bless ye. Boss ! I promised the ma'am ter git 
 ye loose, or die in tryin', and I 'se done it. Ha ! ha ! " 
 
 These words went down the wind as the blacksmith 
 galloped away along the bridle-path. 
 
The Ride of the Blacksmith. 187 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE RIDE OF THE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 IT was not the thought of his wife, though she 
 was dear to him, nor of his own life, though he 
 valued it as a gift of God, not to be thrown uselessly 
 away, but the thought of his friend, who had risked 
 his life for him, which made the blacksmith spring 
 upon his horse, bury the rowels in its flanks, and 
 sweep like the wind up the bridle-way. He saw the 
 rangers moving across the timbers, and knew that 
 in a moment they would be upon them. He knew 
 that if, in that single moment, he could extricate 
 the guide from his fallen horse, he could not mount 
 him upon the back of his own animal. Another 
 moment and both would be prisoners, and so, power- 
 less to aid each other. But if he went away, he 
 might aid the guide. He might ride to the Union 
 lines and bring a force to his rescue before the 
 merciless rough-rider should have time to hang him. 
 He might do this, but it was only a bare possibility ; 
 for daylight and thirty miles of country infested with 
 Rebel rangers lay between him and the camp of 
 
1 88 TJie Young Virginian. 
 
 the Union General. But it is on these possibilities, 
 these forlorn hopes, which appall the hearts of cow- 
 ards, but inspire the souls of the truly brave, that 
 often hang the fate of men, and armies, and even 
 nations. The blacksmith was a brave man, brave 
 with that bravery which comes only from perfect 
 reliance on God ; so he turned away from his friend, 
 buried the rowels in his horse's flanks, and bounded 
 up the bridle-way. 
 
 His route was beset with perils. At Front Royal 
 — ten miles beyond — was a squad of Rebel cav- 
 alry, with pickets posted on both sides of the vil- 
 lage. He could not hope to pass them by daylight, 
 and it then wanted only two hours of sunrise. His 
 horse was already much blown ; for, as the guide 
 had said, the beast had no bottom, — none of that 
 endurance which carries horses, and men too, through 
 long journeys and great undertakings. The animal 
 might give out ; and if he bore him safely through 
 Front Royal, the route beyond was over an open 
 road, in open day, where every house might hold 
 an enemy, and every clump of bushes hide an am- 
 buscade of Rebel horsemen. If he made a detour 
 to avoid the town, he would encounter dangers as 
 great, and lose five of the few hours in which he 
 could make the rescue \ so again he thrust his spurs 
 
TJie Ride of the Blacksmith. 189 
 
 into his horse's flanks, and rode swiftly up the moun- 
 tain. 
 
 He halted at the junction with the high-road, and 
 looked back down the mountain. A bright fire was 
 blazing, far below, in the old meeting-house, and 
 torches were moving to and fro in the woods be- 
 tween it and the broken bridge ; but all else was 
 moonlight and silence. He lingered but a moment, 
 and again went forward. Soon he reached Chester 
 Gap at the summit of the Ridge ; then his way was 
 down hill, his horse went freer, and, half an hour 
 before sunrise, he rode up to the mounted sentry at 
 the entrance of Front Royal. 
 
 The man was in the shadow of the trees, and the 
 blacksmith did not see him till the word " Halt ! " 
 exploded in his ears with a report like that of a shot- 
 gun. Reining his tired beast into a walk, he said, 
 " I 'm on urgent business. Lead me at once to 
 Captain Burrows." 
 
 " Halt, I tell ye ! " yelled the sentry, not heeding 
 the remark, "ye carn't pass without the counter- 
 sign." 
 
 The few forward paces he had taken had brought 
 the blacksmith within reach of the soldier. He was 
 without weapons, but his single arm, nerved by hard 
 work, and a strong purpose, could overcome half a 
 
190 The Young Virginian. 
 
 dozen such striplings ; so he halted. " I don't know 
 the word," he said. " Three nights ago it was Con- 
 federacy." 
 
 " Ef ye *d lost yer front teeth, thet moight be it 
 now; but 't ain't, so ye carn't pass, stranger," said 
 the sentry, moving his horse a little up the road. 
 
 " I know ! Now it comes to me ! " exclaimed the 
 blacksmith, following the other into the shadow, 
 " Confederates ! " 
 
 " Ye Ve hit it ; but I reckon 't war a Yankee guess. 
 War n't it?" 
 
 "Do I look like a Yankee?" asked the black- 
 smith, laughing. 
 
 The Rebel opened his dark lantern, and, holding 
 it up to the face of the loyalist, took a close survey 
 of his features. *' No," he said, " but I 'm durned 
 ef yer a Suth'ner. No Suth'ner 'buses horse-flesh 
 loike yer doin'. The nag 's dyin'." 
 
 " Never mind the nag. I tell you I 'm in a hurry. 
 Can I pass?" 
 
 "Yes. Ye 've guessed the word; but I 've a 
 feelin' fur dumb critters ; so ye kin pass. Ye '11 
 find the Cap'n at the public house. Don't tell him 
 how ye got by." 
 
 "No, I won't. Good morning." 
 
 "Good mornin', stranger." And the blacksmith's 
 
TJie Ride of the Blacksmith. 191 
 
 jaded nag trotted briskly in among the silent houses, 
 and, turning off to avoid the soldiers stationed about 
 the tavern, took a narrow by-way winding along the 
 outskirts of the village. 
 
 This way was not guarded, as only one route 
 
 — the plank road which crosses the Shenandoah a 
 mile beyond, and goes on to Winchester — gives 
 exit from the town at the westward. Into this road 
 the guide turned when once beyond the buildings, 
 and rode slowly on, thinking over his situation. 
 
 One great danger was surmounted ; for the pass- 
 word was a key which would unlock all the gates 
 of Front Royal ; but Winchester was twenty miles 
 beyond, and his horse was breaking down, and might 
 at any moment fall in the highway. Where could 
 he get another ? He knew a dozen Union men liv- 
 ing near his intended route ; but would the Rebels 
 have left one of them an ounce of horse-flesh? He 
 might walk twenty miles, but it would consume time, 
 and time — which the careless waste, drones dream 
 away, and even earnest men do not rightly value 
 
 — was then only a narrow span between the guide 
 and eternity. With this thought he again pressed 
 his jaded horse forward. 
 
 ''Halt!" in a few moments cried a sentry. 
 The blacksmith slackened his pace, and answered, 
 " Confederates." 
 
192 The Yoimg Virginian. 
 
 " All right," said the sentry. " Yer nag ar' pret- 
 ty well done up, stranger." 
 
 A thought struck the blacksmith, and he came 
 to a full halt " Yes, he is," he replied ; " but if 
 fresh, he 'd be worth two of yours. I Ve a long 
 journey before me; how will you trade?" 
 
 "Wall, I don't know. How '11 ye? 
 
 " For a hundred dollars, — saddle and all." 
 
 " I don't own the saddle," said the soldier, dis- 
 mounting and narrowly examining the strange animal. 
 
 " I 'm 'feared ye 's broke his wind. He 's bad 
 blown." 
 
 "Well, talk quick. How '11 you trade?" 
 
 " Even ! " 
 
 " Done ! " and the blacksmith sprang to the 
 ground and began to undo the girth of his saddle. 
 The soldier did the same to his, but much more 
 deliberately. " Great news thet, last night," he said, 
 with his head half-way under the animal. 
 
 "What news?" 
 
 " ^^^ly, hain't ye yered ! Early 's got agin inter 
 Martinsburg, and druv Av'rill clar back ter Harper's 
 Ferr}^" 
 
 "The Devil!" 
 
 The blacksmith was a good man, and hated the 
 Evil One ; but even good men too frequently call 
 
The Ride of tJic Dlacksmith. 193 
 
 on that personage at tr}'ing moments. This was a 
 trying moment to the blacksmith ; it tried even his 
 trust in God. The news gave a death-blow to his 
 plan of rescuing the guide. Harper's Ferry was fifty 
 miles away, and all his hopes had hung on Averill. 
 Recovering himself, however, he said coolly, "I 
 thought the Yankees were at Winchester." 
 
 " Winchester ! why, whar 's ye been fur days 
 goin'. Ye sees, Av'rill follered us down ter the 
 mountain this side o' thar a Saturday; but Early 
 hed been reinforced, and he stood and fit him all 
 thet day and the next; and then the Yanks ske- 
 daddled and did n't holt up till they got clar ter 
 the Ferry. Early follered, and got inter Martins- 
 burg on Tuesday." 
 
 Tuesday was the 26th of July, and this was the 
 morning of Thursday, the 28th. 
 
 "Then the Yankees are cleared entirely from the 
 Valley?" said the blacksmith, speaking with appar- 
 ent unconcern, but with a keen agony at his heart 
 which almost stopped its beating. 
 
 "Av'rill has drawed his men in from Bunker Hill, 
 and round Martinsburg ; and I reckon they 's pret- 
 ty well cl'ared out o' the whole destrict ; though a 
 feller was along yere not a hour back, as said he 'd 
 jest seed a hundred on 'em breakin' cover t'other 
 9 M 
 
194 '^^^^ Young Virginian. 
 
 side o' Millwood. I sent him on ter the Cap'n ; 
 but it carn't be. It must ha' been jMosby, rigged 
 out loike the Yankees." 
 
 A gleam of hope broke upon the blacksmith. 
 It was not Mosby. It was some scouting party of 
 Union cavalry. If he could reach them, he might 
 yet save the guide ; for the Rebel ranger had not a 
 hundred men with him on the mountain. With this 
 thought he sprang upon his fresh animal, saying, 
 " You 've a very small force here to guard so large 
 a quantity of stores." 
 
 "Thet ar' so, stranger. We orter hev a regiment 
 instead uv a sorry company." 
 
 This was all the information the blacksmith want- 
 ed, and he said " Good morning " to the sentry. 
 
 The sun had now risen, gilding the leafy woods, 
 and silvering the windings of the beautiful river with 
 all the hues of morning. Some of its beams stole 
 down into the heart of the blacksmith. He forgot 
 the perilous way, the enemy hidden in ever}^ house, 
 the Rebel band lurking at every cross-road, and 
 thought only of the hundred men he would soon be 
 leading to the Rebel lair on the mountain. He 
 rode rapidly forward, and a short half-hour brought 
 him in sight of the bridge over the Shenandoah. 
 But what was that he then saw glancing among the 
 
The Ride of tJic Blacksmith. 195 
 
 trees ? A tent ; and near it, half a dozen horses 
 ready-saddled. Instinctively he drew up his ani- 
 mal ; but he was already discovered, and two 
 mounted men moved out into the highway. It was 
 a vedette station ; but what should he fear ? He 
 had the key that would open the pathway. 
 
 "Good morning, gentlemen," he said, as he came 
 nearly abreast of the horsemen. 
 
 "Good morning," they answered. "The counter- 
 sign." 
 
 " Confederates," he responded, carelessly turning 
 his eyes towards the tent in the timber. At the 
 entrance of the tent was a thing that anywhere out 
 of the South would be a natural curiosity. It was 
 an immense slouched hat, a suit of greasy "butter- 
 nuts," and a scarecrow of a man, with long locks, 
 sunken eyes, and a skin of untanned leather. He 
 knew the blacksmith well, and had once before 
 waylaid and betrayed him. One glance was enough 
 for the blacksmith. He heard the words "All 
 right," as he put spurs to his horse and bounded 
 away over the river. 
 
 "'Tain't all right," shrieked the scarecrow, rushing 
 into the highway. " It 'r old Holley. Shoot him 
 down ; his life '11 make any on ye a Cap'n ! " 
 
 He was half way across the bridge ; but bullets 
 
196 TJie Yoiuig Virginian. 
 
 began to sing, and horses' heels to chime in, making 
 a terrible chorus. He could not hope to outrun 
 them. His other horse was all speed, — this one 
 was all bottom. A quick thought struck him. The 
 bridge was twenty feet high ; but the river was deep 
 and, broad, and he would trust the blue water. 
 Reining up his ' horse, he leaped upon the railing, 
 and pressing his one arm to his side, sank down 
 among the fishes. The Rebels did not follow, — 
 not being of the family of Jonah. They would 
 gather in the middle of the bridge, and fire on him 
 again when he came to the surface of the water. 
 This was plain to the blacksmith ; so, he floated 
 down a few yards, and came up directly under 
 them, against one of the abutments! All was silent 
 for a few minutes, then he heard one say, " WTiat V 
 become on the old critter? Don't he hev ter breathe 
 loike we folks?" 
 
 " I reckon he won't draw breath again," said an- 
 other. " It 's ordinary to come up three times j but 
 he 's gone straight to the bottom." 
 
 Then the blacksmith heard more footsteps, and 
 soon concluded that all the soldiers on the station 
 had gathered on the bridge directly above him. 
 Ocjcasionally a word would be said ; but most of 
 them seemed to be intently watching the water. 
 
The Ride of the Blacksmith. 197 
 
 Some fifteen minutes passed in this way, and then 
 he heard the rapid tread of a horse approaching on 
 the western side of the river. One of the soldiers 
 galloped to meet the horseman, and soon the usual 
 words, " Halt ! The countersign ! " came over the 
 water. In a few minutes more the two horsemen 
 rode towards the knot of soldiers on the bridge, 
 and one of them said, " Sergeant, this man says 
 a hundred Yankee cavalry are hid in the woods 
 just north of Happy Creek. He reckons they mean 
 to attack us as soon as dark, and burn the stores 
 at Front Royal." 
 
 " Pshaw ! It V Mosby's gang," answered the Ser- 
 geant. 
 
 " I reckon not. He says they came there not an 
 hour ago, — travelling all the way by night. He 
 followed them from about six miles east of Millwood ; 
 and they seemed to want to keep mighty shady. 
 Mosby would n't do that round here ; and I saw him 
 only the day before yesterday at Flint Hill, and 
 he said he was about to call in his men for a raid 
 on the Yanks, at the eastward." 
 
 " But whar ar' our folks, thet they 'low a handful 
 of Yanks ter creep in so fur, in the r'ar uv the army .<* " 
 asked the Sergeant. 
 
 "Thar hain't ten gray-backs this side of Martins- 
 
198 The Yojing Virginian. 
 
 burg," said another voice, apparently that of the 
 bearer of the tidings. "Ye see, Early roped every- 
 thing in, 'fore he fit Av'rill at Winchester." 
 
 " Well, let 'em come on," said the Sergeant, " they 
 '11 hev ter come over this yere bridge, and our thirty 
 men kin hold it ag'in thirty hundred." 
 
 " But the Captain ought to know this," responded 
 the first speaker. 
 
 " Yes ; s'pose ye tuck the man on, and tell him," 
 said the Sergeant; "and boys, every one on ye ter 
 t'other side. Mount and be ready. The man Hol- 
 ley 's gone to the fishes. The old Shenandoah ar' 
 a loyal stream, — it 'r' been the end uv one traitor, 
 sartin." 
 
 When they were gone, the blacksmith floated si- 
 lently down the river, and, landing half a rhile below, 
 made his way, hatless and dripping with wet, to 
 the Union camp in the woods at the north of Happy 
 Creek. 
 
The Blacksmith among the Yankees. 199 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE BLACKSMITH AMONG THE YANKEES. 
 
 IT is easy to account for the sudden appearance 
 of this body of Union troops in the very heart 
 of the Rebel country. Robert, the slave boy, when 
 so unceremoniously ejected by the guide from the 
 ruined building, rushed at once to the spot in the 
 woods where the horses of the rangers were teth- 
 ered. It was only the work of a moment to un- 
 fasten one of the animals, bound upon its back, 
 and, amid the panic and confusion, escape to the 
 highway. 
 
 Robert's first thought was of personal safety ; then 
 the purpose of his life came back to him with all 
 its grim resolution. In an instant his plan was 
 formed. He would make his way to the Union lines, 
 and bring back a force to capture Mosby. He was 
 a prize the Yankees would value ; and they might 
 have him and welcome, if by their aid he could 
 wreak his vengeance on the Captain. The guide 
 had said there were not fifty men at the Ranger's 
 camp, and he knew its location. Mosby, it was true, 
 
200 The Young Virginian. 
 
 stayed not long in a place, and could, in half a day, 
 draw in two hundred men from the country around ; 
 but he could bring a larger force, track the Rebel 
 wherever he went, and, in sixty hours, be upon him. 
 He did not know where the nearest Union troops 
 were stationed; but there must be a large body at 
 Harper's Ferry. The Ferry was more than fifty miles 
 away ; but, luckily, he had taken one of the fleetest 
 animals in the troop, and could be there b>^ morn- 
 ing, — if he killed the horse with the journey. He 
 was without a saddle ; but, to one bred among horses, 
 bare-back is the easier way of riding. But speed, . 
 not ease, was the thought of the slave boy. 
 
 Bearing away along the eastern slope of the Ridge, 
 with the intention of crossing it at Snicker's Gap, 
 he reached, in t^vo hours, the little town of Upper- 
 ville, and, riding into its silent street, came upon 
 a man whose face was somewhat darker than the 
 moonlight " Uncle," he said to him, " do you know 
 where the nearest Union troops are stationed ? " 
 
 " Dunno, massa, dun no. None on 'em stays roun' 
 yere ; but a whole lot o' 'em am jess gwine up de 
 road ter Ashby's." 
 
 " How many, and how long ago ? " 
 
 " A heap. Nigh onter free hundred, I reckon." 
 
 "How long ago?" 
 
TJie BlacksmitJi avionsr the Yankees. 201 
 
 " Long 'go ? Wall, leff me see, massa ; dis darkey 
 hed ter woke up, pull on him clo'es, and den peg 
 out ter de ole 'ooman's. Dat tuck some time, sartin ; 
 and dey 'm gone by 'bout so much longer." 
 
 "Is there more than one road?" 
 
 "Only one, massa. It go stret fru de Gap. Toi- 
 ler it right smart, and you '11 cotch 'em in no 
 time." 
 
 Without another word, the slave boy turned square- 
 ly to the left, and took the road which led up the 
 Ridge. Urging his horse to its utmost speed, he 
 was soon at the summit of the Gap, and was press- 
 ing on at a break-neck pace, when a loud summons 
 brought his animal — trained to obey quickly the 
 word of command — to a sudden halt. 
 
 Before the word was half spoken, a dozen mounted 
 men sprang from the trees and into the road, com- 
 pletely blocking the passage. A glance at their uni- 
 forms satisfied the slave boy that he was among the 
 three hundred. One of them rode up and said to 
 him : " Who are you, and where are you going in so 
 much of a hurry?" 
 
 " I 'm seeking you. Be good enough to take me 
 to your Colonel," was the quick answer. 
 
 "Who are you, and what do you want with our 
 Colonel?" 
 
 9* 
 
202 TJie Young Virginian. 
 
 "I 'm an escaped slave. I can take you to Mos- 
 by's camp before sunrise." 
 
 " The Devil you can ! " and the man came nearer, 
 and closely scanned Robert's features. "You 're 
 light for a slave, but the chivalry can turn black 
 into white. Where is Mosby?" 
 
 "At Flint Hill, twenty-five miles to the south. 
 Day before yesterday he had n't fiftj' men with him, 
 — he '11 have only twenty more to-morrow morning." 
 
 " Well, come this way, our Colonel is a Major. One 
 of you boys follow, and keep an eye on the fellow." 
 With these words the trooper led the way into the 
 wood, and up a sloping ground, to a narrow plateau 
 which commanded both entrances to the Gap, and 
 afforded a wide view of the surrounding country. 
 
 About a hundred horses were picketed among the 
 trees on this plateau, and as many men were stretched 
 on the ground sleeping. They were a party of cav- 
 alry which had left Leesburg at sunset, on a recon- 
 noissance as far westward as Millwood, — a small 
 town in the Shenandoah Valley about ten miles 
 south of Winchester. Their orders were to pass 
 down to Snicker's Gap, then on through Ashby's 
 Gap, into the Valley; returning by whatever route 
 they found most feasible. They were to gather ac- 
 curate information of the strength and disposition 
 
TJie Blacksmith among the Yafikgcs. 203 
 
 of Early's army ; and their presence clearly indi- 
 cated that Averill contemplated dropping down from 
 Harper's Ferry, crossing the Blue Ridge at Snicker's 
 or Ashby's Gap, and getting into Early's rear, to cut 
 him off from supplies and reinforcements, and ob- 
 tain a decisive victory. It was, therefore, a most 
 important reconnoissance. It was intrusted to a 
 Yankee Major, plucky, ambitious, and recklessly in 
 love with adventure ; but who knew no more about 
 the country than most star-gazers know about the 
 moon. The troop had ridden twenty-five miles, and 
 halted for a few hours' rest, intending to resume the 
 march before morning. 
 
 The officer lay under a stunted pine, with a blan- 
 ket under his head, apparently studying the heavenly 
 bodies, when Robert and the two soldiers approached 
 him. " Major," said the picket officer, " here is a 
 fellow that offers to guide us to Mosby." 
 
 The Major sprang to his feet, saying, " Who is 
 he ? Where is Mosby ? " 
 
 " I 'm a slave, sir," replied Robert. " I have 
 been forced to fight against you, and want to square 
 accounts by doing you a great service." 
 
 " That would indeed be a great service. Bring a 
 lantern, — let me have a look at the man," said the 
 officer in a quick, nervous manner. His imagina- 
 
.204 The Young Virginian. 
 
 tion took fire at the mere mention of Mosby. He 
 would gain greater distinction by his capture, than 
 Averill would by winning a great battle, and it might 
 place a star on his shoulder ; so, in his mind, the 
 reconnoissance became at once of secondary impor- 
 tance. 
 
 The lantern was brought and hung to a branch of 
 the tree, and then the officer said, closely scanning 
 the features of the slave boy, "Sit down, my friend. 
 I like to look at people I talk with." 
 
 Robert sat down, as much at his ease as if they 
 were equals ; and they were in all but rank and 
 sound judgment. The rank was on the side of the 
 man ; the judgment on the side of the boy ; and 
 the matter of principle was pretty evenly divided 
 between them. Neither had any of it, or any ob- 
 ject in life beyond the securing of their personal 
 ends. 
 
 And tlie object in life, let me say to the young 
 reader, is what makes the radical difference between 
 bad men and good, devils and angels. Both Luci- 
 fer and Gabriel, if accounts are true, are what we 
 call gentlemen, — with polished manners, cultivated 
 minds, and great natural abilities ; but one seeks 
 only his own ends, the other the good of others. 
 The heart of one centres in himself, the heart of 
 
The Blacksmith among the Yankees. 205 
 
 the other embraces the universe. But this Httle 
 homily has led me away from my story. The lan- 
 tern which gave the man a glance at the boy's ex- 
 terior gave the boy a full view of the man's interior. 
 With the keen penetration of his race, he read him 
 as he would have read an open book, and at once 
 detected the hidden springs of his nature. Adroitly 
 shaping his communications to serve his purposes, 
 he made what was in truth a most hazardous 
 enterprise seem a mere holiday adventure, and in 
 half an hour had the real command' of the troop 
 of cavalr}^ 
 
 The Major called a council of his officers and 
 laid the project before them, but it met with no 
 approval. One of them, a weather-beaten veteran 
 who had risen from the ranks, gav^ it decided op- 
 position. " You must obey orders," he said bluntly, 
 "go on to Millwood, or lose your commission. If 
 you go dowTi, there on the west of the Ridge, and 
 attempt to cross below, you may get caught in a 
 trap from which there '11 be no escape. We know 
 there 's a considerable force in Manassas Gap ; 
 there may be one at. Front Royal strong enough to 
 stop us at the bridge over the Shenandoah. If 
 there is, we '11 have to fall back, and return over 
 the Ridge at this or Snicker's Gap. At Snicker's 
 
2o6 The You7ig Virginian. 
 
 we know there 's a body of Rebels, and thirty de- 
 termined men could hold this gap against twice our 
 number. The country people will give news of our 
 passing, and bushwhackers enough to defend this 
 road will collect here in a day ; and then we shall 
 be forced north, right into the jaws of Early. In 
 my judgment, the only way to approach Flint Hill 
 is from the east of the Ridge. If we had time and 
 it would not interfere with the reconnoissance, we 
 might make a detour to avoid the Rebels at Ma- 
 nassas Gap, and be down upon Mosby by noon to- 
 morrow ; but we have n't time, and it would inter- 
 fere with the reconnoissance." 
 
 " But," answered the Major, " you forget that the 
 bridge at Front Royal is not guarded; and that 
 the very boldness of the enterprise will insure its 
 success. It would ring through the country like 
 Mosby's capture of Stoughton." 
 
 " If it succeeded ! Mosby sent his spies ahead, 
 and took Stoughton under cover of a dark, rainy 
 night, knowing every inch of the way. We have 
 no reliable information, and shall have to pass Front 
 Royal) and travel twenty miles by daylight, through 
 a country where we shall be surrounded by Rebel 
 troops, and every other white man will run his legs 
 oflf to give them information." 
 
The Blacksmith among the Yankees. 207 
 
 " But we have information," replied the Major. 
 "This young man is right from there, and says no 
 force is at Front Royal." 
 
 "Front Royal is a depot of supplies. It isn't 
 likely the Rebels would leave it unguarded." 
 
 "Are you sure there are no troops at Front 
 Royal?" then asked the Major of the slave boy. 
 
 "There were none the day before yesterday, — 
 so one of Mosby's men told me not six hours 
 ago. He thought none were there yesterday," an- 
 swered Robert, with the look and tone of simple 
 honest>\ This was the second falsehood he had 
 told on the subject ; but one untruth always costs 
 another. And yet he did not mean to entrap the 
 cavalry. He knew he was luring them into great 
 danger, but his own ends could not be ser\^ed 
 without he led them safely to Mosby. He was 
 confident that the bridges over the Shenandoah were 
 guarded, but they could, he thought, force a passage ; 
 if not at Front Royal, then below at Thornton's Gap, 
 a little to the southwest of Flint Hill. 
 
 "We go! Captain Mansfield," said the Major, 
 with a wave of the hand, which might have become 
 one of the chivalry. " Order the men to horse." 
 
 In ten minutes they were on the way, and just 
 after daylight halted in a thick wood near Happy 
 
2o8 The Yomig Virginia7i. 
 
 Creek, to breakfast the men and horses, and recon- 
 noitre the road before attempting the passage of the 
 Shenandoah. Two of the men, arrayed for the oc- 
 casion in the homespun of the district, had gone off 
 on the reconnoissance, and the rest were scattered 
 about among the trees boihng their imorning coffee, 
 when Captain Mansfield approached the Major with 
 the blacksmith. 
 
 " Here is a gentleman. Major," he said, " who 
 can give you very valuable information." 
 
 The blacksmith, just emerged from his bath in 
 the river, had walked in his dripping clothes three 
 miles through the swamps and underbrush, and did 
 not make a very presentable appearance, yet the 
 Captain introduced him as a gentleman. The same 
 instinct which had led him to distrust the slave boy 
 impressed him with this man's true character. 
 
 " It is Mr. Holley ! " exclaimed Robert, spring- 
 ing to his feet, and speaking to the Major, " the 
 man we rescued at the old meeting-house." 
 
 "Indeed," said the Major, "I am glad to see you, 
 Mr. Holley ; glad to see you are out of the grip of 
 the Rebels." 
 
 "I thank you, sir. How do you happen to be 
 here, Robert?" answered the blacksmith, with a look 
 of surprise at the slave boy. 
 
The Blacksmith among the Yankees. 209 
 
 " I am leading the troop to the capture of Mosby. 
 Have you come by Front Royal ? " 
 
 " Yes, and across tJie river by swimming," an- 
 swered the blacksmith, smiling. 
 
 " Are there Rebels there ? " asked the Major. 
 
 " Yes, enough to hold the bridge against you ; and 
 they know you are coming." 
 
 "And how is it at Thornton's Gap.?" asked Rob- 
 ert. 
 
 " Mosby has a squad always there," answered the 
 blacksmith. 
 
 " Then we are entrapped ! " said the Captain, with 
 a firm pressure of his lips, and an angry glance at 
 Robert. "I suspected this fellow from the start. 
 Major. I never knew one of his mongrel breed that 
 was not as false and treacherous as the Devil." 
 
 The slave bo/s face grew ashy pale, his eyes gave 
 out a lurid glow, and a fierce word came to his 
 lips ; but he choked it back unspoken. It cost 
 him an effort, — such an effort as it takes to dam 
 a mountain-stream in mid-winter, — but he did it. 
 Powerful natures have powerful wills, and an out- 
 break might have defeated a purpose dearer to him 
 than revenge for a passing insult. 
 
 The blacksmith was the first to speak. " I know 
 the boy," he said, looking straight at Robert. " He 
 
210 The Yoicng Virginia7i. 
 
 has his own ends to serve ; but has not meant to 
 betray you. If he did, he would miss his object." 
 
 " But he has led us into danger, you think ? " asked 
 the Major, who seemed to be awaking to the peril 
 into which he had been drawn, not more by Robert 
 than by his own folly and ambition. 
 
 "Yes, sir," answered the blacksmith, "into great 
 danger. You are surrounded by Rebels'. You can't 
 go twenty miles, I think, in any direction without 
 coming upon them. You can't cross the Shenan- 
 doah by any of the bridges. Your only way out 
 is by swimming the river, and getting over the Ridge 
 by some of the bridle-paths used by the country 
 people. But to do that you must move quick and 
 secretly; for if your route is known, you '11 have 
 twice your force upon you by nightfall." 
 
 " Can we swim the river ? Can you guide us to 
 one of these bridle-paths ? " asked the Major with 
 almost breathless eagerness. 
 
 "You can float the men across on a raft, and 
 swim the horses alongside. I know some of the 
 paths, and think I can find one that will lead you 
 over the Ridge before dark." 
 
 " Let us set about the thing at once," said the Ma- 
 jor. "Where shall we strike the river?" 
 
 "A few miles below it makes a bend towards 
 
TJie Blacksmith amo7i^ t/ie Yankees. 2 1 i 
 
 i> 
 
 the Gap railroad. You will be seen as soon as you 
 begin to move ; for, in coming from the river, I 
 had to run from half a dozen country-men who were 
 watching you. If you go down the road a few miles, 
 they will think you are meaning to attack the force 
 at Manassas Gap, and will post off with the news, 
 and the Rebels will draw in every man to meet you. 
 That will leave the coast clear, and you can slip 
 into the woods along the river, gather dead logs 
 enough to build a raft, and be safely on the other 
 side in an hour." 
 
 "We will do it. You are a godsend to us, Mr. 
 Holley," said the Major warmly. 
 
 In a few moments the two disguised countrj-men 
 returned with the tidings that a company of Rebels, 
 with a brass six-pounder, were holding the bridge 
 over the Shenandoah! "All right. Major," said the 
 blacksmith, as he proceeded to exchange his wet 
 suit for the slouched hat and dry " butternuts " of one 
 of the counterfeit " natives." " The more frightened 
 they are, the better, for they '11 keep together, and 
 not attempt to follow us." 
 
 The soldiers' half-eaten breakfast was thrust into 
 their haversacks, and they set out to make the cross- 
 ing. In two hours they were safely over the river, 
 and had begun the difficult ascent of the Ridge. It 
 
212 The Young Virginian. 
 
 was not an open gap, with gently ascending slopes, 
 but a steep, narrow path, covered with loose stones, 
 and now and then obstructed* with fallen trees, over 
 which the horses stumbled, often losing their foothold 
 and rolling down the mountain. But they toiled up 
 the difficult way, every man afoot, leading his floun- 
 dering animal, and at last reached the summit of the 
 Ridge, foot-sore and weary. No accident befell the 
 men, but two or three poor beasts were left behind, 
 with broken limbs, to die slowly from want of food, 
 or to be eaten alive by the wolves and bears which 
 infest that region. 
 
 After a long halt they began to descend, and, 
 about an hour before sunset, came in sight of the 
 high-road which runs along the eastern slope of the 
 mountain. There they paused, and waited until night- 
 fall. They had escaped from the trap, and, no doubt, 
 baffled all pursuit, and were within twelve miles of 
 the camp of the rangers ; but, by the advice of the 
 blacksmith, delayed setting out to attack Mosby until 
 then movements should be covered by the darkness. 
 Before that came, an event occurred which I cannot 
 explain without* writing another chapter. 
 
At Mosbys. 213 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 AT MOSBY S. 
 
 X T /"E left the guide lying by the side of his 
 
 ' ^ fallen horse, and the rangers pursuing him 
 over the broken bridge on the mountain." The 
 Sergeant was the first to approach. "Jake," he 
 said, " is ye much hurt 1 " 
 
 " Not bad, Sargint, I reckon," answered the guide, 
 "Betz didn't pick a soft spot ter kim down on, 
 and I couldn't git my leg from under. I feels it 
 broke jest 'bove the ankle, thet's all." 
 
 A half-dozen of the rangers had now gathered 
 round, and among them was the man who made 
 the nocturnal exploration of the torrid regions. 
 "Jake," he said, "ye beats all the sperrets I uver 
 knowed on ; but 't war a durned purty business fur 
 a loyal man ter be at. I reckon ye '11 git inter one 
 o' them ovens as I telled on mighty sudden." 
 
 The guide made no reply, only looked at the man 
 in an absent way, as if his thoughts were busy with 
 other things; but the Sergeant said in an angry tone, 
 "Sanders, shut up, nary un but a coward uver hits 
 
214 '^^^^ Yoiuig 'Virginian. 
 
 a man when he 'r down ; Jake ar' a decenter feller 
 nur ye '11 uver git ter be, ef he has helped a — " 
 
 He did not pronounce the word, it seemed to 
 stick in his throat; but the other helped out the 
 sentence. "A durned ole traitor," he said. "Ter 
 yere him tork, ye 'd s'pose he hed a patent right ter 
 all thet 's good in the universe. But them blatin* 
 saints is the biggest devils. As I 'se telled ye, the 
 ole feller hisself ar' a Methodist parson." 
 
 The Sergeant was now seriously angered, and 
 turning on the man, said, " Shet up, and git across 
 thet bridge ter onst, or I '11 pitch ye head fust down 
 the presurpiss. I will ! " 
 
 The man turned sulkily away, and went over to 
 where the rest of the rangers were with the horses ; 
 and the Sergeant said to the guide, kindly, " I 
 s'pose we'll hev ter git ye ter the camp, Jake. 
 The ole man has shot off the stret road. Does ye 
 know a short cut ter the meetin'-house ? " 
 
 " Beyont yere a ways ar' a bridle-path as goes 
 stret ter it. 'Tain't more 'n two mile," answered 
 the guide. 
 
 "Wall," said the Sergeant, "one on ye go over 
 the bridge, and fotch some o' the blankets ; we '11 
 rig out a stretcher, and tote Jake down the bridle- 
 path, while the rest tucks the nags round the road." 
 
At Mosbys. 215 
 
 The man did as he was bidden, and the blankets 
 being stretched across two long poles, Jake was 
 soon extricated from the fallen horse, and placed 
 on the improvised litter. Some pine-knots being 
 gathered to light the way through the woods, four 
 of the party, with the Sergeant at their head, then 
 set out to bear the wounded man down the moun- 
 tain. It was the torches of this party which the 
 blacksmith had seen when he turned and looked 
 back while on his way to Front Royal. Their pace 
 was slow, for the path was obstructed with fallen 
 trees, and overhanging branches, and the sun had 
 risen when they came in sight of the old church at 
 the cross-roads. 
 
 The Captain lay near the road under a tree, a 
 rude crutch resting by his side ; and the other troop- 
 ers sat their horses in front of the ruined building. 
 James held the reins of the blacksmith's wagon, and 
 all were in readiness to set out ; for the rangers who 
 had made the circuit of the high-road had already 
 arrived with tidings of the guide's capture and con- 
 dition. 
 
 As the litter approached, the Captain struggled to 
 his feet, and limping forward, said to the Sergeant, 
 " Put him into the wagon, and handle him carefully. 
 His broken leg must be painful." 
 
2i6 The Young Virginian. 
 
 " But how 's ye a-gwine ter git along ? " asked the 
 Sergeant 
 
 "I can ride a horse. Half an hour's motion will 
 make my thigh as limber as ever." 
 
 Some blankets were in the bottom of the wagon, 
 and on them they laid the wounded man ; and then 
 the troop set out, walking their horses slowly to 
 avoid giving the vehicle any unnecessary motion. 
 The horsemen went before, and the wagon and the 
 Captain followed. When the cavalcade had gone a 
 short distance, the latter rode up alongside the ve- 
 hicle, and, in a low tone, said to the guide, " You 're 
 a true, brave man. I ask your pardon for the rough 
 words I gave you. Be prepared for the worst; but 
 I shall get you off if it 's a possible thing." 
 
 "I thanks ye, Cap'n. I went inter this with my 
 eyes open, and I 'm ready ter go it ter the eend. I 
 nuver shirked nothin' yet." 
 
 "I know," said the Captain, "but be careful 
 what you admit. They can prove nothing, except 
 that you were found with the blacksmith." 
 
 No m.ore was said, and they rode slowly on up the 
 mountain. 
 
 Several hours before noon they emerged from the 
 forest, and entered a broad clearing midway up the 
 side of Flint Hill,— -one of the more bold of the 
 
At Mosbys. 217 
 
 long range of mountains which traverses the whole 
 of Middle Virginia. Though a clearing, and in full 
 cultivation as a plantation, the opening was dotted 
 here and there with groves of great forest-trees ; and 
 in one of these groves was the camp of the Rebel 
 highwayman. The camp — if that can be called a 
 camp which is without a single tent — was a collec- 
 tion of curiously shaped houses, built of cypress 
 branches and laurel twigs, and as green and rustic 
 as the mansion in which Adam and Eve dwelt be- 
 fore they went out to work for a living. Among 
 them were robbers' caves, and philosophers' grottos ; 
 Lapland huts, and Patagonian hovels j Gothic cot- 
 tages, and Indian wigwams; Chinese pagodas, and 
 — even the two-story tenements, brown as a brick 
 (built of deciduous boughs already sere and faded) 
 and square as a packing-box, which ornament the 
 streets of some Northern towns. Such a grotesque 
 group of human habitations never was seen. They 
 appeared unfit homes for freebooters, and seemed to 
 imply that among the lawlesss horde was at least one 
 whose mind was "above his business." The man 
 who could create forms so picturesque and beautiful 
 as those fashioned in that rough carpentry might 
 be "very far gone from original righteousness," but 
 could not be "wholly given over to evil." 
 10 
 
2i8 • TJie You Jig Virginian. 
 
 Entering one of the numerous paths which wound 
 about this rustic hamlet, the troop halted abreast of 
 the largest structure, and the Captain accosted a 
 dismounted horseman who was standing in its door- 
 way. Without heeding his respectful and rather cor- 
 dial salutation, the horseman looked the trooper 
 coldly in the eye, and said, curtly, "Well, have you 
 bagged the game?" 
 
 "No. I caught him, but he got away. My meu 
 say he 's in league with the Devil, — it 's certain 
 he 's hard to hold." 
 
 "I '\i have him," growled the other, through his 
 barred teeth, " if it costs me my life ; but I see I 
 must send a better man than you after him." 
 
 " Go yourself then. You 're the best man I know 
 — in your own opinion," blurted out the trooper 
 in a rage. 
 
 " Come, come, none of that, Captain. You and 
 I must n't quarrel," said the other, holding out his 
 hand, while a frank, pleasant smile overspread his 
 face. 
 
 "I was hasty. Colonel. I ask your pardon," an- 
 swered the Captain, with equal frankness. 
 
 This, then, was the famous guerilla, Mosby. James 
 watched him with some interest, for the fate of the 
 guide was in his hands. The examination was not 
 
At Mosbys. 219 
 
 altogether assuring. Beneath his careless exterior, 
 he thought there lurked a reckless, desperate spirit, 
 which might, when aroused, do acts of great wick- 
 edness. He was of slender, but athletic frame, 
 about the medium height, with light brown hair, a 
 well-formed head, regular features, large gray eyes, 
 and a dark, sun-browned complexion. He wore the 
 gray uniform of a Confederate Colonel, with high 
 top-boots, and a slouched hat, but as he stood there, 
 one hand grasping the bridle-rein of his horse, — a 
 powerful iron-gray with flowing mane and tail, — he 
 looked anything but the black-browed ruffian he has 
 been pictured by his enemies. 
 
 "Who have you here?" he said, resting his eye 
 on James, and a pleasant smile playing over his 
 features ; " a new recruit .'' " 
 
 " Yes : a Yankee boy I picked up at Major 
 Lucy's," said the Captain, " and one of our men 
 wounded." 
 
 "What! Jake!" exclaimed Mosby, coming forward. 
 "Why, I thought you always dodged the bullets!" 
 
 The guide looked up, but said nothing. The 
 Captain answered, " His horse fell on him, and mine 
 did the same with me. I want the surgeon to set 
 his leg, and look a little after mine ; and then. 
 Colonel, as I 'm lame, suppose you come to my 
 tent, if you want to talk things over." 
 
220 TJie Yoimg Virginian. 
 
 " Well, I will ; say in an hour." 
 
 The wagon then moved on to the surgeon's quar- 
 ters; and while the guide's leg was being attended 
 to, James and the Captain sat down to a frugal din- 
 ner in the rustic house appropriated to the latter. 
 
 In the midst* of the ftieal Mosby appeared in the 
 doonvay. His face no longer wore its habitual 
 smile, — unless you call a smile that lurid glow of 
 the sky which sometimes precedes a thunder-storm. 
 In a quick, excited way, he said, "What is this? 
 Did Jake help the blacksmith to get away?" 
 
 " Yes," answered the Captain, coolly. " Sit down. 
 I want to talk with you about it." 
 
 " Talk about it ! You say he did it, — that 's 
 enough. He shall hang within an hour." 
 
 " He 's a true man. Colonel. He only did what 
 you would have done in the same circumstances." 
 
 "I trusted him, and he has betrayed me. That 
 is enough ; I don't want to know any more ; he 
 shall hang." A terrible oath followed, and he turned 
 to leave the tent. 
 
 The Captain thrust his crutch across the opening, 
 and said, " You can't go till you 've heard what I 
 have to say. I 've a right to a hearing." 
 
 " Obligations grow troublesome when we are re- 
 minded of them," said Mosby, with a sneer. 
 
At Mosbys. 221 
 
 " You don't need to be reminded of them," 
 answered the Captain, not noticing the other's man- 
 ner. " If you do, you 're not the man I 've taken 
 you for." 
 
 The guerilla leader then sat down and said, im- 
 patiently, " Well, go on ; but make the story short. 
 I have much to do. AVe must move to-night." 
 
 The Captain requested James to go outside, to 
 see that no one was within hearing, and to remain 
 there until the conference was over. It lasted an 
 hour ; and then the two came to the doorway, and 
 James heard the leader say, " Well, I '11 do it, if 
 I'm satisfied the fellow is honest. Where is he?" 
 
 "At the Surgeon's, I reckon," answered the Cap- 
 tain ; and then, speaking to James, he a.dded, " Here, 
 my boy, give me your shoulder." 
 
 The boy obeyed, and the tw^o men, the one walk- 
 ing, the other hobbling, went on to the quarters 
 of the Surgeon. The guide's leg had been set, and 
 he had been removed to the Sergeant's. At the 
 Sergeant's a half-dozen of the rangers were collected, 
 talking in subdued tones, — such tones as one hears 
 in a sick-chamber, — and the guide, stretched on the 
 ground, on a pile of blankets, was sleeping soundly. 
 
 As he entered, Mosby said, "Clear the tent, Ser- 
 geant, I want to talk with this man." 
 
222 TJie Young Virginian. 
 
 " Sartin, Gunnel," answered the Sergeant ; and in 
 a moment the* boy and the two officers were left alone 
 with the guide, who continued sleeping. Mosby 
 touched him on the shoulder, saying, "Jake, wake 
 up ; wake up." 
 
 The guide opened his eyes, and looked at his 
 officer. Then raising himself suddenly to his elbow, 
 he said, hurriedly : " Why, Gunnel, ar' it ye ? I ax 
 yer pardon ; but I 'se been a-stirrin' these two nights ; 
 and thet, an' the pain o' the bone-settin', has a'most 
 tuckered me out." 
 
 Mosby looked him steadily in the face for a 
 moment, and then said, "Jake, why did you do 
 this ? " 
 
 " I could n't holp it, Gunnel. The old man brung 
 me up. He tuck me when my mother war a-dyin' ; 
 and uver sence he 's been more 'n a father ter me, 
 and the ma'am more 'n a mother. Ef I had n't 
 done it. Gunnel, I could n't ha' luck'd ye, nur no 
 other honest man, in the face." 
 
 " Why did n't you tell me how you were related 
 to him, when I sent you to guide the party." 
 
 " 'Gase ef I had, ye would n't ha' sent me," an- 
 swered Jake, smiling. 
 
 " And then you meant to betray me, from the 
 start ? " 
 
At Mosby's. jj3 
 
 " Yes, Gunnel, I did ; and I was durned afeared 
 onst that ye would n't let me go." 
 
 The other sprang to his feet, greatly enraged, 
 and said, " You shall die. In half an hour I '11 
 hang you." 
 
 The guide said nothing; but his features did not 
 move, his eye did not quail, and his mouth wore 
 the quiet smile it wore when he spoke the last words. 
 He had evidently made up his mind for the worst. 
 *The ranger took a step or two towards the door, 
 but suddenly turned, and strode to the farther end 
 of the little room, and then strode back again ; all 
 the while keeping his eye fixed on the face of the 
 guide. A struggle seemed to be going on within 
 him, — the struggle between passion and principle, 
 evil and good, which every man has felt, and will 
 feel so long as he belongs to the race of Adam. At 
 last he stopped in his walk, and said to the guide, 
 " You were going to the Union lines .'* " 
 
 " Yes, Gunnel ; but not ter fight ag'in ye. I loves 
 old Virginny as well as ye, or ary other man." 
 
 "Then why were you going? Nobody saw you 
 at the meeting-house." 
 
 " I did n't know thet ; and I know'd ef they did, 
 ye 'd hang me ter the fust tree. I war n't anxious 
 for thet ; so I guv ye my mar's legs." 
 
224 The Young Virgifiian. 
 
 " Well, Jake ; you mean honest, and I '11 give you 
 the chance of a trial. What you Ve said, I '11 not 
 use against you ; but I can't trust you again. You 
 must leave the troop." 
 
 " I thanks ye, Gunnel. I allers 'sisted ye war 
 a gentleman." 
 
 The others then left the tent ; and as they passed 
 out, the Captain said to Mosby, " Are you sending 
 runners out to call in the men?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Let Sanders go. He has an ill-feeling towards 
 Jake, and his evidence might be against him." 
 
 "Very well. Let somebody give him the order." 
 
A Strange Career. 225 
 
 CHAPTER XVUI. 
 
 A STRANGE CAREER. 
 
 WHEN they resumed their seats at the table 
 of the Captain, the boy said : "He is not 
 so bad a man as I have heard he was." 
 
 " Bad ! " echoed the Captain. " He has some of 
 the best traits I ever knew in any one ; and besides, 
 he 's an educated man and a gentleman." 
 
 The boy smiled as he answered, " I suppose Mr. 
 Holley would say that might depend on your defi- 
 nition of a gentleman." 
 
 "Well, he might," replied the Captain, laughing; 
 "but barring his habit of swearing, and his want of 
 control over his passions, Mosby is a gentleman by 
 any definition. He has good impulses, fights from 
 pure love of the South, and came of a good family. 
 I know, for we 've been together ever since he had 
 a separate command, and were in the same class in 
 college. Before the war he was a laviyer; but when 
 Virginia seceded, enlisted under Stuart as a private. 
 He soon rose to be a first lieutenant, and, being 
 bold and active, was employed in the scouting ser- 
 
226 The Young Virginian. 
 
 vice. While on this duty he would, alone, or with 
 a small party of mounted men, hover round the Fed- 
 eral lines, and capture their pickets, or gather in- 
 formation of their movements. One dark night, 
 with only nine men, he attacked several regiments 
 of Union cavalry, and put them to flight, they sup- 
 posing he had a whole division. At another time 
 he w^ent alone into the Union lines, and was coming 
 away with all the information he wanted, when, just 
 outside of their pickets, he captured two Yankee sol- 
 diers. He had disarmed the men^ and they were 
 riding along together, when, turning a bend in the 
 road, they came suddenly on a party of Union cav- 
 alry. Mosby drew his overcoat about him, and 
 cocking his pistol, said to the men, 'Speak a word, 
 or make a sign, and I '11 blow your brains out.' The 
 men took the hint, and after riding along a while 
 with the column, Mosby edged off, and got safely 
 back to camp with his prisoners. He has done a 
 thousand such things, and only once been cap- 
 tured." 
 
 "And how was that.?" asked the boy. 
 
 '•'He had gone with a message from General Stu- 
 art to General Jackson, then in the Shenandoah Val- 
 ley, and w^as feeding his horse at a station on the 
 Central Railroad, when a squad of Yankee cavalry 
 
A Strafigc Career. 227 
 
 came suddenly on him. They captured his de- 
 spatch, and sent him to the Old Capitol prison. 
 He was soon exchanged, and at Hampton Roads, 
 accidentally heard that Burnside was moving to 
 reinforce Pope at Culpepper. He hurried with the 
 information to General Lee, and it was no doubt 
 that which led Jackson to attack and defeat Pope 
 at Cedar Run. 
 
 After that he was never idle, and soon became a 
 terror to the Yankees. He would make a sudden 
 raid, capture a dozen prisoners, and be forty miles 
 away before morning. With his handful of men he 
 did more damage to the Union cause than any regi- 
 ment in the Southern army." 
 
 " But he robbed and murdered unarmed men, and 
 defenceless women," said James, hesitatingly. 
 
 " He never did. Some of our men may have 
 committed such outrages ; but he never robbed or 
 murdered any one. He always discountenanced 
 plundering, and is to-day poorer than when the war 
 began. I know, for I have been with him ever since 
 he has had a battalion." 
 
 " And how long has that been .? " 
 
 " Nearly two years. The exploit which won him 
 the command was one of the most daring in history. 
 Mosby had heard that General Stoughton and sev- 
 
228 The Young Virgi?iia?t. 
 
 eral other Yankee officers were at Fairfax Court- 
 House, and he determined to capture them. The 
 Union army, at that time, occupied the whole re- 
 gion between Fredericksburg and Alexandria, and 
 strong bodies of infantry and cavalry were stationed 
 in the vicinity of Fairfax and Centreville. Fairfax, in 
 fact, was completely surrounded vnth. Yankee soldiers, 
 and it seemed next to impossible to even approach it ; 
 but Mosby determined to enter the town, and carry 
 off the Yankee commander. Selecting thirty reso- 
 lute men, he set out one dark, rainy night in Novem- 
 ber, on the hazardous enterprise. Taking the Little 
 River turnpike, he turned, after a while, into the tim- 
 ber skirting the Warrento^Ti road, to avoid the Union 
 cavalry. The night was very dark, and it was raining 
 hea^aly. He avoided the Yankee pickets by advanc- 
 ing along the bridle-paths in the woods, and the in- 
 cessant patter of the rain drowned the tread of the 
 horses. A mile this side of the Court-House he 
 came upon a body of the Federals, and turning to 
 the right, entered the woodsy again, and approached 
 the town on the southern side. A sleepy vedette was 
 the only obstacle. He was captured without firing a 
 shot, and the troop rode rapidly up to the General's 
 quarters. 
 
 "General Stoughton was asleep in one of the 
 
A Strange Career. 229 
 
 houses near the centre of the town, and taking 
 prisoner the orderly at his door, Mosby entered his 
 bedchamber. Shaking him by the shoulder, he said, 
 * Get up. General, and come with me ? ' The Gen- 
 eral started up, and indignant at Mosby's want of 
 ceremony, exclaimed, — 
 
 " * Do you know who I am, sir ? ' 
 
 " ' I reckon I do. General. Do you know Mosby ? ' 
 
 "'Yes,' answered the General, 'have you got the 
 
 rascal ? ' 
 
 " ' No, but he has got you ' ; and then to the sur- 
 prised officer, Mosby explained that he was a pris- 
 oner. He was soon dressed, mounted, and, with 
 about thirty others, led away a prisoner. 
 
 « Retracing his steps by the way he came, Mosby, 
 about daybreak, passed under the muzzles of the 
 Union guns at Centreville, and in a few hours was 
 safe beyond pursuit with his captives." * 
 
 " It was a bold exploit," said James ; " the man 
 who did it, had he been fighting for the right, would 
 have been a hero." 
 
 • For most of the foregoing statements the writer is indebted 
 to John Esten Cook, Esq., of Virginia, a gentleman of charac- 
 ter, and well acquainted with Mosby. The proof-sheets, more- 
 over, have been read and corrected by Colonel Mosby himself, 
 so that the statement conforms to his recollection of the facts. 
 
230 The Young Virginian. 
 
 " He is a hero. He thinks he is fighting for the 
 right; and so do I, though I am going to forsake 
 my colors." 
 
 There was a tone of regret in the Captain's words, 
 as if his wild life was showing him all its charms, now 
 that he was about leaving it forever. The boy noticed 
 it, and said, — 
 
 " Are you sorry you made up your mind to go 
 home with me ? " 
 
 " No, not sorry ; but at times I ask myself if it 's 
 manly to desert my native State at the ver}^ time 
 she most needs help ? " 
 
 " I do n't know about that ; but it seems to me 
 no good man can live the life you are leading." 
 
 " It 's no worse than war under any other form, — 
 it is all robbery and murder on a large scale, and 
 can be justified only when done in defence of truth 
 and justice." 
 
 " I know ; but won't association with your old 
 comrades lead you back into your old courses ? " 
 
 " It might," answered the Captain, moodily. " At 
 any rate, I '11 go with you. The battalion sets out 
 shortly on a raid ; and before the fight comes ofif, 
 we'll slip away at night, and go to the Union 
 lines." 
 
 " But is Mosby going on a raid with this small 
 
A Strange Career. 231 
 
 number of men ? There 's not a hundred in the 
 whole encampment." 
 
 " That 's true ; but a hundred will join us in the 
 morning, and runners are out who will bring another 
 hundred to the rendezvous by to-morrow night. 
 Mosby never has many men with him except when 
 on an expedition." 
 
 " Then this is not your regular camp ? There are 
 quarters here for a thousand." 
 
 " No, this village was built by a Louisiana regi- 
 ment, last winter. We have no regular camp, and 
 our men are seldom all together. They are gener- 
 ally young farmers, and are scattered among the small 
 farm-houses along the Ridge in this county. They 
 are subjected to few of the hardships of regular 
 soldiers, but live in families, sleep in beds, and sel- 
 dom have hard tack and bacon for rations. They 
 live on the fat of the land, and never buckle on their 
 arms except at some call from Mosby. He will go 
 off scouting with a few officers, on his own account, 
 and seeing some chance for a successful operation, 
 will send off couriers for the men to meet him at 
 a rendezvous. Then they come in, and when the 
 work is over, disband again. No one ever knows 
 what is to be done, till we meet at the place ap- 
 pointed. I shall not know what we are going about 
 now, till we get to Major Lucy's." 
 
232 The Young Virgiftian. 
 
 " Major Lucy's ! " exclaimed the boy. " You won't 
 go there ; you know that Robert is bent on killing 
 you." 
 
 "Yes," answered the Captain, "and I 'm not dis- 
 posed to expose myself needlessly. But the boy 
 will, no doubt, be away. He knows he 'd not be safe 
 at the mansion. We can't go off from here ; it 's 
 forty miles to the nearest Union forces." 
 
 An orderly then appeared, announcing that the 
 Captain was wanted at the court-martial ; and, lean- 
 ing on the arm of the boy, he set out for the " tent " 
 of the Sergeant. 
 
 The Captain's account of the character and career 
 of the celebrated guerilla is a South-side view ; but 
 it is corroborated to me by two or three Southern 
 gentlemen of unimpeachable standing, who could 
 not be induced to misrepresent the truth. It comes, 
 it is true, from his associates ] but for a just view 
 of any man we must go to his friends, — for a use- 
 ful one of ourselves, we may resort to our enemies. 
 A friend may tone down one's faults and heighten 
 one's virtues, and an enemy is very sure to reverse 
 the coloring ; but beneath the exaggerations of both 
 it is easy to detect the real likeness. Beyond a 
 question, a majority of the Southern leaders have 
 
A Strange Career. 233 
 
 been moved by the worst passions and motives that 
 ever actuated humanity ; but, among so many, there 
 must have been some honest men, and this, now 
 that the war is over, the most zealous partisan should 
 be willing to acknowledge. 
 
 The darkest stain on the character of Mosby is his 
 execution of four United States soldiers during the 
 campaign of 1864 ; but this, it should be borne in 
 mind, he alleges fo have been done in retaliation for 
 the hanging of seven of his own men, a short time 
 before, by the Union General Custer. Unprejudiced 
 lookers-on, however, might not justify us in condemn- 
 ing him for even such an act, until we had given 
 him a full opportunity to be heard in his own de- 
 fence. 
 
234 'rhe Young Virgmian, 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE COURT-MARTIAL. 
 
 AT the tent of the Sergeant about a dozen of the 
 guerillas were gathering to decide on the fate of 
 a fellow-being. They were rude men in bushy beards, 
 slouched hats, and the motley homespun, which, time 
 out of mind, has been the fashion in that region ; but 
 as, one by one, they entered the low doorway and 
 took their places around the little table which occu- 
 pied the centre of the room, they gave the guide a 
 free word or a friendly nod, which told very plainly 
 that only the most direct and positive evidence could 
 induce them to find a verdict against him. He lay 
 on the ground, his head bolstered on a pile of blan- 
 kets, and jMosby sat near on a camp-stool, looking 
 on, but apparently intending to take no part in t-he 
 proceedings. 
 
 The " court " was organized in the usual way ; and 
 shortly after the entrance of James and the Captain, 
 the Judge Advocate — a stout, burly, red-faced man, 
 whom the others addressed as Major — began the 
 examination of the witnesses. 
 
The Court- Martial. 235 
 
 Three or four of the rangers, wlio had seen the 
 events at the meeting-house, were at first separately 
 examined ; and then a dozen, present when the guide 
 was captured, were admitted to the room together. 
 This struck the Captain as unusual, and as a proceed- 
 ing which would work favorably for the prisoner ; for 
 the kindly feeling of any one of the number would be 
 likely to affect the others, and influence the character 
 of their testimony. 
 
 The first witnesses testified to seeing .the black- 
 smith ride away from the old meeting-house, and to 
 a horseman being with him ; but who the horseman 
 was, how he looked, or even the color of his clothing, 
 they were unable to distinguish in the dim light and 
 the general confusion. 
 
 Of those who were at the bridge, the Sergeant was 
 the first to be examined. " Tell what ye know of the 
 whole, Sergeant," said the Judge Advocate, as the 
 ranger took a seat near the little group of officers. 
 " Don't stop for questions." 
 
 "Wall, Major," answered the Sergeant, "I don't 
 know much, no how, and I haint no way in tellin' 
 what I does know ; howsomever, I '11 do the best I 
 kin. Ye see, the Cap'n he druv Jake away ter the 
 blacksmith's, case it 'peared as how as he was a be- 
 trayin' a old man thet had tuck him, a chunk uv a 
 
236 The Young Virginian. 
 
 boy, brung him up, and been a father ter him, — 
 and bein's the Cap'n 's a soul about him, he could 
 n't stand thet, no how ; as nary other decent man 
 could. Wall, Jake put inter the woods, and I seed 
 •him strike a stret line for camp. Arter that I nuver 
 sot eyes on him till I holped him from under his dead 
 nag on the mounting." 
 
 " Well, what did you see of him thar ? Who was 
 with him?" 
 
 " No one, 'cept old Holley ; and he war a run- 
 nin' away, — a-leavin' Jake ter die loike a dog." 
 
 " But before that, — what did you see of them ? " 
 
 "Nary thing. Two men wus across the bridge, 
 and one on 'em wus a-tearin' up the planks, — but 
 thet wur the blacksmith." 
 
 " You saw old Holley running away ; did n't Jake 
 try to go with him ? " 
 
 " No. He did n't lift a leg ter it ; I yered him 
 tell the blacksmith he would n't ; and when the old 
 man urged him to go, Jake laughed, and telled him 
 ter clar out. Ye see, he know'd he war among 
 friends, and had no 'casion fur runnin'." 
 
 A suppressed laugh went round the room when 
 this testimony was given ; but in a moment the court 
 resumed its wonted gravity, and the witness went 
 on. " Ye see. Major, I haint no loryer, no more 'n 
 
The Court-Martial. 237 
 
 ye is ; but I kin make all this out, jest as clar as 
 a barr'l uv apple-jack in the eend uv winter. Jake, 
 ye knows, wus dniv away by the Cap'n, and I seed 
 him, as I say, tuck a stret line for the mounting. 
 Wall, he rid alang sort o' easy loike, and war n't fur 
 ahead o' us, when he come onter the bridle-way g\vine 
 up ter the camp. 'T war natural he'd tuck the path 
 up, instead in gwine ten mile round by the road ; 
 and so, when the blacksmith turned in thar, they 
 come onter one another. Jake know'd the black- 
 smith, and sot high on him ; and the old feller has 
 a tongue loike a Methodist parson, so he coaxed 
 Jake ter ride along a piece with him. He done it, 
 and thet 's how he kim ter be with the blacksmith." 
 
 Even Mosby and the Judge Advocate joined in the 
 laugh which followed this singular bit of special plead- 
 ing, and the latter said: "Why, then, didn't you let 
 Jake go, and shoot the blacksmith ? " 
 
 " Wall ; 't war n't my fault thet we did n't. The 
 men fired afore I know'd it." 
 
 " But why did n't you shoot the blacksmith ? " 
 " We had orders ter bring him in alive." 
 " That 's true," said Mosby, laughing. " I gave the 
 order. Major ; and you see, the Sergeant carried it out 
 to the letter. As soon as he could he stopped the 
 firing." 
 
238 TJie Young Virginian. 
 
 Two other witnesses were then examined, and they 
 testified very much in the manner of the Sergeant. 
 When the last had concluded, the prosecuting officer 
 turned to Mosby, and said : " Gunnel, it 's no use, 
 we can't get enough out of these men to hang a scare- 
 crow. I 've no doubt Jake got the blacksmith away, 
 but it can't be proved ; and evidently the troop want 
 to let him off. If you don't object, I '11 drop the 
 proceedings." 
 
 " Do as you please. I shall not interfere," said 
 Mosby. 
 
 With this the Advocate turned to the guide, saying : 
 "Jake, you done it, — we know you done it; but we 
 reckon you meant no wrong to the country \ so we let 
 you off without going on with the trial ; but, another 
 time, be sure you don't help so big a traitor as old 
 Holley." - 
 
 " I thanks ye. Major, I '11 be sure o' thet," said the 
 guide, "for I reckons thar haint nary nother quite so 
 big as he in all Virginny. The old man allers went 
 the whole figger ; and this ar' a life-and-death busi- 
 ness, — so ye sees he 's in dead airnest." 
 
 With a few more friendly words the members of the 
 court passed out of the tent, and the guide was left 
 alone with the white boy and the two officers. Rais- 
 ing himself on his elbow, he said to Mosby : " Cunnell, 
 
The Cotirt-Martial. 239 
 
 I sees yer hand in this, — I seed it all along in the 
 way the thing was managed. I owes my life ter ye, 
 and I haint ungrateful. I '11 guv it fur ye onyway or 
 aryhow that'll show ye I ar' a white man." 
 
 The guerilla rested his head on his hand for a 
 moment, then looked up and said : " No, Jake ; I 
 trusted you, and you've betrayed me. I can't trust 
 you again. You must leave the troop." 
 
 The guide's voice trembled a little as he replied : 
 " Ye hin trust me, Cunnell. I allers loiked ye, and 
 this makes me love ye as ef ye wus my mother." 
 
 Again the guerilla rested his head on his hand for 
 a moment. Then he said again : " No, Jake ; it can't 
 be. I never trusted man or woman twice. You must 
 go. The troop moves to-night. Where shall I send 
 you?" 
 
 The guide drew a long breath before he answered : 
 " Anywhar, Gunnel. Thar 's a gal up ter Snicker's as 
 I reckon '11 nuss me till I kin git round ag'in. Then 
 I '11 set out ter find old Miles, — that is, if ye 've no 
 'jection." 
 
 " Where is he ? " asked Mosby, hastily. 
 
 " Safe in the Union lines by this time, I reckon." 
 
 " Then you '11 join the Yankees after all," said the 
 guerilla. 
 
 " No, Gunnel," answered Jake ; " but ef I car n't 
 
240 The Young Vij-ginian. 
 
 fight with ye, I '11 let old Virginny shirk fur her- 
 self." 
 
 An hour later the guide, laid on a pile of blankets 
 in the bottom of the blacksmith's wagon, was driv- 
 en off, under escort of one of the rangers, up the 
 road leading along the east of the Ridge. About an 
 hour before sunset this vehicle, slowly climbing the 
 mountain-road, came in sight of the party of Union 
 troops which, hidden in the woods by the wayside, 
 were awaiting the darkness that should cover their 
 movements. 
 
 " It is my wagon, and right from Mosby's camp," 
 said the blacksmith, springing upon the nearest horse, 
 and galloping into the highway in front of the vehicle. 
 A dozen cavalrj^men followed; but before they reached 
 the road, the blacksmith, drawing a pistol from his 
 holster, had halted the startled trooper. 
 
 Saying, " I surrender," the man laid down his car- 
 bine, and the loyalist rode up to the wagon. " What, 
 Jake ! Is it you ? " he cried, as he caught sight of 
 the half-sleeping guide on the floor of the vehicle. 
 
 " Bless my eyes ! Is it ye^ Boss ? " shouted Jake, 
 raising himself on his elbow. " Has ye dropped from 
 the clouds, or whar has ye come from ? " 
 
 Mutual explanations followed ; and in a few mo- 
 ments the blacksmith understood the cause of the 
 guide's sudden appearance. 
 
TJie Coiirt- Martial. 241 
 
 " Is Mosby still on the mountain ? " asked the 
 Major, who had ridden up to the wagon. 
 
 " I carn't tell ye, sir," answered the guide, glan- 
 cing at the other's uniform. " Till three hours back 
 I served under him." 
 
 " But you don't now ; and these are our friends, 
 Jake," said the blacksmith. 
 
 "l?r friends, ye mean. Boss, not mine. I 'd die 
 sooner 'n I 'd tell on Mosby ; and ye will too, Sam, ef 
 thar 's a morsel uv a man in ye," said the guide, 
 addressing the last words to the ranger whow^as still 
 seated on the front of the wagon. 
 
 " But, Jake, if you tell, you may save bloodshed. 
 The Major was going with me to rescue you and 
 take Mosby. If he knows his real strength and 
 whereabouts, he may turn back again," said the 
 blacksmith. 
 
 "I advise him not ter go. I can't say no more," 
 replied the guide, stretching himself Out again upon 
 the floor of the wagon. 
 
 " It is no use to say more," said the blacksmith, 
 turning to the Major. , " If Jake says he won't, he 
 won't. Mosby has no doubt moved from his 
 camp ; if he had n't, he would not have sent Jake 
 away." 
 
 " My man," now said the Major to the ranger, 
 II p 
 
242 The YoMig Virginian. 
 
 " tell us where Mosby is, and how many men are 
 with him, and we will let you go." 
 
 The man looked around on the column of cavalry, 
 as if taking their census, and then very deliberately 
 said to the officer, " Does ye mean what ye says ? 
 Will ye let me loose if I tells ye ? " 
 
 " Yes. You can go the moment we come in sight 
 of Mosby's forces." 
 
 " But I mought n't want ter go thet way ; the cli- 
 mate mought be summut onhealthy ter a man as 
 had peached on the Gunnel. Let me go along with 
 Jake and the wagon." 
 
 " Ye carn't go with me," said the guide, raising 
 himself upon his elbow, and giving the ranger a look 
 of intense scorn. " I 'd die in the road sooner 'n be 
 holped by a man as is willin' ter betray his com- 
 rades." 
 
 " Shet up, Jake," said the other, " none uv yer 
 preachin' ter rae : doan't I know ye holped old Hoi- 
 ley?" 
 
 The guide made no reply \ and the Major said, 
 " Well, my man, what do you say ? " 
 
 " I '11 tell ye what ye wants, ef ye '11 drap me when 
 ye comes within a mile uv the Gunnel." 
 
 "We will do it." 
 
 " Wall ; he 's left the mounting two hours ago, and 
 
TJie Court-Martial. 243 
 
 ag'in this time ar' more 'n half way ter Major Lucy's. 
 He haint eighty men, and won't hev a dozen more 
 'fore ter-morrer at sundown," 
 
 " It 'r' a lie, Major, and he knows it," cried Jake, 
 the same look of intense scorn on his features. "He 's 
 sayin' it only ter trap ye." 
 
 " It haint a lie," said the man, looking the Union 
 officer squarely in the face. '' Jake owes his life ter 
 the Gunnel, and he reckons one good turn desarves 
 another. I haint no sich sentiments, — so I tells ye 
 the truth ; fur, atween us, I don't keer ter see the 
 inside uv a Yankee prison." 
 
 The officer glanced keenly from one man to the 
 other, then said to the blacksmith, "What do you 
 think, Mr. Holley \ which of these men tells the 
 truth.?" 
 
 "Jake never told a lie, and I 've known him 
 since he could talk. You had better turn back, and 
 get to the lines as soon as possible." 
 
 " And I 've known this man since I was born," 
 now said the slave boy, who had stood by, an in- 
 terested listener to this conversation. " He has no 
 motive to mislead you. He knows that if he did, 
 you would shoot him down before he could get away. 
 Mosby thinks Mr. Holley has gone back to his home, 
 and has set out with a small party to take him." 
 
244 '^^^^ Young Virginiaji. 
 
 "That 's true," added the ranger. " That darky 's 
 more sense nor a million o' white men." 
 
 A half hour's conversation followed ; and at its close 
 the Union officer ordered his troop to horse, and 
 started on the route leading down the mountain. At 
 the same time the blacksmith, declining to go with the 
 party, mounted the wagon, and drove off with the 
 guide in the direction of the Union army. 
 
 Their progress was slow, and it was not far from 
 midnight when the vehicle which bore the wounded 
 man turned into a narrow path sloping gently up from 
 the highway in the vicinit}^ of Snicker's Gap. There, 
 half way up the ridge, and in the midst of a small 
 opening, stands a low-roofed log-cottage ; and before 
 this cottage the wagon drew up, and the blacksmith, 
 alighting, rapped long and loudly at the doonvay. 
 All was dark and silent within ; but at last a woman's 
 voice was heard at the window, " Who ar' ye, and 
 what ar' wanted?" it asked. 
 
 " It 's me, — Miles Holley," answered the black- 
 smith, "and Jake is with me, wounded." 
 
 " Jake wounded ! " screamed the woman, throwing 
 up the sash, andthrusting her head out into the dark- 
 ness. "Ar' he bad hurt?" 
 
 "No, not bad, Sally," replied the wounded man. 
 " It '11 lay me up a month or so, — that 's all But 
 
The Court- Martial. 245 
 
 clap on yer clo'es, and holp me inter the house. The 
 boss must be twenty mile away by sun-up." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know. I yered ye'd slipped the 
 noose, Mr. Holley ; and I'se right glad on it, though 
 yer politics ar' bad enough ter ruin the whole dees- 
 trict." 
 
 With this the woman disappeared, and soon a light 
 shone through the window. In a few moments the 
 woman emerged from the doorway, accompanied by 
 an older one bearing . a torch of lightwood. The 
 younger had all the oiUward characteristics of the 
 women of her class, — an olive skin, jet black hair and 
 eyes, and a lithe, graceful figure, — and her face bore 
 traces of recent weeping. As she approached the 
 wagon the guide lifted himself upon his elbow, and 
 threw his disengaged arm about her neck in the 
 manner of young people under certain circumstances. 
 " I'se right glad to git to ye, Sally," he said ; " but 
 what on yearth ar' the matter ? Ye looks as if 
 thar 'd been another deluge." 
 
 " I'se been a cr^'in' my eyes out for ye, Jake," said 
 the girl, gently repelling his caresses. " Ye ugly 
 feller, to go along and git yerself inter sich a scrape, 
 and all for a ole traitor. Ef ye'd been hanged, 
 't would have served ye right \ but I 'd never ha' for- 
 given ye — never." 
 
246 The Young Virginian. 
 
 "Yes, you would, Sally," said the blacksmith, 
 laughing ; " you 'd do the same thing yourself, if you 
 wore trousers." 
 
 " That 's so, — she would," said the older woman j 
 " and we '11 hide ye now, Mr. Holley, for all of Mosby, 
 or the old man inter the bargin." 
 
 " I know 3'Ou would," answered the blacksmith, 
 evidently affected ; " but Jake is right : I must be 
 twenty miles away by sunrise. Let us get him into 
 the house, so I may be going." 
 
 The wagon was then whepled up to the doorway, 
 and Jake was soon borne to the bed recently vacated 
 by the two women. There he was left by the black- 
 smith, v.ho, mounted on a fresh horse, given him by 
 the Rebel women, was, an hour before morning, snugly 
 hidden in the house of a friend miles away at the 
 northward. There he lay during the day, and setting 
 out again at night, soon entered the Union lines at 
 Harper's Ferr}% 
 
The Night Attack. 247 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE NIGHT ATTACK. 
 
 DID you never think how much beauty night 
 and shadow give to the world, — how dreary 
 it would be if it were all one waste of sunshine, with 
 no clouds to obscure, no vapors to soften the cease- 
 less glare ; with no night with its silent stars, no 
 twilight with its gathering shadows ? And what night 
 and shadow are to the world, are not trial and sor- 
 row to the soul ? Do they not cover it with beauty, 
 lend it a radiance " that never was on land or sea," 
 — a radiance that falls from the eternal stars, which 
 shine forever above the clouds, however dark the 
 night, however thick the shadows that surround our 
 lives ? 
 
 Old Katy's life had been full of shadow ; but now, 
 as she sat in the desolate mansion, looking out into 
 the night, she saw the stars a-shining, — shining as 
 they shone that night when the angels sang, " Peace 
 on earth, good-will toward men." She thought of 
 her grandson as dead, or, with the brand of Cain 
 upon him, a wanderer in the world ; and yet those 
 
248 The Yozmg Virginian. 
 
 words were in her ears, the radiance of that silent 
 starlight was in her soul. 
 
 Long she sat there, looking out into the night 
 and listening to every sound that the wind wafted 
 through the still woods ; but at last she rose, 
 and, going out upon the lawn, bent her ear low to 
 the ground. Sounding, far away, was a faint roar, like 
 the distant rumbling of a storm gathering in the 
 forest. Louder it grew, until it came down on the 
 night with the dull roll of the ocean lashed by the 
 wind. It was a troop of horse guerillas, and they 
 could tell of her grandson ! Thinking only of this, 
 she rushed out into the road, and soon caught sight 
 of their arms, now glittering in the moonlight, now 
 hidden by the trees. Swiftly they came on, and, al- 
 most before she was aware, had encircled her in the 
 highway. " What is ye a doin' yere, old 'ooman ? " 
 shouted one. " A little more 'n I 'd run ye down." 
 
 " Where am Rgbby "i tell me, whar am de chile ? " 
 
 " What child ? " said the man who seemed to be 
 the leader, as the rest came to a halt. 
 
 "My Robby. Major Lucy's Robby. My own 
 chile," cried the old woman, forgetting, in her anxi- 
 ety, for her grandson, that all the world did not know 
 him, and the errand he had been on. 
 
 " We don't know," answered the man. " Is this 
 Major Lucy's ? " 
 
The Night Attack. 249 
 
 " Yes, dis am de Major's. Oh ! whar am Robby ? 
 Can't nobody tell?" 
 
 " Nobody here. Go back to the house, Aunty, and 
 keep quiet. Perhaps the Colonel knows ; he '11 be 
 here before morning." 
 
 Old Katy went back, and the men rode silently in 
 at the gate, and deployed on the lawn in front of the 
 mansion. Then a few low orders were given, and 
 they scattered among the trees and negro cabins, and 
 soon the place was as quiet and apparently as de- 
 serted as it had been an hour before. Sitting 
 down on the door-steps, old Katy looked out again 
 into the night, and suddenly, as she looked, a 
 rocket shot up into the air from the woods in the 
 direction of the blacksmith's. In a moment it was 
 answered by another from the rear of the house, 
 and then she heard the same far-off roar, like the 
 distant rumbling of the storm or the heavy roll of 
 the ocean when lashed by the wind. Quickly it 
 came on again, and before another hour the head 
 of a column of horsemen emerged from the trees at 
 the west of the mansion, and rode rapidly into the 
 high-road. 
 
 " It 'm dem ! It 'm Mosby ! " she cried, springing 
 to her feet, and hastening to the gateway. But a 
 bayonet barred her passage. 
 
250 The Yoimg Virginian. 
 
 " No, you don't," said a sentinel, rising like a ghost 
 from among the bushes bordering the highway. " Not 
 another step, old woman." 
 
 " I only wants ter see de Gunnel. I only wants 
 ter larn about Robby," she cried, imploringly. 
 
 " Well, you can't see the Gunnel," answered the 
 man. " You go back, or you '11 see stars mighty 
 sudden." 
 
 Reluctantly she went back to her seat on the door- 
 steps, while the column of cavalry came out of the 
 woods, and, leaping the fences, gathered round the 
 desolate mansion. Her mind was too intently en- 
 gaged with one thought to notice their number, but it 
 was at least two hundred. Soon one she knew rode 
 slowly up to the gateway. Heedless of the sentinel's 
 warning, she rushed towards him, and cried out : 
 " O Gap'n, Gap'n ! de Lord be praised, it 'm you, 
 and you haint dead. Whar am de chile, — whar am 
 Robby?" 
 
 The horseman halted, and, bending over his saddle- 
 bow, said kindly : " I don't know. He got away at 
 the blacksmith's." 
 
 " I knows \ but he foUered you, — did n't you see 
 him ag'in at de ole meetin'-house ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but he got away again. He 's in the Union 
 lines by this time." 
 
The Night Attack. 251 
 
 While a score of troopers gathered round in mute 
 amazement, the old negress sank to her knees, and, 
 stretching up her arms to the sky, cried out : " De 
 Lord be tanked, de good Lord be tanked. He 'm safe, 
 and de Cap'n haint murdered ! " 
 
 While she spoke, the same dull roar sounded again 
 far away at the west, and a lithe, slenderly built man, 
 springing from his horse, and bending closely to the 
 ground, cried out: "What is that? None of the 
 troop are coming from that direction." 
 
 In a moment he rose, and, turning to one of the 
 men, said : " Sergeant, your ears are good ; tell me 
 how many they are, and how far away." 
 
 The Sergeant dismounted, and, putting his ear down 
 until it almost touched the grass, listened long and 
 intently. Then he answered : " About a mile away, 
 Gunnel, and nigh onter two hundred, I reckon." 
 
 " Up with a blue rocket," said the Colonel, quickly, 
 bending again to the ground, and listening. 
 
 The rocket soon rose with a rushing sound, and 
 exploding high overhead, scattered into a shower of 
 little stars, which floated awhile in the air, and then 
 went out in the darkness. Suddenly there was a 
 pause in the rumbling noise, and then an answering 
 rocket rose in the distance, and, scattering like the 
 first, it too went out in the darkness. 
 
252 The Young Virginian. 
 
 " Strange, strange," said the Colonel, leaping again 
 upon his horse. " It is the signal \ but they can't be 
 our men, — they are too many. A dozen of you tear 
 down the fence, to give play for the horses ; the rest 
 into line in the shadow of the trees. We must see 
 them before they see us." 
 
 These orders were promptly executed, and, mean- 
 while, the sounds rose again on the air, and came 
 rapidly nearer. James, who had ridden to the ren- 
 dezvous by the side of the Captain, had then, dis- 
 mounted, and was standing in conversation with the 
 old negress, when the trooper said to him : " My boy, 
 there is likely to be a brush ; lead your horse to the 
 rear, and then go into the house with Aunty ; and 
 mind, if there 's any firing; don't come near the win- 
 dows." 
 
 The boy obeyed, and soon joined old Katy in the 
 parlor of the mansion. Posting themselves so as to 
 command a view of the road by which the sounds 
 were approaching, they breathlessly awaited the ar- 
 rival of the strange horsemen, -^ the boy with the un- 
 quiet feeling with which a spectator looks forward to 
 a deadly collision ; the woman with that vague pre- 
 sentiment which so often giv'es warning of some 
 coming evil. 
 
 They were not long in waiting. A half hour had 
 
The Night Attack, 253 
 
 not passed when a column of blue-coats rode out of 
 the wood a quarter of a mile away, and came rapidly- 
 forward, their arms gleaming in the moonlight. 
 " They are Yankees," said Mosby, riding along the 
 front of his line. " Give them a volley at a hundred 
 yards, and then upon them with the sabre." 
 
 Quietly the men unslung their carbines ; a breathless 
 moment followed, then the word " Fire " rung out on 
 the air, and, before they were aware of the presence 
 of an enemy, a storm of bullets tore through the ad- 
 vancing column, sending a score to the ground, and 
 scattering the rest in momentary confusion. But the 
 confusion was only momentary. At the quick voice 
 of their leader they rallied, and, making a stand in 
 the edge of the woods, sent back a volley which laid 
 many a gray warrior at rest forever. 
 
 But the Rebels were two to their one ; and, unmind- 
 ful of the leaden storm, they were now pressing on 
 with uplifted sabres to mow down the little band of 
 blue-coats. Bravely they held their ground, and, for 
 a few moments, the conflict was terrible ; but flesh and 
 blood could not long withstand such a hurricane. One 
 by one they went down, until thirty were stretched on 
 the green grass or the stony highway, dead or dying ; 
 and then the rest turned and galloped away, some 
 along the road, others among the thick underbrush 
 which skuted the forest behind them. 
 
254 TJie Yomig Virginian. 
 
 At the very beginning of the fray, James, from his 
 stand at the window of the mansion, had singled out 
 one of the combatants with whose form he was fa- 
 raihar. He was a mere stripling, but, mounted on a 
 powerful, gray horse, he fought as if possessed with 
 the spirit of a demon. The Union volley was just 
 discharged, and the Rebel column was pressing on 
 in its resistless charge, when he spurred his horse 
 from the ranks, and straight at a little knot of 
 rangers, among whom was the Captain. Straight at 
 him he rode, and their swords crossed before the 
 trooper knew with whom he was confronted. But for 
 only a moment was he in ignorance ; for, as the other 
 dealt at him a tremendous blow, he cried out, " I 
 have you now. Now you shall not escape me." 
 
 A film gathered before the trooper's eyes, and 
 weakly parrying the blow, he cried to the men 
 around, " Disarm him, — unhorse him ; but do not 
 hurt him, on your lives." 
 
 In an instant a dozen rangers were upon the sin- 
 gle horseman, and with one sweep of the Sergeant's 
 sword, his arm and his sabre were both gone from 
 him forever. He uttered a yell, half of pain, half of 
 rage, and his head sank almost to his saddle-bow. 
 The rangers thought it the sign of surrender, for 
 their uplifted weapons fell harmless ; but the youth 
 
The Night Attack. 255 
 
 spurred his horse forward, and with his left hand 
 grasped the pistol in his holster. In a second more 
 its two balls were buried, one in the Captain's 
 breast, the other in "the neck of his horse, and 
 horse and rider went to the earth, the man under 
 the dying animal. A dozen rangers sprang to the 
 ground to disentangle the wounded man, and as 
 many more encircled the infuriated stripling. As 
 James saw this from the window, he rushed out upon 
 the lawn, crying : " It is Robert. He has killed the 
 Captain." And the old negress followed. The boy 
 went straight to his wounded friend, the negress to 
 her insane grandson. 
 
 The Captain was stretched upon the ground, and 
 one of the rangers was supporting his head, another 
 t}dng a ligature -about his side, from which the blood 
 was running in a rivulet. His eyes were open, and 
 he was speaking. "Tell them not to hurt the boy," 
 he said, " not to hurt him, if they love me." 
 
 James knelt by his side, took his hand in his, 
 and said, " O, I hope you 're not much hurt, — not 
 much hurt." 
 
 " O yes, my boy, it 's all over with me, now, — all 
 over with me — here,'' he gasped. Then, turning his 
 face to the man who was holding his head, and 
 down whose bronzed cheeks the tears were trick- 
 
256 The Young Virginian. 
 
 ling, he added : " This is the boy, Colonel. You ']! 
 see he gets safely home to his mother ? " 
 
 "Yes, yes, I will," answered the man, — who was 
 Mosby. " Can I do anything more for you ? " 
 
 The dying man shook his head, and said nothing. 
 His eyes were open, but they seemed fixed on some- 
 thing in the distance ; and when he spoke again, his 
 words were slower, weaker. " Come nearer, boy," 
 he said, after a while. " Nearer." The boy bent 
 down closely, and wiped away the cold sweat which 
 was already gathering on the dying man's forehead. 
 
 " God bless you, boy," he said, pressing the boy's 
 face to his. In a moment more he added : " It 's 
 growing dark, — dark, — but now — it brightens." 
 Soon, but only in a hoarse whisper, he spoke 
 again. " It is bright now, boy, — very bright," he 
 said, " and she is here ! " Then suddenly stretching 
 out his arms, with a louder voice, he cried : " Yes, 
 I 4n coming, — just as I am, — I 'm coming ! " 
 Then his head fell back, his arms dropped to his 
 side, and he was over the narrow way that divides 
 this world from that beyond the silent river. 
 
 Meanwhile, another immortal soul was groping its 
 way along the dark valley. A pure spirit was bend- 
 ing above it, wildly praying the good Father to take 
 
The Night Attack. 257 
 
 his lost child again to his bosom ; but the words fell 
 unheeded on the ear of the dying j and when the 
 moonlight faded out of his eyes, it was not the gentle 
 breeze, it was the midnight storm that was gathered 
 on his features. 
 
258 The Young Virginian. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 ABOUT a month after the events narrated in the 
 last chapter, the boy, whose adventures among 
 the Rebels this little book has recorded, was seated 
 by a window in the room which he saw in his dream 
 that night when he lay in the old meeting-house at the 
 cross-roads. It was late at night, a candle was burn- 
 ing dimly on the centre-table, and a woman, not old 
 nor yet young, sat by it, reading. Another woman sat 
 near, listening. Her body was bent, and her face was 
 black ; but her hair was of a snowy whiteness, — 
 blanched, it may be, in a single night, by some great 
 sorrow. The younger woman was reading the words 
 of the disciple whom Jesus loved, — the disciple 
 whose only sermon in his old age, when for nearly a 
 hundred years he had tasted the love of God, was, 
 " Little Children, love one another." 
 The younger woman read : " I hear a voice from 
 heaven saying unto me, ' Write. Blessed are the dead 
 who die in the Lord from henceforth. Yea, saith the 
 Spirit, they rest from their labors, and their wcfrks do 
 follow them.' " 
 
Conclusion. 259 
 
 The younger woman read this ; but the words were 
 scarcely uttered when the older one sprang to her 
 feet, staggered a step or two forward, then sunk to the 
 floor, and, throwing up her arms, cried out, " Even so, 
 Lord Jesus, come ! Come quickly ! " 
 
 The boy and his mother sprang to their feet, and 
 rushed to the fallen woman ; but, before they reached 
 her, the candle, burning low in its socket, went out, — 
 went out on the earth, but only to be lit again in a 
 better world, where it will bum forever. 
 
 And here ends all that I can tell you, of my 
 own knowledge, in regard to the persons who have 
 figured in this short history. The war is over ; and 
 though the hot passions it aroused are yet not alto- 
 gether cooled, let us hope that the weapons of death 
 it called forth are thoroughly beaten into ploughshares 
 and pruning-hooks. 
 
 The end of the war allowed Jake and Mr. Holley 
 to return to Virginia. Arrived there, the first thing 
 that Jake did was to build for his employer a snug 
 cabin on the ruins of the old mansion ; the next, to 
 find the rifle-barrel he had lost on the mountain, and 
 to fashion it into a huge horse-shoe, which he nailed 
 over the door of the blacksmith-shop, in token of 
 good-will to all comers. This I have learned from a 
 
26o The Young Virginian. 
 
 friend who, late in the autumn of 1865, visited on 
 horseback the battle-fields of the Old Dominion. I 
 had previously related to him the facts which I have 
 woven into this little story, and curiosity led him to 
 ride over the ground that witnessed the stirring events 
 I have so feebly described. There, oddly enough, he 
 met Jake and the blacksmith, and what he saw and 
 heard, as faithfully as I can, I will tell you. 
 
 It was not far from noon on a pleasant day in Sep- 
 tember, when he came in sight of the triangular piece 
 of ground on which had stood the blacksmith's house 
 and outbuildings. Smoke was issuing from the chim- 
 ney of the shop, and a man was at work within, and 
 singing merrily, as with a ponderous sledge he ham- 
 mered out the horse-shoes. Over the door swung a 
 sign, which, in black letters on a white ground, said 
 to the passer-by : 
 
 JACOB YEARDON ; 
 
 Blacksmith, 
 AND Veterinary Surgeon. 
 
 Love your Enemies, 
 Live Peaceably with all Men. 
 
 Amused at this odd blending of business and re- 
 ligion, the traveller reined up his horse and said to 
 
Conclusion. 261 
 
 the man within, "Then Mr. Holley does not live 
 here now?" 
 
 The man paused in his work, and looking up, 
 answered, " Live here ? Well, he do ; and I reckon 
 he'll never live no whar else, now -that ole Virginny 's 
 got back inter the Union." 
 
 The traveller then explained who he was, and ex- 
 pressed a wish to meet Mr. Holley; and the man, 
 rolling down his sleeves, and putting on his hat, 
 promptly replied, " Sartin, stranger, I '11 tuck ye ter 
 the house. The old man '11 be glad ter see ye. He 
 allers had a weakness for ye Yankees ; and I 'm 
 durned ef I has n't sort o' tuck ter ye myself, sense ye 
 whaled us so handsomely." 
 
 The traveller laughed, and replied good-humoredly, 
 " I 've ' tuck ter ye,' — your name is Jake ! " 
 
 The man started in surprise, and with a look half 
 serious, half comic, answered : "No it tain't. That's 
 what it used ter -was, in my fighting days, when I war 
 a young man ; but now the war 's over, I'^ married, 
 and folks call me Jacob, — Jacob Yeardon, black- 
 smith and veteran surgeon." 
 
 " And your rules of life are, * Love your enemies : 
 live peaceably with all men ? ' " said the traveller, 
 again laughing. 
 
 " So the sign says, strangi;r ; but that 's the old 
 
262 The Young Virginian. 
 
 man's doin's. He meant ter guv every one far 
 warnin' that ef they smote him on one cheek he'd 
 turn the tother. That's the doctrine; but I reckon 
 it 's hard ter Uve it, 'cept you 's as nigh ter heaven as 
 old Miles and Ma'am Holley." 
 
 The traveller then dismounted, and hitching his 
 horse to a post near the smithy, walked on with Jake 
 toward the dwelling. It was a low-roofed cabin, 
 built of rough logs to which the bark still was clinging, 
 and it was divided by a broad passage-way into two 
 tenements. At the door of the nearer one they were 
 met by a tidily-dressed young woman, with dark hair 
 and eyes, and a face more cheerful than the brightest 
 day of summer. She made the traveller a low cour- 
 tesy, and, turning to him, Jake said, " Stranger, this 
 ar' my wife ; as ye knows me, ye orter know 
 Sally." 
 
 The traveller held out his hand, saying that he had 
 heard of her, and was glad to make her acquaintance ; 
 and she led the way into the parlor of the rude dwell- 
 ing. The room had a bare floor, and was furnished 
 with only a few cheap chairs and a pine table, on 
 which were piled a number of books and some news- 
 papers. A one-armed man, with a furrowed face, and 
 long gray hair, sat at the table reading ; and as they 
 entered Jake said to him, " Yere ar' a Yankee, Boss, 
 
Conclusion. 263 
 
 as has come half way round the world ter see ye, and 
 go over the ground in the Wilderness." 
 
 The blacksmith rose and greeted the stranger cour- 
 teously, and, sitting down, the two were soon well 
 acquainted. After dinner they walked out upon the 
 lawn, and under the shade of a great elm went over 
 the war together. The blacksmith was much broken, 
 but his wife was left to him, and he had learned from 
 the blessed Book which tells us that the dead are 
 " not lost, but gone before," to bear with resignation 
 the parting from his children. To Jake he had given 
 all he had except the few acres which held the ruins 
 of his homestead, and, consoled by his devoted at- 
 tachment, he was patiently waiting the summons 
 which should call him to join the great army of the 
 immortals. 
 
 The traveller stayed with him over night, and on 
 the following day they went over the battle-ground 
 together. They rode down the narrow road by which 
 the rangers had come when they burned the black- 
 smith's dwelling, and halted when they came to the 
 old shanty in the Wilderness. On the cleared plot 
 before its door Bursley and his wife were at work, 
 and accosting them, the blacksmith said, " Well, John, 
 how do you get on 'i how is the prospect for the 
 winter ? " 
 
264 • TJic Young Virginian. 
 
 " Pore, Boss, mighty pore," answered the man. 
 " The crop has been bad, very bad, and things never 
 luck'd wuss, — never, sense I come inter this wurld uv 
 trouble." 
 
 Now this, to those who know how to Uve, is a good 
 sort of world, — probably as good as any in the uni- 
 verse, — so Bursley's remark gave the blacksmith an 
 excellent chance for moralizing on the blessings of con- 
 tentment and starvation. Probably t^velve "serious- 
 minded " men in a dozen would have improved the 
 occasion, and have stuffed the poor white man with a 
 sermon when he needed only corn-bread and bacon.* 
 But the blacksmith was not a "serious-minded" man. 
 He thought God could do his own preaching, (and 
 he generally does do it, and very effectually, by afflic- 
 tion,) so he only said, " I am sorry. Come down to 
 the smithy. I reckon Jake will give you work enough 
 to get you through the winter." 
 
 " I don't know. Boss," said the poor man, a tear 
 rolling down his cheek. I'se allers thort Jake war 
 sort o' down on me ever sense — ever sense I turned 
 my back on ye ter the old meetin'-house." 
 
 * Lest the young reader should misunderstand me, I will say 
 that I have a high opinion of sermons. They are excellent 
 things in their way, and on proper occasions ; and perhaps it is 
 only with starving men and women that they can be profitably 
 omitted. 
 
Conclusion. 265 
 
 " O no ! He never laid that up against you. I 
 never blamed you. Come, and I promise you shall 
 be kept from want during the winter." 
 
 The " God-bless-ye " which answered this remark 
 touched the heart of the traveller. It is such God- 
 bless-you's that light a good man's way to heaven. 
 
 The two rode on, and a short half-hour brought 
 them to the scene of Old Katy'*s many sorrows. The 
 mansion had been burned during one of the many 
 conflicts which had occurred in its vicinity, and only 
 a pile of blackened beams marked the site of the 
 once stately dwelling. Picking their way among the 
 ruins, the two went on to a far corner of the court- 
 yard. There they paused before a couple of low 
 mounds, overgrown with grass, and guarded by rude 
 head-boards ; and the blacksmith said to his com- 
 panion, — 
 
 "Here they lie, — the murderer and the murdered. 
 Who shall judge them but He who knows all they 
 sinned and all they suffered ? " 
 
266 The Young Virginian. 
 
 CHAPTER THE LAST. 
 
 THE SUM OF THE WHOLE. 
 
 EVERY one remembers a certain artist, who, after 
 painting a " neighing steed," wrote underneath 
 the picture, " This is a horse," lest it should be mis- 
 taken for an alligator. I am tempted to imitate his 
 example, lest the .young reader, otherwise, may not 
 discover my full purpose in writing this little volume. 
 My object, as I said at the beginning, is not so much 
 to tell a story, as to draw a series of portraits which 
 shall depict the different classes of Southern society, 
 — the " mean whites," the " poor whites," the " chiv- 
 alry," the " negroes," and the mixed race in which 
 the blood of the white and the black is mingled in 
 various proportions. 
 
 In so short a story, introducing so small a number 
 of people, I have not been able to portray all the 
 characteristics of all the classes at the South ; and 
 that is my apology for adding this supplementary 
 chapter, which, at first sight, may seem like a fifth 
 wheel to a' coach, or like a piece added on to a tail 
 already — as a tale — long enough in all conscience. 
 
The Sum of the Whole. 267 
 
 The conscript Bursley and his wife are meant to 
 be types of the " mean whites," and their wretched 
 hovel is intended as a specimen of the houses in 
 which these people live all over the South. They 
 are far below the negroes in all that makes civiliza- 
 tion and manhood, and do scarcely any work, — 
 either begging their bread from the planter or stealing 
 it from his fields and forests. They can neither read 
 nor write, and are ignorant of the simplest elements 
 of knowledge ; such as that the earth is round, that 
 five and five are ten, and that, to produce any result, 
 use must be made of the appropriate means. About 
 all that they do know is that they have a voice in 
 electing men to ofiice ; though what those men do 
 when in office, or how their action concerns them, 
 they have no idea whatever. 
 
 They have, heretofore, sold their votes to the 
 planter for the wretched privilege of living in some 
 miserable hut, or of foraging at night on his patch of 
 corn and potatoes ; and this is what has made them 
 a very dangerous class ; for it was largely by their 
 votes that the " chivalry " were, before the war, en- 
 abled to rule the South, and control, to so great an ex- 
 tent, the legislation of the whole country. These four 
 years of conflict and carnage have taught these people 
 nothing ; and, if they have the power, they will again 
 
268 The Yoting Virgiiiimi. 
 
 support the planters. So we must look to it that 
 the "chivalry" are not again eligible for office, or 
 again allowed any voice in the control of the nation. 
 
 They are totally destitute of morals and religion, 
 and live in open violation of almost all laws, human 
 and divine. Fathers cohabit with daughters, brothers 
 with sisters ; and husbands sell or barter away their 
 wives, just as they would their jackknives or their 
 rusty rifles. Many of them never heard of the Bible, 
 and few know there is a world beyond this, and that 
 the lives we live here determine the lives we shall 
 enter upon hereafter. On all this broad earth there 
 is not a class of white people so ignorant and so 
 degraded as they are ; and all their ignorance and 
 degradation has been brought about by the "chiv- 
 alry," who have deprived them of schools, and kept 
 them in mental and moral darkness, that they might 
 make them the servile tools and pliant instruments 
 of their reckless and wicked ambition. 
 
 The class is not large, and it is well it is not ; for if 
 it were, the thorough reconstruction and regeneration 
 of the South would be things which the youngest of 
 you might not live to see, so far av*ay would it be in 
 the very .dim distance. It is impossible to estimate 
 their number with any exactness, there being no suffi 
 cient data on which to found a reckoning; but the 
 
The Sum of the Whole. 269 
 
 opinion of those best informed on the subject, and 
 long observation in all parts of the South, have led me 
 to the conclusion that it cannot exceed a million. 
 
 The class at the South next higher in the social 
 scale is the "poor whites," and they comprise the 
 great mass of the Southern people, and, before the 
 war, numbered at least five millions. They are of 
 different grades, and the 'lower strata are not much 
 above the " mean whites " in either mental or moral 
 cultivation ; but they all do what the other class does 
 not do, that is, they work with their hands or their 
 heads, and so add something to the wealth and com- 
 fort of the world. Perhaps one half of them cannot 
 read or write ; but the fact that they labor lifts them 
 above the " mean whites," for only " the idle mind is 
 the Devil's workshop." The three principal grades of 
 this class — ascending in the order in which they are 
 here named — I have endeavored to depict in the 
 Sergeant, the Guide, and the Blacksmith. 
 
 These people are the real hope of the South, and 
 the Union cannot be fully reconstructed until they are 
 educated, made acquainted with the true principles of 
 our government, and brought back to hearty loyalty 
 to the country. They must be given the political 
 power which the " chivalry" have so wickedly abused, 
 and thus be made the real South of the future. 
 
zjo The Young Vu'-ginian. 
 
 Then, and not until then, will the Union rest on a 
 foundation that cannot be shaken, — the foundation 
 on which the North has risen to be so great and free, 
 — the strong arms and stout hearts of its working 
 population. 
 
 The "poor whites" are of the same ancestry as 
 ourselves, and therefore are of about the best blood 
 in the world. A large majority of the early settlers 
 of both sections of the Union were English, Scotch, 
 and Scotch-Irish yeomen, and from them the Southern 
 as well as the Northern workingman is descended. 
 These yeomen brought from the mother-country the 
 same language, the same customs, and the same 
 religion : but among the Northern settlers were very 
 few of the English aristocracy, while among the 
 Southern were very many, and aristocracy of the 
 worst sort, — broken-down noblemen, needy adven- 
 turers, and portionless 3'ounger sons of country gen- 
 tlemen. 
 
 Tlie Northern settlers established universal suffrage, 
 and secured the division of land into small farms by 
 providing for the equal inheritance of property. The 
 Southern settlers gave only landowners the right of 
 ballot, obtained extensive land-grants from the crown, 
 and built uj) and secured to their children large 
 estates by e.^t iblishing primogeniture. Thus, at the 
 
The Sum of the Whole. 271 
 
 ver}' outset, one section became a virtual democracy, 
 which fostered freedom ; the other, an oligarchy, which 
 encouraged slavery. 
 
 To Ihis discordance in the original constitution of 
 things at the North and at the South may be traced 
 all the differences which now exist in the habits, 
 customs, and characters of the people of the two 
 sections. To this it is owing that the Northern 
 workingman of to-day is clad like a gentleman, sends 
 his children to school, reads his Bible, goes to meet- 
 ing on Sundays, takes the newspapers, and has fallen 
 in love with freedom. And to this it is also owing 
 that the Southern workingman goes in ragged "but- 
 ternuts," never sends his children to school, never 
 takes the newspapers, does up his religion at a camp- 
 meeting, once a year in a lump, and has fallen in 
 love with slaver}-. 
 
 But, in spite of these differences, the Northern and 
 Southern yeomen are essentially alike. Both are 
 brave and enterprising, — both tenacious of their 
 rights, — both loyal to what they think is liberty, — 
 and both have the practical wisdom that "trusts in 
 the Lord, but keeps its powder dry," which is one of 
 the best legacies left us by our ancestors. If one is 
 now a marble statue, rounded and perfect as any 
 ever chiselled by a sculptor, and the other a rough 
 
2/2 The Young Virginian. 
 
 block, unhewn and unseemly as when it came from 
 the everlasting hills, it is because freedom and de- 
 mocracy have moulded the one, slavery and despot- 
 ism crushed the other. 
 
 These, people being thi^s of one blood and one 
 origin, you might get a tolerable idea of the South- 
 ern workingman by dressing up one of our Northern 
 farmers in " butternut " homespun and a slouched 
 hat ; giving him a huge wig, a patriarchal beard, and 
 a half-pound quid of tobacco, and then asking him 
 to swear all the unpronounceable oaths in the lan- 
 guage. But as he could, by no possibilit}', sweat 
 quite so hard as the Southerner, and as he would, 
 after all, represent only the body, and not the soul, 
 of his " Southern brother," I will tell you how the 
 latter looks and lives a little more in detail. 
 
 His house is usually a one-story log-cabin, nicely 
 whitewashed, and chinked with clay. It has gen- 
 erally two apartments on the ground-floor, and one 
 of them — the sitting-room — is furnished with a tidy 
 rag carpet, an old-fashioned sideboard, an unpainted 
 pine table, and a few chairs with rustic frames and 
 deerskin coverings. It is an humble dwelling, but it 
 generally contains a Bible, a copy of Watts's Hymns, 
 and about as much simple-hearted goodness as is 
 found in statelier mansions. 
 
The Sum of the Whole. 273 
 
 His fi\rm is perhaps from one to t^vo hundred 
 acres, and not thoroughly cultivated ; for the South- 
 ern farmer is not obliged to work thirteen months 
 in the year to force a scanty living from a sorry patch 
 of stones and potatoes, or to sharpen the noses of his 
 sheep to enable them to get at the thin grass which 
 grows among the rocks. He simply throws the seed 
 into the soil, and, almost without labor, it springs up 
 into an abundant harvest. 
 
 The men of this class are generally tall and well 
 formed, with gaunt, loose-jointed frames, wiry, black 
 hair, keen, restless eyes, simple, confiding manners, 
 and a certain air of self-possession which indicates 
 that, if they know little of the world, they feel fully 
 able to cope with what little they do know. The 
 women are comely and dark-eyed, with clear, olive 
 complexions, full, well-rounded forms, and an artless 
 grace and 'lovingness that tempts one to exclaim, — 
 if he happens to be a bachelor, — "What an ever- 
 lasting pity it is that she dips snuff, chews tobacco, 
 and goes without shoes and stockings ! " 
 
 If you should stay a day or two at one of their 
 houses, you would know them as well as you might 
 know some other people in as many years. You 
 would find the women industrious, chaste, loving, and 
 religious ; the men brave, hardy, energetic, simple 
 12* a 
 
274 The Young Virginian. 
 
 hearted, earnest in their con\ictions, good husbands 
 and fathers, and, in short, possessed of as much of 
 the "raw material" of a noble manhood as any people 
 on the earth. What they most need is education ; 
 and before we readmit the Southern States to the 
 privileges of the Union, we should see to it that they 
 make provision for giving to this class free schools 
 and a free press, which shall make them acquainted 
 with the true nature of republican institutions. If 
 we do this, they soon will be the equals of the 
 Northern workingman, and erelong will make the 
 South the garden of this continent. 
 
 " Captain Thompson " is a representative of the 
 "chivalr}^," and what of them his career does not 
 illustrate is told in the stor}^ by the blacksmith ; so 
 I need not say more ; and the fact is, the less that 
 is said about this class the better ; for, beyond a 
 doubt, they are the vilest white men in the universe. 
 I have never been on any other planet, but have 
 travelled pretty extensively over this, and seen all 
 varieties of people ; and, therefore, when I speak thus 
 of the "chivalry," " I know whereof I affirm." They 
 are those who brought on the war, who stan-ed our 
 prisoners at Salisbury and Andersonville, butchered 
 our brave boys when battles were over, and made 
 their bones into trinkets for their worthless mistresses 
 
The Sum of the Whole. 275 
 
 This is enough to say of tliem ; but, if you would 
 know more, ask the negroes, whom they have scourged 
 and debauched for two centuries, or the working 
 white men, whom they have mislead, and trodden 
 on, and driven like sheep to the slaughter. They 
 can and will tell you. 
 
 But, thank God, the " chivalry " are not the South. 
 They are only a handful, — numbering, all told, 
 scarcely three hundred thousand ; and yet, before the 
 war, a hundred and eighty thousand of them owned 
 three fourths of the slaves and landed property of the 
 South, and held all of its political power. But that 
 day is past ; and, if we do not w^antonly throw away 
 the fruit of our victory, the reign of the " chivalry " 
 is gone with it forever. 
 
 " Old Katy " is a type of the better class of blacks, 
 and her kindly nature and religious devotion are 
 characteristic of a very large portion of the Southern 
 negroes. It is not because they have nothing earthly 
 to cling to, that they so love their " Massa Lord " and 
 " jMassa Jesus," but because their natures are more 
 open than ours, — more receptive of the influences 
 which fall from the upper sky, where dwell the an- 
 gels and the pure and good of all ages. I should 
 not now be alive to tell you stories but for the ten- 
 der watching of an old negress whose portrait I 
 
2/6 The Young Virginian. 
 
 have tried to sketch in old Katy. Her form now is 
 bent, her Hmbs now are feeble, and on her head 
 have settled the snows of more than eighty winters ; 
 but from the Pisgah height where she lives she 
 hourly sees the glories of the land that is promised. 
 It may be that my love for her has clouded my vis- 
 ion, and made me, these many years, see graces in 
 the negro character which the most of her race do 
 not exhibit ; but I am not conscious that it has. At 
 any rate, I have tried to think and to write of them 
 truthfully. 
 
 The heart of the negro is larger than ours, his love 
 is stronger. This makes him in daily life cheerful, 
 joyous, and happy ; and in seasons of religious in- 
 terest it lifts his soul into regions which, to our reason- 
 ing race, will, in this world, ever be untrodden. At 
 such times his nature is all aglow with affection, and 
 in his churches an influence goes forth which fills the 
 very air, and inevitably melts and softens the most 
 abandoned and hardened. Then his prayers have a 
 power which seems something more than human, — 
 which, perhaps, opens the heavenly gates, and brings 
 troops of angels down to these poorest of the earth's 
 children. Then, too, he will tell you that he beholds 
 visions, sees the glories of the better land, walks it3 
 golden streets, and worships in its dim cathedrals. 
 
TJic Siiin of tJie Whole. 277 
 
 And who knows that he does not ? Because our eyes 
 are closed, are his unopened ? For his earthly life of 
 want and sorrow may there not be this heavenly com- 
 pensation ? 
 
 But this ecstatic love, w-hich so lifts him above our 
 cold world, disposes the negro to many social vices, 
 and makes him, in coming together with others of his 
 class, not always mindful of moral obligation. Some 
 one has said that many broad avenues lead., to his 
 heart, while his brain is approached by only a narrow 
 footpath. This is true ; but Nature has compensated 
 for this lack of reason by giving him extraordinary 
 intuitions, which make him, though harmless as the 
 dove, wise and subtle as the serpent. 
 
 But with all his weakness and ignorance, the 
 negro's life is nearer the ideal of the New Testament 
 than our lives. The great law of Love seems en- 
 graven on his very nature, — or he had not been a 
 slave for two centuries; — and at the last assize, it 
 may be that the Great Judge will count his warm 
 heart of more worth than our cold intellects. Be 
 that as it may, we know that "whom He loves he 
 chastens," and that " the light affliction of this pres- 
 ent moment works out an exceeding and eternal 
 weight of glory." This being true, there must be a 
 future for the black man, — a future in whose rest 
 
2/8 The Young Virginimi. 
 
 and peace all the unrest and sorrow of this world 
 will be but dimly remembered. 
 
 However, all of the Southern negroes are not like 
 old Katy. Thirteen out of every hundred of them 
 are church members, while only nine in the same 
 number of Southern whites profess religion ; and 
 this — though church-membership is not an infallible 
 sign of goodness — probably indicates the relative 
 moral worth of the two races. But there are many 
 negroes whose hearts are as black as their skins, and 
 into whose darkened souls no ray of light ever broke 
 from Heaven or from any other region. They seem 
 of a different race from those I have described, and 
 the two have fewer traits in common than the Milesian 
 and the Yankee. One has a short heel, a straight 
 shin, an erect form, a well-shaped head, and a face 
 both open and engaging ; * the other, a 'ong heel, a 
 shin like a harness-collar, a bent body, a bullet head, 
 and a face that would be no ornament to a baboon or 
 a gorilla. 
 
 This class, however, is comparatively small, and 
 will no doubt melt away as soon as emancipation 
 shall have brought it into full competition wdth the 
 working whites and the more intelligent of its own 
 color. But not so with the superior negroes. They 
 will expand and grow, while the others shrivel and die, 
 
The Sum of the Whole. 279 
 
 under the light of freedom. The same impression- 
 able nature which opens their souls to the heavenly 
 aura will, now that the gates of knowledge are thrown 
 ajar, open their minds to the influences of civilization \ 
 and, ere many years, even their old masters will point 
 to them as model citizens and model Christians, and 
 wonder if they are the same docile drudges who car- 
 ried their burdens and bore so meekly the stripes 
 they laid upon them. 
 
 All experience shows that they are apt to learn, and 
 most receptive of elevating influences. They have not 
 the aggressive character of the Anglo-Saxon, they will 
 not seek to mould other people to their form, or to 
 crush them by their power ; but they will twine round 
 the stronger race as the ixy twines round the oak, 
 hiding its rough coat, and covering it with an ever- 
 green beaut)'. 
 
 They have, too, a peculiar power of resistance, 
 which will keep them a distinct people. No other 
 race has ever come in contact with the Anglo-Saxon 
 without being swallowed up or swept away by it as a 
 mountain bridge is swept away by a freshet. But the 
 negro has neither been swallowed up nor swept away. 
 He has lived by the side of the white man for two cen- 
 turies, and yet to-day has all of the characteristics he 
 brought from his native jungles. This shows that he 
 
28o TJie YoiDig Virginian. 
 
 can live ; and if he has lived in slavey, then he wil 
 live all the longer, and grow all the stronger, in free- 
 dom. 
 
 If you look again at the various traits I have enu- 
 merated as belonging to the negro, you will see that 
 there are among us nearly four millions of people of 
 strong religious sensibilities, fair mental endowments, 
 distinct and marked characteristics, and yet with 
 natures peculiarly docile, teachable, and receptive 
 of civilizing influences. If they are now permitted to 
 live with the white race on terms of political equality, 
 is it difficult to predict their future ? Will they not 
 make for themselves a history which, if it be not as 
 brilliant and aggressive as our own, will yet reflect 
 honor and glor)' on the countr}-, which shall atone for 
 their long night of slavery by a longer day of free- 
 dom ? 
 
 "Robert Lucy" is a representative of the mixed 
 races which, under the names of mulattoes, quadroons, 
 metifs, and octoroons, form an important part of the 
 negro population. What proportion they bear to the 
 whole cannot be stated with any precision ; for there 
 are no entirely reliable statistics. General Hunter, it 
 is said, found among the slaves of St. Helena Island 
 only eight of unmixed African descent in a total of 
 about fifteen hundred. This, however, is an evident 
 
The Sum of the Whole. 281 
 
 mistake, for not enough white blood to adulterate 
 so large a mass of black material ever came within 
 speaking distance of the entire group of Sea Islands. 
 The census of the whole South gives the ratio of one 
 class to the other as seventeen to a hundred ; but this, 
 doubtless, is another mistake, and another instance of 
 the fallibility of figures. The most casual observer 
 must have noticed that in the large Southern towns 
 the mixed races comprise at least a half of the 
 colored population, and on the smaller plantations 
 not less than a quarter. Making allowance, then, 
 for the larger proportion of pure negroes on the 
 great estates, — where there is too little white blood 
 to very sensibly dilute the darker -current, — the total 
 number of the mixed races cannot be far from one 
 fourth of the whole, or one million in a population 
 of four millions. 
 
 Admitting this estimate to be tolerably correct, we 
 have a data by which to reckon the time that will 
 be required, providing the process of amalgamation 
 goes on in freedom as it has gone on in slavery, 
 to bleach the entire mass to the complexion of re- 
 spectable white citizens. If it has taken two hun- 
 dred years to bring one quarter of the whole to a 
 hue halfway between daylight and darkness, it will 
 take six hundred years to reduce the remainder to the 
 
282 The Young Virginia?L 
 
 same tawny yellow, and eight hundred more years to 
 give them the florid cuticle of the Anglo-Saxon. 
 Therefore, with the bleaching process in full operation, 
 it will be the year of grace 3300 befiore all of the 
 negroes are of a color to suit the fastidious taste of 
 those good people who would have them something 
 different from what the Creator intended. 
 
 But amalgamation will not go on. Freedom will 
 cause the process to cease altogether. The black has 
 not sought the white, but the white the black ; and 
 nothing but force has made the slave mk his blood 
 with that of his master. If any one doubts this, let 
 him call to mind how the pure negro scorns the one 
 whose lighter skin betrays a white ancestry. This 
 pride of race, which every one at all familiar with 
 the South has noticed, will ever keep the white 
 and black races apart, and make the latter always a 
 separate people. 
 
 It is the mixed race which will be absorbed, not by 
 the white, nor yet by the black, but by the law which 
 we see governing most of the hybrids among the brute 
 creation. In His great plan, which reaches across the 
 centuries, they have a part to perform, and when that 
 part is performed they will sink into the earth, as a 
 river sinks into the ocean. Abundant observation has 
 shown, that after three or four generations of breeding 
 
The Sum of the Whole. 283 
 
 in-and-in, the mulatto becomes enfeebled, and dies 
 out, as the mule dies, stamping his image on none 
 of his species. It is only tlie infusion of fresh white 
 or black blood that keeps the race alive, and when 
 that stream is diverted by freedom into its natural 
 channel, no hydraulic power known among men can 
 keep the Southern bleachery in operation. It might 
 be well, therefore, to reconcile ourselves at once to 
 the incontestible fact that we shall have on this 
 Continent, for all coming time, a nation of black 
 Americans. 
 
 And it is not desirable that the mulatto should live ; 
 for, being the offspring, generally, of the ruling whites 
 and the less moral of the blacks, he inherits about 
 as many evil qualities as can be got into six feet 
 of bone and sinew. He has the indolence, pride, 
 treachery, and moral obtuseness of the master, with 
 the senility, craft, cunning, and thieving propensities 
 of the slave. The fervid nature which, in the negro, 
 comes to ecstatic dreams and religious visions, finds 
 vent, in him, in grovelling desire and perfect whirl- 
 winds of insane passion. He is a volcano, smothered 
 under a yellow mould, but every now and then break- 
 ing out and scorching the green earth with a deluge 
 of hot ashes and lava. Like the negro, he dreams 
 dreams and sees visions : but they are sucli visions as 
 
284 The Yoiiiig Virginian. 
 
 may be supposed to visit the sleepers that tenant the 
 lower regions, not such as come to the cooler brains 
 of honest, well-regulated mortals. 
 
 Though of a weak physical frame, the mulatto has 
 all the energy, fire, and intellect of his white ancestry; 
 and this, and his decided sympathy with the negro, 
 may indicate the part he is to perform in the great 
 plan which is to have its evolution in this New World. 
 It may be that he is to lead his people out of the 
 wilderness, and, like another Joshua, give them a 
 name among the nations. And perhaps when this 
 is done, his work will be over and he will be 
 gathered to his fathers. 
 
 It needs no prophet's vision to see that the blind 
 obstinacy of the Southern whites, which denies the 
 negro's manhood, and would keep from him the only 
 pledge of his freedom, may yet rouse a storm, which, 
 to this that has passed, will be as the huiTicane to the 
 gentle breeze that softly stirs the meadows. There 
 are blind instincts and terrible impulses in human 
 nature that sometimes burst forth and sweep away 
 all barriers. Such instincts and impulses are now 
 slumbering in the mulatto ; and if justice be not done 
 his race, they may not slumber forever. You cannot 
 evermore throw electricity into a glass bottle ; it will 
 finally burst forth and fill the air with destruction ; 
 
TJie Sinn of the Whole. 285 
 
 and so the little cloud, at first no bigger than a man's 
 hand, will gather at last, and come down in the light- 
 ning. As we look at the sky, do we not see that 
 cloud a-gathering ? for is not the South given over 
 to the folly of Pharaoh ? God grant that it may not 
 burst ; but if it does burst, it will be the mulatto who 
 will guide the storm and ride upon the whirlwind. 
 
 Hastily and imperfectly I have now given you 
 what seem to me the prominent characteristics of 
 the leading classes of Southern society. I have 
 shown you four millions of blacks and six mil- 
 lions of whites,, trodden on, impoverished, and kept 
 in a greater or less degree of mental and moral dark- 
 ness by a mere handful of men who have usurped 
 the name of " chivalry," and, with a rod of iron, ruled 
 the South for two centuries. These men are actuated 
 by the very spirit whicn the God-man spent his life 
 in combating, — the spirit which says to the rest of 
 the world, " Give place, I am holier than thou " ; 
 " the clay of which I am formed is of finer mould 
 than the coarse earth of w^hich you are fashioned." 
 
 This spirit is the prolific parent of almost all the 
 woes that afflict humanit)'. It has robbed the poor 
 man of his rights, kept him in ignorance and degra- 
 dation, and made him a mere hewer of wood and 
 
286 TJie Young Virginian. 
 
 drawer of water to those who do nothing, produce 
 nothing, and only cumber the ground. It is the born 
 enemy of liberty, equality, and all true progress ; and 
 this nation will not attain to its destiny until it is 
 weeded out of it forever. It has a sickly existence at 
 the North, but it grows rank and wild at the South, 
 among the "chivalry." To uproot it we must dis- 
 franchise them, and so strip them forever of the power 
 they have so wickedly abused. Then, and not until 
 then, will they learn, that a man is a man, whatever 
 his race or his color, and that labor is the badge of 
 true nobihty, the highest glory of manhood. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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