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THE UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE WILMER COLLECTION 
 
 OF CIVIL WAR NOVELS 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 RICHARD H. WILMER, JR. 
 
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On the Border 
 
 EDMUND KIRKE, 
 
 AUTHOR or " AMONG THE PINES," " LIFE OP JESUS," " PATRIOT BOYS AND PRISON 
 PICTURES," ETC. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 LEE AND SHEPARD 
 
 186 7. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by 
 
 LEE & SHEPARD, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 CAinjRIDGE: STrREOTrPED BY JOHN STOXE. 
 
 BOSTON: PRIN'TED BY GEORGE C. RAND & AVERY. 
 
W I L T. I A M LEE, 
 
 €; b i s y I u in £ 
 
 IS AFFECTIONATELT DEDICATED. 
 
 THE AUTHOR 
 
 (HI) 
 
 602922 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The facts which form the groundwork of the follow- 
 ing story were communicated to the writer during a 
 visit which he made to the " Army of the Cumberland " 
 in the spring of 1863. Their romantic interest at once 
 fascinated his imagination, and he readily listened to 
 the suggestion, which was then made him, to write the 
 history of Garfield's campaign in Eastern Kentucky. 
 In pursuance of this purpose he opened a correspond- 
 ence with the principal actors in that " eventful his- 
 tory," and within the following eighteen months accu- 
 mulated a mass of material that would, of itself, make 
 a respectable volume. A careful examination of this 
 material, however, showed him that many of the state- 
 ments of his correspondents were so inconsistent and 
 so contradictory, that no reliable history could be com- 
 piled from it without an amount of sifting and re- 
 search which he had not the time to make. In these 
 circumstances, he decided not to write a history, but a 
 story, that should embrace, and be founded on, the 
 acknowledged facts of the campaign. 
 
 (V) 
 
VI r R E F A C E . 
 
 In following out this plan he has endeavored to relate 
 events as accurately as possible. Whenever he speaks 
 of known and living men he writes authentic history, 
 and only in describing subordinate characters and 
 circumstances does he give any play to his imagina- 
 tion. The events related of Jordan are mainly facts ; 
 but are not all facts true of him. This one man, 
 as he appears in the story, is a combination of two 
 men, — one of them named John Jordan, the other, 
 Joseph Sowards. The adventurous ride, and the mid- 
 night visit to Marshall's camp on the eve of the battle 
 of Middle Creek, are true of Jordan ; the killing of 
 Cecil, the double outlawry, and the unparalleled patri- 
 otism which made him, while under sentence of death 
 from both his friends and his enemies, do such great 
 services to his country, are true of Sowards. 
 
 In a pretty wide reading the writer has met with no 
 such character, and the proverbial ingratitude of re- 
 publics only can account for the fact that this brave 
 man and pure patriot went to his grave unknown and 
 unwept save among his native mountains. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAQK 
 AXCESTRY, 11 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 The Shadows of Comikg Events, 24 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 After Twenty Years, 52 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 The Funeral, 75 
 
 CHAPTER y. 
 Rachel's Marriage 95 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 A Winter Night, 108 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 A Christmas in February, 124 
 
 (VII) 
 
VIII CONTEXTS. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 A Tragedy, 141 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 " The Begixxixg OF THE End," 155 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 The Husbaxd axd Wife Together, ...;.. 167 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 A Midnight Ride, 187 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 A March AND A Battle, 197 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 Results, 205 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 The Removal, 210 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 A Trial and a Temptation, 216 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 A Xew Actor on the Scene, 222 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 Communications Opened, 231 
 
 CHAPTER XYIII. 
 A !March in Mid-Winter, 243 
 
C O N T K N T S . IX 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A Battle, . . 257 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Bradley Brown Again, 2C6 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 Retribution, 270 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 Condemnation, 275 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 Another Escape, 278 
 
 CHAPTER XXiy. 
 A Midnight Meeting, 287 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 The Children of One Father, 294 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 Midnight Duty, 304 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 The Pound Gap Expedition, 315 
 
 CHAPTER XXYIII. 
 The Death of " Beauty," 323 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 The "Last OF Earth," 329 
 
On the Border 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ANCESTRY. 
 
 ISTOKY, it is said, repeats itself; but this can hardly 
 be unless the world be mo^'ing in a circle, and not, as 
 we suppose, in an unending spiral " onward and up- 
 ward" But, however this maybe, it is certain that 
 u,an reproduces himself, - that, throwing aside his worn-out 
 periwig and shoe-buckles, he issues from the grave after sleep- 
 in. soundly, perhaps, for centuries, and stalks abroad again m 
 stove-pipe hat and patent-leathers, to act once more a part 
 in the great drama of human existence. To credit this we 
 need not believe the doctrine of the transmigration of souls, but 
 only accept the evident truth, that the father impresses his na- 
 ture on the son, the grandsire on the grandson, and thus sends 
 him into the world bound hand and foot with all his ca.t-off 
 passions and propensities, only to do over again it may be 
 the deeds wMch made his ancestor execrated in his day and 
 generation. In this way, if in no other, history repeats itself ; 
 L in view of it how inestimable is the birthright of which 
 Cowper boasted - Who would not rather inherit the virtues 
 of a peasant than the vices of a king ? And yet, how we look 
 
12 O N T H E B O R D E R . 
 
 down upon peasants and up to Ivings, never once asking 
 whether one or the other have either virtues or vices. 
 
 The young rustic who is the principal actor in this short 
 history was descended from a long line of peasants ; and in 
 glancing back at his ancestors it is curious to notice how more 
 than one of them, tliough comfortably dead and buried for 
 nearly two hundred years, managed to reappear and act again 
 in his brief career. The first of these ancestors, of whom 
 there is any historical mention, was the John Brown who so 
 heroicall}^ met death at the hands of Claverhouse, during the 
 civil war which distracted Scotland in 1685. He lived at 
 Priesthill, in Lanarkshire ; and, though but an humble carrier, 
 was a man of such shining virtues that he obtained honorable 
 mention in the annals of that dark period. Led by convic- 
 tions of duty to join the Rebellion, he was out with the in- 
 surgents at Bothwell Bridge, and was thus included in the 
 sweeping sentence of outlawry" which followed that disastrous 
 battle. The sentence was executed upon him by Claverhouse 
 under circumstances of savage cruelty ; but he met it with a 
 fortitude that showed him possessed of such stuff as even kings 
 are seldom made of. The circumstance forms a most wild 
 and picturesque story, and it is related by the old chronicle* 
 with such rude and touching eloquence, that I am tempted to 
 transcribe it. 
 
 * The extract is from " Walker's Life of Peden," which was published in 
 Edinburgh in 1724. Tlae account is briefly quoted by Macaulay in Vol. ii. 
 page 74 of his historj- ; and, more at length, by Sir Walter Scott, in " The 
 Tales of a Grandfather." The story took strong hold of the poetical imagi- 
 nation and large heart of the great novelist, as is shown by his weaving some 
 of its most affecting incidents into the beautiful episode of Bessie Maclure, in 
 Chapter vi. of " Old Mortality." ' 
 
ANCESTRY. 13 
 
 The narrative is as follows : '"' Between five and six in the 
 morning, the said John Brown, having performed the worsliip 
 of God in his fomily, was going, with a spade in his hand to 
 make read}- some peat-ground. The mist being very dark, he 
 knew not until the cruel and bloody Claverhouse compassed 
 him with three troop of horse, brought him to his house, and 
 there examined him, who, though he was a man of a stam- 
 mering speech, yet answered him distinctly and soberly, which 
 made Claverhouse to examine those whom he had taken to be 
 his guides through the muirs, if ever they heard him preach ? 
 They answered, 'Xo, no; he was never a preacher.' He 
 said, ' If he has never preached, mickle has he prayed in his 
 time.' He said to John, ' Go to your prayers, for you shall 
 immediately die.' 
 
 "When he was praying, Claverhouse interrupted him three 
 times. One time that he stopped him, he was pleading that 
 the Lord would spare a remnant, and not make a full end in 
 the day of his anger. Claverhouse said, ' I gave you time to 
 pray, and ye are begun to preach.' John turned upon his 
 knees, and said, ' Sir, you know neither the nature of preach- 
 ing or praying, that calls this preaching.' Then he continued 
 without confusion. When ended, Claverhouse said, 'Take 
 good-night of your wife and children.' His wife, standing by 
 with her child in her arms that she had brought forth to him, 
 and another child of his first wife's, he came to her and said, 
 ^Now, Marian, the day is come that I told you would come, 
 when I spake first to you of marrying me.' She said, ' In- 
 deed, John, I can willingly part with you.' Then he said, 
 ' This is aU I desire. I have no more to do but to die.' 
 
 " He kissed his wife and bairns, and wished purchased and 
 2 
 
14 ONTHEBOKDER. 
 
 promised blessings to be multiplied upon them, and his bless- 
 ing. Claverliouse ordered six soldiers to shoot him. The 
 most part of the bullets came upon his head, which scattered 
 his brains upon the ground. Claverliouse said to his wife, 
 'What thinkest thou of thy husband now, woman?' She 
 said, 'I ever thought much of him, and now more than 
 ever.' He said, 'It were but justice to lay thee beside him.' 
 She said, ' If you were permitted, I doubt not your crueltie 
 would go that length; but how will ye make answer for this 
 morning's work ? ' He said, ' To man I can be answera- 
 ble ; and for God, I wdil take him in my owm hand.' Claver- 
 house mounted his horse, and marched, and left her with the 
 corpse of her dead husband lying there. She set the bairn on 
 the ground, and gathered his brains and tied up his head, and 
 straighted his body, and covered him in her plaid, and sat 
 down and wept over him. 
 
 " It being a very desert place, where never victual grew% 
 and far from neighbors, it was some time before any friends 
 came to her. The first that came was a very fit hand, — that 
 old, singular Christian woman in the Cummerhead, named 
 Elizabeth Menzies, three miles distant, who had been tried 
 with the violent death of her husband at Pentland, afterwards 
 of two worthy sons, — Thomas Weir, who was killed at Drum- 
 clog, and David Steel, who was suddenly shot after being 
 taken. The said Marian Brown, sitting upon her husband's 
 grave, told me that before that she could see no blood, except 
 she was in danger to faint, but she was helped to be a witness 
 to aU this without either fainting or confusion ; only when the 
 Bhots were let off her eyes dazzled." 
 
 The infant, who w^as thus an unconscious witness to its 
 
ANCESTRY. 15 
 
 father's bloody deatli, grew to womanhood, and hecauie the 
 wife of one John Jordan, a Cameronian minister of the same 
 little parish of Priesthill, and the son of another Cameronian 
 minister, who gave his life for the Prince of Orange at Dun- 
 keld. The name of this man has not gone into history, but 
 tradition has kept his memory alive among his descendants 
 to this day ; and, if one half that it tells of him be true, he 
 deserved the almost superstitious veneration in which he is 
 still regarded. 
 
 It is not to my purpose to recount the incidents of his 
 career ; and, indeed, if I did, I should be in danger of con- 
 founding truth with fiction, for the two seem inextricably 
 blended in the traditions which have been handed down in 
 his family. This much, however, is certain. He was a man 
 of stern integrity, of singular religious insight, and of won- 
 derful power as a preacher, and, though only " a man of the 
 people," wielded an influence among his clansmen second 
 only to that of their hereditary chieftain. 
 
 Inheriting his father's hatred of the Enghsh Union, he was 
 easily lured into the Eebellion of 1715, and mustering a body 
 of his parishioners, led them to the help of the Chevalier 
 St. George at Sheriffmuir. For his valor in that battle he was 
 made, on the field, a captain in the regular forces under the 
 Earl of Mar. He followed the fortunes of the Pretender until 
 his defeat at Prestonpans, when he was taken prisoner, and, 
 with a score of others who had been conspicuous in the rebel- 
 lion, was condemned to be shot at daybreak on the following 
 morning. The rest suffered death at once ; but Jordan's ex- 
 ecution was delayed, and he was ofiered life and freedom on 
 condition that he would acknowledge allegiance to the reign- 
 
16 O X T H E B O K D E K . 
 
 ing monarch by publicly crying, " God save King George ! " 
 This he refused to do, and then his enemies, bent on saving 
 him, — whether from admiration of his character, or because 
 they desired liis conciliatory offices with the other Cameroni- 
 ans, tradition does not state, — adopted a novel mode of exe- 
 cution which, while keeping death before him for hours, gave 
 him opportunity to retreat from his fate at the very last mo- 
 ment. 
 
 Taking him- to the bank of the Forth, they chained him to 
 a stake driven into the sand at low-water mark. It was the 
 fall of the year, and the water was as cold as in midwinter. 
 It came up to his knees, to his waist, to his armpits, and at 
 last, with an icy embrace, encircled his neck and shoulders. 
 His executioners from the shore had from time to time urged 
 him to utter the few words that would save his life, and they 
 now cried out, " For God's sake, mon, speak ! Say the words, 
 an' ye wad na do self-murder ! " 
 
 He looked at his wife, w^ho was standing near, but made no 
 answer. For a moment she seemed to hesitate ; then, lifting 
 her eyes to his, she hoarsely whispered, — 
 
 "John, ye wat that God is aboon ye; that the angels are 
 waiting." 
 
 " Yea, lass, my only thoctht is of yoursel and the bairns ! " 
 
 " Think na' of us," she answered. " He is Father to the 
 fatherless — husband to the widow!" and she sank upon her 
 knees, her arms stretched upward. 
 
 " Then my fecht is done," he answered. " But, be of good 
 cheer, Jennie. In the dark days I will be with ye." 
 
 The water was now even with his nostrils, and, raising him- 
 self on the tips of his toes, he cried to her, — 
 
ANCKSTRY. 
 
 '• Bid John be worthy of his ancestors." Then he sank 
 again to his feet, antl the swelling wave swept over him. 
 
 Of this woman — the Jennie Brown whose father suffered 
 martyrdom at the hands of Claverhouse — many marvellous 
 stories are told. She is said to have had the strange fac- 
 ulty of " second-sight," of which such frequent mention is 
 made in the traditions of Scotland, and to have possessed the 
 power of healing by a word, or by the laying on of hands after 
 the manner of the early Christians. On one occasion, says 
 tradition, she entered the house of a woman who had been 
 bedridden for many years, and, looking upon her, said, — 
 " In the name of the Lord, I say to thee, Rise ! " 
 The woman, it is said, rose, and lived in good health to the 
 age of eighty. 
 
 At another time, it is also said, she restored a child who 
 had lain apparently dead a dozen hours ; and almost number- 
 less instances are related of her curing, by a touch, those sick 
 of divers diseases, and those wounded in battle. ^ 
 
 But still more marvellous was her strange power of "second- 
 sight." If the tradition be true, she not only saw into the 
 unseen world which lies, an invisible cloud, all about us, but 
 with mortal eye read in the shadows of coming events the 
 far-off and mysterious future. She is said to have witnessed, 
 in a series of visions, tlie defeat and misfortunes of the Pre- 
 tender, long before he set foot in Scotland, and to have fore- 
 told, months before the event, the fate which overtook her 
 husband. 
 
 " John," she said to him, " I see ye chained to a stake, and 
 the waters rising round ye ! But, stand fast ; die like a 
 Christian." 
 
 2* 
 
18 ONTIIEBORDER. 
 
 Her son, tlie third John Jordan of whom the family has 
 knowledge, inherited the peculiarities of both his father and 
 mother. He had her delicate organization and wonderful 
 gift of spirit-vision, and his force of character and religious 
 fervor and insight. He, too, was a Cameronian minister, and, 
 like his father, met death at the hands of the ruling aristocra- 
 cy. Engaging in the Rebellion of 1745, he was taken pris- 
 oner, condemned, and executed, after being offered life if he 
 would swear allegiance to the English government. His aged 
 mother stood beside the block to cheer his last moments, 
 and, as the axe was about to descend, told him of a vision 
 she had of the waiting angels. 
 
 This woman, who thus witnessed the execution of her 
 father, her son, and her husband, lived to a great age, and 
 died at last in the arms of a grandson, revered by all who 
 knew her, and leaving a name which even now is only sjioken 
 with uncovered head by her remote descendants. 
 
 The year 1745 saw the end of civil commotions in Scot- 
 land, and after that the Jordans — father, son, and grandson 
 — walked in peaceful ways, and died in their beds like other 
 Scotchmen. They all were of the Cameronian faith, and all 
 preachers in good standing ; but tradition makes especial 
 mention of only one of them. He was minister at Stirling, 
 and on him the mantle of the old Seeress and the Cameronian 
 captain seems to have fallen. He was a man of iron mould, 
 powerful in word and deed, and with ungloved hand he tore 
 aside the veil before the very Holy of Holies. With that 
 strange gift of " second-sight " he read the Apocah^pse. To 
 him it seemed not a revelation of things "coming on the 
 earth," but a history of the spirit world, from the birth of 
 
ANCESTRY. 19 
 
 Adam to the day when the last man shall look up at the sky, 
 and amid the wreck of a dissolving universe, cry, " It is fin- 
 islied." The book he left behind on the subject is full of ge- 
 nius, and indicates that if his mind had not been cramped by 
 a narrow Calvinism, he might have uttered words that would 
 have " been music to the listening ages." 
 
 The grandson of this man — the seventh in regular descent 
 from the old Cameronian — was born at Sterling in the year 
 1795, and, being the oldest son, was baptized by the name of 
 John, and destined for the hereditary office of preacher. But 
 when he began to talk, it was discovered that he had inheijted 
 the stammering tongue of his great ancestor. This shut him 
 out from the ministry, and the " keys of heaven " descended 
 to a younger brother. 
 
 This Jordan received a respectable education, and adopted, 
 when he grew up, the profession of land surveyor. But an 
 old country affords little scope for such a pursuit, and, at the 
 close of the war of 1812, he emigrated to America. 
 
 At first he joined the Scotch settlers who had located 
 at Fayetteville in North Carolina, but soon afterward removed 
 to Virginia, where, at the age of thirty-six, he married a wo- 
 man who, how truly I know not, claimed direct descent from 
 the James-river Huguenots. She was fifteen years younger 
 than himself, and a family might grow up about him ; so, with 
 Scotch foresight, he sought a home in a newer district, where 
 every one of his posterity might become the lord of a thou- 
 sand acres. He removed to Paintville, a little town in the 
 " Piedmont region " of Kentuck}^ 
 
 This is a district larger than the whole of Massachusetts ; 
 but is as little known to the people of this generation as 
 
2.) O N T H E B O li D E R . 
 
 M-as the Garden of Eden to the races of men wlio, some geolo- 
 gists tell us, made their graves in the strata of the earth fifty 
 thousand j^ears ago. Though in the world, it is not of the 
 v^orld, — not, at least, of this world, which drives stage-coaches, 
 builds railroads, talks across wide oceans, and wends its way 
 to the other life through the marble aisles of churches whose 
 spires, it may be, come no nearer to heaven than the famous 
 tower once builded to furnish man au easy ascent to the celes- 
 tial country. 
 
 It is a rugged, rocky region, broken into high hills and nar- 
 row valleys, and covered — except where dotted with little 
 plantations of wheat and Indian corn — with vast forests of 
 oak and maple, and the honey-locust, grown gray with the 
 gathered moss of man}- centuries. In the hilly portion the 
 soil is stony and sterile; but along the valleys it is of amaz- 
 ing fertility, yielding most abundantly of the fruits of 
 the earth ; and in these valleys dwell the aristocracy of the 
 district ; for even in this primitive region, shut out as it is 
 by a sort of Chinese wall from the rest of the world, are 
 people who somehow have imbibed the civilized notion that a 
 man's own blood is of somewhat better quality than that of 
 his neighbors. Aside from this class, — who, being of a su- 
 perior race, may properly be excluded from any general census 
 of a country, — the district has a population of about one 
 hundred thousand whites and four thousand blacks, a brave, 
 hardy, rural people, with few schools, scarcely any church- 
 es, and only one newspaper, but with the simple virtues which 
 grow among mountains, and now and then clothe even bar- 
 ren hillsides with a moral beauty that is something akin to 
 the bloom of their own wild flowers. 
 
ANCESTRY. 
 
 In the very heart of this region is the little town I have 
 mentioned, and there Jordan rented a small house, and put up 
 a small sign, which told all the world— as plainly as a small 
 sign in a "retired locality could tell it — that he was a '^ Sur- 
 veyor and Draughtsman of Legal Instruments." The latter 
 part of the inscription the rustic denizens of the district, after 
 a while, managed to make out by dint of hard spelling; but 
 the former altogether baffled their comprehension. Legal 
 meant law, and so, Jordan was a lawyer; and survey meant 
 to look, so Jordan was a lawyer looking for land ; and of 
 that there were square miles for sale at his very door-way. Before 
 a month passed at least a million acres of stony field and 
 barren mountain were trundled up to his door, and offered 
 to him " at haff thar valu." He explained that he was a 
 measurer not a buyer of terra-firma, and then the honest 
 rustics said to him : " Wall, stranger, ye hev brung yer eggs 
 to a pore market. We buy land by the lump, — so much, 
 more or less, — and we reckon we kin guess 'bout as nigh as 
 other men kin measure." 
 
 Jordan was a man of decision and energy, and he at once 
 determined to return to Virginia. He was about to set out 
 with his wife, and his small store of worldly wealth, when one 
 evening a stranger came to see him. He was a man of mid- 
 dle age, blunt and rather imperious in manner, and he ac- 
 costed the Cameronian somewhat as follows : — 
 "Your name, they tell me, is Jordan." 
 " It is, sir," said Jordan. 
 " Are you an honest man ? " asked the other. 
 " I am a Scotchman," said Jordan, probably thinking that 
 a full answer to the question. 
 
22 O N T H E B O K D E R . 
 
 The other laughed, and said, good-humoredly, " Well, I've 
 kno\yn a good many Scotchmen who were fools ; but none who 
 were scoundrels. I reckon you will do. 1 want you to take 
 the oversight of my plantation." 
 
 Upon this Jordan asked the stranger to be seated, and the 
 latter, accepting the somewhat tardy civility, went on to say 
 that his name was Weddington, — 'Squire Weddiugton, attor- 
 ney-at-law, member of the House, and, in short, the first man 
 of the district. He closed a brief but rather egotistical ac- 
 count of himself by saying : " I have married a wife. She 
 is twenty years younger than I am, and to bridge over the 
 distance between us, I've promised her a tour in Europe. I 
 want an honest man to look after my affairs while I am away. 
 I'll give you five hundred a year, a house to live in, and as 
 much as you can eat from the plantation." 
 
 The proposition actually dazzled Jordan. He saw in it ed- 
 ucation, perhaps wealth, for his unborn children ; but his 
 Scotch honesty suggested some obstacles. He explained that 
 he •knew nothing of planting, and that he had a" natural 
 antipath}^ to the negro. 
 
 The 'Squire met these objections as follows : " Planting ! 
 Why, the hands do that. And as for the nigger, I wouldn't 
 give a continental dime for an overseer who didn't hate the 
 very continent of Africa." 
 
 His objections so easily disposed of, Jordan very soon took 
 possession of the vine-clad cabin, which, for a dozen years, had 
 been occupied by the overseers of the 'Squire's plantation. 
 
 The plantation was located near the head-waters of a small 
 stream called the Blaine, which empties into the Big Sandy, 
 not far from the town of Louisa, in Kentucky ; and the cabin 
 
A X C E S T U V . 'S3 
 
 was a rude structure of logs, laid up in cla}^ ; Lut it was so 
 overgrown witli vines and creeping-plants, that one half of its 
 natural ugliness was hidden from the eye, and it seemed to 
 have sprung from the ground, a ready-made human habita- 
 tion. In other respects it was not unlike thousands of log 
 dwellings that are so plentifully scattered all over the South- 
 ern country. It had two rooms on the ground floor, separated 
 by an open passage-way, an unfurnished loft, approached by a 
 couple of rickety ladders, a low roof falling down at the eaves 
 so as to form the covering of a wide veranda, and two enor- 
 mous chimney-stacks rising at either gable like mud models 
 of the Egyptian pyramids. 
 
 Located in the very heart of the forest, the great trees 
 crowded around it so closel}^ that their branches overhung its 
 very roof, and only a small patch of tilled land, sloping down 
 in its front to a little stream at the foot of the hill, allowed it 
 any view of the outside world. But this view was broad and 
 picturesque. Far away a long mountain range rose against 
 the sky, and far below, an extended valley, dotted here and 
 there with little farms and broad plantations, lay spread out 
 like a map ; and through this valley wound the narrow road, 
 which, like a slender thread, held this rustic region to the rest 
 of creation. 
 
 In this rude cabin, on the tenth of September, a. d. 1832, 
 just as the moon was breaking through the clouds of a some- 
 what murky midnight, was born another John Jordan, — the 
 eighth in descent from the old Cameronian, — and with his 
 birth our little history has its proper beginning. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 
 
 '>? 
 
 HE antipathy of Jordan to the negroes was deeper 
 than even he had imagined. They proved a perj^et- 
 ual trial to him ; but he was a man who would have 
 cut off his right hand, if it had come in the way of 
 his duty ; and he ^et about his new vocation with the same 
 self-devotion that made martyrs of his ancestors. Soon his 
 management worked miracles, as genuine as an}^ that are re- 
 ported of the old Seeress. It transformed a hundred idle, 
 eye-serving, dissolute wretches, into as many industrious, 
 faithful, and respectable men and women. They had been 
 driven hard all the week, and even denied religious services 
 on Sunday ; but Jordan allowed them Saturdays to work for 
 themselves, and built for them a log church on a distant cor- 
 ner of the plantation. 
 
 After an absence of about three years the 'Squire returned 
 from his European tour, and had a reckoning with his over- 
 seer. He had received frequent accounts from him, but was 
 not prepared for the final result of his balance-sheet. 
 
 "Why, Jordan," he exclaimed, "you've paid the expenses 
 of my journey over and above the ordinary yield of the j^lan- 
 tation ! Here's my check for an extra five hundred ; and I'll 
 
 (24) 
 
THE SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 25 
 
 give you a deed of the cabin and a hundred acres, if you'll 
 stay with me five years longer." 
 
 These terms being agreed upon, Jordan was about taking 
 his leave, when the 'Squire, who was in a liberal mood, called 
 him back, saying, "Jordan, about that boy who has come to 
 your house since I've been away. Give him my name, and 
 I'll see that he has an education." 
 
 " I thank you, 'Squire," answered Jordan ; " he is already 
 named, — John, after his ancestors." 
 
 '• D— n his ancestors ! What can they do for him ? 
 Call him after me, and I'll make him a Qongress-man." 
 Jordan's gray eyes flashed ; but he answered, coolly, — 
 "Sir, the boy inherits his name from men whose blood 
 helped to give freedom to Scotland. Not for all your money 
 would I change it." 
 
 " Well, weU," said the 'Squire, " you Scotch are a queer set ; 
 but I'm d— d if you aren't honest. There's my hand, Jor- 
 dan ; take no offence — I meant none." 
 
 Jordan took his hand, and tried, honestly tried, to forgive 
 him ; but the insult rankled within him, and was not for a 
 long time forgotten. The two men, however, never but once 
 came in collision. This occurred two years afterward, and 
 may as well be mentioned, as it has some bearing on the 
 future of this narrative. 
 
 The 'Squire was a luxurious liver, and from his youth up 
 had been sadly given to the " gentlemanly " vices of gaming, 
 drinking, and horse-racing. Of these vices his fi-iends pre- 
 dicted that matrimony would cure him ; but it seemed to have 
 a contrary effect, for, on his return from Europe, he plunged 
 deeper than ever into dissipation. It soon was whispered 
 
 3 
 
26 ONTHEBORDER. 
 
 about that he and his wife did not live happily together ; 
 that he had learned the truth of the old adage, " A young 
 maid's heart is not bouglit by an old man's money," and was 
 trying to drown his disap]3ointment in the bottle. But this 
 was only conjecture. Nothing certain was known, except the 
 evident fact that the 'Squire was making rapid progress down- 
 ward. 
 
 He was, as has been said, a member of the Legislature, and 
 every winter he went, with his wife, to Lexington, returning 
 home at the close of the session. One spring, the next after 
 his return from abroad, he came back to the mansion bringing 
 with him a gentleman named Irving, who remained during 
 the summer. Irving was a dark, silent man, many years the 
 'Squire's junior, but the two seemed on a footing of the most 
 intimate friendship. They rode, drank, smoked, and gam- 
 bled together, and it was said that large sums were often lost 
 and won between them in the little billiard-room at the far- 
 ther end of the mansion. In the course of the summer the 
 'Squire was called North on business, and invited Irving to go 
 with him ; but the latter declined, alleging that he had taken 
 oath never again to set foot on abolition territory. This, to 
 the 'Squire, seemed a natural feeling for a Southern gentleman, 
 and he went away, leaving Irving behind with Mrs. Wed- 
 dington. After a few weeks he returned, and then the two 
 friends resumed their intimacy. 
 
 The 'Squire's marriage had been barren ; but in the follow- 
 ing summer he was blessed with an heir, — a fine boy, who 
 was boisterously welcomed by the whole plantation. The 
 coming of a young stranger is usually a happy event in any 
 family ; but it promised to be peculiarly happy in this family. 
 
THE SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 27 
 
 It wrought an entire revolution in Weddington. He threw 
 off his bad habits as other men throw off their worn-out 
 garments, went about again among his neighbors, looked 
 into the condition of his slaves, and one night even came to 
 Jordan's cabin to examine his accounts, and see how affairs 
 for the previous year had been managed. 
 
 Jordan had not yet forgotten his allusion to his venerated 
 ancestry ; but he was a true man, and such a change in 
 any one would have given him exquisite gratification. On 
 this occasion he could not repress his feelings, and when 
 they had gone over the accounts together, he said to the 
 'Squire, — 
 
 " Mr. Weddington, I must tell you how glad I am to see 
 you again a man." 
 
 Not heeding the bluntness of the remark, the 'Squire an- 
 swered, warmly, — 
 
 " Why, bless your soul ! don't you know ? I've something 
 now to live for ! " 
 
 At the close of the summer Irving reappeared at the man- 
 sion ; but after a few weeks went away again, taking with 
 him one of the 'Squire's negroes. 
 
 This negro, whose name was Ezekiel, had been brought up 
 with Weddington from boyhood, and his sale was a matter of 
 astonishment to Jordan. He was the preacher of the planta- 
 tion, and wielded a great influence over the other negroes, — 
 so great that his absence bred a spirit of discontent among 
 them, which soon became troublesome to the overseer. Jor- 
 dan mentioned this to Weddington, and suggested that he 
 should buy Ezekiel back ; but the 'Squire answered him 
 rather testily, — 
 
28 * ONTHEBOKDER. 
 
 " Let me manage my own affairs, Mr. Jordan. 'Zeke can't 
 come again upon the plantation." 
 
 He did, however, come again — the next summer, with his 
 master ; but he lodged in Jordan's barn, and carefully avoided 
 being seen by Weddington. Then Jordan learned why he 
 had been sold ; but he kept the reason secret, even from his 
 wife, saying only, — 
 
 " 'Zekiel, presuming on his long connection with his mas- 
 ter, gave him some unwholeson\£ advice, and, to punish his 
 presumption, the 'Squire sold him to Irving." 
 
 That night Jordan went to the mansion. What passed 
 between him and Weddington on the occasion is not known ; 
 but on his return to the cabin, he said to his wife, — 
 
 "Euth, the 'Squire and I have had words. Shall we go 
 back to Virginia ? " 
 
 " Where ye will, John," she answered. " Yer country ar* 
 my country, yer God my God ; " and, strange to say, she 
 asked no questions. 
 
 Early the next morning the negro and his master went 
 away, and a few nights afterward the 'Squire came to Jordan's 
 cabin. His face was pallid, his beard long, his hair dishev- 
 elled. He looked like a man just recovering from a deep de- 
 bauch or a long sickness. Half-walking, half-staggering into 
 the room, he held out his hand to Jordan. 
 
 "I've come to ask your pardon," he said. "What you 
 said was false, — false as hell ; but you're a true man, and I 
 ask your pardon." 
 
 Jordan took his hand, and said with an unusual degree of 
 warmth, for his temperament was as cool as the north of Scot- 
 
THE SHADOWS OF COMING K V E N T S . 
 
 29 
 
 land, "Say nothing of it, 'Squire. It is all forgotten. I am 
 sorry to see you've suffered." 
 
 With this the 'Squire's composure forsook him, and, sinking 
 into a chair, he covered. his face with his hands, and groaned 
 audibly. Turning to his wife, Jordan asked her to take the 
 child — the younger John, who was playing on the floor — 
 into another room ; and then the two men were, for more 
 than an hour, alone together. 
 
 AVhen the 'Squire had gone, Jordan said to his wife, — 
 " Euth, we must go to the mansion for a while. The 'Squire 
 is obliged to go away,- and the mistress is taken suddenly ill, 
 and needs your nursing." 
 
 " As ye will, John," answered Ruth, and again the wonder- 
 ftd woman asked no questions. 
 
 On the following day the 'Squire went away, and Jordan, 
 his wife and child, took up their abode at the mansion. Mrs. 
 Weddington was suffering severely from a nervous disorder, 
 but she steadily refused to have a physician. Day and night 
 she walked the room, wringing her hands and uttering pierc- 
 ing cries, and, at times, grovelling on the floor like a mad 
 woman. She scarcely ate or slept, and soon had dwindled to 
 a skeleton. Then Ruth became alarmed, and said to her hus- 
 band, " John, if we longer heed her whims, her death'll be on 
 us. Ye must go for a doctor." 
 
 He went for one immediately. The village was twelve 
 miles away, and he did not return tiU nightfall; but then his 
 wife met him at the door, and, with a smiling face, said, — 
 
 " She's a deal better, — a deal better, John ! Mr. Irving 
 has been here, and ever since she's been mending." The cool 
 
 3* 
 
30 O N T H E B O R D E R . 
 
 Scotchman started back ; his face grew suddenly pale j even 
 his sandy hair took on an ashen color. 
 
 " Wliat do ye say, woman ? " he exclaimed. " Irving 
 here ! " 
 
 " Why, yes," answered his astonished wife. " Ye'd not been 
 gone two hours. He asked for the lady, and she come down 
 to see him ; and ever since she's been better, — a deal better. 
 I hope it warn't no harm." 
 
 Jordan made no answer, but told a servant to show the 
 physician to the lady's apartment. In a few moments the 
 medical man came downstairs, saying that Mrs. Weddington 
 was sleeping soundly, and had better not be disturbed. He 
 would remain over night, and see her in the morning. 
 
 During the night the attendant with the lady came to the 
 physician's room, and called him to the bedside of her 
 mistress. 
 
 He found her delirious and in a high fever. After that he 
 did not leave the mansion for a fortnight, and then Mrs. 
 Weddington had sunk into that deep sleep which on this 
 earth has no awaking. 
 
 As soon as she was known to be in danger, Jordan wrote to 
 her husband, stating her condition. He was supposed to be 
 at Lexington, and distant only two days' journey; but he did 
 not arrive at the plantation until four days after the death of 
 his wife, and then, the weather being warm, she had been 
 two days buried. 
 
 He came just in the edge of evening, and, entering Jordan's 
 room in the dim twilight, said to him in a collected way, "My 
 friend, I am glad to see you." Then he sat down, rested his 
 head upon his hand, and said nothing for some minutes. 
 
T H K SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 31 
 
 At last, without looking up, he asked, — 
 
 " How is the mistress ? " 
 
 " She is well," answered Jordan, with the feeling which 
 makes a strong man's voice as soft as that of a woman. " It 
 is well with her, I hope, forever." 
 
 " It is well ! " answered Weddington. Then, rising from 
 his seat, he added, " Be good enough to give me a candle. I 
 will go to my room." 
 
 In the morning breakfast was sent up to him, and soon 
 afterward the servant came down, saying that his master 
 would see " Massa Jordan." 
 
 Jordan found him by an open window, smoking a cigar. 
 
 "Jordan," he said, more kindly than usual, "I want to go 
 away for a while ; have you any money ? Somebody has 
 robbed me." 
 
 " Kobbed you ! " echoed Jordan, turning instinctively to an 
 iron safe which stood in a corner of the apartment. 
 
 "Yes, I had twenty-five Kentucky Sixes when I went 
 away. They are gone now ; and, when I looked for them 
 this morning, the key was in the safe." 
 
 " The key in the safe ! Where have you kept it ? " asked 
 Jordan. 
 
 " Behind some books, on a shelf, in that closet." 
 
 Obeying a natural impulse, Jordan opened the safe, and 
 began to look over the contents. They were a few account- 
 books, and a quantity of loose papers, scattered about in some 
 confusion. Taking out the books, one by one, he had begun 
 to examine the papers, when the 'Squire said, — 
 
 " It is useless to look. They are gone. They were tied 
 up with red tape, and in the upper drawer." 
 
32 O N T H E B O R D E R . 
 
 Jordan opened the drawer. It was empty, but a piece of 
 red tape lay among the disordered papers. Taking it up he 
 found one of the ends coiled loosely about some neatly-folded 
 documents. Unfolding one of them, his eye fell on the broad 
 seal of Kentucky ; and, rising suddenly to his feet, he ex- 
 claimed, — 
 
 " Here they are ! Safe, after all ! The thief must have 
 dropped them." 
 
 " It is strange," said the 'Squire, taking the papers, and 
 passing them mechanically through his fingers. In a mo- 
 ment, in the same indifferent way as before, he added, " But 
 here are onlj^ fifteen, — I had twenty-five." 
 
 " Only fifteen ! " echoed Jordan, taking the bonds, and 
 counting them hurriedly. Then, kneeling down, he began 
 to look carefully among the remaining papers. 
 
 The 'Squire lighted another cigar and gazed, for a time, 
 vacantly out at the window ; then he rose suddenly to his 
 feet, thrust his hands into his hair, and paced rapidly up and 
 down the apartment. Jordan stood for a moment fixed to 
 the floor with amazement ; at last he said, — 
 
 "'Squire, don't take on. You have the numbers. The 
 thief can't possibly pass them without detection." 
 
 " D — n the bonds ! Let them go. Leave me ! Leave 
 the room, I tell you ! " cried the 'Squire, stamping violently 
 on the floor. 
 
 At the hour of noon the servant, going to his master's door 
 with dinner, found it locked ; but heard footsteps pacing rap- 
 idly up and down the room. Again at supper-time he found 
 the door locked, and coming away told Jordan that his mas- 
 ter must be dying, for he was no longer walking about, but 
 
THE SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 33 
 
 groaning heavily. Jordan and his wife rushed upstairs, and 
 tried to enter the apartment ; but the door resisted their 
 efforts. Then Jordan bent down and listened ; but soon he 
 turned, and led his wife away, saying, — 
 
 " Let us leave hin> alone — alone with his great sorrow." 
 In the morning Weddington's bell rang a little after day- 
 break, and Jordan, without waiting for a servant, went up to 
 his apartment. He was seated by a window, fully dressed, 
 and his boots were wet and muddy. He had evidently been 
 out of doors in the night-time. He turned round as the 
 overseer entered, and, half rising from his seat, said, — 
 
 " Ah ! Jordan, I'm glad you've come. Sit down — 
 
 here close by me. Look me in the face. Do I look like 
 
 a villain?" 
 
 Jordan smiled, as he answered, — 
 
 " You know I'm a peaceable man, 'Squire ; but my Scotch 
 temper would be tried if any man should say that of 
 you." 
 
 " But you're an honest man. I w^ant to know — if I look 
 like a villain?" 
 
 " No, 'Squire ! Like anything but a villain." 
 " That's enough," said Weddington. " Now, let what's 
 happened here rest between us." 
 
 " As you say, 'Squire," answered Jordan, "but you're not 
 well. Keep quiet for a few days. I'll track the bonds." 
 
 •'♦ Let the bonds go, I tell you ! I'll manage them," said 
 the 'Squire, somewhat impatiently. . " I mean you shall say 
 nothing of the robbery. Do you understand ? " 
 " Yes — yes," stammered the overseer. 
 "Well," said the 'Squire, "I shall go away to-morrow. 
 
34 
 
 ON TUE BOKDEK. 
 
 To-day I want to be alone. You may send me some break- 
 fast." 
 
 Jordan saw no more of Weddington during that da}^ ; but 
 on the following morning he went again to his apartment. 
 He had already risen, and a small portmanteau, ready 
 strapped, stood by his bedside. His eye lighted up as Jordan 
 entered the room. 
 
 " Ah ! Jordan," he said ; " sit down — here, by the table. 
 I am going away ; where, and for how long, I don't know. 
 Here are some papers which, if I don't come back, you will 
 open. They leave you in possession of the plantation till 
 Jackson comes of age. I owe some debts. Here is the list. 
 You will pay them with the avails of these bonds. There 
 will be a balance left, and that, whether I return or not, I 
 want you to consider your own." 
 
 The faithful Scotchman had his eyes bent on the schedule, 
 vainly trying to make out the sum of the liabilities. A mist 
 had gathered between him and the jDaper, and the figures 
 would not be deciphered ; but at this remark he looked up and 
 said, " No, no, 'Squire ! I'll not take it." 
 
 " It's your due ; you have earned it, and more." 
 
 " No, 'Squire, I've h^d my due. I should despise myself 
 if I took advantage of the good feeling of a man who is — 
 who is crushed as you are." 
 
 The 'Squire's face grew a shade paler, and the corners of 
 his mouth twitched nervously, as, grasping the Scotchman 
 suddenly by the hand, and wringing it violently, he said, 
 " Jordan, among all the men and women I ever knew, you 
 are the only one who has been true to me. I thought you 
 merely honest ; but by , you've a soul in you." 
 
T 11 K SHADOWS U F CO M I N O K \' E N T S . 
 
 35 
 
 Jordan, rising to his full height, took a step or two back- 
 ward, and said, solemnly, '' 'Squire, the hand of God is on 
 you, — in love it's on you. Speak not lightly of the Great 
 
 Father!" 
 
 The other also rose and paced the room for a while, saying 
 nothing. Then he came to Jordan, put his arm about his 
 neck, and his head on his shoulder; and then,— the strong 
 man wept bitterly. For many minutes they stood thus, 
 neither of them speaking. Then Jordan said, and his voice 
 sounded like a woman's, — " He answers prayer. Let us pray 
 
 to Him."' 
 
 Long he prayed, wrestling with God, as Jacob wrestled 
 with the angel ; and when they rose from their knees the 
 'Squire was another man. The clouds had broken away 
 about him, and into his soul had come a ray of the ineffable 
 light that streams down from the Infinite. An hour after- 
 ward he had left the plantation. 
 
 A fortnight later, a gentleman came to the mansion, with a 
 note from Weddington, which directed that the child — 
 Jackson — and his nurse, should be sent to Lexington, to the 
 sister of the child's mother. 
 
 Then another fortnight went away. Mrs. Weddington had 
 been a month dead, and, it was thought, quietly sleeping in 
 the little graveyard at the rear of the mansion ; but soon it 
 began to be whispered about that some of the negroes, out 
 after hours, had seen her, draped in a long black robe, and 
 walking the lonely cemetery by moonlight. 
 
 The rumor at last reached the ears of Jordan. Though a 
 Scotchman, he had no faith in ghosts, and concluding that it 
 was the 'Squire, returned, and venting his grief in secret at 
 
36 O N T II E B O R D E K . 
 
 the grave of his wife, he determined to exj^lore the mys- 
 tery. 
 
 He went there one midnight. When he came back his 
 face was ghastly pale ; but to his startled wife he only said, 
 " It is a spirit, Ruth, — an evil spirit ; but not that of the 
 mistress." Of old it was thought that a saint could lay the 
 worst demon in creation. Beyond a doubt this is true ; 
 for Jordan was a saint, and it is certain that he laid this 
 ghost so effectually that it was never seen or heard of after- 
 ward. 
 
 Not many months later the 'Squire returned to the planta- 
 tion, — another man, truly. His form was wasted, liis face 
 wrinkled, his black hair turned to an iron-gray ; twenty years 
 seemed to have gone over him. He went into the roojn 
 where Jordan was alone, and, sitting down near him, said, 
 "John, I've come back to die with you." 
 
 That night he went upstairs to sleep in his own apartment, 
 ■ — the one adjoining that of the dead woman, — but in the 
 morning Jordan, rising before daybreak, found him lying on a 
 sofa in the library. 
 
 " I can't sleep in this house," he said ; " there is something 
 in its air that stifles me." 
 
 In this enlightened age no one believes that the dead re- 
 visit their earthly abodes ; but may not some of that sj^iritual 
 emanation which goes out from the human soul linger behind 
 them, and fill the homes they have left with a portion, as it 
 were, of their living presence ? 
 
 The next night they made the 'Squire a bed in Jordan's 
 cabin, and soon afterward built for him the little room under 
 the rear veranda, which has been already mentioned. Jor- 
 
T H K SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 37 
 
 dan tlien went back to his home, and the mansion was closed, 
 never again to be opened during the 'Squire's lifetime. 
 
 His life after this was sad, and yet, somehow, it was beau- 
 tiful. He seemed to have begun the world anew, and to be 
 living over again his childhood. The young heir to so much 
 Scotch royalty — now a bright lad of about six years — be- 
 came, day and night, his constant companion. In pleasant 
 weather, the two would roam the old woods, sit together un- 
 der the great tree in the little court-yard, or wander along the 
 margin of the narrow stream, writing strange stories in the 
 sand, or singing the wild songs which the 'Squire had learned 
 from his old nurse, who came from Africa. Once in a while 
 the negroes would come upon them kneeling in some shady 
 place, their hands clasped together, and they talking to God 
 as if he were a father to such little children. Then the poor 
 slaves would go away with wet eyes, and say to one another, 
 " Pore, pore massa ! " 
 
 In winter they would build great houses in the snow, and, 
 feigning they were old Scottish castles, would arm themselves 
 with pine claymores, and have long combats before them ; 
 and the woods would ring again with the boy's shouts when 
 the man, after a hard fight, would fall mortally wounded. 
 Then the boy, covering the man up in the snow, would play 
 he was dead and buried, and preach over him a funeral ser- 
 mon. 
 
 And so two summers and winters went away, — this once 
 strong, proud man, living over again his childhood. 
 
 One sunny afternoon, toward the close of the second sum- 
 mer, they went together to a little nook they had fashioned in 
 the wood, near the little streamlet. Here they sat down, and 
 
 4 
 
So ONTHEBORDER. 
 
 the man WTote in the sand some of his strange stories. As 
 fast as one was wTitten the boy would rub it out, and the man 
 would write another ; but at last he wrote one shorter than the 
 rest, and when it was done, said, — 
 
 " Don't rub this out, Johnny. Let it stay till to-morrow 
 I'm tired now. Come, let us take a nap in the wngwam." 
 
 It was a little nook between two spreading trees, and two 
 summers before they had planted Virginia creepers, so as to 
 make of it a natural arbor. Its floor was carpeted with the 
 long leaves of the pine, and on these leaves they lay down 
 beside each other, and fell into quiet slumbers. After awhile 
 the boy woke, and moving quietly away, so as not to wake the 
 man, sat down on the ground near him. His face was pale, 
 — very pale ; but a smile was on it, gentle and sweet as the 
 earliest dream of childhood. Tiring of this at last, the boy 
 rose, and went out to the bank of the little streamlet. He 
 sat down there, and read over again the legend the man had 
 written in the sand. 
 
 " The Spirit and the Bride say. Come. And let him that 
 heareth say, Come. And whosoever will, oh ! let him freely 
 come, and freely drink the stream of life, — 'tis Jesus bids 
 him come." 
 
 " I wonder what this means ? How queer uncle is ! " said 
 the boy, taking up a pebble, and casting it into the stream. 
 It sank almost noiselessly into the still water ; but the tiny 
 waves it raised circled round, growing wider and wider, and 
 dying away only at the very edge of the streamlet. 
 
 " Uncle says that when a good man dies, he leaves just such 
 waves behind him," said the boy again, thinking aloud, and 
 throwing another stone into the water, ^'l mean to be a 
 
THE S II A I) O \V ?j OK COMIN(; EVENTS. 39 
 
 good man, and then, maybe, when I die I shall raise bigger 
 waves than these, — as big as a great rock going down in a 
 great river." 
 
 So the boy sat there, throwing stones into the water, until 
 the sun began to sink below the trees which fringed the oppo- 
 site mountain. Then he rose, and saying, " It's time we were 
 home, I must wake uncle,"-' he went into the little wigwam. 
 
 He shook the man by the shoulder, but he did not awaken. 
 He was usually roused by the slightest touch ; but now the 
 boy shook him again and again, crying out, " Uncle ! uncle ! 
 wake up ! wake up I Mother'll scold if we're out after sun- 
 down ; " but still he did not awaken. At last a strange fear 
 came over the boy, and he ran to the cabin for his father. 
 
 The two came, and, kneeling down by the side of the 'Squire, 
 Jordan put his finger upon his wrist. His pidse was still. 
 Then he thrust his hand into his side. His heart had ceased 
 beating. 
 
 Among the 'Squire's papers was found a will, which had been 
 executed when he was away on his last journey. It was brief, 
 and read as follows : 
 
 " Know all men by these presents. That I, Richard Wed- 
 dington, of the county of Johnson, and State of Kentucky, 
 gentleman, being of sound and disposing mind and memory, 
 do make and publish this, my only will and testament. 
 
 " First, I hereby appoint my fi-iend, John Jordan, to be my 
 sole executor. 
 
 " Second, I direct that the mansion-house on my plantation, 
 with its furniture, and one hundred acres of contiguous land, 
 shall be sold at public auction as soon as may be after my 
 death, and that the proceeds shall be appropriated by the 
 
40 ONTHEBORDER. 
 
 said Jordan, to settling in some free State such a number of 
 mj slaves, not exceeding fifty, as he may deem fit for fi-ee- 
 dom. 
 
 " Third, I give and devise to the son of the said Jordan, who 
 is also named John, three bonds of the State of Kentuckj-, 
 numbered respectively 11,718, 11,719, 11,720, which are con- 
 tained in my safe at the mansion. Said bonds to be held in 
 trust by the boy's father till he shall be of age, and to become 
 the property of his mother in case the boy should die before 
 attaining his majority. 
 
 '^ Fourth, I give and devise to the said John Jordan the 
 gold watch and chain which I wear, and which were given me 
 by my father, and I request that he will wear them always. 
 I give him no more. What I owe him cannot be paid with 
 money. 
 
 "The residue of my estate, real and personal, after my 
 debts shall be paid, I bequeath to my next of kin, with this 
 condition, that all the said residue shall remain in the undis- 
 turbed control of the said John Jordan until the first day of 
 January, 1859. 
 
 " For his services, under this will, the said Jordan is to re- 
 ceive such compensation as, to him, shall seem right and 
 reasonable." 
 
 The will was duly signed and attested according to the 
 laws of Kentucky, and, within a fortnight, Jordan pre- 
 sented it to the proper officer for probate. Before he had 
 entered upon his duties under it, or his grief for the 'Squire 
 had grown cold, just after noon, one September day, a gentle- 
 man rode lip to his cabin. Jordan was seated with his son 
 under the great maple which shaded his doorway, and a va- 
 
THE SHADOWS OF COMIX O K \' E N T S . 41 
 
 cant chair was beside tliem. The stranger dismounted, tied 
 his horse to a tree, and then approaching said, " Good- 
 morning." He was a stout, squarely-built man, with dark 
 sunken eyes, bushy hair and beard, and heavy eyebrows. 
 
 Jordan, rising, answered, " Good-morning." 
 
 " My name is Cecil," said the stranger, "Judge Cecil, of 
 Piketon." 
 
 Jordan recognized the name as that of the leading man of 
 the district, — the politician who had stepped into the shoes of 
 Weddington. 
 
 '' I have heard of you," said Jordan, whose manner to the 
 stranger was something like that of an iceberg to a befogged 
 mariner. 
 
 '' I have business with you. I have ridden far. I will take 
 a seat," said Cecil, advancing a step or two, and laying his 
 hand on the arm of the vacant chair. 
 
 " Not this ! not this ! " cried the boy, springing up and 
 clutching the chair in absolute terror. " This is uncle's ! " 
 
 The stranger looked astonished, and Jordan, brought to a 
 sense of common courtesy, said, " Excuse the boy ; this is 
 the 'Squire's chair. He sat in it, under this tree, every pleas- 
 ant day until he died." 
 
 " [N'ever mind, never mind ; no apologies are needed," said 
 Cecil ; to whom the emotion of the lad was as much of a mys- 
 tery as the origin of the Pyramids. 
 
 Jordan bade his son bring a chair from the cabin, and then 
 the stranger sat down beside them. 
 
 " I have come to see you, Mr. Jordan," he said, " about 
 that will of 'Squire Weddington's. It is a singular docu- 
 ment." 
 
 4* 
 
42 ONTHEBORDER. 
 
 "It is singular/' answered Jordan. -^'It surprised me 
 greatly." 
 
 " It makes no provision for the education of his son. It 
 does not even mention him," said Cecil. 
 
 " No, it does not. It speaks of his next of kin," said Jor- 
 dan. 
 
 " It throws away one-half of his property, and gives you 
 undisturbed control of the remainder for eighteen years, al- 
 lowing you to fix your own compensation," said Cecil. 
 " Why, sir ! in that time your charges might swallow up the 
 whole estate ! " 
 
 Jordan looked at the other for a moment, his cold gray eye 
 glittering with a sort of spiritual phosphoresence. Then he 
 said, — 
 
 " Come to the point, sir ! Let me know your business." 
 
 The lawyer was taken somewhat aback by the bluntness of 
 this addi'ess, but he answered coolly, — 
 
 "Very well, I will. I represent the relatives of Mrs. 
 Weddington. The 'Squire was imbecile, — that is notorious. 
 He has robbed his only son of one-half of his property. If 
 you press it to probate we shall contest the will." 
 
 " That would be expensive," answered Jordan, " and it 
 would be a quarrel over a dead man's grave." 
 
 " It need not be a quarrel, unless you insist that the will 
 shall go to probate," said Cecil. "I am authorized to offer 
 you satisfactory terms." 
 
 "I understand you, sir," answered Jordan, very delib- 
 erately, looking at the other with his cold, phosphorescent 
 eye. " I feel interested in the execution of the will for only 
 three reasons : Eirst, it is the wiU of the 'Squire, — made 
 
THE S II A 1) O W S OF COMING EVENTS. 4:1.^ 
 
 when ho was as sane as I am ; and I would see his wishes 
 carried out. Second, it will enable me to educate my son for 
 the ministry, — and his ancestors have been ministers for 
 more than two hundred years ; and, third, it provides for the 
 freedom of fifty men and women, who are as fit for it as I, or, 
 — you are, sir." 
 
 This remark was placing a white man, whose pedigree 
 went back, it may be, to the time of Adam, — or Cain, — on 
 a par with vermin littered only yesterday in a kennel ; but 
 the judge did not perceive, or did not choose to notice, the 
 implied insult. He replied, eagerly, — 
 
 " I see, I see ! You can be satisfied, Mr. Jordan. We will 
 allow you the three bonds for your son, and five thousand dol- 
 lars for yourself ; and, if you choose, let you manage the estate 
 till the boy, Jackson, comes of age." 
 
 " And what will you do about the fifty slaves that the will 
 liberates ? " asked Jordan. 
 
 " Why, let them remain as they are ; they do not want 
 their freedom." 
 
 " About that, sir, I am a better judge than you," answered 
 Jordan, speaking quickly, and again looking at the lawyer, 
 his eyes now blazing like firebrands, or. rather like jets of 
 white flame. " Your proposition is an insult, sir, and allow 
 me to tell you, that you are a scoundrel." 
 
 The judge bounded to his feet as if struck by a rifle-bullet. 
 His face flushed, and his eyes flashed as he said, " What do 
 you say ? Do you know who I am ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " answered Jordan, without moving a muscle, 
 or rising from his seat. " I've heard of you. You are a 
 man who lives by sucking the veins of dead men, — a ghoul, 
 
44 ONTHEBORDER. 
 
 we should call you in Scotland. But I always deal with the 
 devil fairly. Sit down, sir, and I'll tell you something you 
 don't know. Johnny, go into the house." 
 
 The boy went into the cabin, and Cecil, as if moved by 
 some mechanical force, took the vacant chair by the side of 
 Jordan. What passed between the two is not known ; 
 but in ten minutes the judge mounted his horse, and rode 
 away, his face overcast with something strongly resembling a 
 thunder-cloud. 
 
 The threat to contest the will made Jordan ner^^ously 
 anxious to effect the sale of the mansion, — that being a nec- 
 essary preliminary to the manumission of the negroes. He 
 pressed forward the legal proceedings, and, at last, the auc- 
 tion took place one cloudy day in October. The house and 
 furniture were put up separately ; but both went to one pur- 
 chaser, — the dark, silent man whose shadow had already 
 darkened the doorway of Weddington. Together they 
 brought the sum of ten thousand dollars. 
 
 Directly after the sale Irving approached Jordan. 
 
 " I understood the auctioneer to say," he said, " that the 
 purchaser would ha^e the right to select any one hundred 
 acres lying contiguous to the mansion." 
 
 " That is what the auctioneer said, sir." 
 
 " I will then, if you please, have the north line run to a 
 point beyond the cedar grove, in the rear of the mansion ; and 
 the east line on a course- parallel with the middle of the high- 
 way." 
 
 " It will be done as you say, sir," answered Jordan ; " but I 
 tell you, frankly, you will get some of the poorest land on the 
 
THE SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 45 
 
 plantation. The soil at the south of the road is far bet- 
 
 ter. 
 
 " I prefer the north side ; it is more heavily timbered." 
 " But the hne run precisely as you direct, would include the 
 family cemetery. That, of course, you do not want," said 
 
 Jordan. 
 
 " I do, sir," answered the other, quickly ; " I prefer a 
 
 square plat of ground." 
 
 The eyes of the two men met at this moment, and said 
 something which was Greek to the bystanders. 
 
 "You will, at least, aUow me to remove the bodies of the 
 dead," said Jordan, his breath grating against his teeth. 
 
 "Yes, sir," answered Irving, ''the bones of Mr. Wedding- 
 tx)n." And then he added quickly, as if to change the sub- 
 ject, " When will the deed be ready ? " 
 
 "By to-morrow noon, -that is, if you wiU take my meas- 
 Tirement. I am a professional surveyor." 
 
 " It will be satisfactory. I will wait for it. You will al- 
 low me a bed to-night at the mansion?" 
 
 «I_I — am sorry to have to say it, sir," stammered 
 Jordan ; " but I prefer to keep possession until the papers 
 have passed between us." 
 
 " Very well, sir," answered Irving, without the slightest 
 sign of vexation. " I will be here at twelve to-morrow." 
 
 Mounting his horse, he then rode away, -twelve miles 
 for a night's lodging. 
 
 The papers were passed on the following no'on, and Irving 
 took the key of the mansion. He remained shut up in the 
 house during the day, but, soon after dark, was seen walking 
 moodily along thd northern boundary of his hundred acres. 
 
46 ONTHE BORDER. 
 
 In the morning he was gone, no one knew whither. A fort- 
 night later he returned with his wife, the man Ezekiel, and 
 an old negress who bore a young infant in her arms, and 
 took possession of the mansion. 
 
 Jordan, knowing that Ezekiel's return would be the signal 
 for great rejoicing among the negroes, decided to give them 
 a general holiday on the occasion. As soon as he arrived, 
 therefore, he called them together, and told them they were 
 free the rest of the day, except for an hour after dark, when 
 they would meet him at the little meeting-house. 
 
 " Leff de preachin' gwo for to-day, massa," said one of the 
 more bold of the negroes. 
 
 " I have something to say to you," answered Jordan ; 
 " but I'm not going to preach. I give you preaching enough 
 on Sundays." 
 
 This was probably true. Since the sale of Ezekiel, he had 
 conducted their religious services, and no doubt had given 
 them quite as much Calvinism as they were able to bear. 
 
 The morning was a time of general jollification, but in 
 the evening the negroes gathered together at the little church 
 in the forest. They had an indefinite notion that something 
 good was coming ; for, though the fact that freedom had been 
 given to a portion had been carefully kept from them, it had 
 got whispered about that the 'Squire had mentioned them in 
 his will. They were, therefore, wofully disappointed when, 
 on assembling, they found nothing to eat or drink in the 
 whole church, — nothing but a big Bible, two rows of hard 
 benches, and a couple of flaming pine torches, which were 
 throwing a dim light around the dismal building. 
 
 Ezekiel opened the meeting with prayer, and then Jordan 
 
THE SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 47 
 
 advanced to the front of the platform, on which stood the 
 rude pulpit, and addressed the negroes. He spoke of his 
 long connection with them, of their cheerful obedience, and 
 general good conduct, and of the mournful pleasure it had 
 given him to witness their sincere grief for the death of 
 their master. That master, had he lived and recovered his 
 faculties, would have filled their lives with so many blessings 
 that they would have desired nothing, not even freedom ; 
 but though he was dead, he had not forgotten them. He 
 had so provided by his will, that none of them could be 
 sold away from the plantation, — at least not for nearly 
 twenty years, — and to fifty had given freedom, and enough 
 to begin life in a free country. 
 
 Here Jordan was interrupted by a shout that shook the 
 rude building, and echoed through the dense woods like the 
 noise of a waterfall. It was long before the uproar subsided, 
 and when it did, one after another began to cry out, " Am it 
 me, Massa Jordan ? Am it me ? " 
 
 " Be as quiet as you can," said Jordan ; " I don't expect you 
 to be altogether quiet ; but be as quiet as you can." 
 
 When order was somewhat restored, he went on to say, that 
 the 'Squire had left to him the selection of the fifty who should 
 receive freedom ; that making the selection had been the 
 most difficult duty of his life ; but he had devoted to it 
 much thought and prayer, and had at last the manumission 
 papers ready for delivery. He had been guided, he said, by 
 a desire not to separate families, and not to throw upon their 
 own resources those not in every way able to provide for 
 themselves. And he said that those who remained must not 
 think he considered them unworthy of freedom. He only 
 
48 ONTHEBORDER. 
 
 thouglit they needed his care more than the others, and his 
 care they should have ; for, if his life were spared, he should 
 remain among them until the time fixed by the ^Squire for the 
 passing of the estate into the hands of his kindred. Finally, 
 he told them, he desired those who were freed to prepare 
 for removal as soon as they could, for there had been some 
 threats of an attempt to break the will. Hence he had 
 pressed forward the sale of the mansion, and now wanted to 
 see them, as soon as possible, in a Free State, where they 
 would be beyond the reach of all the lawyers, and all the 
 courts, in Kentucky. 
 
 Then, one by one, he called over the names of the freed 
 negroes ; and one by one, as the roll was called, they came up 
 to the platform, and received their manumission papers, while 
 a stillness, like that of death, reigned throughout the rude 
 building. A half dozen had received the " charter of lib- 
 erty," and returned to their seats, when a tall, stalwart man, 
 coal-black, and of about middle age, came forward. He held 
 out his hand hesitatingly at first, but suddenly withdrew it, 
 saying, " No, no, massa, I don't want to leab you." Turning 
 then to the assemblage, he added, " And I tell you, all you 
 brack folks, you wont neber agin be nigh so well off away up 
 Norf dar. You'll git froze to death ; and dar haint anoder 
 such a massa as Massa Jordan in all dis worle, — not in all 
 dis worle." 
 
 At once from all parts of the house, a confused murmur of 
 voices arose, saying, " Dat's a fac' ; " "I don't want no free- 
 dom ; " "I wont leab Massa Jordan, nohow ; " and one woman, 
 who had already received a paper, came tremblingly forward 
 with it in her hand. 
 
T H K SHADOWS OF C O M I N (i EVENTS. 49 
 
 Jordan was visibly affected, but rising to his feet he said, 
 " You are wrong, — you are not to be turned upon the world 
 empty-handed. You are to have all that the mansion has sold 
 for, and that divided among you will be two hundi'ed dollars 
 for every one who is freed. I advise you to take your free- 
 dom. I will go to a Free State with you, and try to settle 
 you comfortably." 
 
 Then again a confused murmur ran through the house ; but 
 now the voices said, " We will go ; " " We'll do what Massa 
 Jordan say." 
 
 There was no further interruption, and soon all the papers 
 were distributed. Then Jordan, saying "Good-night to all 
 of you," left the building. 
 
 But the negroes remained. That number of white men 
 awarded so priceless a boon, might have made night hideous 
 with wild shouts and drunken revelry; but these simple 
 souls, knowing no better, went upon their knees, and, until far 
 into the night, sent up, from overflowing hearts, grateful 
 songs and thanksgivings to the Great Father, who so tenderly 
 cares for the meanest of his earthly children. 
 
 The negroes had dispersed to their several homes, and it 
 was the dark hour which always precedes the morning, when 
 Jordan's wife awoke him by crying oyt, " John ! John ! See ! 
 That great light down in the valley ! " 
 
 Springing hastily out of bed, Jordan went to the window ; 
 and, as he began to hurriedly throw on his clotheS, said, 
 " Don't be frightened, Ruth. The mansion is on fire." 
 
 When he reached the scene, the flames were climbing the 
 roof, and rising, in lurid jets, far above the tall chimneys of 
 
 5 
 
DO O N T H K B O K D E K . 
 
 the great building. Nothing could be done. The house was 
 already beyond saving. 
 
 A hundred negroes were standing about in frightened 
 groups, and pacing to and fro before the fire, his head bent 
 down, his face ghastly white, w^as the man, Irving. Jordan 
 went directly up to him. 
 
 " Your wife and child," he said, — " are they safe ? " 
 
 He looked vacantly at Jordan for a moment, then, without 
 speaking, resumed his walk in front of the burning build- 
 ing. 
 
 At this moment the negro, Ezekiel, emerged from the rear 
 of the mansion, and came toward Jordan. 
 
 " Are they safe ? " asked the white man, eagerly, — " the 
 mistress and the child ? " 
 
 " Oh, yas, massa, — safe. Dey's safe in one ob de cabins." 
 
 " How did it happen ? " asked Jordan. 
 
 " 'Taint 'zackly clar, massa," answered the negro, " but I 
 reckon 'twas dis away. Ye sees, I leif de church long ter de 
 mornin', and, comin' yere, seed the flames a bustin' out ob de 
 back winders. I run in and woke massa and missus, and den 
 got out de old nuss and little Eachel. But I wan't a minnit 
 too soon, fur de fire was a blazin' in de hall, and I hed to leff 
 'em down fru de winder. Massa 'peared like he was struck 
 wid de palsy, but, wid two or free as had come, I went ter 
 wuck, and toted out a few cheers, a bed or two, and a bureau ; 
 and den we couldn't ^YUck no more, for de fire was all ober de 
 mansion. De nuss, she say she leff a candle a burnin' fur 
 me in de room off de library. She sot it on a cane-cheer, 
 and it was a yaller-dip, so I reckon it cracked, drapped down, 
 and so sot de cheer a fire in no time. What would de poor 
 
THE SHADOWS OF CO M I N G E V K N T S . 51 
 
 'Squar' say if he kiiowd de ole house war sich a brack ruina- 
 tion as it'll be to-morrer ? " 
 
 "He would be sorry, 'Zekiel, — the more sorry if he had 
 just sold it, and had the money, as I have," answered Jordan. 
 
 He stood with the negro, watching the flaming rafters, as 
 one by one they fell upon the blazing pile below, when Irving 
 paused in his hurried walk, and came toward them. His 
 eyes gave out a strange light, as if his soul were on fire with 
 some such flame as that which was devouring his dwelling. 
 
 " That safe ! " he said, in a husky voice, — " all I have in 
 the world is in it ! Is it fire-proof ? " 
 
 "I'm afraid not," answered Jordan. "It was said to be ; 
 but I fear it is not to be trusted." 
 
 Three days afterwards the safe was exhumed from the 
 smoking ruins, and, being deluged with water, was finally 
 opened. A handful of cinders was all that it contained. On 
 these cinders this man had built a life of ease, and with them 
 had meant to laugh at destiny ! 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 AFTER TWENTY YEARS. 
 
 0]^CE knew a man who set about building a house, 
 and, having laid the foundation and put up the frame- 
 work, left it exposed, like a ship riding at anchor un- 
 der bare poles, to the wind and the rain for half a 
 generation. Like the man in the Gospels, he began to build 
 and was not able to finish. In the course of years, however, 
 he did add here and there a joist, and nail on here and 
 there a weather-board ; but it was not till his youngest boy 
 had grown to be a man that the skeleton-house became a 
 finished building. Then, to the merry music of the saw and 
 the plane, it sprang up from a confused heap of boards and 
 beams, all at once, as if by enchantment. 
 
 As it was with the man's house, so it is with our story. 
 Having laid its foundation, and set up its framework, we are 
 obliged to leave it in the wind and the rain for twenty years, 
 adding only here and there a joist or a weather-board. Nobody 
 has died, nobody been married, and the great world has been 
 moving round just as if none of its characters were in existence. 
 And yet they all have lived, all have been growing older, and, 
 it may be, wiser, and all have been in training in that school 
 of silent events by which God fits every man to act his part, 
 great or small, in the long drama of the centuries. 
 
 (52) 
 
A F T E 11 TWENTY Y 11 A U S . 63 
 
 It was late one night in the winter of 1860, when a man' 
 was slow!}" wending liis way along the narrow road which 
 leads from the site of the burned mansion, to the little cabin 
 on the hill-side. He walked with a shambling, uncertain step, 
 as if lost in thought, or wearied with a long journey ; but he 
 paused when he reached the foot of the little clearing, and 
 looked off into the forest. A ruddy light was streaming from 
 the windows of the cabin, and the long shadows it cast on the 
 opposite woods, swayed by the flickering fire, were dancing 
 about among the trees, as ghosts are supposed to dance about 
 in gravej^ards. It was these shadows, or the thoughts that 
 they awakened, which arrested the steps of the man, and 
 made him — sitting down on the low fence which bordered 
 the clearing — look again, long and moodily, off into the for- 
 est. " How strange they are ! " he said, as if speaking to 
 some one beside him. " I wonder if his soul is at rest, or 
 wandering, like them, among the shadows ? " 
 
 After a time he rose, and, with a steadier tread, ascended 
 the narrow pathway which led to the cottage. Before the 
 window he paused again, and looked back at the weird crea- 
 tures of the night that were making such wild revelry in the 
 forest. As he moved between them and the fire-light, they 
 seemed, for a moment, to dance more wildly, and then to steal 
 up the hiU, as if to clutch him in their airy arms and bear 
 him away to the shadowy realm beyond the rivulet. But as 
 he turned and opened the door of the cabin, they gave up the 
 chase, raced again down the hill, and began again their 
 ghostly minuet in the valley. 
 
 As the man entered the room, a woman rose from a seat 
 5* 
 
54 ONTHEBORDER. 
 
 near the fire, and came toward the door-way. " Ye is late, 
 John," she said. " It's arter two in the mornin'." 
 
 " I know," he answered ; " I couldn't come sooner. He 
 is dead." 
 
 " Dead ! " echoed the woman, in a startled way. 
 
 " Yes, dead. He went just at midnight," replied the man, 
 standing with his hand on the latch of the door. " But look 
 there, mother, — down there by the run ! See those black 
 things a- dancing ! Don't they make you think of the dark 
 spirits they say come out o' nights to take the souls of bad 
 men down to the under-world ? " 
 
 " Hush, John ; don't ye speak so ! Them is only the 
 shadders from the fire through the winder." 
 
 " I know, I know, mother ; but to-night they seem to me 
 living things, — dark spirits who have taken on the shadows 
 so our eyes may see them. I know it isn't so j but — I hope 
 his soul isn't among them." 
 
 " Among 'em ! Why, John, how you tork ! Israel warn't 
 a bad man, — he never done nothin' to send him among the 
 dark sperets." 
 
 "Not that you know, mother; not that you know," an- 
 swered the man, barring the door, and coming forward into the 
 fire-light ; " but he's told me things to-night that have froze 
 my blood in hearing." 
 
 He sat down by the fire, and the blaze of the burning logs 
 lit up his features. He was a man of about twenty-eight, 
 with a tall, gaunt, somewhat awkward frame, and a sallow, 
 sun-browned complexion. He had large hands and feet, 
 long, bony arms, and shoulders which, though square and 
 broad, had a singular stoop that almost amounted to de- 
 
A F T E R T W K N T Y T E A R S . 55 
 
 formity. He was dressed in common homespun, and wore the 
 shapeless slouched hat which, time out of mind, has covered 
 every male head in the district ; but, when he lifted this un- 
 couth head-gear from the mass of soft, jet-black hair which 
 f^ll in wavy folds almost to his shoulders, he disclosed an 
 open, intensely white forehead, thickly interlaced with those 
 fine blue lines that always denote a mind of great power 
 and sensibility. With his hat* on, and, as he usually wore it, 
 slouched down, so as to half hide his face, he would have 
 passed unnoticed as a common rustic ; but with it oif, and the 
 light falling upon his broad head, expanded and flexible nos- 
 trils, wide and strong jaws, and singularly regular and hand- 
 some features, he would have arrested attention anywhere as 
 a man of no ordinary character. Over his features he had 
 a strange control ; for, as he sat now in the fire-light, they 
 wore a quiet, dreamy expression, blended with a certain look 
 of trust and gentleness, which seemed habitual to them ; and 
 yet a wild, white, ghastly light came out of his great gray 
 eyes that drove the color from the woman's face, and made 
 her half-stagger into the seat beside him. 
 
 " What was it, John ? " she cried. " Was it murder ? " 
 
 "Hush, mother!" he said, laying his hand suddenly on 
 her arm, and speaking in a hoarse, broken whisper. ^' Where 
 is father and Kobin ? " 
 
 " Asleep these five hours," she answered, in the same 
 broken whisper. "No 'un kin yere ye. What did he do, 
 John? Tell me!" 
 
 The man glanced down at the fire, and said nothing for a 
 few moments ; then, without looking up, he answered, " Noth- 
 ing, mother, — nothing that can be told." 
 
56 ONTHEBORDER. 
 
 "It war suthin', John, — suthin' dreadful ; for I never seed 
 that look in yer eyes afore. And yet I can't b'lieve Israel 
 ever done ary wrong, — he, as was allers so quiet and so pa- 
 tient like, in all the trouble as was ever a follerin' him." 
 
 " The trouble was the fruit of his crimes," said the man. 
 " The Lord has so fixed the order of things that even dumb 
 nature works against the wrong-doer. I never thought he 
 put any special sentence upon Cain. It was the spirit of his 
 evil deed that haunted him, and made him a wanderer in the 
 world, — his hand against every man, and every man's hand 
 against him." 
 
 "I knows, John, I knows; but ye's allers a preachin'. 
 What was it ? " again asked the woman, in a tone of slight 
 impatience, and drawing her chair nearer to the man's. 
 
 This was the same woman who, twenty years before, had 
 seemed not to know how to ask a question ; but now she ad- 
 dressed her son, and then her husband ; and, too, the dark, 
 silent man of whom they were speaking, had, all those years, 
 been to her among the strangest of mysteries. 
 
 " I'd like to tell you, mother," answered the man ; " it would 
 ease my mind ; but I can't. It's a dead man's secret." Then 
 after a pause, he added, " It's very late. You ought to go to 
 bed and get some rest. Kachel will need you to-morrow." 
 
 He turned away, and looked again at the fire, and neither 
 spoke for many minutes. While they are thus silent, we may 
 as well glance around the apartment. 
 
 It is somewhat larger than an ordinary sitting-room, and is 
 evidently the best apartment in the cabin. It opens by one 
 door upon the covered passage-way already mentioned; by 
 another into a small bedroom, formed by inclosing a portion 
 
A F T K R r W E N T Y Y K A K S . 67 
 
 of the rear veranda ; and it has plastered walls, and a 
 tongued-and-grooved ceiling, through which project the naked 
 beams that support the upper story. A rag carpet covers the 
 floor, except in front of the fire-place, which is deep and wide, 
 and surmounted by a broad mantle of unpainted oak, on 
 which a Yankee clock is ticking. In one corner stands a 
 spinning-jenny, in another a cushioned settle, and opposite the 
 fireplace is a large bureau of natural maple, on which rests an 
 unpainted violin, evidently of home manufacture. Over 
 against the door-way is a small table, covered witli a patch- 
 work cloth, and holding a few books, among which are the Bi- 
 ble, " The Course of Time," a large dictionary. Watts' Hymns, 
 an odd volume of Shakespeare, and the " Heaven and Hell " 
 of Swedenborg. These books are all well worn, as if handled 
 by a whole neighborhood, or often read by some one individ- 
 ual. The latter, however, is the more likely supposition ; for 
 the neighborhood is not of a literary turn of mind ; and this 
 supposition may account for the fact that the young man em- 
 ploys so little of the uncouth dialect of the region. Long 
 pondering on these books has probably made their language 
 even more natural and familiar to him than the rude accents 
 he has learned from the lips of his mother. 
 
 A half-dozen chairs, with rustic frames and deer-skin cov- 
 erings, arranged somewhat regularly about the floor, and a 
 few other articles comprise the remaining furniture of the 
 apartment ; but among these other articles are some which,* 
 more than anything I have enumerated, reveal the character 
 of the man who has been speaking. 
 
 • They are several paintings in oak frames, which are hang- 
 ing on the walls. They are coarsely done in oil, and evident- 
 
58 O N T II i: H O K D K K . 
 
 ly by one with no educated knowledge of art ; but they show 
 a natural percej^tion of the beautiful ; and one is a picture 
 that would arrest the attention of the most careless observer. 
 It covers the whole blank space over the bureau, and repre- 
 sents several mountain ranges, rising one above another in 
 more than Alpine grandeur. In the foreground, at the foot 
 of the mountains is a broad, arid plain, dotted here and 
 there with little oases, which are watered by small ri\Ti- 
 lets, and thickly covered with verdure. On these oases are 
 vine-embowered cottages, around which groups of children 
 are playing, and men and women are gathered in little knots, 
 or two by two in various occupations. Some are tilling the 
 ground, some felling the trees, some tending the flowers, and 
 others looking up with rapt faces at the high mountain sum- 
 mits ; but all are engaged in some act of work or devotion. 
 They are of graceful form and comely feature, and many of 
 them bear small bunches of flowers in their hands, and the 
 bloom on their hearts seems as fresh as that on the roses they 
 carry. Their clothing is mean and poor, and some have 
 scarcely any covering ; but the rude breath of spring, and the 
 cold wind of winter, never comes to them ; for these are they 
 who are clothed in the garments of salvation. 
 
 Around these leafy Ed ens is a difl'erent landscape. It is a 
 broad, arid plain, and over it the drifting sand, lifted by the 
 fierce simoon, is rising in dense clouds that well-nigh shut out 
 the vision. But through the hazy air one may discern, in 
 dim outlines, the dwellers in this desert. They are a count- 
 less multitude, — countless as the leaves on the trees, — and 
 of every imaginable shape and complexion ; but all have some 
 lineament of manhood. Here, with the form of a man, the 
 
AFTER T W E N T Y Y E A U S . 69 
 
 face of a lamb, and the feet of a bird of prey, is a priest, in 
 white robe and surplice ; yonder, in a brass mask, with a huge 
 boulder for a heart, is a judge, arrayed in the ermine ; and 
 about in various places are divers others, — a king in rags 
 and tatters ; a politician kissing the feet of a toper ; a black- 
 smith hammering away at a naked heart ; a miser sinking 
 under a load of gold, and a scholar with a head like a dried 
 pumpkin, and bearing the significant inscription : " Lofts to 
 Let." Every character has its peculiar features. Some have 
 the faces of wolves, of panthers, owls, foxes or hyenas ; others 
 the claws of vultures, and the bodies of all manner of creep- 
 ing things, and all are preying and making war on one other. 
 
 But the most striking figures are directly in the fore- 
 ground. They are an ape in a dandy's coat and trousers, who 
 is dancing and grimacing on the very brink of an abyss 
 which seems unfathomable ; and a woman with a serpent's 
 body, who is coiling her slimy length round the dandy's 
 waist, and luring him down the precipice. Down this abyss 
 one may catch a glimpse of the under-world, into which no 
 ray of light enters, and where sin holds its high carnival for- 
 ever. 
 
 But the sand-clouded air clears away at the foot of the first 
 mountain, and there various figures can be seen climbing a 
 broken and rocky ascent. They seem weary and bent, as 
 with some great life-burden ; but on they are going through 
 the briers and thistles that strew the steep and flinty way ; 
 and as they go, their faces lose the lineaments of beasts and 
 birds of prey, and take on those of a radiant manhood. 
 Passing in and out among them are shining figures, clad in 
 white, who are guiding the weary wayfiirers, and pointing 
 
60 o X T II i: li o I J I) E a . 
 
 them to the sun-illumined plateau toward which they are 
 journeying. 
 
 This j)lateau is an evergreen land, bathed in a sunshine 
 that is softened, not obscured, by the misty clouds which over- 
 hang the whole lower part of the mountain. It is like the 
 earth, only far more beautiful. In it are rolling hills, and 
 running streams, and verdant plains, and waving fields, rich 
 with growing grains, and fruitful trees, and blooming flowers. 
 Around are cosey cottages and gorgeous palaces, and great 
 cathedrals, on whose spires a light is resting that seems a 
 glory from the Infijiite. The scene is all alive with singing- 
 birds, and aU overflowing with ethereal beings, floating in the 
 dreamy air, or resting in the leafy woods, as if life to them 
 were only one long day of joy and sunshine. 
 
 Beyond this mountain is another, sloping up through ver- 
 dant fields and flowery meads ; and along its sides are moving 
 figures, clad in shining robes, and resembling the angels of 
 the old painters. They are aiding the toilers from below, as 
 these are aiding the pilgrims from the desert-region. Above 
 this mountain another rises tlirough the mist, until three in 
 all are seen, — the three heavens, it may be, that Paul saw 
 in his vision. 
 
 But the striking feature of all the striking picture is at 
 the summit of the loftiest mountain. There, on the top- 
 most peak, beneath the great sun which gives light and 
 warmth to all these radiant regions, and encircled by a count- 
 less throng, who are kneeling, as if in adoration, is a way- 
 worn man, laying a heavy cross upon the ground. His form 
 is wasted, his hands and feet are torn and bleeding, and on 
 his face are traces of an infinite ■ sorrow. It is the Man of 
 
A F T K K r \V E N T Y Y E A H <; . 01 
 
 Calvary. Up all the toilsome way he has borne tlie weary 
 load, and now he is laying it down at the feet of the Infi- 
 nite, while over his head a belt of stars, new-created to 
 celebrate the hour, are with their new-born rays writing on 
 the sky : " This is my Beloved Son, in Whom I am well 
 
 PLEASED." 
 
 A singular picture this to be found in a wilderness, and a 
 singular man must he be whose untutored art has painted so 
 gorgeous a panorama of the eternal pilgrimage ! What un- 
 seen hand has drawn aside for him the veil that divides this 
 life fi'om the other? or what angel-voice whispered in his 
 soul the sublime truth that the Man of Calvary bore the 
 cross of Self-Sacrifice up to the highest heaven, before he 
 received the homage of the angels, and was crowned the 
 " Lord of All ? " 
 
 But the woman speaks, and we will turn again to those 
 two who are seated there in the fire-light. Her eyes, like 
 the man's, have been bent on the fire ; but now she looks 
 up and a smile, half of wonder, half of doubt, is on her feat- 
 ures. They are pleasant features, and though they lack 
 some of the intellect, and all of the dreamy expression which 
 is in the man's, they show — if one's life may be shown in 
 one's face — that her life has been a summer day, or a gen- 
 tle stream, rippling down through quiet ways, and singing as 
 it goes to the great, ever-singing ocean. 
 
 " But John," she said, " how did he come to tell ye ?" 
 
 " He sent for me expressly to tell me," he answered, lean- 
 ing back in his chair, and drawing a long breath, as if 
 speech were a relief to the thoughts which his eyes showed 
 were working within him. " When I went thar, just after 
 
62 O N T II E li O K D K R . 
 
 dark, Zeke was doing up his evening chores at the barn. I 
 stopped to say a few words to him, M-hen Eachel came run- 
 ning out, saying her father wanted me to come at once into 
 the cabin. She said he'd seemed better during the day than 
 for months going ; but, when I went into the room, he asked 
 them all out, and told me that he was dying. I thought it 
 couldn't be so ; for his face was flushed, and his voice strong 
 and husky ; but I asked him if I hadn't better call back his 
 wife and daughter. He shook his head and said : ^ No, no ! 
 Not yet ! Thar's time enough for that. I must talk to you 
 first. I've something on my mind, John, that I must tell be- 
 fore I die ; and I can tell it to no one but you, — for I can 
 trust no one but you never to use it against Rachel or her 
 mother.' I said he could trust me ; and then, in a broken 
 way, stopping often for breath, and for more strength to face 
 the terrible thing, he told me the story." 
 
 Here the man paused, and gazed again for a while at the 
 fire, and the woman said : " It must have been dreadful, 
 John — dreadful. I know it by the look that's in yer eyes 
 this minnit." 
 
 " It was dreadful, mother," said the man, looking up, and a 
 different light coming into his great gray eyes. It must have 
 been this new light which shut from his view the hideous 
 vision that seemed rising before the mind of the woman, — as 
 a strong blaze will illumine a room, while a weaker flame will 
 only fiU it with gloomy shadows. At any rate, he went on : 
 " It was dreadful, — too dreadful for you to hear, or for me to 
 tell. It showed me the real nature of evil. Evil is like 
 fire, mother, — a good thing if kept under, but, allowed to get 
 the mastery, a very devil of destruction." 
 
AFTER T ^^' K N T Y Y E A R S . 63 
 
 " Why, John ! How kin ye say so ? How kin ye call evil 
 good?" - 
 
 " It isn't good in itself, — it's only good in its way. It is 
 useful, and, it may be, necessary for our development. If it 
 was not, it wouldn't exist ; for God would allow nothing to be 
 that was not for the final happiness of his creatures. This al- 
 ways puzzled me, — how God, who is all goodness, could permit 
 evil, — until one day when I was down at the village, before 
 the new court-house was finished. I had heard it was to be 
 the finest building in all Kentucky 5 and I went to see it. It 
 was only half-way up ; all about it was a rough scaifolding, 
 and all around were loose bricks, and mortar, and rough 
 plank, and the upturned earth, on which not a blade of grass 
 was growing. I sat down on the other side of the way, and 
 said to myself, ' Folks may call this beautiful ; but give me the 
 beauty of the woods, of the tall tree, springing from the great 
 trunk, and tapering up into the slender spire, which, like the 
 good man's thoughts, point always to heaven; or even the 
 beauty of our old log cabin, rough, uncouth, and, like a shape- 
 less dwarf, a world too broad for its height, but covered all over 
 with an evergreen coat made for it by the Creator.' This is 
 what I thought ; but as I sat tliere, the scaffolding seemed to 
 fall away, the grass to spring up around, and the building to 
 rise, like what it is now, — more beautiful than any work of 
 man I have ever seen. 
 
 " Then it flashed upon me that the soul is like that build- 
 ing, half-finished, but rising from the earth to be a tiling at 
 which the man himself shall, some day, wonder. The evils 
 around and in us are only the bricks and mortar, and other 
 rubbish by which the soul is growing, and the body is only 
 
64 O N T II E IJ O H D K U . 
 
 the scaffolding by which it is rising into the heavens. The 
 rubbish will be cleared away, the scaffolding be thrown down, 
 and then the soul will rise, a thing of grandeur and of 
 beauty forever." 
 
 His eyes now gave out another light, his thin nostrils 
 opened and shut, and his whole face was aglow with the 
 strange enthusiasm that possessed him ; but the woman said 
 coolly, "And yet, John, some men haint never more'n half- 
 finished. They go out of the world no higher to heaven nor 
 when they come into it." 
 
 " So it seems to us, mother ; but that is only because so 
 much rubbish gathers about them that we can't see their 
 growth. The soul, which is the workman, sometimes, too, sees 
 so much rubbish around that it gets discouraged, and stops 
 working, and as the building doesn't go up before our eyes, 
 we forget that it has even a foundation. But it has ; and the 
 more rubbish there is about it, the higher and grander it will 
 rise at last ; for the rubbish — which is what we call evil — 
 is only the material out of which the building is formed. It 
 may not rise to its full height in this world, but it will in the 
 world to come." 
 
 " No, no, my son ! ' As the tree falls, so it lies ! ' ^ There is 
 no device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave ! ' " 
 
 " That is not the meaning of those words, mother. The 
 tree does not lie as it falls ; and all the wisdom of the ages is 
 in the grave. The tree rots away, and springs up again in the 
 green grass and the beautiful flower; and the soul, which only 
 buds here, blossoms there, and sends out its fragrance for- 
 ever." 
 
 " Ah, John, this comes on yer over-much reading and yer 
 
AFTER TWENTY YEARS. 
 
 65 
 
 day-dreamin'. Yer sorry wrong. Ye mustn't be wise above 
 what is \\Titten." 
 
 «Iam not wise above what is written, mother, — above 
 what is written here, — in my soul. That is the true interpre- 
 ter of God's word and works. The one who has not rightly 
 read his own soul, cannot know God, or read one-half of the 
 riddles that surround us." 
 
 " We carn't read 'em any way, John. Ye know what yer 
 father says, —truth lies at the bottom of a weU." 
 
 « Yes, I know ; but when I look down the well, I see my 
 own face in the water. When I try to find God in nature, or 
 in the great world, I feel lost, — lost, as the worm does when 
 he looks up at the stars ; but when I look down the well, and 
 see my own soul reflected there, I catch a glimpse of the Un- 
 known ; for we are made in the image of God." 
 
 " But ye don't s'pose God ar' a man ? Ye don't s'pose ye 
 kin measure him ? " 
 
 " No, mother ; no more than father, with his rod and chain, 
 can measure yonder mountain. But with just such tools as 
 his, other men have measured higher mountains, — put a gir- 
 dle round about the earth, and found the distance of stars 
 — suns like ours — which are so far away that imagination 
 itself wearies in going the long journey." 
 
 "Ah, John, John, I wish ye'd put away sech thoughts. 
 Come nigher the earth, and leave the stars alone. No one by 
 searching kin find out God." 
 
 " Thar you are wrong, mother. Jesus found him out, 
 shared his thoughts, probed his plans, and, with a single 
 glance of his eye, took in the whole of history to the end of 
 
 6» 
 
66 ONTHEBORDER. 
 
 time. Think upon the parables of the kingdom, and tell me 
 
 « 
 if what I say is not true ? " 
 
 " Yes, my son, it'r true ; but Jesus was God." 
 
 " I know you think so, mother ; and I am not sure that he 
 was not ; but you, and* the rest of the world, forget that he 
 was also man, — that he wept and prayed, was hungry and 
 faint, felt grief and pain, like other men. God himself, if he 
 took our nature upon him, could be nothing more than he 
 was ; but in exalting Jesus into God we only lower him as a 
 man ; for his real glory is that he was a man, and, that being 
 a man, he lived the life he lived, and died the death he died. 
 He came not so much to show us what God is, as what man 
 may be ; and when I think of his life, when I look on its daz- 
 zling beauty, though my eyes, like Paul's, are blinded with the 
 sight, I catch a glimpse of the real grandeur of the human 
 soul, — of the ineffable glory in which it will be clothed, when, 
 like his, it shall have been made perfect through suffering." 
 
 As I write them, the man's words sound like the rant of 
 a half-crazed fanatic ; but, as he spoke them, they were the 
 natural language of his thoughts, — of such thoughts as in the 
 rugged prose of the old Cameronian would have had a rough 
 force and eloquence that is something akin to the lofty gran- 
 deur of Milton. 
 
 " Ah, John, ye deny the Lord that bought ye. I weep, — 
 I weep bitter tears when I think how far ye've strayed from 
 the faith of yer fathers. What would they think — the old 
 Jordans who gave their lives for the truth — if they know'd 
 how ye dress up the Lord himself in the clo'es of a man, — 
 how, with shod feet, ye go upon the mountain amid all the 
 thunders of Sinai ? " 
 
AFTER TWENTYYEAKS. 67 
 
 " Think, mother ! If they lived now they'd think as I do. 
 The world has moved since their day. It was dark then. 
 They saw only half tlie truth ; but now the mists are clearing 
 away, and the man with clean hands, and a pure heart, can 
 look straight up to the sun in all his morning brightness." 
 
 " Ah, John ! yer heart ar' right ; but yer head ar' sadly 
 wrong, — a'most turned with thinkin' overmuch on things as 
 is above human reason. Oh ! if ye'd only beared to me, only 
 had put away such thoughts, and took the edication yer 
 father offered ye, what a man ye moight have been, — what 
 good ye moight have done in the world ! " 
 
 " I could have done no good in the world, mother. None 
 but an honest man can make other men honest ; none but a 
 good man can make them good. I should have been neither 
 honest nor good if I had sold my conscience for a little learn- 
 ing, and preached as true what I knew to be false. But I 
 don't blame father. He thought he was doing right, and for 
 the best. And I don't forget, mother," and here he laid his 
 hand upon hers, and his voice grew husky with an emotion 
 his face did not express, " I don't forget how you took your 
 scanty earnings to buy me books ; how you begged Israel to 
 teach me the little I know ; and how you worked of nights, 
 when fLither was asleep, to pay him his unfeeling price. No, 
 mother, I don't forget this ; and your work will not be thrown 
 away. I shall do something yet. God never fits a man for 
 work, but he gives him the work to do. • He has fitted me for 
 something better than I am doing ; and my work will come, 
 — it may be sooner than we know." 
 
 The woman's eyes were wet, and her voice trembled as she 
 answered, •'• It may be, John, it may be. Ye has a wonder- 
 
68 ONTHEBORDER. 
 
 ful look inter tilings, and ye orter know. But I am paid, 
 John, for all I ever done, — more than paid. Ye has allers 
 been a lovin' son to me, and I knows ye has been to God ; and 
 he looks onto the heart, and wont holt ye to account for things 
 of the head, that, maybe, ye can't hinder. But let us talk no 
 more on it, for, spite of all I kin do, it brings the old grief back, 
 — the only grief I ever bore from yer father." Then, after 
 a pause, she added, " But, Israel, did he die — die easy ? " 
 
 " No, mother," said the man, looking away, the fearful look 
 coming again into his eyes. " It was awful, — aw^ful. He 
 thought they were thar, waiting to drag him down to the tor- 
 ments. With his last breath he begged, and prayed, and 
 shrieked in such a terrible way, that Rachel was half-dead 
 with fright, and her mother fainted. And, mother," he put 
 his hand ^gain upon her arm, and his voice sunk again to the 
 low, broken whisper, " they icere thar. I couldn't see, but 
 I could feel them, — feel their breath, their cold, clammy 
 breath. It loaded all the air, and almost stifled me with hor- 
 ror. I feel it 7101V ; it fills the room, and seems to be creeping 
 into my very veins, as it did the moment I saw him wrestling 
 with the great terror." 
 
 Here he rose suddenly to his feet, and with a quick, ner- 
 vous step, paced up and down the room. The woman gazed 
 at him with a look half of wonder and half of dread, and it 
 was some minutes before she said, — 
 
 "I reckon 'taint so, John. Ye don't s'pose sperets kin 
 make tharselves felt by mortals ? " 
 
 " Felt by mortals ! Why not ? Do you never feel people 
 without seeing them ? and what are spirits but people, — men 
 and women like ourselves ? " 
 
A F T K R T W E N T Y Y E A R S 69 
 
 « And who is they ? " 
 
 u gjie^ — the evil woman, and the man." 
 
 "Not the 'Squar' — the poor 'Squar' ? — not him, ye 
 
 think?" 
 
 " Oh, no, mother, not the 'Squire. I know him. His breath 
 is as gentle as a child's. He never comes to me but he lifts me 
 up^ _ makes me purer and better ; but this, — it stifles me." 
 He took one or two turns up and down the room, and then, 
 with perhaps the same instinct that led the servant of Saul to 
 seek out a cunning player to charm away the evil spirit that 
 troubled the wicked king, he took up the violin which lay on 
 the bureau, and sat down again by the fire. Quickly he touched 
 the strings, and then it spoke — spoke in that strange, weird 
 language which is the essence of all music. Not every man 
 or woman has an ear to catch the subtle spirit that slumbers 
 in the soul of sound ; but this man and this woman had such 
 an ear, and to them the violin told a strange and awful story. 
 At first it gave out low, swaying sounds, as if echoing the 
 tread of a weary man, who, with uncertain step, was groping 
 his way over a rugged road in thick darkness. Then it ut- 
 tered a short, shrill cry, like the alarmed shout of a surprised 
 sentry on an outpost, and then a loud hail, a low reply, and 
 another cry, which seemed to wake the dark army of the 
 nether world ; for at once there came the rapid tread of many 
 feet, and the swift rush of hot breath, like that which rises 
 from the pit that is bottomless. Then it gave out a quick, 
 broken noise, like the startled cry of a man in some deathly 
 terror; and then again the rapid tread of many feet, and 
 a dull, rushing sound, like the slow falling of a dense body 
 through air that is heavy with the fumes of charcoal. 
 
70 O N T H E p. O R D E R . 
 
 Then again came the startled cry, changing now into a low 
 wail, and then, into an earnest prayer, faint and broken, but 
 rising soon, clear and loud, above the yell of the angry fiends, 
 as once I heard a seaman's voice rise above the awful roar of 
 the storm, on the deck of a ship that was thought to be founder- 
 ing at midnight, in the mid-ocean. Then there came the 
 melody of human voices, and a rush as of angel wings 
 swooping down to rescue the soul which was lost in the dark 
 abyss of evil. Faint and fainter it gi'ew, until it sank into a 
 far-off hail, and a low reply, which were followed by the clash 
 of arms and the roar of conflict, as if the nether world, 
 stirred to its depths, was rising with all its angry host and 
 battling with the rescuing angels. But soon the din died 
 away, and there again came the rush of wings, and the 
 melody of human speech rolling up from the dark abyss in a 
 glad song, near and nearer, and loud and louder, until it 
 burst into a grand hallelujah. Then the man, who until 
 then had sat as if entranced by the strange melody he 
 was creating, raised his head, and with eyes uplifted, and 
 hands still playing with the magic strings, he broke into 
 a song that shook the rafters of the rude cabin, and floated 
 off on the still air till the far woods echoed the mighty an- 
 them of salvation : — 
 
 " To Him who loved us first, 
 Before the world began ; 
 To him who bore the curse, 
 To save rebellious man ; 
 To him who forms 
 
 Our souls for heaven. 
 Be endless praise 
 And glory given. 
 
A F T E R T W E N T Y V K A R S . 71 
 
 " To Christ, the Lord of heaven, 
 The first-bom from the dead ; 
 The Prince of Life, be glory given, 
 And wide his kingdom spread; 
 Through earth's extent 
 
 His honors raise; 
 And all consent 
 His name to praise." 
 
 The last echoes were dying away, and tlie radiance the mu- 
 sic had evoked was still lingering on the faces of the two 
 who sat by the fire, when the inner door opened, and a tall, 
 gaunt man, half-dressed, entered the apartment. His hair was 
 gray, and a long stoop was in his shoulders ; but a glance 
 showed that he was the same stern, but canny Scotchman who, 
 twenty years before, had bearded the first politician of the 
 district, and stood, so like a man, by the broken Wedding- 
 ton. 
 
 " What's this, John ? what's this ? " he said. " You are 
 making racket enough to raise the dead. Don't you know 
 it's after four in the morning ? " 
 
 " He is dead," said John, without looking up from the fire. 
 
 "Dead!" echoed the other, with a sudden start. "Then 
 may God have mercy on his soul ! " 
 
 " He will. He doesn't measure out his mercy by a narrow 
 theology." 
 
 " Perhaps not ; but you never knew Irving," said the other, 
 seating himself by the fire. " There was an awful weight on 
 his soul." 
 
 "I know. He told me all, — more than you ever dreamed 
 of." 
 
 " More ? I read him twenty years ago, as if he had been 
 an open book ! " 
 
72 ONTHEBORDER. 
 
 " No one ever read him. You don't know one-half of his 
 crimes." 
 
 " Then the Lord pity him ! I know he had a soul blacker 
 than j)itch darkness." 
 
 " It isn't for us to judge of his soul," said the younger man. 
 " He has felt terrible remorse ; and for years has been a peni- 
 tent man." 
 
 " Penitent, John ! Then you don't know him, as I do. I 
 have known all from the first ; but, out of love for the memory 
 of the poor 'Squire, I have never opened my mouth. But 
 now I will tell you one thing, and then think, if you can, that 
 he was penitent. You know that after the mansion was 
 burned, and when he was houseless and penniless, the hands 
 set to work and built his cabin and barn, and got in the sup- 
 plies I gave him for the winter. Well, then that scoundrel 
 Cecil began the lawsuit, and served on me the injunction that 
 stopped the removal of the negroes. I suspected that Irving 
 knew all about the will, and could, by a word of evidence, en- 
 able me to remove the injunction. So I went to him. I told 
 him I knew all his doings ; but they would be as secret with 
 me as the grave, if he would only say the word that would let 
 those people go. He didn't deny a thing ; but laughed in my 
 face, and cursed the negroes, — cursed them when he was un- 
 der their roof, and eating their bread ! He seemed to want 
 to make every one as miserable as he was. Twenty times 
 since, as the suit has been carried up from court to court these 
 twenty years,* I have gone to him, and have always had the 
 
 * Incredible as it may seem, this suit was in the Kentucky courts for more 
 than twenty years, and the negroes were only, at last, liberated by the order of 
 General Garfield, after he invaded Eastern Kentucky. 
 
A F T K R TWENTY YEARS. 73 
 
 same answer. You think he was penitent ! True penitence 
 bears fruit, and its first fruit is good-will to one's neighbors, — 
 particularly to one's poor neighbors." 
 
 The younger man made no answer ; but the woman said, — 
 
 " Say no more of him. Let him rest. He is in the hands 
 of God. But what is to become of Rachel and her mother ? 
 Jackson Weddington has sot eyes on the girl. Do yer think 
 he means to marry her ? " 
 
 "No, mother," said the son. "He would treat her as he 
 did poor Lucy. Her father feared it, and so I promised him I 
 would marry her." 
 
 " Marry her ! " echoed the older Jordan, his florid face flush- 
 ing a deeper red. " Marry the daughter of such a man — a 
 low thief, and a " — 
 
 He checked himself, and the woman added, — 
 
 ''And the darter of sich a 'ooman, — allers uncontented, 
 allers flyin' in the face of Providence ! The father was bad 
 enough, but the mother is worse ; and Rachel takes arter 
 her. She cares fur nothin' but dress and show. John, she'd 
 never make ye happy." 
 
 " Happy ! " echoed the son. " The man who aims at hap- 
 piness always misses his mark. Duty is the one thing to 
 think of; and it is my duty to marry Rachel." 
 
 A short silence followed. It was broken by the older Jor- 
 dan, who had sat with his head in his hands, as if repressing 
 some deep emotion. 
 
 " I have nothing to say," he said. " You are obstinate, 
 
 John, — obstinate as a mule ; but you take it fi'om men who 
 
 died for their faith, — died to give freedom to Scotland. 
 
 I've nothing to say, only I wish, — no matter to what it had 
 
 7 
 
74 ONTHEBORDER. 
 
 led, — I wish I had sent you away to get an education. Then 
 this disgrace might not have come upon your old mother and 
 father." 
 
 His head sank again into his hands, and no more was 
 spoken. 
 
 And now having, during the twenty years that are covered 
 by this chapter, nailed a few weather-boards upon our one- 
 story building, and revealed enough of the inner life of our 
 rustic hero to make credible the marvels of his future career, 
 we will leave those three sitting there in the dim light of the 
 early winter morning, and plunge into the thick-coming events 
 that follow. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE FUNERAL. 
 
 E ATH comes seldom into this quiet valley ; but when 
 it does come, its voice echoes among its rustic homes 
 like the sound of a great tree falling in a still forest, 
 and now, though it is a week-day, and a heavy fall of 
 snow obstructs the narrow roads, the simple dwellers of the 
 district have gathered, from far and near, to pay the last rites 
 to the dead at the lonely church at the cross-roads. It is a 
 rude, unshapely structure of logs, but through its low door- 
 way a nameless multitude have passed to the shadowy realm 
 of the immortals ; and now all that could die of another soul is 
 waiting on that rude bench to join the silent throng who are 
 sleeping the long sleep in the little graveyard. 
 
 The rude people are seated around on the rough benches, 
 oppressed by the silent awe which all feel in the presence of 
 death ; and on low seats in front of the platform are two 
 women decently clad in black, their faces hidden in the wad- 
 ded hoods, which are the winter head-dress of their class in 
 this region. These women are the mourners, and it may be 
 that only they will drop a tear over the dark, unloved man, 
 who soon will be at rest in the wanter's snow forever. But 
 no, — other eyes are wet, and another head is bowed in sorrow. 
 
 (75) 
 
76 
 
 ON THE ij o II D i: n 
 
 All old negro sits at the right of the platform, among the 
 choristers, his head resting on his hand, and his whole 
 frame trembling, ever}'- now and then, with suppressed emo- 
 tion. In one hand he holds a huge violoncello, worn, cracked, 
 and of a decidedly jaundiced complexion, but he clutches it 
 closely to his side, as if it were a living thing, — some old 
 friend, or near blood-relation. Soon he lifts his head, and, as 
 he looks around in an absent way, we catch a glimpse of his 
 features. They are broad, intensely black, and deeply fur- 
 rowed ; but in them, and in his deep, large eye, there is a sort 
 of slumbering power which at once strikes the beholder. He 
 must be of great age, for his bushy hair is as white as wool, 
 and his flesh only thinly covers his bones in wrinkled layers ; 
 but his large, almost massive frame is erect and apparently 
 as agile as that of a stripling. Every square inch of his 
 body seems instinct with genuine manhood ; and yet here, 
 where men are sold by weight, I doubt if he would, put up to 
 the highest bidder, bring a dollar a pound. 
 
 In a few moments the preacher advances to the little desk 
 which surmounts the platform, and, with a long prayer, opens 
 the services. He is a gaunt, angular man, with a thin cadav- 
 erous face, and long bony arms, which, as he becomes 
 engaged in his work, flounder about the desk in the manner 
 of the finny tribe when first drawn from their native element. 
 The prayer is not a prayer ; for it asks for nothing ; and, in- 
 deed, the self-satisfied air of the man shows that he wants 
 nothing, at least nothing from any invisible region. He 
 comes to an end at last, and then, in a strong, nasal drawl, 
 lines out a hymn, which is sung by the whole congregation. 
 The singing over, he begins the sermon. 
 
T II E F U N E R A L 77 
 
 It is an incoherent, almost blasphemous harangue, and 
 unfit to be fully recorded. If dead men have to listen to 
 what is said over their coffins, many a sensitive man would 
 pray to have his eternity in the coldest corner of this world, 
 rather than be condemned to hear the words spoken at his 
 funeral. The preacher began by telling the Maker how he 
 should govern the universe, and then he hinted at the disposi- 
 tion He should make of the sinful soul which had so recently 
 gone to judgment. He was a bad man, — l^eyond a doubt he 
 was a bad man, — everybody said so, though nobody know'd 
 nothing certain agin him ; but the preacher did know that fif- 
 teen years afore he had labored for his conversion, — labored 
 like time, — and been met with a rude rebuff, which was the 
 way sinners grieved away the sperit, and got lost forever 
 inter the outer darkness. He trusted it warn't so with him j 
 but if it war', he hoped the Lord would look with kind eyes 
 on his sinful life, and deviate enough from his custom in such 
 cases, to give him a place in Abraham's bosom. If he would, 
 it would afford particular consolation to the mourning women 
 who were weeping beside his coffin, and would, probably, not 
 entirely derange the solar system. 
 
 The discourse contained, perhaps, a world of truth, but 
 it certainly was little calculated to . comfort the mourners. 
 During its delivery the congregation listened with anx- 
 ious and disturbed faces, and the two women sat with bowed 
 heads, one of them weeping convulsively. The old black, 
 however, was differently affected. He moved about uneasily 
 on his seat, now and then clutching the violoncello as if he 
 would crush it to atoms ; and the sermon was no sooner over, 
 than, springing suddenly to his feet, he gave vent to the fire 
 
 7* 
 
78 ONTHEBORDER. 
 
 and fary which had been gathering -w-ithin him. The scene 
 that followed was one for a painter; and could have hap- 
 pened in no other than this primitive region. 
 
 While the people looked on with staring eyes, and the 
 preacher stood, half-bending over the desk, transfixed with 
 amazement, the old black drew up his majestic frame to its 
 full height, and poured forth a torrent of impetuous word? 
 that would have entranced Demosthenes himself, — if he had 
 been born with an ear for negro eloquence. 
 
 " 'Taint so ! " he cried, " ladies and gemmen ! 'Taint 
 so ! Parson Bradslaw don't know nuffin' 'bout it ! 'Taint 
 so ; and 'taint fur him to come yere, and sit in de judgment 
 on a feller-creeter as neber done him no wrong : and, p'raps, 
 'taint fur me to speak in meetin' to white folks; but ole 
 'Zeke wouldn't be de man as some on you hab know'd him 
 fur nigh outer fifty year, if he sot still, and leff dis ig'rant 
 parson send his pore massa, as is dead and gone, down 
 among de hot debils. He haint dar ! 'Zeke knows he haint 
 dar ; for warn't he wid him night and day for nigh onto 
 twenty year, and couldn't he learn him all by heart in dat 
 time ? Maybe he done wrong, — dough 'Zeke don't say so, — 
 but who don't done wrong ? — not you, nor me, nor eben dis 
 yere parson, who am paid to gib pore massa a decent berry- 
 ing, but comes yere and sits down in de judgment on a feller- 
 creetur. 'Taint Christian to git money under sech false 
 pretensions, and pore Massa Israel — if he was a sinner — 
 wouldn't have done no sech mean thing, no how. He neber 
 done no mean ting, as I knows on ; and I knows a heap he 
 done like de good Samaritan. You've yeard ob him, — how 
 when de priest and de Levite passed by on de oder side, he 
 
T H E F U N E R A L . 79 
 
 went to de wounded man, bound up his hurts, laid him on 
 his own mule, and paid for his night's lodging. Now dat's 
 jest what Massa Israel done once to ole 'Zeke, who haint 
 nuffin* but a poor brack man. He war down sick wid dat 
 drefful sickness what kills all as comes nigh it, and de par- 
 sons and de doctors — dem am de priest and de Levite — 
 wouldn't come widin a mile ob him ; but Massa Israel he 
 come, — he come, and he bound up his hurts, gabe him de cool 
 drink, and de hot broth, and tended him night and day till 
 dar warn't nuffin leff ob de dreftul sickness but de big scars 
 you kin see yit under dese wrinkles. 
 
 *' Just tink ob dat, ladies and gemmen, — a gemman like 
 what Massa Israel was in dem days, a tendin' a poor brack 
 man, at de risk ob his own life, ebery night and day for a 
 whole fortnight ! And what does ye spose he done den ? 
 Why, dough it was agin de law, he larned him to read ; and 
 it am aU along ob him dat ole 'Zeke kin read de Bible, and 
 de hymns dat am sung in de great congregation. And does 
 you spose dat sich a man was a bad man, and am gone 
 down among de hot debils ? I reckons not ; and if you does, 
 you neber seed him, as ole 'Zeke hab seed him, a kneelin' 
 down in de woods, and a cryin' and a groanin' to de Lord till 
 de tears run down his cheeks, and he shook all ober like a leaf 
 in a gale ob wind, — a cryin' and a groanin' to de Lord to 
 tuck de burden off his soul, — to roll away de stone from 
 de door ob de sepulchre so he might come out inter de free air, 
 under de clar sky, and leab all his tattered, worn-out clo'es 
 ahind him. 
 
 " And now de Lord hob rolled away de stone from de door 
 ob de sepulchre, and massa hab corned out inter de free air, 
 
80 ONTHEBOKDER. 
 
 under de Cx ar skj, and am fass gwine up de ladder dat Jacob 
 seed in his dream, — dat ladder dat reach from de yearth to 
 de heaben, and on which de angels ob de Lord am allers as- 
 cendin' and descendin'. P'raps he haint high up yit, — 
 p'raps he haint, — but afore he die he got his foot outer de 
 fuss round, and now it am on de second ; and dem as gits dat 
 high neber comes down agin, — neber comes down agin, but 
 goes on and up, till dey lands on de bery top, right in de 
 heabenly kentry. 
 
 ^^'S'cuse me, ladies and gemmen; p'raps I've said what I 
 ortent to say to white folks ; but I couldn't holp it ; I couldn't 
 sot still, and yere my massa sent among de hot debils, — my 
 massa, as wid his dyin' breaf telled me he had made me a free 
 man, — made me a freeman, when he had nuffin' else in all de 
 worle, 'cept a ole cabin, and some sile as wont raise only rocks 
 and cow-peas, to leab to his wdfe and Missy Eachel. 
 
 " I know you don't tink sich a man as dat am gone among 
 de hot debils ; I knows you don't, ladies and gemmen, so I 
 wont say no more, — only dis : dat missus hab paid dis par- 
 son five dollar 'spressly to come yere from de village, and say 
 a kind word for pore massa ; and he haint done it. He hab 
 done all he could to send him down among de hot debils ; 
 and arter doin' dat, he orter to guv back de money. He 
 orter, and if he don't, some on ye gemmen, as is white, and 
 so kin be judge and jury, orter hev him up ter onct for gittin' 
 it under false pretensions. I knows de law; and it kin be 
 done ; for dem sort o' folks can't run loose in dis kentry, — 
 'cept on Sunday." 
 
 The negro sat down, and the preacher sprang to his feet, 
 fire and fury in his face and gestures. While the black was 
 
T II K F U N E R A L . 81 
 
 speaking, he might have driven a billet of wood into a solid 
 rock more easily than have wedged a word in among his 
 passionate sentences ; but, when he had ended, the field 
 was all his own, and he improved it in a singular fash- 
 ion. He poured forth a torrent of denunciation which ended 
 with, — 
 
 " I shake yer dust off uv my feet ; I go, and I leave yer 
 money with ye [here he suited the action to the word, throw- 
 ing upon the floor a bank-note, which was instantly taken up 
 by the negro]. I go, and I shall not return ; for the Lord 
 hath said, ' Let the dead bury the dead,' and ' Go thou and do 
 likewise.' " 
 
 These irregular proceedings were so sudden, and so unex- 
 pected, that the congregation sat as if paralyzed till they were 
 over; but when 'the excited preacher tore down the aisle 
 toward the door-way, a number of persons rose to bring him to 
 the pulpit and to reason ; but the voice of the old black ar- 
 rested any such intentions. Holding the bank-note aloft in 
 his hand, he cried out, — 
 
 '• Leff him go, ladies and gemmen ! leff him go ! He's leff 
 more'n he'm worth ahind him. Massa Jordan'U go on wid de 
 ex'cises, ef he wont; old Zeke don't want /n's massa buried 
 as dat parson 'ud bury him." 
 
 Quiet was shortly restored, and the old Scotchman, entering 
 the desk, concluded the services. Then the coffin was lifted 
 upon the shoulders of four strong men, and, followed by the 
 mourners and the rest of the congregation, was borne to the 
 little graveyard on the other side of the highway. There it 
 was placed on the snow, near an open grave, and the rude 
 people gathered round to take a last look at its silent tenant. 
 
82 O X T H E B O li D E K . 
 
 The mourners stood apart, the older woman wringing het 
 hands and weeping convulsively, and the younger silent and 
 abstracted, as if her thoughts were far away in the dim re- 
 gion to which the spirit of the dead man had journe3^ed. So 
 they stood while a hymn was sung, and the younger Jordan 
 lifted the lid from the ground as if to nail down the coffin. 
 The young woman then sprang forward. 
 
 " Not yet ! not yet ! " she cried. '• I must see him once 
 more." 
 
 Instinctively the people moved back from the grave, and 
 left the dead and the living alone together. Kneeling down 
 on the snow, she threw her arms about the stiffened corpse, 
 and pressed her face against its pallid features. For a mo- 
 ment her lips moved as if in prayer ; then she rose, and, 
 turning to the young man, she said in a voice which had in it 
 no trace of feeling, " You can go on, John, it is over." 
 
 They lowered the body into the grave, and as tlie first 
 frozen sod fell upon the rude coffin, the young woman turned, 
 and, with the other woman, and the old black, walked toward 
 the highway. As she did so the wind blew back her hood 
 and revealed her features. They were pallid, — pallid as 
 those of the dead man, — but they wore a fixed, resolute ex- 
 pression, as if by some great effort of will she were keeping 
 down her emotion. 
 
 She was tall, — somewhat above the medium height, — 
 but of a slight and graceful figure. Her features were prom- 
 inent, her chin was broad, and her face stern and almost hard 
 in its outline ; but her forehead was full and wide, expressing 
 benevolence and breadth of mind, and her large hazel eyes, 
 though now burning with a sort of dead fire, had in them a 
 
T H K !<' U N i: K A L . 83 
 
 latent softness and warmth that showed she had the sensibil- 
 ity and tenderness of a true woman. She walked with a firm 
 and rapid step, holding the otlier woman by the hand, and 
 when she reached the highway, turned and said coldly to the 
 old black, " Bring the sled here, 'Zekiel. We will go home 
 now." 
 
 As the black went to do her bidding, two yoyng men who 
 had followed them from the grave, approaclied the two women. 
 One was a short, squarely-built man of about thirty, with a 
 ruddy face, and an easy, good-natured, expression ; the other 
 a tall, spare, angular man, some years younger. He had 
 a (lark skin, and coarse black hair, but regular, finely-cut 
 features, which would have been handsome, had they not been 
 overshadowed by large, sunken eyes of uncertain, if not sin- 
 ister expression. Like his companion, he was well-dressed, 
 and had the air of one who had mingled with the world. 
 Between him and the young woman there was a certain re- 
 semblance which would have struck even a casual observer. 
 It was not in the face, for hers was fair and open, with an ex- 
 pression which, though at the moment stern, had in it nothing 
 of evil ; while his was dark and secret, as if he were nursing 
 thoughts too ugly to be allowed abroad in the daylight. 
 The likeness was in their general carriage, and in the whole 
 contour of their forms and features. He was evidently not 
 welcome ; for, as he lifted his hat and met the eye of the 
 young woman, she turned away with a mingled look of dis- 
 like and terror. 
 
 " Had you not better go homp in my sleigh ? " he said, not 
 seeming to notice these signs of aversion. " The drifts are 
 heavy, and the road but poorly broken," 
 
84 O N T n E BORDER. 
 
 "Thank you/' answered the elder woman, between her 
 sobsj for she was still weeping. " We " — 
 
 Before she could say more the younger one interrupted her 
 with " No, no, mother. We'll go alone ; we'll not trouble 
 you, Mr. Weddington." This she said in a low tone, with 
 her face still averted, and a hard emphasis on the last words. 
 
 " It will be no trouble," he said, blandly, and moving a 
 step or two forward to catch a glance at her features. " No 
 trouble, I assure you." " 
 
 " We knows it wont be," sobbed the elder woman. " Ye's 
 allers so kind, Mr. Weddington. We'd better go, Eachel. 
 'Zeke ar' so blind, he'll tip us inter the first snow-bank." 
 
 " You can go, mother, if you like. I will ride with 'Ze- 
 kiel," said the younger woman, now turning round and meet- 
 ing the glance of the young man firmly ; but her nostrils 
 dilated, and she drew a quick breath, as if the words cost 
 her an eifort. " To-day I prefer to be alone." 
 
 " It is natural you should, and, believe me, I wouldn't ob- 
 trude my attentions on you," said the young man in a tone 
 which was as soft as the gentlest zephyr. 
 
 " We is in great sorrer," moaned the elder woman, " great 
 sorrer ; and, Mr. Weddington, what will become on us ? 
 — two lone wimmen, with not a dollar, and not a friend in 
 all the wide wurld, — in all the wide, wide wurld ! " 
 
 " Hush, mother," said the daughter, in the same low tone 
 as before. "We have hands, — we can work, — God will 
 not leave us friendless." 
 
 " Spoken like a true 'ooman," now said the older of the 
 two men. " Keep up a good heart, Eachel. Yell not want 
 a friend so long as Brad. Brown ar' above ground." 
 
T H E F U N E R A L . 85 
 
 " Nor SO long as I live," said Weddington, " shall you 
 want anything that money can give you." 
 
 The young woman turned rather impatiently away, and 
 the elder broke into a perfect hurricane of thanks, in the 
 midst of which the old negro drove up with the rude sled 
 which had conveyed them to the funeral. It was a rough 
 box, supported on a couple of saplings, bent so as to serve as 
 both shafts and limners to the vehicle ; and it was attached 
 by a rope harness to a quadruped old enough to have forgot- 
 ten all about his colthood. 
 
 The old black sprang nimbly to the ground, saying " All 
 a-ready, missus," and the younger man held out his hand to 
 help the younger woman into the sled, whose sides were 
 nearly as high as a five-barred gate. As he did so, the 
 old negro brushed him rudely aside, and, catching his young 
 mistress lightly in his arms, lifted her into the vehicle. The 
 movement was so sudden, and so violent, that it well-nigh 
 took the white man off his feet. In a moment he turned 
 fiercely on the black, and, with a fearful oath, aimed at him 
 a blow, which, if it had taken effect, would have laid the old 
 man prostrate. But the black stepped nimbly aside,, the 
 other's clenched fist hit only the thin air ; and, obeying the 
 laws of motion, he went headlong into a snow-bank. Spring- 
 ing instantly to his feet, he was about to repeat the blow, 
 when the younger Jordan, who had now come up, caught his 
 arm, saying, — 
 
 " Think of it, Weddington ! Only a coward will strike a 
 negro." 
 
 Weddington's face, which when he rose was a flame of fire, 
 now took on a dull, leaden hue, and quickly drawing a long 
 
86 ON THE BOUUEK. 
 
 knife, he sprang upon Jordan. The latter caught his de- 
 scending hand, and the two struggled for a moment. Then 
 the knife fell to the ground, and, with one lift of Jordan's 
 powerful arms, Weddington was again buried in the snow- 
 bank. 
 
 The old negro, as if unconscious of any personal concern in 
 these rude gymnastics, had, meanwhile, lifted the elder m'o- 
 man into the sled ; but now he turned upon the prostrate 
 man, his black face glowing like burning anthracite. 
 
 " Massa 'Squire," he growled out, "you'm a coward and a vil- 
 lun to boot — you am ! Ole 'Zeke knows you, — know'd you 
 afore you was born. You's a coward, or you wouldn't strike a 
 man as the law wont 'low to strike you back ; and you's a vil- 
 lun, or you wouldn't ha' said to Missy Rachel what you said 
 lass night, — lass night wid her dead fader in de house. But 
 jess you 'member, Massa 'Squar', I'se her fader now, — Ole 
 'Zeke," — and he drew his six feet two inches of manly sinew 
 up to their full height, " and ef you eber comes nigh de cabin 
 agin, — ef you eber sots dem snake's eyes ob yourn outer 
 Missy Rachel, — 'spectful or not 'spectful, — ole 'Zeke '11 whale 
 you till you can't stand, — till you'll wish de Lord neber'd 
 make anoder darkj^ He will, — shore as his name am 'Zeke, 
 — law or no law." 
 
 With this the old negro took the reins of the rude vehicle, 
 and drove away amid the smothered gratulations of the people 
 who had gathered round, attracted by the disturbance. When 
 they were out of hearing, the elder woman, hushing her sobs 
 for the occasion, said to the negro in a sharp, gritty tone, — 
 
 "It war jest like ye, 'Zeke. It war yer everlastin' querrel- 
 some speret. Ye's allers gittin' us inter trouble. Ye's mor- 
 
T n K V IJ N E K A L 
 
 87 
 
 tally 'fended that good man, Parson Bradslaw ; and now ye's 
 lost us the best friend we's ever had." 
 
 Tlie black turned about, and looking at the woman, a smile 
 of mingled contempt and pity on his features, he said, — 
 
 ^'What wud you hab, missus? What wud you hab? 
 Wud you pay five dollars to hab pore massa sent to de debil, 
 and den ax de young 'Squar' to make Missy Kachel a ting 
 as decent folk wont wipe dar shoes on ? " 
 
 " Mr. Weddington wouldn't do no sich thing," snarled the 
 woman. '• He's our best friend. Rachel shill write him ter 
 onct, 'pologizen' for your conduct. If it hadn't been for him 
 we'd never hev got through with all the docterin' and 'spence 
 uv this winter." 
 
 "Yas, we would," responded the negro, turning about 
 again, and venting his feelings in a smart lash on the back of 
 the mule. " We'd ha' got fru, 'case, if he'd knowed it, pore 
 massa wud ha' died wid takin' the fuss dollar. He neber 
 wanted no money as wasn't his'n, and 'Zeke haint a gwine to 
 sleep more'n five hour a night 'fore he pay back dat ar' fifty 
 dollar." 
 
 "Fifty dollars haint nothin' to him," said the woman. 
 " He's plenty o' money." 
 
 " I knows," answered the black, " and dat am all he'm got. 
 And leff me tell you, missus, — I don't mean no 'fence ; but 
 now dat massa am gone, it comes outer me to luck arter de 
 fambly, — you wont git Missy Rachel to 'pologize to de 
 young 'Squar* for nufiin',— 'case 'Zeke wont 'gree to it; and, 
 — you yered what I telled him, — ef he eber sots eyes on her 
 a^in, I'll hab de black soul out ob his body, — I will." 
 
 The old negro accompanied this energetic speech with an- 
 
88 O N T II E B O R D E R . 
 
 other energetic gesture directed to the back of the innocent 
 mule ; but, instead of oifending, his remarks seemed only to 
 alarm his mistress. She was evidently accustomed to being 
 ruled by a stronger will, and not unused to having such con- 
 trol asserted even by the old black. In a subdued but some- 
 what petulant tone she asked, " And what has he done that 
 ye sh'ud speak so uv Mr. Weddington, as was allers sich a 
 friend to yer master, — allers, ever sence he come to live in 
 the new mansion ? " 
 
 " Wall," said the negro, " ef Missy Rachel hasn't tell'd 
 you, 'Zeke can't ; but if he'd sot by when the 'Squar' done it, 
 he'd a wrung his neck, — wrung it quicker'n he wrung de ole 
 rooster's dat made de broth for massa's lass dinner." 
 
 " What was it, Eachel ? " said the elder woman, addressing 
 the younger, who until now had sat with her hood drawn over 
 her face, apparently unconscious of what was going on about 
 her. 
 
 Without lifting her eyes, she answered, — "He has done 
 nothing, mother ; he has said what no honest man would 
 say to a woman, — what gives 'Zekiel a right to detest him ! " 
 
 " You's my own gal. Missy Rachel ! " exclaimed the old black, 
 a tear glistening in his eye, and rolling, like a silver bead, 
 down his dark visage ; " you's a credit to yer bringin' up, — old 
 'Zeke hasn't lubbed you, like he lubs his own soul, for nuffin." 
 
 The young woman raised her eyes, and a soft, gentle, almost 
 tender look, came into her face, but she said nothing ; and 
 the rest of the way the three rode along in silence. 
 
 Meanwhile the people at the little church had scattered to 
 their several homes, and the two young men, in a richly-fur- 
 
THE FUNERAL 
 
 89 
 
 nished sleigh, drawn by a pair of gayly caparisoned horses, 
 were floundering along over the drifted road, on the way to a 
 stately mansion at the head of the valley. For a time they 
 rode on in silence ; then the one who had christened himself 
 Brad. — probably short for Bradley — said to the other, 
 " Wed., what ar' atween ye and Kachel ? — what ha's ye said 
 to the gal as has so riled the ole darky ? " 
 
 " Nothing," answered Weddington, " that yon wouldn't say 
 to any pretty woman ; — told her she is handsome,. and that I 
 would be glad, now her father is dead, to do her a service." 
 
 " If she paid ye the price ? " asked the other, with a curi- 
 ous smile. 
 
 "■ Why, yes. I didn't say that ; but I suppose it was under- 
 stood." 
 
 Brown was silent for a moment, then, with a strong savor 
 of contempt in his voice, he said, " Well, Weddington, I used 
 ter think ye a decent feller, ginerally ; but I begin to b'lieve 
 
 ye's a d d scoundrel. Ef ye done that, with the old man 
 
 dead in the house, 'taint no wonder that even a darky dispises 
 ye ! " 
 
 The other started as if stung by a wasp, and said, in a sud- 
 den rage, " How ? What is that you say ? " 
 
 " 'Taint worth sayin' over," answered Brown, coolly. 
 "Them is my sentiments; but — we has business together, 
 and I never lets words come atween me and business." 
 
 The midnight lightning leaves the sky of a deeper black- 
 ness ; so the sudden flash which then lighted up the face of 
 Weddington left it darker than before. A close observer 
 would have seen danger in the look ; but Brown was not a 
 close observer, — he was only one of those simple souls who 
 
 8* 
 
90 ONTHEBORDER. 
 
 go through the world seeing nothing larger than a dollar, or a 
 glass of whiskey ; and yet, if he had looked ahove his eyes, 
 even he might, at that moment, have heheld, suspended over 
 his head, the sword of Damocles, — that famous weapon 
 which, were it not of most wonderful metal, would long 
 ago have heen worn out by the frequent handling of simile- 
 hunting writers. 
 
 Weddington's voice, when he spoke again, was as soft as the 
 low wind of summer, or as an April snow-flake when embrac- 
 ing a pool of water. "I've fancied, sometimes," he said, 
 " that you liked the girl." 
 
 " Well, p'raps I does," said the other, slowly, and as if he 
 preferred to change the subject. 
 
 " Then, why don't you marry her ? " 
 
 " Well, I may hev thought uv that ; but I reckoned ye hed 
 an eye to her ; and, to talk squar, I feared ye mought put it 
 atween me and the business." 
 
 " Pshaw ! you ought to know me better," said Weddington, 
 as if hurt in a sensitive quarter. " Friendship is friendship, 
 and business is business. Give me a lien on the other boat, 
 and I'll lend you another thousand." 
 
 " Ye will ! " exclaimed Brown, his recent reserve disappear- 
 ing with the words. " It's jest what I wants ; for the floatin' 
 debt is a-botherin' me. Will ye make it for a y'ar, and put it 
 all in black and white ? " 
 
 " Yes, and extend the rest, so you'll feel easy." 
 
 " Well, ye is a trump ! " said Brown, with enthusiasm. 
 " But," and now he spoke more slowly, as if he had some la- 
 tent doubts of Weddington's sincerity, " does ye r'aUy mean 
 to give up the gal ? " 
 
THEFUNERAL. 91 
 
 " Give her up ! " exclaimed the other, while again the light- 
 ning flashed, leaving his face again in deeper darkness. 
 " You'd think so, if you'd heard her last night. Seven devils 
 got into the girl. I believe she'd have turned me out of 
 doors, man as I am, if I'd stayed a second longer." 
 
 "Well," said the other, "ye has the impudence uv the 
 devil, or ye wouldn't ha' spoke to her agin." 
 
 " Pshaw, Brown, you're a fool ! A man isn't a man if he 
 can't pocket an insult," rejoined Weddington ; adding, after a 
 moment's pause, as if he feared so sublime a sentiment might 
 not be appreciated by his companion, " from a woman." 
 
 Neither spoke for a little time ; then the younger broke the 
 silence. "When do you mean to pop the question ? " 
 
 "Not just yit; I'd best wait till the old man's cold in his 
 grave. To ax her now mought look like crowdin' the 
 mourners." 
 
 " Perhaps it might," replied Weddington ; "but you mustn't 
 put it off too long. That feUow, Jordan, has an eye upon 
 her. He's a dreamy fool ; but he has wonderful power over 
 the girl." 
 
 " Pshaw ! he can't hev no showin' with a stylish gal like 
 Rachel; but I wont put the thing off too long. Will ye 
 make them papers out to-day, so I kin go back in the morn- 
 
 in' ( 
 
 5 9 » 
 
 " Yes, and give you the money." 
 
 By this time they had reached the mansion, — one of the 
 better class of Southern houses, and located on a gentle 
 knoll which overlooked a fine plantation of a thousand acres. 
 A servant was at once despatched for a justice, and, that 
 functionary shortly arriving, a paper was soon drawn up. 
 
92 ONTHEBORDER. 
 
 signed, sealed, and witnessed, which recounted, in the ver 
 bose language of the law, that " Bradley Brown, for, and in 
 consideration of- the sum of four thousand dollars, lawful 
 money of the United States (the amount of the previous 
 debt and of the new obligation), to him in hand that day 
 paid by Jackson Weddington, did sell, assign, transfer, and 
 make over to the said Weddington, as his rightful property, 
 the two . stern- wheel steamers, then lying and being at the 
 wharf in the town of Paintville, in the State of Kentucky, 
 and intended to be employed in the navigation of a certain 
 river, called the Big Sandy ; which said steamers were the 
 sole and only property of the said Brown ; and were named 
 and known, as, respectively, ^ The Transfer,' and ^ The Pot- 
 win/ The said sale to vest the ownership of said ' stern- 
 wheelers ' in the said Weddington absolutely, providing 
 the said Brown failed, within one year from the date of said 
 instrument, to repay to said Weddington the aforesaid sum 
 of four thousand dollars, with interest thereon, at the legal 
 rate current in the said Commonwealth of Kentucky." 
 
 When this was done, and the justice had gone, the two 
 men sat down at a table with a decanter of brandy before 
 them. Toward daybreak they rose, and Brown staggered to 
 his bed with the contents of the decanter in his head, and 
 a huge roll of bank-notes in his pocket. Brandy is com- 
 monly thought a bad thing for any but sickly people, and 
 money a good thing, — so good that sick or well can take it 
 in the largest doses ; and yet. Brown might better have swal- 
 lowed all that was set before him, brandy and decanter to 
 boot, than have gone to bed with those bank-notes in his 
 pocket. 
 
T H E F U N E R A L . 93 
 
 Late one night, a week afterward, the same two sat to- 
 gether at the same table, with the same brandy-bottle before 
 them. Weddington drank sparingly, — temperance is one 
 of the cardinal virtues, and he was a temperate man, — but 
 he plied his friend with glass after glass of the red fluid. 
 "Pshaw!" he said, "don't run at the first fire. Try again, 
 
 * Faint heart never won fair lady.' " 
 
 " But, I tell ye," replied Brown, speaking thickly, — for 
 brandy, taken freely, stiffens the tongue, as starch stiffens a 
 shirt-collar, — " she refused me plump, and said, squar out, 
 I hadn't money enough." 
 
 " Oh ho ! " exclaimed Weddington, his eyes emitting a 
 flash which, for a moment, encircled his dark face with a 
 halo not altogether saintly. " Sits the wind in that quarter ? 
 Ask her again in a fortnight, and I'll bet a hat she'll say 
 
 * Yes,' and thank you." 
 
 " Why should she ? I carn't make a fortin' in a fortnight." 
 
 "But I can make her think you have one in a day. I'll 
 set the gossips upon her before the week is out, and make 
 her believe you roll in money." 
 
 " Xo, no, Wed., that wouldn't be squar dealin' ; and fa'r 
 play ar' a jewul. I never sail under false colors ; besides, 
 she'd find it out, and the devil 'ud be to pay arterwards," 
 answered Brown, wlio, though far gone from original right- 
 eousness, was not wholly given over to evil. 
 
 " Pshaw, you're a ibol ! " said ,the other. " Suppose she 
 does find it out, she'll not blame you. The sin will be mine, 
 — you'll have nothing to do with it." 
 
 " No, no ; I carn't 'gree to it, Wed. Ye mean right, and 
 
94 ONTHE BORDER. 
 
 'twould be all for my advantage ; but, if I let ye do it, I 
 couldn't never look the gal in the face." 
 
 " You're more nice than wise. But never mind ; pluck up 
 courage, and ask her again in a fortnight." 
 
 "Well, I will," answered Brown, nerving himself with 
 another glass of brandy. But, honor, Ned ! Don't ye give . 
 the gal no false notions." 
 
 " Don't be alarmed," said his friend, " I'm not in the prac- 
 tice of lying, — unless something can be gained by it." 
 
 An hour afterward the two men went to their beds, — 
 Brown tacking from side to side, as he was swayed by the 
 troubled sea of fire in his stomach, and Weddington going 
 straight on, with the firm and steady stride of a man who 
 is moved by a resolute purpose. 
 
CHAPTER y. 
 
 Rachel's iviarriage 
 
 FORTNIGHT has gone by, and late at night a 
 ruddy fire is blazing through the windows of Irving's 
 cabin. A man opens the door, and pauses for a mo- 
 ment, with his hand upon the latch ; then, with a 
 slow, swaying step, he turns towards the highway. He stops 
 in the road, and looks up at the ruddy moon, which is silver- 
 ing the silent snow, and drawing strange pictures in the 
 fields where the trees cast their shadows ; then he sinks to 
 the ground, his head falls upon his breast, and a great cry 
 goes from him. It is the cry of a soul waking from a long 
 dream, — waking to find that all is cold and dark in the 
 universe. 
 
 Soon a man glides from around the corner of the cabin, 
 and comes to the one in the highway. He lays his hand 
 lightly on his arm, and in a deep voice says, — 
 
 " Don't you tuck it so to heart, Massa John ; don't you. 
 De good Lord am leflf in the heabens ! " 
 
 " I know, I know," says the other, rising. " He is there ; 
 but his face is behind the clouds. Good-night, 'Zekiel ; " and 
 with his swaying step, which now is almost a stagger, he 
 goes again slowly forward. 
 
 (95) 
 
96 ONTHEBORDER. 
 
 The other follows, and in a moment speaks j his voice now 
 being even yet gentler. 
 
 " No, no, not '■ good-night,' Massa John ! Old 'Zeke wont 
 leab you now, when it'm so dark dat you can't eben see de 
 Lord's hand afore you." 
 
 He said no more, but w^ound his arm about the other's 
 neck, and so the two — the black, and the white — stag- 
 gered along through the drifted snow-banks. At last the 
 white man paused in the shadow of a great tree which cast 
 its broad branches over the desolate highway. 
 
 "'Zekiel," he said, suddenly, "yow love me, and — 
 Eachel ? " 
 
 " Lub you ? Massa John ! " exclaimed the negro. ' " Why, 
 you'm my chillen — my chillen ! " 
 
 " Then watch over her, — watch over her, day and night. 
 It may be that God has put her very soul in your keep- 
 ing." 
 
 "What does you mean, Massa John? What hurt kin 
 come to Missy Eachel ? " asked the negro, his voice trembling 
 ^vith a sudden emotion. 
 
 " I don't know, I only feel she's in danger. It's in the air. 
 I scent it as the bloodhound scents a panther. Some terrible 
 thing is following her." 
 
 As the moonlight fell on the old man's face, it was of a 
 blue, livid color. 
 
 "I knows, I knows, Massa John," he said, earnestly. 
 " You hab a mazin' feelin' ob tings as can't be seed, but 
 am a comin'. And can't you scent de way it'll come ? Can't 
 you do dat, Massa John ? Can't you do dat ? " 
 
 " Yes, from Weddington." 
 
Rachel's marriage. 97 
 
 " De good Lord ! '' and the negro started back in sudden 
 terror. ^' Why, lie'm her own " — 
 
 "I know," said Jordan, "and I wish I could tell him all I 
 know. It might save her." 
 
 The negro's superstitious confidence in the prescience of 
 the white man had overcome him at the sudden announce- 
 ment ; but now his natural bravery and trust in God camo 
 back to him. 
 
 " Don't you say a word, Massa Jolin. Not a word. Leab 
 it in de grabe along ob pore massa. He suftered enuif, — 
 don't left' it come outer Missy Rachel. And don't you worry 
 ^bout de young 'Squar'. He'll neber come nigh her. He'm 
 as feared ob me as he am ob de debil. I seed it in his eye at 
 de meetin'." 
 
 " Don't be too sure, ^Zekiel. He'll burrow under ground. 
 That is the way of such men." 
 
 " Under or 'bove ground, he wont root ole 'Zeke out ob de 
 hole," and the old man laughed at his own grotesque imagery. 
 " He'll freeze to Missy Eachel loike death froze to de dead 
 herrin'. De Lord haint leff him outlast all ob his kin, and 
 lib dese nigh onto eighty year, for nuffin', — it am fur Missy 
 Rachel ! " and here the old man threw back his broad chest, 
 and drew up his great frame, till he looked like some gigantic 
 statue moulded out of iron, and suddenly dropped there in 
 the shadows. 
 
 "Don't be too sure, don't be too sure, 'Zekiel ; there's 
 something deeper here than you reckon. To-night she's told 
 me that she is to marry Brown, and to live like a lady. AVho 
 told her Brown was rich ? Nobody else thinks so." 
 
 "Why, bless you, it ant so, Massa John! 'Zeke kin read, 
 
98 O N T H E B O K D E R . 
 
 and he hab seed de papers dat make ober dem two stern- 
 wheelers to Missy Rachel." 
 
 A singular light flashed from Jordan's eyes ; it was gone 
 in a moment, and he said, as if speaking to himself, but in 
 his usual manner, " I see it all, — she can't be saved, — she 
 will have to suffer. Oh, the ways of God are wonderful ! 
 The father plunged into unheard-of crimes, because he would 
 be a gentleman ; and now the daughter must drink of the 
 bitter cup, because she would be a lady. Thus He visits the 
 sins of the fathers upon the children ! Only suffering will 
 wash out the evil she has taken from him, — so she must go 
 through the fire. I see it all ; it is for this that she turns 
 from me, and goes to that drunken fellow. And, Father ! " 
 and here he looked up, and over his face came a radiance 
 that was not of the moonlight, " forgive me, if, for one mo- 
 ment, I have questioned." 
 
 Along, with his undoubting faith in the intuitions of the 
 young man, the negro had a strong veneration for his singular 
 but elevated character. This veneration usually led him to 
 listen in silence to the strange rhapsodies which often broke 
 up the other's ordinary speech, making it flow like a moun- 
 tain brook, rippling over rocks and pebbles ; but now anxiety 
 for his young mistress gave him utterance. 
 
 "What am it you see, Massa John?" he said. "What am 
 it?" 
 
 " What I should have seen an hour ago, — the hand of 
 God, — which neither you nor I can turn aside or hinder." 
 
 " But mus' de pore chile suffer ? Mus' she go fru de fire 
 'fore she kin come out cl'ar, and fit for de Lord ? " 
 
 " She must. I never saw her soul till to-night. At hot- 
 
Rachel's MARRIAGE. 99 
 
 torn it is pure and clear, but it is crusted over with the same 
 passions tliat ruined her father," 
 
 " And mus' de great sin come onto her ? " asked the negro, 
 his huge frame bowing down, as if a world were suddenly 
 thrust upon his shoulders. " Oh, keep her free ob dat, Massa 
 John ! keej) her free ob dat ! Tell her — go back, and tell 
 her to-night ! 'Zeke would — only it would break his old 
 heart." 
 
 " No, no, 'Zekiel, tell her nothing. She'll be kept from 
 that, if you are with her. The young 'Squire has over her 
 the power that a snake has over a bird ; but he can't use it if 
 a stronger love is round her. So you keep near her, and say 
 nothing. Leave the rest to God. Now, good-night, — 
 mother'U be w^aiting for me." 
 
 " Good-night, and bress you, Massa John ! De Lord bress 
 
 you!" 
 
 Then the two went opposite ways ; but now it was the 
 young man who walked with a firm, manly stride, and the 
 negro who staggered along under a load he had not the power 
 of lifting. 
 
 Before another fortnight had gone away, Rachel Irving 
 had become Eachel Brown, and, with her mother, had ex- 
 changed a mean hut of logs for a comfortable house in the 
 village. There the older woman soon forgot her grief for her 
 husband ; and, to tell the truth, that feeling had never been 
 very deeply rooted. At best, it was only a wretched com- 
 pound of regret for a man whom custom had made tolerable, 
 and a selfish concern for her own future, — in which the latter 
 feeling was much the larger ingredient. But now her future 
 
100 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 seemed assured ; and she was too inucli engrossed in the 
 excitements of her new life to waste a thought on the dead 
 man who had for so many j^ears been to her so strange a 
 mystery. The world was giving her all that it has to give to 
 such shallow natures, — attendants, friends, fashion. When 
 she walked she had velvety carpets under her feet ; when she 
 slept, a gorgeous canopy over her head ; and, when she took 
 an airing, a gilded carriage, in which to flaunt the faded 
 charms that had so long been wandering in the wilderness. 
 What more could a reasonable woman, on the shady side of 
 forty, ask for ? To do her justice, she did not ask for more. 
 She revelled in an excess of happiness. What a pity it is 
 that such women cannot live here and roll in luxury forever ! 
 Here they do some good, — help to support those useful mem- 
 bers in society, the pastry cooks and the men-milliners, — 
 and they can be of no possible use in any other quarter of 
 the universe. 
 
 But what of Rachel ? How did she take to this life of gilt 
 and gingerbread? Just as if she had been born to it. 
 Before she had been a fortnight married, she lent more grace 
 to a moire antique, cut in an ancient fashion, than many a 
 town belle lends to the most modern costume, just from Paris. 
 She did the honors of her husband's house, and spent his 
 money beautifull3^ He was much away ; for he was master 
 of one of his " stern- wheelers," and with it made semi-weekly 
 trips to Cincinnati and Louisville ; but that made no differ- 
 ence to his wife. With visits and balls and parties, she got 
 along very well without him, — in fact, better without than 
 with him ; for a troublesome fondness which he had for a full 
 decanter made him, at times, too boisterous for the refined 
 
It A C H E L S -^I A R R I A G E . 101 
 
 society of the high-bred people with whom Rachel was now 
 familiar. 
 
 During the first three months of her marriage she saw 
 nothing of Weddington ; though her husband often spoke of 
 him, and she learned that they had intimate business rela- 
 tions. Then, one day, they had an appointment together, 
 and Weddington oame to the house just in the edge of the 
 evening. She was in the parlor when he entered. Their 
 eyes met, and over her face came the look it wore that winter 
 day, when she stood by the grave of her father. Rising sud- 
 denly to her feet, with the air of a queen, she swept out of 
 the apartment. 
 
 The next day her husband — then in a sober mood — 
 said to her, — 
 
 "Rachel, I'd like ter hev ye civil to Weddington. I 
 knows he's spoken to ye as he ortent to speak to no 'ooman ; 
 but he's sorry for it, — and if ye haint, he mought trouble 
 me ; he mought ax me fur money as I can't pay him till times 
 is better." 
 
 Poor Rachel had already learned that gold can gild bed- 
 room and parlor furniture, but not the coarse natures of even 
 those who love it best ; j'et until now she had not suspected 
 her husband of downright baseness. A quick spasm shot 
 across her face ; but she only said, — 
 
 " Well, let him come, if you would have your wife insulted 
 in your own house." 
 
 " Pshaw ! he'll give you nary insult. He mought do that 
 to a gal as had no father ; but he'd be afeared to say a word 
 to my wife. If he did, I'd have his heart's blood, and he 
 knows it, — money or no money." 
 
102 O N T II E li O R D K U . 
 
 The blunt sincerity of the man reassured Eachel, and she 
 said, — 
 
 " Well, let him come ; I have no fear." 
 
 He did come, and the door ouce open, he came often ; but, 
 for a long time, always on some business with her husband. 
 At last he called one day when Brown was away on the 
 river. Ezekiel, who was a sort of major-domo to the estab- 
 lishment, saw him coming, and quietly took a seat outside the 
 parlor door, in the hall-way. He did not listen to their con- 
 versation, — he did not care to, — but, somehow, the old 
 fellow crossed the long bridge of years, and fancied that he 
 was carrying her about in his arms, as he was used to in her 
 childhood. Weddington did not stay long, but when he 
 left, Eachel bowed him politely out of the parlor, and, as he 
 closed the outer door, she turned to Ezekiel, and said, — 
 
 " 'Zekiel, do jou think this a cold day ? " 
 
 " Cold, Missy Eachel ! " echoed Ezekiel. " It'm de hottest 
 day ob de whole summer. I'm a'most roasted." 
 
 " So am I ; but the 'Squire complained of the cold, — said 
 he was nearly frozen ; and he did seem to be all" of a shiver." 
 
 " He ! he ! " laughed the old black ; but, as his mistress 
 went up the stairway, this natural expression of his race 
 changed into quite another part of speech. ''Ho! ho!" he 
 said to himself, in an undertone, a look of curious wonder 
 coming on his face. " It did fix him ! What a wonderful 
 sight inter t'ings Massa John hab ! I b'lieve he know all de 
 secrets ob creation. Jess leff dat ar Squar' come yere often 
 enufi", and I'll froze him inter a icicle." 
 
 The 'Squire did come often enough, but was not frozen, 
 though the winter came and went, and his visits grew all the 
 
K A c II el's ma K It I A a K . 103 
 
 wliile more and more frequent. He never came when Brown 
 was away, but Ezekiel took his seat in the hall, and both by 
 his manner, and by that subtle will-power which Jordan had 
 told him to exert, tried to give the house the atmosphere of a 
 refrigerator. Weddington may have felt this, but it did not 
 hinder his coming ; and yet who knows but the great love of 
 that faithful heart may have encircled her young soul with a 
 wall of ice, and so saved it from the clutch of the spoiler ? 
 There is much in heaven and earth, reader, that you and I 
 have not yet fathomed ; and this secret of the subtle power 
 of the human will is one of nature's deepest mysteries. 
 
 Mrs. Irving, as I have intimated, was, for the first time in 
 her life, perfectly contented. Slie thought she had all that 
 her heart could wish ; but at last there came a slight ripple 
 on the calm sea of her enjoyment. One of the neighbors set 
 up a carriage. There had been carriages in Paintville before ; 
 but none like this, with a footman's board, and a driver's seat 
 perched high up in the air, and looking for all the world like 
 an orthodox pulpit. She must have just such a carriage, or 
 die of chagrin, and — go back to be buried beside her hus- 
 band in the vulgar graveyard in the wilderness. Kew horses, 
 too, they must have ; for one of theirs was spavined, and both 
 had bobtails, and necks that needed a constant check-rein. 
 She wanted animals with long tails, nimble legs, and that 
 would hold up their heads among folks. Such could not be 
 had about Paintville, though one-half of the district grew 
 nothing but mules and horses. They must send to Cincinnati 
 for a complete turn-out. She lay siege to Rachel ; and Rachel, 
 after some hesitation, — for she knew he was up to his ears in 
 debt, — lay siege to her husband. Brown objected; Rachel 
 
104 ONTHE BORDER. 
 
 persisted; and at last he said, — he had just taken an extra 
 glass or two of brandy, — " You sliall hev them. I'll fix the 
 thing somehow ; if I don't, I'll be d — d." 
 
 His boat lay at the wharf, ready to sail at evening ; and it 
 was at once decided that Ezekiel should go along, and take 
 charge of the new equipage. The old black heard the sum- 
 mons with absolute consternation. He stuttered, stammered, 
 and went through all manner of guttural gyrations ; but, at 
 last, he managed to' eject the words, — "I can't. Missy Eachel. 
 I haint well ; I'se too ole ; I neber was so fur away in all 
 my life." 
 
 He was told that that was a good reasoli why he should go, 
 — he would see the world, and he ought to see something of 
 it before he died. Then he grew suddenly lame, — " de 
 rheumatics was a troublin' him bad ; " but Eachel had no 
 mercy on so sudden an attack ; and finally, looking her full 
 in the face, the old man said, — 
 
 "Wall, Missy Rachel, 'Zeke'll go, on one^ condition, and 
 only on dat ; and, if you don't promise dat, dey'll hab to tote 
 him out feet foremose ; and den he wont go." 
 
 "What is that, 'Zekiel?" 
 
 " Dat you don't speak to Massa Weddington while 'Zeke'm 
 away ; and dat, if he come to de house, you send word you'se 
 'gaged." 
 
 " And why shouldn't I speak to him ? " asked Eachel, in 
 a tone of only slight impatience ; for she was accustomed to 
 the freedom of the old man, and loved him with some of the 
 great affection had for her. 
 
 " 'Case, when 'Zeke am yere, de Lord kin tuck keer ob his 
 little gal ; but, if 'Zeke am 'w^ay, p'raps de Lord can't do it." 
 
R A C H i: L ' S 51 A K R I A G K . 106 
 
 She promised; and then, but with a heavy heart, the old 
 man started on the journey. 
 
 Tlie boat went down the river by night, stopping only to 
 take in and land passengers and freight, at Catlettsburg, — a 
 small town at the junction of the Big Sandy with the Ohio. 
 The old man was accustomed to going early to bed, and he 
 had not been long on board before he sought out his berth, 
 and fell into uneasy slumbers. 
 
 His life had been one long prayer, and often by day he 
 would lift up his voice " to Him who dwelleth in the heav- 
 ens ; " but it was only at night that he could come so near to 
 God as to talk to liini as one friend talks to another. Then, 
 something in the stillness and darkness seemed to open the 
 gates of his being, and to let into his soul the unseen world, 
 whose pulses thrill with the heart-throbs of the Great Au- 
 thor of the universe. But this night he prayed ; and the 
 golden gates turned not on their hinges. All about him was 
 darkness, and a tliick shadow glided in between him and his 
 Maker. At last it took shape, — huge, weird, unearthly, 
 — and its form was that of Weddington! A blazing fire 
 was in its eyes, and its long arms were reached out to clutch 
 a sleeping victim. The victim was Rachel. The old man 
 uttered a low cry, and with that cry, which held in its bosom 
 the mighty breath of prayer, the figure fiided. Then, in its 
 place, came another, — a dark, silent man, wrapped about 
 with grave-clothes. An unutterable look was in his hollow 
 eyes, and with his skeleton hand he pointed southward. 
 " Go," he said. " Upon the wind ! She is in danger ! " 
 
 With a sudden start, the old man awoke, and, springing 
 out of bed, threw on his clothing. He went on deck; the 
 
1(16 
 
 () X T II I. IJ <) li I) K i; 
 
 boat was just rounding to at Catlettsburg, and, liidden by 
 the darkness, he stepped off upon the landing. In a few 
 hours the consort of the "Potwin" came in on her return trip. 
 Tlie old man went on board, and about an hour after noon 
 was again at Paint ville. Springing ashore, he hurried to the 
 house of Each el. 
 
 He entered softly, and, the parlor door being ajar, had a 
 view of the inmates. They were seated on the sofa. His 
 arm was about her waist, his hot breath in her nostrils ; and 
 she was struggling in his grasp, as a tired bird struggles in 
 the net of the fowler. The old man looked for but a moment, 
 then with one bound he was upon them. Lifting Wedding- 
 ton in his brawny arms, he threw him, as if he had been a 
 man of cork, out of the open window. Then Rachel fell at 
 his feet, clasped his knees, and cried out, — 
 
 " 'Zekiel ! 'Zekiel ! God has sent you ! " 
 
 He lifted her up, and drew her closely to him on the sofa. 
 She wound her arms about his neck, put her soft cheek 
 against his ; and so they sat there an hour together. When 
 he got up to go away, he said, — 
 
 " My little gal, say nuffin' ob dis. If massa should yere 
 it, he'd hab his life. Leab it all to ole 'Zeke." 
 
 In a few days Brown returned from Cincinnati. He had 
 missed Ezekiel, and had concluded he had not gone on board ; 
 but he was rather glad of that, for it gave him an excuse for 
 not buying the turn-out. He had not been long at home, 
 however, before he heard of the old man's assault upon 
 Weddington. Boiling with rage, he went to Ezekiel, and 
 demanded to know why he had laid his hand upon his best 
 friend. 
 
U A H K L ' S M A li U I A O K . 107 
 
 " Don't you 'member, massa," said the old man, with im- 
 mense deference, "what T say to de young 'Squar' dat day 
 Massa Irving was buried ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but what has that to do with it ? " 
 
 "Eberyting; 'case 'Zeke allers keep his w^ord. You sees, 
 when you'se to liome, you rules de house ; but when you'm 
 awa}', ole 'Zeke, he'm de massa. Den he neber leffs de young 
 'Squar' show his face yere 'cept on good behavior. Wall, tie 
 lass time he come, 'Zeke didn't like his looks, — he'm allers 
 stuck-up, you knows, — so he jess up and frowed him out ob 
 de winder." 
 
 With tliis Brown exploded : " You d d nigger, I'll 
 teach you manners ! You shall hev fifty lashes." 
 
 Ezokiel heard this with perfect coolness, but Brown set 
 about putting the threat in execution. Rachel, however, 
 learning of his intention, told him all ; and this gave another 
 turn to the proceedings. Instead of scoring the old black, 
 the whip made acquaintance with the back of Weddington. 
 Meeting him in the public street, Brown left him there so 
 badly beaten as to be incapable of motion. 
 
 Disaster quickly followed. The boats were seized for the 
 debt ; and Brown's splendid furniture went under the ham- 
 mer. In one day he was reduced from comparative affluence 
 to abject poverty. But, to do him justice, he bore up bravely. 
 
 " Never mind, Rachel," he said. " I hev health and 
 strength ; you shill hev another kerridge. Go back, for a 
 time, to the old cabin in the woods, and I'll go outer the 
 Ohio. In a y'ar I'll be on m}-- feet agin." 
 
 So Rachel went back to her father's mean hut ; and so 
 ended her short dream of living like a lady. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 HE winter of 1860-61 was approaching, and it came 
 on darkly to those two women, who, with the old 
 black, were now the only tenants of the lonely hut 
 among the mountains. Weeks, and then months, 
 had gone away, and no word, and, what was more important, 
 no money had come from BrowTi ; and now, with the cold 
 weather upon them, not a pound of provisions was in the 
 pantry of the comfortless dwelling. Ezekiel, in the early 
 autumn, had got in fuel enough for the winter, and plastered 
 up the chinks which else had let volumes of cold air into the 
 scanty lower room of the long-deserted cabin; but even he 
 could not make corn grow in the snow, or coin money from 
 frozen sand-hills. When the single barre} of meal had dwin- 
 dled to less than a single bushel, he went for assistance to the 
 elder Jordan, — the younger having long been away, follow- 
 ing his business of dealer in mules and horned cattle. The 
 old Scotchman received him kindly ; but when the negro 
 with moistened eye and a stammering tongue, disclosed the 
 destitute condition of tlie two friendless women, he answered 
 coldly, — 
 
 " The girl should not have marvied such a worthless fellow. 
 (108) 
 
A w I X T i: R N k; II T . 109 
 
 She slioulcl have learned to work, and not have set up for 
 a lady. But I will not see you starve. How much bacon 
 and corn-meal will you need a week ? " 
 
 The old black was about to speak ; but the words stuck in 
 his throat, and, brushing a tear from his cheek, he turned and 
 walked away, leaving the cold Scotchman lost in wonder at a 
 revelation which is not so much as hinted at in the system of 
 narrow, but even-handed, theology, that had been the con- 
 stant study of his lifetime. 
 
 This was at the close of a stormy day in mid- winter, and 
 the fire-light was blazing brightly through the windows of 
 the little cabin when the old man opened the door and entered 
 the desolate apartment where dwelt the two women. Rachel 
 was spreading the table for their scanty evening meal, and 
 her mother, lying on a poorly-furnished bed in the corner, 
 from which she had scarcely risen since her return to their 
 meagre home, was complaining, in low, querulous tones, of 
 the hard fate that had reduced her to the wretched fare which 
 Rachel had just set before her, when the old black, throwing 
 off his ragged top-coat, turned to the elder woman and said, 
 in a cheerful, sympathizing voice, — 
 
 " Say no more ob dat, missus. De Lord knows you's had a 
 sorry bad time ; but it'm ober now. He'm put an idee inter 
 ole 'Zeke's head that'll J^eep us jess like we was in clober 
 all de way till de nex' harvest, and longer'n dat, if 'Zeke 
 haint able to get in a good crap. So you say no more, 
 missus. ^Zeke'll fix de libin'. You leab him alone for dat ; 
 he haint read de Bible day and night, for dese more'n twenty 
 year, widout findin' out how de Lord kin manage tings, when 
 we gits to the end of de rope, and 'eludes we is gone up, 
 I'j 
 
110 ON T H K B O \l 1) K i; . 
 
 for sartin. And jess to think ! it was pore massa dat lamed 
 'Zeke to read, and so, it'll be him, dough he'm cold in de 
 grahe, as'U be savin' dem as he lubed from starvin', and not 
 his old darky, after all ! He ! he ! " and the old man sat 
 down on the rude settle before the hearth, rubbed his hands 
 together, and stretched his huge feet out to the fire, with the 
 air of one who had suddenly come into a fortune. 
 
 The elder woman raised herself up in the bed, and said in 
 a whining tone, — 
 
 " Then, old Jordan'll holp us ! I allers belt he was the 
 meanest, stingiest man I ever know'd ; but I'll never say 
 ill of him agin — never agin." 
 
 '• Wall, I wouldn't, missus," said the old negro ; " I wouldn't ; 
 'case it haint de Bible way. But 'taint ole man Jordan as'U 
 holp us ; it'm de Lord ; and he'm a gwine to do it jess loike 
 he done wid 'Lijah in de Bible — only he feed 'Lijah wid de 
 ravens, and he'm a gwine to feed us wid de crows — de 
 woolly crows ! He ! he ! " And he laughed heartil}" at his 
 own sorry witticism. 
 
 Rachel came to him, and putting her hand gently on his 
 shoulder, said, — 
 
 " How is it, 'Zekiel ? If Mr. Jordan is not willing to 
 help us, how are we to be helped ? " 
 
 The old man drew her down near to him on the settle, and 
 said, in a tone of inexpressible tenderness, — 
 
 "Massa Jordan was a willin' to holp us, missy. 'Zeke 
 tells you dat, fur he don't want you to do him no wrong, — 
 but 'Zeke wouldn't tuck his holp, 'case he find fault 'bout 
 you marryin' Massa Brown! — jess as if he had a right to 
 complain ob dat, when 'Zeke neber done complain, and neber 
 
A W I N T K \i N I (; H T . Ill 
 
 would, not if you'd a married de bery ole debil hisself, — 
 neber ; for you's liis own little gal." 
 
 Here the old man's head sank forward upon his hands, and 
 two great tears rolled down from under his half-closed eyelids. 
 The young woman's arms twined themselves about his neck, 
 and in low, broken words, she said, — 
 
 " 'Zekiel, 'Zekiel ! how can I ever pay you for all 
 your love ? " 
 
 " Pay ! " ejaculated the old black, looking up tenderly in 
 her face. " You hab paid me — paid me ebery day sense you 
 was born. But sa^' no more ob dat, — jess leff 'Zeke tell you 
 de idee de good Lord hab put into his head, and den you'll see 
 how we'm a gwine to git fru de winter ; how de Lord am 
 a gwine to feed us like he feed 'Lijah — only wid de crows — 
 de woolly crows ! He I he ! " And again he laughed, so 
 heartily as to choke, for a time, his utterance. 
 
 With a smile half of trust, half of incredulity, Rachel 
 drew herself back on the settle, and said, — 
 
 " Tell me, 'Zekiel, tell me." 
 
 " Wall, Missy Rachel, you knows dem Levites in de Bible, 
 — sorry bad set dey was, I reckon, de most ob 'um, — loike de 
 one dat go down to Jericho on de oder side, — but dey was de 
 Lord's chosen for all dat, and he gabe 'um de right to lib 
 scot free onto oder folks ; and to hab ten dollar out ob 
 ebery hun'red; dough dey neber done a honest day's wuck 
 in all dar lives. Wall, jess now, when Massa Jordan was a 
 axin' how much corn an' bacon we'd eat a week, and ole Zeke 
 was jess a gwine to tell him, it comed into his head all to 
 onct, loike a flash, dat he'd ben a Levite to dese brack 
 Israelites on dis yere plantation for nigh onto forty year, and. 
 
112 ON T n E B O R D E K . 
 
 neber got a cent ; but hoed his own row, loike all de rest ob 
 dem. Wall, you see, dat corned to him, and he made up his 
 mind to onct jess to tell 'em at de next meetin' dat dey owes 
 ole 'Zeke board and lodgin' fur forty year ; but he'll lefF 'em 
 up on dat. if dey '11 jess fork ober a tenth of all dey hab, till 
 de next harvest. Dej^'U do it, — dey'll jump to do it ; and, 
 bein' dar's more'n a hundred ob 'um, you knows enuif ob 
 figgers, missy, to count how much it'll come to, — why ! it'll 
 keep us fur de year, buy a set o' 'hogony cheers, a new bed 
 fur de missus, a carpet fur de floor, and dress you up loike a 
 lady agin." 
 
 In his warm burst of enthusiasm, the old man had not ob- 
 served the face of the young woman ; but now he looked up, 
 and noticed the strange, almost despairing, expression on her 
 features. " What am de matter, missy ? what am de mat- 
 ter ? " he cried, in an earnest, anxious tone, the glow going 
 from his £ace in an instant. 
 
 Her head fell u^^on his shoulder, and she said, almost sob- 
 bing, — 
 
 " 'Zekiel, 'Zekiel ! To think I should come to this ! — 
 to think I should come to this ! " 
 
 The old man folded his arm about her, and drawing her 
 closely to him, said, in tones in which there was a strange 
 blending of rebuke and tenderness, — 
 
 " Dat am it. Missy Rachel ; dat'm de pride de Lord meant 
 to git clean out ob both on us 'fore he'd holp us. It was in 
 ole 'Zeke, It stuck in his froat, loike it was a alligator, 'fore 
 he go to Massa Jordan ; but he make up his mind to swaller 
 it down for de sake ob his little gal ; and den de Lord, he 
 make up his mind to holp us, 'case 'Zeke had been and done 
 
A WINTER NIGHT. 113 
 
 crucified dat ar ole Adam. And, honey, 3'ou do loike ole 
 'Zeke done, and de Lord, he'll turn round, and not send onto 
 us no more truble ; but lift up de clouds, and show us de sun, 
 dat'm allers a-shinin' on de 'tother side ob Jordan. And dis 
 yere haint loike gwine to dat ole Scotchman, dat was a beg- 
 gin' ; dis yere am only takin' what belongs to us ; it'm only 
 sayin' to dese yere folks, as hab owed 'Zeke for forty year, 
 ' "We'll forgib you de ole debt ; but you must pay up in de 
 futer'; if 3'ou don't, you can't hab no more preachin',' — and 
 dey can't, not so long as ole 'Zeke am 'bove ground." 
 
 " Oh ! but 'Zekiel, to take so much from such poor peo- 
 ple!" 
 
 " Lor^ bress you, missy, dey haint poor ; dey's rich, — richer 
 dan we am. But it needn't be so much, missy. If you says 
 so, 'Zeke'll leiF 'um up on de carpet, and de bed, and de 
 'hogony cheers, — only you and de missus must hab some 
 warm clo'es fur de winter. 'Zeke am afeard she'm got her 
 death wid dat ar'cold a'ready." 
 
 At the mention of her mother, the young woman rose, and 
 said, in a subdued voice, — 
 
 "Well, 'Zekiel, let us say no more about it. It is the 
 Lord's will. His hand I have not always seen ; but now I 
 see it. I will put away pride, and try to be a better woman." 
 
 Quietly then she took up the meagre loaf of corn-pone, 
 which was baking before the fire, and placed it upon the 
 table.^ Then, going to a closet in the chimney-corner, she 
 brought out a plate, and a cup and saucer, and laid them 
 opposite similar pieces of crockery ware which already adorned 
 the scanty board. Then she turned to the old man and said, 
 cheerfully, — 
 
 10 * 
 
114 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 "Now, 'Zekielj bring up your chair; let us eat our sup- 
 per." 
 
 " Eat supper ! " exclaimed the old man, shaking his head. 
 " Not wid you, Missy Rachel. 'Zeke haint got to he so bad 
 as dat yet." 
 
 Before Rachel could answer, her mother, who had been a 
 silent but attentive listener to the preceding conversation, 
 cried out, in an angry, querulous tone, — 
 
 " What do ye say, Rachel ? Eat with 'Zekiel ! — eat with 
 a old black! I hope ye haint come to that! I'd starve 
 fust!" 
 
 "Mother," answered the younger woman, in a firm but 
 mild voice, " for twenty years you have been telling me that 
 I am better than other people ; and all that time God has 
 been showing me that I am not, — that I am not half, no, not 
 nearl}^ half, so good as this poor old man. Now I mean to 
 listen to God, and not to you or my own false pride. I mean 
 to treat 'Zekiel like what he is, — our only true friend. Come, 
 'Zekiel, bring up your chair." 
 
 Without a word the old black rose, and came forward to the 
 table. Then, brushing away a tear, he bent down his head 
 and said a few low words. He meant them as a grace over 
 the frugal meal ; but, before he was aware of it, they had be- 
 come a simple thanksgiving to the Great Father, who had 
 touched his young mistress' heart, not to exalt him, but to 
 humble herself, and to cast away that pride which^ had 
 shut her eyes to the beauties of all but this world, and 
 been a wall between her and Him, and the good angels who 
 would come and be with her alway. 
 
 When the meal was nearly over, a knock came at the door, 
 
A W I N T K K N I G H T . 115 
 
 and a tall, ungainly man entered the apartment. A huge 
 slouched hat half hid his face, and it was not till he had 
 spoken her name that Rachel recognized him as the younger 
 Jordan. Then she sprang suddenly to her feet, and a deep 
 crimson suftused her features. They had not met since her 
 marriage, and old memories may have come rushing on her, 
 or some lingering remnant of the pride she meant to conquer 
 may have revolted at being thus discovered at table with the 
 old negro. Whatever it was, the feeling vanished in a mo- 
 ment, and, extending her hand to the new-comer, she 
 said, — 
 
 " John, is it you ? I am very glad to see you." 
 
 " I am glad to see you, Rachel," responded Jordan, a slight 
 tremor in his voice ; " and 'Zekiel, how are you, — and you, 
 Mrs. Irving?" 
 
 " Poorly, right poorly," squeaked the older woman, raising 
 herself in the bed, and taking Jordan's oifered hand; '^and 
 John ! who'd ha' thought we'd ever come to this ? — not 
 a bushel of meal in the house, and Rachel got to eatin' with 
 sarvints." 
 
 " She might do worse than that," answered Jordan, smil- 
 ing, but with a strange gleam in his eyes. " I have had 
 many a dinner of cold bacon and hickory nuts with 'Zekiel, 
 and I hope to have many another." 
 
 The crimson glow again suffused the face of Rachel for a 
 moment ; but she only said, — 
 
 " Sit down, John. You have been a long time away." 
 
 " Yes," he answered, seating himself by the fire. " After 
 selling the mules, I was kept at Frankfort, nearly a month, 
 by the lawsuit.'^ 
 
116 ON THE li O R D E R . 
 
 " And have the poor people at last got their freedom ? " 
 
 " No ; the case was decided in their favor ; but Cecil man- 
 aged to get in something that will probably secure another 
 trial." 
 
 " It is a great NATong. I don't see how such men can hold 
 up their heads among people." 
 
 " Cecil is a bad man ; be would do anything for money. 
 He is the only one I know for whom I have a natural dislike. 
 But I have this moment got home, and have not eaten since 
 morning. Don't you mean to ask me to supper ? " 
 
 " If you will take our poor fare, John," she answered, ris- 
 ing, and placing another plate upon the table. "We are 
 very poor, — we hardly know how we shall get through the 
 winter." 
 
 " So father has just told me," said Jordan, seating himself 
 beside the negro, " That is why I have come so soon ; he 
 wants to help you." 
 
 " We doesn't want his holp, Massa John. 'Zeke hab 
 made oder 'rangements," said the negro, leaning back in his 
 chair with the air of an African king. 
 
 " Father was afraid he had offended you. He is blunt, you 
 know ; but he means kindly." 
 
 " 'Zeke doesn't know what he means, — he only know what 
 he say, — and he say to-night what 'Zeke don't leff no one 
 say 'bout his young missus. 'Zeke gub him a chance to do 
 a good action, and he'll neber hab anoder sich a chance if he 
 libs to be as old as Mathuselum." 
 
 " I am sorry you are offended, 'ZekieL" 
 
 " Tended, Massa John ! I'se wuss dan 'fended, — Pse 
 riled way down to de bottom. And, leff me tell you, Massa 
 
A WINTER NIGHT. 117 
 
 John, 'Zeke haiut no patience wid dese folks dat make sich 
 great pretensions, and doles out de good dey does wid a peck 
 measure. De Lord don't do dat ; if lie did, dar haint a 
 Scotchman livin' dat wouldn't starve 'fore de week was out." 
 
 " That's so, 'Zekiel," said Jordan, laughing at the earnest- 
 ness of the negro. " But let us say no more about it. What 
 arrangements have you made for the winter ? " 
 
 " NeJDer you mind, Massa John — ' Zeke's made 'em, and 
 you neber know'd him to broke down when he went 'bout 
 a ting." 
 
 Jordan made no reply, but looked inquiringly at Rachel. 
 Her face took on again a crimson hue ; but she said, quietly, — 
 
 " He means to tithe the negroes j and, John, I have con- 
 sented to it." 
 
 The strange gleam came again into the young man's eyes, 
 as he answered, — 
 
 " Ah, Eachel ! God teaches us in strange ways ; but you 
 have learned His lesson, and I am thankful." 
 
 No one spoke for some minutes ; then the young man said, — 
 
 " 'Zekiel must not apply to the negroes. It is as much 
 as they can do to live. Here is enough to keep you through 
 the winter." 
 
 With this, he drew from his pocket a leathern money-belt, 
 such as is sometimes worn by travellers, and laid it upon the 
 table. A sudden glow lit up the face of the negro, as, 
 opening it quickly, he ran his eye over its contents. 
 
 " Fru de winter, Massa John ! " he exclaimed, with not 
 a trace of his recent dignity ; " fru de winter ! Why j^ere'm 
 'nuff to keep us fru twenty winters ! 'Zeke kin count — 
 yere'm ^.nore'n a t'ousand dollars ! " 
 
118 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 Rachel had sat without speaking, as if moved by contending 
 emotions ; but now she said, — 
 
 " No, no, John, I can't take it — not from you, after " — 
 
 She said no more, but in her face the young man read the 
 remainder of the sentence. 
 
 " You can take it, Rachel," he said. " It is not a gift, but 
 a debt. For ten years your father taught me, — mother paid 
 him all she could ; the rest I promised to pay you, when he 
 was dying." 
 
 She made no reply for some moments; then, the crimson 
 glow again on her face, she said, — 
 
 " John, your mother more than paid my father, but I mean 
 to have no false pride ; I will take the money, — enough to 
 carry us through the winter." 
 
 " Take the whole," he answered. " I have no use for it. 
 It is the capital on which I have traded ; but now I have 
 given up trading, — so I have no need of money." 
 
 "Given' up tradin' ! What am you gwine at, Massa 
 John ? " asked the negro, still running the bank-notes 
 through his fingers, with a look as gleeful as that of a child 
 over a parcel of new playthings. 
 
 " Whatever is given me to do. The South is threatening 
 disunion, and the leading men are already rousing the people. 
 Cecil has made appointments to stump the district, and they 
 hope to carry out Kentucky. I shall do what I can to pre- 
 vent it," 
 
 " But what can you do, John ? " asked Rachel. 
 
 " Speak wherever he speaks ; show the people it is for their 
 interest to stay in the Union." 
 
A WINTER NIGHT. 119 
 
 " iViid can you argue with such a man ? You know he is 
 one of the best speakers in Kentucky." 
 
 " I know. I have heard him ; but I shall have truth on 
 my side ; and, Rachel, you know all my ancestors were 
 preachers. Such things run in the blood ; so it may be I 
 have the gift of talking." 
 
 A look of pride came on the face of Rachel ; but she said 
 nothing. 
 
 The old black exclaimed, — 
 
 " 'Zeke knows you hab, Massa John ! He allers belt you'd 
 orter to ha' been a preacher. But don't you trust in yourseff ; 
 jess you look to de Lord — He'll gib you* de words, and de 
 wisdom. He will ! 'Zeke knows ; fur, many and many a 
 time, he's stood up in de little church, widout a word to say, 
 and, 'fore he's sot down, he's had de whole house a groanin'." 
 
 " Well, this is the Lord's work," answered Jordan, smiling. 
 " I know He will help me." 
 
 " And when do you begin ? " asked Rachel. 
 
 " At once. Cecil speaks at Piketon to-morrow ; and then, 
 somewhere else, nearly every day during the winter." 
 
 " "Well, the Lord be with you ; I shall pray for you, John." 
 
 " I thank you, Rachel. It will help me." 
 
 Their eyes met ; but it was his that now were dimmed 
 with moisture. 
 
 "About the money, John," she said, taking the roll of 
 bank-notes from the hand of the negro. " I will take enough 
 for the winter." 
 
 " No, no," he said, quickly, " take the whole. You may 
 want it. I fear terrible times are coming, — and I may not 
 be here to help you." 
 
120 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 " What do you fear, — not war ? " she asked, eagerly. 
 
 " Yes ; it must come, if the Cotton States persist in going 
 out of the Union, — and they will." 
 
 " But you wont go into it, John ? You wont go into it ? " 
 she said, her face turning to an ashy color. 
 
 "I must, Eachel, if it comes. The true work of my life 
 will be in it. Ever since I balked father's plan of making 
 me a preacher, I have known I had something to do in the 
 world ; and now my work is coming." 
 
 " But you will be in danger, John ; j^ou may not live 
 through it." 
 
 " I shall not live through it." 
 
 Rachel started, and her face grew even more pallid than 
 before. He noticed this, and said in soft, subdued tones, -^ 
 
 ^•' Don't be alarmed, Eachel. Death must come to us at 
 some time. I shall not die till my work is done." 
 
 The color came again into her cheeks, as she answered, — 
 
 " But you do not know that you will die. I have had such 
 presentiments, and they have oftener been false than true." 
 
 He shook his head as he answered, — 
 
 " This is no presentiment, — it is knowledge. I have seen 
 the shadows of the future. The other night, when I sat in 
 the court-room hearing Cecil talk away the freedom of better 
 men than himself, a cloud gathered round him, and in that 
 cloud I saw — not with my eyes, but with my mind — 
 the outlines of what is coming. He seemed to stand at the 
 entrance of a long avenue which stretched out dimly beyond 
 him. His hands were drij^ping with blood, and blood was on 
 the hands and garments of nearly all that were about him. 
 Soon I saw myself My hands were clean, but blood was on 
 
A W I N T E U N I (t H T . * 121 
 
 my clothing. Then, again, I was far down the avenue in a 
 prison, my hands as red as Cecil's ; and then, again, I was 
 farther down, — at the very end of the avenue. My hands 
 were white, and a great light was breaking over my head ; 
 but I was on the ground, and — dying." 
 
 " Aftd whar was Missy Each el ? Did you see her, Massa 
 John ? " asked the old black, who had listened with breathless 
 attention. 
 
 " Yes, — she came to me in the prison ; " and he bowed his 
 head upon his hands, and no one spoke for many minutes. 
 At last Eachel broke the silence, — 
 
 '' Ah ! John ! " she said, " this is all imagination. You had 
 been over-anxious about the trial and the country, and things 
 have got mixed up in your mind so as to make this dreadful 
 picture."' 
 
 She said these words ; but her face spoke quite another lan- 
 guage. That told that she believed the vision. 
 
 " Ko, no, Rachel," he answered ; '• I have had such visions 
 before, and the events have always followed. All men and 
 all events cast their shadows before them. Few can read 
 these shadows ; but I can, and so could some of my ancestors." 
 
 " You have told me so, John ; but you've said you never 
 saw yourself in your visions." 
 
 " I never did before. This has been shown me for a pur- 
 pose, — to prepare me for what is coming, — to fit me for 
 the work I have to do." 
 
 " And what work do you see you have to do ? ". 
 
 '' I do not see the work ; I only see the end ; but then my 
 hands are clean, and I die for my country, as did the old Jor- 
 dans." 
 
 11 
 
122 O N T H E B O R D E R . 
 
 As he said this, his gray eyes gleamed, and his dreamy face 
 lighted up with a glow that outshone the fire-light. No longer 
 able to restrain herself, the young woman buried her face in 
 her hands, and sobbed out, — 
 
 " John ! John ! to think that you must die, — you who 
 are so good, so noble ! " 
 
 He rose from his seat, and paced the room for a while in 
 silence. Then he said, as if unconscious of any but her 
 presence, — 
 
 " It is best, Rachel, — best for us both. God is good ; he 
 has opened your eyes, and that was all I wanted. Now the 
 end may come, and the sooner it comes the better." 
 
 She made no answer, but kept her face buried in her 
 hands. For a while longer he paced the room, then he came 
 to her, and, reaching out his hand, said, — 
 
 " Good-by. I must go." 
 
 She looked up ; her eyes were streaming with tears ; but 
 she took his hand, and said, — 
 
 " Good-by, John. You will come to see me when you can?" 
 
 "Yes, when I can. Good-by, 'Zekiel." 
 
 "Good-by, Massa John, good-by. De good Lord be wid 
 you." 
 
 " He will be ; for I shall try to do his work ; " and, turning 
 away, he left the apartment. 
 
 Half an hour later, when Rachel rose from her seat before 
 the fire to clear away the tea-things, she saw the roll of bank- 
 notes and the leathern belt on the table. Taking them up, 
 she turned to Ezekiel, saying, — 
 
 " Why, look here, 'Zekiel ! We have forgotten the money. 
 Take it to him at once. He'll go away in the morning." 
 
A WINTER NIGHT. . 123 
 
 The old man looked into the fire, as if to ask counsel of the 
 backlog, and then he said, — 
 
 " No, no, missy. Massa John am right. 'Twont be ob no 
 use to him ; and dar's no tellin' what'm comin'. Ole 'Zeke'll 
 buckle de belt round his body, and de money '11 be safer dar 
 dan anywhar in creation." 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 A CHRISTMAS IN FEBRUARY. 
 
 HAT night Rachel did not sleep. She lay awake re- 
 volving the strange revelations of the strange man 
 who had been so great an enigma to her from her 
 girlhood. His earnest manner, and his own firm faith 
 in his singular vision, had at first inclined her to believe that 
 the terrible things he predicted were in truth coming ; but 
 now, when the darkness brought calm thought, and she no 
 longer felt the powerful magnetism of his presence, her mind 
 revolted from its former conclusions, and she came to regard 
 it all as the dream of an excited imagination, the disordered 
 working of a sensitive nature, overwrought by anxiety, and 
 thrown from its true balance by the disturbing influences of 
 the excited court-room. She knew little of mental philoso- 
 phy ; but she had often watched the workings of her own 
 mind ; and could her own eyes pierce the shadows that shroud 
 the future ? and, too, was it not said that since the last Evange- 
 list looked within the vail on the unacted realities of the life 
 to come, the vision and the prophesy had been sealed to mor- 
 tal sight forever ? 
 
 With these thoughts she rose when the first sunlight 
 touched the windows of the little cabin, and, going to the 
 head of the stairway, called the old negro. 
 (124) 
 
A CHRISTMAS IN FEliKUARY. 125 
 
 " What am it, missy ? " he asked, thrusting his head from 
 under the clothes of a scanty pallet that occupied one corner 
 of the attic. " What'm broke loose so airly? " 
 
 "Nothing; only that money. John will need it; and I 
 am afraid, if you don't go at once, he'U be gone before you 
 get there." 
 
 " Lor' bress jou, Missy Rachel, he wont He'm right, — 
 he'll neber need no more money ! 'Zeke knows ; he seed it all 
 lass night in a dream." 
 
 " What did you see ?" she asked, in a startled way. 
 
 " Jess what Massa John say. 'Zeke seed it all, way down 
 to de lass, jess as he done." 
 
 " Of course you did," she answered, turning away with a 
 gesture of impatience. "Your mind got absorbed in his 
 story, and so you dreamed just what he told us." 
 
 " No, no, missy," and now his voice sunk to a low, husky 
 whisper, as if some terrible dread had suddenly taken pos- 
 session of him, and was half smothering his utterance. 
 " 'Zeke seed more, — seed it all, — and it all went afore him 
 loike it went afore John, and Daniel, and ole 'Zekiel in de 
 Bible ; only it wasn't in blind figgers, but in plain folks, — 
 me and you, and Massa John, and ole Massa Jordan, and de 
 whole kentry, and all plowed up wid de red-hot cannon ob de 
 battle-field. But 'Zeke'll neber leab you, missy, — neber ! 
 He'll stand by you if de lass day am a-comin', and — he reck- 
 ons it am ! " 
 
 It is singular the magnetic force which dwells in some 
 
 minds, and not in others, equally as earnest and equally as 
 
 powerful. Ezekiel's will was strong ; his convictions were 
 
 earnest; but his nature lacked that subtle element which. 
 
 11* 
 
126 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 in Jordan, had transfixed the mind of his young mistress, 
 and made his dreams seem to her, while she was in his pres- 
 ence, to be living realities. 
 
 Giving no heed to the old negro's words, Rachel turned to 
 go down the stairway, saying, as she did so, — 
 
 " Well, 'Zekiel, get up ; I shall send back the money." 
 
 " Not de whole, missy, not de whole ? You wont make ole 
 'Zeke ax de toll ob dem ar' pore folks, as, wid de hard winter 
 and de eberlastin' lawsuit, haint more'n half a moufful fur 
 darselves." 
 
 Smiling at his sudden recollection of his constituents, Ra- 
 chel answered, — 
 
 " No, we'll keep a hundred dollars. John would feel hurt 
 if we didn't ; and that will support us till harvest.'^ 
 
 The old black had scarcely turned into the high-road which 
 led to the house of the Jordans, when Rachel heard a low 
 rap at the door of the cabin. Wondering who could be com- 
 ing to see her so early, she said, — 
 
 " Come in ; " and a strange serving-man entered, bearing a 
 letter. Bowing to her, and handing her the missive, he was 
 turning to leave the room, when she said, quickly, " Who is 
 this from ? Does it need an answer ? " 
 
 " No, missus," answered the man. " Dat'm all I was telled 
 to say ; " and he went as suddenly as he came. 
 
 She opened the letter, and a mingled look of dread and 
 loathing came over her features. 
 
 " Who ar' it from, Rachel ? " asked her mother, whom the 
 coming of the man had awakened. 
 
A CURISTMAS IN FEBKUARY. 127 
 
 " Jackson Weddington," said the younger woman, catching 
 her breath, and sinking down on the settle before the fire. 
 
 " From him I — the mean scamp ! — I thought he was away 
 out of the kentry." 
 
 " No ; he is here, and I am to be persecuted by him again ; " 
 and she rested her head on her hand, and over her face came 
 a look wliieh was half despair, half indignation. 
 
 '' What need ye to fear of him ? " asked the older woman, 
 in the querulous tone which had become habitual to her. 
 " He ar* a coward. He went away only 'case he war afeard 
 of another beatin' from Bradley." 
 
 " But Bradley is not here; and somehow, mother, he has 
 over me a strange power. When he is near me, there come 
 upon me the queerest feelings, — I lose all strength, and it 
 seems as if I should smother," 
 
 "Never you worry, — he wont come nigh you. 'Zeke ar' 
 yere, an' he ar' more afeard of him nor he ar' of Bradley ; " 
 and the old woman laughed a croaking, disdainful laugh, 
 which plainly said that in her mind the white man who could 
 fear a negro was the most contemptible of bipeds. 
 
 Kachel made no reijly, and it was not long before the old 
 negro entered the apartment. His glance fell upon Eachel, 
 and in an instant, with the quick eye of affection, he detected 
 her unusual emotion. 
 
 . " W^hat'm it, missy ? " he said. " What'm broke loose 
 now ? " 
 
 " 'Zekiel," she answered, looking up, and handing him 
 the letter, " read that ! " 
 
 He took the letter, and, as he slowly opened it, a bank-note 
 fell from it upon the floor. Taking it up, he said, — 
 
128 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 ^' Gor-a'massy ! It sort ob rain money dis mornin'. A 
 hun'red dollar ! "Wall, if Massa Jackson war only brack, he 
 wouldn't fotch dat much under de hammer nohow. But leff 
 'Zeke see what he sa}'-." [Reads.] 
 
 "'Missus Brown, — 'Spected madam (Ob course, "'spect- 
 ed," and s'pectable, too, Massa Jack : j^ou'll find dat out 'fore 
 you'm much older) : I hab jess return to de mansion, and I 
 jess yere dat you's in distress (not nigh so bad off as you, 
 Massa Jack, wid all your money). I beg (he orter beg, and 
 he will, in dat kentry whar ebery one'll git ^cordin' to his 
 doin's) dat you'll 'cept dis triflin' (" triflin' ! " wall, it am 
 triflin' ; 'Zeke hab got ten times dat, all his own, in his 
 pocket ; and ebery dollar ob it honest money) 'sistance. 
 " 'From your true friend, 
 
 "'Jackson Weddington.' " 
 
 The old man laid the letter and the money on the table, 
 and, sitting down by the fire, looked fixedly into the blaze, 
 and was silent for many minutes. At last he turned to 
 Bachel, and, with an alarmed, but grotesque expression on 
 his wrinkled features, said, — 
 
 " It'm a comin'. Missy Rachel, it'm a comin' ! what 'Zeke 
 hab feared all his life, — eber sense he was a child, — eber 
 sense his poor mudder die, as come from de kentry far ober 
 de great sea." 
 
 "What is coming, 'Zekiel?" asked Rachel, catching a por- 
 tion of his intense feeling. 
 
 "Blood, Missy Rachel ! 'Zeke can't die wid clean hands, — 
 can't die wid clean hands ! His pore mudder say so, — and 
 it'm true, — it'm true." 
 
CHRISTMAS IN FEBRUARY. 
 
 129 
 
 ''But how could she know? How could she tell so many 
 
 years ago '^ " 
 
 « She seed it, — seed it in 'Zeke's hand when she was dyin' 
 in de ole cabin down in Virginny. You see she was born whar 
 do sun shine more brighter dan it do yere, and whar de brack 
 folks hab dat wonderful eyesight." 
 
 " Don't feel so, 'Zekiel. She couldn't see, — no one can see 
 
 into the future." 
 
 " Oh, yas dey kin, Missy Rachel,-yas dey kin ! Massa John 
 am right, — ebei^ man and every ting frows his shadder afore 
 him. ''ah he'm to be and to do am writ on de a'r dat's born 
 wid him ; and dem as hab de eyes kin read de writin'. She 
 seed on 'Zeke's hand de shadder ob de blood, and she say he 
 couldn't neber die 'fore he'd sent a bad man to de judgment- 
 day, — and it'm him, — dat letter show it'm him." 
 
 ''But you wouldn't hurt him, 'Zekiel. He'll never dare to 
 come here ; so, he'll never give you occasion." 
 
 « He iviU come yere ; he ivill gib 'Zeke 'casion, — de letter 
 show dat; and dough 'Zeke wouldn't hurt a flea, he couldn't 
 holp hisseff, if he comed round you ag'in, Missy Rachel." 
 
 "Never you fear, 'Zeke," said the older woman, now, for 
 the first time, interruf>ting the conversation. "He's mortal 
 afeard of ye. He'll never come." 
 
 " Don't you be ober sure ob dat, missus," answered the 
 black. " Cowards am allers fools, and he'm a coward, sartin." 
 After a moment's pause, he added, — 
 "But it can't be holped; 'Zeke wont git inter his way; 
 and he can't be 'sponsible fur what'm writ in de shadders." 
 
 With this crude fatalism the old man dismissed the subject, 
 and, turning to his young mistress, said, — 
 
loO O N T II K 11 U U D E K . 
 
 " I seed Massa John. He was jess gwine 'way on de bay 
 
 mar', wid Massa KoLin, and a lot of young gemmen, all 
 
 ^ ob 'em armed way up to de teeth wid knives and 'volvers — 
 
 'cejDt Massa John. He say he'm gwine to talk, and not to 
 
 fight, and he wouldn't tuck a thing." 
 
 " Why, is there danger ? " asked Rachel, turning suddenly 
 palo. 
 
 '^ So Massa Jordan tink ; and he wouldn't leff Massa 
 John go widout Massa Eobin, and de ress goed wid him. 
 He say dat ar' ole Cecil am desput bad, and wont stop fur 
 nuffin', if he's git floored. And he'm sure Massa John'll 
 took 'um all down, case he hab de tongue, so Massa Jordan 
 tink, of de ole Jordans as was drowned in de deluge." 
 
 " Well, you gave him the money ? " 
 
 " No, 'Zeke didn't ; he wouldn't tuck it. To de fust he 
 say you muss keep it ; but when he know'd, fur sartin, dat 
 3^ou wouldn't hab only de hun'red dollars, den he gub it to 
 ole 'Zeke, all for hisseff. Fac', missy — ebery word; and 
 who'd a thought," — and here he drew the money-belt from 
 his pocket, and fondled it affectionately, — '' who'd ha' 
 thought ole 'Zeke would ha' lived to die a rich man ! Who'd 
 ha' thought it! He! he!" ♦ 
 
 " But you will give it back to him, 'Zekiel, as soon as 
 he comes home for good, and these troubles are over ? " 
 
 " Gib it back to him ! 'Zeke reckons he wont. He make 
 a fa'r trade, and he reckons he'll stick to it. You see 'Zeke 
 'gTeed to do jess what Massa John want him, jess so long as 
 he lib, — and dis am de price." Here he tossed the money- 
 belt up and down, and laughed gleefully, — " and dis am 
 de price, missy — twelve hun'red dollar — and a mighty 
 
A C H U I S r MAS I N F K li R L A K Y . 131 
 
 good price it am for a ole darky as'in nigh onto eighty ; but 
 'Zeke allers belt Massa John had too big a heart in him 
 to be right smart at tradin'." ,' 
 
 Kachel smiled pleasantly at the facetiousness of the old 
 man ; but in a few moments she said, gravely, — 
 
 " Well, 'Zekiel, you'll take this letter and money back to 
 Jackson Weddington to-day ? " 
 
 "No, missy, 'Zeke couldn't do dat to-day. He darsn't 
 tru<t hisseff in sight ob dat snake jess yit— not jess yit. 
 'Sides, he want to pay dat ar' fifty dollar we owes him fur de 
 docterin' 'spences ob pore massa. We'll go down to de viU 
 lage, and buy suffin* to eat, and suffin warm for you and de 
 mLus ; and den, 'Zeke'll broke one ob dese hun'red dollar- 
 bills, and scpiar' up wid de young 'Squar', foreber." 
 
 Mrs. Irving had kept her bed almost constantly since the 
 catastrophe which had ruined her son-in-law. She had no 
 natural force of character; but she might have held together 
 some years longer, had she not been so suddenly lifted from 
 years of poverty to the dazzling heights of a gilded coach 
 and long-tailed horses, and as suddenly let fall into the amaz- 
 ing depth in which she now was grumbling and grovelling. 
 Her nervous system was not strong enough to rally from the 
 last shock, and slowly, but surely, she had for months been 
 sinking. The anxiety and excitement of the past two days 
 had weakened her greatly, and, on the morning following the 
 conversation just recorded, she was too ill to be left alone ; 
 and so Rachel was obliged to defer her intended visit to 
 the village. Another day passed, and she was no better ; 
 but then not a pound of meal was left in the cabin. Food 
 
132 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 must be had at once, and at last Racliel decided tliat Ezekiel 
 should go alone for clothing and provisions. Getting in the 
 day's fuel, and harnessing the old mule, — which, by some 
 strange Providence, had been saved from the wreck of their 
 fortunes, — he set out soon after daybreak. He took no 
 breakfast, and it was a twelve-mile ride by a very slow con- 
 veyance ; but the old nian said cheerfully, as he took his seat 
 in the crazy sled, — 
 
 " Nebei" mind de breakfust, missy ; darll be de more for 
 you. 'Zeke eat ob de fat ob de land, and snioke some 
 'backer to boot, when he git to de village." 
 
 The old man had been gone a couple of hours, Rachel was 
 quietly clearing away the breakfast things, and her mother, 
 after a restless night, was sleeping soundly in the low bed in 
 the corner, when the door suddenly opened, and a man en- 
 tered the apartment. His face was muffled in the cape of 
 his overcoat, and it was not till he had sj^oken her name that 
 E-achel discovered that it was Weddington ! Then, springing 
 back, and almost panting with a sudden fear, she said, — 
 
 " Why are you here ? What do you want ? " 
 
 Glancing quickly about the room, he uncovered his head, 
 and unmuffled his face ; and then, advancing a few paces, he 
 fixed his eyes intently upon hers, and said, in a voice as low 
 and plaintive as the coo of a hurt pigeon, — 
 
 •" Rachel, is this the way you receive an old friend ? " 
 
 " Friend ! You are no friend of mine ! Leave me, — I 
 beg of you leave me ! " 
 
 " Then you would rather hear from me than see me ? " he 
 said, his voice even more plaintive than before, but his eyes 
 still fixed upon her with a cold, serpent-like stare. 
 
A C II R I 3 T :M A S IN FEBRUARY. 133 
 
 It was true, she had kept his letter two days, and he had 
 a right to misconstrue her intentions. The thought shot 
 through her like an arrow, a sudden faintness came over her, 
 and she sank down on the settle. 
 
 " It is nothing to what I would do for you. I would lift 
 you above every want ! I would make you always happy ; " 
 and again he advanced a few paces, his cold, serpent-like 
 stare still upon her. 
 
 " Go away, oh, go away from me ! " she gasped, faintly, and 
 with a weak, repellent gesture. 
 
 " Go away, and leave you starving in this wretched hovel ! 
 you, who would grace any palace in the world ! Oh, no, Ra- 
 chel ! I cannot do that ! If I did, I should not be the friend 
 you have known me." 
 
 And now he sat down beside her, and placed his hand on 
 hers, as it rested on the edge of the settle. She attempted 
 to draw it away, but his grasp w^as firm, and her muscles were 
 powerless. 
 
 A moment he sat so in silence, then he said, and his voice 
 now was as soft and musical as the strings of the Eolian when 
 stirred by the gentlest wind that ever came from heaven, — 
 
 " Rachel, some one has belied me ; I am your friend, — 
 
 your best friend. It goes to my heart to have you meet me 
 
 so coldly. Believe me, I am your friend ; and I would be 
 
 more ; " and here his arm crept about her waist, while his 
 
 hand still grasped hers, and his serpent-like stare — no 
 
 longer stealthy and cold, but fierce and hot with the very fire 
 
 of hell — was still fixed on her eyes. " I would be more, — 
 
 I would make you my wife. Your husband has deserted you ; 
 
 in a few months more you can be free by the law ; then I will 
 12 
 
134 u X T II K i; li 1) i: n . 
 
 make you m}' wife. I willf believe me ; and, meanwhile, your 
 every wish shall be gratified ; you shall have a home, servants, 
 friends, all, and more than all, that your sot of a husband lost 
 by his folly." 
 
 It is said that the poor bird, caught bj^ the spell of the 
 serpent, circles about the creature's head, gasping and flutter- 
 ing, but drawing nearer and nearer, till, at last, it darts, a 
 M^illing prey, into the very jaws of the monster. So it was 
 with Kachel. She gasped for breath to cry out; but the 
 words would not come. She struggled to get upon her feet, 
 and throw off his hold ; but her strength was gone, her 
 limbs I'efused to obey her will, and, at last, her head sank 
 upon his shoulder, and, panting and powerless, she lay at his 
 mercy. 
 
 But there is a force in this world that is mightier than the 
 power of e%nl. #It is the love of even the weakest of men or 
 women. That force now came between Weddington and 
 his victim. Half-dressed, her hair falling loosely about her, 
 her eyes glaring, her cheeks hollow, but glowing with the 
 hectic fire that was burning at her \4tals, the mother of 
 Rachel stood before him. Stamping her foot on the floor, she 
 lifted her skinny hand and pointed to the door. 
 
 " Begone ! " she cried ; " wretch — man of hell — begone ! '^ 
 
 He bounded to "his feet, and staggered a step or two back- 
 ward, startled from his self-control by the sudden interruption. 
 In an instant he recovered himself; but in that instant he 
 had lost all power over his victim. The charm broken, 
 Kachel rose suddenly from the settle, and, seizing a rusty 
 shot-gun which hung in the corner, turned upon him, her 
 face and her eyes blazing. 
 
A C II H I S T ^I A S I \ y K B K U A K Y . 135 
 
 " Go — go," she cried, " this instant — or I shall do a mur- 
 der.'^ 
 
 He grew very pale ; but taking up his liat from the table, 
 and fixing on her his basilisk eye, he said, coolly, — 
 
 " I'll have you yet. I haven't followed you so long to 
 be balked at last." 
 
 The older woman had stood supporting herself by the 
 table ; but now she turned suddenly, and, snatching the shot- 
 gun from the hand of Rachel, levelled it at Weddington. In 
 a moment it exploded ; but the man had bounded, unharmed, 
 tlirough the door-way, — a little longer to go at large, a little 
 longer to do, on this planet, the deeds of his father, the 
 devil. 
 
 Rachel sprang to bar the door, and as she did so the gun 
 dropped from the hand of her mother, and, staggering a step 
 or two, she fell at full length upon the floor. • She had not 
 fainted ; but reaction had come, and it was only with super- 
 human effort that Rachel half-dragged, and half-carried her 
 to the bed in the corner. Then, smoothing back her tangled 
 hair, she said, — 
 
 " mother ! mother ! I am so afraid this has hurt you." 
 
 " No — matter — if it has I — you is safe ! — but Rachel 
 
 — promise me — never let — let 'Zekiel out of yer sight 
 
 — ag'in — not — not — while he's a livin'." 
 
 "I never will, mother — never! But don't you look so, 
 mother; it frightens me! Oh! I am so afraid you are 
 hurt ! " 
 
 " No, child ! I don't feel no pain ; but it's growin' dark ; 
 put — some more wood on the fire, — make it burn up a 
 little— little brighter." 
 
136 ON THE B O R D E i: . 
 
 " It burns brightly, — and it's broad day, mother I " Now 
 a terrible fear came upon her. " mother ! mother ! " she 
 cried, " are you dying ? " 
 
 " No, no ! child ! — only tired, — he waked me up, you 
 know ; but — it's gittin' very dark, child. Do put — a little 
 more wood — on the fire." 
 
 Rachel clutched the thin, skinny fingers, and put her hand 
 upon the cold, pale forehead. 
 
 " Do you feel my touch, mother ? " 
 
 " Oh, yas, — you's a darlin' chile ; — you^s allers borne 
 with — your pore mother, — though she's been so peevish — 
 and so — ongrateful. Bless you for it, — darlin', — bless 
 
 you ; — God " — 
 
 Her hand clutched her daughter's tightly; her head fell 
 over toward the wall of the hut ; and then, her soul left this 
 world for another. 
 
 The shadows had begun to creep around the desolate room, 
 when a heavy step sounded outside, and a heavy hand lifted 
 the wooden latch which closed the rude door-way. 
 
 "Missy, missy! It'm me, ole 'Zeke, — so don't you be 
 afeard. You done right to bar de door, — you did. 'Zeke 
 meant you shud, — dough he didn't tink a word ob it till 
 five mile away. But, he know'd you wud, — he know'd 
 you wud, — for you's de sensiblist, and best lookin', too, 
 ob any young missy in all Kaintucky." 
 
 The last words were spoken as Eachel undid the barred 
 door, and let the old man into the room. He bore in his 
 hands two immense baskets, filled with sundry bundles, and 
 a variety of hams, chickens, turkeys, and other defunct barn- 
 
A CHRISTMAS IN FEBRUARY. 137 
 
 yard commodities. Placing the baskets on the floor, he went 
 on, — 
 
 "Christmus hab come rader late dis y'ar, missy, — way 
 onto de middle ob Febrary, — but it hab come at lass, and 
 ole 'Zeke hab got 'urn all yere, right in dese baskets, 
 gowns and shawls and hoods and hams, and 'nuff chicken 
 fix ins to keep missus clar fru de winter. Wid sich broth as 
 you kin make out ob dese, we^l hab her well in no time ; " 
 and the delighted old black held a brace of fat pullets up 
 before the eyes of his young mistress. 
 
 "She needs nothing now, 'Zekiel," said Rachel, turning 
 away, and resuming her seat on the settle. 
 
 " Keeds nuffin' now ? What does you mean, missy ? " 
 
 She made no answer, and he stepped softly to the bed of 
 the dead woman. He lifted her hand, and for a nioment, 
 bent over her cold features. Then, without a word, he 
 turned away, and sat down in his leather-bottomed chair in 
 the chimney-corner. Long he sat there, gazing intently at 
 the fire, and apparently unconscious of the presence of Ra- 
 chel. At last he looked up, and said, — 
 
 " We'se alone now, missy, — alone, wid nuffin' in de wurle, 
 'cept de Lord, and de good angels. But don't you greab, 
 missy, don't you greab. De Lord he hab a big heart ; and 
 he'm weepin' fur you now, jess loike he weep fur Lazarus. 
 'Zeke knows he'm a big heart, and dat he weep ober we pore 
 folk dat am 'flicted, 'case y'ars and y'ars ago he come and 
 weep ober 'Zeke, when his own mudder was dead in her 
 bed, loike you's am now in de corner." 
 
 Rachel covered her face with her hands ; but said nothing, 
 and in a moment the old black continued, — 
 
138 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 " Don't you greab, missy ; she'm better now, — better 'an 
 she was dis mornin'. 'Zeke 'members when she was young 
 as you, — and how handsome she was den ! how beautiful ! 
 But she'm handsomer now ; she'm younger now. Massa 
 John say dat dey grow younger up dar ebery day, till dey gits 
 to be jess so young and handsome and innercent as little chillen. 
 So don't you greab no more, missy. Tink no more 'bout it ; 
 but jess you git 'Zeke his supper, like a good missy. He 
 haint had a mossel to eat since dis time lass evenin'." 
 
 " Nothing to eat ! " said Rachel, rising, and hanging the 
 kettle over the fire. " Why ! didn't you have your breakfast 
 and dinner in the village ? " 
 
 " No, missy. 'Zeke hadn't more'n druv inter de village 
 'fore he seed a great crowd of folk gwine inter town meetin*. 
 He axed what it all was 'bout, and dey say it was Massa John 
 as was a gwine to gib de Secesh hail, fire, and brimstun, — 
 he'd done it, dey say, de day afore, at Piketon. Wall, arter 
 dat, 'Zeke forgot all 'bout de gowns, and eben de chicken 
 fixins for de pore missus ; and he hitched de ole mule under 
 a shed, and went inter de court house. It was cram jam 
 full, all wid white folk, but 'Zeke he wedged fru 'um, and close 
 up to whar Massa John and a whole lot ob big gemmen was 
 a-sittin' on de platform. 
 
 " Fuss dat ar' ole debil, Cecil, he got up, and talked 'way 
 'bout de rights of de Souf, and how dey was a-trod on, — he 
 mean de big planters, as neber done a stroke ob work, neber 
 was ob no use to nobody, and allers had a hun'red darkies to 
 tend on 'um. Dat was 'bout aU he say ; but he stormed 'way 
 for a hour like a wild critter, and den he sot down, and Massa 
 John he come to de front ob de platform. He look jess 
 
A CHRISTMAS IN FEBRUARY. 139 
 
 loike be done when he was yere, wid his homespun clo'es, 
 liis long hair, and his great white forrard. Wall, he come to 
 de front ob de platform, and de fuss word be say was, ' De 
 wrong haint no rights dat eider man or de Lord am bound to 
 'spect ; and you go out ob de Union, and you's in de wrong, 
 and you's outlaws.' 
 
 " He go on wid a good deal moi*e ob dat sort, and den he 
 come onto some argumens dat 'Zeke neber yered afore. He 
 say, fuss, dat de Lord hab made dis one kentry, and dat man 
 couldn't make it two nohow. Dat all de big ribers and all de 
 big mount'ins dey run norf and souf, and dar was nowhar 
 dat you could run a line east and west, dat eben de bery 
 smallest debil couldn't git over; and he say, ^ Jess you try 
 to run sich a line, and de little debils dey'll allers be a-gittin' 
 ober, on both sides, and keepin' up a war all de time.' Den 
 he say, second, dat union was de bery order ob natur' ; and 
 dat dis Union was a-fashioned jess as de Lord fashioned de 
 universe. Dat ebery whar dar was big and little, centre and 
 s'cumference ; and dat all creation was only a great wheel, wid 
 a hub in de middle, spokes on de sides, and a felly round de 
 whole, and dat it would all fall to pieces and go to rack and 
 ruin if you took out de hub or de spokes, or tore off de felly. 
 And den he 'lustrated de idee hy de solar system. He say de 
 sun gib light and heat to all de planets, and holt 'um all to- 
 gedder, so dey neber stray away, but hab reg'lar summer and 
 winter, and seed-time and harvest allers. Wall, he say, ' De 
 gubment at Washington am de sun to dis Union ; it gibs 
 light and heat to all de States and de territories ; and you 
 blot dat out, and you'll all go wand'ring off, lost inter de outer 
 darkness.' 
 
140 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 " 'Zeke neber yered sich talk, — it was chain lightnin' ; and 
 Massa John, his face was a bonfire, and his eyes, dey was 
 two blazin' knots of light-wood. De folks dey neber said a 
 word, but was as still as mice de whole time he was a-talkin' ; 
 but when he got fru, you neber yered sich a noise. Dey got 
 up, and dey shouted, and dey cheered, and lots ob 'um corned 
 ui"), and hugged him, and a'most killed him wid kindness. 
 Finarly de meetin' it broke up ; but ole 'Zeke he stayed, and 
 at lass Massa John he got his eye onto him. Den he 
 beckoned to 'Zeke to come, and he went up dar, 'mong all de 
 big gemmen on de platform ; and den Massa John telled dem 
 who 'Zeke was, and dat he lubed him loike he done his 
 own fader. He did, missy, an^ 'Zeke had to cry, right out 
 dar 'fore all dem big gemmen." 
 
 Here the old man pulled out a great red handkerchief, 
 wiped his eyes, and, for a few moments, was unable to go 
 on with the narrative. At last he said, — 
 
 " Dat was all, missy, 'cept he say I muss tell you he was 
 well, and his fader dat dey was wid him, — he mean de ole 
 Jordans as had de fiery tongues and was drowned in de del- 
 uge. Wont de old man be proud ob him, Missy Rachel ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, he will be ! J am proud of him ; we all are 
 proud of him, 'Zekiel." 
 
 An hour later the two went to their beds, — his, a blanket 
 before the fire ; hers, the negro's scanty cot in the corner 
 of the attic. 
 
CHAPTER YIII 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 rilTHIN the thirty days that followed the events 
 
 MvTffli recorded in the last chapter, the quiet district, which 
 
 is the scene of our story, felt the first rising of the 
 
 great tide that had already swept the Gulf States 
 
 from their moorings in the Union. At its every cross-roads 
 began a war of words, which was soon, very soon, to become 
 a war of a much more deadly character. At the outset, the 
 two principal speakers who canvassed the district, conducted 
 the wordy contest with an order and decorum which does not 
 always accompany similar controversies ; but soon Cecil, mor- 
 tified beyond endurance by the frequent discomfitures he 
 received from his homespun opponent, resorted to personal 
 threats, which so exasperated the friends of Jordan, that 
 actual violence followed on several occasions. On one of these 
 occasions, at an open-air meeting near Jordan's home, knives 
 were drawn, and revolvers fired, and to such a length did the 
 disturbance go, that the life of Cecil might have been sacri- 
 ficed but for the timely interference of Jordan. When the 
 excitement was somewliat allayed, the young man mounted 
 the platform, and said to the multitude, — 
 
 " I regret the violent words into which Judge Cecil has 
 
 (Ul) 
 
142 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 been betrayed ; and I do not intend to retort in similar lan- 
 guage. I came here to speak for peace, — to appeal to the 
 reason, and not to the passions, of my fellow-citizens ; and I 
 now give notice, that if similar language is again employed, 
 or a similar disturbance again occurs, either here or else- 
 where, I shall give up the discussion and go to my home, 
 leaving the public to come to its own conclusion as to 
 who does, and who does not, desire the best good of the coun- 
 try." 
 
 Goaded by these words beyond all sense of prudence, Cecil 
 rose, and turned upon the auditory, his face pale, and his eyes 
 blazing with passion. 
 
 " Who cares," Jie cried, " whether the fellow goes on with 
 the discussion, or goes home to his shanty, and his dunghill ? 
 Does he suppose that other men estimate him as he estimates 
 himself? I have consented to bandy words with the low 
 fellow only out of respect to the people, and because I think 
 a man may be a man even if he is a horse-trader. But 
 now I give notice that I will discuss with him no longer. 
 If the other side wants to be heard in these meetings, it 
 must select a speaker in some way 'my equal, — one who 
 is a gentleman." 
 
 . The meeting was crowded with Jordan's neighbors and per- 
 sonal friends, and this indiscreet speech renewed the tumult, 
 and might have cost Cecil dearly, had not Jordan sprang 
 quickly to his feet, saying, — 
 
 " No violence, my friends, no violence ! Every man here 
 who loves order, or his country, will now go quietly to his 
 home, and take no notice of the insulting language of Judge 
 Cecil. I shall not continue the discussion ; it might lead to 
 
A TRAGEDY. 143 
 
 bloodshed ; and /shall not be the first to light the fire which, 
 I see, must soon sweep over Kentucky." 
 
 Saying this, he descended from the platform, mounted his 
 horse, and with his younger brother, and a score of his neigh- 
 bors, rode away to the rude cabin among the mountains. 
 There he remained for a time, — a silent but interested 
 spectator of the thick-coming events which soon involved the 
 country in one of the most gigantic and bloody struggles that 
 redden the pages of history. 
 
 All discussion had ceased; but the dragon's teeth had 
 been sown, and they brought forth a harvest of discord. 
 Father became arrayed against son, family against family, 
 neighborhood against neighborhood; and soon the district 
 experienced all the evils of civil strife, except its rapine 
 and carnage. Men had for months been mustering for both 
 sides of the conflict ; and directly over the river, the brave 
 Rosecrans had for months been fighting the brilliant series 
 of battles which saved West Virginia to the Union ; but not 
 till the middle of summer did the red devil of war begin to 
 sprinkle this peaceful region with his fiery baptism. 
 
 Kentucky had assumed the attitude of mock neutrality, by 
 which its leading men hoped to cloak their hostility to the 
 government, and most effectually serve the South ; and early 
 in August the governor issued a proclamation, commanding 
 all persons having arms belonging to the State to deliver 
 them up immediately. This gave opportunity to the State 
 Guard, a secession organization, to enter the houses of 
 Union men, and, under color of law, to take away their 
 rifles and shot-guns, — in fact to disarm every loyalist in the 
 Commonwealth. • 
 
144 ox T II K B O R I> K R . 
 
 The natural result followed. The Union men of nearly 
 every county met and banded together to resist these high- 
 handed proceedings. One of these bands, numbering about a 
 hundred men, was organized by Jordan ; and late in Septem- 
 ber, about an equal number of the State Guard having en- 
 tered the district to disarm the inliabitants, a collision ensued 
 between the two forces, in which one man was killed, and 
 two were badly wounded. One of the wounded men was a 
 nephew of Judge Cecil. 
 
 A writ was then issued by Cecil, charging Jordan and a 
 dozen others with murder ; and a body of three hundred was 
 despatched to take them into custody. Hearing of their 
 coming, and being too weak to make a successful resistance, 
 Jordan and the others named in the indictment took to the 
 w^oods, and remained secreted until the departure of the 
 rebels. Balked in the intended arrests, the party of Cecil 
 turned upon the inhabitants, and took away the arms of 
 every loyal man in the district. 
 
 Meanwhile, though the country people generally remained 
 lo3'al, the residents of the towns had become thoroughly inoc- 
 ulated with the virus of secession, and large bodies of armed 
 men had gathered in the principal places. Early in Sep- 
 tember, the force collected near Piketon numbered nearly 
 two thousand; and then the rebel leaders, emboldened by 
 the defenceless condition of the Unionists, ventured upon 
 an act of general conscription. Orders were published, sum- 
 moning every able-bodied man in the district, between the 
 ages of eighteen and forty-five, to report for military duty, 
 within ten days, at the camp of Colonel John S. Williams, 
 in the vicinity- of Piketon. * " 
 
A TRAGEDY. 145 
 
 Seeing that neutrality was no longer possible, numbers of 
 loyal men, -who had not already volunteered in the army that 
 was mustering across the Ohio, at once repaired to the various 
 rendezvouses where Union regiments were being formed, and of- 
 fered their services to the government. Jordan, meanwhile, 
 had been lying out in the woods, to escape a rebel band of two 
 hundred which, under Weddington, was scouring the dis- 
 trict to eftect his arrest ; but now he appeared openly, one 
 morning, in the little hamlet, and in half an hour a dozen 
 horsemen were riding over the hills, calling all loyal men to 
 a meeting at the little church on the Weddington plantation. 
 They came armed with clubs, staves, scythes, and the few 
 rifles that had been saved from the clutches of the State 
 Guard, and by nightfall fifty had assembled. Then, led by 
 Jordan, they set out to join the Fourteenth Regiment of Ken- 
 tucky Infantry, which, under Colonel Moore, was mustering 
 at Louisa, twenty miles distant. 
 
 They had proceeded about half way, and were, at midnight, 
 watering their horses at a stream near the little hamlet of 
 Peach Orchard, when the troop of Weddington suddenly 
 issued from the woods that lined the road, and surrounded 
 them. The rebel had been apprised of their destination by a 
 mounted spy; and, outnumbered four to one, and poorly 
 armed as they were, they had no alternative but surrender. 
 They were conveyed at once by forced marches to the rebel 
 camp near Piketon. 
 
 There the larger number, intimidated by threats of a crim- 
 inal trial for their participation in the skirmish of September, 
 enlisted in the rebel ranks, and took the oath of allegiance to 
 the Confederacy. A few, however, steadily refused the over- 
 
 13 
 
146 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 tures of the secession leader, and among these few was Jor- 
 dan. When informed of his refusal, Colonel Williams directed 
 h\vn to be brought into his tent, and something like the fol- 
 lowing conversation ensued between them. 
 
 Looking at his manacled limbs, the colonel said, — 
 
 " IVIr. Jordan, I am sony to see you in irons ; " then, turn- 
 ing angrily to an aid, he added, " By whose order was this 
 done, sir ? " 
 
 "Judge Cecil's," was the answer. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the colonel to Jordan ; " Judge Cecil is not 
 your friend, I have discovered." 
 
 "No, sir," answered Jordan. "For twenty years he has 
 been my father's enemy ; now he is mine." 
 
 " Well, I command this camp," said the colonel to his aid, 
 "Take off Mr. Jordan's irons. Do it at once. Sit down, 
 Mr. Jordan." 
 
 Jordan seated himself on a camp-stool, and no more was 
 spoken until the manacles were removed. Then Colonel 
 Williams said, — 
 
 "Now we can talk together like gentlemen. We are 
 strangers to each other, Mr. Jordan ; but I have heard of you, 
 and I have a high respect for your talents and character. 
 This induces me to make you a proposition I would 
 make to few men, who, like you, were under arrest for a 
 capital crime." 
 
 Jordan answered, — 
 
 " I thank you, colonel, for your good opinion, and will be 
 glad to hear any proposition from so courteous a gentle- 
 man." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Jordan," replied the colonel. " I wanted 
 
A TRAGEDY. 147 
 
 to say, that with your talents, and influence in your district, 
 you could, in the troubles that are now upon us, greatly serve 
 your native State, and rise to almost any position in the army. 
 Take the oath, and go home and recruit for us, and I will 
 make you a captain on the spot, and, if you raise five hundred 
 volunteers, will pledge my word that you shall have a colonel's 
 commission from Richmond." 
 
 "I thank you, colonel," answered Jordan, coldly. "I 
 would sooner fight you as a private in a Union regiment." 
 
 "But that is not the alternative, Mr. Jordan," said the 
 colonel, with the same bland civility. " It is trial for mur- 
 der ; and you know before whom, — Judge Cecil. He has 
 already opposed my making you this proposition." 
 
 " That does not surprise me, sir," answered Jordan, " and I 
 know that a trial before him would be a conviction j but that 
 does not alter ray decision." 
 
 The colonel now rose to his feet, and taking two or three 
 turns up and down the tent, he said, with a warmth that was 
 in striking contrast with his previous cool civility, — 
 
 " You are a splendid fellow, Jordan ; but listen to me ! It 
 would be death ! certain death ! Now, your life is in my 
 hands ; but let me once turn you over to the civil authority, 
 and I couldn't save you. All Kentucky couldn't save you j 
 you would surely die," 
 
 Jordan's face was as impassive as marble; but his deep 
 gray eye gave out the singular light which has already been 
 mentioned. With his usual coolness, he said, — 
 
 " You are mistaken, colonel. My life is not in your hands. 
 Eighteen huudred years ago, one man said to another, ' You 
 could have no power over me, were it not given you from 
 
148 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 above/ Those words are as true now as when they were 
 spoken." 
 
 The colonel paused in his hurried walk, and looked at 
 Jordan for a moment. Then he said, — 
 
 " They are true, and you have found out the secret of real 
 bravery. I would not have the blood of such a man as you 
 on my hands, for the universe. There is the book we both 
 venerate." And he drew from his left breast pocket a small 
 and well-worn Bible. " It was given me by my mother, who 
 is now in heaven. Promise me, upon it, that you will not 
 bear arms against the Confederacy, and that you will leave 
 Kentucky within a fortnight, and though it may cost me 
 my commission, — for the eyes of some of our leaders are on 
 you, — you shall go as free as I am." 
 
 " Colonel, you are a true man, but I cannot make that 
 promise. If I live, I shall do all I can for my State and 
 my Country." 
 
 " You would ruin both them and yourself. Don't be rash. 
 Take time to think of it, — a day, a week, a month, — and 
 in the mean while you shall have respectful treatment." 
 
 " I need no time. A year would not alter my decision," 
 said Jordan, rising fi'om his seat, and straightening up his bent 
 form with the air of quiet dignity that was natural to him. 
 
 " Then may God forgive you, Jordan, for you will do self- 
 murder. It is painful to me, very painful ; but I must do my 
 duty." 
 
 "Do it, colonel. I acquit you of all blame. Now* let me 
 go back to the guard-house." 
 
 "No, you will have to go to the jail at Piketon. The 
 
A T U A G K D y . 1 I'J 
 
 moment you leave this tent you are out of my hands; and 
 then — think of it again — I can do nothing." 
 
 *' I know, colonel ; but — good-by," and Jordan held out 
 his hand, which the other grasped, and held while he was 
 speaking. " Strange things sometimes happen; and we may 
 meet again ; if we do, I shall try to return your courtesy." 
 
 The colonel wrung his hand, but made no reply, and 
 within an hour, Jordan, though not as yet declared guilty, 
 was loaded with irons, and a tenant of the condemned cell in 
 the prison in Piketon. 
 
 His trial took place in about a fortnight. It was shown by 
 the testimony of two rebel officers, who had taken part in the 
 skirmish, that he did not fire a shot; but, on the contrary, 
 exerted all his influence to prevent a collision between the 
 two forces; but Cecil was judge, and it was a packed jurj^, — 
 packed, because the town was in the possession of the Confed- 
 erates, and not a man had the courage to give his vote 
 against the prevailing sentiment. The verdict was "guilty," 
 and the sentence, the gallows the following Friday. 
 
 Jordan was taken again to the jail, thrust again into the 
 condemned cell, and now, to make escape impossible, was 
 chained to the stone floor of the prison. No one was allowed 
 to visit him ; but, at last, on the evening preceding the ap- 
 pointed Friday, a short, thick-set, red-faced man, who had 
 been employed by Colonel Williams in gathering beeves for 
 the army, presented himself to the jailer with a note from 
 that officer, requesting that he might be allowed to take the 
 prisoner's last words to his father and mother. 
 
 The jailer at first protested that his orders were strict, — 
 no one could be admitted ; but the man found a ready mode 
 
 13* 
 
150 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 of overcoming his scruples, and soon entered the prison, his 
 pocket the lighter by a few half-eagles. Once within its 
 walls, he was turned over by the honest jailer to as honest a 
 turnkey. What message the prisoner gave the man was not 
 known ; but when he came out an hour afterward, he was 
 sensibly affected. Wringing the jailer's hand, he said, in 
 words which were half choking with emotion, — 
 
 " I'd hang, myself, sooner'n see that man hung. !My God, 
 sir ! last winter ho kep' my wife from starvin'. I only yered 
 on it to the trial." 
 
 The next morning the jailer, making his accustomed 
 round, looked in at the cell, and found it vacant. A rickety 
 cot, an empty tin pan, a broken stool, and a huge heap of 
 chains were in their accustomed places ; but the prisoner had 
 gone, — no one knew whither. 
 
 An angel once opened the doors of Peter's prison ; so one 
 came that night and did a like service to Jordan ; but, to be 
 historically correct, I must add that this angel wore seedy 
 butternuts, chewed tobacco, drank poor whiskey, and swore 
 like a pirate. It was the turnkey ; for he, too, had flown, 
 and, what was quite as singular, it soon was ascertained that 
 the fine bay mare, which Jordan had ridden for some years, 
 but which now was the property of the Confederate com- 
 mander himself, — and could not, therefore, possibly be 
 bribed, — had, during the night, also absconded. 
 
 The next morning. Judge Cecil presented himself at the 
 head-quarters of the colonel commanding, and demanded a 
 force of three hundred men to go in pursuit of the prisoner. 
 
 " Three hundred to capture one ! " exclaimed the officer. 
 *•' Why, you are crazy." 
 
A TRAGEDY. 161 
 
 "Not crazy, sir," answered the judge, tartly. "It's an 
 Union nest, and we are liable to fall in with scouting parties 
 from Louisa." 
 
 " Well, I can't aftbrd any men go that distance. Nelson 
 has moved into Kentucky, and may advance upon me at any 
 moment." 
 
 " And for that reason a reconnoissance might do you a 
 service. I will go along with the troops and see that you 
 get correct information." 
 
 " No, no ; I have twenty scouts at Nelson's heels at this 
 moment. In a week I shall know all about his movements. 
 He is recruiting for the grand army forming in Ohio." 
 
 Balked in this direction, the judge adopted other tactics. 
 
 " Pardon me, colonel ; but ugly whispers are afloat about a 
 horse being missing that once belonged to the prisoner. The 
 animal, it is thought, could hardly have been taken from your 
 very head-quarters without the help of some one connected 
 w^ith 3^our stables. It is said, too, that you have censured 
 the proceedings at the trial, and expressed strong sympathy 
 for Jordan." 
 
 The colonel looked at the other in a kind of blank amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 " My God, sir ! " he said, " would you intimate that I 
 know anything of his escape ? " 
 
 " Not by any means ; but if you refuse my request, ugly 
 remarks will be made, most certainly." 
 
 "You have said enough, sir," answered the colonel. "You 
 can have two hundred mounted men, — in an hour they shall 
 be ready." 
 
 It was noon of the following day, when this body of men 
 
152 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 rode up the narrow valley of the Blaine and quietly sur- 
 rounded the cabin of the elder Jordan. A dozen then dis- 
 mounting, Cecil advanced with them to the door-way. His 
 summons was answered by the customary " Come in, gentle- 
 men," and, opening the door, the party entered. It was 
 early in October, but it was a cold day, and a bright fire was 
 blazing on the hearth, before which the family — the elder 
 Jordan, his wife, and Robin, the younger son, a manly lad of 
 about seventeen — were assembled at dinner. They all rose 
 on the entrance of the soldiers, and the eye of the elder Jor- 
 dan falling on Cecil, he drew himself up rather stiffly, and 
 said, — 
 
 " To what do I owe this visit, sir ? " 
 
 '^ To your traitor of a son. Is he here ? " 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " When was he here ? " 
 
 " He left about an hour before daybreak." 
 
 " Where is he now ? " 
 
 "I can't tell you, sir." 
 
 " Do you mean that you do not know ; or that you do, and 
 are not willing to tell ? " 
 
 " I know where he intended to go ; but I am his father, 
 sir, — you can't expect me to tell when his life is in question." 
 
 " I do expect you to tell ; if you do not, your own life may 
 be in question." 
 
 " I understand you, sir. I decline to betray my own flesh 
 and blood." 
 
 Cecil had entered the room with a revolver in his hand, 
 the others with their pistols in their belts, and their swords 
 in their scabbards, and they had not yet drawn them. Cecil 
 
A TRAGEDY. 153 
 
 now cocked his revolver, and, placing it close to the ear of 
 Jordan, said, — 
 
 '' I will ask you once more. Tell me where your son is 
 concealed ? " 
 
 As he said this, the wife of Jordan, who had stood till now 
 apparently stupefied with the sudden proceedings, sprang for- 
 ward, and falling at Cecirs feet, and clasping his knees, she 
 cried out, frantically, — 
 
 " Judge Cecil ! Judge Cecil ! do not hurt him ! Oh, 
 have mercy ! as you expect mercy of God, have mercy on my 
 husband ! " 
 
 Cecil did not seem to hear her. Jordan had not answered 
 his question, and now he repeated it. 
 
 ^' Will you tell me where your son is ? " 
 
 '■ I will not," said Jordan. 
 
 The pistol exploded ; and the man who, five short minutes 
 before, had been quietly eating in peace at his own fireside, 
 lay mortally wounded on his own hearth-stone. 
 
 In another instant another shot was fired, then another, 
 and another, and another, and three of the rebels fell to the 
 floor, — two of them dead, the other severely wounded. The 
 wounded man was Cecil ; and, though the boy Jordan's hands 
 were now pinioned to his side by the strong arms of three of 
 the troopers, he still clutched the revolver which had worked 
 such sudden and terrible vengeance. 
 
 " Secure him ! Don't shoot him ! — hang him, — hang him 
 before his own door-way I " cried Cecil. 
 
 "You'd better not!" yelled the boy. "It will take five 
 minutes to do that ; and if I live that long I will have your 
 life, certain." 
 
154 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 The smoke had now somewhat cleared away, showing the 
 wife of Jordan kneeling by the side of her fallen husband. 
 He was shot through the brain, but was still living, though 
 breathing short and brokenly. 
 
 " Die like a man, my boy," he gasped. " Ruth, good-by. 
 Robin, we'll go together. Ruth, tell John to be worthy of 
 his ancestors." 
 
 The hand that held hers then relaxed its hold, and the 
 everlasting gates opened to the old Scotchman. 
 
 I have no heart to dwell on what followed. There are 
 some deeds at thought of which one stands aghast when he 
 remembers that he too is a man, and that slumbering in 
 his own soul are the passions which at times transform 
 other men into incarnate devils. This was one of those 
 deeds. While this mother was kneeling and pleading by the 
 side of Cecil, they took her son, — her youngest born, the 
 joy of her life, the hope of her old age, the one thing that, 
 next to God, she loved better than she loved all else in the 
 universe, — and before her very eyes they hanged him to the 
 great tree in the little court-yard. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE END.'' 
 
 T is the night of this day, and it has come on with 
 lieavy clouds, which hide the moon and stars, and 
 shroud the lonely valley in thick darkness. A low 
 fire is burning on the hearth of the little cabin, and 
 Kachel sits by it, her head upon her hand, and her face shad- 
 owed by troubled and anxious thoughts. The dinner things 
 are untouched on the table, and about the whole room is an 
 air of careless disorder, which shows that its occupant has 
 been drawn away from her daily cares, and, for the time, 
 paralyzed by the dark tragedy, which, echoing along the little 
 stream, has already filled the far mountains with sounds of 
 horror. 
 
 After a while the door opens, and the old negro enters, the 
 shot-gun in his hand, and in his belt a revolver. Rachel 
 looks up, and, springing to her feet, she says in a quick, eager 
 way,— 
 
 " Have you seen him ? Is he coming ? " 
 
 " Yas, missy ; he'll be yere in a jiffin ; he'm to Massa Jor- 
 dan's." 
 
 " How did you tell him ? How does he bear it ? Where 
 did you find him ? Tell me all ; but don't speak loud, or 
 you will wake her." 
 
 (155) 
 
156 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 She said this in low, but rapid tones, and glanced hastily 
 round at the rude bed in the corner. 
 
 " And how am she, missy ? " asked the black, not heeding 
 her questions. " Hab she got all ober dem drefFel histerics ? " 
 
 " Yes ; the opiate began to work just after you went away, 
 and ever since she's been sleeping ; but every now and then 
 she tosses her arms about, and moans piteously. Oh, it is 
 dreadful ! dreadful ! " and she. clenched her hands together, 
 and turned her face away for a moment. "To think that 
 God, who they say is so good, should allow such wicked- 
 ness ! " 
 
 "Dat'm jess what show He am good, missy. Dat idee 
 used to bother 'Zeke, till he read in de Bible dat in de oder 
 worle He gibs ebery man 'cordin' to his deeds, — sots de 
 sheep on de right han', de goats on de leff." 
 
 " I know ; ' there the wricked cease from troubling, the 
 weary are at rest.' But what kept you so long ? — you've 
 been gone at least four hours." 
 
 " I knows, missy, and I was afeard you'd be troiibled ; but I 
 forgot to tell you 'fore I go away. You sees it wouldn't do 
 to go a huntin' Massa John in broad day, widout knowin' de 
 coast was cl'ar. Dis comed to 'Zeke, so he went up de valley 
 to Massa Campbell's, and got him and some ob de folks as 
 had comed dar to talk ober de drefful ting, to scour de kentry, 
 on all de roads, fur five or six mile all round. 'Zeke was fur 
 gwine hisseff, too ; but de men-folks dey say 'twould look sus- 
 picious loike for him to be scoutin' round, and Missy Camp- 
 bell, she wouldn't yere to it nohow, — she say 'Zeke should 
 stay dar, and hab suffin to make him warm and strong; 
 and de fac' am eber sense he cut de pore chile down, and 
 
"THE BEGINNING O F T H E E N D 
 
 16< 
 
 lay him dar, 'longside ob ole Massa Jordan, 'Zeke hab been 
 jess as weak as a rat, — weaker'n dan dem rats in de barn as 
 make dar dinner uv nights off de hind legs ob de ole mule. 
 He ! he !•" and the old man laughed ; but his voice was forced 
 and hollow, — more like a wail than a laugh. 
 " Well, well ; did they find all clear ? " 
 "Yes, missy; nobody stirrin', and all de folks eberywhar 
 a'most gone dead wid de drefful news as de wind had toted 
 all ober de kentry. Well, dat tuck two hours; fur it was 
 dat long 'fore de lass one corned back, and ^Zeke darn't 
 start afore. Den he sot out fur de big cave up on de moun- 
 tin, whar Massa John hided when dem rebel sodgers was in 
 de valley. H^ warn'tdar; but he'd a-been dar widin a 
 hour or so, fur de fire was a-burnin', and some on his dinner 
 was a-hangin' ober de coals, not yit burnt to nuthin'. Den 
 'Zeke he looked round outside de cave, and found dar tracks,— 
 Massa John and de mar's, — he gwine ahead, and de knowin' 
 critter follerin', and steppin' right onto his footprints, loike as 
 if she knowed dat if dey was seed it mought git him inter 
 trouble. Dis idee 'peared to come to Massa John at lass ; 
 fur, haff way down de mountin, he turned out ob de path 
 inter de openin's, and dar, in de dead grass, 'Zeke lost 'em. 
 Den fur a minnit, he didn't know what to do, or which way to 
 turn, so he kneeled down to pray, and right off to onct it 
 corned inter his head to follow stret on down de mountin. 
 Dat would tuck him right to Massa Jordan's, and it didn't 
 stand to reason dat Massa John would go dar in broad day ; 
 but 'Zeke 'membered him^ to say onct dat atween dem 
 as love one oder dar am a sort ob telegram wire dat leffs 
 one know when de oder am in trouble. Massa John had 
 
 u 
 
158 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 a felt a blow on dat wire, and so he'd a-gone down wid his 
 dinner half eaten. Well, 'Zeke went to Massa Jordan's — 
 inter de room whar dey am, and all ober de house, and den 
 round de barn, and de yard ; but Massa John warn't dar, and 
 hadn't been dar. Dar was a plenty ob tracks ; but dey all 
 was de rebels', as had stole de wagin to tote off dat ar' ole 
 Cecil and de two dead ones. 'Zeke knowed, 'case Massa 
 John hab a foot dat covers nigh onto a haff acre, and de mar', 
 she hab a 'quar shoe on 'count ob de cracked hoof she got by 
 gwine too fass in de hot sand. Wall, ag'in 'Zeke didn't know 
 which way to turn, and dis time, as Massa Brown would say, 
 he was all out ob his peckonin'. He kneeled down to pray, 
 but somehow he couldn't git at de Lord, — couldn't git his 
 mind onto Him ; fur dar kep' runnin' fni his head dem w^ords 
 de poor 'Squar' write in de sand, down dar by de run, and 
 dat de rain wouldn't wash out till dey was lamed by heart by 
 de whole plantation. Seein' 'twarn't no use tryin' to pray, 
 'Zeke got up, and den suffin' 'peared to tote his legs right off 
 to whar Massa John was a-hidin'." 
 
 " And where was it ? " asked Rachel, who had listened 
 patiently to the old man's prolix narrative, knowing very well 
 that it was the shortest way to arrive at the essential facts 
 she was so eager to learn. 
 
 " Right dar whar de pore 'Squar' die twenty year ago, — 
 in de little wigwam. Massa John was dar and de mar' ; and 
 he was a-lyin' on de ground, and she was a-holtin' him in her 
 arms loike she'd a-been his mudder." 
 
 '^ Holding him in her arms ! What do you mean ? " 
 
 "Why, you sees, missy, Massa John must hab made de 
 mar' lay down to keep her quiet, and to keep hisself warm 
 
••THE R E G I N N I N O OF THE END." 159 
 
 he lay down aside ob her. He had his head on her neck, 
 and she, dat game fore leg ob hern doubled np ober him, and 
 a-huggin' him down to her as if she'd tuck all de breff out ob 
 his body. But she didn't mean dat ; she knowed he was in 
 trouble, — de tender, pitiful look in her eyes said so ; and 
 when 'Zeke seed dem a-layin' dar so lovin' tugedder, and 
 thought ob how Massa John, — now when he need so much 
 lub, — hab no one to lub him in all de worle but dat ar' poor 
 dumb critter, he burst right out a-cryin', he did, he couldn't 
 holp it, dough he had sot his mind hard, to gib Massa John 
 comfort, and not add to his great sorrer." 
 
 Here the old man's head sank upon his breast, and he 
 sobbed convulsively. Rachel covered her face with her hands, 
 and, for a moment, her frame shook with some hidden agony. 
 Then she said, with a trembling voice, and words that were 
 broken and quivering, — 
 
 " Oh, yes ; he has ! All the world loves him ! " 
 Nothing more was said for some minutes ; then the old 
 negro looked up, and went on with his story. 
 
 " Massa John bounded to his feet, when ole 'Zeke goed 
 inter de wigwam, — he comed onto him so sudden, — but 
 when he seed who it was, he said, cooler'n 'Zeke says it, ^It 
 hab come, 'Zekiel, — my wuck ; dis am de beginnin' ob de 
 end.' " 
 
 " Then he knew ; — he had been to the cabin ? " 
 " No, missy, he didn't know a ting ; he'd only felt de blow 
 on de wire, and de great shadder dat'm come onto de fambly. 
 But he'd tuck it all in, like dey does in de oder worle. Up 
 dar, you knows, dey don't talk loike we does. Dey jess gin a 
 look or speak a word, so Massy John say, to leff 'em git hold 
 
IGO ON THE B O K D E 1{ . 
 
 ob de end ob de tread, and den dey hab it all unwound in a 
 twinklin'. Dar sense and 'telligence am so 'cute, be say, 
 'case dey hab brung dar natur's inter 'cord wid de Lord's 
 natur', and de true order ob creation. Dat'm why Massa 
 John hab sech a wonderful look inter tings, 'case he hab 
 brung his natur' so inter 'cord wid de Lord's natur'. Ifm 
 so ; for Massa John say dat ar' sort ob eyesight hab growed 
 on him jess so fast as he hab growed more and more like de 
 Lord Jesus, and now he'm got so much loike him dat he can 
 feel dem fine strings dat run all fru all tings, and am sort ob 
 nerves to de great Lord ob de universe. Dat'm de reason, 
 too, Massa John say, why de Lord Jesus could see so fur inter 
 de futur', and do dem great miracles, — 'case his natur' was so 
 in 'cord wid de Lord's natur' dat de Lord could wuck wid his 
 nerves, and use his hands and feet loike dey was his own. 
 If anybody else had such a natur' as de Lord Jesus, dey 
 might see and do jess what he done ; but dey haint, and dey 
 neber will hab, 'case He was de only begotten, — born to be 
 de Lord ob all dis part ob creation." 
 
 " Well, well," said Rachel, with a slight gesture of im- 
 patience. " How did he bear it, when you told him all ? " 
 
 " 'Zeke didn't tell him, missy ; he hadn't de heart to tell 
 him. He jess sot down onto de ole stool as used to be the 
 poor 'Squar's, and cried ; dat was all 'Zeke done, and all he 
 could do." 
 
 " And what did John say ? " 
 
 " Xuffin' ; only he telled de mar' to lay right dar till he 
 comed back, and den he sot out to go to Massa Jordan's. It 
 was haff a hour by sun, and 'Zeke was afeard he'd be seed, 
 so he run'd arter him, and at lass got him to come back, 
 
"THE B E G I N N I N O OF THE END." 161 
 
 aud sot down in de wigwam. Den he say a^'in that his 
 wuck had begun, dat he was a gwine off dis bery night, — 
 'Zeke don't know war, — but 'bout some great ting, dat'll 
 cFar ebery rebel out ob all dis region." 
 
 " Going away to night ! " exclaimed Eachel, in an alarmed, 
 excited tone. Soon, however, she asked, calmly, " When did 
 you go to the cabin ? " 
 
 " Jess arter sundown Massa John opened de door, and he 
 and 'Zeke goed in turgedder. De fire hadn't gone cl'ar 
 out, and dar was 'nuff light to see all in de room. Dey 
 laid right afore de fire, — Ma^sa Jordan on de h'arth, and 
 Massa Robin 'longside ob him, wid his arm round his fader, 
 — 3^ou sees when 'Zeke leff de chile down on de floor, de arm 
 fell so, and he hadn't de heart to tuck it away ; but he jess 
 leff 'em dar, in one anoder's arms, loike as if dey was sleepin'. 
 When Massa John seed 'em, he sunk down onto de floor, and 
 gave out sech a cry, — sech a cry as 'Zeke neber yered, — 
 never but onct, missy, and dat was from him, off dar in de 
 snow, dat cole night when you telled him you and Massa 
 Brown was to be married." 
 
 Rachel uttered a stifled moan, clenched her hands tightly 
 above her head, and tlien, in sharp, piercing tones, cried 
 out, — 
 
 " Oh, don't ! 'Zekiel, don't ! Spare me ! I well deserve it 
 all ; but, 'Zekiel, don't ! it will kill me ! '^ 
 
 Tlie old man rose, and -sat down on the settle beside her. 
 Then he wound his arm about her waist, and drew her head 
 down upon his shoulder ; but he said nothing. They sat so, 
 neither of them speaking, until they heard the cry of an owl, 
 sounding some distance away, in the direction of Jordan's 
 
 14* 
 
162 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 cabin. Rising quickly to his feet, Ezokiel went out of the 
 house, and m a moment sent up an answering hoot from in 
 front of the doorway. Another then sounded, not so far 
 away, and in a few minutes the door opened, and Jordan 
 entered the cabin. 
 
 His face was very pale ; but the singular light was in his 
 eyes, and a hopeful, almost radiant, look was on his features. 
 Rachel sprang from her seat and bounded toward him. Their 
 four hands met, and so they stood for many minutes, look- 
 ing into each other's eyes, and saying only. " John ! " 
 "Rachel!" 
 
 At last Jordan glanced about the room and asked, — 
 " Where is she ? " 
 
 " There ; " and she pointed to the bed in the corner. 
 He went to it, and, bending down over the sleeper, kissed 
 her on the forehead. Then, touching her gently on the 
 shoulder, he said, — • 
 
 " Mother, mother, wake up ! It is me, — John ; in a few 
 minutes I must be going." 
 
 She opened her eyes, and gazed vacantly at him for a few 
 moments. Then, rising on the bed, she threw her arms about 
 his neck, and cried, — 
 
 " John ! John ! Is it you ? I thought it war Robin, 
 and he war a callin' me." 
 
 " It is Robin, mother. I will be Robin to you now ; and 
 what I can't be, Rachel will, — she will never leave you." 
 
 " Leave me ! You're not going awaj^, — you can't go away, 
 and leave me all alone. Haint . you yered about your father 
 and Robin ? " and she clung to him wildly. 
 
 "Yes, mother. I have been there. I know it all, — all! 
 
" T H i: li E (i I N N I N G O 1 THE E N D ." 163 
 
 But, come, try to get up. Muster all your strength, and 
 be as calm as you can, for I have much to say ; .and time 
 is pressing. I must be thirty miles away before daylight." 
 
 She rose feebly to her feet. Her face was ghastly white, 
 and she tottered like a young child as he supported her to 
 a seat on the settle. As they went forward, he said to the old 
 man, — 
 
 '' 'Zekiel, bar the door, hang something before the win- 
 dows, and put out some of the logs, so the fire wont blaze so 
 brightly. There may be prowlers about, and, just now, my 
 life is worth something to Kentucky." 
 
 As the negro did as he was bidden, Jordan said to Ra- 
 chel, — 
 
 " Rachel, have you any brandy in the house ? " 
 
 " Yas, Massa John," quickly responded the old man, draw- 
 ing a flask from his breast-pocket. " Yere'm some. Missy 
 Campbell guv it to ole *Zeke, and it put de breaf ob life inter 
 him when he feel a'most as bad as Miss}^ Jordan." 
 
 When his mother had swallowed some of the stimulant, she 
 said, — 
 
 "I feel stronger now. Go on, John — I kin yere ye; 
 and I know ye wouldn't go away without ye was obleeged 
 to." 
 
 " No, mother, I wouldn't ; and I hope to come back soon — 
 within a month at the latest. In the mean time, I want you 
 to stay here with Rachel. She will take good care of you, 
 and, when I come, I will take you both to Ohio, with 
 ^Zekiel ; and, 'Zekiel, the negroes can then go along, too, for 
 the court has removed the injunction, and they are as free 
 now as I am." 
 
164. ON THE B O R D E i; . 
 
 "Free, Massa John ! Free! " cried the old man, spring- 
 ing to his feet, and bounding into the air as if he were 
 a boy practising for a leap over a five-barred gate. " Free, 
 Massa John ! Den why can't dey go now, to onct ? 'Zeke 
 don't want to wait a minnit." 
 
 " But you must. The district is full of rebels. Wedding- 
 ton and his band are here, and I suppose are now lying out 
 for me between here and Louisa. You couldn't go a rod 
 while there is a rebel in this part of Kentucky." 
 
 " But, de law, Massa John, — de law ! Don't you say de 
 court hab gib up de 'junction ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but Weddington would care nothing for that ; he 
 robs and murders peaceable white people, and he cares no 
 more for negroes. You must stay quietly at home, and say 
 nothing — not even to the negroes — till I am ready. When 
 I am, I will come and see you safely into Ohio." 
 
 " But whar is ye a gwine to-night, John ? " asked his 
 mother. 
 
 " To the Union head-quarters at Louisa." 
 
 '' John, inter danger ! What should I do if 3^ou, too, 
 was took from me ? " 
 
 '^ I may be going into danger, mother, but I shall be safe. 
 God will be with me, for I go about his work. I can't die 
 till it is done, and these incarnate devils are driven from Ken- 
 tucky." 
 
 '* God will be with you ! " exclaimed Eachel, her eyes 
 beaming with inexpressible tenderness. " He is with you ; 
 or you never would have escaped from that dreadful prison." 
 
 " You are right, Rachel ; and then he made an enemy 
 serve me. If he can do that, he- can keep me safe, and 
 
''THE B K G I N N I N G OF THE END." 165 
 
 80 incliue the heart of the Union general that I shall suc- 
 ceed in what I am going about/'' 
 
 " An enemy, John ! Who was he ? " 
 
 " I am not certain, and if I was it would not do to mention 
 his name. All I know is that the turnkey came to my cell 
 about midnight, unlocked my chains, and led me into the 
 Confederate camp, where a man met us with the mare and 
 another nag ready saddled. The turnkey had the counter- 
 sign, and, after going all about the camp, we came away to- 
 gether. After we left the lines he told me he was paid for 
 what he did, and that it would cost him his neck if he was 
 found in Kentucky. He didn't know who hired him, nor 
 even the name of the man who paid him the money. It was 
 some considerable sum, and I can think of no one who would 
 have paid it, but an officer, w^ho, before my trial, spoke to me 
 very courteously." 
 
 " But why did you go about the camp, John ? Wasn't 
 that useless danger ? " 
 
 "No, Rachel; for then came to me my real work in the 
 war. But my time is short. I must soon be going." 
 
 He drew ftom his breast-pocket a large wallet, and, after 
 taking from it some folded papers, handed it to his mother, 
 saying, — 
 
 " There, mother ; I took that from father's drawer. It is 
 yours, — ten Kentucky bonds. They wiU make your old age 
 comfortable. These, 'Zekiel," handing the other papers to 
 the negro, " are for you and Rachel. They are what came 
 to me from your dead master." 
 
 The negro took the papers, and said, with a ludicrous 
 
166 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 grimace, which he meant should hide his really deep emo- 
 tion, — 
 
 " 'Zekiel keep 'um along ob de ress, Massa John, and dat 
 he totes 'bout under his does, allers ; and nobody'd eber tink 
 ob looking dar for money, — leastways, not fur a t'ousand dol- 
 lars. 'Zekiel keep 'um fur you, Massa John, ag'in the war am 
 ober, and we'm all fixed in de 'Hio, — dat free kentry." 
 
 " Well, any way you like, only keep them safely ; and re- 
 member your promise about father and Robin." 
 
 " Yas, yas, Massa John, 'Zeke'll do dat." 
 
 "Now I must go," said Jordan, rising. The others also 
 rose, and taking Rachel by one hand, and his mother by the 
 other, Jordan said, — 
 
 " Good-by to both of you. Keep up good heart, for in less 
 than thirty days I shall be back, and then " — 
 
 He paused suddenly, for the tread of a horse sounded out- 
 side, and in a moment a loud knock came at the door-way. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE HUSBAND AND WIFE TOGETHER. 
 
 ^HE four looked at one another in silence, then Jordan 
 said, in a low voice, — 
 
 " Rachel, ask who it is ; but don't open the door." 
 " Who is there ? " she asked, raising her voice so 
 
 as to be heard above the wind, which now was moaning 
 loudly among the trees. 
 
 " Me, — Bradley — Bradley Brown," was the answer. 
 
 Rachel turned to Jordan, with a surprised and questioning 
 look, but said nothing. He shook his head, as he answered, 
 in the same low tone as before, — 
 
 " I fear it is a trap, Rachel. He has been for months with 
 the rebel army ; I heard so at Piketon. They may have 
 sent him here to track me." 
 
 " What shall I do ? " she said, her face turning to a 
 deathly pallor. 
 
 Jordan put his hand to his forehead for a moment, then 
 he said, quickly, — 
 
 *' I have it. Ask him if he is alone ? " 
 
 " Is any one with you ? " said Rachel, going close to the 
 door-way. 
 
 " No. It'r only me — Bradley ; and, Rachel, don't ye shut 
 
 (167) 
 
168 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 me out, don't ye, if I has been a" villun. I mean to be a 
 decent man in futur' ; and I'se comed back with a pocket full 
 of money. Ye shall ride in yer kerridge, and be a lady 
 ag'in." 
 
 "It'll be all right," said Jordan, in the same low, quick 
 tone. " Tell him you'll open the door in a moment. Then 
 pour the kettle upon the backlog, to make the room a little 
 darker. 'Zekiel and I will go into the loft. I will keep him 
 only a few minutes. Don't be afraid. It wiU all be right. 
 Come, 'Zekiel.'^ 
 
 As E-achel answered her husband, Jordan and the negro 
 went quickly up the ladder which led to the attic. Rachel 
 then partly extinguished the already smouldering fire, and 
 a moment afterward the fugitive husband and the deserted 
 wife stood face to face together. 
 
 Brown held out his hand to her, saying, — " Rachel, how 
 d'ye do ? " 
 
 "Very well," answered Rachel, her voice trembling 
 slightly, and the hand she held out as rigid and cold as an 
 icicle. 
 
 Brown noticed her agitation, and said, quickly, — 
 
 " Don't ye be afeard, Rachel. I'se come onto ye sudden ; 
 but I'se come for good. I mean to be a decent man in 
 futur'." 
 
 " I am not afraid," said Rachel. " Are you well ? " 
 
 " Yas, — never better." The dim light of the smouldering 
 logs revealed only the outline of his features ; but his full 
 face, and stout, burly form plainly indicated that he spoke the 
 truth. "But, Rachel," he added, " ye's very cold to me. 
 I'se been a sorry feller ; but wont ye forgive me ? " 
 
THE HUSBAND AND WIFE TOGETHER. 169 
 
 " Yes ; if I have anything to forgive ; but I don't know 
 that you have done me any wrong," 
 
 " I haint meant to, but some o' the time I'se been in bad 
 ways, and I couldn't come back till I had money ; for, Rachel, 
 ye knows, ye allers counted on that." 
 
 " I do not now. I have no need of money. ^Zekiel and I 
 earn what little we want." 
 
 " I know ye does ; ye's a brave gal. I'se yered all about 
 ye to the camp from sum of the neighbors. But, Rachel, I'm 
 in great business ; I kin keep you loike a lady ag'in, and — 
 ye'll take me back, and be my wife ag'in, wont ye ? " 
 
 All this while they had stood by the door-way. Brown un- 
 conscious of the presence of a third person ; but now Rachel, 
 stepping aside a few paces, said, — 
 
 " "We will talk of that hereafter. You have not yet spoken 
 to Mrs. Jordan." 
 
 The elder woman had sat in the shadow of the chimney, 
 her hand behind her ear, and her head bent forward, eagerly 
 weighing every word and gesture of Brown, to catch some 
 token of the real motive of his visit. Now she said, in a 
 kindly tone, as if assured that he had no covert purpose, — 
 
 " How d'ye do, Mr. Brown ? I'm glad to see ye." 
 
 " I'se glad to see ye. Mistress Jordan," said Brown, ad- 
 vancing to the hearth, and taking her hand warmly. 
 
 " 'Sense my not gettin' up," said the widow. " I'm not 
 very strong." 
 
 " It can't be expected ye'd be," said Brown. " It'r a ter- 
 rible blow yese had. Mistress Jordan. I'se yered all about it. 
 But ye bear it bravely ; and yer son John, how do he stand 
 up under it ? " 
 
170 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 Ji 
 
 "Like a man. John knows the Lord does all things 
 well." 
 
 " And whar ar' he now ? They's scourin' heaven and 
 yerth to find him. They's offered a thousand dollars to the 
 man as brings him in dead or alive." 
 
 The widow gave him a quick, suspicious glance, and an- 
 swered coldly, — 
 
 " He's safe ; the rebels will not catch him." 
 
 Just then a heavy step was heard overhead, and in a mo- 
 ment the old negro came down from the attic. As his huge 
 frame revealed itself upon the ladder. Brown looked up, and 
 said, cordially, — 
 
 " Upon my word, thar's 'Zeke ! How d'ye, old boy ? A 
 little frosty at top ; but as warm underneath as ever, I'll 
 warrant." 
 
 " Egzac'ly, Massa Brown," answered the old man, taking 
 the other's extended hand. " 'Zeke am a little frosty at de 
 top ; but all his friends knows he'm a warm heart, if his head 
 am cohered all ober wid de snow ob nigh onto eight}^ winters. 
 When did you leab Piketon, Massa Brown ? " 
 
 Brown gave a sudden start, but answered good-humor- 
 edly, — 
 
 " How did you know I'd been to Piketon ? " 
 
 " Oh, 'Zeke yered it from a friend as said you'd been dar fur 
 months, doin' a mighty stroke of business as — what am de 
 big name ? — commissy, or suffin' loike dat, for de brute crit- 
 ters ob de rebel army." 
 
 " It'r true, 'Zeke," said Brown, with a glowing face, " and 
 I'se made a pile at it ; it'r better'n follerin' the river." 
 
 " So Zeke yeres," answered the old man, with a sarcastic 
 
THE H U S U A NM) AND W I F K TOGETHER. 171 
 
 grin, " a sight better. But Massa Brown, you wont mind if 
 'Zeke jess bars j'ou in ; dese am ticklish times, and we don't 
 sleep no more wid de latch-string out." 
 
 " Oh, no ! Bar the door if ye loike ; but I'm armed, — 
 you needn't hev no fear." 
 
 " We haint afeard, massa," said the old man, coming to the 
 fire after fastening the door, " fur 'Zeke keeps loaded. And 
 p'raps 'twont 'sturb ye if he sots down yere in de corner, and 
 primes up his 'volver. It'm darker dan a pocket up dar in de 
 loft." 
 
 Brown moved away bis chair, and the old man sat down 
 and drew the revolver from his belt. As he did so, Rachel 
 exclaimed, — 
 
 " Why, 'Zekiel ! where did you get that ? " 
 
 " Oh, 'Zeke got it, missy, — got it honest ; he neber steals. 
 Haint it riofht han'some, Massa Brown?" and he held the 
 weapon close to the flickering flame. 
 
 Brown bent over to more closely examine the weapon, and 
 then suddenly grasping it, exclaimed, — 
 
 "Why, 'Zeke, I know that pistol ! It'r Captain Hart's, of 
 the Third Kaintucky. Thar's his name on the stock. I'se 
 been onto many a scout with him." 
 
 "Wall, 'Zekiel owns it now," said the old man, coolly tak- 
 ing the pistol from the other's hand, " and he reckons Cap'n 
 Hart wont use it no more ag'in honest folks ; for, Massa 
 Brown, dat rebel hab gone to kingdom come, — sent dar wid 
 his own 'volver ! " 
 
 " Dead ! Hart dead ? I'se sorry," exclaimed Brown. '^ He 
 war a clever feller, — one uv the cunnel's staff. I owe him 
 for a good turn, and — he's dead ! " 
 
172 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 "What pistol is that? How did you come by it?" asked 
 Rachel, quickly. 
 
 " I cornfiscated it, missy. Dis am de Volver dat de pore 
 chile sole his life wid, — fur two sorry rebels, and a shot at 
 de ole debil, Cecil." 
 
 The widow sank suddenly down upon the settle, and would 
 have fallen to the floor but for Rachel. Springing forward 
 she caught her in her arms, saying, — 
 
 " Put it away, 'Zekiel. Come, ma'am, take a little more 
 of the brandy." 
 
 " No, Rachel, no more. Only let me get to the bed. I 
 would lie down now." 
 
 She rose feebly to her feet, and staggered a step or two for- 
 ward. Rachel caught her, and, putting her arm about her, 
 said, — 
 
 "Lean on me, mother. You will let me call you mother 
 now, — I will be a daughter to you." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! and you's a good chile. I never knowed what 
 you was afore to-day." 
 
 Reaching the bed, she lay down upon the outside, and then 
 drawing Rachel's face close to hers, said, in a low tone, — 
 
 " Oh ! will he ever get away ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, mother ! don't be alarmed. He's given 'Zekiel 
 his lesson, — that's the reason he acts so strangely." 
 
 Meanwhile the old black, giving no apparent heed to the 
 two women, had been rapidly loading the revolver. "When it 
 was done, he tapped it lovingly on the hilt, and said to Brown, 
 with a significant look, — 
 
 " 'Zeke hab christened dis de ' rebel-killer ; ' dar's no tellin', 
 — it mouocht do some mo' ob de wuck it was born to." 
 
THE II U S H A N D A NM) WIIK T O G K T II E K . 173 
 
 " Ye don't seem to loike the Secesh, 'Zeke," said Brown, 
 lauffliinj^. 
 
 '• Wall, I don't, Massa Brown. I neber loiked no one as 
 don't know de ditf 'rence between dar own and oder folks' plun- 
 der." Rising, then, he turned toward the ladder, saying, 
 " Good-night, Massa Brown, 'Zeke muss go to bed. But bress 
 his soul, he'd loike to hab forgot his pipe, — he couldn't 
 sleep widout dat, nohow. Ye see, massa, 'Zeke hab growd 
 stravagant in his ole age. He'm tuck to both 'backer and 
 brandy.'^ 
 
 Brown expressed the opinion that a moderate use of those 
 articles is not hurtful to a good constitution, and then Ezekiel, 
 taking a smouldering coal from the hearth, bore it away up 
 the ladder, — to light his pipe in the attic. 
 
 When he had gone, Rachel came to the fire, and, seating 
 herself on the settle, said quickly, as if to direct the conver- 
 sation away from an unpleasant subject, — 
 
 " What have you been doing all this while, Bradley ? Why 
 have I never heard from you ? " 
 
 " Wall, the truth ar', Rachel, I darn't come back till I'd 
 some money. Ye knows ye allers sot high on that," said 
 Brown, demurely. 
 
 " I know, — too high," answered Rachel, a little impatient- 
 ly. " But why didn't you write to me ? " 
 
 Brown hesitated a moment, then, looking up with a frank 
 expression on his ruddy features, he said, — 
 
 ^* Well, Rachel, I'll tell ye all, no matter what ye think uv 
 me. Ye see, arter I goed away, I thought the Avhole thing 
 over, and it troubled me so bad, that to drown it, I tuck to 
 
 15* 
 
174 ON T H K li O R D E K . 
 
 drinkin' loike a fish, and for long, jest laid round, not fit fur 
 nothin'." 
 
 " But you bore uj) well at the time ; why did it trouble you 
 so afterward ? " 
 
 " 'Case I warn't nigh ye. When I was, I could be a man, 
 for, somehow, a look at ye guv me courage ; but when you 
 was clar out o' sight, the whole thing came onto me, — how 
 I'd stood atween ye and some better man ; how by fraud I'd 
 got ye to be my wife, when, if I hadn't, 3^e mought, at tliat 
 minute, hev been as well off and happy as ary woman in 
 Kaintucky." 
 
 " By fraud ? " said Rachel, quietly, and without looking up 
 from the hearth. 
 
 " Yes, Rachel, by fraud. I didn't do it myself, but Wed- 
 dington did ; and when I'd every reason to think he'd got 
 lies into yer ears, I warn't man enough to tell ye the truth. 
 It warn't the loss o'the money, fur that I could make ag'in ; 
 but it war the conscience uv that thing as come onto me in 
 so terrible a way that it tuck the manhood right out o' me, 
 and made me sink down jest good for nothin'." 
 
 Rachel's eyes were still bent upon the fire, but neither sur- 
 prise nor displeasure was in her voice as she said, — 
 
 " I have thought this, Bradley. But why does the young 
 'Squire pursue me with such a bad, vindictive purpose ? " 
 
 " 'Case ye didn't consent to him when he axed ye, — yer 
 dead father in the house." Here a slight shudder came over 
 the stout frame of the man, and a deeper glow settled on his 
 features. " It'r his natur' ; he never guvs up arything he's 
 sot his heart on, and never forgives ary man or woman as 
 comes atween him and his hellish doino^s. I orter hev know'd 
 
T 11 K 11 r S li A X D AN L» W I F E T ( > (> E T II K U . liU 
 
 this long ago ; but I was a fool^ and sense then I've been 
 worse nor a fool, or I wouldn't hev staid away, and left ye to 
 his nu'rc3^ I've yored it all, Eachel, — how yer mother shot 
 at him, and how the shock and 'citement killed her." 
 
 Rachel said nothing for some moments, then she looked up 
 and spoke in a quiet, pleasant way, — 
 
 " Well, Bradley, let it rest. We will say no more about 
 it.'' 
 
 ''As ye loike, Rachel ; but I shall do suthin'. AVhen he 
 and I come together he ar' a dead man, if it ar' in the tent of 
 Gunnel Williams hisself *' 
 
 " No, BratUey," she said, quietly but firmly, " I shall not 
 allow it ; your own conduct gives you no right to call him to 
 account for his ; and I would leave him to God." 
 
 The man turned his face fully to hers, and a look of pain 
 was on his features as he answered, — 
 
 " Then ye don't forgive me, Rachel ? I thought ye said ye 
 did." 
 
 "I do, fidly and freely, — if I have anything to forgive; 
 but I have not, — you have not meant to ^Tong me. God 
 has used you only as an instrument to open my eyes, — to 
 bring me to my true senses." 
 
 " Wrong ye, Rachel ! I hev, but I hevn't meant to, — I 
 hevn't been myself; if I had, I'd not hev left ye for a 
 hour," 
 
 " I don't believe you would ; but say no more about it. 
 What induced you to join the rebels ? " 
 
 "Wall, ye see, whoile I was a-layin' round Cincinnati, 
 Captain Hart — him as the pore boy killed — was a runnin' 
 a boat to Memphis, an<l he come onto me, — I'd knowed him 
 
176 ox THE BORDER. 
 
 afore on the Sandy, — and got me to go with him as second 
 mate on the steamer. He treated me right well, though I 
 was drunk half the time, and so, when the war broke out, and 
 he jined the army, I went along with him to Piketon. Thar 
 he got onto Gunnel Williams' staff, and fixed me into the 
 berth of commissary, — to go round and get up the critters 
 for the camp. I've been at it nigh onto four months, and 
 made a pile, Kachel. Here it ar'," — and he drew from a side- 
 pocket a well-filled bag, and laid it on the settle, — '' all in half- 
 eagles, — and, Eachel, thar's enough thar to set ye up ag'in as 
 a lady." 
 
 Rachel turned musingly toward the fire, but made no reply. 
 In a moment a heavy step was again heard overheard, and 
 soon a tall, uncouth form and black face came down the stair- 
 way. 
 
 " Lor' bress me," said the new-comer, " 'Zeke am a-gittin' 
 to be a ole fool, — gwine to bed and neber once tinkin' dat 
 de pore old mule haint had his fodder." 
 
 " Speak IcAver, 'Zekiel," said Rachel, turning round and 
 looking toward the bed in the corner ; " you may wake Mrs. 
 Jordan ; I reckon she is asleep.'^ 
 
 " No, I'm not asleep," said a voice from the bed ; " 'Zekiel'U 
 not 'sturb me." 
 
 " Not asleep yit, missus ! " exclaimed the black man, going 
 towards the bed. " Yous orter be, or dis trouble will a-wear 
 you out. Hab some tea, missus, — dat'U shot you' eyes in 
 a jiffin ; and de kittle am a boilin' hot ober de fire." 
 
 A smothered scream was the only answer from the woman, 
 and, turning quickly round, the two by the hearth saw the 
 black bending over her, his face against hers and her arms 
 
r II K n i: s u A N i> A N I) w I r e t o g k t ii e k . 177 
 
 about his neck iii a close, convulsive embrace. Springing 
 to her feet, Rachel hurried to the bedside. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " she cried. " What is the matter, 
 mother ? " 
 
 The woman made no reply ; but, turning her face away, 
 sobbed hysterically. The black said, earnestly, — 
 
 " Get de lod'num, missy, quick ! it'm de old stitch de 
 missus use to hab in her side, and we muss git her ober it 
 right off." 
 
 Rachel went to the cupboard, and in a moment came again 
 to the bedside, with a broken glass and a small vial of lauda- 
 num. Pouring some of the opiate into the glass, the black 
 man held it to the lips of the sick woman, and then, with his 
 great, bony hand gently stroked her forehead. 
 
 " Neber fear, missus," he said, in a soft, musical voice ; " it'll 
 all come right. The Lord is in heaven, — he ruleth over all. 
 John will come back. His time is not yet; and when he 
 goes, it will only be to meet his father and his ancestors. He 
 will die worthy of them." Then his voice sank, and his tone 
 changed, as if he suddenly remembered that others were 
 within hearing. " Massa John'll come back, shore, missus ; 
 and Missy Rachel'll tend j^ou till den ; she will, for 'Zeke 
 knows she lubs you loike she was you' own chile." 
 
 " I do," said Rachel, pressing the hand of the widow. " I 
 will be a daughter to you ; you shall never know a want or a 
 sorrow, if I can help it." 
 
 " Ye'r a good chile," said the widow, with returning com- 
 posure ; " kiss me, dear. And ye, 'Zekiel, kiss me 'fore ye go. 
 I shan't see ye a'g'in to-night, for the lod'num will put me to 
 sleep in a minnit." 
 
178 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 The black man bent down and pressed his lips to tliose 
 of the woman ; then saying, " Good-night ! good-night ! " he 
 turned away, and, with a swaying, uncertain step, went out 
 into the storm, which now was raging furiously around the 
 lonel}^ cabin. 
 
 For long after he went, Rachel sat on the side of the bed, 
 holding the hand of the sick woman, and every now and then 
 looking toward the door-way, as if wondering at his prolonged 
 absence. But at last she rose, and going forward to the fire, 
 said to Brown, — 
 
 " She is asleep ; but what can keep 'Zekiel so long at the 
 barn ? He's been gone half an hour." 
 
 " Oh, it'r nothin' ; the ole feller allers was slower'n tar in 
 January," answered her husband. " He'll be back soon. 
 But sot down, Rachel. Now she's asleep I want to talk to 
 ye. I want to git out o' this suspense. Ye's kind to me, 
 Rachel ; but ye's cold, — colder'n an icicle. Don't ye mean 
 to tuck me back ? Wont ye be my wife ag'in, now when I'se 
 come to ye with a pile o' money, — a pile, — every dollar as 
 I've made, 'cept a few hundred that I had to spend t'other 
 da}', to luck myself in the face. Tell me, Rachel, wont ye 
 tuck me back ? " and the man's eyes met hers with a plead- 
 ing, almost agonized, look, that had in it the depth of pathos ; 
 for nothing is more pathetic than the sight of a strong 
 man, under the pressure of some great yearning of the soul, 
 going back to the simple humbleness of childhood. His 
 emotion affected Rachel ; for she turned her face away, and 
 said nothing for some moments. 
 
 " Tell me, Rachel," he said again, '^ wont ye tuck me 
 back ? " 
 
THE HUSBAND AND WIFE TOGETHER. 179 
 
 " I fet'l kindly to you," she said, in a low, gentle voice, 
 "very kindly ; but I can never be your wife again." 
 
 ''Why not?" he said, rising from his chair, and standing 
 before her. " Ye don't mean ye's married ag'in ! I haint 
 heard o' that." 
 
 " No," she answered, quietly ; " I am not married again. 
 I do not intend to be married again ; but there are reasons 
 why I never can be your wife. Sit down quietly, and I will 
 talk to you." 
 
 He sat down in the chair over against the settle, and she 
 went on. 
 
 '- When I married you, Bradley, I was a weak, silly girl ; 
 now I am a woman. I knew then that I did not love you as 
 I should to be 3'our wife ; but mother said the love would 
 come, and I hoped it would ; but it did not, and now I know 
 the reason." 
 
 " What war the reason ? " asked Brown, anxiously. 
 
 "No matter. It would do you no good to know, and might 
 do you harm. It is enough, Bradley, that I do not love you ; 
 and with the notions that I now have of marriage, I should 
 not respect myself, — I should be sinning against my owti con- 
 science, — if I became again your wife. I feel very friendly 
 to you. I do not forget how kind you always were to me ; 
 how patiently you bore with all my follies and extravagances, 
 and that shuts my eyes to the low trick by which you made 
 me marry you ; but, — let us say no more about it. The sin 
 and folly are both past, and nothing — nothing — will in- 
 duce me to repeat them." 
 
 Brown buried his face in his hands, and, for a time, mad ' 
 
' 180 ON THE B O R D E n . 
 
 no reply. At last he looked up, and, in a voice so soft and 
 gentle that it seemed scarcely his own, said, — 
 
 " I wont urge ye ag'in yer will, Rachel. I love ye too well 
 for that. Ye'r the only thing I ever did love, and if ye'd now 
 only love me a little, I mought be a better man. But I know 
 I haint worthy uv ye ; and I deserve this ; yit it comes hard, 
 hard/' and again he buried his face in his hands, and his 
 frame shook with a strong emotion. 
 
 Neither spoke for many minutes, then he rose to his feet, 
 ^and said, with a forced calmness, — 
 
 " Wall, I'll go, Rachel. I wont be in yer way. Keep the 
 money. It'll keep ye and 'Zeke till I kin guv ye more. 
 Think kindl}' uv me, Rachel. I'se been a sovry feUer; but I 
 haint meant to wrong ye." 
 
 "But you'll not go such a night as this," she said, also 
 rising. " It is storming furiously, and is near upon midnight. 
 Stay till morning ; you can sleep in the lean-to." 
 
 " And is ye willing I should ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " And ye will keep the money ; ye'll let me wuck for ye, if 
 I aint your husband ? " 
 
 " No, Bradley. I will take care of it for you, if you like ; 
 it may be safer with me than with you, till you get over this. 
 But I'll not use it. 'Zekiel and I can take care of ourselves. 
 But what has become of him ? Wont you go to the barn ? 
 I fear something has happened to him." 
 
 As Brown went towards the door, a heavy tread sounded 
 again in the attic. It arrested his steps, and turning suddenly, 
 his face aglow, and his eyes blazing with angry fire, he said 
 to Rachel, — 
 
THE H U S R A N D AND WIFE TOGETHER. 181 
 
 " Ah ! thetr's it ! Ye hev another man ! Thet's why ye 
 wont tuck back yer husband! I'll hev his life, if he's my 
 own brother ! " Drawing a long knife he started fox the 
 garret. 
 
 With onQ bound Rachel was between him and the ladder, 
 but, seizing her by the arm, he was thrusting her aside, when 
 he was suddenly lifted from the floor, and thrown headlong to 
 the centre of the apartment. Before he could regain his feet, 
 a heavy hand was at his throat, and an angry voice cried 
 out, — 
 
 " You low, skulkin' tief and villun ! Does you dar to tetch 
 my missy ! You'll neber do it ag'in, you rebel devil ! " and the 
 old negro's gi*asp tightened about the neck of the prostrate 
 man, till his face assumed a deeper purple than was habitual 
 to it. 
 
 " How came you in the attic, 'Zekiel ? " cried Rachel. 
 " Where is John ? " 
 
 " Gone," said the negro, still keeping his hand on the neck 
 of Brown. " Gone out to fodder de mule ! He ! he ! " 
 
 " Let Bradley up, then. Let him up, I say ! " she re- 
 peated, as the old man showed no inclination to heed her 
 words. Then he released his hold. Brown rose to his feet, 
 and the three stood face to face with one another. 
 
 Brown's eyes were blazing as he turned upon Rachel, — 
 
 " So, it's Jordan," he said, — " Jordan, as, wam't it for me, 
 'udn't be livin'." 
 
 " For you I " exclaimed Rachel. " Did you help him out of 
 the jail ? " 
 
 " I did. But, if I'd knowed this, I'd let him hung, if he 
 did keep ye from starvin'." 
 
 16 
 
182 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 " It was a noble act, Bradley. I thank you for it. There 
 is nothing wrong between John and me. 'Zekiel, tell your 
 master that you are sorry for what you have done." 
 
 The old black had stood speechless with amazement at this 
 sudden revelation ; but now he found words to stammer 
 out, — 
 
 " 'Zeke am sorry, Massa Brown. He 'udn't hab laid hands 
 on you ef he'd knowed dat, — nudder 'ud you on Missy 
 Eachel." 
 
 " Sit down, Bradley," said Rachel, with more warmth of 
 manner than she had shown during the interview. " I as- 
 sure you there is nothing wrong between John and me." 
 
 Brown stood for a moment, as if but half convinced of the 
 truth of his wife's words j then, with a sudden movement, he 
 took a seat in the chimney-corner, saying, as he did so, — 
 
 " I b'lieve ye, Eachel ; and I'll tell ye all about it, so ye'll 
 b'lieve me." 
 
 " Wait a minnit, Massa Brown," said the old man ; " 'Zeke 
 wants to yere dat, and he muss put a log on de fire fuss. 
 You sees, massa, — he! he! — you sees, Massa John kept 
 you in de dark, so you moightn't see de shape ob his nose fru 
 de charcoal. Didn't he do ole 'Zeke mazin' well? 'Zeke 
 could ha' said on his Bible dat he was a down yere, and say- 
 in' all dem fine words to Missy Jordan. Pore ting ! dat gub 
 her dat ar' stick in de side so sudden." 
 
 While the old man was delivering himself of these re- 
 marks, he raked together the coals on the hearth, and heaped 
 upon them a few billets of light wood. The juicy pine, blaz- 
 ing up quickly, threw a broad light over the gloomy room, 
 and then Rachel suddenly exclaimed, — 
 
THE HUSBAND AND AVIFE TOGETHER. 183 
 
 " Why, 'Zekiel, have you got on John's clothes ? " 
 
 The old man drew himself up, and, glancing down at his 
 extremities with a look of comic satisfaction, said, — 
 
 " Sartin, missy ! 'Zeke and Massa John make a trade. 
 'Taint de fust one dey's made, and you knows 'Zeke allers 
 gits de best end. Don't dey fit right smart ? All but de 
 legs, and dem 'Zeke is gwine to splice out wid de fust haff- 
 dollar he kin come by. Dar wont no rebs come round yere 
 now, missy. Deyil run at de berry sight ob Massa John's 
 clo'es. He ! he ! " 
 
 " But you don't mean to wear them ? Put on your Sunday 
 suit, and lay them away until John comes again." 
 
 " Wall, missy, 'Zeke reckons he wont ! A trade am a 
 trade, and dis was a fair one, dough done in de dark. But, 
 missy," and his voice now lost its tone of grotesque humor, 
 "'Zeke reckons dem ragged old clo'es of his'll serve Massa 
 John a good turn to-night. Who knows but dis bery minnit 
 dey'm fendin' off de arrers ob de Philistins ? " 
 
 "P'raps they is," said Brown, who had listened with curi- 
 ous interest to the$e disclosures ; " the kentry ar' full uv 
 Secesh, lookin' fur him. They know he'll head fur the Union 
 camp, and, ten to one, he'll fall in with some on 'em. But 
 he'll git through ; fur he's the best darky uv ary white man I 
 uver know'd." 
 
 The conversatio-n then turned upon Jordan's escape. from 
 prison, and Brown related the part he took in the transaction, 
 which, not to weary the reader with a long repetition of Ken- 
 tucky vernacular, I will condense into a few sentences of ordi- 
 nary English. 
 
 Soon after the trial and sentence of Jordan, Brown heard 
 
184 ox THE BORDER. 
 
 of the relief he had given Rachel in her extremity, and at 
 once determined to effect his release, even at the cost of 
 his accumulations in the rebel service, — the precious gold 
 with which he lioped to buy back the favor of his deserted 
 wife. His first thought was to bribe Colonel Williams, and, 
 with this object in view, he went to Captain Hart, who has 
 already been mentioned, and, stating to him the circum- 
 stances, asked him to approach that oflficer. Hart had been 
 present at the interview between Jordan and Colonel Wil- 
 liams, and sympathized with the prisoner. He entered heart- 
 ily into the project for his release ; but explained to Brown 
 that the rebel commander had no control over his fate, and 
 could not be bribed, if he had. 
 
 Hart then suggested the plan, with the working of which 
 the reader is already acquainted; and it was he, aided by 
 his orderly, who abstracted the horse of Jordan from the 
 stable of his commander, — the animal being considered 
 indispensable to Jordan's successful flight. 
 
 Brown did not see Jordan while he was within the prison, 
 but spent his whole time there in undermining the principles 
 of the turnke}^ The reason he did not acquaint Jordan with 
 his visit was, that he did not know him well enough to trust 
 him with a secret on which his own life depended. 
 
 On the following day Hart informed Brown of the intended 
 departure of the two hundred cavalry in pursuit of Jordan, 
 and Brown at once suggested Ihat Hart should accompany the 
 squad, to thwart, if possible, the purposes of Cecil, while he 
 himself foHowed on, and, through his wife, or the old negro, 
 conveyed warning to the fugitive. He left the camp only 
 a few hours after the cavalry, but lingered at Paintville till 
 
THE H U S B AND A N D W I F E TO O E T II 1. R . 185 
 
 after nightfall, to escape observation from the rebel soliliers, 
 who, he feared, would suspect his design, if they saw him 
 in the neighborhood. While there, he learned of the fearful 
 tragedy already enacted at the cabin ; but not of the sad mis- 
 chance by which the younger Jordan had taken the life of 
 lierhaps the only man among the two hundred who would 
 have shown his hunted brother either mercy or humanity. 
 
 'When he finished the recital. Brown looked up at Kachel, 
 and said, a moisture gathering in his eyes, — 
 
 " Ye b'lieve this, Rachel ? " 
 
 "Yes, Bradley. I think you would not tell a falsehood 
 about such a thing, — not to me." 
 
 " And ye don't b'lieve I'se altogether a bad man ? " 
 
 " No, Bradle}^ ; I always knew you to be capable of gen- 
 erous, noble impulses. If you would only leave drink 
 alone " — 
 
 " I has, Eachel ! Sense pore Cap'n Hart tell'd me that 
 was the way to make ye a lady ag'in, I haint tetched a drop. 
 And so ye wont throw me off? Ye'U alter what ye has 
 said?" 
 
 "No, Bradley," she answered, a saddened look coming upon 
 her features, "I can't alter it. I said what I did, not on 
 account of what you are, or what you have done ; but because 
 — I was not meant to be your wife." 
 
 He rested his face on his hand, and made no reply for some 
 minutes ; then he rose, and taking up his hat from the table, 
 said in slow, subdued tones, — 
 
 " Good-by, Rachel. If ye's ever in ary trouble, ye'll send 
 for me ? " 
 
 Rachel also rose to her feet, as she answered, — 
 
 16* 
 
186 ON THE B O R D E li . 
 
 "But you are not going, — in this storm and after mid- 
 night ! Stay at least till morning." 
 
 *^ No, Rachel, I'll go. I don't keer now fur the dark or the 
 storm." 
 
 " But you say the rebels are lurking about ; you may fall 
 in with some of them ; they may find out what you have 
 done, and take your life for it." 
 
 " No matter if they does, — my life haint worth nothin' now. 
 Good-by, Rachel." 
 
 Then, strange to say, this man, who loved nothing in the 
 world but that woman and the gold which lay on the table, 
 opened the door, and went out into the storm, leaving both 
 behind in the cabin. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A MIDNIGHT RIDE. 
 
 ^;HE night was dismally dark, and the rain was falling 
 in torrents, when, in the guise of the old negro, Jor- 
 
 dan emerged from the cabin, and, with rapid steps, 
 made his way to the rude log-barn which stood, sur- 
 rounded by a high worm fence, in the centre of the little 
 clearing. As he softly lifted the heavy w^ooden latch, a low 
 whinny, followed by the quick pawing of steel-clad hoofs, 
 sounded from the inside of the barn, as if to welcome his 
 coming. It may be that, with the acute ear of her species, 
 the mare recognized the tread of her master, and gave vent 
 to these expressions in token of satisfaction at the prospect 
 of being relieved of the companionship of the ancient mule that 
 was snoring soundly in the adjoining stall. Horses, doubtless, 
 regard mules very much as the negro regards that other hybrid, 
 the mulatto. 
 
 " Be quiet. Beauty ! be quiet ! Not a word ! " said Jordan, 
 in a hoarse whisper, as he entered the barn, and softly closed 
 the door behind him. While he was doing this the animal 
 backed out of the stall, and, stepping as if she were treading 
 on eggs, came toward her master. 
 
 " We've a long road before us, Beauty ; have you had 
 
 (187) 
 
188 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 enough to stand it till morning ? " whispered the man, put- 
 ting his mouth close to the ear of the mare. She raised her 
 head, and placing it gently over the man's shoulder, embraced 
 him ; but gave out no sound, brute or human. 
 
 " The night is dreadful dark, — my life may hang on your 
 eyesight, — will you be careful ? " Another and warmer em- 
 brace was the answer. 
 
 " Well, then, let's be going ; but step softly, till we're out 
 of hearing." 
 
 Then the man undid the door, and with the horse went out 
 into the darkness. Closing the door again, he turned to the 
 animal and said, again in a whisper, — 
 
 " Kow, Beauty, keep your eyes open ; you shall have a 
 bushel of oats in the morning." 
 
 Again the mare answered, — this time by rubbing her nose 
 against the man's features. 
 
 " Don't do that, jou fool !" exclaimed the man; "you'll rub 
 off the charcoal." 
 
 The mare hung down her head, and patting her on the 
 neck, and speaking quickly, as if fearful of having wounded 
 her feelings, Jordan said, — 
 
 " Never mind Beauty ; it don't matter ; but it shows your 
 eyes are only half open ; open them wide if you want to help 
 me save Kentucky." 
 
 Again she put her head over his shoulder, and then, as 
 he bounded into the saddle, she walked slowly and softly 
 away froin the clearing. When they had gone about a 
 quarter of a mile, the man resumed the conversation. 
 Bending down over the saddle-bow, he said, in his usual 
 tones, — 
 
A MIDNIGUT HIDE. 189 
 
 " Now, Beauty, eyes and ears both open, but give them 
 your heels, — show them you had a great-grandfather." 
 
 The mare gave a low whinny, and then flew forward like 
 the wind, — or like the lightning, which every now and then 
 lighted up the desolate higliway. 
 
 To account for the readiness with which the mare under- 
 stood her master, it is not necessary to suppose that she was 
 acquainted with the English language. Any one who had 
 listened to the whispered colloquy between the two would 
 have observed that the man conveyed his meaning, not by his 
 words, but by the different inflections of his voice, which, 
 delicately modulated, could, like the notes of a cultivated 
 singer, express ideas without the aid of language. The 
 trained ear of the horse understood these sounds, and this 
 shows her wonderful intelligence. I have hesitated about 
 bringing a brute creature into my story, — romance-writers 
 generally do hesitate to describe exceptional characters, — 
 and I do so only in justice to tliis noble animal, that, like 
 her master, gave her life for Kentucky. 
 
 Avoiding the direct road which threads the valley of the 
 Blaine, and which he concluded would be guarded by the 
 rebels, Jordan took a by-way leading eastwardly toward the 
 Big Sandy, and was rapidly approaching the little hamlet of 
 George's Creek, when the mare all at once slackened her 
 pace, and soon stopped in the road suddenly. Leaning for- 
 ward, Jordan said, in a low voice, — 
 
 " What is it. Beauty ? What do you see ? " 
 
 The mare uttered no sound ; but, by the slackening of the 
 reins, the man knew that she was turning her face toward 
 him. Dismounting, and leading her into the timber which 
 
190 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 skirted the road, he went slowly forward along the edge of 
 the highway, cautiously feeling his way with his hands before 
 him. He had not gone far before he came upon an obstruc- 
 tion, — a stout rope stretched across the highway. The storm 
 was still raging furiously, and the night was still pitchy dark, 
 — so dark that no object smaller than a forest could be dis- 
 tinguished at a yard's distance. Sight, therefore, was of no 
 avail ; he must depend on his hearing. Stepping softly in 
 among the trees, he slunk behind a huge oak, and, bending 
 his ear to the ground, held his breath and listened. Soon the 
 impatient pawing of a horse sounded from the other side of 
 the road, not ten rods from the obstruction, and the smothered 
 voice of a man said, — 
 
 "Quiet! quiet! Devil!" 
 
 Jordan rose to his feet, and, going closer to the road, again 
 posted himself behind a tree and listened. Soon a vivid 
 flash of lightning lighted up the narrow by-way, and revealed 
 the figure of a man enveloped in a large cloak, and astride of 
 a powerful horse, standing a little way within the timber. 
 The end of a rifle-barrel protruded from the folds of his cloak, 
 and this and the obstruction showed that he was lying in 
 wait for some one whose coming he expected. 
 
 All this Jordan took in on the instant, and, stepping boldly 
 into the road, he accosted the horseman, — 
 
 "Why, Lor' bress me, Massa Bent, am dis you? Out 
 yere dis time ob night, in sich a storm as dis ? " 
 
 The horseman started ; but, quickly recovering himself 
 answered, rather abruptly, — 
 
 '• Is that you, 'Zeke ? What are you doing here, — so late, 
 and in such a storm ? " 
 
A MIDNIGHT RIDE. 191 
 
 " Coniin' from meetin', Massa Bent, and we'se had a high 
 time, — a high time, Massa Bent ; and 'Zeke don't mind de 
 rain so long as he kin git nigh de Lord. He haint nudder 
 sugar nor salt ; he wont melt." 
 
 *• No, you never melt except you git nigh de Lord," re- 
 sponded the man ; " but I do. I'm melting now, 'Zeke. All 
 the water in me is running into my boots, and there'll be 
 nothing left of me if I have to stay here much longer. How 
 much water does John say there is in a man ? '^ 
 
 " Six buckets and a few lumps ob sugar for sweetnin', 
 Massa Bent. But dar haint dat much in you. De mos' 
 ob you am whiskey. Massa Bent, you'm a sorry man to 
 drink so much, and to call your nag arter your best friend, 
 de debil! Nobody else wud do sich a ting as dat. 'Zeke 
 know'd you so soon as you spoke de name ob de critter." 
 
 " Well, go home, old man ; you've staid here long enough. 
 Your noise may interfere with my business." 
 
 " And what am you' business, Massa Bent, yere dis time 
 ob night ? 'Zeke tort you was away wid de sodgers. Hab 
 de Unions comed down from Louisa ? " 
 
 " No, — but go along, old man, and mind, don't you tell a 
 soul that you've seen me ; if you do, I'll break your head the 
 next chance I get." 
 
 " Oh, neber you far, Massa Dick ; 'Zeke knows you too 
 well fur dat ; jess you gib him a chaw ob 'backer, and he'll 
 go." 
 
 " I can't ; both my hands are full ; and < Devil ' is as restive 
 as Cain, standing here in the storm." 
 
 " Jess you leff 'Zeke holt you' gun, Massa Dick — den you 
 kin git into you' pocket fur de 'backer." 
 
1'j2 on the border. 
 
 " Well, here then," said the man, handing down his rifle ; 
 " but keep your hand over the trigger, — don't let the cap 
 get wet." 
 
 Jordan took the weapon, and, placing it quickly against the 
 man's breast, said, in his usual tones, — 
 
 " Now, Dick Bent, say a word, or make a movement, and 
 3'ou're a dead man. Tell me why you are here, — away from 
 the Union army." 
 
 " Why, how is this ? " stammered the man. " Who the 
 devil are you ? " 
 
 " You ought to know. Tell me your business at once ; but 
 speak low, or you'll be neither water nor whiskey in another 
 moment." 
 
 " Why, bless your soul, John, is it you ? " exclaimed Bent, 
 in an excited tone, but still heeding the warning of the other. 
 " You are just the man I am after. I heard from a scout, not 
 tw^o hours before day, that you had escaped from the rebs. I 
 thought you'd know all about them, so I told the general, and 
 he posted a dozen of us off at sun-up to find and bring you in. 
 We had to come by a bridle-way over the mountain, for they 
 hold all the roads between here and head-quarters. Cecil's 
 squad, and Weddington's gang, are both out, and they'd have 
 had you, sure. It occurred to me to rope up all the roads in 
 their rear, and stop all passers till daylight, to head you 
 off. So I've got you. But come, we mustn't waste time, — 
 jump up behind me, and let us travel." 
 
 " Which way would you go ? " 
 
 "The way I came, — up the valley to the bridle-path be- 
 yond your house, and then over the mountain, and down on 
 the other side till abreast of Louisa. The coast there is clear, 
 
A M I 1) X I O II T R I I> K. 193 
 
 or it was this morning. But where's that old darky ? He 
 wanted some tobacco." 
 
 " No, tank you, Massa Bent," said Jordan, laughing ; 
 " 'backer am a bad ting, — a'most as bad as whiskey." 
 
 " The devil, John ! Were you that old nigger preaching 
 to me about drinking whiskey ? Well, it's like you ; you're 
 always preaching. But get up behind me, and let's be 
 off." 
 
 " No, Beauty is here,'' said Jordan, giving a low whistle. 
 It was answered by as low a whinny, and in a moment the 
 mare, leaping the rope, was beside him. Bounding into the 
 saddle, Jordan said to his companion, — 
 
 " Take away the barricade, Dick ; some poor fellow might 
 break his neck over it before morning.'' 
 
 The other did as requested, and a moment afterward the 
 two were riding rapidly along the road by which Jordan had 
 come from the cabin. 
 
 As they emerged from the wood which girdles the rude 
 dwelling, and came in sight of the bright light which shone 
 from its windows, Jordan suddenly halted his horse, and said, 
 as if speaking to himself, — 
 
 " He's there yet. I wonder if she'll take up again with 
 the wretched creature." 
 
 " Who's thar, John ? " asked his companion, also reining up 
 his animal. 
 
 " Brown, — Rachel's husband." 
 
 " The devil he is ! Do you know he's joined the rebs, and 
 been plundering every poor widow in all south-east Ken- 
 tucky. They say he's robbed both sides, and made a pile of 
 money." 
 
 17 
 
194 O N T II i: li O R I) K K . 
 
 "I reckon it's so. He broiiglit a bag of gold to tlie 
 cabin." 
 
 " He did ! Then I'll have both him and his money," said 
 Bent, spurring his horse forward. 
 
 A dozen bounds of the mare brought Jordan to the side of 
 his companion, and, seizing his bridle with a force that threw 
 " Devil " back upon his haunches, he said, — 
 
 " What would j^ou do, Dick ! You'll risk everything ; we 
 can't afford to lose a moment ! " 
 
 While he said this, the door opened, and a man emerged 
 from the cabin. In another moment the same man, mounted 
 on a horse, rode rapidlj" past the lighted window. 
 
 " Back, Dick ! He'll come this way I Into the timber I " 
 
 The other said not a word, but quietly let Jordan lead 
 his horse among the trees which skirted the road. There 
 Jordan let go his rein, and the two waited the coming of 
 Brown, whose horse's hoofs were now clattering noisily over 
 the sand of the rain-hardened highway. 
 
 The newcomer was nearly abreast of the two horsemen in 
 the wood, when Bent gave a quick yell, and his horse bounded 
 suddenly into the road, with his huge bulk nearly blocking 
 the narrow passage. 
 
 " Halt ! " cried Bent. " You d — d rebel ! halt and surren- 
 der ! " 
 
 Brown had reined in his horse at the first sound ; but now 
 he came to a full halt, and said, coolly, — 
 
 " Who is ye that asks me to surrender? " 
 
 " Captain Bent, of the Union army, by — ! and you're my 
 prisoner ! " cried Bent, in excited tones. 
 
 " Kot egzac'tly, Mr. Bent. I knows ye, and I'm good fur 
 
A M I D N I G H T 11 I I) i; . 195 
 
 ye ary day. But, let me pass, — I'm in no mood ter-night 
 fur blood-sheddin'." 
 
 " No ; you'd ratlier roL women than fight men ; but you'll 
 get your deserts. Surrender at once, or I'll put a bullet into 
 
 you." 
 
 '' No, no, Dick," said Jordan, spurring his mare in between 
 the two ; " don't be rash. Mr. Brown, we are two against 
 you ; but give your word you'll say nothing of this meeting, 
 and you may go unmolested." 
 
 '' And who is ye as knows me ? " said Brown. 
 
 " No matter, — only promise, and you may go." 
 
 " By the Lord ! " cried Brown. " It'r Jordan ! I want to 
 thank ye, Mr. Jordan, for the way ye's stood by Rachel." 
 
 ."Never mind, — that's past. I wish I could thank you 
 for the way you've stood by other defenceless women." 
 
 " Wall, I has done some mean things, Mr. Jordan. I own 
 it ; but I haint half so bad as they tell on." 
 
 " You're a d — d thief and scoundrel, that's what you are ! 
 and there's no discount upon it," cried Bent, angrily. 
 
 " Mr. Bent," said Brown, through his grated teeth, " ye 
 couldn't hev said that, and lived, on ary night but this in the 
 whole year. But I knows ye, — ye's a honest man, and 
 that's what I mean to be, if I live. Then I'll fight ye fa'r, 
 man ag'in man, when we come together." 
 
 " Say no more, Dick, we are wasting time," said Jordan. 
 " Mr. Brown, you will give me your word you'll not mention 
 this meeting ? " 
 
 " I will. I wouldn't hurt a hair uv yer head fur all Ken- 
 tucky." 
 
196 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 " ni trust you. Now, Dick, move aside, and let him 
 pass." 
 
 " You don't mean to let him go," said Bent, standing stock 
 still in the road. " What the devil's got into you, John ? " 
 
 " Only a little sense, and that you never had. Stand hack, 
 I tell you, and let him go." 
 
 The last sentence was uttered in a voice that either " Devil " 
 or his rider understood, for both went aside, and gave Brown 
 the whole highway. 
 
 Spurring his horse a little forward, Brown said, — 
 
 " Mr. Jordan, I shan't forget this, and I'll let ye know 'fore 
 I die that Brad. Brown can be. a gentleman." 
 
 The words came to Jordan on the wind ; for, with his com- 
 panion, he was already galloping rapidly up the deserted 
 highway. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A MARCH AND A BATTLE. 
 
 T was nine o'clock on the morning of the following 
 day when Jordan and his companion rode up to the 
 head-quarters of the Union general at Louisa. Dis- 
 mounting at the "door-way, they gave their horses in 
 charge of an orderly, who was lounging near, and then, 
 drenched to the skin and mud-bespattered as they were, 
 entered the parlor of the mansion, — the deserted residence 
 of a well-to-do rebel, who, a short time before, had ''left his 
 country for his country's good." Two young men in showy 
 uniforms were seated by a window, but, giving them no heedj 
 Bent rapped heavily at the door of an inner apartment. Soon 
 a stout, burly man, half clad, with one boot on and the other 
 off, and a white foam clinging to one half of his face, appeared 
 in the door-way. 
 
 "What the devil's the matter?" he asked, in a strong, 
 guttural voice. 
 
 '• Nothing, general," said Bent, removing his hat ; " only 
 we've had a life-and-death ride of forty miles, and are in a 
 hurry to see you." 
 
 " Well, what luck ? Did you find Jordan? " 
 
 " Yes, general, and his news will put us into the saddle 
 
 17* (197) 
 
198 ON THE B O li D E 11 . 
 
 " And why the devil didn't you bring him with you ? Fetch 
 him at once ; don't lose a moment." 
 
 " He is with me. This is Mr. Jordan," said Bent, pointing 
 to his companion, and breaking, after a moment, into a bois- 
 terous peal of laughter. In their haste to obtain audience of 
 the Union commander, the two travellers had forgotten Jor- 
 dan's unpresentable appearance, and it now rushed in all its 
 forlornity upon the mind of Bent. In truth, as he stood 
 there, ail^ayed in the tattered garments of the old negro, his 
 forehead densely black, and the charcoal lying in grimy 
 streaks on the rest of his face, Jordan was a somewhat ludi- 
 crous object. iSTelson looked at him from head to foot, and 
 managed to articulate, soberly, — 
 
 " I'm glad to see jou, Mr. Jordan." Then his mirth over- 
 came his good-breeding, and, joining heartily in the laugh 
 of Bent, he cried out, " And this is the man who floored old 
 Cecil?" 
 
 Jordan's impassive features expressed neither mirth nor 
 displeasure. He only said, coolly, — 
 
 '• I have come with important information, sir ; but I wiU 
 wait till you can give me attention." 
 
 " I'll give it now. Come in, and close the door. And, 
 pardon me, Mr. Jordan, but you do look like the devil. Close 
 the door, and sit down ; I can talk and shave at the same 
 time. You've got out of rather a tight box, Mt. Jordan," he 
 said, restiming his work before the looking-glass. 
 
 " Yes, sir, rather close quarters." 
 
 " How was it ? " 
 
 "I don't know, general. The turnkey came to my cell 
 
A MARCH AND A BATTLE. 199 
 
 about midnight, took off my irons, and let me out of the jail. 
 Then I went through the rebel camp, and came away." 
 
 " Went through the rebel camp ! " 'Here the general laid 
 down his razor, and turned with a look of surprise at Jordan. 
 ^' How could you do that ? '' 
 
 '' The turnkey had the countersign from the man who 
 bribed him to release me ; with that it was easy." 
 
 " Yes, but ticklish ; you had a rope round your neck." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; but what I learned was worth the risk." 
 
 " What did you learn ? " 
 
 " That Williams has three thousand men, and in thirty days 
 will have ten thousand. Recruits are coming in rapidly from 
 the southern counties, and he is daily expecting reinforce- 
 ments, by the way of Pound Gap, from Virginia." 
 
 " The devil he is ! What does he mean to do then ? " 
 
 " March northward, and drive you from the State. Then 
 Kentucky will be lost." 
 
 Tlie general by this time had scraped the last flake of foam 
 from his upper lip, and now, laying his open razor upon the 
 table, he sat down, in his shirt-sleeves, and looked intently at 
 Jordan for some moments. Then he said, — 
 
 " And what would you do to save it ? " 
 
 " !March at once upon Williams with every man I could 
 muster." 
 
 " And how long should we be in getting there ? " 
 
 " Perhaps twenty days." 
 
 " But then he would have an army of nearly ten thou- 
 sand." 
 
 " Very likely, but poorly armed and equipped. With three 
 
200 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 thousand such troops as yours, you could drive him into Vir- 
 ginia, and keep him there." 
 
 " And so save Kentucky." 
 
 " Not only save Kentucky, — cut the Confederacy in two, 
 and give a crushing blow to the rebellion ! " 
 
 '' How so ? " 
 
 " Eecruits would flock to you from all quarters. In thirty 
 days you would have twenty thousand. With them you 
 could march into East Tennessee, capture the salt-works in 
 Smythe county, get possession of the Knoxville railroad, and 
 so cut Kentucky and Tennessee ofl" from Kichmond." 
 
 " Mr. Jordan, you have a head on your shoulders ; but you 
 forget one thing, — I couldn't subsist an army in that region 
 ten days." 
 
 " You could, for ten years, general. The region is full of 
 live stock, and the country people would give you their last 
 bushel of corn. One man has gathered a thousand beeves 
 there, in one week, for the rebels." 
 
 " But how shall I get there ? The roads are impassa- 
 ble." 
 
 " They are along the river ; but by the way of Peach 
 Orchard and Liberty you could get through with a light 
 train ; j^our first supplies should go up by boat to Pres- 
 tonburgh, — the country would do the rest." 
 
 " But the boats would be taken by the guerillas." 
 . " Not if guarded. Weddington's is the only considerable 
 gang, and he is between here and Liberty. You would drive 
 him before you by taking that route." 
 
 " Give me two hundred men, general," said Captain Bent, 
 
A MARCH AND A BATTLE. 201 
 
 "and I'll bag that 'bird' by this time to-morrow. I sur- 
 rounded him last night." 
 
 "Not so fast, Dick," said Nelson. After a moment's 
 pause, he added, — " Tell a boy out there to bring me a cigar 
 and a glass of brandy. By the way, have you had break- 
 fast ? " 
 
 " No, general," answered Bent, " not a mouthful since yes- 
 terday noon. I'll order an extra glass, if you don't object." 
 
 " Order breakfast for three, and, Mr. Jordan, be good 
 enough to wash the black off your face ; you do look like the 
 devil." 
 
 While Bent went out to order breakfast, and Jordan intro- 
 duced his face to the wash-basin. Nelson sat before the fire, 
 gazing intently into the blaze, apparently forgetful of his 
 half-shod, half-clad condition. When the table had been 
 some time spread. Bent touched him on the shoulder, say- 
 ing, — 
 
 " General, the brandy is waiting, and I'm as hungry as a 
 bear." 
 
 Then he rose, drew on his coat, and sat down to breakfast ; 
 but throughout the meal uttered not a word, — not even an 
 oath ; and this, to those who knew him well, may seem not 
 altogether characteristic. When the meal was about over, he 
 turned to Jordan, and bringing his hand down upon the ta- 
 ble, by way of additional emphasis, said, — 
 
 " By , sir, when I bag ' old Cerro Gordo,' I'll have you 
 
 made a colonel." ^ 
 
 " Then you mean to act on my suggestion ? " said Jordan. 
 
 " Yes, si?' / I'll set out as soon as I can get my men ready 
 and hear from Sherman ; but I shan't wait for him. He has 
 
202 ON THE B O R D K R . 
 
 already proposed the movement; all that staggered him 
 was how to get supplies in that God-forsaken region. Are 
 3^ou sure about that? '' 
 
 '• I've been over everj^ foot of the whole region. You will 
 not only have supplies, but the moment you touch Tennessee, 
 reinforcements will pour in upon 3'ou b}^ the thousand. Before 
 January you will have an army of fifty thousand, and with 
 that force among those mountains you could hold out against 
 the world. I will go ahead, burn the railroad bridges, and 
 rouse the whole Piedmont region." 
 
 " By , Jordan ! you are a trump. But how will you 
 
 get through ? " 
 
 " After you have driven Williams that will be easy." 
 
 The events which followed have already gone into history, 
 and only such brief mention of them need here be made as is 
 necessary to preserve the thread of our narrative. 
 
 On the 20th of October General Xelson put his army in 
 motion. On the morning of the 23d his advance guard, un- 
 der Colonel Marshall, came up with the gang of Wedding- 
 ton at West Liberty. After a short conflict the rebels fled, 
 leaving twenty-one dead and thirty-four wounded in the 
 hands of the Federals. Pressing on, they encountered the 
 same evening, at Hazelgreen, the remnant of the gang, rein- 
 forced by the squad sent out in pursuit of Jordan. Another 
 short conflict ensued, resulting in the capture of thirty-eight 
 of the rebels. Weddington himself escaped, and Cecil, se- 
 verely wounded by the younger Jordan, had previously been 
 removed to his home at Piketon. 
 
 Halting at Hazelgreen to get his men together, Kelson in 
 
A .MARCH AND A BATTLE. 203 
 
 a few days resumed liis march, and, on the 5th of November, 
 entered Prestonburgli, driving the rebels before him. Here 
 he divided his army into two bodies, and at once advanced 
 upon Piketon. Despatching a force of sixteen hundred, un- 
 der Colonel Sill, by the way of Jones' Creek, to cut off the 
 retreat of the rebels, he, with the rest of his command, — 
 eighteen hundred infantry, — advanced by the direct road 
 along the Big Sandy. The advance guard of this body, un- 
 der Colonel Marshall, was ambuscaded by the enemy in a 
 strong natural position, twelve miles south of PiketoTi 5 but, 
 after standing their ground for a while, they gave way, and 
 scattered in the surrounding forest. Pressing on with his 
 whole column, Nelson attacked the main body of the enemy 
 at nine o'clock the following morning, and in an hour the 
 rebels were fleeing in all directions. " Cerro Gordo " Wil- 
 liams and eleven hundred of his army made good their escape 
 into Virginia, but the State was, for a time, freed from rebel 
 dominion. 
 
 The history of the expedition cannot be better told than in 
 the following address of General Nelson to his troops, which 
 was issued after the battle : 
 
 " Head-quakters, Camp Hopeless Chase, ) 
 Piketon, Ky., Nov. 10, 1861. 3 
 
 " Soldiers, — I thank you for what you have done. In a 
 
 campaign of twenty days, j^ou have driven the rebels from 
 
 Eastern Kentucky, and given repose to the State. You have 
 
 made continual forced marches over wretched roads, deep in 
 
 mud; badly clad, you have bivouacked on the wet ground 
 
 in the November rains without a murmur. With scarce half 
 
 rations, j'ou have pressed forward with unfailing persever- 
 
204 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 ance. The only place that the enemy made a stand, though 
 ambushed and very strong, you drove him from in the most 
 brilliant style. For your constancy and courage I thank you, 
 and with the qualities which you have shown that you pos- 
 sess, I expect great things from you in the future. 
 
 W. i^ELSON." 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 RESULTS. 
 
 MOiSTG those captured by the Union forces was Judge 
 Cecil, — who, though convalescent, was unable to bear 
 the fatigue of a hasty march into Virginia, — and 
 Bradley Brown, who had returned to Piketon, but 
 had not enlisted in the rebel ranks, or resumed his previous 
 occupation of cattle-stealer for the rebel army. As soon as 
 Jordan learned of Brown's capture he sought him among the 
 rebel prisoners ; but, failing to find him in the prison-quar- 
 ters, he went — led by a sort of instinct — to the dingy pub- 
 lic-house which still affords accommodation to such unfor- 
 tunate men and beasts as an inscrutable destiny consigns to 
 the tender mercies of its surly, whiskey-drinking landlord. 
 There he found him, seated in a corner of the smoke-be- 
 clouded bar-room, his head swaying to and fro, and his senses 
 half drowned in the frequent potations in which he had been 
 indulging. Touching him on the shoulder, Jordan said, — 
 " Mr. Brown, I want you to go with me." 
 " Go wi' ye ! " said Brown, looking up with unsteady gaze, 
 and speaking thick and brokenly, " I reckon I wont. I guv 
 my word to Dick Bent, — and he's a gentleman, every inch 
 of him, — and I reckon I wont. I wont stir from yere till 
 
 18 (205) 
 
206 ON THE liOKDKK. 
 
 I'm tuck out dead — dead ; and the sooner that happens the 
 better." 
 
 " You needn't speak of death," said Jordan ; " you are not 
 going to die, — not till you've kept your word to me, and 
 shown yourself a gentleman." 
 
 Brown looked up again with the same meaningless stare ; 
 but in a moment staggered unsteadilj' to his feet, and, holding 
 forth his hand, stammered out, — 
 
 " Why, Mr. Jordan, is it ye ? Is it ye ? But I might hev 
 know'd it ; nobody else would speak kind to a pore broken 
 devil loike me ; nobody but ye and Dick Bent ; and he's a 
 gentleman, Mr. Jordan, — every inch a gentleman." 
 
 "I know," answered Jordan; "-when he lets brandy alone. 
 And so can you be, if you'll keep sober. But, come, I want 
 you to go with me, — I want you to do something for me." 
 
 " Do suthin' fur ye ! '" exclaimed Brown, again clutching 
 Jordan's hand. " I'll do arything fur ye, — I'd die fur ye, — 
 I would, Mr. Jordan ! I'd let 'em draw my blood drop by 
 drop, if 'twould do ye ary good." 
 
 " I believe you," said Jordan, putting his arm within that 
 of Brown, and leading him out of the room. 
 
 " What ar^ it, Mr. Jordan ? " said Brown, somewhat sobered 
 by the pure air of the open street. "What kin I do fur 
 ye?" 
 
 " I'll tell you in the morning. Come to my tent, and sleep 
 off the effects of the liquor, then I'll tell you." 
 
 On the following morning, thoroughly sobered by a night's 
 sleep, Brown said to Jordan, — 
 
 '• I'm ashamed, Mr. Jordan, to hev ye find me as ye done j 
 
RESULTS. 207 
 
 but I couldn't holp it, — I couldn't holp it. If I didu't drink, 
 1 should go crazy wi' all the trouble that's on me." 
 
 " I know you have trouble, and I'm sorry for you," said 
 Jordan, whose keen penetration had already detected the 
 secret of Brown's depressed feelings. "But I have work for 
 you that will keep your mind busy, and — take you back to 
 Kachel." 
 
 ,'' Hev ye ? I'll do it, Mr. Jordan ; but — gwine back to 
 Rachel ! There's no chance uv that, — no chance, Mr. Jor- 
 dan. She's said the word, and nothin' '11 turn her. If ye 
 thinks so, ye don't know her as I does." 
 
 " I didn't refer to that," said Jordan, with some hesitation. 
 " That is between yourselves. What I want you to do is to 
 help me to remove the negroes into Ohio. They have been 
 declared free, and now can go ; but 'Zekiel is too old to attend 
 to everything, and I have to be away for a fortnight, — per- 
 haps for a month. I want you to get their things to Paint- 
 ville, hire some flat-boats to take them down the river, and 
 have all in readiness against my return, when I wiU go with 
 them." 
 
 " I'd do it, Mr. Jordan, willin' ; but I'se a prisoner yere on 
 parole. I can't stir out o' Piketon." 
 
 " I will get your release from the general," said Jordan. 
 
 " Then I'll go, — go to-day," answered Brown. 
 
 Knowing the commanding general's pro-slavery proclivities, 
 Jordan omitted, in his application for the release of Brown, 
 all mention of the real object for which he was going, and 
 merely stated that he desired him to superintend some busi- 
 ness which miglit sufter if not at once attended to. The 
 request was readily granted, and the general added, — 
 
208 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 " Ask anything of me, Jordan. I have not forgotten my 
 promise to see you made a colonel." 
 
 Brown started that day for the little hamlet among the 
 mountains, and on the same evening Jordan set out on his 
 long and perilous expedition into Tennessee. The country 
 was still infested with straggling bands of rebel guerillas, 
 but he made his way over the mountains in safety, and soon 
 the results of his journey were known to the whole country. 
 Every bridge between Knoxville and the Cumberland Gap, 
 on the great line of railway which connects Richmond with 
 the south-west, was, within a fortnight, destroyed, and the 
 Confederacy, for the time being, as effectually cut asun- 
 der as if an earthquake had suddenly put an impassable gulf 
 between its two sections. Nothing remained to insure the 
 permanent dismemberment of the South but for Nelson to 
 march with his whole force — now sixty-five hundred strong 
 . — to the occupation of Knoxville. 
 
 But this was not to be. The country was not yet ready to 
 do equal and exact justice to all men ; and so its heroic sons 
 were yet to march over the burning j^loughshare, and, with 
 bleeding feet, to tread the wine-press of His wrath in the 
 weary years that were coming. 
 
 Nelson had received his superior's approval of Jordan's 
 great project, and was just on the eve of setting out on the 
 expedition, when, with the bulk of his forces, he was sud- 
 denly recalled to Louisville, and East Kentucky was once 
 more laid open to the inroads of the enemy. 
 
 One of those little events had occurred which so often 
 changed the destinies of the war. Tired out with the tardy 
 and inefficient measures of the general government, Sher- 
 
RESULTS. 209 
 
 man, on tlie very day that Jordan set out for Tennessee, had 
 resigned, and Buell had succeeded him in command of the 
 department. This altered the whole programme of opera- 
 tions. East Tennessee was left to its fate ; the campaign 
 which resulted in the barren and bloody battle of Shiloh was 
 decided on, and the troops in East Kentucky were ordered 
 westward, to take part in the monster expedition which, it 
 was hoped, would open the Mississippi from the Ohio to the 
 Gulf of Mexico. 
 
 On his return, rather more than a fortnight after setting 
 out on the expedition, Jordan learned these facts, and that 
 Piketon was again in possession of the rebel forces, who, re- 
 entering the State at Pound Gap, were already rapidly re- 
 cruiting in the disaffected southern counties. With a heavy 
 heart he turned his horse to the westward, and, after a peril- 
 ous ride of two days and nights, entered Paintville at early 
 dawn on the morning of the first of December. The place 
 was held by a portion of the Fourteenth Kentucky (Union) 
 regiment, and was the most southerly point then in pos- 
 session of the Union forces. So soon had all the fruits of 
 Nelson's toilsome march been thrown aw^ay by the blundering 
 policy of Buell and the officials at Washington ! 
 18* 
 
CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 THE REMOVAL. 
 
 HE day succeeding Brown's arrival at the plantation 
 was Sunday, and then, to the survivors and descend- 
 ants of the fifty slaves originally liberated by Wed- 
 . dington's will, — now numbering, of men, women, and 
 children, a hundred and twenty, — Ezehiel announced from 
 the pulpit of the little church that the glad day which, 
 through twenty years of deferred hope and ceaseless struggle, 
 they had longed and prayed for, had at last come, and they 
 were about to be led out of the land of Egj-pt, out of the house 
 of bondage, into a fair country, flowing with milk and hone}', 
 beyond the Ohio. 
 
 A time of mingled grief and rejoicing followed ; for some 
 must go and some must sta}^, and ties of a lifetime were to be 
 rudely sundered ; but on the following morning they set about 
 preparing for the journey. Every little article of furniture, 
 however poor, had to be gathered up, and carried along, and 
 thus more than a fortnight went away before they were ready 
 to go ; but at last they set out, — a motley caravan, laughing, 
 and weeping, and singing, and shouting by turns, on the road 
 to Paintville. A dozen heavy wagons, bearing their house- 
 hold goods, led the way, and two lighter vehicles followed. 
 (210) 
 
THE REMOVAL. 211 
 
 In one of these, drawn by the old mule, rode Ezekiel and the 
 widow Jordan; in the other, Brown and his wife Rachel. 
 They had met but once since his arrival at the plantation, 
 and he had avoided her on the plea that he must be away at 
 Paintville most of the time in making arrangements for the 
 removal of the negroes ; but now he asked permission to drive 
 her to the village, determined to make one last effort to in- 
 duce her to fulfil the promise she had made to " love, honor, 
 and keep him. in sickness, and in health, and, forsaking all 
 others, to keep only to him, so long as tliey both should live." 
 
 As the little cabin went out of sight among the trees, he 
 turned to her and said, in a voice husky with emotion, — 
 
 "Ivachel, ye's gwine 'mong strange folks, inter a strange 
 kentry, — wont ye be lonely thar?" 
 
 " Oh, no," she answered ; " Mrs. Jordan will be with me ; 
 and, besides, I shant have time to be lonely, — there will be 
 so much to do for the negroes." 
 
 " Yes, at fust ; but as soon's they's settled they'll do fur 
 tharselves; then ye'U have time to think, — then ye'll be 
 lonely, and, 'sides, ye'U have no one to keer fur ye." 
 
 " Yes, I shall ; 'Zekiel will care for me." 
 
 " But 'Zekiel carn't live forever." 
 
 "He may outlive me. He's not eighty, and he says his 
 grandfather lived to be more than a hundred." 
 
 " Wall, ye don't tuck my meanin', Rachel. Wont ye let 
 me go with ye ? Wont 3'e be my wife ag'in ? I'se been a 
 readin' the good Book lately, and ye know it say them as God 
 has jined together haint to be put asunder, but fur one 
 thing, — and I'se allers been true to ye, Rachel." 
 
 " I know what the Bible saji-s," she answered, somewhat 
 
212 ON THE BOKDEK. 
 
 impatiently, " but I have given you my answer, — I cannot 
 be your wife again." 
 
 " But wont ye let me go wi' ye ? " lie said, after a pause, 
 and in pleading tones, — " not to be yer husband ; but to be 
 nigh ye, — whar I kin see ye, and work fur ye, and know yer 
 happy? Somehow, I carn't stand up and be a man, when 
 I'se away from ye, Rachel ; I haint no backbone. I fall into 
 bad ways, and I shill be lost, body and soul, — I knows I shill 
 be lost, if I carn't be nigh ye, see ye once in a while, and 
 know ye think a little uv him as cares more fur ye nor he 
 does for all the rest uv creaytion." 
 
 Her words had a harsh, gritty tone, as if she had steeled 
 her mind with a fixed purpose, when she answered, — 
 
 "No, Bradley, we each must stand alone. The sight of 
 you is a trial to me ; it brings back things I would forget ; 
 makes me discontented with the lot my own folly has made 
 for me. We cannot live near one another ! " 
 
 He di*ew a long breath, and his ruddy face took on a deathly 
 pallor, as with these words his last hope went out, and he saw 
 stretching before him a lonely, dreary lifetime. It was many 
 minutes before he spoke ; then, in a low, tremulous voice, he 
 answered, — 
 
 " God forgive ye, Rachel ! May ye never know what it ar' 
 to love only one thing in the world, and to hev that one thing 
 turn inter an icicle ! " 
 
 Her face was as pallid as his ; but she made no reply, and 
 in another hour, during which neither spoke, they parted at 
 the door-way of the mean public house at Paintville. 
 
 The negroes were soon housed in a deserted building, in 
 which Brown had fitted up rude but comfortable quarters, 
 
THE R K M O V A L . 213 
 
 and the same day they began loading their household goods 
 upon one of the uncouth flat-boats he had chartered for their 
 voyage down the river. It was tedious work ; for they han- 
 dled each poor article of furniture as if it had been a piece 
 of porcelain; but by midnight all was on board, and they 
 went back to their quarters, to patiently await the coming of 
 Jordan. 
 
 In the morning he came, and, hearing of the presence of the 
 negroes, went at once to the landing. There he was met by 
 Brown, who explained to him all his arrangements. 
 
 " You have managed admirably, Mr. Brown. How much 
 money have you expended ? " said Jordan, drawing out a 
 leathern wallet. 
 
 " I haint kep' no 'count," answered Brown, " and I carn't 
 tuck no pay ; I warn't to do this much fur ye, — ye kep' my 
 wife from starvin'." 
 
 "Never mind that; I would rather pay you, though the 
 negroes have none too much to set them a-going in Ohio." 
 
 " Wall, let it go fur them, then ; 'taint much, and they's a 
 decent set uv darkies.'*' 
 
 Jordan thanked him, and then Brown, holding out his 
 hand, said, — 
 
 " Good-by, Mr. Jordan. If I kin ever do ye a good turn, 
 I'll do it. Brad. Brown never forgets a kind thing, if he ar' 
 a drunken critter." 
 
 " Where are you going ? " asked Jordan. " Wont you 
 come with us, and help me get the flat down the river ? I 
 know nothing of navigation." 
 
 " No, Mr. Jordan, I carn't. Thar's been a exchange, and I 
 must go back to the rebels." 
 
214 (» N THE B O R 1) K It . 
 
 " ils'ot to fiHit ai^ain against the Union ? "" 
 
 o o o 
 
 "I never font, — I only stole I "' said Brown, bitterly; 
 *' but now, I reckon, I'll guv up stealiu', and go to foutin' ; 
 fur it'll keep me busj^, and ar' man's business." 
 
 " I am sorry, — 3'ou will figlit against your fi-iends and 
 your country." 
 
 " Friends ! I haint no friends, Mr. Jordan ; and as for the 
 kentry, it'r which and t'other whoever whips. The durned 
 'ristocrats'll rule, whether it'r rebel or Union ; and a pore 
 man haint no chance with nuther." 
 
 '• That is too true — on this side of the border," said Jor- 
 dan ; " but why not go to Ohio with Rachel ? " 
 
 " Kachel ! Don't ye speak uv thet ! She's said a'ready she 
 warn't willin'. Good-by, jNIr. Jordan." 
 
 Saying this, he turned and walked rapidly away from the 
 landing. 
 
 At the stable of the tavern, where he went for the horse 
 he had ridden from Piketon, and which, if the truth must 
 be told, still rightfully belonged in that vicinity, he was met 
 by the old negro. 
 
 " Whar am you a-gwine, Massa Brown ? " asked Ezekiel, 
 as he saw him preparing to mount the animal. 
 
 "To the devil, 'Zeke, — put a beggar on horseback, ye 
 knows, and he's shore to go thar." 
 
 " Yas ; 'Zeke knows," answered the old black, laughing ; 
 " but you haint a beggar, Massa Brown ; nor you wont be, 
 so long as you keep dis ; " and he drew the bag of gold from 
 his capacious pocket. 
 
 " Then your missus wont keep it ? " said Brown, bitterly. 
 
 "No, Massa Brown. But 'taint dat, — 'taint 'case she 
 
THE K E M O V A L. 215 
 
 don't loike you, :Massa Brown. It'm 'case we's enuff wid 
 lier IuukIs and 'Zeke's,— and p'raps wid dis you kin git 
 anodor homo and anoder "ooman." 
 
 Brown said not a word, but, leaning over liis saddle-bow, 
 took the bag of money, and then, burying the rowels in the 
 flanks of his horse, turned up the mountain road that led to 
 the rebel camp which again was forming at Piketon. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 A TRIAL AND A TEMPTATION. 
 
 N the following morning the negroes were embarked 
 on an empty flat-boat that was moored to the dock 
 near their lodgings, and, going upon another, which 
 was freighted with their household goods, Jordan, 
 his mother, Eachel, and the mare, " Beauty," set out on the 
 voyage down the river. Their way was slow, for the water 
 was low, and the channel narrow and difficult of navigation ; 
 but at nightfall they rounded-to at the wharf at George's 
 Creek, only thirty miles from the longed-for Ohio. Here 
 Jordan went on shore to gather further information about the 
 river, before venturing down by moonlight. He was away only 
 half an hour, but, on his return to the boats, found them 
 in possession of a squad of soldiers, and the negroes huddled 
 together, like frightened sheep, upon the landing. As he 
 approached, Ezekiel, his furrowed face wet with tears, came 
 forward to meet him. 
 
 '^ It'r all up, Massa John," he said ; " all up. Read dese. 
 "We muss go back inter bondage." 
 
 Jordan glanced at the two papers the black handed him. 
 One was a writ from the court of Johnson county, restraining 
 him, or any other person, from removing out of the State cer- 
 f216) 
 
A TRIAL AND A TEMPTATION. 217 
 
 tain negroes, who were claimed as the property of Jackson 
 Weddington, Esquire. This was signed by Judge Cecil. 
 The other was an order to the same effect, addressed, " To 
 all whom it may concern ; " and this was signed by " William 
 Nelson, Commander of the Department of East Kentucky." 
 This last made no mention of Jordan, which rendered it 
 probable that the general had given it in ignorance of 
 his connection with the negroes. Both bore date ten days 
 previously, showing that, with a refinement of cruelty worthy 
 of savages, the men-hunters had purposely delayed the ex- 
 ecution of the papers until the blacks had removed their little 
 store of worldly wealth, and were almost within sight of their 
 long-hoped-for freedom. 
 
 Jordan's first thought was to go to Nelson, at Louisville, 
 and, by an appeal to his humanity, induce him to countermand 
 his order ; but Nelson was strongly pro-slavery in sentiment. 
 He feared the war would induce a stampede among the ne- 
 groes of Kentucky, and this was a first step in that direction. 
 Besides, he would not be likely to annul the order of a court, 
 the reestablishing of which had been a part of his plan for 
 pacifying the district. 
 
 Uncertain what to do, Jordan was turning away to take 
 counsel of himself in silent reflection, when his arm was 
 touched lightly by the young officer in command of the squad 
 of soldiers. 
 
 " Mr. Jordan," he said, " this is unpleasant business ; but 
 my orders are strict, — these negroes must be at the head of 
 Blaine by this hour to-morrow morning." 
 
 " By to-morrow morning ! " exclaimed Jordan. " You cer- 
 tainly can't mean that these women and children, half-clad as 
 19 
 
218 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 they are, shall be made to march twenty miles over the frozen 
 ground, on such a night as this, in winter ! " 
 
 " Those are my orders, — they are strict ; the negroes must 
 he at the Weddington plantation by daylight to-morrow. 
 And I must tell you further, Mr. Jordan, my orders are 
 to scuttle and sink both of the boats. I will give you two 
 hours to remove the furniture." 
 
 " Very well, sir," said Jordan, without turning round. 
 " That is enough. Come, 'Zekiel, and bring every man and 
 woman with you." 
 
 The negroes ceased their lamentations, and, going to work 
 with a will, soon had the furniture unladen, and stowed away 
 under the roof of a half-vacant building which served as a 
 storehouse for passing steamers. Then the soldiers scuttled 
 and sunk the boats ; and then, escorted by the whole squad, 
 now mounted on stout horses, the old negro led his flock back 
 into the w^ilderness. 
 
 "When the}' had gone, Jordan applied at every one of the 
 half-dozen houses which compose the little hamlet, to get 
 lodgings for his mother and Rachel ; but at none of them 
 could they be admitted. Jordan was kno\^Ti to be a Union 
 man, proscribed, and under sentence of death by the Con- 
 federates, and not one of the inhabitants would risk the 
 ^Tath of the rebels, — who, it was rumored, were gradually 
 driving the Union troops from the mouth of the river, — 
 by giving shelter to the two houseless women with whom he 
 was connected. 
 
 With a heavy heart he went back to the storehouse. 
 There was no fire, and no means of making one in the 
 building ; but opening the negroes' stores, he spread before 
 
A TRIAL AND A TEMPTATION. 219 
 
 the two women a scanty meal, and then arranged for them a 
 bed in the most sheltered comer of the storehouse. When 
 this was done, he went out upon the landing to get strength, 
 
 — strength from the Source that never faileth. For the first 
 time in his life, his mental vision was clouded, and his heart, 
 as it were, lead in his bosom. 
 
 The freedom of these negroes had been the great purpose 
 of his father s life, and his own dream from early boyhood. 
 Often had the old Scotchman said to him, as year after year 
 he had gone on with the well-nigh hopeless legal struggle, — 
 
 " John, I may not live to get through it ; but don't you 
 die till you see these poor j^eople safely settled in Ohio." 
 
 This the boy had promised, and when, after long years, 
 he had set about carrying the promise into execution, he felt 
 that he was doing that for which the brave old man, who had 
 given his life for him, would, when they should meet in an- 
 other world, bless him. But now all his plans were crushed, 
 
 — crushed by his own friends, — by the very man whom he 
 had aided to what many a soldier values most, — reputation ; 
 and who had professed to owe him a lasting debt of grati- 
 tude. As he thought of all this, a feeling of bitterness came 
 over him, and for a moment his heart wavered in its love — 
 pure and unselfish till now — for his State and his Country. 
 Why should he spend his strength for such returns ? ^Vhy 
 give his time, perhaps his life, to secure peace and safety to a 
 people who seemed destitute of every feeling of justice and 
 humanity ? 
 
 The night was dark and cold. A thin coat of snow covered 
 the ground, and a misty veil of clouds shrouded the sky, 
 letting the stars shine but dimly. But in the cold and the 
 
220 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 darkness lie stood there, now looking up at the sky, and now 
 down along the windings of the gloomy river. At last he 
 sank to his knees, his hands clenche'd together, and his head 
 bent downward. Long he prayed, pleading with God as a 
 child pleads with its father ; asking help, guidance, and 
 strength to do the work which it was his to do for his coun- 
 try. 
 
 As he finished, a soft arm wound itself about his neck, and 
 a wavy head sank down on his shoulder. Kneeling beside him 
 was Rachel. 
 
 " John ! " she said, " I know it all. I know how you 
 feel. I know you are throwing your strength and your life 
 away. But let us go, —•let us go to some free State where 
 we can live in peace together. I will go with you ; I will be 
 your wife. You shall never know a care or a sorrow ; " and 
 she pressed her cheek against his, and clung to him with a 
 strange, convulsive energy. He put his arm about her, and, 
 bending down, kissed her on the forehead. Then he rose to 
 his feet, and, putting away her soft brown hair, drew her 
 gently to him. 
 
 " I knew the truth would come to you, Rachel," he said, 
 tenderly ; " but it can't be in this world ; it will be in the 
 other. Then you will be mine forever." 
 
 "And why not in this world, John?" she said. "Only 
 he is in the way, and the law will free me from him to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " Yes, I know ; " and now, with his great hand he gently 
 stroked her forehead. " But I have work to do, Rachel ; work 
 which I must do, to stand where you would have me when 
 I change this world for the other. That work I can't do, if 
 
A TRIAL AND A TEMPTATION. 221 
 
 my little girl is with me; — can't do, unless she learns to 
 stand alone and be a true woman." 
 
 ^' But I can't stand alone, John. I can't live without you. 
 I so long for you, at times, that it seems I shall die if you are 
 kept from me any longer." 
 
 " And so do I for you, Kachel ; but I go to God, and he 
 gives me strength, — strength to do my work, and to bear all 
 He lays upon me. Go to Him, my darling ! " 
 
 Her arms twined again about his waist, and her head sank 
 again upon his shoulder ; and so they stood there for many 
 minutes, neither of them speaking. At last she looked up, 
 and said, — 
 
 " John, I ivill pray ; I will try to be a true woman." 
 "You are my own Rachel," he said, bending down, and 
 again placing his lips to her forehead. " You are my own 
 Rachel, and there will be a recompense for all this, — for all 
 this, in the hereafter." 
 
 The next morning, mounting Rachel and his mother on the 
 back of " Beauty," Jordan led them slowly and wearily back 
 to the little cabin among the mountains. There he remained 
 for a fortnight, superintending, at first, the bringing back of 
 the household goods of the negroes, and then lying out in the 
 woods, to escape the murderous gangs of rebels, who again 
 were overrunning the whole district. 
 
 Then a new actor appeared on the scene, and Jordan was 
 again able to do some service to his State and Country. This 
 new actor was a young Ohio officer, who now took command 
 of the Union forces in Eastern Kentucky. 
 19* 
 
CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 A NEVt ACTOR ON THE SCENE. 
 
 ^^qjjHIS young officer had a character that peculiarly fit- 
 
 0, (^1 ted him for the arduous work which was before 
 
 ^;,r^: whoever attempted to retrieve the fortunes of the 
 
 '-^^es^: Union arms in Eastern Kentucky. 
 
 Born in a log hut, in the depths of the Ohio wilderness, he 
 was the younger son of a poor widow, and his early life had 
 been one of great hardship and poverty. Until he was six- 
 teen, he gained a livelihood by working on a farm, and in a 
 dry saltern, doing odd jobs of carpentering, and by driving 
 the horses of a boat on the Ohio and Pennsylvania Canal. 
 While on the canal, he fell in with another boy, some years 
 his senior, who was named Bradley Brown, and whose disso- 
 lute habits might have led him into bad courses, had not a 
 singular event occurred, which changed the whole current of 
 his life, and turned a new page in his history. This event 
 was a narrow escape from drowning. 
 
 One rainy midnight, as the boat on which he was employed 
 was leaving one of those long reaches of slackwater which 
 abound in the Ohio and Pennsylvania Canal, the boy was 
 called out of his berth to take his turn in tending the bow- 
 line. Tumbling out of bed, his eyes heavy with sleep, he 
 
 (222) 
 
A \ i: ^V' A C T U H O N T H K S C K N E . 22C) 
 
 took his stand on tlie narrow platform below the bow deck, 
 and began uncoiling a rope to steady the boat tlirough a lock 
 it was approaching. Slowly and sleepily he unwound the 
 coil, till it knotted, and caught in a narrow cleft in the edge 
 of the deck. He gave it a sudden pull, but it held fast ; 
 then another and a stronger pull, and it gave way, but sent 
 him over the bow of the boat into the water. Down he went 
 into the dark night and the still darker river; and the boat 
 glided on, to bury him among the fishes. No human help 
 was near. God only could save him, and he only by a mira- 
 cle. So the boy thought as he went do>\^n, saying the prayer 
 his mother had taught him. Instinctively clutching the 
 rope, he sank below the surface : but then it tightened in his 
 grasp and held firmly. Seizing it hand over hand, he drew 
 himself up on deck, and was again a live boy among the liv- 
 ing. Another kink had caught in another crevice and saved 
 him. Was it that prayer, or the love of his praying mother, 
 which wrought this miracle? The boy did not know, but 
 long after the boat had passed the lock, he stood there, in his 
 dripping clothes, pondering the question. 
 
 Coiling the rope, he tried to throw it again into the crevice ; 
 but it had lost the knack of kinking. Many times he tried, 
 — six hundred, says my informant, — and then sat down, 
 and reflected. 
 
 "I have thrown this rope," he said to himself, "six hun- 
 dred times ; I might throw it ten times as many without its 
 catching. Ten times six hundred are six thousand; so there 
 were six thousand chances against my life. Against such 
 iidds, Providence only could have saved it. Providence, 
 therefore, thinks it worth saving; and if that's so, I wont 
 
224 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 throw it away on a canal-boat. I'll go home, get an educa- 
 tion, and become a man." 
 
 Straightway he acted on the resolution, and not long after- 
 ward stood before his mother's log cottage in the Cuyahoga 
 wilderness. It was late at night, the stars were out, and the 
 moon was down ; but . by the fire-light, tliat came through 
 the window, he saw his mother kneeling before an open book, 
 which k}^ on a chair in the corner. She was reading, but her 
 eyes were off the page, looking up to the Invisible. 
 
 " Oh, turn unto me," she said, " and have mercy upon me ! 
 give Thy strength unto Thy servant, and save the son of 
 Thine handmaid ! " 
 
 More she read, which sounded like a prayer, but this is all 
 that the boy remembers. 
 
 He opened the door, put his arm about her neck, and his 
 head upon her bosom. What words he said I do not know ; 
 but there, by her side, he gave back to God the life which he 
 had given. So the mother's prayer was answered. So sprang 
 up the seed which in toil and tears she had planted. 
 
 Then the boy went to work in earnest. With a saw and a 
 jack-plane he fitted himself for college ; and, borrowing 
 money upon a policy of insurance on his life, partly worked 
 and partly paid his way through an eastern university. At 
 the age of twenty-four he graduated, a man, with a body 
 hardened by toil, and a mind strengthened and energized by 
 early struggles, and a fixed purpose — born of his experience 
 on that rainy midnight — to give aU his strength and aU his 
 life to the work that fell to him for God and humanity. 
 
 The blood of the Ballous was in his veins ; so at first he 
 took to preaching, as naturally as a duck takes to water ; but 
 
A NEW A C T O K ON THE SCENE. 225 
 
 soon he was made President of the Collegiate Institute at 
 Hiram, Ohio, and within three years was elected to the Sen- 
 ate of his native State. A man of nearly thirty, he was serv- 
 ing in that body when the war broke out, and it was he who 
 sprang to his feet, when the President's call for seventy-five 
 thousand men was announced to the Ohio Senate, and, amid 
 the tumultuous acclamations of the assemblage, moved that 
 twenty thousand troops and three millions of money should 
 at once be voted as the quota of the State. 
 
 Not many months afterward Governor Dennison offered 
 him command of a regiment. He went home, opened his 
 mother's Bible, and pondered upon the subject. He had a 
 wife, a child, and a few thousand dollars. If he gave his life to 
 the country, would God and the few thousand dollars provide 
 for his wife and child ? He consulted the Book about it. It 
 seemed to answer in the affirmative, and before morning he 
 wrote to a friend, — 
 
 "I regard my life as given to the country. I am only 
 anxious to make as much of it as possible before the mortgage 
 on it is foreclosed." 
 
 To this man, who thus went into the war with a life not 
 his own, was given, on the 20th of December, 1861, command 
 of aU the Union troops in Eastern Kentucky ; and thus it was 
 that he became an actor in our brief history. 
 
 He knew nothing of war beyond its fundamental principles ; 
 which are, I believe, that a big boy can whip a little boy, and 
 that one big boy can whip two little boys, if he take them 
 singly, one after the other. 
 
 He knew no more about it, and yet he was selected by 
 General Buell — one of the most scientific military men of his 
 
226 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 time — to solve a problem which has puzzled the heads of 
 the ablest generals ; namely, how two small bodies of men, 
 stationed widely apart, can unite in the face of an enemy 
 and beat him, when he is of twice their united strength, 
 and strongly posted behind intrenchments. With the helj) 
 of many " good men and true " he solved this problem ; and 
 in telling how he solved it, I shall resume the direct thread of 
 my narrative. 
 
 In the months of October and November, this graduate 
 from the Ohio and Pennsylvania Canal, with the aid of Judge 
 Sheldon, of Elyria, Don A. Pardee, of Medina, Ralph Plumb, 
 of Oberlin, and other patriotic citizens of his district, had 
 raised the Forty-second Regiment of Ohio Volunteers. 
 Taking its command, he repaired with it to Camp Chase, 
 and at once set vigorously to work to master the art and mys- 
 ter}" of war, and to give to his men such a degree of discipline 
 as would fit them for effective ser^-ice in the field. Bringing 
 his saw and jack-j^lane again into play, he fashioned com- 
 panies, officers, and non-commissioned officers out of maple 
 blocks, and, with these wooden-headed troops, thoroughly mas- 
 tered the infantry tactics in his quarters. Then he organized 
 a school for the officers of his regiment, requiring thorough 
 recitation in the tactics, and illustrating the manoeuvres by 
 the blocks he had prepared for his own instruction. This 
 done, he instituted regimental, company, squad, skirmish, and 
 bayonet drill, and kept his men at these exercises from six 
 to eight hours a day, until it was universally admitted that 
 no better drilled or disciplined regiment could be found in 
 Ohio. 
 
 While thus employed, he was suddenly ordered to move his 
 
A NEW ACTOR ON T H K S C K N K . 227 
 
 regiment, by the way of Cincinnati, to Catlettsburg, Kentucky, 
 a town at tlie junction of the Big Sandy and the Ohio, and 
 to report immediately, in person, to the department head- 
 quarters at Louisville. Arriving at Louisville just at sunset 
 on the 19th of December, he at once sought an interview 
 with General Buell, and was told by that officer that he 
 was to be sent against the rebel General Humphrey Marshall, 
 who had invaded Eastern Kentucky, from the Virginia bor- 
 der, and had already advanced as far north as Prestonburg, 
 driving the small Union force before him. 
 
 How many men Marshall had was not known ; but he was 
 rapidly gathering an army, and, if unmolested, would soon 
 have a large force, with which he could hang on Buell's flank, 
 and so prevent his advance into Tennessee, or, if he did ad- 
 vance, cut off his communications, and, falling on fiis rear, 
 while Beauregard encountered him in front, crush him, as it 
 were, between the upper and nether millstones. This done, 
 Kentucky was lost, and that, occurring so early in the war, 
 the dissolution of the Union might have followed. 
 
 To check this dangerous advance, meet Marshall — a thor- 
 oughly educated military man — and the uncounted hordes 
 whom his reputation would draw about him, the inexperienced 
 Ohio colonel was offered — what ? Twenty -five hundred men, 
 — eleven hundred of whom, under Colonel Cranor, were at 
 Paris, Kentucky, the remainder — his own regiment, and the 
 half-formed Fourteenth Kentucky, under Colonel ^Nloore — at 
 Catlettsburg ; a hundred miles of mountain country, overrun 
 with rebels, being between them ! This was the problem of 
 the big boy, — of uncertain size, but known to be skilled in 
 war, — and the two little boys, who were to whip him, when, 
 
228 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 only by a miracle, could they act together, and when they 
 knew no more of war than can be learned from the posturing 
 of wooden blocks, and the crack, perhaps, of squirrel rifles. 
 
 " That is what you have to do. Colonel Garfield, — drive 
 Marshall from Kentucky," said Buell, when he had finished 
 his view of the situation ; " and you see how much depends 
 on your action. Now, go to your quarters, think of it over 
 night, and come here in the morning, and tell me how you 
 will do it." 
 
 On the way to his hotel, the 3'oung colonel bought a rude 
 map of Kentucky, and then, shutting himself in his room, 
 spent the night in studying the geography of the country in 
 which he was to operate, and in making notes of the plan 
 which in the still hours came to him as the only one feasible, 
 and likely to secure the objects of the campaign. 
 
 His interview with the commanding general, on the follow- 
 ing morning, was, as may be imagined, one of peculiar inter- 
 est. Few army officers possess more reticence, terse logic, 
 and severe military habits than General Buell, and as the 
 young man laid his rude map and roughly-outlined plan on 
 his table, and, with a curious and anxious face, watched his 
 features to detect some indication of his thought, the scene 
 was one for a painter. But no word or look indicated the 
 commander's opinion of the feasibility of the plan, or the 
 good sense of the suggestions. He spoke, now and then, in a 
 quiet, sententious manner, but said nothing of approval or 
 disapproval ; only, at the close of the conference, he did make 
 the single remark, — 
 
 " Your orders will be sent to you at six o'clock this even- 
 ing." 
 
A NEW ACTOR ON THE SCENE. 229 
 
 Promptly at that hour the order came, organizing the 
 Eighteenth Brigade of tlie Army of the Ohio, Colonel 
 Garfield commanding ; and with the order came a letter of 
 instructions, in Buell's own hand, giving general directions for 
 the campaign, and recapitulating, with very slight modifica- 
 tions, the plan submitted by Garfield. On the following morn- 
 ing ho took leave of his general, and the latter said to him, 
 at parting, — 
 
 " Colonel, you will be at so great a distance from me, and 
 communication will be so slow and difficult, that I must com- 
 mit all matters of detail, and much of the fate of the cam- 
 paign, to your discretion. I shall hope to hear a good account 
 of you." 
 
 Garfield set out at once for Catlettsburg, and, arriving 
 there on the twenty-second day of December, found his regi- 
 ment had already proceeded to Louisa, — twenty-eight miles 
 up the Big Sandy. 
 
 A state of general alarm existed throughout the district. 
 The Fourteenth Kentucky — the only force of Union troops 
 left in the Big Sandy region — had been stationed at Louisa ; 
 but had hastily retreated to the mouth of the river during the 
 night of the nineteenth, under the impression that Marshall, 
 with his whole force, was following to drive them into the 
 Ohio. Union citizens and their families were preparing to 
 cross the river for safety ; but with the appearance of Gar- 
 field's regiment a feeling of security returned, and this was 
 increased when it was seen that the Union troops boldly 
 pushed on to Louisa, without even waiting for their colonel. 
 This, however, was only in pursuance of orders he had tel- 
 egraphed on the morning after he had formed the plan of the 
 20 
 
230 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 campaign by midnight, in his dingy quarters at the hotel in 
 Louisville. 
 
 Waiting at Catlettsburg only long enough to forward sup- 
 plies to his forces, Garfield appeared at Louisa on the morn- 
 ing of the twenty-fourth of December, and thenceforward he 
 became an actor, in all its circumstances considered, one of 
 the most wonderful dramas to be read of in history. 
 
CHAPTER XYII 
 
 COMMUNICATIONS OPENED. 
 
 ARFIELD had two very difficult things to accom- 
 plish. He had to open communications with Colonel 
 Cranor, while the intervening country, as has been 
 said, was infested with roving bands of rebels, and 
 filled with a disloj-al people. He had also to form a junc- 
 tion with the force under that officer, in the face of a su- 
 perior enemy, who would, doubtless, be apprised of his every 
 movement, and be likely to fall upon his separate columns 
 the moment that e-ither was set in motion, in the hope of 
 crushing them in detail. Either operation was hazardous, if 
 not well-nigh impossible. 
 
 Evidently the first thing to be done was to find a trust- 
 worthy messenger to convey despatches between the two 
 halves of his army. To this end, Garfield applied to Colonel 
 Moore, of the Fourteenth Kentucky. 
 
 . "Have you a man," he asked, "who will die rather than 
 fail or betray us ? " 
 
 The Kentuckian reflected a moment, then answered, — 
 " I think I have. John Jordan, from the head of Blaine." 
 Jordan was sent for, and soon entered the tent of the Un- 
 ion commander. The young colonel was at once impressed 
 
 (231) 
 
232 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 with his appearance. He describes him as a tall, gaunt, sal- 
 low man, of about thirt}', with gray eyes, a fine falsetto voice, 
 pitched in the minor key, and a face which had as many ex- 
 pressions as could be found in a regiment. 
 
 To him he seemed a strange combination of cunning, sim- 
 plicitj^, undaunted courage, and undoubting faith, but pos- 
 sessed of a quaint sort of wisdom, which ought to have given 
 him to history. He sounded him thoroughly, for the fate of 
 the campaign might depend on his fidelity ; but Jordan's soul 
 was as clear as crystal, and in ten minutes the young colonel 
 had read it as if it had been an open volume. 
 
 " Why did you come into the war ? " at last asked the 
 commander. 
 
 " To do my 23art for the country, colonel," answered Jor- 
 dan ; " and I made no terms with the Lord : I gave him my life 
 without conditions, and if he sees fit to take it on this tramp, 
 why, it is his. I have nothing to say against it." 
 
 " You mean that you have come into the war not expect- 
 ing to get out of it ? " 
 
 " I do, colonel." 
 
 " Will you die rather than let the despatch be taken ? " 
 
 "IwiU." 
 
 The colonel recalled what had passed in his own mind 
 when poring over his mother's Bible that night at his home 
 in Ohio ; and it decided him. 
 
 " Very well," he said, " I will trust you." 
 
 The despatch was written on tissue-paper, rolled into the 
 form of a bullet, coated with warm lead, and put into the 
 hand of Jordan. He was given a carbine, and a brace of 
 revolvers, and, mounting his mare when the moon was down, 
 
C O M >r I- N I C A T I O X S O P E N' K D . 233 
 
 ho started on liis perilous journey. He was to ride at night, 
 and hide in the woods, or in the houses of loyal men, in the 
 day t inn*. 
 
 It was pitch dark when he set out, but he knew every inch 
 of the wa}', having travelled it often, driving mules to mar- 
 ket. He had gone twenty miles by early dawn, and the 
 cabin of Rachel was only a few miles beyond him. His 
 mother was there, and there he would hide till nightfall. He 
 pushed on, and tethered "Beauty" in the timber; but it was 
 broad day when he rapped at the door and was admitted. 
 He was received joyfully, and, after breakfast, was con- 
 ducted by Rachel to the guest-chamber, where, lying down in 
 his boots, he soon fell into a deep slumber. 
 
 The house, as has been said, was a log .cabin in the midst 
 of a few acres of deadning, — ground from which trees have 
 been cleared by girdling. Dense woods were all about it; 
 but the nearest forest was a quarter of a mile distant, and had 
 Jordan been tracked, it would be difficult to get away over 
 this open space, unless he had warning of the approach of his 
 pursuers. Rachel thought of this, and sent Ezekiel up the 
 road, on the old mule, to watch and give warning. It was 
 high noon when the mule came back, his heels striking fire, 
 and the old man's eyes flashing, as if ignited from the sparks 
 the steel had emitted. 
 
 " Dey'm comin', missus," he cried, — -' not half a mile away, 
 — twenty Secesh, — ridin' as ef de debil was arter 'em ! " 
 
 Mi-s. Jordan was paralyzed, but Rachel barred the door, 
 and hastened to the guest-chamber. 
 
 "Go," she cried, "through the window, — to the woods. 
 They'll be here in a minute ! " 
 
234 ON THE B « > R D E H . 
 
 " How many of them ? " asked Jordan, rising to his 
 feet. 
 
 '' Twenty. Go — go at once, or you'll be taken." 
 
 " Yes, I hear them. There's a sorry chance for my life, al- 
 ready. But, Rachel, I've that about me that is worth more 
 than my life ; that, it may be, will save Kentucky. If I'm 
 killed, will you take it to Colonel Cranor, at McCormick's 
 Gap ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I wiU. But go ; you've not a moment to lose, I 
 tell 3^ou." 
 
 " I know ; but do you promise to take this to Colonel Cra- 
 nor, before the Lord who hears us ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I do," she cried, clutching the bullet. But 
 horses' hoofs were already sounding in the door-yard. " Oh, 
 it's too late ! " she cried, wTinging her hands. " Why did you 
 stop to parley ? " 
 
 '•]S"ever mind, Rachel," answered Jordan. "Don't feel 
 badly. Take care of the despatch. Value it like your life, — 
 like Kentucky. The Lord is calling for me, and I am 
 ready." 
 
 He was mistaken. It was not the Lord, but a dozen devils 
 at the door-way. 
 
 " What do you want ? " said Rachel, in answer to the sum- 
 mons from outside. 
 
 " The man as came from Garfield's camp at sun-up," an- 
 swered a voice ; " John Jordan, from the head of Blaine." 
 
 " He's not to be taken alive," said Jordan. " Go away, or 
 some of you are dead men." 
 
 " Pshaw ! " said another, — one of the chivalry. " There 
 are twenty of us, Jordan. We'll spare your life if you 
 
COMMUNICATIONS O T K N K I) . 2o5 
 
 give up the despatcli ; if you don't, we'll hang you higher 
 than Haman." 
 
 The reader will bear in mind that this was in the begin- 
 ning of the war, when swarms of spies infested every Union 
 camp, and treason was only a gentlemanly pastime, not the 
 serious business it was before traitors were dangerous. 
 
 " I've nothing but my life that I will give up," answered 
 "Jordan, " and if you take that, you will have to pay its price, 
 — at least six of yours." 
 
 " Fire the house ! " shouted one. 
 
 "No, don't do that," said another. "I know him, — he's 
 cl'ar grit, — he'll die in the ashes ; and we wont git the de- 
 spatch." 
 
 This sort of talk went on for half an hour, all which while 
 the mother of Jordan was by her bedside, bent down in 
 prayer. 
 
 At last there came a dead silence, and Rachel went into the 
 loft, whence she could see all that was passing on the outside. 
 About a dozen of the horsemen were posted around the house ; 
 but the remainder, dismounted, had gone to the edge of the 
 wood, and were felling a well-grown sapling, with the evi- 
 dent intention of using it as a battering-ram to break down 
 the front door. 
 
 Coming down from the attic, Rachel, in a low tone, ex- 
 plained the situation, and, after a moment's reflection, Jordan 
 said, — 
 
 " It is my only chance. I must run for it. Bring me a 
 red shawl, Rachel." 
 
 She had none, but she had a petticoat of flaming red and 
 yellow. This she brought, and, handling it as if he knew 
 
236 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 liow such articles can be made to spread, Jordan softly un- 
 barred the door, and said, in a low whisper, — 
 
 " Good-by, mother. Good-by, Rachel. It's a right sorry 
 chance ; but I may get through. If I do, I'll be in the 
 w^oods to-night ; if I don't, take the despatch to Colonel Cra/- 
 nor. Good-by." 
 
 The barn stood to the right of the house, midway between 
 it and the wood. That way lay the route of Jordan. If he 
 could elude the two mounted men at the door-way, he might 
 escape the other horsemen, for they would have to spring two 
 barn-yard fences, and their horses might refuse the leap. But 
 it was fool of man against leg of horse, and " a right sorry 
 chance." 
 
 He grasped Rachel by the hand, then suddenly opened the 
 door, and dashed at the two horses with the petticoat. They 
 reared, wheeled, and bounded away like lightning just let out 
 of harness. 
 
 In the time that it takes to tell it, he was over the first 
 fence, and scaling the second ; but a horseman was making 
 the leap with him. Jordan's pistol went off, and the rebel's 
 earthly journey was over. Another followed, and his horse 
 fell mortall}^ wounded. 
 
 The rest made the circuit of the barn-yard, and were rods 
 behind when Jordan reached the edge of the forest. Once 
 among those thick laurels, nor horse nor rider can reach a man, 
 if he lies low, and says his prayers in a whisper. 
 
 The rebels bore the body of their dead comrade to the barn, 
 and one of them, going to the house, said to Rachel, — 
 
 "We'll be revenged for this. We know the route he'U 
 take, and will have his life before to-morrow; and you, — 
 
COMMUNICATIONS OPENED. 237 
 
 we'd burn your house over your head, if you weren't the wife 
 of Brad. Brown." 
 
 " And he ? " asked Kachel ; " is he among you again ? " 
 " Yes, he's enlisted, like an honest man, with Marshall." 
 Soon the rebels rode awa}', taking Eachel's only wagon as 
 a hearse for their dead comrade. 
 
 Night came, and the owls cried in the woods in a way they 
 had not cried for a fortnight. " T'whoot, t'whoot ! " they 
 went, as if they thought there was music in hooting. Rachel 
 listened, put on a dark mantle, and followed the sound of 
 their voices. Entering the wood, she crept in among the 
 bushes, and talked with one of the owls as if he had been 
 human. 
 
 " They know the road you'll take," she said ; " you must 
 change your route. Here is the bullet." 
 
 " God bless you, Rachel," responded the owl ; " you are a 
 true woman ; " and he hooted louder than before, to deceive 
 pursuers, and keep up the music. 
 " Is " Beauty " safe ? " she asked. 
 " Yes, and good for forty miles before sun-up." 
 " Well, here is something to eat ; you'll need it. Good-by, 
 and God be with you." 
 
 " He be with you, for he loves true women." 
 Their hands clasped, and then they parted ; he to his long 
 ride, she to the quiet sleep of those who, out of a true heart, 
 serve their country. 
 
 The night was dark and drizzly, but before morning the 
 clouds cleared away, leaving a thick mist hanging low on the 
 meadows. Jordan's mare was fleet, but the road was rough, 
 and a slosh of snow impeded the travel. He had come by a 
 
238 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 strange wa}'^, and did not know hov\- far he had travelled by 
 sunrise ; but lights were ahead, shivering in the haze of the 
 cold, gray morning. Were they the early candles of some 
 peaceful village, or the camp-fires of a band of guerillas ? 
 He did not know, and it would not be safe to go on till he 
 did know. The road was lined with trees, but they offered 
 no shelter, for they were far apart, and the snow lay white 
 between them. He was in an "opening" of the blue-grass 
 region. Leading " Beauty " into the timber, he climbed a tall 
 tree by the road-side, but the mist was too thick to admit of 
 his discerning anything distinctly. 
 
 The fog, however, seemed to be breaking away, and he 
 would wait until the road was clear before him ; so he sat 
 there one hour, two hours, and ate his breakfast from the 
 satchel Kachel had slung over his shoulder. 
 
 At last the mist lifted a little, and he saw close at hand a 
 small hamlet, — a few rude huts clustered about a cross-road. 
 No danger could lurk in such a place, and he was about to 
 descend and pursue his journey, when suddenly he heard, up 
 the road by which he had come, the rapid tramp of a body of 
 horsemen. The mist was thicker below, and might conceal 
 him ; so half-way down the tree he went and awaited their 
 coming. They moved at an irregular pace, carrying lanterns, 
 and pausing every now and then to inspect the road, as if 
 they had missed their way, or lost something. Soon they 
 came near, and were dimly outlined in the gray mist, so that 
 Jordan could make out their number. There were thirty of 
 them, — the original band, — and a reinforcement. Again 
 they halted when abreast of the tree, and searched the road 
 narrowlv. 
 
COMMUNICATIONS OPENED. 239 
 
 " He must liave come this way," said one, — he of the 
 chivalry. " The other road is six miles longer, and he would 
 take the shortest. It's an awful pity we didn't head him on 
 both routes, just this side of the clearing." 
 
 " We kin come up with him yit, if we turn jjlumb round, 
 and fuller on t'other road, whar we lost the trail, back thar, 
 miles to the deadnin'," said another, — Parson Bradshaw, now 
 in arms for the Lord's anointed, — slavery. 
 
 Now another spoke, and his voice Jordan recognized as 
 that of a private in the company he had recently joined in 
 the Fourteenth Kentucky. 
 
 '' It's so," he said ; " he has tuck t'other road. I tell ye 
 I'd know that mar's shoe 'mong a million. Nary one loike it 
 
 was ever seed in all Kaintucky ; only a d d Yankee could 
 
 ha' invented it;^' 
 
 " And yere it ar'," shouted the parson, who held one of the 
 lanterns, "plain as sun-up." 
 
 The Fourteenth Kentuckian clutched the light, and, while 
 a dozen dismounted and crowded round, closely examined the 
 shoe-track. The ground on the spot was bare of snow, and 
 the print of Beauty's foot was clearly cut in the half-frozen 
 mud. Narrowly the man looked, and Jordan's life or death 
 hung on his eyesight. He took out the bullet and placed it 
 in a crotch of the tree. If they took him, they should not 
 take the deispatch. Then he drew a revolver. The mist was 
 clearing away, and he would surely be discovered if the men 
 remained nnich longer ; but he would have the value of his 
 life to the uttermost farthing. 
 
 Meanwhile, the horsemen crowded eagerly around the foot- 
 print, and one of them inadvertently trod upon it. The 
 
240 ON T II i: BORDER. 
 
 Kentuckian looked long and earnestly, but at last he 
 said, — 
 
 " 'Taint the track. Thet ar' mar' has a sand-crack on her 
 right fore foot. She didn't tuck kindly to a round shoe ; so 
 Jordan, he guv her one with the cork right in the middle of 
 the quarter. 'Twas a durned smart contrivance ; fur, ye see, 
 it eased the strain, and let the nag go nimble as a squirrel. 
 The cork haint yeve, — 'taint her track, and we're wastin' 
 time in luckin'." 
 
 The print of the cork was not there, because the trooper's 
 tread had obliterated it ! Let him be remembered for that 
 one good step, if he never took another ; for it saved Jordan, 
 and, may be, it saved Kentucky. "When Jordan returned 
 that wa}^, he halted his mare abreast of that tree and ex- 
 amined the ground about it. There, in the road, was the 
 mare's track, with the print of the man's foot still upon the 
 inner quarter ! He uncovered his head, and from his heart 
 went up a simple thanksgiving. 
 
 The horsemen gone, Jordan came down from the tree, and 
 rode on into the misty morning. There might be danger 
 ahead, but there surely was danger behind him. His pursu- 
 ers were onl}^ half convinced they were on his trail, and 
 some sensible fiend might put it into their heads to divide, 
 and follow, part by one route, part by the other. 
 
 He pushed on over the sloshy road, his mare every step 
 going slower and slower. The poor animal was jaded out; 
 for she had travelled fifty miles, eaten nothing, and been sta- 
 bled in the timber. She would have given out long before 
 had she not had a grandfather. As it was, she staggered 
 along as if she had taken a barrel of whiskey. But five 
 
C O .M M U N I C A T I O N S O P E N K D . 241 
 
 miles further on was the house of a Union man, and she 
 must reach it or die by the way-side. Even the merciful man 
 regardeth not the life of his beast when he carries despatches. 
 The loyalist did not know Jordan; but his face secured 
 him a friendly welcome. He explained that he was from the 
 Union camp on the Big Sandy, and oftered any price fur a 
 horse to go on with. 
 
 " Yer nag ar' wuth ary two of my critters," said the man. 
 " Ye can tuck the best beast Pve got ; and when ye'se ag'in 
 this way, we'll swop back even." 
 
 Jordan thanked him, mounted the horse, and rode off into 
 the mist again, without the warm breakfast which the good 
 housewife had half cooked for him in the kitchen. It was 
 eleven o'clock in the morning ; and at twelve that night he 
 entered Colonel Cranor's quarters at ]\IcCormick's Gap, — 
 having ridden nearly a hundred miles with a rope round 
 his neck, for thirteen dollars a month, hard tack, ^nd a shoddy 
 uniform. 
 
 The colonel opened the despatch. It was dated Louisa, 
 Kentucky, December 24th, midnight; and directed him to 
 move his regiment at once to Prestonburg. He would en- 
 cumber the men with as few rations and as little luggage as 
 possible, bearing in mind that the safety of his command 
 would depend on his expedition. He would also cause the 
 despatch to be conveyed to Lieutenant-Colonel Woolford, at 
 Stamford, and direct him to join the march with his three 
 hundred cavalry. 
 
 Hours now were worth months of common time, and on 
 the following morning Cranor's column was set in motion. 
 Worn out with fiitigue, Jordan lay by till nightfall, then he 
 
 21 
 
242 O N T HE BO i: D E u . 
 
 set out on his return, and at daybreak swapped the loyalist*s 
 now jaded horse for his own fresh " Beauty," even. He ate 
 the housewife's breakfast, too, and took his ease with the good 
 man till dark, when he again set out, and rode through the 
 niglit in safety. After that his route was beset with perils ; 
 but an account of them must be reserved for another chap- 
 ter. 
 
CHAPTER XYIII 
 
 A HIARCH IN MID-WINTER. 
 
 E must now leave Jordan to pursue his perilous way 
 alone, and, for a time, go back to the Federal camp 
 at Louisa. The contents of the bullet which Jor- 
 dan has conveyed to Colonel Cranor, indicate that it 
 is the intention of the Union commander to move at once 
 upon the enemy. Of Marshall's real strength he is ignorant ; 
 but his scouts and the country people report that the rebel's 
 main body — which is intrenched in an almost impregnable 
 position near Paintville — is from four to seven thousand, 
 and that an outlying force of eight hundred occupies West 
 Liberty, — a town directly on the route by which Colonel 
 Cranor is to march to effect a junction with the main L^nion 
 army. Cranor's column, as has been said, is eleven hundred 
 strong, and the main body under Garfield now numbers about 
 seventeen hundred ; namely, the Forty-Second Ohio Infantry, 
 ten hundred and thirteen strong, and the Fourteenth Ken- 
 tucky Infantry, numbering five hundred rank and file, but 
 imperfectly armed and equipped. All told, therefore, Garfield 
 has a force of only twenty-eight hundred, in a strange district, 
 and cut off from reinforcements, with which to meet and 
 
 (243) 
 
244 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 crush an army of at least five thousand, familiar with the 
 country, and daily receiving recruits from the disaffected 
 southern counties. Evidently a forward movement is attended 
 with great hazard ; but the Union commander does not waste 
 time in considering the obstacles and dangers of the expe- 
 dition. On the morning following the departure of Jordan 
 he sets out up the river with such of his command as are in 
 readiness, and halting at George's Creek, — only twenty miles 
 from Marshall's intrenched position, — prepares to move at 
 once upon the enemy. 
 
 The roads along the Big Sandy are impassable for trains, 
 and the close proximity of the enemy renders it unsafe to 
 make so wide a detour from the river as would be required to 
 send supplies b}" the table-lands to the westward. In these 
 circumstances, Garfield decides to depend mainly upon water 
 navigation for the transport of his supplies, and to use the 
 army train only when his troops are obliged, by absolutely im- 
 passable roads, to move away from the river. 
 
 The Big Sandy is a naiTow, fickle stream, and finds its way 
 to the Ohio through the roughest and wildest spurs of the 
 Cumberland mountains. At low water it is not navigable 
 above Louisa, except for small flat-boats, pushed b}' hand ; 
 but these ascend as high as Piketon, one hundred and twenty 
 miles from the mouth of the river. In time of high water 
 small steamers can reach Piketon ; but heavy freshets render 
 navigation impracticable, owing to the swift current, filled 
 with floating timber, and to the overhanging trees, which 
 almost touch one another from the opposite banks. At this 
 time the river was of only moderate height ; but, as will be 
 readily seen, the supply of a brigade at mid-winter, l>y such 
 
A .M A 11 C II IN M I D - W I N T E R . 245 
 
 an uncertain stream, and in the presence of a powerful enemy, 
 was a thing of great difficulty. 
 
 However, the obstacles do not intimidate Garfield. Gather- 
 ing together ten days' rations, he charters two small steamers, 
 and impresses all the flat-boats he can lay hand on, and then, 
 taking his army wagons apart, he loads them, with his forage 
 and provisions, upon the flat-boats. This is on the first of 
 January, A. d. 1862, and the day before a little event happens, 
 which has a decided influence on the result of the expedition. 
 This is the appearance, at the Union head-quarters, of Bradley 
 Brown, who, on his stolen horse, has ridden the previous 
 night all the way from Marshall's camp near Paintville. 
 
 "Colonel," says Captain Bent, of the Fourteenth Kentucky, 
 entering Garfield's tent in the early gray of the morning, 
 *' there's a man outside who saj^s he knows you, — Bradley 
 Brown, a rebel thief and scoundrel." 
 
 " Brown ? " says Garfield, rising, half-dressed, from his 
 blanket, "Bradley Brown? I don't know any one of that 
 name." 
 
 " He has lived near the head of Blaine, — been a boatma^n 
 on the river, — says he knew you on the canal in Ohio." 
 
 " Oh, yes," answers Garfield, " bring him in ; now I re- 
 member him." 
 
 In a moment Brown is ushered into the colonel's quarters. 
 He is clad in country homespun, and spattered from head to 
 feet with the mud of a long journey, but, without any regard 
 to the sanctity of rank, he advances at once upon the Union 
 commander, and, grasping him warmly by the hand, ex- 
 claims, — 
 
 " Jim, ole feller, how ar' ye ? " 
 
 21* 
 
24:6 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 The colonel receives him cordially; but, glancing at his 
 ruddy face, says, — 
 
 "Fifteen years haven't changed you, Brown, — you still 
 take a glass of whiskey. But what's this I hear ? ^Vre you 
 a rebel ? " 
 
 " Yes," answers Brown ; " I belong to Marshall's force, 
 and" — this he prefaces with a burst of laughter — "I've 
 come stret from his camp to spy out yer army." 
 
 The colonel looks surprised, but says, coolly, — 
 
 " Well, you go about it queerly," 
 
 " Yes, quar, but honest, Jim, — when yer alone I'll tell 
 ye 'bout it." 
 
 As Bent was leaving the tent he said to his commander in 
 an under tone, — 
 
 " Don't trust him, colonel ; I know him, — he's a thief and 
 a rebel." 
 
 The disclosures of Brown, condensed into a few sentences, 
 were as follows : — 
 
 Hearing a short time before, at the rebel camp, that 
 James A. Garfield, of Ohio, had taken command of the 
 Union forces, it at once occurred to him that it was his old 
 canal companion, for whom, as a boy, he had felt a strong 
 affection. This supposition was confirmed a few days later 
 by his hearing from a renegade northern man something of 
 the antecedents of the colonel. Bememberinsr their former 
 friendship, and being indifferent as to which side was suc- 
 cessful in the campaign, he at once determined to do an im- 
 portant service to the Union commander. 
 
 With this object he sought an interview with Marshall, 
 stated to him his former acquaintance with Garfield, and pro- 
 
A .M A U C 11 IN M I D - W I N T EV. . 247 
 
 posed that lie should take advantage of it to enter the Union 
 camp, and learn for the rebel general all about his enemy's 
 strength and intended movements. Marshall at once fell into 
 the trap, and the same night Brown set out for the Union 
 arni}^, ostensibly to s^Dy for the rebels, but really to tell the 
 Union Commander all that he knew of their strength and po- 
 sition. He did not know Marshall's exact force ; but he gave 
 Garfield such facts as enabled him .to make, within half an 
 hour, a tolerably accurate map of the rebel position. 
 When this was done the Union colonel said to him, — 
 "Did Bent blindfold you when he brought you into 
 camp ? '^ 
 
 " Yes, gin'ral ; I couldn't see my hand afore me." 
 " Well, then you had better go directly back to Marshall.'^ 
 " Go back to him ! Why, gin'ral, he'll hang me to the first 
 tree ! " 
 
 " No, he wont, — not if you tell him all about my strength 
 and intended movements." 
 
 " But how kin I ? I don't know a thing. I tell ye I war 
 blindfolded." 
 
 " Yes ; but that don't prevent your guessing at our num- 
 bers ; and, about our movements, you may say that I shall 
 march to-morrow straight for his camp, and in ten days be 
 upon him." 
 
 Brown sat for a moment musing, then he said, — 
 " Wall, gin'ral, ye'd be a durned fool, — and if ye'r thet ye 
 must hev growed to it, — ef ye went upon Marshall, 'trenched 
 as he is, with a man short uv twenty thousand. I kin ' guess ' 
 ye's thet many." 
 
 " Guess again, — I haven't that number." 
 
248 ON T H K BO li D i: H . 
 
 " Then, ten tlioiisand." 
 
 " Well, that will do — for a Kentuckian. Now, to-day I'll 
 keep you under lock and ke^-, and to-night you can go back 
 to Marshall." 
 
 At nightfall Brown set out for the rebel camp, and on the 
 following day Garfield put his little army — reduced now by 
 sickness and garrison duty, to fourteen hundred — in motion. 
 
 It was a toilsome march. The roads were knee-deep in 
 mire, and encumbered, as it was, wdth only a light train, the 
 army made very slow progress. Some days it marched fiv6 or 
 six miles, and some a considerably' less distance ; but on the 
 sixth of January it arrived within seven miles of Paintville. 
 Here the men threw themselves upon the wet ground, and 
 Garfield laid down in his boots, in a wretched log hut, to catch 
 a few hours of slumber. About midnight he was roused from 
 sleep by a man who said his business was urgent. He rub- 
 bed his ej^es and raised himself upon his elbow. 
 
 " Back safe ? " he asked. '• Have you seen Cranor ? " 
 
 "Yes, colonel; he can't be more than two days behind 
 me." 
 
 " God bless you, Jordan ! You have done us great service," 
 said Garfield, warmly. 
 
 " I thank you, colonel," answered Jordan, liis voice trem- 
 bling ; " that is more pay than I expected." 
 
 He had returned safely ; .but the Providence which so won- 
 derfully guarded his way out, seemed to leave him to find his 
 way back ; for, as he expressed it, " The Lord cared more for 
 the despatch than He cared for me ; and it was natural He 
 should, because my life only counts one, but the despatch, it 
 stood for the whole of Kentucky." 
 
A 51 A K C H IN .MID- W I N T K R . 249 
 
 Be that as it may, liis road was a hard one to travel. The 
 same gang which followed hiin out waj'laid him back, and 
 one stormy midnight he fell among them. They lined the 
 road forty deep, and, seeing he could not run the gauntlet, he 
 wheeled his mare and fled backward. The noble beast did 
 her part, but a bullet struck her, and she fell in the road dis- 
 abled. Then — it was Hobson's choice — he took to his 
 legs, and, leaping a fence into a wood undergrown ^\•itll thick 
 laurels, was at last out of danger. 
 
 For two days and^ nights he lay there, not daring to come 
 out ; but hunger finally forced him to ask food at a negro 
 shanty. The dusky patriot loaded him with bacon, brown 
 bread, and blessings, and at night piloted him to a rebel 
 barn, where he found his own mare, wounded, but still fit for 
 service. 
 
 With her he set out again, and after various adventures 
 and hair-breadth escapes, too numerous to mention and too 
 incredible to believe, had not similar events occurred all 
 through the war, he reached in safety, that rainy midnight, 
 the little army encamped seven miles north of Paintville. 
 
 In the morning another horseman rode up to the Union 
 head-quarters. He was a messenger direct fi-om General 
 Buell, who had followed Garfield up the Big Sandy, with 
 despatches. They contained only a few hurried sentences 
 from a man to a woman, but their value was not to be esti- 
 mated in money. It was a letter from INIarshall to his wife, 
 which Buell had intercepted, and it revealed the important 
 fact that the rebel general had five thousand meu, — forty-four 
 hundred infantry and six hundred cavalry, — witli twelve 
 
260 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 pieces of artillery, and was daily expecting an attack from a. 
 Union force of ten thousand ! 
 
 Garfield put the letter in his po(iket, and then called a 
 council of his officers. They assembled in the rude log shanty, 
 and the question was put to them, — 
 
 "Shall we march at once, or wait the coming of Cranor?" 
 
 All but one said, " Wait." He said, " Move at once. Our 
 fourteen hundred can whip ten thousand rebels." 
 
 Garfield reflected awhile ; then closed the council with the 
 laconic remark, — 
 
 " Well, forward it is. Give the order." 
 
 Three roads led to the rebel position : — one at the east, bear- 
 ing down to the river and along its western bank ; another, a 
 circuitous one, to the west, coming in on Paint Creek, at the 
 mouth of Jenny's Creek, on the right of the village ; and a 
 third between the two others, a more direct route, but climb- 
 ing a succession of almost impassable ridges. These three 
 roads were held by strong rebel pickets, and a regiment was 
 outlying at the village of Paintville. 
 
 The diagram on the opposite page will show the situation. 
 
 To deceive Marshall as to his real strength and designs, 
 Garfield orders a small force of infantry and cavalry to ad- 
 vance along the river road, drive in the rebel pickets, and 
 move rapidly after them, as if to attack Paintville. Two 
 hours after this small force goes ofi", a similar one, with the 
 same orders, sets off on the road to the westward ; and two 
 hours later still, another small body takes the middle road. 
 The effect is, that the pickets on the first route, being vig- 
 orously attacked and driven, retreat in confusion to Paint- 
 ville, and despatch word to Marshall that the Union army is 
 
(251) 
 
252 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 advancing along tlie river. He hurries off a thousand in- 
 fantry and a battery to resist the advance of this imaginary 
 column. 
 
 When this detachment has been gone an hour and a hal^ 
 Marshall hears, from the routed pickets on his left, that the 
 Union forces are advancing along the western road. Coun- 
 termanding his first order, he now directs the thousand men 
 and the battery to check the new danger; and hurries off the 
 troops at Paintville to the mouth of Jenny's creek to make a 
 stand at that point. Two hours later the pickets on the cen- 
 tral route are driven in, and, finding Paintville abandoned, 
 they flee precipitately to the fortified camp, with the story 
 that the whole Union army is close at their heels, and al- 
 ready occupying the town. Conceiving that he has thus lost 
 Paintville, Marshall hastily withdraws the detachment of a 
 thousand to his camp ; and, then Garfield, moving rapidly 
 over the ridges of the central route, occupies the abandoned 
 position. 
 
 So affairs stand on the evening of the eighth of January, 
 when a rebel spy enters the camp of Marshall with tidings 
 that Cranor, with thirty-three hundred (?) men, is within 
 twelve hours' march at the westward. 
 
 On receipt of these tidings the rebel general, conceiving 
 himself vastly outnumbered, breaks up his camp, — which he 
 might have held for a twelvemonth, — and retreats precipi- 
 tately, abandoning or burning a large portion of his supplies. 
 Seeing the fires, Garfield mounts his horse, and, with a thou- 
 isand men, enters the desefted camp at nine in the evening, 
 while the blazing stores are yet unconsumed. He sends off a 
 detachment to harass the rebel retreat, and waits the arrival 
 
A MARCH IN M I D - W I N T E R . 253 
 
 of Cranor, witli whom he means to follow, and bring Mar- 
 shall to battle in the morning. 
 
 In the morning Cranor comes ; but his men are footsore, 
 without rations, and completely exhausted. The most of 
 them cannot move one leg after the other. But the Union 
 commander is determined on a battle, so every man who has 
 strengtli to march is ordered to come forward. Eleven hun- 
 dred — among them four hundred of Cranor's tired heroes 
 — step from the ranks, and with them, at noon of the ninth, 
 Garfield sets out for Prestonburg, sending all his available 
 cavalry to follow the line of the enemy's retreat, and harass 
 and destroy him. 
 
 Marching eighteen miles, he reaches, at nine o'clock that 
 night, the mouth of Abbott's Creek, three miles below Pres- 
 tonburg, — he and the eleven hundred. There he learns that 
 Marshall is encamped on the same stream, three miles higher 
 up ; and throwing his men into bivouac, in the midst of a 
 sleety rain, he sends back an order to Lieutenant-Colonel 
 Sheldon, who has been left in command at Paintville, to bring 
 up every available man, with all possible despatch, for he 
 shall force the enemy to battle in the morning. He spends 
 the night in learning the character of the surrounding coun- 
 try, and the disposition of Marshall's forces ; and then again 
 Jordan comes into action. 
 
 A dozen rebels are grinding at a mill, and a dozen honest 
 men come upon them, steal their corn, and take them prison- 
 ers. The miller is a tall, gaunt man, and his '• butternuts " 
 fit Jordan as if they were made for him. He is a rebel, too, 
 and his very raiment should bear witness against this feeding 
 of his enemies. It does. It goes back to the rebel camp. 
 
254 ON THE B O R D i: R . 
 
 and Jordan goes in it. That chameleon face of liis is smeared 
 with meal, and looks the miller so well that the miller's own 
 wife might not detect the difference. The night is dark and 
 rainy, and that lessens his danger; but still Jordan is pick- 
 ing his teeth in the very jaws of the lion. 
 
 Jordan's midnight ramble in the rebel ranks gave Garfield 
 the exact position of the enemy. They had made a stand, 
 and laid an ambuscade for him. Strongly posted on a semi- 
 circular hill, at the forks of Middle Creek, on both sides of 
 the road, with cannon commanding its whole length, and hidden 
 by the trees and underbrush, they were awaiting his coming. 
 
 Deeming it unsafe to proceed further in the darkness, Gar- 
 field, as has been said, ordered his army into bivouac at nine 
 in the evening, and climbing a steep ridge, called Abbott's 
 Hill, his tired men threw themselves upon the wet ground 
 to wait for the morning. It was a terrible night, — a fit prel- 
 ude to the terrible day that followed. A dense fog shut out 
 the moon and stars, and shrouded the lonely mountain in 
 almost Cimmerian darkness. A cold wind swept from the 
 north, driving the rain in blinding gusts into the faces of the 
 shivering men, and stirring the dark pines into a mournful 
 music. Biit the slow and cheerless night at last wore away, 
 and at four in the morning the tired and hungry men, their 
 icy clothing clinging to their half-ffozen limbs, were roused 
 from their cold beds, and ordered to move forward. Slowly 
 and cautiously they descended into the valley, feeling, at every 
 step, for the enemy. 
 
 About daybreak, while rounding a hill which jutted out 
 into the valley, the advance guard was charged upon by 
 a body of rebel horsemen. Forming his men in a hollow 
 
A MARCH IN 31 I D - W I \ T E R . 255 
 
 square, Garfield gave the rebels a volley, that sent them reel- 
 ing up the valley, — all but one ; and he, with his horse, 
 plunged into the stream, and was captured. 
 
 The main body of the enemy, it now was evident, was not 
 far distant ; but whether he had changed his position since 
 the visit of Jordan was yet uncertain. To determine this, 
 Garfield sent forward a strong corps of skirmishers, who 
 swept the cavalry from a ridge which they had occupied, 
 and, moving forward, soon drew the fire of the hidden rebels. 
 Suddenly a puff of smoke rose from beyond the hill, and a 
 twelve-pound shell whistled above the trees, then ploughed up 
 the hill,' and buried itself in the ground at the very feet of the 
 adventurous little band of skirmishers. 
 
 It was now twelve o'clock, and, throwing his whole force 
 upon the ridge whence the rebel cavalry had been driven, 
 Garfield prepared for the impending battle. It was a trying 
 and perilous moment. He was in presence of a greatly su- 
 perior enemy, and how to dispose his little force, and where 
 first to attack, were things not easy to determine. But he 
 lost no time in idle indecision. 
 
 Looking in the faces of bis eleven hundred, he went at 
 once into the terrible struggle. His mounted escort of twelve 
 men he sent forward to make a charge, and, if possible, to 
 draw the fire of the enemy. The ruse worked admirably. As 
 the little squad swept round a curve in the road, another 
 shell whistled through the valle}^, and the long roll of nearly 
 five thousand muskets chimed in with a fierce salutation. Then 
 began the battle. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A BATTLE. 
 
 T was a wonderful battle. In the history of the late 
 war there is not another like it. ^Measured by the 
 forces engaged, the valor displayed, and the results 
 tliat followed, it throws into the shade the achieve- 
 ments of even the mighty hosts which saved the nation. 
 Eleven hundred footsore and weary men, without cannon, 
 charged up a rockj'- hill, over stumps, over stones, over fallen 
 trees, over high intrenchments, right into the face of five 
 thousand fresh troops, with twelve pieces of artillery ! 
 
 A glance at the ground will best show the real nature of 
 the conflict. It was on the margin of Middle Creek, a nar- 
 row and rapid stream, and three miles from where it finds its 
 way into the Big Sandy, through the sharp sj^urs of the Cum- 
 berland mountains. A rocky road, not ten feet in width, 
 winds along this stream, and on its two banks abrupt ridges, 
 with steep and rocky sides, overgrown with trees and under- 
 brush, shut closely down upon the road and the little stream- 
 let. At twelve O'clock Garfield had gained the crest of the 
 ridge at the right of the road, and the charge of his handful 
 of horsemen had drawn Marshall's fire, and disclosed his 
 actual position. It will be clearly seen from the subjoined 
 diagram. 
 
 (256) 
 
Battle of Middle Creek. 
 
 (257) 
 
258 ONTHEBORDEK. 
 
 The main force of the rebels occupied the crests of the two 
 ridges, at the left of the stream, but a strong detachment was 
 posted on the right, and a battery of twelve pieces held the 
 forks of ilie creek and commanded the approach of the Un- 
 ion army. It w^as Marshall's plan to lure Garfield along the 
 road, and then, taking him between two enfilading fires, to 
 surround and utterly destroy him. But his hasty fire be- 
 trayed his design and unmasked his entire position. 
 
 Garfield acted with promptness and decision. A hundred 
 undergraduates, recruited from his own college, were ordered 
 to cross the stream, climb the ridge whence the fire had been 
 hottest, and bring on the battle. 
 
 Boldly the little band plunge into the creek, the icy water 
 up to their waists, and, clinging to the trees and underbrush, 
 climb the rocky ascent. Half-way up the ridge, the fire of 
 at least two thousand rifles opens upon them, but, springing 
 from tree to tree, they press on, and at last reach the summit. 
 Then suddenly the hill is gray -«4th rebels, who, rising from 
 ambush, pour their deadly volleys into the little band of only 
 one hundred. For a moment they waver, but their leader 
 calls out, " Every man to a tree ! Give them as good as they 
 send, my brave Bereans ! " 
 
 The rebels, behind rocks and a rude intrenchment, are 
 obliged to expose their heads to take aim at the advancing 
 column, but the Union troops, posted behind the huge oaks 
 and maples, can stand erect, and load and fire, fully protected. 
 Though they are outnumbered ten to one, the contest is, 
 therefore, for a time, not so very unequal. 
 
 But soon the rebels, exasperated with the obstinate resist- 
 ance, rush from cover, and charge upon the little handful 
 
A BATTLE. 259 
 
 with the bayonet. SloNvly they are driven down the hill, and 
 two of them fall to the ground wounded. One never rises ; 
 the other — a lad of only eighteen — is shot through the 
 thigh, and one of his comrades turns back to bear him to a 
 place of safety. The advancing rebels are within thirty feet, 
 when one of them fires, and his bullet strikes a tree directly 
 above the head of the Union soldier. He turns, levels his 
 musket, and the rebel is in eternity. Then the rest are upon 
 him ; but, zigzagging from tree to tree, he is soon with his 
 driven column. But not far are the brave boys driven. A 
 few rods lower down they hear again the voice of their 
 leader. 
 
 " To the trees again, my boys ! " he cries. " We may as 
 well die here as in Ohio." 
 
 To the trees they go, and in a moment the advancing 
 horde is checked, and then rolled backward. Up the hill 
 they turn, firing as they go, and the little band follows. 
 Soon the rebels reach the spot where the Berean boy lies 
 wounded, and one of them says to him, — 
 
 " Boy, guv me yer musket." 
 
 ^' jS^ot the gun, but its contents," cries the boy ; and the 
 rebel falls mortally wounded. Another raises his weapon to 
 brain the prostrate lad ; but he, too, falls, killed with his com- 
 rade's own rifle. And all this is done while the hero-boy is 
 on the ground, bleeding. An hour afterwards his comrades 
 bear him to a sheltered spot on the other side of the streamlet, 
 and then the first word of complaint escapes him. As they 
 are taking off his leg, he says, in his agony, — 
 
 " Oh, what will mother do ? " 
 
 A fortnight later his words, repeated in the Senate of Ohio, 
 
260 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 rouse the noble State to at once make provision for the widows 
 and mothers of its soldiers. I do not know whether he be 
 now dead or living; but his name at least should not be for- 
 gotten. It was Charles Carlton, of Franklin, Oliio. 
 
 Meanwhile, Jordan is standing by the side of the Union 
 commander, upon a rocky height on the other side of the 
 narrow valley, and his quick eye has discerned, through the 
 densely-curling smoke, the real state of the unequal contest. 
 
 " They are being driven," he saj's. " They will lose the 
 hill, if they are not supported." 
 
 Instantly five hundred of the Ohio Fortieth and Forty- 
 second, under Major Pardee and Colonel Cranor, are ordered 
 to the rescue. Holding their cartridge-boxes above their 
 heads, they dash into the stream, up the hill, and into the 
 fight, shouting, — 
 
 " Hurra for Williams and the brave Bereans ! " 
 
 But shot and shell and canister and the fire of four thou- 
 sand muskets are now concentrated upon the few hundred 
 heroes. 
 
 " This will never do," cries Garfield. " Who will volunteer 
 to carry the crest of the other mountain ? " 
 
 " We will ! " shouts Colonel Monroe, of the Twentj^-second 
 Kentucky. " We know every inch of the ground." 
 
 " Go in, then," cries Garfield, " and give them Hail Colum- 
 bia." 
 
 Jordan goes with this second column. Fording the stream 
 lower down, they climb the ridge at the left, and in ten 
 minutes are upon the enemy. Like the others, these rebels 
 are posted behintl rocks, and their uncovered heads soon be- 
 come ghastly targets for the unerring Kentucky rifles. 
 
A BATTLE. 
 
 261 
 
 " Take good aim, and don't shoot till you see the eyes of 
 3^our enemy," shouts the brave colonel. 
 
 The men have never been under fire, but in a few moments 
 are as cool as if shooting at a turkey-match. 
 
 " Do you see that reb ? " says one to a comrade, as a head 
 appears above a rock. " Hit him while I'm loading." 
 
 Another is bringing his cartridge to his mouth, when a 
 bullet cuts away the powder, and leaves the lead in his fingers. 
 Shielding his arm with his body, he says, as he turns from 
 the foe and rams home another cartridge, — 
 
 " There ! see if you can hit that ! " 
 
 Another iakes out a piece of hard tack, and a ball shivers 
 it in his hand. He swallows the remnant, and then coolly 
 fires away again. One is brought down by a ball in the 
 knee, and, lying on the ground, rifle in hand, watches for the 
 man who shot him. Soon the rebel's head rises above a rock, 
 and the two fire at the same instant. The loyal man is struck 
 in the mouth ; but, as he is borne down the hill, he splutters 
 out, — 
 
 " Xever mind ; that Secesh is done for." 
 
 The next morning the rebel is found with the whole upper 
 part of his head shot away by the other's bullet. 
 
 The brave Kentuckians climb or leap up along the side of 
 the mountain. Kow they are hidden in the underbrush, now 
 sheltered by the great trees, and now fully exposed in some 
 narrow opening ; but gradually the}^ near the crest of the 
 ridge, and at last are at its very summit. 
 
 Then comes a terrible hand-to-hand struggle, and the little 
 band of less than four hundred, overpowered by numbers, are 
 driven far down the mountain. 
 
262 ON THE BOKDEK. 
 
 A ball pierces Jordan's hat, three go through his clothing, 
 but he is uninjured. 
 
 Soon the men rally, and, as they turn, a bullet grazes Jor- 
 dan's side, and buries itself in the breast of a man whom he 
 has seen send five rebels to the great accounting. Blood will 
 have blood, and so he, too, goes to the judgment ! 
 
 Meanwhile, another cannon has opened on the hill, and 
 round shot and canister fall thickly among the. weary eleven 
 hundred. Seeing his advance about to waver, the Union 
 commander sends volley after volley from his entire reserve, 
 at the central point, between his two detachments, and for a 
 time the enemy's fire is silenced in that quarter. But soon it 
 opens again, and then Garfield orders all, but a chosen hun- 
 dred, upon the mountain. Then the battle grows terrible. 
 Thick and thicker swarm the rebels on the crest; sharp 
 and sharper rolls the musketry along the valley, and, as vol- 
 ley after volley echoes among the hills, and the white smoke 
 curls up in long wreaths from the gleaming rifles, a dense 
 cloud gathers overhead, as if to shut out this scene of carnage 
 from the very eye of Heaven. 
 
 So the bloody work goes on, so the battle wavers, till the 
 setting sun, wheeling below the hills, glances along the dense 
 lines of rebel steel moving down to envelop the weary eleven 
 hundred. It is an awful moment, big with the fate of Ken- 
 tucky. At its very crisis two figures stand out against the 
 fading sky, boldly defined in the foreground. 
 
 One is in Union blue. With a little band of heroes about 
 him, he is posted on a projecting rock, which is scarred with 
 bullets, and in full view of both armies. His head is uncov- 
 ered, his hair streaming in the wind, his face upturned in the 
 
A BATTLE. 263 
 
 darkening daylight, and from his soul is going up a prayer, 
 
 a prayer for Sheldon and reinforcements. He turns his eyes 
 to the northward, and his lip tightens, and he throws off his 
 coat, and says to his hundred men, — 
 " Boys, we must go at them." 
 
 The other is in Rebel gray. Moving out to the brow of the 
 opposite hill, and placing a glass to his eye, he, too, takes a 
 long look to th§ northward. He starts, for he sees something 
 which the other, on lower ground, does not distinguish. Soon 
 he wheels his horse, and the word "Eetreat" echoes along 
 the valley between them. It is his last word ; for six rifles 
 crack, and the rebel major lies on the ground, quivering. 
 The one in blue looks to the north again, and now, floating 
 proudly among the trees, he sees the starry banner. It is 
 Sheldon and his forces ! Jordan's perilous ride is at last do- 
 ing its work for the nation. On they come, like the rushing 
 wind, filling the air with their shouting. The rescued eleven 
 hundred take up the strain, and then, above the swift pursuit, 
 above the lessening conflict, above the last boom of the wheel- 
 ing cannon, goes up the wild huzza of Victory. 
 
 As they come back from the short pursuit, the young com- 
 mander grasps man after man by the hand, and says, 
 
 " God bless you, boys ! you have saved Kentucky." 
 
 Wliile war is the greatest of earthly enormities, it is strange 
 the interest which a battle-field always awakens. We go 
 over the ground, marking the spot where occurred some fear- 
 ful struggle, or where some noble regiment went down to a 
 swift destruction, and we do not see the pallid faces of the 
 dead, or hear the moans of the wounded. But this is when 
 
264 ON THE BOKDEK. 
 
 the grass has grown green, and the smoke has cleared away, 
 letting in the light of heaven. But when the ground is red, 
 when the unburied dead lie in heaps, and the wounded are 
 stretched around on the trodden grass, rending the air with 
 cries for succor, then it is that we realize the real horrors of 
 till! battle-field. It was thus that Jordan saw it when, with a 
 water-bucket on his arm, he walked slowly along the moun- 
 tain-side, on the evening of this fearful conflict. Twenty- 
 seven rebel dead lay unburied on the ground, and sixty more, 
 hastily thrown together, and only loosely covered with a few- 
 leaves and underbrush, were at the bottom of a ravine. Lean- 
 ing against a tree was a fair-haired youth, his hands clasped 
 across his knees, and his head slightly bent forward. His 
 face was flushed, and his eyes gleamed bright in the moon- 
 light. Baring his breast to stanch the still-flowing blood, 
 Jordan spoke to him gently. The eyes looked out in a mute 
 appeal, but the still lips gave no answer. AVith him the bat- 
 tle of life was over forever. 
 
 A little farther on five dead and one wounded lay behind a 
 rock, two of the dead fallen across the living. The living 
 man's leg was shattered, but his wound was not mortal. 
 
 " You must be in great pain, — can I do anything for 
 you ? " asked Jordan. 
 
 "There are others worse off," said the man; "tend to 
 them ; then you may look after me." 
 
 Moving the dead from his crushed limb, Jordan went for- 
 ward. 
 
 One had received a ball through the neck, which destroyed 
 the power of speech, and he made frantic signs for water ; 
 another, a dark-hued man, was lying under a tree, his thigh 
 
A BATTLE. 265 
 
 broken. He was stern and morose, asking only one thing, — 
 that Jordan would kill him. Jordan said, kindly, — 
 
 " You will soon be taken to a surgeon ; he will relieve 
 
 you." 
 
 Then the man faltered out. " I thank you." 
 
 An old man sat at the foot of a stump, with a ball directly 
 through the base of his brain. A ghastly smile was on his 
 face, his eyes looked wildly out upon the night, and his breath 
 was rapid and heavy. He was a breathing corpse, — dead 
 and yet living. 
 
 The atmosphere of death was on the earth ; it was a scene 
 on which one needs look but once to remember it forever. 
 23 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 BE AD LEY FyROWN AGAIN. 
 
 
 'XOTHER night on the frozen ground, and, during 
 
 it, the Union commander pondered the situation. 
 
 Marshall's forces were broken and demoralized. 
 
 Though in full retreat, they might be overtaken and 
 destroyed ; but his own troops were half dead with fatigue 
 and exposure, and had less than three days' rations. In 
 these circumstances Garfield prudently decided to occupy 
 Prestonburg, and await the arrival of additional supplies 
 before dealing a final blow at the enemy. 
 
 On the day succeeding the battle, he issued the following 
 address to his army, which tells, in brief, the story of the 
 campaign : — 
 
 " Soldiers of the Eighteenth Brigade, — I am proud of you 
 all ! In four vreeks you have marched, some eighty and some 
 a hundred miles, over almost impassable roads. One night in 
 four you have slept, often in the storm, with only a wintry 
 sky above your heads. You have marched in the face of a 
 foe of more than double your number, led on by chiefs who 
 have won a national renown under the old flag, entrenched in 
 hiUs of his own choosing, and strengthened by all the appli- 
 ances of military art. With no experience but the conscious- 
 
 (266) 
 
BRAD L E Y IJ II () ^y N A < ; A I N . 267 
 
 ness of your own manhood, you have driven him from his 
 strongholds, jnirsued his inglorious flight, and compelled him 
 to meet you in battle. When forced to fight, he sought the 
 shelter of rocks and hills. You drove him from his position, 
 leaving scores of his bloody dead unburied. His artillery 
 thundered against you, but you compelled him to flee by the 
 light of his burning stores, and to leave even the banner of 
 his rebellion behind him. I greet you as brave men. Our 
 common counby will not forget you. She will not forget the 
 sacred dead who fell beside you, nor those of your comrades 
 who won scars of honor on the field. 
 
 " I have recalled you from the pursuit that you may regain 
 vigor for still greater exertions. Let no one tarnish his well- 
 earned honor by any act unworthy an American soldier. 
 Remember your duties as American citizens, and sacredly 
 respect the rights and property of those with whom you may 
 come in contact. Let it not be said that good men dread 
 the approach of an American army. 
 
 " Officers and soldiers, your duty has been nobly done. 
 For this I thank you." 
 
 Meanwhile Bradley Brown had not been idle. Making 
 his way back to Marshall's camp, he had filled the ears of 
 that officer with exaggerated accounts of the strength of the 
 Union forces, an^d thus materially aided in the success of 
 the expedition. It was wonderful that his double-dealing 
 was not suspected, for three days before the battle Marshall 
 had intercepted a despatch passing between Garfield and 
 Colonel Cranor, which disclosed the fact that the Union com- 
 mander was fully informed of the strength and disposition of 
 
268 ox THE BORDER. 
 
 the rebel forces, and had thoroughly mapped all the roads, 
 hills, streams, and fortifications in and around his position. 
 
 "How he got the facts," said Marshall to the rebel Colonel 
 Gregg, " I cannot tell ; but we are certainly outnumbered 
 and outgeneralled." 
 
 Hearing, while yet at Paint^dlle, of the rapid approach of 
 Cranor from the westward, Marshall, a few days before the 
 battle, despatched Brown to learn his strength and the route 
 by which he was advancing. 
 
 This was welcome work to the ex-boatman, for the near- 
 ness of the Union forces made it daily more and more likely 
 that his false reports would soon be sifted, and his head 
 had begun to feel uneasy on his shoulders. He set out with 
 alacrity, and at the end of two days rode boldly up to the 
 lines of Cranor, and demanded to see the " gineral." Being 
 led into the j)resence of that officer, Brown disclosed his 
 name and the ostensible object of his visit, but was astonished 
 to find that his tale was met with a cautious incredulity. 
 
 Either his appearance, or the improbability of the exploit 
 of which he boasted, impressed Colonel Cranor unfavorably. 
 He ordered him into close custody, and in vain Brown 
 affirmed and reaffirmed that he knew Garfield when a boy, 
 and that his old love for him had led him to run the risk of a 
 halter. Cranor was not to be convinced, and Brown was 
 made to march to Paintville, strapped upon the back of his 
 own confiscated horse, and with an armed cavalryman at 
 his either elbow. 
 
 Arriving at the village in the early gray of the winter 
 morning, the weary column was met by the Union com- 
 mander. When the cheering which greeted him had some- 
 
BRADLEY BROWN AGAIN. 269 
 
 what subsided, a voice was heard to shout from the 
 ranks, — 
 
 " Gineral — Gineral Jim, tell that skeery cunnel that Brad. 
 Brown ar* as true a man as he ar'." 
 
 Gartield tunied his eyes toward the speaker, and, taking in 
 at a glance the circumstances, ordered him to be set at lib- 
 erty. When his cords were unloosed, Brown rode coolly up 
 to the two officers, and said to Cranor, with an air of intense 
 disdain, — 
 
 " Another time, p'raps, ye'll tuck the word of a gentleman ! 
 Didn't I tell ye I knowed him, — knowed liim ever sence he 
 war a boy ? " 
 
 He bore himself bravely in the battle, and, when it was 
 over, again did important service to the little army. The 
 men, as has been said, had less than three days' rations, and 
 supplies must be at once brought iTp from Louisa, where a 
 depot had been established. 
 
 The rainy season had set in, and the roads had become im- 
 passable for any but horsemen. The river was the only 
 resource ; but the Big Sandy was then swollen beyond its 
 banks, and its rapid current, filled with floating logs and 
 uptorn trees, rendered navigation a thing of great danger 
 and difficulty. The oldest boatmen of the district shook their 
 heads, and refused to attempt the perilous voyage. But 
 Brown said to Garfield, — 
 
 " It's which and t'other, Gineral Jim ; starvin' or drownin'. 
 I'd ruther drown nur starve. So guv the word, and, dead or 
 alive, I'll git down the river." 
 
 Garfield gave the word, and within four days the hearts of 
 the little army were gladdened with full rations. 
 
 23* 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 STATE of general alarm existed throughout the 
 district. The retreating rebels had spread the most 
 exaggerated reports of the strength and character 
 of the Union forces, and the simple country people 
 looked for a reign of terror which would deprive them all, 
 loyal and disloyal, of life and property. The result was that, 
 fleeing from their homes, they hid away in the woods and 
 mountains, and the towns, for a time, were well-nigh de- 
 serted. To allay this alarm, and to restore society to more 
 of its normal condition, Garfield, during the week following 
 the battle, issued the following proclamation : — 
 
 " Head-quarters, Eighteenth Brigade, ) 
 Pai>;tville, Ky , Jau. 16, 1862, \ 
 
 " Citizens of the Saxdy Valley, — I have come 
 among you to restore the honor of the Union, and to 
 bring back the Old Banner which you all once loved, 
 but which, by the machinations of evil men and by mutual 
 misunderstandings, has been dishonored among you. To 
 those who are in arms against the Federal Government I 
 offer only the alternative of battle or unconditional surren- 
 der ; but t-o those who have taken no part in this war, — who 
 
 (270) 
 
U E T K I H U T ION 
 
 271 
 
 are in no way aiding or abetting the enemies of tlie Union, 
 even to those who hold sentiments adverse to the Union, hut 
 yet give no aid and comfort to its enemies, I oft'er the full 
 protection of the government both in their persons and prop- 
 erty. 
 
 " Let those who have been seduced away from the love of 
 their country to follow after and aid the destroyers of our 
 peace, lay down their arms, return to their homes, bear true 
 allegiance to the Federal Government, and they also shall 
 enjoy like protection. The army of the Union wages no war 
 of plunder, but comes to bring back the prosperity of peace. 
 Let all peace-loving citizens who have fled from their homes, 
 return and resume again the pursuits of peace and industry. 
 If citizens have suftered from any outrages by the soldiers 
 under my command, I invite them to make known their com- 
 plaints to me, and their wrongs shall be redressed and the 
 offenders punished. I expect the friends of the Union in 
 this valley to banish from among them all private feuds, and 
 to let a liberal-minded love of country direct their conduct 
 toward those who have been so sadly estranged and mis- 
 guided. I hope that these days of turbulence may soon end, 
 and the better days of the Kepublic soon return. 
 
 *' (Signed,) J. A. Garfield, 
 
 " Colonel Commanding Brigade." 
 
 Encouraged by this promise of protection, the people soon 
 issued from their hiding-places, and began to flock about the 
 Union head-quarters. From them various reports were re- 
 ceived of the whereabouts and intentions of Marshall. By 
 some it was said that, reinforced by three Virginia regiments 
 
272 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 and six field-pieces, he had made a stand, and was fortifying 
 himself in a strong position about thirty miles above, on the 
 waters of the Big Beaver ; by others, that he was merely col- 
 lecting provisions and preparing to retreat into Tennessee as 
 soon as the runs and rivers should become passable. 
 
 All the information, however, indicated that Marshall had 
 made a stand, and was still within the limits of Kentuck3^ 
 It was to Garfield of the first moment to learn his exact posi- 
 tion, and to this end he despatched a body of a hundred 
 horsemen, under Captain Jenkins, of the Ohio Cavalry, with 
 orcffers to go up the Big Sandy as far as Piketon, and not 
 to return until they had ascertained the position and inten- 
 tions of the enemy. 
 
 Jordan accompanied the squadron as guide, and, proceeding 
 cautiously up the narrow road which winds along the river, 
 they surrounded the town just as a dozen mounted rebels 
 were fleeing from it in the opposite direction. Lieutenant 
 Lake, of Wooster, Ohio, being in the advance, called to two of 
 his men, and, putting spurs to his horse, followed in a break- 
 neck chase of four or five miles. 
 
 . During the pursuit they killed one rebel, and severely 
 wounded another ; but they kept on, — for a short distance in 
 advance were two others, one of them evidently a man of 
 some consideration. The two were mounted on one horse, 
 which they were urging to his ultnost speed, and, as they 
 turned a bend in the road, came within range of the guns of 
 their pursuers. 
 
 Private Boone, of the Porty-second Ohio, being for the mo- 
 ment in advance, levelled h^s carbine, and fired as he ran ; but 
 the ball struck the saddle of the rebels, and glanced ofi" harm- 
 
R E T R I li U T I O N . 273 
 
 less. Lieutenant Lake then drew his revolver, and brought 
 the horse to the ground so suddenly that the two riders 
 turned a somersault over the head of the animal, and landed 
 in the creek which bordered the highway. When they re- 
 covered their feet they were prisoners. 
 
 Jordan had seen the reckless daring of the little party in 
 setting out to pursue more than twice their number, and, 
 fearing for their safety, had called a half-dozen cavalrymen to 
 his aid, and followed only some ten minutes in the rear. He 
 came up while Lake and his prisoners were still standing in 
 the highway. 
 
 Reining up his horse, he turned to the two rebels, and, his 
 eyes giving out a lurid glare, suddenly exclaimed, — 
 
 " Ah ! it is a long road that has no end." Leaning over 
 his saddle-bow, he almost hissed the remainder, " And at the 
 end of all roads there is retribution ! " 
 
 The other's face grew livid, but he said, with some appear- 
 ance of coolness, — 
 
 *' I am your prisoner ; but I am ready to take the oath." 
 
 " Take the oath ! " exclaimed Jordan. " Do you expect to 
 atone for your crimes by a little false swearing ? Do you ex- 
 pect to live while there is timber for a gallows in all Ken- 
 tucky?" 
 
 '' I do," answered the other, with a mocking smile. " I 
 expect to live, and to pass sentence on a good many more 
 scoundrels." 
 
 "Not while so much sacred blood cries from the ground 
 against you," cried Jordan. 
 
 Kot another word was said, but there was a sudden upward 
 
274 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 movement of Jordan's hand, then his pistol exploded, and 
 Cecil fell dead in the highway. 
 
 " My God, Jordan ! '' cried Lake, who had stood a silent 
 listener to this conrersation. "What have you done? He 
 was unarmed, and a prisoner." 
 
 A strange, wild light was in Jordan's eyes as he answered, — 
 
 " So was an old man he shot down on his own hearth, — so 
 was a young hoy he hanged before the very eyes of his mother. 
 Blood will have blood. This world couldn't hold him and me, 
 lieutenant, — no ! not this world, nor any other." 
 
 " I know, and I pity you, Jordan," said Lake ; " but the 
 colonel will have to hang you. Go, — get away. Get away 
 at once. Not a man of us will lift a hand against you." 
 
 " Xo," answered Jordan ; " I shall not run ; I will answer 
 for what I ha,ve done." 
 
 Then, turning his horse's head, he led the column, which 
 bore the lifeless body of Cecil, back to Piketon. 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 CO^'DE^L\A TION. 
 
 ^^'HE killincr of Cecil was tlie source of much embarrass- 
 ment to the Union commander. He was the leading 
 
 man of the district. His death would be known far 
 and wide, and, if it went unpunished, it would show 
 the people of the district, and of all Kentucky, — whom it was 
 then the policy of the government to pacify and conciliate, — ■ 
 that no trust could be put in the friendly professions of the 
 Federals. Policy, therefore, required that his slayer should 
 be severely dealt by. But, on the other hand, Jordan had 
 done important service to the Union cause, and on tlie lone 
 and toilsome marches had so often ridden by the side of 
 Garfield, that he now seemed to him more a friend than a 
 subordinate. His release might spread a feeling of insecurity 
 throughout the district, and lose one of the objects of the cam- 
 paign. His trial for murder, by court martial, might forfeit 
 the life of a man whose services had entitled him to great re- 
 ward, and whose WTongs at the hand of tlie murdered man 
 would secure him acquittal by any civil jury in Kentucky. 
 
 While the commander was undecided which course to pur- 
 sue, Bradley Brown rather unceremoniously entered his tent 
 one morning. 
 
 C275) 
 
276 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 "General," he said to him, "ye orter to let Jordan off. 
 He's done a heap fur the kentr3-, and the best thing he ever 
 done was riddin' it uv ole Cecil ! " 
 
 " I know Cecil was a bad man, and Jordan had received 
 great provocation." 
 
 " Provercation ! " exclaimed Brown. " If Jordan hadn't a 
 killed him, he'd not ha' been a man. Let him go, general." 
 • " I don't see how I can without a trial. If he is court- 
 martialed, he may not be convicted." 
 
 " May not ! " echoed Brown ; " but them ar' ugly words, 
 general, when a man's life ar' at stake. Let him go, and put 
 it to my account. I've done- ye a good turn or two, and I'd 
 ruther hang myself than hev thet man's neck get inter a 
 halter." 
 
 " I can't let him go. Brown, without a trial," answered the 
 general. " The forms of justice must be complied with ; but 
 I hope he will not be convicted." 
 
 A court, composed mostly of Kentuck}- officers, was con- 
 vened within a few days, and Jordan was brought before it. 
 He sat among the few soldiers who were detailed as his 
 guard, and nothing in his appearance indicated that he was 
 about to be tried for taking the life of a fellow-being. His 
 face wore its usual dreamy expression, but some deeper lines 
 about his mouth told that the fearful tragedy had made its 
 impression on his soul. 
 
 The court was opened in the usual manner, the charge 
 read, and then the witnesses were examined. Each of the half- 
 dozen present testified to hearing the discharge of the revolver, 
 and to seeing Cecil fall, without a word, suddenly dead in the 
 highway ; but not one could swear positively who fired the 
 
CONDEMNATION. -<' 
 
 fatal shot, or remember any act that would fix the deed upon 
 the prisoner. 
 
 At this point in the proceedings, the Judge Advocate 
 smiled, and Brown, who sat at his elbow, drawing a long 
 breath, exclaimed, — 
 
 " I'm durned ef ye haint a decent set, anyhow. Count on 
 Brad. Brown if ye uver git inter trouble." 
 
 The words had scarcely left his mouth when the prisoner 
 rose, and turned toward the witnesses. 
 
 " Gentlemen, I thank you," he said. " You mean to do me 
 a kindness, and I thank you. But I prefer the truth should 
 be told. I fired the shot which killed Judge Cecil. For a mo- 
 ment I forgot that vengeance belongs only to God, and I 
 stained my hands with a crime which all the water in the 
 world cannot wash away. For that I expect justice, not 
 mercy. Whether you deal it to me or not, it will come. I 
 could not, if I would, escape it, for, as night follows day, so 
 retribution follows crime. It is already on me, bearing me 
 down, and bringing darkness between me and my God. You 
 could not save me from it if you would; and, with the hand 
 of God on me, why should I fear the hand of man ? No, 
 gentlemen, let justice be done, — I killed Judge Cecil." 
 
 He sat down, rested his head upon his hand, and with sad, 
 dreamy eyes looked out upon vacancy. 
 
 For a few moments not a word was uttered in the assem- 
 blage ; then the Judge Advocate rose, and in a husky voice 
 said to the presiding officer, — 
 
 "Nothing remains but to pass sentence upon the prisoner." 
 
 The sentence was passed: it was, — subject to the approval 
 
 of the colonel commanding, — death on the following Friday. 
 
 24 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 ANOTHER ESCAPE. 
 
 T is tlie night before the fatal Friday, and Jordan 
 is alone in the dreary log-shanty, wliich has been 
 his prison-house since he received the sentence of 
 the court-martial. Without, the moon is shining 
 brightly, and the measured tread of the guards is making a 
 sort of doleful music on the frozen highway ; but within, all 
 is gloom and silence. A low fire is burning on the hearth, 
 casting a dim halo round the solitary man, but leaving the 
 most of the room in darkness. 
 
 He sits before the hearth, gazing intently into the blaze, 
 and now, as a slight puft' of wind fans the almost dying flame, 
 we get a view of his features. They are strangely altered. 
 His cheeks are hollow, his eyes sunken ; his sandy hair is 
 turned to a sort of flaxen whiteness. There have been men 
 whose heads grief has turned white in a single night ; but it 
 is not grief which has made this young man an old one. It 
 is the shadow of his crime, that, settling on his soul, has 
 brought around him the thick night in which he- has stood 
 face to face with the Unseen in all its terrors. 
 
 As he sits there gazing into the fire, the door opens, and, 
 with a hurried step, a woman enters the apartment. She 
 
 (278) 
 
ANOTHER ESCAPE. 279 
 
 falls at his feet, clasps his knees, and, in a voice laden with 
 the despair which it echoes, says, — 
 
 " John I John ! There is no hope ! ISTothing — but death 
 to-morrow ! " 
 
 He lifts her gently from the floor, draws her near to him on 
 the rude bench, and, putting away her tangled hair, tenderly 
 kisses her on the forehead. Then he says, — 
 
 " I knew it would be so ; but never nynd, my little one. 
 It is all well, — all well now. The darkness has cleared away, 
 and it will all be bright in the great to-morrow.^' 
 
 She twines her arms about his neck in a convulsive embrace 
 as she cries, — 
 
 " Oh, no ! It can't be ; you shall not die ! Oh, it would 
 kill me, John, — me, your poor Rachel ! " 
 
 His great hand toys with her flowing hair, and he softly 
 answers, — 
 
 " I know it will be hard ; but I want you to be a brave 
 woman, Rachel. I want you to be worthy of me; and I, 
 Rachel, — though the blood I told you of is on my hands, — 
 / have tried to be worthy of my ancestors." 
 
 " And can't they help you ? " she cried, looking up, wildly. 
 " Can't they save you from this dreadful death ? John, if 
 you have to die, I shall think there is no God, and no good- 
 ness or trv^.i:i in all the universe ! " 
 
 Then again her head sank upon his breast, and her arms 
 twined about him convulsively. 
 
 He was silent for a few moments, and when he spoke his 
 voice had in it even a deeper tenderness. 
 
 " Listen to me, Rachel," he said. " I have done a great 
 crime, — taken what I cannot give, — the life of a fellow- 
 
280 OK THE BORDER. 
 
 being. I have usurped the right of God, — wrought the 
 vengeance that belongs only to Him. It was the thought of 
 this that bowed me down. But now it is over ; for He, — 
 the Jesus I accounted only a man, and with my weak wisdom 
 tried to measure, — He has been to me, and in my inmost 
 soul has whispered, ' Son, be of good cheer ; your crime is 
 forgiven you.' He can forgive, for He is the Great Ruler ; 
 but men cannot f«rgive, because society, for its own security, 
 must punish the criminal. If they should let me go, people 
 would say there was no law and no safety in all Kentucky." 
 
 " I know," she sobbed, " it is the hard-hearted reason they 
 give for taking your life. They forget that weren't it for you, 
 there might be no law and no safety for even themselves this 
 side of the Ohio." 
 
 " No, they don't forget it. How Buell feels I am not cer- 
 tain ; but Garfield, I know, would make any sacrifice to save 
 me. He knows that, if I were let go, it woidd give the lie to 
 his promise of protection, and perhaps make impossible the 
 pacification of the district ; but still, I think, he would release 
 me if he could." 
 
 " But he says he can't,- — the messenger has come back 
 from Buell, — the order has already been given for the execu- 
 tion ; " and again she clutched him with a strange, convulsive 
 energy. 
 
 " And how am I to die ? Xot — not by the gallows ? " 
 
 " I:s"o. He says you shall die like a soldier, — as a man 
 should who has risked "his life for his country." 
 
 " Then the end has indeed come, Eachel. It was this death 
 I saw in the vision at Frankfort. Armed men were about 
 me, and I was bleeding from a rifle-bullet." 
 
A N O T H i: li ESCAPE. 281 
 
 " Then it is so ! But you shall not go alone. I will die 
 with you.'* 
 
 " Ko, Rachel, you must live, — live for her, — my mother." 
 
 She made no reply, but, slowly rising to her feet, paced up 
 and down the room, now and then tossing her arms into the 
 air wildly. Jordan said nothing, but his eye followed her, 
 and his whole frame shook with repressed emotion. At last 
 she came to him, sat down again at his side, and twined her 
 arms again about him. 
 
 " I will live, John,'' she said, " live for you ; but you will 
 let me stay here till they take you away to-morrow ? " 
 
 " No, darling," he answered, " you had better not. She 
 needs you now. Go, and bring her with you in the morn- 
 ing." 
 
 She rose, bent down over him for a moment, and then, 
 drawing her outer garment over her uncovered head, stag- 
 gered, without a word, out of the door- way. 
 
 An hour, two hours he sat there after she went away, and 
 the fire died out, leaving the dreary room in thick darkness. 
 Then he rose, and stretched himself upon a blanket before 
 the hearth to wait for the morning. Soon sleep crept over 
 him, — the deep sleep which is born of great sorrow. Grad- 
 ually the darkness went out of his eyes, and there opened to 
 him a scene which his boyhood's dreams had made strangely 
 familiar. It was the mountains he had pictured in all their 
 Alpine grandeur. Far below was^ tlie arid plain, with its 
 grovelling horde, and far above the cMudy summits, along 
 which the angel messengers were passing and repassing on 
 their missions of love and mercy. One came near, and Jor- 
 dan, stretching out his arms, cried to him, — 
 24 • 
 
282 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 *' Come, oil, come, and take me to yonder land of peace and 
 rest eternal." 
 
 " Xot 3^et, — not j'et," the angel answered. " Look around 
 you." 
 
 He looked. He was on a narrow island, between wliicli 
 and the base of the mountain a wide sea was rolling. It was 
 an arid desert, overgrown with thorns and thick briers, and its 
 onl}" inhabitant was a man, bent nearly double with a heavy 
 load, his clothes in ras^s, and his eves ever looking: downward. 
 Jordan went near, and saw it was — Cecil ! 
 
 " You sent him here, and you must raise him up, and lift 
 the burden from off his shoulders," said a voice from out the 
 gloom, — for the clouds had gathered round, and shut out 
 alike the angel visitant and the far-off mountain summits. 
 
 Jordan essayed to speak, but a heavy hand was on his 
 shoulder, and he was awake again in the darkness of the 
 dreary cabin. 
 
 " Be as still as death ; but come quick, put on this uni- 
 form," said a voice which sounded familiar. 
 
 " Who are you ? " asked Jordan, rising, and running his 
 hand over the man's face in the darkness. 
 
 " Brad. Brown. But put on the uniform quick ; if ye don't, 
 ye carn't git beyont the outside pickets." 
 
 " But you are running yourself into danger," said Jordan, 
 undecidedly, standing with the new accoutrements in his 
 hands. 
 
 '^ D n the danger ! Don't stop, to parley. It'r arter 
 
 midnight, and at four the guard'll be changed, and they'll 
 larn ye're missin'. Ye must be miles away 'fore then, for the 
 gineraVll hev to hunt ye down, to save 'pearances." 
 
ANOTHER ESCAPE. 283 
 
 " Then he knows of this ? *' said Jordan, beginning to don 
 tlie disguise. 
 
 "■ No, lie don't, — not a tiling. It's only me, the old sargint, 
 and some of the Fourteenth, as is on guard from now till four 
 in the morning." 
 
 "And you have bribed them to shut their eyes to their 
 duty ? " 
 
 '' Not a bribe ! I oftered it, but they wouldn't tuck a red ; 
 they's the decentest set I've come onto in all Kaintucky." 
 
 "But they'll surely get into trouble. Garfield will have to 
 hold them to account for letting me go." 
 
 " Don't be too shure uv thet. Don't I know him ? — haint 
 I knowed him ever sence he was a boy ? He'd give all his 
 old boots to be well rid uv ye. But come, hurry up ; I've left 
 Ole 'Zeke asleep into my tent to prove an aliby, and swar I 
 warn't out o' doors all the night-time ; and if the old fellow 
 should wake up and find me gone, he wouldn't swear it to 
 save me frum a halter. Come I " 
 
 By this time Jordan was arrayed in the new regimentals, 
 and, taking him by the arm. Brown led him out of the cabin. 
 Not a sentinel was in sight, but when they had proceeded a 
 few rods Jordan heard a low whistle ; and, turning round, saw 
 about a dozen men emerge from the rear of the low cabin. 
 
 Without a word, the two Malked rapidly on until the last 
 house on the outskirts of the village was behind them. Then 
 Brown led the wa}' into a belt of trees, and said to Jor- 
 dan, — 
 
 " I carn't go no furder, — I musn't be seed by the pickets. 
 One on 'em ai-* 'bout a hundred rods ahead, t'other 'bout as 
 fur ag'in, stret norrard ; and ye'll find 'Beauty' a half a mile 
 
284 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 clo\^Ti thar, hitched in a hiiirel thicket. The fust word ar 
 ' Couciliate/ the t'other ' Kaintucky ; ' and, ha ! ha ! it war 
 them two words as was a gwiue to he the death uv ye to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " I thank you, Brown,'' said Jordan ; '' at bottom you have 
 a noble heart." 
 
 " I don't know 'bout that, ^Ir. Jordan ; but I never forgits 
 a debt, and I owe ye a big one. P'raps this oughter pay it, 
 but ye'll need suthin' to begin the world on whar ye's a gwine. 
 Yere's a thousand hard rocks, and with yer talents, they'll 
 sot ye up well in 'Hio." 
 
 "I thank you," said Jordan, his voice trembling slightly; 
 "bat I shall not need money, — I shall not leave Ken- 
 tucky." 
 
 " jSTot leave Kaintucky ! Why, yer mad. If the gineral 
 catches j'^oii, he will have to hang ye. I yered him say it 
 war awful hard, but thar warn't no holp fur it ; fur the guv'- 
 ment thought it necessary to keep good faith about the 
 proclamation." 
 
 " I know ; but I shall not go. I shall die here, if I have 
 to be buried under a gallows." 
 
 " Then ye will be ; for both the Confederates and the Unions 
 will have death and a thousand dollars onto ye. Why, ]\Ir. 
 Jordan, ye're atween two fires, — thar's a halter hangin' fur 
 ye from every tree in Kaintucky." 
 
 " I know it ; but I shall cheat them all, and die with my 
 back to the earth and my face to heaven." 
 
 " Wall, I hope ye will, fur yer one of the heroes. Good-by, 
 and God bless ye." 
 
 " God bless you, Brown ! I shall never forget this, and it 
 
ANOTHER ESCAPE. 285 
 
 may be you will be repaid, even liere, where good deeds are 
 not alway.s rewarded." 
 
 Then they pj^rted, Brown to liis quarters, Jordan to a long 
 ride among the thickets and ravines of the almost inaccessible 
 mountains. 
 
 "Wlien the guard was relieved, the prisoner's absence was 
 discovered, and at once reported to the colonel commanding. 
 An ex]3ression of satisfaction at first unguardedly escaped 
 him ; but, instantly remembering his duty, he summoned to 
 his quarters all the sentinels on guard at the cabin. 
 
 They came, and with them came Captain Bent, the men 
 being members of his company. Each was separately exam- 
 ined, and all denied any knowledge of the escape of the 
 prisoner. Xot one had seen him, either inside or outside of 
 his quarters. 
 
 This was all that the men said, but the sergeant volunteered 
 a few additional words of explanation. 
 
 " Why," he said, " thar warn't but one door and one winder 
 to the cabin. He couldn't hev got out o* them, and he couldn't 
 hev gone up the chimley ; so he must hev turned inter a 
 sperit, — he must, certain ! " 
 
 The colonel had listened with becoming dignity to the 
 meagre reports of the men, but this wordy explanation of the 
 sergeant was too much for his gravity. Laughing heartily, 
 he said, — 
 
 " You are more knaves than fools, every one of you ; and 
 if we were not to march to-morrow, I'd find a way to get the 
 truth from you." 
 
 " No, you wouldn't, colonel," now said Captain Bent. " You 
 might put them to the thumb-screw, and not get another 
 
286 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 W'ord. There's not a man in the Fourteenth Kentucky but 
 would die to save John Jordan." 
 
 'No more was said ; and so Jordan went at large, outlawed 
 by both his friends and his enemies. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 A MIDNIGHT MEETING. 
 
 T was late at night, on tlie third day after the escape 
 of Jordan, when a low rap came at the window of 
 the lonely cabin in the wilderness, and, roused by the 
 sound, Rachel raised herself on her elbow and lis- 
 tened. Soon the rap was repeated, and then came a low, 
 peculiar cry, like that of a wounded bird struggling in the 
 death-acjonies. 
 
 Lifting the sash, Eachel leaned out into the darkness, and 
 said, in quick, eager tones, — 
 
 "John! John! is it you?" 
 
 " Yes, Rachel. Go round to the door and let me into the 
 cabin." 
 
 " Xo, John, not by the door ; you would disturb mother. 
 Come in here ; not at this one, — my bed is here, — at the 
 other. I will open it in a moment." 
 
 Letting the sash down softly, she sprang out of bed, 
 and, throwing a loose robe over her night-clothing, went to 
 the other window. In a moment more Jordan was in the 
 room, and enclosed within the arms of the wildly joyful 
 woman. 
 
 (2S7) 
 
288 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 " John ! John ! " she cried, " to have you once more ! 
 Oh, I sliall die with this great joy ! You safe and back 
 again I " 
 
 '^ Calm 3^ourself, my little one," he said, bending down and 
 kissing her on the forehead. " God is good ; He gives us 
 some moments which make up for years of suffering." 
 
 ''But we will have no more suffering," she said, clinging 
 closely to his neck, and pressing her lips to his wildly. '* I 
 will never let you go away again ; you shall stay with me 
 now always." 
 
 He made no reply, but, putting back her flowing hair, 
 kissed her again and again on the forehead. Then he 
 said, — 
 
 " And how is mother ? Has she got over the terrible shock 
 it gave her ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; but she almost died of joy when she heard of 
 your getting away. I believe she would have died if we 
 hadn't made her sleep. She needs it now, so you mustn't 
 disturb her ; and, besides, I must have you all to myself for 
 a little while." And again she pressed her lips to his franti- 
 cally. 
 
 He held her so for a while ; then, placing her gently in a 
 chair near the hearth, he raked up the smouldering fire, and 
 hung some thick blankets before the windows. When this 
 was done, they sat for many minutes, neither of them speak- 
 ing. At last she said, softly, — 
 
 '• John ! I so thanked God when they told me you were 
 outlawed by both sides ; for then I knew you would go, and 
 we could go together, and be all in all to each other for- 
 ever." 
 
A MIDNIGHT >I E E T 1 N G . 289 
 
 She leaned fonvartl, and pressed her lijis to his again, 
 wildly. 
 
 He made no reply, hut turned his face away towards the 
 the fire-light. Some great struggle seemed to be going on 
 within him. At last he said, his face still averted, - — 
 
 " No, no, Rachel. I must go, — I must be about the 
 Master's business." 
 
 " What can you do ? Where can you go ? What now 
 should keep us apart ? Are you not hunted down by both 
 3'our friends and j'our enemies ? You must flee to some 
 strange country. I will go with you, and be your wife for- 
 ever." 
 
 She paused for a while, and then she added, — 
 
 " Oh, I so yearn for you, John ! so long to be with you 
 always ! " 
 
 He was silent for a time, and again he turned his face to 
 the fire-light. The old gleam was on it when he ansMered, — 
 
 " Eacliel, I love you better than I love my life, and I will 
 put my soul itself into your keeping. You shall hear what I 
 say, and then I will do as you bid me, let come what 
 may come hereafter. Every man has a work to do in the 
 world. If he does this work, he grows ; his whole nature ex- 
 pands, and he enters upon the other life, ages, it may be, in 
 advance of the one who turns his back upon his duty. The 
 work of some men is hard, — of others, easy. My work has 
 been hard, Rachel. It has required me to crucify one half of 
 my nature, to live in constant peril of my life, and, since I 
 knew you did not love Brown, to bear a heavy cross dail3^" 
 
 " But it is over now, John," she said, looking up, with a 
 
 25 
 
290 ON T 11 E li O R D i: 11 . 
 
 tender gleam in her ej^es. " AYitli a j^rice set on your head, 
 wliat more can you do for Kentuclvy ? " 
 
 " What, perliaps, no other man can do,'' he answered. " I 
 will tell you. Garfield has beaten ]Marshall, but has not 
 driven him from the State. He still holds Pound Gap, and 
 his guerilla." are still overrunning all the lower counties, rob- 
 bing and murdering defenceless men and women. Garfield 
 has moved on to Piketon, in the hope of bringing him to bat- 
 tle ; but Marshall will not fight until he can bring up strong 
 reinforcements from Virginia. Then he -will sweep down 
 upon Garfield, and drive him from the State within a fort- 
 night. In that event, Kentucky and the Union may be lost 
 forever. Garfield cannot bring Marshall to battle, because he 
 is entrenched in a position from which a force five times as 
 strong as his could not dislodge him by direct assault. Some 
 one must enter Marshall's camp, learn his exact strength and 
 position, and then guide Garfield over the mountains to the 
 rear of the rebel entrenchments." ■ 
 
 " But you can't do that, John." 
 
 " I can, Rachel. I can go into Marshall's camp, and get 
 safely out, for nature made me an actor. Then I can guide 
 Garfield, for I know every rod of the mountain.'* 
 
 " But you would be taken, you would be shot ! Garfield 
 himself told me that if you were captured he would have to 
 carry out the sentence of the court-martial." 
 
 " I know ; but not a man in his army would be willing to 
 do these things. If I do not do them they will not be done, 
 and if they are not done Kentucky will be lost." 
 
 " Oh, but you will lose your life, John, — 3-ou will surely 
 
A .M I D \ I r, II T M K K TING. 291 
 
 lose your life ! "' and her head sank to his shoulder, and her 
 arms twined abou^ him convulsively. 
 
 " Rachel," he answered, " it is more than likely that I 
 shall. It is for you to say whether I shall or not, — whether 
 I shall die a brave, true man, and leave a memory that you 
 will be proud of, or whether I shall skulk away into some 
 free State, and, with the wife of the man to whom I owe my 
 life, live the rest of my days in oj^en violation of the laws of 
 both God and man." 
 
 " John, I had not looked at it so. Do not ask me. I 
 cannot decide." 
 
 His voice was very soft, and very gentle, as he answered, — 
 " You must, Rachel. To your unselfish love I commit my 
 very soul." 
 
 She raised her head from his shoulder, and, looking into his 
 face with eyes that had in them a strange radiance, she 
 said, — 
 
 " Then die, John ; and wait therejill my life here is ended. 
 I will do my humble work and live upon your memory, until 
 you come and take me to you forever." 
 
 He clasped his great arms about her, and, drawing her 
 to him yet more closely, he said, — 
 
 " Oh, my guide, my hope, my comfort ! Kow you are in- 
 deed mine ! Now no shadow can come between us, — be- 
 tween your soul and my soul." 
 
 Long they sat there, she in his arms, and neither of them 
 speaking. At last he said, — 
 
 "I had a strange dream the other night, Rachel, — a 
 dream that was a revelation. It showed me a new truth, — 
 
292 ON THE IJ O R D E R . 
 
 gave me a new insight into the moral government of the 
 Creator." 
 
 " What was it ? " she said ; '' tell me." 
 
 " The curtain was drawn aside. I saw the delectable coun- 
 try. But it was far awaj^, and between me and it a wide sea 
 was rolling. I wanted to go to it, but a voice said, ' Xot yet ; 
 look around you.' I looked, and saw tliat I was on a desert 
 island. No one was near but a wretched man, his clothing 
 in tatters, and he so bowed down with a heavy burden that 
 he could not stand upright. It was Cecil." 
 
 " Cecil, that bad man ! Oh, what could be its meaning ? " 
 
 " That the voice told me. It said I had sent him there, 
 and I could not reach the beautiful land till I had raised him 
 up and lifted the burden from off his shoulders. And this was 
 the truth it taught me, — that we ourselves cannot rise until 
 we lift those who are brought down by our crimes or our 
 neglect of duty. Think of this, my darling. I will say no 
 more ; but some day it wiU come to you, — my meaning." 
 
 She turned suddenly pale, and her voice was almost husky, 
 as she asked, — 
 
 " What do you mean, John ? You surely would not have 
 me go back to that man, — have me become a wanton ? " 
 
 " No, Eachel. I would have you do nothing against your 
 conscience. If that says you have done all you can do, it 
 will all be well hereafter." 
 
 " John, you put a dagger through me. He has told 
 me that only with me could he stand upright and be a man, 
 and I did j)romise to keep to him through all things. It was 
 an idle promise, got from me by deceit ; but it may be that, to 
 punish me for breaking it, God has put his very soul into my 
 
A MID N 1 G II T .AI E E T I N G . 293 
 
 hands. Oh, the kleca is too horrible ! Since I woke to know 
 I loved you, the very thought of him has been to me a terror 
 and a loathing.'^ 
 
 " Well, think no more of it now, Rachel. Some day your 
 duty will be plain to you." 
 
 They sat for a while longer in silence ; then he suddenly 
 sprang to his feet, exclaiming, — 
 
 " Hark ! What is that ? The sound of horses ? " 
 
 She sprang to the window, threw up the sash, and looked 
 out into the darkness. 
 
 " Yes," she cried, in a moment ; " twenty horsemen coming 
 up the highway, — now they are turning into the path. Run, 
 John, this way, through the window." 
 
 But he was too late, for already the shadow of one of the 
 troopers was against the half-open casement. 
 25* 
 
CHAPTER XX Y. 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF ONE FATHER. 
 
 N a moment a heavy pounding was heard at the 
 outer door, and the widow Jordan, awaking, cried 
 out, — 
 
 " Who is there ? What is wanted ? " 
 
 " Kachel Irving," said a voice which Jordan recognized as 
 that of "Weddington. 
 
 " Thank God, it is me and not you," said Eachel, in a whis- 
 per. '' Keep quiet, and you will not be discovered. I will go 
 and open the door. They will not try to harm me ; if they 
 do, this will protect me ; " and she took a long knife from 
 Jordan's girdle. 
 
 "Do not open the door," said Jordan. "Do nothing. 
 Leave all to Providence. He will, I know, bring us out of 
 this danger." 
 
 By this time the summons for admission had been repeated, 
 and it was Ezekiel's voice that now answered, — 
 
 "You carn't come in, Massa Jack, and you'd better go 
 away mighty sudden ; for 'Zeke's got suffin' yere as'll settle 
 yon' hash so quick it'll make you' head swim." 
 
 Nothing more was said, but a heavy blow came against the 
 door, starting the half-rotten j)lank from its hinges. Then 
 
 (294) 
 
THE CHILDREN OF ONE F A T II E R . 295 
 
 came another blow, which drove the wliole frame, with a 
 loud crash, into tlie apartment. A half-dozen pistol-shots 
 were fired in quick succession, and then half a score of armed 
 men rushed into the room, one of them crying out, — 
 " Secure the old nigger. See he does no more mischief." 
 In a few moments the smoke cleared away, showing the old 
 black held to the floor by four strong men ; and Rachel, stand- 
 ing against the door of the lean-to, with the naked knife in 
 her hands. 
 
 " Do not harm him," she cried ; " do not, on your lives ! 
 Jackson Weddington, what do you want with me ? " 
 
 "Not much, my pretty one; only I am going away for a 
 while, and a short journey with me will do you good." 
 
 " Are you a man, or a brute ? " cried Mrs. Jordan, ad- 
 vancing upon him, her eyes blazing. '^Do you think these 
 ways will always prosper ? " 
 
 " Peace, mother ! " said Eachel, with an imperious gesture. 
 '• I know him. Your words are thrown away." Turning to 
 Weddington, she added, "Release 'Zekiel, and, with your 
 men, leave the house this instant, and I will go with you." 
 
 "Go with him! Why, child, are you crazy?" cried the 
 widow Jordan. 
 
 " Xo, mother, not crazy. Do you consent, Mr. Wedding- 
 ton ? " 
 
 " Consent ! of course I do. You are a sensible woman, 
 Rachel." ' 
 
 When the old negro Imd risen to his feet, and one half of 
 the horsemen had left the apartment, the door of the lean-to 
 suddenly opened, and, a revolver in his either hand, Jordan 
 stepped directly in front of Rachel. 
 
296 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 Weddington sprang a step or two backward, and drew a 
 pistol. 
 
 " Put up your weapon, Mr. Weddington. I can fire before 
 you," said Jordan, coolly. " I have twelve shots, and the first 
 of you who move are dead men." 
 
 "Wliat brings you again in my way?" asked Wedding- 
 ton, pale with rage, or — cowardice. 
 
 " That I will tell you, if you send your men into the road, 
 and go with me out of all hearing. I will tell you of some- 
 thing that will keep you from a crime too terrible to think 
 of." 
 
 " Ha, ha ! Do you think I am a fool ? You would have me 
 where the odds will not be against you," said Weddington, 
 half-raising his revolver. 
 
 " No, I would not. But lower your pistol, or I shall fire." 
 
 The pistol was lowered, and Jordan went on, — 
 
 " Send your men away, and give me your word to listen to 
 what I may say, and you shall have my arms as a pledge of 
 good faith." 
 
 " Why not speak here, before these witnesses ? " asked 
 Weddington, his color changing with an ill-defined fear of 
 some bad tidings. 
 
 " Because I am under oatli to tell no one. I tell you only 
 to save you from a crime that would embitter your vrhole 
 life." 
 
 Weddington stood undecided for a few moments, then he 
 said to a man in the door-way, — 
 
 " Sergeant, take all the men into the road, — not more than 
 a quarter of a mile away." 
 
 *^ Now, Mr. Jordan, where would you lead me ? " 
 
THE C II I L D R i: N OF ONE FATHER. 297 
 
 *' To the barn ; that is far enough." 
 
 " Very well ; give me your weapons. I will go with you." 
 
 The troop mounted and rode off, and, handing Weddington 
 his revolvers, Jordan said, — 
 
 " Good-by, Rachel ; good-by, mother," and led the way in 
 the direction of the out-building. He did not pause till they 
 had reached an open space not fiir from the forest ; then, 
 pointing to a fallen log, he said, — 
 
 " Sit there, Mr. Weddington, and you will hare the moon- 
 light on my face. No man can deceive me when I see his 
 features." 
 
 Without a word, and, as if only mechanically obeying an- 
 other's will, Weddington sat down, and Jordan began to pace 
 to and fro before him. In a moment he said, — 
 
 " It is a long story ; but, if I tell a part, I must tell the 
 whole. It concerns you to understand it in all its bearings." 
 
 " Go on," said Weddington, with an impatient gesture. 
 
 " Well, many years ago, far at the Xorth, there lived an 
 orphan boy, who had no friends or near relations. He was 
 born, it was thought, in a poor-house ; at any rate, he was 
 taken from one when very young, and adopted by a good old 
 man, who was a teacher. The old man had no children of his 
 own, and all his life had been a sort of good Samaritan, going 
 about doing good to the poor. He gave largely in charity, 
 but was a frugal man, and so accumulated quite a little prop- 
 erty. The boy he loved as if he had been his own, and he 
 educated him, and made him his assistant ; but the lad never 
 took to teaching, nor to any work, except dressing fine and 
 being a gentleman. The old man knew this, and partly- to 
 get these fine notions out of his head, and partly to have some- 
 
298 ox THE BORDER. 
 
 thing solid to leave him, he determined to buj^ a farm, which 
 should be the bo3''s when he died. He told him of this in- 
 tention, and that he wouldn't have long to wait ; for his time, 
 he thought, w^as soon coming. You see, he had a foreknowl- 
 edge of his death, not fixed and certain, but that sort of fore- 
 knowledge which some have of great events in their lives, — 
 such men as live near enough to God to feel the pulses of the 
 great spirit-w^orld that is all about us. 
 
 " I reckon the old man lived so. At any rate, he knew his 
 work here was about over. He had always lived sober and 
 natural ; so he was hale and hearty, and the boy thought he 
 would last ten or fifteen yenrs longer. He couldn't endure 
 the idea of being that long in the school, and was determined 
 not to go upon the farm ; but he encouraged the old man tc 
 buy it, because it would bring his moiie^^ into the house, 
 when he could get it into his hands, make away to some far 
 country, and live at his leisurie. He knew his going away 
 would break the old man's heart ; but he didn't heed that, 
 he thought onl}' of himself, — thought only of himself, when 
 he was certain the old man loved him too well even to follow, 
 and try to get back the money." 
 
 "This is indeed a long story," said AYeddington; "and on 
 my life I can't see how it concerns me." 
 
 " You will see, shortly," said Jordan, pausing in his meas- 
 ured walk. " So have patience, and let me go on in my own 
 way." 
 
 " Go on," said the other. 
 
 " Well, the old man bought the farm, and, the day before 
 he was to receive the deed, drew his money from the bank, 
 and went to sleep with it under his pillow. The two lived by 
 
THE C II I L D REN O F ONE FAT II E U . 299 
 
 themselves, in a large house, with only an old house-keeper, — 
 and she was half deaf, and slept in the farther end of the 
 buihling. The boy — he was twenty then — waited until 
 the old man was asleep, and all around was still, and then he 
 went to his bed and began to search for the money, which he 
 knew was under his pillow. It woke the old man. He 
 sprang up, grappled the boy, and they struggled, — the old 
 man not knowing who it was for the darkness. He was very 
 strong, and soon was getting the better of the boy ; then all 
 at once it flashed upon him that he would be discovered and 
 ruined, — so he drew his knife, and gave the old man his 
 death-blow." 
 
 " It was a terrible deed," continued Jordan, pausing and 
 looking the other full in the face, " and yet not half so terri- 
 ble as what followed; but I'll tell you the whole, that you 
 may know just how much and how little to blame liim." 
 
 "The old man was dead, — dead, but living; living in that 
 room, and knowing that his own adopted son had killed him. 
 The boy thought of this, and the thought overcame him. He 
 sank down on the floor, and groaned in agony, and something 
 within — it was his good angel — said to him, — 
 
 " ' Go out. Confess the crime, and take the consequences.' 
 
 "But in a moment the devil that had led him on to the deed 
 came back, and said, — 
 
 " ^ What's done can't be undone. Cover up the crime, and 
 profit all you can by it.' 
 
 " Then the boy set about hiding the trace of his hand in tlie 
 dreadful business. 
 
 "The bag of money he put u]) the chimney, and, catching 
 some of the old man's blood in a basin, sprinkled it along the 
 
300 ox THE BORDER. 
 
 stairs, and out at the front way. Then he fixed the outer 
 door so that the house would seem to have been entered 
 from the outside. This took an hour, and it was as much as 
 he could do to got through it, for, at his every step, the spirit of 
 the old man followed him. It glared on him out of the dark- 
 ness when he kneeled down to catch the blood that was flow- 
 ing from the body, and went with him, step by step, down 
 the stairs, through the hall, and out at the door-way; and 
 there it stood right before him in the moonlight, looking so 
 sad and pitiful, and yet so yearning and so forgiving, that the 
 boy was tempted to drive the knife into his own heart, and go 
 at once to the great accounting. But he did not. Something 
 held his hand, and said. — 
 
 " ^ Don't be weak now. Finish what you've undertaken.' 
 " Going back into the house, he burned his bloody clothes, 
 and, it being still early in the evening, put on another suit, 
 and went off to the house of a young woman, whom he was 
 to have married. He stayed there all night, and, it appearing 
 that he was away when the deed was done, he was not even 
 suspected when the cook found the old man's body in the 
 morning. 
 
 '^ Then began his retribution. The old man was dead ; his 
 work was over, or, rather, he had gone to work where work 
 is only playing. But the j^oung man was haunted by a devil 
 that gave him no rest, but followed him day and night like 
 his own shadow, — only it always went before, keeping be- 
 tween him and the sunlight. Day and night it was at his 
 elbow, and day and night he kept doing over again the mur- 
 der, and seeing the old man as he saw him in the dark room, 
 and out there in the moonlight. 
 
T II !•: CHILDREN OF ONE FATHER. 301 
 
 " At last, he could endure this no longer, and he tried to 
 Ivill himself, but he couldn't. The same devil again held his 
 hand, and again spoke to him, this time saying that he could 
 not die till he had expiated his crime by long years of suffer- 
 ing. 
 
 " He thought the old man haunted the house, and often 
 would wake up at night and fancy he was standing by his 
 bedside. Then he would rush out into the open air, and go 
 wandering round until morning. But nothing gave him any 
 rest, and at last even the sight of his best friends became 
 a torment. He determined to go away, and, in some strange 
 IDlaee, try to escape the memory of his crime and his terrible 
 visions. He sold the house and the school, — for the old man 
 had left him all, — and then went oif on a journey. For 
 a year he wandered about from place to place, and then came 
 to Lexington, when the court was in session. 
 
 "A middle-aged man was there attending court, with a 
 3'oung wife, to whom he had been married some years without 
 children. The young man got acquainted with them, and the 
 Kentuckian, who was a desperate hand at those things, led 
 him deeply into drinking and gaming. Well, he won the 
 young man's money, and the young man won his \xiie ; and 
 so one crime was made to punish the other. This was about 
 a year before you were born, Jackson Weddington." 
 
 Weddington's face turned to a livid hue, but he said noth- 
 ing, and Jordan wxnt on, — 
 
 " The poor woman, however, wasn't so much to blame, — he 
 told me she was not. He had the power over her that a 
 snake lias over a bird. Often she tried to get away, but 
 could not, and he kept the spell upon her until she died." 
 
 26 
 
302 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 " It was horrible," now stammered Weddington. " Had 
 the man no soul ? " 
 
 " Yes, — a soul ; hut one hardened and encrusted with 
 crime. It's the nature of sin, Weddington," answered Jor- 
 dan. "We open the door to one devil, and seven come in, 
 worse than the first. This was worse than the murder. That 
 was sudden and unthought of ; this he planned, gloated over, 
 and, for 3"ears and years, rolled like a sweet morsel under his 
 tongue. 
 
 " Well, the Kentuckian knew nothing of all this, and about 
 a year afterward a son was born in his family. This seemed 
 to change his whole nature. He threw off his bad habits, 
 and became a man. He knew his wife did not love him; but 
 this gave him something to live for. 
 
 "But the ^STortherner still darkened his door-way, and one 
 day was seen by a servant in doubtful relations with his mis- 
 tress. The negro had been brought up with his master, and, 
 presuming on their long connection, he cautioned him about 
 having his friend longer in the familj^ His master took 
 offence, and sold him ; but the next year the negro came back 
 to the plantation, and then told the overseer the whole facts ; 
 and these he had not disclosed to his master. 
 
 " The overseer at once told the Kentuckian ; for the North- 
 erner was still at the mansion. He stormed, and affected to 
 disbelieve the storj^, and the two parted in anger ; but that 
 night the Kentuckian charged the crime upon his wife. She 
 confessed it, and a duel between the two men followed. They 
 fought with swords in the billiard-room in which they had 
 gambled together, and the Northerner disarmed the Kentuck- 
 ian. He gave him his life, and then left the plantation. 
 
THE C II I L 1> K K N OF O N K FATHER. 303 
 
 The other went away tlie next day, and the woman fell dan- 
 gerously sick. While she was on her death-bed, and he knew 
 it, the Northerner came back to the house, and told her to rob 
 h^ husband. She did so, and in a little time she died. 
 
 " But retribution again followed. His ill-gotten gains went 
 in a night, and, after twenty years of wTetched life, he died, 
 mourned only by his innocent daughter." 
 
 Jordan paused, and for a time, paced to and fro in silence. 
 Then stopping directly before Weddington, he said, — 
 
 " That man was your father, his daughter is your sister ; 
 and now tell me if you will ifot thank me for this through all 
 eternity ? " 
 
 He laid his hand gently on the other's shoulder, as he said 
 this, and his voice was strangely soft and musical. 
 
 Weddington's head sank upon his breast, and, in hollow 
 tones, he muttered, — ^ 
 
 " It can't be true, — it can't be true ! " 
 
 " It ^5 true. He told me when he w\is dying. Look at 
 your sister, and see if she is not 3'ourself, — only more of 
 her mother, and less of her father. Think of all this, Wed- 
 dington, and remember, retribution followed him ; let it not 
 follow you. Now I must go ; give me the pistols." 
 
 Weddington mechanically held out the revolvers. Jordan 
 took them, and, turning away, was soon lost in the forest. A 
 moment later a shrill whistle was heard in the wood. It was 
 answered by a low whinny, and soon afterward a horse's hoofs 
 echoed along the narrow road which led to the far-away 
 southerri mountains. 
 
CHAPTER XXYI 
 
 MIDXIGHT DUTY. 
 
 HE traces of Jopdan's subsequent career are dim and 
 shadowy. He was never again seen in the vicinity 
 of the cabin, and to only a very few was it known 
 that he had not left Kentucky. How and where 
 he lived was a profound mystery, even to Bent and the 
 half-dozen members of his regiment with whom Jordan's self- 
 imposed mission brought him in almost nightly contact. 
 
 On one occasion a small party of Ohio soldiers, crossing the 
 mountain on a hunting expedition, soon after the army en- 
 camped in the vicinity of Piketon, came upon a dilapidated 
 hut, buried in the deepest recesses of the forest. It was a 
 rude shanty of rough logs, and had been the temporary home 
 of some hunter, who, before the war, had trapped for furs 
 in that wild region ; but now was so fallen into decay as 
 scarcely to afford shelter to the untamed creatures that fre- 
 quent the dense thickets of those well-nigh inaccessible moun- 
 tains. The soldiers were about to pass the place without 
 special notice, when their attention was arrested by a thin 
 column of smoke curling lazily up from the half-ruined chim- 
 ney. Cautiously approaching the hut, they looked in at the 
 open door-way. The cabin was without door or window, 
 (301) 
 
MIDNIGHT DUTY. 305 
 
 and the cold wind, which swept through the interstices in 
 the w\ills, half-filled the desolate room with the smoke of a fire 
 that was smouldering on the decayed hearth ; Lut throu;^h 
 the cloudy atmosphere the soldiers soon got a view of the 
 occupants of the cabin. They were a man and a horse, 
 stretched on a bed of dry leaves and sleeping soundly. The 
 man lay near the fire, his head resting on the neck of the 
 horse, and his body extended between the fore-legs of the 
 animal, one of which was coiled about his waist, as if it were 
 the arm of a mother encircling a sleeping child. His skin 
 was densely black, but he had straight, European features, 
 and long gray hair that might have belonged to a white 
 man. 
 
 One of the soldiers touching him on the shoulder, the man 
 and the horse rose to their feet at the same instant. 
 
 The man stepped back a few paces, and suddenly drew a re- 
 volver, but as suddenly he put it back into his belt, and said, — 
 
 " Ah, dar's no far ob you ! Ole 'Zeke know you, — you'm 
 ob Gunnel Cranor's regimen'." 
 
 " And who are you, and what are you doing here ? " asked 
 one of the soldiers. 
 
 " Why, don't you know ? " exclaimed the negro. " I'se ole 
 'Zeke — friend to de Unions. I scouts it fur Cap'n Bent ob 
 de ole Fourteenth. You ax him, an' if you wont tuck de word 
 ob Cap'n Dick, jess you ax de gineral. He'm yeard ob ole 
 'Zeke, dough he haint de honor ob his pussonal 'quaintance." 
 
 " Well," now said another of the soldiers, " come with us, 
 and we'll give the ' gineral de honor ob your pussonal 'quaint- 
 ance.' The fact is, old man, we can't allow prowlers so near 
 the lines." 
 
 26 * 
 
306 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 The old black hesitated a moment, then he answered, — 
 
 " Dar haint only free ob you, so 'Zeke haint obleeged to 
 go ; but he will, jess to keep de peace, — only you sot out to 
 onct, case he muss be twenty mile away by midnight. Tuck 
 l;im to onct to Cap'n Bent, — Cap'n Dick, of de Fourteenth 
 Kaintucky." 
 
 " We don't know Captain Bent. "We'll take you to the 
 colonel himself." 
 
 '' 'Scuse me, gemmen, but bein' we'se too fur away, it'd tuck 
 too long, and me and de mar muss get some sleep ag'in de 
 night's journey. You jess go to Cap'n Dick, — 'Zeke wont 
 go no whar else." 
 
 The resolute manner of the negro decided the soldiers. 
 They conducted him at once to the head-quarters of the Ken- 
 tucky regiment; but, to their surprise, both Captain Bent 
 and Colonel Moore at once denied all knowledge of the old 
 negro. "When he was at last taken into the tent of the latter 
 officer, Captain Bent said, — 
 
 "]^ow, old man, speak the truth. Who are you, and why 
 are you hanging about the camp ? " 
 
 " Jess 'case, I couldn't git inside, Massa Dick. You sees, 
 I hadn't de word, aiid widout dat you wont leff in eben a ole 
 darky." 
 
 " And why did jen want to come in ? " 
 
 " Jess to git dat 'backer j^ou promise ole 'Zeke, dat night 
 he cotched you down dar by Peach Orchard." 
 
 "The devil!" exclaimed Bent, springing to his feet, and 
 going closely to the negro. " How dare you come here ? " 
 
 The negro laughed, as he answered, — 
 
 *' Why, what wuss am it comin' yere dan layin' out on de 
 
51 I 1) N I G II T D U T Y . 307 
 
 nioimtain ? It'm full of rebs, jNIassa Dick. Dar's a nest ob 
 'em not twenty mile away, and ef you'll tuck fifty calvary, 
 and foller ole 'Zeke, you'll liab 'em all 'fore mornin'." 
 
 "What do you say, colonel?" asked Bent, turning to 
 another officer. " Can I have the men ? The negro can be 
 trusted." 
 
 "Who is he?" asked Colonel Moore. 
 
 "An old fellow I've known since I was born," answered- 
 Bent. " IM trust my life with him." 
 
 " Then why is he in danger in our lines ? " asked Moore, 
 with a look of incredulity. 
 
 " I'll tell you." 
 
 Bent took the other aside, and for a while the two 
 conversed together in whispers. Then Colonel Moore ap- 
 proached the negro, and, taking him cordially by the hand, 
 said, — 
 
 " I am glad to see you safe ; but the blood-hounds are after 
 you. It's a dangerous game you are. playing." 
 
 "I know, Massa Moore," answered the black; "dar'ra 
 danger eberywhar ; but it'm all one to a ole darky. All he 
 wants am to die in de harness." 
 
 ]\[oore wrung his hand for a moment without speaking; 
 then he said, — 
 
 " Bent shall fgo with you. Meet him somewhere outside 
 the lines after nightfall." 
 
 " Bery well," said the other. "Now 'Zeke'll go. lie don't 
 tuck obor strong to any sogers, — rebs or Unions." 
 
 The old man was soon conducted outside of the army lines, 
 and not long after dark was met at an appointed j^lace by 
 Captain Bent and the fifty horsemen. In the morning the 
 
308 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 party returned without the guide, but Avith a score or more of 
 rebel guerillas, whom they had captured at midnight. 
 
 A few nights later, as a sentinel was pacing his round 
 on the outer picket line of tlie army, he caught sight of a man 
 moving quickly along the edge of the wood which skirted the 
 foot of the mountain. 
 
 " Halt ! " he cried. " Who goes there ? " 
 ■ "A friend," was the answer. 
 
 "Advance, friend, and give the countersign," said the 
 sentry. 
 
 " Freedom for Kentucky." 
 
 "All right," answered the soldier. "I've orders from 
 the captain. Take my musket and stand guard. I'll have 
 him here in ten minutes." 
 
 The old negro — for it was he — mounted guard, and soon 
 the soldier returned with the officer. Leading him in among 
 the trees, the old man talked for a while with him earnestly. 
 Then, saying " I'll be dar," he turned away and disappeared 
 in the darkness. 
 
 Half an hour later, Bent left camp with a part}'- of horse- 
 men. In the morning he returned with another score of rebel 
 guerillas, whom he had surprised and captured at their hiding- 
 place on the mountains. 
 
 Scarcely a night followed, for nearly a month, that the same 
 old man did not make his appearance at the same picket- 
 station, always giving the words, " Freedom for Kentucky," 
 and always walking the sentry's beat while the latter was 
 away in search of his superior officer. Some midnight move- 
 ment always followed these visits, and soon the region was 
 cleared of the roving bands of marauders, who, issuing fi'om 
 
MIDNIGHT DUTY. 309 
 
 their liiding-placos among tlie mountain.s, had descended into 
 the valley's, and spread terror and death among tlie defence- 
 less dwellers of the district. 
 
 Toward the close of February, the midnight visits of the 
 old black suddenly ceased, and Moore said to Bent, — 
 
 "What has become of him? — not, I hope, taken by the 
 rebels." 
 
 " I hope not," answered Bent ; " but he's off on a desper- 
 ate expedition, — gone into the rebel camp at Pound Gap. 
 If they suspect him he's a dead man, certain." 
 
 A fortnight later, a white man presented himself at the 
 line of pickets held by the Fourteenth Kentucky, giving the 
 old negro's password, " Freedom for Kentuck}^," and demand- 
 ing an interview with Captain Bent, of that i*egiment. 
 
 " Who are you ? Wliar's the old man ? How came you 
 by his countersign ? " asked the sentry, who had often met 
 the old negro on his midnight visits. 
 
 " Ah ! my name ar' Bradslaw," said the man, speaking with 
 a strong nasal drawl, and turning up the whites of his eyes in 
 the moonlight. "They call me Parson Bradslaw, ah, ^case, 
 ah, Pm one of the Lord's chosen, ah, chosen to give milk to 
 his babes, ah, strong meat to his older children, ah. The 
 negro man " — 
 
 He was going on, but w^as here interrupted by the soldier, 
 who assured him, in not very courteous terms, that he was a 
 liar and a hypocrite, to boot, — the said JBradslaw being, to 
 his certain knowledge, then an inmate of the jail at Piketon. 
 
 In vain the parson insisted that the Bradslaws were a nu- 
 merous family, and that more than one of them had been 
 servants of the Lord, and preachers of his gospel, and in vain 
 
310 O If THE B O R D P: R . 
 
 he protested against being taken within the lines, and bogged 
 to be allowed to meet Captain Bent there "b}- moonlight 
 alone." The soldier was deaf to both remonstrance and en- 
 treaty, and, calling to a companion to relieve him of sentry- 
 dut}", he marched the reluctant parson off to the head-quar- 
 ters of the regiment. 
 
 At the quarters of Colonel Moore, a number of ofiScers, 
 among them Captain Bent and the colonel commanding, were 
 assembled to deliberate on some intended movement of the 
 army, when the canting parson was brought before them. As 
 he stalked into the centre of the tent, and the light fell full 
 on his face, they had a view of his personal appearance. It 
 was entirely nondescript, and of a character never seen east 
 of the Cumberland mountains. 
 
 He was tall, above six feet in height, with long, stooping 
 shoulders, ajid gaunt, bony arms that extended nearly down 
 to his knees. On his head, when he entered, was a broad, 
 slouched hat, half hiding his face ; but this he soon re- 
 moved, revealing a pair of deep-gray eyes, a hea^y, projecting 
 brow, and a dark, sallow skin, begrimed apparently with the 
 smoke of a curing-house. His beard was not heavy, but long 
 and intensely black, and his hair was also long and black, and 
 came forward of his ears in an exact line with the outer 
 angle of his eyes, unclij)ped by shears, except straight across, 
 half an inch above his eyebrows. He was dressed in .the 
 common butternut jean of the district, his coat much too 
 long in the skirts, and his trousers much too short in the 
 legs ; and as he turned to the assembled officers, and, de- 
 scribing a half-circle with his enormous beaver, addressed 
 
:\I I D N I G IIT D LT Y. 311 
 
 them in a slirill nasal drawl, lie was a sound to hear, as 
 well as "a sij^dit to beliold." 
 
 " My friends, ah," he said, " I must call ye friends, ah 
 — for I ar one of the anointed, and ye is a-wieldin' the 
 sword of the Lord and of Gideon. Ye is a-fightin' the bat- 
 tles of the right ag'in the hosts of Belial ; and so ye is my 
 friends, ah, ye is my friends ; but it is my duty, ah, — be- 
 in' as I ar' a free citizen of old Kaintuck, — it is my duty, 
 ah, to let ye know, ah, this shinin' evenin', ah, that ye is 
 a doin' violence to the great principles to w'ich I do be- 
 lieve, ah, — principles w'ich rest, ah, at the very foundation 
 of all things, — w'ich is the chief corner-stone of all human 
 freedom, ah, — w'ich will stand when man that is born of 
 woman, with a few days to live, w'ich is full of trouble, 
 shall liev gone back to dust, — shall hey turned inter the 
 unresolvable elements, of w'ich, ah, Shakespeare wrote, ah. 
 It is my duty, ah. to say unto you that you hev done vio- 
 lence to them great principles for the w'ich our foreancestors 
 font, bled, and died, under William the Conqueror, and Wil- 
 liam Penn, and loikewise under Gineral Jackson at the battle 
 of Bunker Hill. Ye hev done violence to them great princi- 
 ples, ah, by a draggin^ me 3'ere, — yere among yer men of 
 war, — me. a messenger of peace, a ambassador of the Lord, 
 a minister of the Gospil in good standin'. And now, with 
 all due deference to the presence into w'ich I am fotched, ah, 
 I must ax, ah, that ye let me go the way I come, — that ye 
 let me return to my flock upon the mountains, — my flock 
 that ar' a-strayiu' without a guide, ah, — that ar' a-nibblin' 
 the short grass, and lookin' with strainin' eyes and bleatin' 
 hearts for thar shepherd as haint forthcomin'." 
 
312 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 The officers listened with ill-restrained mirth during the 
 delivery of this unique harangue, but at its close they burst 
 into a merry peal of laughter, and, as soon as he could, 
 Bent shouted, — 
 
 " Why did j^ou come to the lines, and who the devil are 
 you ? " 
 
 Without turning his head, the preacher rolled his great 
 gray eyes upon Bent, and, in the same sanctimonious drawl, 
 answered, — 
 
 '• I ar', Richard Bent, ah, what I fears ye never will be, — 
 
 a chile of the Lord, a sarvint of the Most High ; and I ar^ 
 
 loikewise, ah, a watchman on the walls of Zion, a shepherd 
 
 of Israel, tending the Lord's flock that is a wanderin' in the 
 
 wilderness ; and as sich it ar' my duty, ah, to tell ye, ah, that 
 
 t 
 ye is one of the profane, ah, — for out of ye flows words that 
 
 shock the ear, and into ye flows whiskey that ruins the 
 
 stomach, and'll bring ye to an untimely eend, if ye don't turn 
 
 from yer ways, take to readin' yer Bible, and drinkin' spring 
 
 water, ah ! " 
 
 Bent joined less heartilj^ in the laugh that followed ; but he 
 soon again demanded, — 
 
 " Who are you, and what brought you here ?" 
 
 The preacher now drew a roll of paper from an inside 
 pocket, and his whole manner suddenly, and, as it were, un- 
 consciously, changed, as he quickly answered, — 
 
 " My name ar' Bradslaw ; they call me Parson Bradslaw, 
 and I ar' yere to do ye a good turn, — mayhap, to save Kain- 
 tucky." 
 
 As he handed the roll to Bent, the colonel commanding 
 said to the stranger, — 
 
M I D N I r; H T I) i; t y. 31.'j 
 
 " Speak the truth, my friend, — you are not Bradslaw ; we 
 have him safe under lock and key at the village." 
 
 Resuming his drawling tone, the preacher answered, — 
 
 " That may be, gineral. Thar war but one Adam, and he 
 war shot out o' Paradise. Thar war but one Noah, and 
 he war saved in the deluge. Thar war but one Jacob, and he 
 wrestled all night with tlie angel, and did prevail, though hi>; 
 withers was unstrung, and he went a cripple all his life 
 arterwards. But thar is two Bradslaws. One, like Esau, has 
 sold his birthright for a mess of pottage, and in yonder jail 
 is a-gittin' the due reward of his doin's. The other is yere 
 afore ye, and he ar' a cl'ar, free man, as would, this night, lay 
 down his life for his kentry ; as M'ould lay down his life, 
 for the time ar' nigh, the time of w'ich the Scripture speaks, 
 — the time as tries men's souls. Ah, and he reckons we 
 orter all to do our duty to our kentry, ah, 'fore thet time 
 comes, thet time, and the great cpn-flag-a-ration of the uni- 
 verse — ah " — 
 
 He was suddenly interrupted by Bent, who, rising to his 
 feet, and holding the open paper before him, said, in an 
 angry way, — 
 
 " Tell me, you canting devil, where did you get this, and 
 where is the man that made it ? " 
 
 " Richard Bent," said the preacher, again rolling his eyes 
 upon him, with a look half of reproof and half of concealed 
 merriment, " ye is one of the profane ! But I will answer 
 yer question. This hand made it, this foot trod every rod of 
 thet sile, — trod it thet ye might tread it, and not stumble ; 
 and ye kin go the way I went, and come in and go out in 
 safety ; ye kin, as sure as my name ar' Bradslaw." 
 27 
 
314 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 Bent grasped the preacher by the liand, and was about 
 to speak ; but, at a significant look from him, he turned away, 
 and, throwing the paper upon the table, said, — 
 
 " Colonel, here is a complete map of the rebel position, 
 with full directions how to turn it, and how to bag them all 
 within forty-eight hours." 
 
 As each one in the room clustered eagerly about the table, 
 Bent turned to the preacher and spoke a few hurried words 
 in a whisper. 
 
 After a long and close scrutiny of the paper, the colonel 
 commanding looked up, and said to Bent, — 
 
 " Do you think this can be relied on ? " 
 
 " Implicitly," answered Bent ; " he has been among them 
 for a fortnight." 
 
 " Well, my man," continued the colonel, looking round for 
 the preacher. He suddenly paused, for that individual was 
 no longer visible. " Where is he ? " he added. " Bring him 
 here ; I must question him." 
 
 " Well, you can't, colonel," said Bent ; " I gave him the 
 word, and he's beyond the lines by this time. Don't you 
 know ? It was Jordan ! " 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 THE POUND GAP EXPEDITION. 
 
 OUND Gap is a wild and irregular opening in the 
 Cumberland Mountains, about fort^'-five miles south- 
 west of Piketon. It is the only channel of wagon 
 communication between the southerly portions of 
 Virginia and Kentucky, and takes its name from a fertile tract 
 of meadow-laud which skirts the southerly base of the moun- 
 tains, and is enclosed by a narrow stream called Pound Fork. 
 In the early history of the district this mountain locality was 
 the home of a tribe of Indians, who made periodical expedi- 
 tions into Virginia for plunder. Keturning with the stolen 
 cattle of the settlers, they pastured them in this meadow en- 
 closure, and hence it acquired the name of the " Pound," 
 which in time it gave to both the Gap and the streamlet. 
 
 In this " Pound," and on the summit of the gorge through 
 which the road passes, the rebels had built log huts, capable 
 of quartering nearly a thousand men ; and across the opening 
 of the Gap they had erected a formidable breastwork, that 
 completely blocked the passage, and which five hundred men 
 could hold against five thousand. 
 
 For several weeks Pound Gap had been garrisoned by about 
 six hundred rebel militia, under a Major Thompson, and 
 
 (315) 
 
310 ON T H K B O K I) K R , 
 
 thougn incapable of effective service in tlie field, they had 
 held this gateway into Virginia, and maintained a constant 
 reign of terror among the Union citizens of all the lower 
 counties. Issuing from their stronghold on the mountains, 
 small parties of this gang would descend into the valleys, rob 
 and murder the peaceable inhabitants, and, before pursuit 
 could be begun, would be again behind their breastworks.' 
 Many of these predatory bands had been captured, in conse- 
 quence of the vigilance of Jordan, and the ceaseless activity 
 of the Kentucky cavalry ; but as soon as one party was made 
 prisoners another would appear in the valley, until it was evi- 
 dent that the only way to effectually stop their incursions was 
 to break up their nest on the mountain. This Garfield had 
 long determined to do. He had waited only for reliable in- 
 formation as to the strength and position of the guerillas, and 
 for a definite description of the route to be taken to get in the 
 rear of their intrenchments. 
 
 This information the map of Jordan supplied, and it added 
 a significant fact which decided Garfield to at once set on foot 
 the intended expedition. 
 
 On the margin of the map, in Jordan's own writing, were 
 these words : — 
 
 "General Marshall has issued an order for a grand muster 
 of the rebel militia on the fifteenth of March. They are to 
 meet at the 'Pound,' in the rear of their intrenchments, and 
 it is expected they will muster in sufficient strength to enter 
 Kentucky, and drive the Union forces before them.'' 
 
 It was this indorsement only which had enabled Bent to 
 penetrate the disguise of the counterfeit preacher. 
 
 Garfield at once determined to forestall the intended gather- 
 
THE POUND G A I' !•: X 1' K I) 1 T I O \ . 317 
 
 ing, and to disperse the entire swann of guerillas. With two 
 hundred and twenty of the Fortieth Ohio, under Colonel Cra- 
 nor; two hundred of the Forty-second Ohio, under Major 
 Pardee ; one hundred and eighty of the Twenty-second Ken- 
 tucky, under Major Cook ; and a hundred cavalry, under 
 Major McLaughlin, he set out on the following morning, with 
 three days' rations in the haversacks of the men, and a quan- 
 tity of provisions packed on the backs of mules. 
 
 The roads were deep in mud, and the countless rivulets 
 which ramif}^ through this mountain region were filled with 
 ice, and swollen into rushing torrents ; but pressing on over the 
 rough roads, and in the midst of a drenching rain, the little 
 army, late on the night of the second day, reached Elkhorn 
 Creek, — a small stream which flows along tlie northern base 
 of the mountains, and empties into the Big Sandy, only two 
 miles below the rebel position. There they went into camp 
 on the wet ground, and waited for the morning. 
 
 Garfield's plan was to send his small party of cavalry up 
 the road to make a demonstration against the enemy's in- 
 trenchments, and to engage his attention, while, with the 
 infantry, he should climb the steep side of the mountain, and, 
 filing along a narrow ledge of rocks on its summit, reach the 
 gap, and attack the flank of the rebel position. To prove 
 successful, the movement must be executed with the utmost 
 secrecy, and a guide must be obtained to guide the infantry 
 over the mountain. To these ends every male resident of 
 the vicinity was brought into camp, where he was detained 
 to prevent his carrying information to the enemy, and 
 questioned as to some practicable route to the rear of 
 his intrenchments. There was no route. The mountain 
 
318 O N T H P: B O K D E R . 
 
 was steep, and in some places precipitous, and it was tan- 
 gled with dense thickets, obstructed with fallen logs, and 
 covered with huge boulders, which, coated with ice and snow, 
 formed an almost impassable barrier to the passage of any 
 living thing save the panther and the catamount. But if, 
 in the face of all these obstacles, the mountain summit were 
 at last gained by the adventurous band, thej'- would be obliged 
 to thread for a long distance a narrow ledge, buried three feet 
 deep in yielding snow, where one false step would be death, 
 and ten men could dispute the passage of an army. 
 
 Though tempted with liberal offers of money, not one of 
 the " natives " would undertake to guide the expedition. 
 In these circumstances, Garfield laid down at midnight on 
 the floor of a wretched log shanty near the foot of the moun- 
 tain. The prospect was in no way encouraging ; in fact, it 
 seemed that Jordan had carefully concealed the real difficul- 
 ties of the expedition. But turning back was out of the 
 question. Even if he failed, the Union commander would 
 attempt to scale the mountain in the morning. 
 
 These thoughts in his mind, he fell into a light slumber ; 
 but before morning he was roused by a number of men enter- 
 ing his apartment. One of them was Caj)tain Bent. Ap- 
 proaching his commanding officer, he said, — 
 
 " Colonel, this old fellow has just come into camp, and 
 offers to guide us over the mountain. He says he knows 
 every rod of all this region, and can lead us to the rebel nest 
 safely." 
 
 Garfield raised himself on his blanket, and, by the dim light 
 of the logs that were smouldering on the hearth, looked nar- 
 rowly at the old "native." He was apparently not far from 
 
THE POUND GAP EXPEDITION. 319 
 
 Seventy, with a tall, bent form, and long hair and beard, which 
 were of almost snowy whiteness. He wore the common 
 homespun of the district, and over his shoulder carried, slung 
 by a stout leather thong, a brightly-burnished squirrel rifle. 
 His enormous beard and huge slouched hat more than half 
 hid his face, but enough of it was exposed to show a tawny, 
 smoke-begrimed skin, and strongly-marked, determined fea- 
 tures. Hastily scanning him from head to foot, the Union 
 officer said, smiling, — 
 
 "You! — old man, do you think you can climb the moun- 
 tain ? " 
 
 " I hev done it, gineral, many and many a time," said the 
 " native," in a voice that sounded much like a cracked 
 kettle. 
 
 " I know ; but in winter, — the slope a sheet of ice, and 
 three feet of snow on the summit ? " 
 
 " I comed down it not ten days ago. Whar I kin come 
 down, ye kin go up." 
 
 " I should think so, up or down. Is there a bridle-path we 
 can follow ? " 
 
 " Yes ; eight miles below. But ye'd better make yer own 
 path. Ye must come onto 'em unbeknown and sudden, and 
 to do that, ye must foller the route the squirrels travil." 
 
 '• What route is that ? " 
 
 " The one over the rocks and along the edge of the presur- 
 piss. They has pickets on every other path. On that they 
 look for nothin' but wild critters." 
 
 " And do you think we can git over it safely ? " 
 
 " Yes, if ye's men of narve, as means to do what they 
 has come about." 
 
320 ON T H 1-: B O li D E K . 
 
 " Well," said Garfield. " Wliat induces an old man like 
 you to undertake a thing so hazardous ? " 
 
 " The hope to rid the kentry of a set of murderin* thieves, 
 as is carrjin' terror and death inter every pore man's home in 
 all the valley." 
 
 " And what reward do you look for ? " 
 
 '' Nary reward, — only yer word that I shall go as I comed, 
 with no one to let or hinder me." 
 
 At this the Union officer gave him a quick, suspicious 
 glance, and the old man turned his face aside, and slunk 
 back a little into the darkness. Bent said, hastily, — 
 
 "I know him, colonel. You can stake your life on him. 
 He'll guide us safe or die in trying." 
 
 "Ver}^ well," answered Garfield; ^- I'll trust -him. Let 
 him be here early in the morning." 
 
 In the morning the snow was falling so thickly that objects 
 only a few rods distant were totally invisible; but at nine 
 o'clock the little bod^- of cavalry was sent up the road to en- 
 gage the attention of the enemy, and draw him from his 
 intrench ments ; and then the infantry was set in motion. 
 In a long, bristling, serpent-like column, catching at every 
 twig and shrub and fallen log that lay in their way, they 
 clambered slowly up the icy mountain-side, the old guide 
 leading the way, and steadying his steps by the long, iron- 
 shod staff in use among mountaineers. The ridge at this 
 point rises two thousand feet above the valley, and half-way 
 up breaks into abrupt precipices, which seem to defy the ap- 
 proach of any foot but that of the deer or chamois. Thus far 
 the guide had gone on with tottering steps, stopping often for 
 breath, and to see that he was closely followed ; but now 
 
TUE POUND (iAP EXPEDITION. 321 
 
 planting liis staff firmly in the icy slope, he leaped from rock 
 to rock as agile as if he had been a stripling. His altered 
 gait caught the quick eye of the Union commander, and, sus- 
 l^ecting treachery, he hailed him, demanding he should go no 
 further. The old man kept on, giving no heed to the sum- 
 mons, and then the officer cried, — 
 
 " Halt ! or I'll put a bullet through you." 
 
 This brought the guide to a stand, and clambering up to 
 him, Garfield said, — 
 
 " Who are you ? Tell me the truth, or I shall hang you 
 to the first tree." 
 
 The other lifted his hat, and putting aside his long snowy 
 hair, showed the officer the gray locks, and wide, white fore- 
 head of Jordan ! 
 
 " I suspected as much. You have my word. Go on ; we 
 will follow," said the Union commander. 
 
 Without a word,. the guide again led the way through the 
 tangled thickets, over the ice-coated rocks, and along the 
 steep ridge which crowns the summit of the mountain, and 
 then, turning sharply to the left, said to the officer, — 
 
 "You are now within half a mile of the rebel position. 
 Yonder is their outside picket ; but the way is clear ; — 
 press on at the double-quick, and you have them." 
 
 The picket had now descried the advancing column, and, 
 firing his gun, he set out at the top of his speed for the rebel 
 intrenchments. A dozen bullets made shrill music about his 
 ears, but he kept on, and the eager blue-coats followed. When 
 within sight of the rebel camp, a line was thrown down along 
 the eastern slope of the mountain, and, pressing rapidly for- 
 ward, was formed along the deep ^orp^e through which the 
 
322 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 high-road passes. Up to this time the rebels had been skir- 
 mishing with tlie cavalry in front of their breastworks ; but 
 now they gathered on the hill directly opposite the advanced 
 position of the Union infantry. 
 
 To try the range, Garfield sent a volley across the gorge, 
 and, as the smoke cleared away, he saw the unformed rebel 
 line melt like mist into the opposite forest. The enemy's 
 position being now understood, the Fortieth and Forty-second 
 Ohio were ordered to the already formed left wing, and then 
 along the line rang the words, " Press forward ; scale the hill 
 and carry it with the bayonet ! " 
 
 A ringing shout was the only answer, and then the long 
 column swept down the ridge, across the ravine, through the 
 rebel camp, and up the opposite mountain. The rebels fell 
 gradually back among the trees, but when the Union bayonets 
 clambered the hill, they broke and ran in the wildest confusion. 
 The Unionists followed, firing as they ran, and for a few mo- 
 ments the mountain echoed with the quick reports of the Ohio 
 rifles; but pursuit in the dense forest was impossible, and 
 soon the recall was sounded. 
 
 Only one was killed, and seven were wounded; but this 
 well-nigh bloodless victory rid Eastern Kentucky of rebel 
 rule forever. When all was over, and the tired men had 
 gathered in the comfortable quarters of the beaten rebels, 
 Garfield said to Bent, — 
 
 " Where is Jordan ? " 
 
 " Ten miles away, I reckon, by this time. He took to the 
 woods before we charged down the mountain." 
 
CHAPTER XXYIII. 
 
 THE DEATH OF ''BEAUTY.'^ 
 
 T nightfall, not many days after the events related 
 in the preceding chapter, the old black entered the 
 lonely cabin where Eachel and the Widow Jordan 
 were looking and listening for his coming. As the 
 door opened, they both rose from before the fire, and, in one 
 breath, exclaimed, — 
 
 " Have you seen him ? Is he safe ? " 
 
 " Yas, missy, safe and comin', but not yere. De brute 
 beasts am a huntin' him down. He fall inter de trap, but de 
 dumb critter she seed de lion in de way, and de Lord he led 
 him safe ag'in to de mountains." 
 
 " And can't they let him alone ? After all he has done, 
 must they hunt him down as if he were a wild animal ? " 
 said Rachel. 
 
 " No, missy, 'taint dem. De gineral hisseft' telled 'Zeke to 
 git him out ob Kaintucky, whoile he got pardon and reward 
 for him from de big 'uns down tew Washington. No, missy, 
 'taint dem ; it am the debil's own chile as he saved from 
 hangin' a millstone round his neck, and gittin' his feet fast in 
 de mire foreber." 
 
 (323) 
 
324 ON THE B O R D i: It . 
 
 "Not Jackson!" said Rachel, lior face turning to a 
 deathly pallor. 
 
 " Yes, missy, it am dat debil ; he hab put on do anj^el's 
 clo'es 'spressly to hab Massa John's life 'for.e he kin git out ob 
 Kaintucky. But neber you far, missy, dey as am wid him 
 are more dan de}^ as am ag'in him ; de chariots and de boss- 
 men am round bim, and dey'll git him safe wid us inter de 
 land ob Canaan. So, neber you far, miss,y, de Lerd'll luck 
 arter Massa John ; jess you git 'Zeke some supper, fur he 
 haint had a morsel sens6 de lass sundown." 
 
 While he said this, the old black removed his travel-soiled 
 hat and outer garment, and, seating himself in the leather- 
 bottomed chair, stretched his huge feet and mud-bespattered 
 brogans out toward the backlog. As Rachel went about 
 preparing a hasty meal, the older woman said, — 
 
 " And whar ar' he now, 'Zekiel ? Kin he go with us to 
 the 'Hio ? " 
 
 " Yas, missus, he says he will, if de Lord am a willin' ; 
 for he reckons- he hab done all he kin for Kaintucky. 'Zeke 
 am a gwine to git his black sheep — he ! he ! — togedder, and 
 den Massa John'U come onto us down de riber, and see us 
 safe cl'ar ober Jordan." 
 
 " Then you got the gineral's permission to tuck all the 
 folks inter the 'Hio ? " 
 
 " Yas, missus, all de fi-ee folks, — all as ole Massa Jordan 
 'lotted on to go dar,.wid dar chillen and gran'-chillen. De 
 ress, de gineral say, wont hab to wait long, 'case slavery am 
 a'ready more'n half dead in Kaintucky." 
 
 '"' Then it is true," said Rachel, " that the rebels are driven 
 from Pound Gap, and far l>ack into Virginia ? " 
 
THE D K A T H OF " B E A U T Y ." 325 
 
 " Yas, missy, and Massa John done it. He jess goed inter 
 dar nest, played oft' dat lie was Parson Bradslaw as was safe 
 in de jail at Piketon, and den he guided de Unions to de rout 
 ob de Philistines. De Yankee gineral he say dar haint sech 
 anudder brave man as him in all Kaintucky." 
 
 Tlie remainder of the old black's prolix narrative may be 
 condensed into a few sentences of ordinary English. He had 
 arrived at the Union head-quarters just as Garfield — who 
 had been made brigadier-general for his important services in 
 Eastern Kentucky — was on the eve of departing to join the 
 army of Buell, then on its march to Shiloh. Obtaining at 
 once the permission of that officer for the removal of the 
 negroes, he had remained in camp for a few days in the hope 
 of learning the hiding-place of Jordan, who he desired should 
 accompany his flock in their exodus from Kentucky. Bent 
 was ignorant of Jordan's exact whereabouts, but at pnce sent 
 scouts to all his former haunts, and encouraged the old man 
 to believe that a vory few days' search would discover him. 
 
 While awaiting the return of the scouts, the old negro was 
 not a little astonished one morning by encountering Wedding- 
 ton at the head-quarters of Colonel Cranor, who had been 
 placed in command of the handful of troops that were left 
 behind to hold the Sandy Valley. The ostensible object of 
 Weddington's visit to camp was the taking of the oath of 
 allegiance. This he was allowed to do by Colonel Cranor, 
 and he was also given a safe-conduct by that officer on con- 
 dition of his remaining peaceably on his own plantation. On 
 meeting Ezekiel, Weddington inquired most eagerly after 
 Jordan. His manner excited the suspicion of the old man, — 
 led him to fear tliat his visit to camp and taking of the oath 
 
 28 
 
326 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 boded no good to Jordan, who he knew was in possession 
 of a secret whose disclosure would bring lasting disgrace on 
 Weddington and his family. Might he not be seeking his 
 life in the hope that the secret would be buried with him ? 
 This the old man feared, and he communicated his fear to 
 Bent, whose search for Jordan had been unsuccessful. Bent 
 advised him to return to the valley of the Blaine, seek Jordan 
 among the mountains, and warn him to at once leave Ken- 
 tucky. 
 
 Mounted on the old mule, the old man set out on the fol- 
 lowing morning. His way was slow, but at nightfall he had 
 gone one-half the distance, and was approaching a friendly 
 house, where he purposed to pass the night, when he was 
 overtaken by a single horseman. The man was black, and 
 was arrayed in a tattered suit of ''butternuts" ; but the horse 
 was a spirited animal, and evidently belonged to the better 
 sort of four-footed society. In the dim light the old negro 
 failed to distinguish the features of the rider, but the horse 
 he at once recognized as the mare, " Beauty." 
 
 " Am it you, Massa John ? " he cried, as the other made 
 as if he would pass him. 
 
 " Yes, 'Zekiel," was the answer. " I thought you wouldn't 
 know me." 
 
 " 'Zeke know'd de nag, Massa John, and he's afeard she'll 
 git you inter trouble. De young 'Squar' am out, Massa John ; 
 he's been done whitewashed with a oath, 'Zeke fears, 'spressly 
 to hunt you down, and hab you' life, 'fore you kin git out ob 
 Kaintucky." 
 
 He then recounted his meeting with Weddington, and the 
 suspicions his manner had excited. 
 
THE DEATH OF "BEAUTY." 327 
 
 Jordan listened in silence to the disclosures of the negro, 
 but after a time he said, — 
 
 " It may be that the end will come in that way ; but, how- 
 ever it comes, I am ready. You got the safe-conduct and the 
 permit for the removal of the negroes ? " 
 
 " Yas, Massa John." 
 
 " Well, you had better make all haste to get them ready 
 for the journey. I will go on with you, and lay out in the 
 mountains till you set out, then will see you safely out of 
 Kentucky." 
 
 At the suggestion of Jordan, it was decided to travel all 
 night in order to reach the Blaine by early morning, and they 
 pressed forward as rapidly as the old mule could be induced 
 to travel. They had gone on about two hours, and were 
 approaching a dense wood that lined both sides of the high- 
 way, when Jordan's mare stopped suddenly in the road, and 
 gave a low whinny. The old black drew up his mule, and 
 asked eagerly, — 
 
 " What am it, Massa John ? What'm de matter wid de 
 critter ? " 
 • '• She sees something that I can't make out in the darkness. 
 Be quiet and listen." 
 
 The w^ords were scarcely spoken, when a rifle-shot echoed 
 from the edge of the wood, not a hundred yards distant, and 
 the mare, with a frantic bound, fell suddenly dead in the high- 
 way. A moment later a dozen horsemen sprang into the 
 road, and moved suddenly down upon Jordan and the old 
 negro. Quickly disengaging himself from the fallen animal, 
 Jordan cried out, — 
 
328 ON T H K B O R D K K . 
 
 "To the woods, "Zekiel, — back with the mule into the 
 timber.-' 
 
 Saying this, he leaped a narrow stream whirh skirted the 
 road, and was lost in the dense shadows of the forest. 
 
 " Never mind the old black. Dismount every one of you, 
 and into the wood after Jordan. A thousand dollars to the 
 man that kills him,'* said the voice of Weddington. 
 
 The troops dismounted, and for half an hour their shouts 
 echoed here and there through the forest. Then one by one 
 they returned to the highway, and from the babel of curses 
 which arose on the night the old negro knew that the pursuit 
 had been unsuccessful. Then he thought of his own safety, 
 and, dismounting, led the old mule still farther into the forest. 
 " There he remained over night and till the last guerilla had 
 disappeared down the highway. Then he slowly resumed his 
 journey, and, without further incident, reached the valley of 
 the Blaine on the following day at nightfall.. 
 
 " The Lord is witli him ; he will never be taken," said 
 Rachel, as the old man concluded his story. 
 
 '' So "Zeke reckons,, missy ; but he'd feel ten year younger 
 if Massa John was only safe out ob Kaintucky." 
 
 " And Bradley ? " asked Eachel ; " did you see him at 
 the armj^ ? " 
 
 " No, missy, he'd gone, and nobody kiiow'd nothin' about 
 him. He'd fell into bad ways, and done suffin' dey shot him 
 up for ; but he broke out ob de guard-house, and goed off, — 
 whar no one know'd for sartin." 
 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 " THE LAST OF EARTH.' 
 
 HE ensuing fortnight was spent by the negroes in 
 again preparing for the journey into Ohio. At its 
 close they set out in a long cavalcade, led by the old 
 mule, and a wagon containing 'Zekiel, Rachel, and 
 the widow Jordan. On the following morning they embarked 
 with their household goods on a couple of flat-boats moored to 
 the dock at Paintville, and before many hours were moving 
 rapidly down the river. They had not proceeded many miles 
 when a small canoe put out from the western bank, and Jor- 
 dan, disguised as before, boarded the leading flat-boat. When 
 the old negro's somewhat boisterous greeting was over, Jor- 
 dan said to hira, — 
 
 '' 'Zekiel, send one or two of the men back at once to Cap- 
 tain Plumb, at Paintville. Weddington and a dozen of his 
 gang are lying in wait farther down the river. He seeks not 
 only my life, — he means to prevent the negroes leaving 
 Kentucky." 
 
 " But he can't do dat, IVIassa John ; we've de general's per- 
 mission." 
 
 " I know ; but he has in some way managed to get a coun- 
 ter order from Colonel Cranor. The court, too, has issued 
 
 28* (329) 
 
330 ONTUEBOKDEli. 
 
 another \\Tit for their detention. If the general were here it 
 would be all right, but he is gone, and our only course is to 
 fight our way down the river. Once across the Ohio, you can 
 defy all the courts in Kentucky." 
 
 " I knows, I knows, Massa John ; but how many ob dem 
 amdar?" 
 
 " About a dozen, I am told, strong men, and all armed with 
 rifles and revolvers." 
 
 "And we haint more'n six sorry shot-guns among us ! " 
 
 " For that reason you must send at once to Captain Plumb 
 for assistance. He has a few men with him, and — I know 
 him — will come at once to the rescue. Meanwhile, we 
 had better tie up the boats, and land in some position that 
 can be easily defended." 
 
 In a few minutes the canoe in which Jordan had come was 
 sent back to Paintville, and not long afterwards, the boats 
 were halted and moored to the shore, at a point where a steep 
 bank shuts down upon the river. A couple of deserted shan- 
 ties occupied the summit of the bank, and in these the 
 women and children were soon collected. Then the men 
 felled a number of trees, and, forming a rude breastwork, 
 gathered behind it to await the coming of their friends, or 
 their enemies. 
 
 They had not to wait long. An hour had not passed before 
 Jordan, from a lookout in the top of a tree, discovered two 
 row-boats, filled with armed men, rapidly ascending the river. 
 They were Weddington and the handful that was left of his 
 gang of guerillas ! 
 
 The boats bore directly for the point where the negroes 
 
^'the last of earth. '^ 331 
 
 had lauded, but, as they came within speaking distance, were 
 suddenly brought to by a summons from Ezekiel, — 
 
 " Halt ! " he cried, " not another rod, or ole 'Zeke'll send 
 some ob you to de judgment." 
 
 "Push on. Never mind the old fool," cried Weddington, 
 seizing an oar and driving the forward boat directly under 
 the lee of one of the flats. A shot whistled over hjs head, 
 but, rising above the gunwale, he fired at a man who stood at 
 the barricade. 
 
 The man was Jordan. A low sound escaped him, he stag- 
 gered back a step or two, and fell to the ground, mortally 
 wounded. A moment of frantic confusion followed among 
 the negroes, and in that moment, with wild shouts. Wedding- 
 ton and his gang sprang ashore and climbed half way up the 
 bank towards the barricade. The shouts recalled 'Zekiel to 
 the danger, and, rising to his full height, he cried out, — 
 
 " Massa Jack, you knows me, — you knows I tell you de 
 truth. Come up yere, and I'll shoot you, shuah." 
 
 "Weddington sank behind a fallen log, and, firing quickly, 
 lodged a bullet in the old man's shoulder. He fell, badly 
 wounded, but in a moment was on his feet again, with his 
 shot-gun levelled at the breast of Weddington. The latter 
 was now at the barricade. The old man fired. The ball 
 passed through the thighs of Weddington, but he kept his 
 feet, and raised his revolver. At this moment the old man, 
 clubbing his gun, felled him to the earth, not to rise again 
 forever. But now the brave old man could do no more. 
 Sick and faint with the loss of blood, he fell again to the 
 ground, crying out, — 
 
332 ON THE BORDER. 
 
 " Beat "em back, my chillen, — pay 'em for ]\Iassa John, 
 and ole 'Zekiel." 
 
 The guerillas pressed on, firing indiscriminately among the 
 women and children, and a desperate hand-to-hand conflict 
 ensued between them and the negroes. It had lasted only a 
 few moments, wlien loud shouts were heard coming down the 
 river. It was a canoe pulling rapidly towards tlie landing. 
 In it were Captain Ralph Plumb, Captain Josejjh Ileaton, 
 and the solitary soldier who had been left with them at 
 Paintville. With loud shouts they came on, and, seeing 
 them, the guerillas fled to their boats, leaving the body 
 of their leader to negro burial. 
 
 Arrived at the barricade, a melancholy scene met the eyes 
 of the Union officers. Lying on the ground, which was red 
 with the blood that was flowing from his neck and shoulder, 
 was the old negro. His breath was short and labored, but, 
 in broken words, he gasped out, — 
 
 " Xeber mind me, save Massa John, if you kin, gemmen." 
 
 Jorda'n's head was resting on his mother's lap, and beside 
 him Rachel was kneeling. Her hand was clasped in his, and 
 his eyes were fixed on hers with a strange, unearthly gleam- 
 ing. 
 
 "Remember," he said, in a low, faltering whisper, "whoso 
 turns a sinner from the error of his way, saves a soul from 
 death, and hides a multitude of sins. Remember, Rachel .! '' 
 
 Then a smile passed over his face, his head sank back, 
 and, tranquilly and slow, his soul crossed the silent river. 
 
 And now a few words will tell all that remains to be told 
 of this short history. The next day they buried Jordan 
 
''THE LAST OF K A R T H . " 333 
 
 among the mountains lie Imd done so much to make free ; 
 and, a few days following, the negroes, with their wounded 
 patriarch, were embarked on a government transport, fur- 
 nished by Captain Plumb, and conveyed to Portsmouth, 
 Ohio; thence they were removed to Jackson county, and 
 settled in comfortable houses, under the care of old Ezekiel 
 and his young mistress. There Eachel, in quiet work, found 
 the peace which comes at last to all souls, who, in patient 
 waiting, look for the rest which is hereafter. 
 
 So two years w^ent away, and, during these, Rachel heard 
 nothing of her husband. Then, one day, taking up a paper, 
 she noticed that Garfield, returned with honor from the war, 
 had visited and made an address to the prisoners at the Ohio 
 Penitentiary^ Among the prisoners, it was stated, was one 
 who had been his companion and friend in boyhood. The 
 meeting between the two men was described, and some com- 
 ments were made on the strange fortune which had so 
 brought together a convict and a major-general. The man, 
 it was added, though a confirmed sot and notorious horse- 
 thief, had done some service to his country in Kentnck3\ 
 Something witliin told Rachel that it was Brown, her hus- 
 band. Instantly she set out to see the governor, and 
 before many days, with a pardon in her hand, was at tlie 
 gateway of the prison. 
 
 In the years that have followed, she has learned that " he 
 who turns a sinner from the error of his way, saves a soul 
 from death, and hides a multitude of sins." 
 
 THE END. 
 
■m 
 
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 RARE BOOK 
 COLLECTION 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 AT 
 
 CHAPEL HILL 
 
 494 
 
 I 
 
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