ABbersouVille

Violets

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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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Digitized by the Internet Archive

in 2009 with funding from

University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill

http://www.archive.org/details/andersonvillevioOOcoll

Andersonville Violets

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HERBERT W. COLLINGWOOD

B0ST0:N" 1889
LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS

10 MILK STREET NEXT "THE OLD SOUTH MEETING HOUSE"

NEW YORK CHAS. T. DILLINGHAM
718 AND 720 Broadway

ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS.

TO THE MEMORY OF

JHg JHotfjer

THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.

602778

PREFACE.

The writer has long felt that a story of Northern
and Southern life might be written that would pre-
sent food for sound and healthful thought, unblinded
by partisan feeling or sectional hatred. The war is
over forever. It can never be fought again. We
have but one flag. It is the duty of all patriotic
citizens to lend their best efforts to the task of
looking at the causes of the war and its results,
fairly and intelligently. A story of Anderson ville
prison, told by a soldier in the Confederate army,
suggested this volume. The Northern scenes are
taken from life. The pictures of Southern life are
taken from personal experience. An effort has
been made to give an exact report of the state of
affairs found by one Northern immigrant.

Herbert W. Collingwood. *
EiVER Edge, New Jersey.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER PAGE

I. Jack Foster's Letter 1

II. The Babes in the Woods 9

III. The Andersonville Violets 18

lY. A Plan for Escape 25

Y. Dishonorably Discharged 35

YI. The Escape 42

YII. Sol's Yictory 53

YIII. The Negro Cabin 68

IX. Jack Foster's Welcome 76

X. Brother Hill, the Preacher 88

XI. Breezetown's Welcome 103

XII. After the War 122

XIII. A Southern Town 139

XIY. Colonel Fair 153

XY. The Man at the Door 164

XYI. Run to Ruins 179

XYII. The Germs of a New Manhood 199

XYIII. The Andersonville Sentinel 209

XIX. Bob Glenn wants his Pay 227

XX. Jack Foster's Trouble 239

XXI. The Negro Question 248

XXII. Aunt Jinny's Favorite Story 254

XXIII. Faded Flowers of Andersonville .... 260

ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

CHAPTER I.

JACK FOSTEE's letter

The sun came sullenly climbing up the high
Georgia hills. The sky had heralded a pleasant
morning, but the angry face that pushed up over the
hills gave the lie direct to its joyful proclamation.
The sun came slowly. First one hand reached up
among the stars and drew a long streak of crim-
son over the tops of the hills. Then the arm slowly
pushed the black curtain of night back to make a
place for the scowling face that followed.

There was nothing attractive in the face of the
country upon which this angry gaze was bent. Dry,
rolling sand hills, covered with thin pine forests,
stretched away on every hand — wide stretches of
dry sand and old fields with great gashes cut in
them. Off to the left a high pine stockade ran
around the ridge of a small valley. The logs seemed
to push sturdily against each other — like soldiers
who wait an oncoming charge. This stockade lay
directly in the path of the sun and that gloomy in-
dividual was obliged to pass over it.

The sun hung back with all its might, but there
was no help for it. At last it made an angry start

22 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

and darted a long stream of light over the dry sand-
hills and thin pines, and up to the hateful stockade.
Jack Foster turned on his beat just as the light
splintered against the logs. Even when pushed
thus far to the wall, the sun seemed to rebel a little.
Slowly it followed its advance guard up past the
regular mounds in the hideous graveyards, past the
ugly barracks and huts, up to the stockade itself.
Tliere it paused as if to cover its eyes before climb-
ing the rough barrier that hid so much of horror.
It seemed to wait for extra strength, and then, of a
sudden, it sprang to the top as if to flash with all its
speed over the dreaded space and up the convenient
hills beyond. It flashed full in the face of Jack
Foster as he walked back along his beat.

Jack's face held such a pleasant expression that
the sun stopped in utter surprise to examine him.
Jack was smiling as only men smile who are greatly
pleased. The sun seemed to drop its ill temper for
the moment. It was so lost in wonder to think of
such an unheard-of thing that it halted in its tracks
as if to assure itself that the smile was genuine.
Jack's face bore the examination well. The smile
brightened perceptibly in the sunshine. The sun
even smiled back and so far forgot itself as to take
one look over Jack's shoulder. The sight was
enough to call up all desire to escape, and it flashed
over the yard and hurried on the wings of horror up
the opposite hills. The sky before, noticing its eager
face, blushed with pleasure at its approach. It
glanced back only once, to throw a bright gleam on
the barrel of Jack's musket. More from force of

JACK Foster's letter 3

habit than because he was harder than the sun, Jack
glanced down into the yard. He looked down into
— Andersonville 1

Andersonville ! What a dreadful thrill runs
through the veins at the word! Who has not
formed some horrible picture of the place ? What
nameless agony the four walls held ! What death
in life was locked behind the heavy gate ! What
noble lives oozed away in that pen of despair ! Jack
saw it all as he glanced from his place. Gaunt,
hungry, desperate men, with all the better feelings
driven from them by suffering and disease — all but
one, patriotism. There was not a man in that
frightful pen who would not have raised his feeble
hand to cheer at a sight of the old flag. The poor
wretches came crawling out of their dens, and
ranged themselves on the little hill alongside the
ravine. How wistfully they watched the sun slide
away to the western hills ! They watched all in
vain. Not for them that path leading up to the
crimson sky. They could only sit and dream that
the same sun looked down upon the friends at
home.

Jack Foster did not smile because he was a rebel
and these dreadful creatures were the hated Yan-
kees. Far from it. He had learned to respect these
Yankees after Gettysburg and Chancellorsville.
They were brave men, he knew ; and at Gettysburg
a Yankee soldier had spared Jack's life when he
might easily have taken it. When he first entered
the army, he might have rejoiced at this dreadful
picture, but three years of fighting had taught him a

4 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

certain respect for his foes. He had been pained at
first at the sight of so much wretchedness, but he
had grown accustomed to it at last. He could not
feel a very earnest sympathy for hungry men when
his own rations were shortened and ofttimes dropped
entirely.

There was nothing about the dreadful scene that
made Jack Foster smile. That facial change was
caused by something entirely foreign to the surround-
ings. The cause had come over the hills, far ahead
of the sullen sun, from the world outside, where
there were brightness and tenderness and kindly
sympathy. It had touched the springs of Jack's
heart, and set the whole machinery of his face in
motion to manufacture a smile.

Jack held this wonderful stimulant in his hand,
between himself and the prison, as he walked with
the sun gleaming on his musket. It is easily de-
scribed. It was nothing but a letter from Lucy
Moore. He had others in his pocket. Jack carried
these valuable documents about with him wherever
he went. He had stitched a great pocket on the
inside of his coat, and in this receptacle the whole
correspondence was crowded. There were two of
the letters — the best of them all, too — one written
just after Fredericksburg, and the other at the time
when McClellan was driven back from his position
before Richmond — that were so badly worn that
handling them was a somewhat serious business.
But their very use had saved them. Jack had read
them so many times that he now knew them by heart.
He had made it a habit to say thera over to himself

JACK Foster's letter 5

time after time when he felt that he needed some
great inspiration to nerve him on.

On that fearful third day at Gettysburg, when the
lines moved out from under the trees, some of the
boys noticed Jack reading his letters. There were
some that smiled at him, but yet there were many
that felt, at the sight, for a little package under the
breast of the coat. Jack came sullenly back out of
the fight, but many of the soldiers who smiled at
him lay cold and still out in the valley, with letters
that never could be answered.

Jack had selected for his morning's reading a let-
ter written by Lucy just as the army stopped to draw
itself together after the dreary retreat from Pennsyl-
vania. That was the time when men needed all the
brave words and tender consolation that women
could give them. The soldiers knew well enough
when Lee reeled back for the last time that the life
of the Confederacy was doomed. There was no
thought of giving up the fight, however. They
called Gettysburg a " drawn battle," and every man
set his teeth hard and made a vow that the cause
should go down in glory.

This obstinate feeling had been intensified all
through the dismal retreat. The men who toiled
back to Maryland, through the mud and wet, listen-
ing to the groans of the wounded, and thinking of
the dead men lying on the battle-fields behind them,
of the women waiting with white faces in the lonely
Southern towns, reformed themselves, when next
they reached Southern soil, into a desperate band,
armed with the courage of despair. The women

6 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

watching at home, in the lonely towns, held their
friends at the front with letters of grim determina*
tion. Lucy had written Jack a letter that well ex-
pressed the feeling among Southern women at that
day. They begged their friends to fight on. Tlie
letter had done Jack good at a time when he needed
help. It had nerved him on to the bitter death
struggle. There was one sentence that he was never
tired of reading over.

" No matter what may happen — if you are only
true^ I will love you forever."

The word " true " was underscored, and Jack made
his own estimate as to its meaning. It was the one
great idea for which men were dying, and women
were suffering, that he must hold true — the mis-
taken idea of Southern independence.

Jack's thoughts went back over the hills, as he
marched slowly along with the letter in his hand.
He did not look at the letter ; he did not need to do
so. He thought it over, as his eyes swept back over
the bleak hills, still gilded with the radiance the sun
could not help leaving. His musket fell loosely at
his shoulder and he forgot the scehe of misery so
close at his side.

Over the hills, far away in that quiet Mississippi
town, his dear little girl was thinking of him at this
very moment. He could see her as she stood under
the trees, looking sadly down the long street where
he had marched so bravely away. Jack had often
pictured her as she stood that morning when he
marched down that beautiful street. He could tell
just what she wore that day, even to the color of the

JACK FOSTER S LETTER 7

ribbon in her hair. A mist had gathered before the
honest fellow's eyes as he turned for a last look, and
an ugly lump had risen in his throat. Jack could
not understand why it was that he remembered
everything so well. It is strange how the image of
those we love, when viewed through the magnifying
dew of tears, can never be put from sight, but will
grow in distinctness as the years go by.

Who could help being true when such a dear little
girl smiled through her tears ? Who would not walk
into death's door with a smile at the wish of such a
woman ? So at least honest Jack asked, and he
grasped his musket more firmly as he thought of the
danger he would gladly go through to add one ray of
pleasure to the light in Lucy's eye.

It is a fact that such letters and such thoughts do
not mean business after all. They add to the enthu-
siasm of a campaign somewhat, but when allowed
their own way, they interfere with military discipline
considerably.

It is a good plan to allow soldiers to read over
their letters just before the bugle sounds a charge.
The army will be doubled then, for with every
soldier that rushes into the fight, the inspiration of a
wife, a mother, or a sweetheart will go. A woman's
smile — so tender in love, so terrible in hate — will
add a brighter gleam to each flashing bayonet. When
any intricate evolutions or any sober, earnest work
are needed it may be well to keep the letters in the
pocket.

Jack knew that he never could carry that letter in
his hand, and, at the same time, hold his gun in exact

8 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

position and keep the military step, so with a final
reading he thrust the precious document into his
pocket and straightened himself into a better posi-
tion. He walked along slowly repeating, " no matter
what may happen, if you will only be true I will love
you forever." There was so much consolation in
this thought — the fact of his failing to be "true"
being so far out of the question, that Jack smiled
again and glanced once more into the yard. He did
not take his eyes away at once, for there was some-
thing there to interest him.

The " Babes in the Woods " had come out of their
place into the sun. They were almost within a
stone's throw of Jack's beat. The little one was
lying on the ground with the big one sitting beside
him. Jack had seen them in this position many
times before.

CHAPTER II.

THE BABES IN THE WOODS

Babes in the woods ! It was the only name
Jack and the rest had for them. John Rockwell and
Archie Sinclair, — th Maine Regiment, was the
entry on the books, but the guards had never taken
the trouble to find out their real names. When men
once entered that pen of misery it needed some
striking characteristic to single them out from the
rest.

The name was somewhat appropriate in Archie's
case, but great, raw-boned John Rockwell was any-
thing but an infant. Archie was a little, delicate
fellow, with golden hair, and a face like a girl's.
Poor little man ! He marched bravely away from
the quiet Maine town, bravely and willingly, little
thinking of the dreadful heat and agony of Ander-
sonville. Life was full of promise, full of hope, when
he kissed his mother and sister good-by. That was
the time when the " On to Richmond " order seemed
easy of execution. The army did, at last, go " on to
Richmond," but it was over a weary and bloody
road, covered with the dead bodies of those who
failed at first. The little man had gone through
many a hard fight without flinching, but the dis-
grace of captivity had weighed heavily upon him,

10 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

and when at last he marched with the rest through
the prison gate it was in the arras of stout John
Rockwell. The slender form had drooped, and clung
for support to the strong, rough, tender-hearted man
Avho had seemed so like a brother to him.

Archie had not noticed, when the company went
out under the great elms of old Breezetown, how
wistfully John had glanced at sister Nellie. He did
not know till long after that sad morning what a
load John carried under his bright, new uniform.
Nellie's "No" had crushed all the sunshine out of
John's heart. Poor, awkward, blundering John.
There was no one in the village to weep over him,
or give him the strong hand-clasp or the smile that
reaches to the heart. He had gone to the war
almost alone.

Who can tell what the poor fellow thought as he
went mechanically through his round of duty? The
boys called him odd, and made him the butt of the
whole company. Every old trick was played off on
honest John, yet he never once complained so long
as Archie was amused. The boys would all laugli at
John when the mail came in, and the whole army
sat down to read the home letters.

" She don't seem to write to ye, John ! AVho's
run off with yer girl, John? Better go back an' see
how things is."

Such remarks would always drive John away from
the liappy group, for he never got a letter. He
alone, of all the army, seemed to have no friends at
home. John liked to sit at one side — out in the
shadow — and watch Archie as he read the home

THE BABES IN THE WOODS 11

letters. He knew they always contained a line from
Nellie, and he often saw a letter in her own hand-
writing. He could sit there and imagine what she
wrote to her brother.

Archie was just like her — so John thought as he
watched from the shadow. Small and slender, with
blue eyes and hair like gold. John had worshipped
her for years. He was only the " Widder Rockwell's
boy," yet he had the heart of a nobleman. Many a
day he had paused in his work to see her trip by like
a little sunbeam. His love had been his one great
secret and his religion. The thoughts she had in-
spired kept his mind pure, and brought him safely
through a life filled with such temptations that thou-
sands would have fallen.

When his mother died, John was left alone with
nothing but his strength, his love for Nellie, and the
well earned title of " Honest John." The war broke
out, and all over the country thousands of young
men rushed to arms. The great enthusiasm put
souls into men who had seemed dull and stupid
before. The whole village was ablaze with patriot-
ism ; all business was neglected. John saw Nellie
at the "sewing circle," making a flag for the com-
pany to carry away. He put his name on the list of
volunteers without a moment's thought. Then, the
mighty spirit of patriotism giving him a wild cour-
age, he spoke the words that the long years of wait-
ing had told him were true.

Nellie laughed at first — how could she help it ?
This great blundering fellow who had always seemed
so awkward. And yet in a moment she pitied him

12 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

— this strong man who was to face death at her
brother's side. She knew he was sincere — he
offered her all he had. She told him at last, very
gently, that she could not love him. He went away
from her with a love stronger than ever. He knew
that it was a hopeless love, and yet he could not help it.

He would sit and think this all over, as he watched
Archie read the letters. Archie seemed to John to
care very little about these precious documents.
Every now and then the old letters would be torn up
and thrown away. John found, one day, a piece of
an old letter from Nellie, with the words "I love
you " written on it. It was only part of a long sen-
tence ; he could not tell how the words were used,
but he sewed the little scrap on the inside of his
vest. There it remained for many a day, and his
heart grew very tender whenever he thought of it.

One day Archie met John alone.

" John," he said, " I've got a message for you.
Nell sends her regards."

John blushed with pleasure, and stammered out
his thanks. It was the first message he had ever
received from a 3"0ung lady. It seemed to him after
this that Archie had been left in his special care.
He watched over the slender boy as carefully as a
mother would have done. Perhaps Nellie would
write and thank him for it. There were many things
that he could do to help the little man. He was
tireless while there was a chance to win a word of
thanks from the woman he loved. One message
such as she sent before would have well repaid him
for all his extra work.

THE BABES IN THE WOODS 13

A strange intimacy sprang up by degrees between
the two men ; strange because they had hitherto
lived such widely different lives. Archie learned to
lean upon his strong companion, to trust him with
all his troubles, and to go to him for advice. He
came to hold a great respect for John's great strong
blocks of advice, rough-hewn and honest as himself,
— chipped from a tough and bitter experience.

John almost worshipped his little companion.
Archie grew to look more and more like Nellie. He
had the same gentleness. He made a poor soldier,
for he pitied his enemies.

Just before Chancellorsville, where they were capt-
ured, John had told Archie the great secret. He
never would have spoken of it had not his little
companion drawn it from him. The great compan-
ionship of danger had taught Archie to respect and
love " Honest John." He wrote Nellie a long letter,
painting with boyish enthusiasm John's good quali-
ties, and asking her, for her brother's sake, to give
one word of encouragement. John never knew
till the hideous mouth of Andersonville yawned
upon them that this letter had ever been sent.
Archie and he were swept out of the army at
Chancellorsville, and left behind when the gray
wave went rolling forward into Pennsylvania.

It was a sad and bitter journey the prisoners
made, with heads hung in shame, and idle, weapon-
less hands, toward the South. A dreadful, heart-
breaking journey. Defeat behind them and hopeless
captivity before, with the dreadful stories of cruelty
magnified a thousand times, and the sickening

14 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

thought that those at home were mourning their
fate. The only news they could hear was the
joyfully repeated cry that Lee was marching on
through Pennsylvania, sure to pass the winter in.
Philadelphia, and thus cut the land of the Yankees
in two.

The Southern people really believed that the turn-
ing-point of the war had come. So it had, in fact,
but it turned as they little expected. Chancellors-
Yille seemed to them like Waterloo, and Lee was
like Wellington marching on Paris. People turned
out at all the little villages to see the Yankee pris-
oners. How they hated the blue uniform. It was
but natural that they should hate it. The Northern
men had come among them as rough soldiers, with
all the better feelings in them blunted by years of
rude life and cruel warfare. How were the women
to know that these stern, dusty men, who fought so
savagely and burned the pleasant homes so cruell}^
had wives and children of their own at home ? The
prisoners seemed to the great mass of Southern peo-
ple like so many captured tigers. They were glad
the creatures had been caught. They were glad to
see them hurried on through the dust and the heat
to the horrible prisons.

Many of the women, with sons of their own at the
front, pitied Archie. He had been hurt in the battle,
and he grew weak as the rough journey went on.
The people did not taunt him as they did the others.
At one place a little girl ran out from the crowd
and handed him a cup of water. A woman dressed
in the deepest mourning had sent the little thing on

THE BABES IN THE WOODS 15

this errand of mercy. Archie and John never knew
who she was. She may have been a Union woman,
or some Southern mother whose dead son seemed to
look out of Archie's eyes.

The prisoners were kept for a time at a small
place in South Carolina, but when Sherman beg-an
to threaten Georgia they were moved to Anderson-
ville. The Southern leaders probably desired to
locate their prison in some healthy spot where the
prisoners would be safe from attack. The rude
chances of war crowded so many into the stock-
ade that it became a perfect den of disease.

Poor little Archie grew weaker and weaker. John
helped him on, divided his rations, and talked about
Nellie. Archie's strength gave out at last, and,
when he staggered up the sand hills and looked
down upon his terrible destination, it was nothing
but John's strong arm that held him on his feet.
They marched down the hill to the gate. Archie
would have fallen as they entered had not John
caught him in his arms from the ground. There
w^as no halt for that forlorn column, and so, keeping
step with the rest, they marched in through the
gates of death together — Archie in John's arms.
The guards noted them, and gave them the name
at once, " Babes in the Woods ! "

No man can tell what these two suffered through
these awful days. Archie grew weaker and weaker.
His strength passed away from him slowly, and he
came to look like a golden-haired ghost. John grew
gaunt and desperate as he realized Archie's condi-
tion. He divided his rations with his comrade,

16 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

and even sold both allowances in order to secure
some little dainty for his weak companion. The
most inoffensive of men before, he grew surly and
desperate when Archie was hungry. He fought
many a fierce battle with other prisoners for the
possession of the scanty food. He lost his former
title, and was now known as "Fighting John." It
was not the famine and the disease that changed
him, but the desire to do something that should
make him worthier in the eyes of Nellie.

Day after day they lived on — through the dreary,
rainy season, when the dreadful fever leaped over
the stockade and laid its hot hands upon them,
through the broiling days when they could only
gasp for breath. It was a close contest with death
for Archie, but still he lived on. John knew too
well that his friend was dying. He carried him
tenderly about, thinking and talking of the little
girl at home. There was hardly a moment that he
left the sick man's side. On pleasant days he car-
ried Archie out of their dug-out, and laid him ten-
derly on the sand. There they would sit for hours
and talk. They could remember so many things
about the home folks now that had been crushed
from memory before. Poor Archie really expected
to recover. He made plans for the people at home.
John knew better. He knew that the prison gates
would only open for Archie's dead body. Their
talk was always sure to centre upon Nellie. They
were like "babes" surely when they reached this
subject.

They were speaking of her, in fact, when Jack

THE BABES IN THE WOODS 17

Foster turned on his beat and looked down into the
yard. Archie lay on the ground, with John's coat
for a pillow. John sat at his side, pointing with his
hand in the direction of the place where Jack was
walking. He spoke so earnestly that Archie raised
himself slightly and looked in the same direction.
The sight evidently pleased him greatly, for he
smiled and said something that caused John to
turn and look squarely at the sentinel.

Jack could not hear any of the conversation, but
his eyes followed the motion of the "little babe's"
hand. The cause of the dialogue surprised him
at first, and 3^et he could not help appreciating it.
Down in the ground, just below where he was walk-
ing, grew a great bunch of violets. They were
beautiful — the only flowers he had seen in the
yard. Perhaps some brave angel had brought
them, with averted face, up to the stockade, and
then turned back in horror at the wretched picture
of despair. Jack had never noticed them before.
They were just inside the dead line — far removed
indeed from the two " babes," for to cross that line
meant death.

Jack gave the flowers but a moment's thought.
There were sterner and pleasanter duties for him.
He marched slowly on, thinking of his letters.
Down in the prison the two "babes" still sat dis-
cussing the violets.

CHAPTER III.

THE ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

Poor Archie talked qneerly that morning, when
John brought him out into the yard. Happily for
him, his mind had wandered out of the prison. He
talked about the Maine home, the woods, and all the
old scenes, till John felt sick at heart. What a
dreadful mockery it all was ! The horrible place
filled with these desperate men, and this weak boy
babbling wildly of the old scenes they both knew so
well.

''And there's Nell," whispered Archie at last.
Poor fellow, his voice was almost gone. " She's
going with us, John. Ain't you glad? I know you
are, for I remember what you told me. Come on,
Nell. We can eat our dinner down by the old rock,
and we'll make John pick the flowers for your wed-
ding.

" What flowers shall we bring her, John ? Violets,
I say. You go and pick them, John, while I stay
here and talk to her. I'll tell her all about the war
— all we have been through ; then I'll tell how much
you love her, and she can't help saying 'yes,' for
we have been such chums, you know. It will be all
right, I'm sure, John. You go and get the flowers
and let me talk to her alone."

John tried to turn Archie's mind away from the
18

THE ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS 19

flowers. He had pointed them out some time before,
little dreaming that Archie would insist upon his
getting them. To the fevered mind of the little man
they seemed to be growing in the meadow at home.
Archie did not know when he urged John to get
them of the fatal dead line that held the flowers fur-
ther away than the old home could be.

"Never mind about it now, Archie," John said.
" Let's talk about the old times a little first, and then
I'll get 'em. There's no hurry, you know, for we
have all day before us. Look at the sun over on the
hills there."

Archie lay without speaking for a little while. He
watched the sun, far away now over the hills. The
hills were bright with splendor, and it seemed to
Archie's fevered mind like the opening of the gates
of Paradise. The great hills seemed changed to a
stair of gold. The opening of the gate was nearer to
Archie than he thought. He lay and watched the
sun till a cloud passed over the golden hills and
closed for the moment the glorious gate. Then he
turned back to the flowers.

" Come, John, why don't you go ? " he whispered
fretfully. " Now is your time. You said you loved
her once, and now you are not ready to pick her a
few flowers. Run, John, or I will never tell her what
you want me to. You said you loved her once, now
why don't you go ? "

John never faltered for an instant. He knew well
that to cross that line meant death, yet he never
thought once of holding back when Archie said —
*'you said you loved her once.'*

20 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

He did not mean that Archie should see him make
the sacrifice. He bent down and raised the ''little
babe " gently from the ground. How light the
burden was.

" Come," he said, " it's getting hot here. I'll carry
you back into the shade, and then I'll get the flowers
for Nellie."

" All right, John, but hurry up ; for Nellie can't stay
long, you know, and this will be the last chance for
you to show how well you love her. I think she will
understand it, John, when you bring the flowers."

John carried him back and laid him under the
shade of the bank of earth they had raised.

" Don't be long, John," said Archie, as the " big
babe," with a most babyish moisture about his eyes,
shook the little fellow's hand and started back to go
through the test. " I'll talk to her about it while
you are gone, John — never fear for me — she will do
anything for me. Good-by. I will be telling her
all the time."

And perhaps he was " telling her " while John
Rockwell walked deliberately back to the dead line.

Jack Foster had watched the whole proceeding
from his place on the stockade. Men in possession
of such an amount of imaginative literature as he
carried are apt to put a sentimental rather than a
business-like interpretation upon such actions. We
judge men's actions by imagining what we would do
under similar circumstances. The frame of mind
in which we find ourselves regulates our judgment.

The " little babe " pointing to the violets made
Jack somehow think of the times when Lucy and he

THE ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS 21

had placed such a value upon just such little flowers.
In fact, he carried, in one of his letters, two dried
violets that seemed of more value to him than all the
remaining vegetation of the country. Jack could
not help imagining some of the feelings of the " little
babe."

Here was a little fellow shut up in this dreadful
place, dying, it may be, longing for the sweet
breath of these simple little flowers so near liim.
Perhaps he had a sweetheart of his own soaiewhere
far away in that cold Yankee country. No doubt he
loved her in his queer Yankee fashion almost as well
as he loved his little girl.

Jack ran it all over in his mind as he glanced at
the two men in the yard. What would he do in
such a case ? It seemed to him from the way the
" big babe " looked when he picked the little one
from the ground that he was desperate enough to
dash over the line. Somehow, Jack rather expected
him to do it. He knew well that he would have
gone himself. What could he do if the attempt was
made ? Could he shoot this man for proving himself
a hero ? Could he disobey orders and risk the pen-
alty ? He was in a place of trust. Let the pris-
oners once rush over that line, and the small guard
could never keep them back. He must obey orders,
and shoot the " big babe " if he should make a
dash for the violets, as Jack seemed to know he
would do.

John Rockwell left Archie in the shade, and then
walked slowly and grimly back to the place where
they had been sitting. He did not pause here, but

22 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

walked savagely on to the line. He looked des-
perate indeed as Jack glanced down at him.

Thin and gaunt, with famine-eaten flesh, and thin,
bony hands held out before him, he walked savagely
on, looking directly at Jack. His face told, by the
long, deep lines pinched into it, of the two lives he
had supported so long. His eyes peered out from
two deep caverns under the broken visor of his army
cap, which hung down over his forehead. His long
hair fell about his face in wild disorder, and an un-
kempt beard thrust itself fiercely out from about his
mouth. It was a face that Jack Foster never could
drive from his mind. The blue uniform was torn,
and hung in tatters about the gaunt prisoner. One
sleeve was gone, the wasted muscles of the arm
sliowiug through the rent. One bony knee was
brought into view at every stride. A desperate man
the Yankee stood before the rebel to show, by giving
his life if necessary, that not even the fevered imagi-
nation of a dying man should question his love.
The other prisoners in the 3^ard watched him. They
crowded behind, at a short distance, to see what he
would do. No one seemed to know his mission.
All waited in silence. Desperately, like a man who
has fought too long with death to fear it, the " big
babe " walked up to the line. Jack paced slowly
on. He brought his musket into position as the
man advanced. No one saw it but liimself, but, as
he raised his gun, across his vision came the figure of
his little girl — Lucy standing before the desperate
Yankee. She put up her hand as if to motion him
back. Her lip was trembling just as it did when he

THE ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS 23

bade her good-by, and her eyes were beaming on him
as they never had done before. The sentence in the
letter he had been reading flashed tlirough his mind.
"No matter what may happen, if you will only be
true, I will love you forever."

This was what she meant then. He must be true
to himself. He dropped the point of his musket, and
stopped for a moment in his walk. He fully realized
what he was doing, but that face and figure were too
dear to him.

John Rockwell came to the dead line and stood
looking at Jack. *' Rebel," he said, in a thick,
hoarse voice, "I must get them flowers."

No one but " Honest John " would ever have
thought of speaking at all. The guards had orders
to shoot down all piisoners that spoke to them. It
was here that Jack raised his musket, while the
guard below him stopped to watch.

"I want them flowers. There's a young boy here
dyin'. Let me get 'em for him, rebel."

He saw the musket lower, and, with one wild spring,
he dashed over the line and dropped on his knees
beside the violets. Jack never raised his musket,
but the guard below him brought up his gun as
John sprang back over the line with tlie flowers in his
hand. The guard fired, and John fell over the line
with a bullet scratch on his leg. The prisoners, at
the report, hurried for shelter into the holes or
behind the banks. Some of them peered out through
the openings to see what would be done. Jack
brought his musket mechanically to his shoulder and
started back along his beat. He well knew what
would follow.

24 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

The "big babe" lay for a moment on the sand.
He tried to rise to his feet, but his leg seemed numb,
and gave way beneath him. After a little he
crawled slowly and painfully back to the bank
where Archie was waiting. He carried the flowers
in his mouth. He crawled slowly up to Archie's
side, and gently placed the flowers on the boy's
breast. A shout, fierce and exulting, went up from
the hiding-places as he passed into the shelter. The
prisoners came creeping out of their holes to admire
this brave man.

In a few moments the steady tramp of marching
feet was heard outside the stockade. The company
halted at Jack's beat, and a new sentinel appeared.
A new sentinel who glanced savagely down upon
the prisoners, and seemed to dare any of them to
make another dash. Between the files of soldiers
Jack was marched back to the guard-house in dis-
grace. The musket he had carried so well was
taken from him. Terrible war that allows no sen-
timent, no love to soften one of its harsh features !

"It was treason !" they muttered as they marched
him back to the guard-house. " Death ! " they whis-
pered sadly as the doors closed on him. But Jack
smiled in spite of it all. It was Lucy that stood
before the Yankee ; it was her hand that bade him
lower his musket, and he was satisfied. He had
been true to himself.

CHAPTER IV.

A PLAN FOR ESCAPE

Archie looked up with a feeble smile as John
came crawling back with the flowers. The fever
had left the "little babe" at last, and he knew now
that he was in the prison. As John placed the
flowers on Archie's breast, the little fellow took
the gaunt hand in both his feeble ones and raised
it to his lips. The men understood each other.
There was no need of speaking. When men are
placed in such situations, the womanly qualities
which they take from the companionship of their
mothers and sisters will always show. Under ordi-
nary circumstances both men would have laughed at
such a demonstration of affection, but here, where a
horrible death was grinning in their very faces, the
true manhood came to the surface. It is the truly
brave man, he who can look without flinching into
the eyes of death, that is the tenderest when the
danger is over.

" I am very sorry I made you go, John," said
Archie, feebly, still holding the gaunt hand. " Did
they break your leg?"

"I guess not," answered John. "It's only a flesh
wound, I guess. It bleeds a little, but I can stop
that."

26 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

John tore away the hanging sleeve of his coat,
and prepared a bandage, with which he bound up
his leg. There was nothing dangerous about the
wound, and John felt disposed to make light of it.

"They can't hit nothin'," he said, gleefully.
"They can't hit a barn door. That reb there
Avhere I jumped might have shot me easy. I saw
the gun drop, and tlien I jumped. What do you
s'pose made him drop his gun ? " John knew noth-
ing of the little woman who stood in front of him
and turned Jack's musket aside.

Archie smiled wearily as John told the story of
the flower-hunting. A number of the prisoners
came from their hiding-places and gathered in a
group to listen to John's story. Short, "thick-set"
Maine men they were; all "home folks," with all
that term implies. Most of them had marched with
John and Archie out of old Breezetown. They
seemed like a great family as they gathered in the
sand to offer congratulations and sympathy. Stout,
hearty fellows they were when the old elms bent
down as if to whisper "good-by." They were fresh
from home then. Now they were sadly changed.
Worn by suffering, with ragged clothing hanging
about their wasted bodies, they crouched in the
sand.

There were no "play-day" soldiers in this group.
Th'e old New England patriotism is too strongly
planted in her sons for any cruel treatment to tear
it away. It is planted as firmly in the hearts of her
sons and daughters as her gray old mountains are
fastened to her breast. There was not a num in the

A PLAN FOR ESCAPE 27

whole company who would have turned his back
upon the loathsome prison to shoulder a musket in
the guard outside. They had suffered as not one
man in ten thousand ever suffers, or dreams of suf-
fering. None but old soldiers can ever understand
what these men endured under the glare of the burn-
ing Southern sun. How they longed for the cool
woods and pure breezes of old Maine. How grimly
they waited and watched the life oozing away from
them — the life that meant so much for 'Hhe folks"
at home. In spite of all the agony they never
dreamed of changing their faith.

There was one great, gray-bearded man in the
group who seemed to be a natural leader. He was
Archie's Uncle Nathan — they are all uncles or cou-
sins in the old Maine towns. They all turned to
him for counsel. A gruff old fellow he was — sun-
burned and grizzled, with a hatred for his foes that
triumphed over all his privations. The old fellow
had reason for his hatred. Three strong sons had
marched behind him out of old Breezetown. They
could not stay at home when volunteers were called
for. Three strong boys — they were now lying back
on the battle-fields — and he alone was left to tell
the story to their mother.

He had made a small Union flag out of cast-off
garments that he had been able to pick up. The
blue parts had been cut from an old army coat.
The white came from a cast-off shirt, and the red
was utilized from a pair of torn stockings. He had
stitched and pinned this curious mixture of colors
together, doing his work when the guards could not

28 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

see him. It represented the dear old banner under
which they had fought. Uncle Nathan was proud
of his flag. It was his dearest treasure. Once, when
some of the company, wild with hunger, had vaguely
hinted at going over, he had pulled out his flag and
waved it defiantly in their faces. Not another word
had ever been heard of surrender. There was too
much hatred sewed into that flag.

Uncle Nathan smiled grimly as he put his hand on
John's leg and examined the slight wound. He had
never before been quite able to forget that John was
only " the Widder Rockwell's boy."

*' Ye done well, boy! Ye done well!" he mut-
tered as he satisfied himself that no serious damage
had been done. " Them guards can't hit a barn
door. But what made ye go after them posies? Ye
don't wanter risk a shot like that 'thout ye can git a
grip on some reb's throat."

" Archie wanted 'em," said John simply. He did
not consider it necessary to give any other reason ;
but Archie looked at him and smiled, and they under-
stood each other.

The group of men, old friends and neighbors, who
had gathered in the sand, viewed the sick boy com-
passionately. The old home feeling came strongly to
them as they watched him. It seemed so terrible
for him, the baby of the company, to be dying here,
and they unable to help him or soothe his sufferings.
How different such a sickness would have been at
home, where all '' the folks " would hasten with words
of the tenderest consolation to draw the sting from
death. These rough men did their best to speak ten-

A PLAN FOR ESCAPE 29

derly ; but home was too far away, and the " wimmen
folks " could not come.

" Done it fer him, did ye ? " said Uncle Nathan as
he brushed the hair away from Archie's forehead.
" It takes grit, I tell ye, to do sech things. It takes
men from the State o' Maine ter show them rebels
what grit is. Them's the kind o' men we raise to our
town. Old Breezetown don't never take no back
seat." He addressed this boasting remark to the
prison in general.

" But what made that fust rebel hold up his gun ?
— he might have shot clean through ye with half an
eye."

'•• I don't know," answered John. " I see him drop
the p'int of his gun an' I give a jump."

" An' ye done well, John, ye done well. Give me
fifty sech men as you be, an' I'll be out of this yard
in half an hour. I see 'em take that fust rebel
down. They'll court-martial him, I s'pose. It beats
all how they do business. When they git a decent
man on guard, they shoot him jest to keep in prac-
tice. It beats all," and Uncle Nathan, with a growl
at the imperfect military system of the Confederacy,
started away.

He paused at the end of a few steps, and came
slowly back. His face showed that something of
great importance was coming. He pulled from
beneath his coat the rude flag he had carried so
sacredly. He pushed the little banner into John's
hand as he said, — "I'll make ye a present of that.
I'll warrant you'll keep it too. It takes men o' grit
to do sech a thing as that is, I tell ye. I hadn't no

30 AXDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

idee the Widcler RockwelFs boy hed ser much in
liim. I'm proud of ye — yes, I be" — and he
marched^ away, witli a smile for Archie, while John
thrust the flag into his pocket.

Uncle Nathan went away, but the rest of the men
made quite a visit. There was nothing to do, and
they felt that they might just as well stop there and
talk in the shade, as to wander about in the sun.
They were all desperately hungry, and it was but
natural that they should fall into a discussion of
foods. They had held many a Barmecide's feast in
the prison before — indeed their greatest pleasure lay
in attempting to

" Cloy the hungry edge of appetite
By bare imagination of a feast."

** I tell ye," began Tom Gove, " w^hen I git back to
the State o' Maine, I'm gonter git me the squarest
meal you ever see. I want me some fish chowder.
I'm gonter git that down to Bill Waterside's. Bill
can make the best fish chowder that ever was eet.
He takes his big kittle and puts him in fust a layer
o' fish, then a thin patch o' pork, then a layer o' per-
taters, then a layer o' crackers, an' so on to the top.
When it comes out o' that kittle, there ain't nothin'
better nowhere, I tell ye."

The water stood in Tom's mouth as he gave this
recipe. He involuntarily extended his hand as if to
secure a plateful of the delicious mixture. Bill
Brown had decided to patronize home talent as far
as possible. He was determined to secure a dish of
his mother's baked beans.

A PLAN FOR ESCAPE 31

" They beats everything," he argaecl. " I've seen
my mother cook 'em time and agin. She parbiles
'em over niglit, an' then puts 'em in a deep dish with
a piece o' pork on top. She puts in a little merksses
an' bakes 'em kinder slow. There ain't nothin' comes
nigh 'em for taste " — and Bill drew a long breath as
if to catch a faint whiff from the fragrant bean-pot
just coming out of his mother's oven.

Dave Jackson was a trifle more of an aristocrat.
It must be stated in explanation that Dave's mother
was not particularly noted as a cook.

" I'm gonter stop to Boston an' get me a real good
ham an' eggs. I know a place where they cook eggs
so they slide right down your throat without butter."

And so the men talked on, laying plans for a time
that never could come.

The crowd at last dropped away, and left Archie and
John alone. They were glad of the chance to talk.

"I'm sorry I made you go, John," said Archie,
gently — ''but you will never be sorry for it, I'm
sure."

"That's all right," said John, sturdily; "I ain't a
mite hurt, and you got 3^our flowers."

"But it wasn't for me that you went, John. I
know all about it, John, and I am sure it will be all
right some day." He clasped John's hand with a
pressure that both men understood.

" I shall never see her again, John. I am sure of
that now, but I want jou to take a message from me
— and you must live through here to do it. I meant
to do so much for them, John, but it's all passed now,
and I can only leave them to you."

32 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

John listened without a word. How gladly he
would take tlie cliarge. He would live to fulfil
it, too.

" I have written her a letter," said Archie, after a
little. " You must give it to her, and tell her just
how I wrote and sent it. Give her my love, John,
and tell her that I meant all I have written her. I
think she will believe it, too. I'm so tired, John. I
think I will try to sleep a little."

John arranged the coat under Archie's head. The
little fellow closed his eyes, and slept like a tired
child. John sat beside him and brushed the flies away
from the thin face. He glanced at the letter that
Archie had given him. It was written on a piece of
rough paper that had been torn from some package.
The words were traced with a dim lead pencil, and
then retraced with a j^ale ink that Archie had bor-
rowed from one of the prisoners. John did not
mean to read the letter, but his eye glanced instinc-
tively over the rough page, and he read it through
almost at a glance. His heart gave a great throb as
he read: —

*' Dear Nellie : I am writing this in the prison. It is the last
time I shall ever -write to you, for I do not think I shall live through
another week. I am not afraid to die, for I feel that I have tried
to do my best. John has promised to carry this letter to you, and
I know he will live to do it. He will carry my love to you, too.
I do wish you could know John as well as I do. What I wrote just
before we were captured was not half strong enough. If you love
me you never will marry any one till you know just what John is.
He loves you better than he loves his own life. I know it, for he
would die to-day for me, because I am like you. Good-by, com-
fort mother the best you can. I did mean to do so much for you,
but it's all past now. John will tell you all about it; and if you
could only know him, you would love him just as well as I do.

" Archie." .

A PLAN FOR ESCAPE 33

John read this letter, and then folded it carefully,
tearing off a piece from his ragged coat to serve for
a covering. He opened his vest, and disclosed the
piece of the letter to Archie with " I love you " written
upon it. He fastened both papers with the pin, and
buttoned the vest tightly about his throat.

John sat by Archie's side till the sun came back
over the bright hills. Slowly it circled up over the
prison, gradually it destroyed the shade where
Archie was lying. The sunlight fell directly in the
face of the sleeper, and, turn as he would, John could
not keep him in the shade. At last he shook
Archie's shoulder to rouse him. The sleeping man
was cold and stiff. John had been watching the
sleep of death.

The soldiers of the old Maine town came and
viewed the body in solemn procession. There was
nothing they could do or say. They had passed
through too many horrors already.

Uncle Nathan and John carried the body into the
shade. They threw a coat over the face, and ar-
ranged the violets on the breast. This was all they
could do now. John's leg troubled him somewhat,
yet he did his work. As they came back to their
old place. Uncle Nathan whispered to John : —

" Are ye ready to make a dash agin, and push
outer here ? '*

John nodded. The letter under his coat throbbed
at the thouglit of freedom. He felt that he must
deliver that note. It had put a wild courage into
his heart. Uncle Nathan chuckled with great satis-
faction.

34 A^'DE1^S0NVILLE VIOLETS

"I knowed ye would. I like yer grit fust-rate.
We can show them fellers what kind of folks we
raise to home in the State o' Maine. We must
leave the boys liere, and make a break for the lines."

Uncle Nathan detailed his plan. A number of the
prisoners were called for to go out on the hills after
firewood. He had gone once, and noticed, as he
thought, a chance for escape. He proposed to John
to go out, separate the guards, beat them down,
secure their arms and ammunition, and make for the
mountains. It was a wild scheme. Many a pris-
oner had been killed attempting it, but John was still
ready to tr3\ Anything rather than endure another
month of Andersonville life. The two men shook
hands. They were willing to make the trial. They
went back to take a last look at Archie. There
was no " scene," no painful leave-taking. John bent
over and cut away one of the curls that struggled
over the dead man's forehead. They threw the old
coat back over the face, and it was all over. John
and Uncle Nathan secured a position in the squad of
wood-carriers. They went out through the gates,
determined never to reenter them alive. As they
marched up over the hills, they saw a file of rebel
soldiers, with a man marching in the midst with
his hands bound behind him. They were not near
enough to recognize Jack Foster.

CHAPTER V.

DISHONORABLY DISCHARGED

Whe:n" Jack Foster found himself alone in the
guard-house, his first impulse was to read his letters.
There Avas just light enough in the dim room to
enable him to see the words of the letter that he
selected at random from his pocket.

This selection was not, on the whole, a happy one.
It had been written just after Grant defeated Pem-
berton and drove him back into Vicksburg. The
Union soldiers had marched through the village.
Lucy had but spoken the feelings of all Southern
women when she Avrote, ''I hate them all. If you
ever neglect your duty, or show any mercy for these
robbers and murderers, I will never speak to you
again. But I know you never will come to any dis-
grace, for you love me too well."

Somehow, Jack did not feel exactly comfortable
after reading this letter. What would she think of
him now? He had spared a Yankee's life, and
brought disgrace upon himself. Would she believe
him when he told her the reason ?

The thouglit was so unpleasant that he crowded
the letters back into his pocket. This was the first
time they had failed to bring him consolation. He
put his hands into his pockets, and began walking up

36 ANDEESONVILLE VIOLETS

and down the narrow room. There was nothing par-
ticularly dreadful about the trial which he knew
would soon be called. He had faced death too many
times to fear it now, but the thought of Lucy's
displeasure nearly drove him wild. As he paced
slowly up and down, he caught the sound of march-
ing feet outside.

"Halt!" The stern order brought both the
marching guard and himself to a standstill. The
door was unlocked and thrown open. Peering out
into the bright light, Jack found himself confronted
by two lines of soldiers, who were drawn up in
front of the door.

The officer in command ordered Jack to march
out and take his place between the lines of soldiers.
Then at the sharp order, " Forward — March ! " the
squad advanced in the direction of the commander's
office. Jack glanced at the faces of the guards as
they marched on. He knew them all. There was
not a sign of hope in any countenance. A group of
officers stood about the door of the office. At tlie
approach of the guard they passed inside. Jack, at
the order, followed them, while the guard fell in be-
hind to cover the entrance. And Jack Foster found
himself on trial for his life. It was treason then to
refuse to shoot a man for doing what any man would
have done. It was a crime to be merciful. The
room was dismal and bare, in keeping with war's
justice. A few rough chairs and a dirty table cov-
ered with papers stood at one end. A few maps
were hung upon the walls. The floor and walls
were stained and rough. Jack stood in the mid-

DISHONORABLY DISCHARGED 37

die of the room, while the guard ranged about the
sides. Every eye turned to the prison command-
er. This personage sat at the little table. He
seemed glum and savage, and the others glanced
anxiously at him. A rough, brutal-looking man, he
glared angrily at Jack, and nodded his head impa-
tiently at the group of officers gathered about him,
as if anxious to have the case ended. An example
must be made of this sentinel. A few such cases
and the prisoners would break over the walls.
There was no possible hope for mercy in that savage
face. Jack knew that his story would be wasted on
such a man. A grim, hard feeling came over him,
and he shut his teeth just as he used to do when the
company marched into battle. He was too proud to
beg for his life, and he knew he had no defence that
could ever satisfy such a man. So he waited proudly
for the result.

The trial was a very short one. The case against
Jack was too clear to admit of any argument. The
guard who had shot John Rockwell told the story as
an outsider might have seen it. This man stated
that he had seen the big Yankee talking with Jack.
He had distinctly seen Jack lower his musket, and
he had noticed the Yankee jump over the line. At
this point he had deemed it necessary to take an
active part in the exercise himself. He had taken a
hasty aim and fired. The Yankee was, in his opin-
ion, very badly hurt — his only regret was that he
had not killed him at once. This story was told in a
most dramatic manner, with many gestures and ex-
planatory remarks. What did this man know or care

38 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

about the violets or the little woman who had stood
in front of the Yankee?

The officers listened carefully to the story, asking
an occasional question. When the fluent sentinel
had finished his oration, all eyes turned to Jack.

" Well, what have you got to say ? " growled the
commander.

What could Jack say? How could he tell about
the sick boy, and the violets, and Lucy?

His reason must remain tied to his heart, for this
sneering man never would believe him.

He looked straight into the commander's eyes as
he answered, slowly : —

"Nothing, I reckon."

That was the end of the trial. At an order from
the officer, the prisoner, surrounded by the guards,
marched out of the room. Just as Jack turned, he
saw his old captain rise from his chair to address the
commander. The first words fell upon Jack's ear :
" I plead for mercy for this man. I have seen him
in battle, and I know there is not a braver man in
the army." But here the door closed, and the rest
was never heard.

Who can tell what Jack felt as he marched back
to the guard-house ? Who can tell what he thought
wlien the sentence came — " To be shot at noon " ?
There are few men who can tell, few men who ever
live such lives. After all the years of hoping and
devotion it had come to this. And yet down in his
heart there was still a feeling of satisfaction. He was
glad, after all, that he did not shoot the Yankee.
At last the time came. He had written a long, dis-

DISHONORABLY DISCHARGED 39

jointed letter to Lucy and his mother, trying to tell
them just how he had done liis duty. The letter was
in his breast-pocket when the guards came to march
liim away. His hands were bound behind him.
Twelve soldiers, members of his own company, had
been detailed to do the horrible Avork of execution.
They dared not look Jack in the fiice as they bound
him. Six of the guns were loaded, and six were
empty. No one could tell which one he held. A
merciful provision when one's friend stood up as a
target. The men were silent. There was no one
there to offer consolation to poor Jack. He started
in a sort of daze to the place of execution. He
could hardly realize his position yet. The sad-faced
squad had hardly taken a dozen steps when a mes-
senger dashed up with a paper in his hand. The
soldiers halted almost without the order, while the
officer glanced over the paper. Jack waited in dull
anxiety.

" Reprieved," the officer said at last, with a curi-
ous glance at Jack. The squad sent up a shout,
which was echoed from the barracks. The men were
happy to know that they would not be called upon
to kill a brother soldier.

There was a look on the face of the officer that
Jack did not like. The rest of the paper was read
as the soldiers unbound Jack's arms and heartily
shook hands with him. Jack almost wished for a
moment that the paper h..d never been written. He
was pardoned in consequence of his previous good
conduct, but, that his grave offence might be a les-
son to others, he was dishonorably discharged from

40 ANDERSONYILLE VIOLETS

the service — never to enter it again. It was worse
than the death sentence to a proud man. Many a
man would prefer death to a life of imprisonment,
where all hope and ambition must be starved out of
him. Many a man would rather die than live in the
midst of former friends who could only point the fin-
ger of shame and use him as a terrible example for
their children.

The soldiers — Jack's old comrades — looked at
each other in horror. " Dishonorably discharged "
from the service they would give their lives for so
willingly — for which they had suffered so much.
With all a Southern man's love of honor and chiv-
alry they recoiled from such a bitter disgrace. Bet-
ter death than such dishonor. What true Southern
man or woman could ever look upon a man who
had been " dishonorably discharged." Such a stain
would cling through one's life.

Jack felt the disgrace keenly. He turned white
as death and the tears came into his eyes.

" Kill me, boys," he begged. "I can stand that, I
reckon, but don't send me back like that."

But the squad of men marched sullenly back to
the barracks — glad, yet sorry that the execution had
been prevented. Glad that Jack was to live, sorry
that such a terrible stain was to be put upon his
character. Jack followed them slowl}- back to the
prison walls. The soldiers who knew of his sentence
seemed to shun him. There was no excuse that he
could offer. It seemed as if his proper place was
inside the heavy gate with the other prisoners. All
his life was clouded. There seemed no hope for

DISHONORABLY DISCHARGED 41

him. What would Lucy say to her dishonored
knight?

As Jack passed slowly by the stockade, the gate
swung open and the guard passed out, followed by
a squad of prisoners who carried the dead. Jack
turned carelessly to look at tliem. Archie's long,
yellow hair straggled out from beneath tlie blanket
that had been loosely thrown over him. Jack recog-
nized the head at once. He stepped to the side of
the cart in which the bodies were placed, and looked
long and earnestly at the boyish face for which he
had lost so much.

The soldiers who had charge of the work did not
know of Jack's, dishonor. They supposed he had
been pardoned without any condition. They spoke
to him as of old.

"It's the little babe, I reckon. Jack," they said.
"See them flowers. He'd throw hisself mighty
straight ef he had them at home, I reckon."

Jack glanced at the violets fastened in Archie's
shirt. A strange impulse tempted him to take them.

" I reckon I'll keep them," he said, and he reached
over and pulled them from their fastening. It would
be something after all to keep these little flowers
even if they had brought him such dishonor. He
turned back to the barracks and the cart jolted on
to the rude graveyard.

CHAPTER VL

THE ESCAPE

Uncle Nathan and John marched slowly, over
the hills toward the woods. The gang, shortly after
leaving the prison, had divided up into small squads
which marched out in different directions. Each
squad consisted of six prisoners and two guards.
The prisoners understood that a single suspicious
gesture would be fatal to them. The guards real-
ized that prompt action would be necessary. The
prisoners marched in front, Uncle Nathan and John
in advance, while the guards followed in the rear.
The four prisoners who followed the leaders were
members of a German regiment from Pennsylvania.
One of them could speak a little English, but their
favorite means of communication was the rude dia-
lect so common in the German districts of their
State. These men made wooden and machine-like
prisoners, just as they made block-like soldiers.
They marched heavily on, with their eyes bent on
the ground, punching great holes in tlie sand at
each heavy step. Uncle Nathan had the most pro-
found contempt for his fellow-prisoners. He knew
they would be of no help whatever in his proposed
dash for liberty.

"Them Pennsylvany Dutch," he whispered to
42

THE ESCAPE 48

John, "don't know nothin'. One of 'em keeps
settin' his big hoof right onter my heel. We can't
make no dependence on them."

It was a strange-looking company. John walked
painfully. His leg hurt him somewhat, but he
dragged it manfully on over the sand, trying not
to limp at all. He would not go back now. He
had seen Andersonville for the last time. He
looked wilder than ever. The cap with its droop-
ing visor, the sleeveless coat, ragged and tightly
buttoned at the throat, the gaping shoes, and the
thin brown legs all added to his strange appearance.
Uncle Nathan marched grimly at John's side. The
old man had lost his soldier's cap. A square piece
of the lining of his coat, with a knot tied in each
corner, served for a head covering. His gray hair
straggled down about his neck and ears, and his
grizzled beard stood out in the wildest disorder
about his face. The lines on his forehead and
under his eyes had deepened until his face had
drawn into a grim scowl. His gray eyes glisten-
ing under the heavy eyebrows spoke of the rough
desperation that filled his soul. He had no coat —
he had used the last of it in making his flag, and
his vest hung in tatters. An attempt had been
made to patch this latter garment with the side of
an old meal sack, but this attempt had added little
to the beauty or usefulness of the vest. His shirt
sleeves were ragged, and the thin brown arms were
bare from the elbows.

The "Pennsylvany Dutch" looked like walking
ragbags. Their tattered garments shook about

44 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

them as they marched solidly up the hill. They
had never taken the least care of their clothing, and
now their only covering consisted of a series of rags
that seemed in constant danger of falling from them.
If anything was needed to complete the ridiculous
picture, the element was certainly supplied by the
two rebel soldiers who marched at the rear of the
column. One was a short, heavy Alabamian with
a large, exceedingly hairy head and neck, that
seemed bent on imprisoning his face in a forest of
hair. His body promised to assume true aldermanic
proportions when he should once more secure a
close proximity to rations that would enable him to
do himself justice. The spectacle of a fat man who
has been deprived, for any length of time, of the
good living that made him greater than other men,
is a sad one. We feel that the form and face have
been driven back from the proud proportions they
once held. We watch such a man's smile with sor-
row, for we feel that it ought to be, at least, an inch
in advance of its present ground. The short soldier
walked with short waddling footsteps, with his mus-
ket thrown carelessly over his shoulder, yet keeping
a sharp lookout on the prisoners. He was dressed
in the prevailing slouch hat and dirty gray uniform
of the Confederacy. His coat, evidently made at a
happier time, when its owner had access to a better
table, hung in loose folds about his body. His re-
duced legs struck against the sides of his volumi-
nous pants with about the significance of a blow
against the side of a hanging carpet. Uncle Nathan
Lad singled out this man as the easier of the two to

THE ESCAPE 45

handle. The other soldier was the exact opposite of
his companion. A tall, gaunt Mississippian, with
the long, thin legs and arms, lank hair and melan-
choly face, peculiar to the " piney woods " regions.
A student of character will notice that men can be
known by the character of the soil upon which they
have been raised. A dry, thin soil is almost sure to
produce long, thin men, who seem eager to grow
away as far as possible from the earth that has
barely supported them. On rich soil will be found
men, thick and heavy, who seem to desire to walk
solidly upon the good ground. The tall guard
towered high above his comrade. He kept his dull,
heavy eyes carefully fixed upon space as he marched
solemnly on. His long, thin features and cadaver-
ous cheeks contrasted strongly with the good-
natured face of the man at his side, whose short legs
were taxed to their utmost to keep in step. Both
men, in addition to their muskets, carried revolvers
at their belts.

The strange procession moved on over the hills
with some semblance of order till the first valley
was reached. Once out of sight of the camp, the
discipline of the guards and the legs of the short
man gave out togetlier. The portly soldier stopped
the long stride, and fell back to his more comforta-
ble short step. The long soldier, with the accommo-
dating indolence of his race, shortened his own step.
Uncle Nathan and John instinctively slackened
their pace, but the " Peinisylvany Dutch '' went on
with the same stride. They ran into the leaders
so heavily that John and Uncle Nathan stepped

46 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

to the side and fell in behind the progressive
Dutchmen.

There was reason and method in this new move-
ment. Uncle Nathan wished to get near the two
soldiers and throw them off their guard. He had
great faith in his conversational powers. The use-
less energy displayed by the " Pennsylvany Dutch "
did not meet with the approval of the stout soldier.
To him all extra motion was useless. They were not,
to his mind, engaged in any w^alking match or any
other event in which useless energy w^is required.

" Halt ! " he shouted, in his most commanding
tone, holding his musket with one hand, while with
the other he pulled his capacious vest down into
something like position. This vest movement seems
to be the favorite motion of authority employed by
fat men of good nature and small intellect. The
Germans halted so suddenly that they ploughed great
holes in the sand with their feet. They never
moved their heads, but stood with eyes held directly
in front of them, waiting for the next order.

"I reckon ye'd better go to the front an' march
'em sorter slow like, Bill," said the portly command-
er of the expedition, as he j)ushed his hat to one
side of his hairy head. The long soldier, thus
advised, placed himself at the head of tlie column
without a word of argument. He kept his eyes
straight before him, looking neither to tlie right nor
to the left, as if confident tliat his comrade was
fully able to manage everything in the rear.

'' For'ad march ! Slow ! " ordered the commander,
pulling his hat down over his forehead.

THE ESCAPE 47

At the word Bill started at his most indolent pace,
while the poor ^'Pennsylvany Dutch" went tum-
bling over one another's feet in their efforts to keep
pace with the slow motion. The fat man toddled at
the rear, fully satisfied with the success of his new
arrangements. He grew quite communicative as
they marched slowly on.

" I expect you Yanks ain't gut nary piece of ter-
backer, have ye ? I done used mine all up," he
began.

At the word " terbacker " Bill's face displayed its
first sign of intelligence. His chin dropped into
something like a smile, and one dull eye glanced
back to take notes on the answer. There are vari-
ous ways of reaching the souls of different men.

The question may be considered, by some persons,
a very foolish one. What reasonable man could
expect prisoners, suffering for want of the simple
necessaries of life, to be provided with an article
which is usually looked upon as a luxury? How-
ever, the question served to open the conversation,
and is no more useless than many used for a like
purpose. Uncle Nathan appointed himself as spokes-
man for the party. John and the " Pennsylvany
Dutch " never offered any objection.

" No, we ain't gut none. Don't s'pose we can git
none of you, can we ? I was kinder in hopes we
could."

The tobacco question, though easily exhausted,
paved the way for an extended conversation, and,
by the time the first woodpile was reached. Uncle
Nathan and the fat soldier were on as good terms as

48 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

their circumstances would allow. A discussion or
conversation between any prisoner and his keeper
must always be a trifle one-sided, but it is better than
a complete silence. On reaching the pile, the first
act of the commander was to suggest a rest. There
was no attempt at argument on this proposition, and
the whole party at once sat down in the sand, near a
tall pine to gather strength for the return trip. The
two guards sat a little to one side. The " Pennsyl-
vany Dutch " sat directly in the sun, and fell at once
into the discussion of some evidently interesting
point, in their disjointed German.

"Whar be them fellers frum, Yank? " asked the
Alabamian, pointing to the group.

" Them's what we call Pennsylvany Dutch," an-
swered Uncle Nathan ; " furreners," he added, fearful
lest the rebel might think these men came from his
beloved State of Maine.

"Wall, Yank," continued the leader, reflectively,
" them furreners is what done it. I'm doggoned if
that ain't so. They've hurt us right smart, I reckon.
Ef you all hed gut shut of them furreners, we shud
be 'way on top of ye now. Them furreners is what's
doin' it, I reckon."

Uncle Nathan found it hard to answer this state-
ment calmly. He had his own ideas on the subject,
and it was hard to keep them back. He knew that
Old Abe, with the aid of men like his own from the
" State o' Maine," had done more than all the " fur-
reners " that ever breathed. Still, it was his present
policy to keep his captors good-natured, and so he
muttered shortly, —

THE ESCAPE 49

"Mebbe so."

" Yes, sah. It's them furreners an' that twenty-
nigger law thet's gonter do it, ef anything does. You
all kin see that. Drop them furreners out, an' we'll
march — wall, right smartly into your country."
The geography of the fat leader Avas evidently defec-
tive ; he did not care to assume the responsibility of
giving any exact point at the North w^here he could
safely march. " We is a heap better fighters than
you all is. We can march all round ye, I reckon.
When we marched up to Gettysburg, our company
went by a house whar they wuz a couple of ladies
sot out in front. I heard 'em whisper like — 'they
march better'n our'n, but ain't they dirty ? ' But fer
thet twenty-nigger law an' them furreners, we'd 'a'
whipped ye."

Uncle Nathan was about to give his ideas concern-
ing constitutional law, when Bill surprised every one
by rising to his feet as a gentle intimation that the
time had come for an action against the woodpile.
The fat man followed Bill, and routed the "Pennsyl-
vany Dutch " from their position in the sand. He
had, evidently, taken quite a fancy to Uncle Nathan,
and desired to reserve the lightest work for him.

"Bill," he suggested, "jest load up them furreners,
an' start 'em in slow like. I'll sorter take these yer
Yanks an' git some light-wood." " Fall in, Yanks I
March ! " and he indicated with his hand the direc-
tion in which the light-wood lay.

The two men stepped off with a farewell glance at
the patient "Pennsylvany Dutch;" they were re-
solved never to see their fellow-captives again, unless

60 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

the meeting took place within the Union lines-
Uncle Nathan shook his head with grim pleasure at
the thought of singling out this fat gentleman, wlio
held such a poor opinion of the fighting qualities of
Maine men. He meant to change that opinion de-
cidedly. The melancholy Bill carefully loaded his
Germans with logs. " Forward ! " he ordered, in a
doleful whine, and the gallant " furreners " started
back to the prison. Bill followed, never looking back
to see how his companion fared.

A short march through the pines brought the light-
wood party to a pile of small, well seasoned sticks.
The guard produced two long strips of rawhide from
his pocket, and directed John and Uncle Nathan to
bind the sticks into faggots of convenient size for
carrying. He sat on a log during this operation,
keeping a close watch on the prisoners. He evidently
appreciated their societ}^ as far as it went, but he did
not propose to fall a victim to any of the evils inci-
dent to a close companionship. When the faggots
were bound, he invited the prisoners to take another
rest before returning. Uncle Nathan and John sat
on the piles of wood, and the three men watched
each other carefully.

It was a strange group. The rebel, affable and
pompous, yet with his hand on his revolver, ready to
shoot, at the least suspicious movement ; the two
gaunt prisoners praying for a chance to spring upon
their companion. The rebel was evidently curious as
to the origin and purpose of the " furreners."

" We done kei)tured a heap of them fellers at
Chancellorsville," he began. " Stuart was sent

THE ESCAPE 61

ahead to run some Yanks back, an' we supported
him. We fit thar right smart, fer half an hour, I
reckon, when thar kem a rush an' some of you all's
cavalry jumped right inter us. Stuart he wheeled
like an' tuck 'em on the flank, an' we closed up an'
keptured a heap of 'em. They wuz all Dutchmen, an'
I'm doggoned ef they warn't all tied to their hosses.
They didn't know nothin' about reinin', an' them
hosses hed run away with 'em. Thar we stud yer,
an' Stuart he kem up yer." He had traced the plan
of the battle out in the sand with the toe of his boot.

" You all never seen Stuart charge, did ye ? " To
John's surprise, Uncle Nathan seemed to be suddenly
converted to the cause of the Confederacy — or
rather Stuart.

''Wall, I should think I had," returned the old
man. " I see him charge on our lines once, an' I
call it the grandest sight I ever see anywhere. He
come way out ahead of his men, waving his sword —
jest like this " —

Uncle Nathan had started from his seat in his
great excitement. He waved his arm above his
head, and, to give a better illustration of the action,
he caught up a long stick with a huge knot at the
end. The rebel sat looking on admiringly, all un-
conscious of the fact that the height of Uncle
Nathan's ambition was to bring his head and the
knot in close contact.

"Jest like this," said Uncle Nathan as he stepped
nearer and held the stick high over his head. There
was something in the old man's face that showed the
rebel that this was no idle feat of gymnastics.

52 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

"Stand back!" he shouted, reaching for his
revolver.

But Uncle Nathan's blood was up. It was life or
death for him.

"Jest like this!" he said coolly, and the stick
sung a song of freedom through the air, and fell
directly upon the rebel's head. The owner of the
head dropped his gun and fell back like a dead man.

"What d'you s'pose he thinks about furreners
now ? " asked the imitator of Stuart, as he threw
away his stick.

It is more than probable that the guard had a
most profound respect for the fighting qualities of
men from the " State o' Maine " ever after.

There was no time to be lost. The prisoners held
a hasty consiiltation and assured themselves that the
fight had not been observed. With the strings of
rawhide they bound and gagged the stunned rebel.
It was all done in a moment, and then, securing the
gun and revolver and ammunition, they turned to
the north and hurried into the woods. It was to be
a desperate race. They would never be taken alive.

CHAPTER VII.

The two prisoners had hardly disappeared under
the trees when the portly guard began to show signs
of life. His head was evidently harder than the
stick. He had been left in a most undignified
position — flat on his face, with his hands tied be-
hind him. First, he shook as much of his portly
frame as could be shaken at one time and uttered
some sound which lost itself in the sand. At last,
with one supreme effort, he rolled himself over on to
his back, where he could view a small portion of the
world. His mouth and faoe were well plastered with
sand and blood, and altogether he did not present a
most agreeable appearance. He struggled desper-
ately to free himself, but the tough strings held him
fast. He did his best to call for help, but the gag,
firmly fixed in his mouth, prevented any escape of
sound. There was nothing for him to do but to lie
on his back and wait for help.

We may very naturally expect that his ideas as
to what constituted the heart of the Union army
changed somewhat. His aching head must have
convinced him that the "furreners" did not mo-
nopolize all the fighting qualities of the army after
all. Whatever the opinion of the ladies at Gettys-

54 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

burg might be in regard to the marching of the two
armies, it was painfully evident that men from the
" State o' Maine " knew how to strike a good blow.
Our fat friend might, perhaps, have consoled himself
with the thought that he was not the first man to be
convinced so roughly of the truth of a proposition.
There are plenty of men whose heads must be broken
before the truth can enter. Truth pounded in with
a club, however, is remarkably sure to stick. Our
friend had but little time to devote to this thouo-ht.
He was mainly occupied in trying to clear his mouth
of sand. He lay, as it seemed, a long time in his
uncomfortable position. The sun started down be-
hind the hills and the first afternoon shadows came
creeping out from under the trees to mock him. It
was not until the shadows had danced cruelly over
his sandy face that he caught the sound of footsteps*
A moment later the melancholy face of Bill came
peering over the pile of wood. Bill had never been
called a handsome man, even by his wife, but his
face seemed like the face of an angel as viewed
through the mask of sand and blood that covered
the face of the portly victim of the Maine men.

Bill had marched his patient " Pennsylvany
Dutch " back with their burden, and watched them
I)ass safely inside the stockade. Well knowing the
brilliant conversational powers of his comrade, he
did not wonder at first when the detachment came
not. When, at last, several hours went by without
bringing his friend, Bill grew anxious and with a
small squad came out, to find him as left by the
prisoners. The bands were quickly severed, and

sol's victory 55

the wounded guard raised to his feet. He told the
story of his capture — giving it a coloring that would
have seemed entirely original to Uncle Nathan. He
told, with what articulation the sand had left him,
how, after a most heroic defence, he had been over-
powered. It was certainly wonderful how bravely
he had fought the two prisoners, and how seriously
he had, in all probability, wounded Uncle Nathan.
The squad of soldiers marched back to the prison,
listening to his thrilling recital.

Half an hour later, a small company of men
marched rapidly up the hill in the direction of the
scene of the struggle. Two negroes led the way,
holding b&ck by means of strong ropes a blood-
hound — broad-breasted and dark. Long Bill led the
way, his melancholy face glowing with something
like excitement as he marched on ahead. The fat
gentleman did not come. He stayed at the barracks
to nurse his wounds and stir the patriotism of his
comrades with his thrilling stor}^ of the conflict.

The company halted at the place where Uncle
Nathan had given such a careful imitation of Stu-
art's mode of attack. The tracks of the prisoners
were plainly visible leading off into the forest. The
hound put his nose to the ground, and, with a low,
deep sound, trotted off into the pines — on the trail.
The chase had begun. The soldiers followed the
dog with their arms ready for instant service.

Uncle Nathan and John ran as men run who see
life held up before them as a prize. They had no
definite route. Their great object was to put as
many miles as possible between themselves and the

66 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

stockade, and then by the aid of friendly negroes to
determine their course. They well understood that
they would be followed, and possibly caught up
with, but they were determined never to be taken
back. With the weapons they carried, a good de-
fence could be made. On, on they hurried^ as rapidly
as possible. Through sand-beds thick with clinging
briars, over fallen logs and stumps, through swamps
and dense thickets, still on they pressed, for freedom
lay before — death behind.

Uncle Nathan carried the musket. He had fas-
tened the bayonet to the end, even though it im-
peded his progress. He was ready for immediate
action. John carried the revolver, loaded and
capped. He followed doggedly in Uncle Nathan's
footsteps. He felt frequently for the letter under
his vest. Archie was lying dead behind them, but
Nellie was before, and he stili pushed on, though
his wounded leg tortured liim at every step. Once,
when they stopped to drink at a little brook, John
examined his leg. It was badly swollen and was
slowly bleeding. He bathed it in the cool water
and drew the bandage tighter. Uncle Nathan
watched him grimly.

"Can ye make it?" he asked, pointing off into
the forest.

"I'll make it or drop," said John, between his
teeth, and Uncle Nathan again pushed on, chuckling
in his silent way at the " grit " of the men from
" our town."

Twice they came upon dwellings. Hurrying on
through a thick growth of young trees, they came

sol's victory 57

suddenly to the edge of a large clearing, and stopped
just in time to escape detection. It was a typical
plantation ; once prosperous and rich, but now, after
three years of neglect, fallen to decay. The fields
were grown up with weeds, the fences were down,
and the stock roamed idly about. The old house
seemed to have crept back under the trees, into the
shadow and gloom, where it could brood over its
sorrows in secret. An old, white-haired man sat on
the piazza, with his head on his breast ; dull, with
the sense of his wrongs, without the energy or cour-
age to repair the damages. It was a picture of utter
despair — of lonely helplessness. As the fugitives
halted at the edge of the clearing, two gaunt hounds,
in fall keeping with the rest of the picture, rose
from beside the old man's chair, and looked eagerly
in the direction of the disturbers. At a gesture from
their master, they dropped slowly down again at his
side. The fugitives crept back into the forest, and,
skirting the edge of the clearing, again plunged out
of sight.

A mile beyond the first house they came upon
another plantation. They dropped under a bush to
examine the premises. The house stood at quite a
distance, but the negro quarters were close at hand.
The same look of disorder and neglect pervaded the
whole place. They were about to regain their feet
and go back into the forest when the sound of a
falling axe fell on their ears. It was apparently
close at hand, and, after a moment's hesitation.
Uncle Nathan pushed the branches aside and peered
out in the direction from which the sound came.

68 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

An old negro, white-haired and bent with age, was
cutting wood from a large log. To the desperate
fugitives tliis poor old darky seemed like an angel.
They did not liesitate to push their way toward him,
and attract his attention. Uncle Nathan dropped
the point of his gun and tried to bring his grizzled
face into a smile. As the two ragged and desperate-
looking men rose from beneath the bushes and
moved toward him, the old slave dropped his axe
and fell upon his knees.

" Go 'wa}^," he muttered, '' I ain't done nuffin'. I
jes cuttin' wood fo' ole miss."

" It's all right, uncle," assured John as they neared
the old slave. " We are friends — prisoners."

Tlie old man changed his manner at once, at this
announcement. He rose hastily to his feet and
glanced around as if to assure himself that they were
alone.

" Dops you meanter say dat you is pris'ners?
Dat you is Massa Linkum's men ? I jes wanter
look at youse." And the old fellow came nearer,
and peered with cam eyes into their faces.

John told the story of their escape witli simple
directness. It seemed to him that he was talking to
a child.

" What is our best road, uncle, and where can we
get something to eat ? " he said at last.

The old slave shook his head uneasily during the
story, and, at the question, looked hesitatingly about
him.

"Is youse afeared of dorgs?" he asked, ner-
vously.

sol's victory 59

"No, not a mite," growled Uncle Nathan, shaking
his musket. '' I won't run fer no dog."

'*I is mighty glad you ain't," suggested the
negro, " 'case I zs, an' 'case der'll be dorgs arter youse
afo' morning, sho's yo' born. Dey will be arter
youse wid de po'fullest dorg yo' eber seen, I reckon.
Dorgs dat jes tar you all up. I's seed dem go by —
I has. Dey is biz'ness dorgs, dey is. Dey is biz'ness
work 'roun' yer when dem dorgs gits arter man, an'
dey'U get arter you all fo' you knows it, I reckon " —
and he looked nervously about him again.

"I tell you what, boss," he said, after a little
thinking. *'Ef youse is man 'nuff ter kill dat dorg,
you is all right, I reckon. Ef you kin get shet ob
him, I kin see you fru. I's got a boy hidin' to my
cabin. He cum from whar dey is fitin' at, an ef you
kin get shet ob dat dorg, you all kin go back wid
him. Dey ain't no safe place fer you er me jes ez
long ez dat dorg is on yo' track " — and he peered
out into the forest, as if expecting to see the terrible
animal approaching them.

Uncle Nathan was quick to see the sense of the
old darky's advice.

'' He's right," he said to John ; " we've got to
fight 'em, an' we might jest as well do it fust as last.
You go home, ole feller," he said to the negro, " an'
fix us up somethin' t' eat. We'll either leave that
dog dead out y under, or never come near ye agin,"
and he shook his musket, as if to add force to his
declaration.

The old negro looked at Uncle Nathan admiringly.
" You is a man^ you is," he said, as he picked up his

60 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

axe and moved stiffly away. He paused for a
moment to give them some needed instructions.
*' When youse come back, yo' jes' stan' where dat big
tree is at an' whistle, an' I'll send my boy out ter
bring youse in. But done you come yer ontil youse
kill dat dorg," and he hobbled off again.

He was soon lost to sight, for the light was rapidly
losinof itself under the trees. The darkness thick-
ened and crowded in upon them as the fugitives
made their plans. They sat for a few moments on
the log, talking earnestly. Then they walked slowly
into the forest, watching only for a good defensive
position. They did not hurry now, for they were
only anxious to meet their pursuers. Weary and
faint with hunger and pain, John stumbled on un-
steadily. Uncle Nathan seemed tireless. About
half a mile from the log they came upon a place
most admirably suited to their purpose. Under a
great pine a cleared space gave ample opportunity
for defensive operations. A high thicket of briars
and heavy bushes rose in front like a wall. A little
glade beyond made it impossible for pursuers to
approach unobserved. Uncle Nathan placed his
musket against the tree and glanced over the place
with great satisfaction.

'^ We'll stand 'em off here, I guess," he said,
grimly. " Might jes' well fight it out here as any-
where."

Had he been perfectly acquainted with the coun-
try lie could hardly have selected a better place.

John dropped upon the soft pine needles, thank-
ful for the chance to rest. He drew his revolver and

sol's victory 61

placed it upon the ground beside him, ready for
instant service. Uncle Nathan crouched in the
shadow of the tree, with his eyes fixed on the space
over which the dreaded bloodhound must come.
What were they thinking about, waiting there in the
solitude ? Of the hateful prison, with all the horrors
they had left behind them, or the home before, where
the wife and the little girl were waiting ? Is it not
true that at such times, when we sit down with grim
determination to wait the coming of our fate, when
we feel that retreat is cut off, that the better, purer
thoughts crowd into our minds, and the cruel, hate-
ful past is dropped for the time ? The moon came
slowly up over the trees. It did not hurry over
Andersonville as the sun had done. Its feebler light
could not search into all the dark corners and push
out the horrors that crouched there. Slowly and
peacefully it sailed over the heavens, painting the
earth with beauty, transforming hideous shapes, at a
touch of its mellow light, into beautiful things.

The little glade, so eagerly watched by the fugi-
tives, seemed, as the moonlight swept down into it,
a very sporting place for fairies. The moonbeams
danced riglit royally along the stumps and grasses.
The thicket, behind which the men were sheltered,
seemed changed into a row of hideous creatures, that
scowled grimly over the little glade, and reached out
with long arms to push back all intruders. The
moonlight stole down behind the thicket. It glit-
tered along the barrel of Uncle Nathan's musket,
gleamed on the fixed bayonet, and touched the griz-
zled face of the stern sentinel into something like

62 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

tenderness, for the same moon had looked into the
faces of " the folks " at home. It was only for a
moment that the ragged form under the tree was
seen. Uncle Nathan crept back under the shadow,
where the moon could not follow. For an hour they
waited in silence. Then, suddenly, Uncle Nathan
rose to his knees, and brought the musket to his
shoulder. The bayonet flashed out in the moon-
light. John grasped his revolver, and drew up under
the thicket.

A slight rustle was heard on the other side of
the glade, and, after a moment's hesitation, a man
stepped out into the open space, and stood where the
light fell directly upon him. He carried a package
in one hand, while the other was held up above him.
There were two things that caused the musket to
lower. The face of the new-comer was the face of a
negro. At his belt, the letters "U. S." flashed into
view. Both were symbols of brotherhood to the
fugitives. The man advanced a few steps, and again
held up his hand.

"Haiti who goes there?" challenged Uncle Na-
than, from his post under the tree.

" Fren' ! " came the answer in the unmistakable
accent of a negro.

'' Advance, friend, and give the countersign," again
came the hoarse whisper.

'' Rations," was the answer, and the package was
held up in front.

" Pass, friend, with the countersign," and the mus-
ket dropped, and John opened the thicket.

The man passed through this opening and stood

sol's victory 6S

before them. A tall, Avell formed negro, wearing the
pants, belt, and cap of the Union army. He carried
a bag in his hand, which he threw on the ground be-
side them.

His story was quickly whispered. He was the
''boy" of whom the old negro had spoken. A sol-
dier in the Union arm}^, he had left Sherman to visit
the old folks. He was hiding by da}^, waiting for
this very chance of guiding prisoners back to the
Union lines. His father had told him of the adven-
ture at the log, and, careless of the danger from the
dreaded dog, he had followed them with a supply of
food. He was ready to fight with them. He told
his story simply, and then stood waiting for tlieir re-
ply. His race is inferior, tliey sa}^ He never can
lift himself oat of his inferiority, and yet, what can
we say when such men go to the very end of daring?

John and Uncle Nathan thought nothing of their
new comrade's color. They shook his hand and wel-
comed him heartily. Sol — for such he gave his
name — took Uncle Nathan's gun and advanced to
the thicket, to stand on guard while the others ate
the food that he had brousrht.

"'Tain't much, boss," he whispered, "but we git
mo', I reckon, when we go back."

The repast was certainly a frugal one — a great
corn-cake and a dozen baked potatoes. Frugal
tliough it was, it seemed delicious enough to the
hungry prisoners, and they ate greedily, on their
knees, with the sack between them. The meal
came to an end all too soon, and they rose for a
consultation. At a sudden " hush ! " from Sol, they

64 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

all crept under the thicket to listen. The sharp ear
of the negro had detected the approach of the pursu-
ing party. He listened earnestly for a moment, and
then gave the musket back to Uncle Nathan.

"Dat dorg done got away from dem," he whis-
pered. " I fix him," and he drew a long knife from
his belt, and crept through the thicket and across
the open space. At the edge of the glade he halted,
and, assuring himself of the dog's approach, he
crouched in the shadow of a log to wait. Uncle
Nathan cocked his musket and placed it in position.
In a few moments the dog, entirely ignorant of the
fate awaiting him, could be distinctly heard running
through the bushes.

The squad from the prison had followed rapidly
on the trail. The bloodhound made savage attempts
to break awa}^ but the strong keepers held him fast.
He trotted with his nose on the ground, pulling im-
patiently on the cords that held him, and tearing at
the muzzle over his jaws. Led by Bill, the soldiers
followed in single file. The sun went down, but the
party still pressed on through the pines. The moon
gave them ample light for their purpose. All went
well till the party reached the log where the old ne-
gro had been chopping. They halted a moment to
rest and consult, when the dog, with one sudden and
impatient bound, broke away from the negroes and
sprang into the shadow alone. The keepers, fearful
of the punishment due them, slid into the thicket,
and hid from sight. The soldiers followed the dog,
as best they could, though their course was but slow
through the thick bushes. Thus it was that the dog

sol's victory 65

came bounding on alone to the glade where Sol was
waiting him. It seemed almost an age to the two
men under the tree, before the hound burst through
into the moonlight. The great ugly head fiercely
thrust itself through the thicket, and halted for an
instant, as if surprised.

Sol started from the shadow, with his knife in his
right hand and a thick stick in his left. He ad-
vanced straight to the beast, with the club held be-
fore him, and the knife held at the side. John rose
to his feet the better to view the strange combat.
The fierce eyes of the hound glittered in the moon-
light. He could utter no loud sound, for the thick
muzzle held his jaws firmly together. Through his
drawn lips the white teeth gleamed, and great drops
of foam fell from his tongue. He drew back as the
negro advanced, and like a flash sprang savagely at
the club that Sol cunningly held in front of him.
Sol stepped to one side, and, with one sickening
blow, drove his knife into the dog's neck. The
animal turned in its agony, and fell heavily upon
its side. Sol sprang upon the hound, and plunged
his knife again and again into the throat. The poor^
animal, muzzled as he was, could offer but a feeble
resistance. In a short time he lay motionless. He
had followed the trail to his death. After satisfying
himself that the hound was dead, Sol came back .un-
der the tree where the others were waiting. He
coolly wiped the blood from liis knife with a bunch
of pine-needles, and knelt in the shadow to wait the
pursuing party, who now followed the dog.

Long Bill and his friends came at last. They

(j(j ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

came crashing through the underbrush without the
least attempt at conceahnent. The first intimation
of the dire disaster that had fallen upon them was
the mutilated body of the dead dog, which they
found as they broke through the thicket into the
little glade. Bill, who was leading, stopped in hor-
ror at this unexpected sight, and the others gathered
about him where tlie watchers could easily examine
them. There were nine in the party. Uncle Nathan
covered Bill with his musket, while John took good
aim at another ; Sol grasped his knife, ready to
spring into the crowd if necessary. Had the squad
of rebels pushed on across the glade, a bloody fight
would have ensued, for the fugitives, driven to des-
peration, would never have yielded. But Long Bill
and his party never came by the dead hound. There
was something terrible to them in this mysterious
murder of the ferocious dog that had followed so
many prisoners to the death. There he lay before
them mangled and bloody. A few moments before
he had been full of savage life. They had heard no
outcry, no sound of a struggle. Some mysterious
power, silent and terrible, had reached between them
and their victims. They knew not in what dark
shadow this terrible power might even now be lurk-
ing. They glanced nervously at the thicket before
them. Long, eager arms seemed to reach out to
threaten them. They turned, after a short hesita-
tion, back out of the moonlight. After a whispered
consultation under the trees, they marched, with
many a nervous glance, away from the fated ground

sol's victory 67

where the dead dog was lying. They crept together
ill the darkness, and walked hurriedly on.

Back near the log where the great mistake of the
expedition had been made, a badly frightened object
rolled out in front of them. It was one of tlie
negroes that had tried to hold the hound in check.
Bill grasped the black keeper by the neck and
brought him into the moonlight.

" Whar ye been hidin' at, ye nigger?"

The darky, never at a loss for a story, told with
chattering teeth his imaginary version of the causes
that led to the dog's death.

"You jes orter have seed him, boss," he said, with
widely protruding eyes. "I done tole you dat he
was a man. He jes grab dat dorg and shuck de life
outer him, jes like I shake a rabbit. He was a man
I done tole you."

Bill kicked the black story-teller to one side. It
is not known whether the soldiers took the story for
the truth or not. They certainly did not stop to dis-
cuss it. They marched sullenly back through the
woods to Andersonville, and certain it is that the
Maine men never set eyes on them again.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE NEGRO CABIN

The fugitives waited under the trees long after
the sound of the retreating footsteps had died away.
They were not sure that this retreat might not be
designed to draw them from their hiding-place. At
last they crept cautiously from under the thicket,
and followed the trail back to the log. Sol led the
way, with his long knife drawn and ready. He could
not help kicking the hated dog as they passed him.
Uncle Nathan brought up the rear with his musket
on his arm. At the log Sol left the others to follow
the prison squad alone. He seemed to have the
instinct of a hound, for he struck directly into the
trail. In half an hour he returned with the joyful
news that Bill and the soldiers had surely gone back.

"Come," he said, pointing over the log, "les go
git supper."

John was weak and tired. His leg troubled him
exceedingly. Even Uncle Nathan began to show
signs of fatigue. They gladly followed Sol as he
pushed off in the direction that the old negro had
taken. A short walk brought them to a brook, into
which Sol deliberately walked. The others followed
him, and together they waded against the current.

" Fro' udder dorg off de track," said Sol shortly.

THE NEGRO CABIN" 69

The others said nothing. They had resigned the
leadership to the negro.

At a distance of a few hundred yards from the
place where they entered the brook, the water sud-
denly spread out, forming a wide, shallow pond.
Through this they waded, splashing through the
shining water, coming out at last under a thick
grove. Following Sol still, they passed on through
the trees, over a meadow, up a sand hill, through a
small corn-field, and halted at last before a little log
cabin with a mud-and-stick chimney built at one end.
Sol stepped forward and gave three sharp raps at
the door. In a moment tlie door partly opened and
a white head thrust itself out.

" Is dat youse, Solemon ? " The voice was one
that the fugitives remembered.

" Yes, I's here," said Sol. " Open de do'."
But the slight opening did not grow any wider.
Tiie old man wished to settle all questions concern-
ing that "dorg" before he presented his visitors
with the freedom of his cabin.

"Has youse killed dat dorg?" he asked with a
tremor in his voice. "Ef he come snuffin' roun' yer,
hit's sho' def fo' de hull gang."

"I reckon he's dead sho' 'nuff. 'Pears like he
neber vote again," answered Sol as he pushed against
the door.

" Is yo' pojul sho' ? " urged the old man.
Uncle Nathan came to the rescue.
" He's jest as dead 's a door nail. I'll warrant 3^e
he won't do no more runnin'," lie said, in his most .
assuring tone>

70 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

"Dat*s all right! dat's all right!" apologized the
old man, as he hastily opened the door and moved
aside to make room for them to enter. *' I is po'ful
glad fer ter har it. I wouldn't have dat dorg snuf-
fin' roun' yer for nuffin 't all."

The three men passed into the room. Sol closed
the door and fastened it securely with a stout stick.
The two white men looked about them with curious
eyes. There was no light save that which came from
a low fire in the chimney-place. This light was
nearly obscured by the forms of two negro women
who knelt before it, stirring the contents of several
dishes that were cooking over the fire. The supper
thus being prepared sent up a most delicious odor of
fried meat and coffee. The two women at last
moved away from their position in front of the fire,
and the unobstructed light enabled the fugitives to
view the room. The place was bare and rude, yet
the light burst bravely out and did its best with the
rough picture. It was a common negro's cabin —
the home of slavery — yet it seemed the most like
home of anything the two white men had seen for
years. They felt that they were among friends who
would die for them if necessary, and never ask for a
nobler death. The great blindness of friendship and
love will cover up many an imperfection that would
seem bare enough in the house of a stranger.

The room was small and low. There was no plas-
tering upon the walls, made of rough logs. The
thin coating of whitewash that had once done its
best to add respectability to the logs, had about
given up the contest. It was discolored and rubbed,

THE NEGRO CABIN 71

and in many places the original color of the logs
grinned through its feebleness. The floor was full
of great cracks, along whose edges barbarous splin-
ters watched savagely for barefooted pedestrians.
In one corner a board had broken in, and a wooden
bench guarded the foot trap but poorly. The small
windows were covered with wooden shutters, and
the crack under the door was carefully covered with
an old coat. The only circulation of air was that
which entered at the cracks in the floor and found
an exit through the chimney. The furniture was
simple enough. Three chairs scattered about the
room, a small table, and a bed made up the mov-
able articles. A shelf for cooking utensils and
dishes was fastened to the wall, near the fire. It
was nearly empty, for most of the dishes had been
placed on the table, which stood in the middle of
the room. A sheet had been spread on the table,
and the various tin dishes and cups placed upon it,
in preparation for the meal. The light danced out
from the fire over the shining dishes, and darted up
on the dull walls. Like a brave friend, it made the
best parts of the whitewash seem lighter, and kept
entirely away from the bare places. It danced ahead
of the old negro's bare feet and showed him the
long splinters in the floor.

Uncle Nathan placed his musket behind the door
and gazed about him with a satisfaction that was not
in the least dampened by the odor arising from the
cooking. The women, Sol's mother and sister,
ducked their heads to the new-comers, and then
went back to their cooking, again shutting out the

72 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

greater part of the light. The best reception they
could possibly give lay in the dishes they watched
so carefully.

The old negro hastened to do the honors. He
and Sol brought chairs for Uncle Nathan and John,
and the tired men sat down at last with a great
feeling of security. Sol brought water and bathed
John's wounded leg, and placed the bandage se-
curely. The old man hovered about, muttering and
whispering his pleasure at being able to do some-
thing for Massa Linkum's men. This was the great
event of his life and he meant to make the most of
it. At last the women brought their pans to the
table and poured the supper into the tin dishes.
Uncle Nathan and John watched with hungry eyes.
There was but little chance for conversation, for
they all knew that a single loud word might betray
them. The women, with a motion of the hand, indi-
cated the fact that supper was served, and Sol and
his father pushed the chairs up to the table and
then stood respectfullj' behind their guests. Uncle
Nathan motioned Sol to bring a third chair to the
table and take a seat with them, but the young man
shook his head. He knew or rather felt his phice.

And Uncle Nathan, with a sweet memory of home
in his heart, bowed his head for a moment, over the
table, in thankfulness. The firelight flashed out
over them. Over the grizzled soldier, who had
fought so savagely, over the young hero who had
felt the letter over liis heart throb an answer to the
prayer, over the worn old slave, childish and feeble,
over the lion-like black soldier and the women, all

THE NEGRO CABIN 73

thankful, though they knew not what the future
might be.

No one can tell how tlie two soldiers enjoyed that
supper. The fried chicken, the baked potatoes, tlie
coffee, the corn bread, and the fried pork seemed
most delicious after the long session of prison food.
The old negro brought a pine knot from the fire
and held it over them for a light. He muttered a
few words of explanation as the meal proceeded.
The coffee was such a great luxury that he felt
called upon to expatiate upon its merits.

" Dat ar's sho' 'nuff coffy, dat is," he said, as he
held the torch for Uncle Nathan to fill the tin cup.
" Soleman brung dat coffy from way up yunder. We's
been bilin' corn an' all dat, but dis yer sho' 'nuff coify
is worf a heap ob corn. Hit's po'ful strong, an' one
pinch will build up dis yer play co&y mightily."

After the supper a short council of war was held.
The four men talked in whispers while the women
listened in the corner. It was at last decided to
trust to Sol's guidance and make an effort to reach
Sherman's army. They decided to start before day-
break, and, by a forced march, reach a place where
they might rest in safety. The}'- were to trust
everything to Sol. This plan decided upon, the
two white men lay down upon the bed to secure a
short rest. Sol and his father, with the sleeplessness
of the negro, watched through the night, with the
musket and the revolver close at hand. How easily
they could have secured their guests and turned
them over to the prison guards. Many a white man
would have done it, but these poor negroes, fearful

74 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

and ignorant, still felt that these men had come to
free them, and they would gladly have died in
defending their guests.

It was still dusk when Sol touched the sleepers.

" Time fo' startin', boss," he whispered, as the
tired men opened their eyes.

Breakfast was waiting them, and the three men —
Sol joined them this time — made a hasty meal.
The old man and his family probably went on short
rations for some time to pay for this collation, but
they were willing to fast in a good cause. With a
whispered " good-by " the soldiers prepared to go.
They were glad to shake hands with all the members
of the family. The old man laid his thin hand on
Sol's broad shoulder.

"Solemon," he said, "you wants ter be a good
boy an' fite de bes' yo' knows fo' ole Massa Linkum.
Done yo' neber do nuffin agin him. Hit don't make
no odds about us down yer. We's mighty nigh fit
out enyhow, I reckon. Dey kin kill de ole man, but
dey can't neber break down dis yer ole flag. Tears
like I want to see dat ole flag onct mo'. Done yo'
ebber make me an' yo' ole mammy ashamed ob
youse, Solemon. You is a good boy, an' I specks
you kin do a heap of good ef you try."

The old slave patted his boy proudly and the old
mammy kissed her son. The two white men
watched this farewell. What white man with the
spirit of chivalry bred into him for ages could
have spoken nobler words than those which came to
the lij^s of this worn old slave? AVhat mother,
proud of her honored name, could have blessed her

THE NEGRO CABIN 75

boy as did this wrinkled, old, black woman? There
is a proud feeling that cheers the heart when we
send our loved ones out to fight for a cause that
may send them back laden with honor and glory.
How about this old slave who sent her boy to fight
for a cause that bestowed no honor, no glory, upon
such as her son ?

Uncle Nathan noticed the old slave's shaking
hand. He whispered hurriedly to John.

" Jest gimme that flag, will ye? "

John handed him the rude emblem, and Uncle
Nathan thrust it into the old slave's hand.

••'Thet's fer you, old man. Thet goes to the man
that shows the best grit, an' I'll be darned if that
man ain't you, if ye be a nigger."

The negro clutched at the flag quickly.

" Tanky, boss," he said. " I alius keep dat. I
tink a heap o' dat."

The three men* passed out into the morning.
They crept through the corn, over the meadow, and
into the forest. The day was spent at a negro's
cabin, and at night they pressed on again. Slowly,
under the guidance of Sol, they threaded their way
through the country. Slowly they pushed on to the
north, till one day, around a bend in the road, they
caught a glimpse of a Union flag waving over a mass
of blue uniforms. They were saved.

Sherman needed men, and so they shouldered mus-
kets again and went marching in triumph on to the
sea. Uncle Nathan wrote home, but John could not
send Archie's letter ; he felt that he must carry that
to Nellie himself.

CHAPTER IX.

JACK Foster's welcome

Jack Foster stood on the steps of the Sharpsburg
court-house, and looked down the street. The steps
were broken and fallen in decay. The house was
covered with dull staius. It had looked down upon
many strange scenes since it smiled exultingly on
Jack's company marching away to battle. A melan-
choly sight it was that Jack looked upon. The
long, silent street, the closed houses and stores, and
the grass gnawing its way up over the very side-
walks, all told their sad story of suffering and
despair. Jack could not help thinking of the pict-
ures that had passed before these sad old houses
since he left them. The pictures seemed to pass
before him like a dream as he stood on the broken
steps, with the sun in his eyes. The past crowded
before him in sullen review.

A crowd of men gather ^about the court-house
steps. Eagerly, with frantic gestures, they discuss.
They shout and wave their arms, and fiercely shake
their fists. They pass inside at last, and take their
places on the rude benches. Old and young are
there. Fierce, scowling faces, with eyes that glitter

with hate. A gray-haired man calls the company to
order. In passionate terms he alludes to the object
of the meeting. Shall proud old Mississippi go out of
tlie Union ? Shall she cringe before the cowards of
the North, or shall she stand up in proud defiance
to protect her honor? He pauses, and a mighty
shout goes up from the crowd. The scowling faces
light with a sudden joy.

" Down with the Yankees ! '*

Jack himself seems to join in the shout. How
confident they are ! Defeat is impossible. How can
the Yankee shop-keepers even stand up before gen-
tlemen? But hark! A hush falls over the com-
pany. An old man, with a long, white beard, rises
from his place and speaks deliberately against the
proposition. They know him well. It is the old
preacher whose words have guided them so long.
He points his long, thin finger at the crowd, as he
slowly says, " You are sure to be beaten in the end.
You will see your homes desolate, your families in
want, your country in ruins, and the ground covered
with your dead, and yet not one point for which you
contended gained. Be warned in time, and wait
before you cry : —

" ' Havoc, and let slip the dogs of war.' "

But a shout of scorn goes up from the crowd.
The men are frenzied with passion. A rush is made
at the old preacher. Crash — a club falls on the
white head. A long, crimson streak darts out on
the pale forehead, and he totters and falls. The
State goes out of the Union — enters upon its weary
and bloody pilgrimage.

78 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

A company of soldiers come marching down the
long street. The sun glitters on the muskets. The
uniforms are bright and new. Every man is full of
enthusiasm. Every man carries a magnolia at the
end of his musket. The new banner that the ladies
have blessed waves proudly over them. The crowds
cheer wildly. The ladies are waving handkerchiefs
or casting flowers before the heroes. Sweethearts
are smiling through their tears, mothers are blessing
their bo3^s. It is all life and enthusiasm. Victory
seems assured. But behind the silent crowd of
negroes that gather at one corner there seems to
rise the warning figure of the old white-haired
preacher. He shakes his head, and waves his hand
sadly as the bright column moves on. The red mark
on his forehead glows with a hateful color.

The streets are dull and deserted. The stores are
all closed. The houses look grimly down through
closed blinds. The grass grows over the streets.
The trees droop dismally down to whisper their
sorrow. Decay has laid its dreadful hand upon
everj'thing. A group of negroes and old men come
straggling down the road. Ragged and dusty and
feeble they march with implements of labor.

Grant is coming I

Out on the hills beyond the town, breastworks
slowly rise. The workers are feeble and unorgan-
ized, A pause — and then a great wave of blue,
with a crest that glitters in the sunlight, comes
sweeping over the breastworks.

Grant has come !

JACK FOSTER'S WELCOME 79

Tlie blue column forms on tlie hillside and comes
slowly marching through the long street. Onward
the soldiers come under the magnolias, white with
fragrance. The trees will not bend lovingly over
the invaders. The branches tremble with wrath.
The flowers hang their heads in shame. They had
grown in the hope of offering up their beautiful lives
in garlands for their own brave soldiers. They
would gladly withhold their perfume from these
stern victors. The sun gilds the bayonets. The
ranks rise and fall like the billows of a mighty ocean.
The flag on high is faded and tattered. The stars
gleam like proud eyes from their field of blue.
Dusty and bearded and brown are the soldiers.
There is no one to welcome them save a crowd of
negroes who wait awkwardly at the corner. The
silent houses frown down upon the army. The
women and old men are inside, hid from sight,
brooding over their country's dishonor. The officer
at the head of the column touches his hat to the old
flag that a negro waves. The soldiers halt in the
square. They braak ranks and scatter through
the town. Over the picture rises again the figure of
the old preacher. He bows his head in his hands. His
prophecy is being fulfilled.

Jack could see all this as he stood on the broken
steps. One by one the pictures passed before him.
How true the preacher's words seemed to him now.
The country was in ruins, he had seen the ground
covered thickly with the dead, yet not one point
had been gained.

80 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

His had been a sad journey from Georgia. Dis-
honored and stripped of all right to defend Lis coun-
try, he had come home. Home, the only place
where comfort seemed possible. Home, where the
strong and the weak, the humble and the proud,
all must turn at last for comfort when all else fail.

He knew not how he would be received. . It
seemed to him at times that he had only to tell his
story to convince Lucy that he had refused to shoot
the Yankee simply because he loved her. At times
he felt that she must see it as he did. But then he
thought of her unreasoning scorn for all cowards, of
liis proud old mother, and his heart failed within
him. He had not written since his disgrace. He
still carried the letter he had written when death
seemed to have almost touched him. He had deter-
mined to bear the news himself, and, as he slowly
made his way across Alabama, he had proudly re-
solved to take the consequences like a man. He
could not convince himself, after all, that he had
done wrong. And here he stood at last, at home,
waiting only for courage to tell his story to the ones
he loved.

The street was almost empty. A few ragged
negroes lay in the sun in front of the two stores that
were alone left to do what little business the town
required. Two old men stood leaning up against the
door of the market. The sign that used to swing so
bravely in the air had fallen to the ground, and no
one seemed ambitious enough to put it back. The
blinds were hanging loosely from their hinges. The
building seemed to have grown prematurely old in

JACK Foster's welcome 81

watching the troubled scenes. The grass grew up
almost to the sidewalk, pushing with its restless
fingers the sign of trade and traffic away. A blighting
curse seemed to have fallen upon all nature.

After some hesitation, Jack remounted his mule
and rode slowly down the street. The old men in
front of the market looked at him curiously, but he
pulled his hat down over his eyes and escaped detec-
tion. The years had changed him and the old men
had passed through so much trouble and seen so
many strange and terrible faces, that they had almost
forgotten how their friends appeared. They took
this strange man to be in some way connected with
the Yankees. Who else could be riding through
their desolate town ? No doubt they expected an-
other raid, for they made haste to close the stores
and take themselves out of sight. They could show
just how the battles should have been fought, but
when the foe came to close quarters they had no ad-
vice to offer.

Jack rode slowly past the deserted market. How
well he knew the way. He reached Lucy's house at
last, and, fastening his mule at the gate, walked hesi-
tatingly up the walk. He had thought at first to find
his mother before he saw Lucy, but somehow he
could not ride past the place. Everything had fallen
in ruins. The high weeds grew up to the walk, and
narrowed it to a modest footpath. They had de-
stroyed every curve, and strangled the feeble life out
of the flower garden. Like true pirates of Nature
they reached their hands exultingly over the narrow
path, and threatened to push it out of sight. The

82 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

railing of the piazza had fallen away, and one of the
steps had broken down.

The magnolias rustled Jack a welcome as he came
np to the broken step. He could not enjoy their
fragrance. He was thinking of the scene that lay
before him. What could he say — he the dishonored
soldier — to this woman that he loved so well,
and who had suffered so much for the cause? As
Jack placed his foot on the steps, an old negro
started up from the grass, where he had been sleep-
ing. He rubbed his eyes open and stared at Jack
for a moment in wonder. Then he ran stiffly to the
back of the house, shouting, — " Massa Jack's come.
Miss Lucy — Massa Jack ! "

Jack stepped to the door, feeling like a very guilty
man. Two white faces peered in at him from the
end of the hall. Jack recognized his mother and
Lucy. An instant more and the two women came
rushing down the hall to meet him. Lucy reached
him first, and, with a glad cry, threw her arms about
his neck and put her head on his breast. Jack could
not help drawing her to him and kissing lier. As he
looked down into her eyes, he almost wished he had
shot the Yankee.

The women led Jack into the parlor. How pale
and thin they seemed. Their dresses were old and
threadbare, and their hands roughened by the hardest
work. They did not care for the ugly past now that
the son and lover had come back to them alive and
honored. Jack was surprised to see his mother in
the town. He did not fully realize what a terrible
desolation had fallen upon the country.

JACK Foster's welcome 83

The negroes had done their best to butcher a liv-
ing out of the land, but, left to themselves, they had
grown idle and shiftless. The Union raids had run
over the country so thoroughly, filling the negroes
with an exalted idea of freedom, that Mrs. Foster had
lost control of her former slaves, and when she came
into town to find Lucy and her mother living alone»
she had been easily prevailed upon to live with them.
So the three women had lived there alone, saying
nothing to Jack, and leaving the rich plantation to
grow up to weeds and wilderness.

The women drew Jack to a sofa, and sat down on
either side of him. Poor fellow , he hung his head
like a guilt}^ man, and avoided the e3^es turned upon
him so lovingly. He had imagined this scene many
times, but, now that it had come, it seemed harder
than he had dared to think. He knew that his story
must be told, yet how could he tell it? The women
noticed his dejection, and Lucy laid her band on his
arm as she asked quickly, — " Have they surrendered,
Jack?"

The man raised his head proudly, —

'' We never surrender. We will fight to the last
man " — and then, suddenly remembering that he
could fight no more for his country, he dropped his
head sadly.

Lucy's eyes flashed proudly as he spoke. She was
proud of her lover. Better this than victory pur-
chased by dishonor. Jack's mother looked at him
curiously. With a mother's instinct she knew that
something was wrong. Her heart trembled, but she
spoke slowly and coldly as she drew slightly away
from him.

84 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

" Why do you leave the army without notice ?
Where is your uniform, my son ? Are you ashamed
or afraid to wear it? We women have boasted to the
Yankees that if you had been here they never would
have dared to insult us ? Why do you not speak ? '*

His mother's words cut Jack to the heart. The
utter helplessness of his position flashed through his
mind. What could these proud women think of him
— the dishonored soldier? Could he tell them that
all their suffering, all their devotion had been for
nothing? He covered his face with his hands and
groaned aloud — he who had marched into the rifle
pits at Gettysburg without flinching. Lucy put her
arms about his neck to comfort him, but his mother
rose proudly from her seat.

" Are you a coward ? " she asked sternly. " Dare
you not tell us why you are afraid to wear the uni-
form of your country ? Come away from him, Lucy,
and let him answer if he can."

The girl rose reluctantly and took her place at
Mrs. Foster's side. She looked pityingly at Jack,
and once she started to go back to him. The elder
woman put her arm about Lucy's waist, as if to steady
herself. Mrs. Foster looked sternly at her son,
though her woman's heart was bleeding for him.
Her gray hair had grown white with the terrible
suffering of war. Her old dress hung loosely about
her thin form, yet she stood erect and stately as of
old. Lucy's under lip quivered, and she drew closer
to Mrs. Foster.

"Speak, sir! " commanded the stern woman, with
a slight gesture toward her son. Jack felt at her

JACK Foster's welcome 85

words a cruel, obstinate feeling rise in his heart.
Had he been left to tell the story in his own way he
mi^ht have softened the blow ; but his mother's stern
words goaded him to desperation. Was he a coward ?
He stood up straight and soldier-like as he answered
bluntly : —

" I have no uniform to wear. It is all over with
me, I reckon. I refused to shoot a Yankee prisoner,
and I have been dishonorably discharged from the
service."

It was a plain statement of fact, but if Jack could
only have seen Lucy's quivering lip, he would not
have answered so bluntly. When he answered he
was looking straight into his mother's eyes, with all
the pride she had given him. Had he struck the
women a blow with his hand he could not have hurt
them more cruelly. Mrs. Foster staggered to a chair,
with all the proud scorn driven from her face. She
lowered her head in her hands — this proud, stately
woman. Her boy had brought dishonor upon them.
Lucy's mouth stopped its trembling. She drew back
from Jack with a shudder. For a moment she looked
at him with flashing eyes — speechless with anger.
Then with one wild burst her scorn found words.

*' You a traitor ? You refuse to shoot a Yankee ?
You bring back nothing but dishonor to us? Oh, if
I could only be a man to shame you ! They stood
here, in this very room, and insulted your own
mother. These wolves, that fight only women and
children, cursed my sick mother when she defied
them. And you did not dare to kill them — you
who swore to be true to me. You are a coward ! "

86 AKDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

She stopped for a moment, fairly . choked with
passion. She could not see liow anything couki pos-
sibly justify a Southern man in si)aring a Yankee's
life. She only knew that the Northern soldiers had
brought all the horrors and desolation upon the
land. Before they came her life had been one long
round of happiness. They were like wild beasts to
her, and to tliink that the man to whom she had
given her heart had refused to fight them nearly
drove her frantic. She would listen to no reason
now.

Jack turned to her with tears in his eyes. His
mother's sternness had not touched him thus. If he
could only let her know why he did not shoot the
prisoner. If she could only understand that it was
for love of her that he had lowered his musket. He
held out his arms appealingly to her.

" My dear little girl," he began, but she waved
him back and pointed to the door.

"Go, you coward," she sternly said, "never dare
speak to me again. I will never look at you or
speak to you again, so help me my God ! "

She held her clenched fist above her as she spoke.
Her other hand was pressed against her breast. She
gasped and turned as pale as death, for she knew
how well she loved this man. Jack knew she meant
every word she had spoken. He offered no word of
explanation. He turned proudly to the door, with a
great pain at his heart. He could not even look at
Lucy. His mother rose from her chair and tottered
toward him. The mother's love is stronger than
any.

JACK Foster's welcome 87

" I will go with you," she said feebly ; " you have
dishonored your countr}^ but you are still my son.
Let me go home, my boy. Take me home, that I
may die where no one can see my shame. I do not
care to live now."

She threw her bonnet on her head and, leaning on
her son's shoulder, tottered out into the sunshine.
Lucy watched them with flashing eyes. They passed
slowly down the path and out at the gate. She
knew w^ell that they would never come back, except
at a word from her, and that she would not give.
She watched them as they reached the gate and saw
Jack's face as he glanced back. The anger faded
from her eyes, and she threw herself upon the sofa
in an agony of weeping. Her idol had been broken.
Her knight had proved faithless.

CHAPTER X.

BROTHER HILL, THE PREACHER

As Jack and Mrs. Foster walked slowly down the
street, they saw, ahead of them, an old man standing
under the trees. His long white hair fell down al-
most to his shoulders, and his great beard swept his
breast like a brush of snow. His clothes were old,
yet carefully patched and brushed. He wore a wide
straw hat. His head was bent forward, and his thin
hands were clasped behind him. They could not see
his face, yet Jack recognized him at once. Jack had
seen him in that dim picture that rose before him at
the court-house. Angry and humiliated as Jack
was, he would gladly have turned back. He did not
care to meet the old preacher when the evidences of
the truth of his prophecy were so abundant. Those
calm w^ords seemed too true to him now. His
mother pressed forward, however, and Jack reluc-
tantly walked toward the old man. Their stej)S
aroused the preacher from the reverie into which he
had fallen. He glanced up, and then advanced witli
a smile of surprise to take their hands. No wonder
Mrs. Foster had hasteiied to him for comfort. No
wonder Jack hung his head in shame when that
calm face turned toward them.

It was a beautiful face — calm and gentle and
88

BROTHER HILL, THE PREACHER 89

dignified, set in a frame of hair of the most won-
drous whiteness. The eyes were clear and calm,
yet full of a soft, dreamy expression, as if they were
looking far away from the present. The mouth was
gentle, and yet there were lines at the corners that
indicated a mighty will and a strong determination
when some great occasion should demand it. There
was one ghastly mark on the forehead, where a wide
scar lost itself in the snow-white hair. It seemed
as if some brutal finger had traced its protest against
the gentle whiteness of the forehead. The pure skin
showed whiter than ever above the scar.

Jack hung his head as the old preacher placed a
thin hand kindly on his arm. Mrs. Foster grasped
the thin hand as if it offered her some great comfort.
It is not always the great, powerful clasp that brings
us the greatest help.

" I must see you. Brother Hill. I must speak
with you at once," she gasped. " We are going
home, but I must see you first. We have changed,
I know, but I must talk now, and you, my old friend,
will tell me what I shall do."

She spoke wildly and leaned heavily on the arm
of her son. It seemed strange that she should come
at last to this gentle old man for help. For years
he had spoken bravely against slavery, against seces-
sion, against everything that had led to the war.
She had scorned him, yet now, heart-broken and
helpless, she came to him for comfort. Perhaps
some instinct told her how his brave, self-sacrificing
life had given him the strength she needed.

The preacher spoke gently as he shook her hand :

90 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

" Come with me and you shall tell me your trouble —
perhaps we can make it lighter."

He took his ph\ce at her side, and the three
walked on together. He guessed at something of
the trouble as they went slowly on. Jack's dogged,
sullen manner, and the woman's wildness and feeble-
ness, told him something of what had happened.
He smiled sadly as he thought how this young man
had laughed defiantly and tossed his musket in glee
as he marched away a few years before.

Tlie preacher at last opened a gate in front of a
little cottage that stood back from the street, in a
mass of vines and flowers. They followed him si-
lently up the path and into the house. Jack helped
his mother up the steps and into the study. She
dropped into a chair and covered her face with her
hands. Her pride, that had kept her tears back so
long, was broken at last. The preacher with a ges-
ture drew Jack from the room. They closed the
door and went out to the front of the house.

"I do not know what has happened, John," the
preacher said, kindl3^ " Perhaps I h^ve no right to
ask you what you have done, but you had better
leave your mother liere with me. I am an old friend,
and it may be that I can say sometliing that will
bring her some comfort."

Jack held out his hand and grasped the thin
fingers. His ej'es were full, and he felt that great
lump rising in his throat. Could not this gentle old
man understand him when he told his story ? Could
not he see why it was better to be called a traitor
than to shoot the Yankee prisoner ? Jack felt so

BROTHER HILL, THE PREACHER 91

at first, but the cruel scar on the white forehead
seemed to stand out more plainly into view, and he
drove his purpose down.

"I will go, I reckon," he said simply. "I have
disgraced them — they think — and I will take my
mother home. I reckon I will ride out to the plan-
tation and make it ready for her. I'll be back in a
few hours."

The preacher shook hands again and walked back
to the study, where the grief-stricken woman was
awaiting him. Jack walked out into the street.
His mule was still tied in front of Lucy's house. A
negro boy brought the animal for him, and, mounting
once more, Jack rode slowly away over the road he
knew so well. He was anxious to get away — he
cared not where — that he might tliink. Sad indeed
were the poor fellow's thoughts as he rode toward
his old home. Gloomily he stood at last in front of
the old house and looked over the butchered planta-
tion. He felt the letters he had read so often, un-
der his coat. The two sentences came into his
mind: "If you will only be true, I will love you
forever." — "If you ever show them any mercy, I
will never speak to you again." He knew that he
had been true as life itself and yet he had shown
mercy.

A short time after Jack rode out of town, an old
man came riding through the street as rapidly as his
sorry mule could carry him. He leaned far over the
mule's head, as if to try and add to the animal's
speed. His gray hair flew out behind him. His hat
had been lost on the wav, but his mission was evi-

92 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

dently of too much importance to permit him to stop
for such trifling misliaps. He halted in front of the
post-office, where a small crowd had gathered to en-
joy the sunshine,

''The Yankees are coming!" he shouted.
'' Another raid ! Notify the town ! "

By a vigorous application of his stick he pushed
new life into his mule and rode on again to privately
warn his own personal friends. The crowd in front
of the post-office scattered like a flock of sheep at
this danger call. They were mostly old men, who
fought the home battles, and told how the real cam-
paign should have been conducted. The few stores
were hurriedly closed and the men hastened home
to hide the few trinkets or the little money that for-
mer raids had left. Tlien one and all of the home
guards " took to the woods," leaving the ladies to
meet the Yankees with their more dangerous weapons
of scorn and womanly abuse. There was little to
choose between Grierson and Forest in the conduct
of these raids. One took what the other left. Like
Jack Spratt and his wife, they " licked the platter
clean," without being hampered, as were the afore-
said distinguished couple, by any decided preference
for meat of a particular quality.

When Grierson's cavalry rode into the town, an
hour in the rear of the old messenger, the}' found a
deserted village, with only one man — the postmas-
ter — in sight. This government official was chained
to his post by a disabled leg, which alone prevented
him from taking a position in the front rank of the
home guard. There was nothing of value in the

BROTHER HILL, THE PREACHER 93

mail bag. Just a great heap of letters from the sol-
diers. The blue-coats let them go, laughing now and
then at some boasting sentence. The Yankees could
not stay long. They must press on to the next town.
Leaving a small guard on the main street, they
scattered through the village in pursuit of plunder.
The negroes hastened to meet them. Old slaves
tottered out to shake hands with Massa Linkum's
soldiers. Boys followed them about with open-
mouthed wonder. Old women grinned and muttered
in pleasure.

The soldiers were rough, good-natured fellows
from Michigan. There was very little play or " fool-
ing " about them. Three years of fighting had
drilled some positive ideas into them and made them
rough and sturdy. Tliey had little respect for their
foes, and the women who taunted them were sure
to get a rough answer. No man was harmed who
kept quiet, and most of the men were too far away
for a sound to reach the town. Horses and valuable
articles that could be easily transported were taken
without ceremony.

A short time after the column halted, a heavy rap
was heard at the door of the old preacher's study.
There was no response to this rough notice, and the
huge cavalryman who had entered the place pressed
the latch and pushed the door open.

He stepped over the threshold, but something on
the inside made him stop.

Mrs. Foster still sat in the chair into which she
had fallen, with her face still covered w4th her
hands. Her white hair had fallen about her neck.

94 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

The preacher was kneeling with his face toward the
door, and his hand upon an open Bible that lay on
the table. The red scar on his forehead seemed to
fade away as he prayed. The soldier stood for a
moment in silence. Then, with his cap in his hand,
lie stepped as softly as possible out at the door, and
walked down the path, his sabre clanking as he went.

" It's all right, boys," he said as his comrades
laughed at him. " It's all right. I s'pose like
enough he was prayin' the whole Union straiglit
into a hole, but that old woman looked just like my
mother, an' I quit." The boys did not laugh at his
explanation. They thought of their mothers at
home, praying for them. It was something the
roughest could understand. A few moments after
the first soldier disappeared, another marched in at
the gate. A young, boyish figure it was, with a
clear skin and bright curls. It was his first cam-
paign evidently. He marched pompously up to the
door, drew his pistol, and walked in. The old
preacher rose from his seat to meet the young sol-
dier. He could hardly suppress a smile at the
youth's importance.
' " What do you wish ? " he asked pleasantly.

" I demand the surrender of this house in the
name of the United States Government, and I order
you to bring forth any soldiers that may be con-
cealed here," answered the young hero with a theat-
rical gesture.

The preacher answered with a smile, " We surren-
der most certainly to a superior force. March in
and take possession at once."

BROTHER HILL, THE PREACHER 95

The young man marched over the threshold, and
began a sentence beginning, " Duty," when a little
picture on the mantel caught his eye, and sadly broke
into his eloquent speecli. It was only a small tin-
type of a fair-haired girl. There was a hole cut in
the top, as if some soldier had carried it about his
neck. The boy — for he was nothing more — caught
the picture hurriedly and closely examined it.

"Where did you get that?" he asked hastily;
" that is my sister's picture."

" One of your soldiers left it here," said the old
preacher calmly. " He was wounded just outside
the town, and we brought him here, and cared for
him till he died. We found this picture tied about
his neck. Mary, I think he said her name was,
tliough he could not talk intelligently."

The soldier's lip trembled as the preacher spoke.
Tiie martial air was dropped at once. The victor
was ready to surrender.

"He was engaged to her, sir," he said. "He was
like a brother to me, and we never knew where he
died. Forgive me," he said, impulsivel}^ "for com-
ing in here as I did. I did not mean to insult you."

He grasped the preacher's hand as he spoke, and
tliere were tears in the blue eyes. The bugle
sounded far down the street, and he hurried away
with the little picture as his only booty. One girl
in the North will think kindly of the Southern man
who cared for her lover.

It was late in the afternoon when Jack came back
to the town. He had made a longer trip than he in-
tended. With the help of an old negro he had put

96 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

his mother's loom into something like order, and set
the hands to work at cleaning away something of the
rub])i.s]i that had accumulated all over the place. lie
knew that liis mother would prefer to be at home,
where she could brood over her troubles. He came
back to take her away from tlie town ; but she was
not to go after all. Tlie preaclier met Jack at the
door with a very grave face.

" Your mother is very sick, John," he said. " You
had better go in and talk with her, and if there is
anything that you can say to set her mind at rest, you
had better say it. You know what I mean, my boy ;
there must be something about this matter that will
make it easier for her to bear. I know you too well
to think that you have no defence to make."

Jack made no answer. He walked into the dark-
ened room where his mother lay. An old negro
woman sat at the head of the bed, fanning her old
mistress. Jack sent her away. He took the fan in
his own hand and drew a chair up to the head of the
bed. Mrs. Foster had changed much since the morn-
ing. Her face seemed haggard and pale in the dark-
ened room. She smiled feebly and held out her
hand to her boy. All her pride had been burned
away ; she was only a weak mother now.

Jack, touched at the sight of her poor, thin face,
kissed her and put liis head on the jtillow beside
hers, as he used to do years and years before. She
placed lier hand on liis forehead, and there, like a
boy who comes to his mother to confess his sins, he
whispered to her all the story. She did not ask him
to tell it, but it seemed to him, for the moment, that

BKOTliKU HILL, THE PUEACHER 97

ho was a little boy ajj^ain and that her smile ooiiUl
biin^]^ him comfort as of old. She listened in silence,
brushini^ back his hair as he talked. She understood
him now. A mother can always understand her boy
when his wife or sweetheart could never read him.
Thipy remained there for a long time after he told his
story, she still brushing his hair back from his fore-
head. Somehow he seemed dearer to her than he
liad ever been before. Somehow he seemed to for-
get his trouble and shame.

**You will lu'omise me one thing,*' she said at last.
— "You will stav here and live this down, won't

you?"

*' I will," said Jack, between his teeth. He knew
what the promise meant, yet he could not refuse.
She reached forward and drew his head up to her
bos(Uu. She kissed hin\ very tenderly and then
turned away on the pillow. Jack heard her sob, and
she covered her face with her hands till the sobs
died away. Jack knew that she was praying for him.
At last she turned to him again and laid her hand
on his head as she had di>ne before. The light faded
slowly out of the room and all the sounds of the
twilight came on. The hum of insects, the rustle
of the trees and vines, and the dim whisperings from
the creeping shadows. The mother and son lay
there without a word. The hand on Jack's liead
grew cohl and clammy. He started up and thiew
back the heavy curtains. His mother was dead —
dead with the first smile o\\ her lips that had
toucheil her face for many a day. Heath had
brought her the comfort life had denied. He could

98 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

not weep and wish lier back to life again, he knew
that slie was happier in death. He almost wished
he was with her.

The townspeople came to the funeral, and many of
them wept at the old preacher's sermon. Many an
eye that the horrors of war had long starved of
moisture was filled with tears. Tlie congregation
was made up mostly of women and old men. They
recoiled in horror from Jack. It seemed to them
that he had killed his mother. They magnified his
fault a thousand times. He proudly kept the truth
locked in his heart, where none could read it. Lucy
Avould not listen to him, and he cared nothing for the
others. No one spoke to him. He sat alone through
the services. He walked slowly behind, as they car-
ried his mother away. When he came to the side
of the grave the people stepped back and left him
alone. Lucy wept over the coffin, but she turned
her back on Jack when he came near her. The old
preacher tried to say a kind word, when the mourn-
ers came back from the grave, but Jack would not
listen. He went back to the plantation, and never
came into town. He worked on in a feeble, half-
hearted wa}^ shunned by his old friends, caring little
what was done with him.

A few Union people of the place and the negroes
soon got the idea that Jack was their friend. No
one knew just what his crime had been. It was gen-
erally understood that he had, in some way, helped
tlie Yankees. The negroes came from miles around
to ask the news, and many of tliem expected Jack
to arm and lead them out to attack a detachment of

BROTHER HILL, THE PREACHER 99

rebel soldiers that once wandered that way. Jack's
heart grew very bitter that night, when he looked
out upon the motley band of black men gathered
before his house. There they stood in the moon-
light, drawn up in savage strength. They urged
him to lead them out to attack the men with whom
he had fought. They tossed their rude weapons in
the air, and told with savage glee of the brutal re-
venge they would take.

He lived aimlessly on till the dull years slowly
dragged through to the end of the war. Then, a
new bitterness was in store for him. The soldiers
came back, and he saw yet more plainly what an
awful gulf stretched between him and his people.
He saw how it never could be bridged on this side
of the grave. The cause of the Confederacy was to
be held sacred by those who had suffered for it. It
could not be otherwise. The busy, exulting North,
in its great generous burst of triumph, could over-
look, forgive one who helped the enemy. Not so
with such as Jack Foster. His record will follow
him to the grave. The soldiers came scattering
along, sometimes one at a time, and sometimes in
little groups. They came slowly and reluctantly.
They had been beaten, when they had sworn to
bring victory or die. The long years of agony and
sorrow had gone for nothing. There was nothing
to sweeten the memory of the dead, onl}' the dull
sting of defeat that would not lie in the graves of
their loved ones.

Sad, indeed, it was to see these brave fellows, who
had given all for what they thought to be their duty,

100 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

come back in this way to their old homes. The
towns were guarded by Union soldiers, the slaves
were all free — impudent and grinning at their old
masters. The country was in ruins. The beautiful
homes they had left were fallen. Thousands of the
friends with whom they had marched away weje
now sleeping on battle-fields from which they could
bring no glory. The very color of their uniforms
was a national disgrace. The flag they had wor-
shipped was in the dust. They could bring no glori-
ous words with which to bind up the bleeding hearts
that waited for them. Women were waiting for their
husbands, their sons, or their brothers. Old men
were watching with sad eyes for the boys who were
far away under the sod. What comfort could such
sad hearts take from the bitter story of defeat ? It
is the saddest page of all history — sad, that such
bravery, such devotion, should be wasted.

It was hardest for Jack, to see the way in which
the ladies received these defeated soldiers. The peo-
ple of the town never turned out to meet the sol-
diers. They came in sullen silence, and took up the
bitter round of life as best they could. There were
no reproaches. The women all knew that these men
had done their best. There were flowers, and gar-
lands, and tender words of encouragement, for the
brave — brave and honorable, even in defeat.

For a time, the people waited in sullen despair.
Labor was completely disorganized, and the country
lay one great heap of ruins. There was but little in-
centive to work. The wounds were too sore, the
hearts too bitter. The South sat brooding over her

BROTHER HILL, THE PREACHER 101

defeat. Jack tried at first, honestly, to win back
the esteem of his old comrades, but it was a useless
task. The people shunned him — he was a traitor
in their eves, and they could not forgive him. He
lived a life horrible in its loneliness. His very asso-
ciates seemed to drive him fartlier and farther from
society. The negroes and white Republicans saw
that his own people drove him aside, and they tried
to bring him into their party. They promised him
any office, and they were in a condition to carry out
their promises. He never would go with them, yet
they were the only companions he could find. His
old companions, and the people with whom he had
been raised, thought he had joined the despised
party, and he fell lower than ever in their estima-
tion.

At last, the people rose against the negro rule.
For years they had fought against it, but now they
rose with savage purpose to push it by one supreme
effort out of sight forever. Stern, determined, des-
perate men, who felt that they were fighting for all
that was sacred and true, rose against their former
slaves, ignorant and incapable. Such a contest could
have but one result — the weak went to the wall.

When the negro and "carpet-bagger" government
fell like a rope of sand, the white people changed in
sentiment and action. Many of the men who had
joined the Ku Klux or the " Red Shirts " simply be-
cause they had been driven to desperation by what
they considered a national crime went quietly about
their business, and were the strongest supporters of
law and order. A better feeling began to prevail.

102 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

Improvements were contemplated, for people felt
that their homes and their property were safer.
They considered Republicanism and negro govern-
ment as surely dead. They knew little difference
between the two, for they had always come to them
together. After the horrors through which they
had passed, they thought they were justified in tak-
ing extreme measures to prevent any return of the
old days. As the times grew better, Jack began to
gain a little of the confidence of his old comrades.
They never quite forgave him, but the memory of
his crime — for so they still called it — faded a little.
But Lucy never would even look at her old lover.
She always passed him without a sign, and his life
was full of misery.

But for his promise to his mother, he would have
gone away, but that promise held him to the scene
of his sorrow. He worked aimlessly on, with a great
hunger at his heart, thinking oftentimes of the pris-
oners for whom he had given so much.

CHAPTER XL
breezetown's welcome

There were stirring times in old Breezetown.
It was a bright afternoon in May, and all Nature
seemed to have put on a new dress in order to help
out the celebration. The soldiers were coming home
from the war. The long, cruel fight was over at
last, and the old " town boys " were coming back
under the brave old elms — coming back heroes —
with the tokens of a wonderful victory. The news
had come in the morning, and by two o'clock tlie
whole town had gathered on the green to welcome
the boys. The stores were all closed, and every
house in the town had sent its representative. Even
the gray old farmhouses clustered on the hills out-
side of the town had sent in their delegations. The
old village flag, grown ragged in the cause of liberty,
swung over the road in front of Sam Price's hotel.

The women and girls carried great bunches of
flowers. Old Silas Plum and Eben Cobb, thin,
white-haired soldiers of the war of 1812, with drum
and fife, — honored by age and execution, — stood in
front waiting for the signal to strike up with Yankee
Doodle. They watched for the sign of the rising
dust on the road far down under the trees. The
men were gathered about the musicians, while a

103

104 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

crowd of boys with tin horns could hardly be re-
strained from practising their part of the greeting.
To a boy, a celebration of any kind can never be
complete without a hideous noise. As we grow
older we learn the value of the silent, heartfelt
greeting. The crowd stood in eager anticipation.
No one could say that old Breezetown was not will-
ing to do all she could to welcome back her brave
sons.

She had given her best and bravest — given them
willingly. Forty-five men in all had gone from the
old town. Some of them were dead, they knew —
there were sad hearts in that waiting crowd — sad
hearts that looked down the long lines of elms where-
the boys had marched away. How many were dead
— they could not say. The prison doors had swung
open at last, and the living were coming back. This
was all they knew.

Six wagons had been sent down to meet the train.
These, with the stage, would surely be enough to
bring back the boj^s. So they stood waiting for the
soldiers, with a brave greeting for those who came
and a tear for those that death held back. There
was no bitter feeling such as lay in the hearts of
those who waited at the South for their boys to come
home. Victory had been won, the glorious cause
they knew to be right had triumphed, and the glory
so nobly won drew out for a moment the bitter
sting — hid for a moment the awful face of despair.

A great cloud of dust surged up under the trees
far down the road. The watchers on the hills saw
it, and came riding at full speed into town to pre-

bkeezetown's welcome 105

pare the way. The crowd formed in long lines
along the street, where the wagons might pass be-
tween them. The Sunday-school children, dressed
all in white, stood with briglit flowers in their
hands. The wives and mothers and sweetliearts
stood back of them, eager for a look at the well
known faces. The friends of those who could not
come from the grave turned away with a choking
feeling, that they might not see how others were glad.
Such happiness would only make their grief harder
to bear. They looked up at the proudly waving flag,
and the blow seemed lighter. Their loved ones found
victory at least — the country had been saved.

The stage moves into view far down the shaded
road. It does not move as rapidly as they expected.
The old musicians strike up their tune and the men
take off their hats for the cheer. But a hush falls
over the crowd as one by one the wagons roll on
through the dust. The eyes that strain for the first
look at the dear ones can see that the wagons are
empty. Many a cheek pales and many a heart
throbs as the empty seats tell their sad story.
Many an eye is filled with tears that mercifully
hide the sad procession.

The stage halts in the crowd. The door opens
and Uncle Nathan and John Rockwell step out.
They turn and tenderly lift from the seats two fee-
ble men whose great, hollow, death-like eyes fill with
tears as the gentle arms of friends clasp them about.
The boys have come home !

The cheer died away on the lips of the crowd.
Was victory so precious, then, that such countless

106 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

treasure must be paid for it? Did not the war "cost
more than it came to " ? The people fell back stupe-
fied by the cruel blow. One little girl brought her
flowers and laid them in John's hand. Dear little
girl, her father had died in Anderson ville praying to
her mother's face.

The old men passed by in solemn procession to
shake the soldiers' hands. The women turned away
with quivering lips — all but two. Uncle Nathan's
wife threw her arms about her husband's neck and
clung to him. A tear stole down the face of the
stern old man as he kissed her. He thought of the
three brave boys who could never come back to their
mother. A little woman dressed in black, with a
face as white as snow, and her bright curls brushed
back from her forehead, came timidly out from the
crowd and put her two little hands into one of
John's. And as John looked down into Nellie's
eyes something told him that Archie had told her
the story of his crossing the dead line.

The people slowly fell away at last, and John and
Nellie followed Uncle Nathan and Aunt Susan to
the wagon. The people went back to their homes.
The celebration was over ; but what of those whose
friends came not? The Union was saved, the flag
was whole once more, the victory had been won.
But the aching hearts made answer — it cost too
much ; of what use is the Union when its life is the
death of those we love? There could be no answer
— only the flag rippled proudly in tlie air above
them.

Uncle Nathan's horse and wagon came backing

beeezetown's welcome 107

out of one of the sheds at the rear of the meeting-
house as they approached. The exit was slow and
hiborious, for old Whitey, who supplied the motive
power, had seen his best days. Uncle Nathan patted
the old beast affectionately, and was much gratified
to see that the horse appeared to know him. The
wagon seemed like an old friend, and he examined it
with a critical eye. He shook one of the wheels and
whistled softly.

" How long sense ye greased them wheels, Reu-
ben ? " he asked of the boy who had backed old
Whitey out of the shed. This boy had done his
best to do "chores" and take care of the "wimmen
folks." Reuben felt hurt at this question. He
seemed to consider this as an insinuation against
his agricultural carefulness. He felt that he had
done his best as a home defender to keep the fight-
ing members of the family at the front. He did not
propose that the value of the services of the home
guard should be underestimated.

" I greased 'em this mornin', an' I've done jest as
well as I could to keep things up straight. Just
look at that boss, will ye? I'll leave it to Aunt
Susan if I ain't gone over an' above my stent."

"So he has, Nathan," urged Aunt Susan, at this
juncture. " Reuben's ben a good boy, an' he ain't
done no complainin'."

Good old Uncle Nathan hastened to set matters
right again. He had seen this boy's father die like
a brave man, and he thought — it is only a boy,
after all. So he said nothing about a great scratch
on the wagon, and he straightened a trace that had

108 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

been twisted, and buckled a dangling strap, without
a word.

" I know ye done yer best, Reuben, an' I stan'
ready ter give ye full credit for it. Old Whitey
there looks as slick an' clean as can be, an' I hear
good reports of ye from all sides. Ye wanter be a
good boy, now, an' alluz mind what's told ye, 'cause
yer pa, he said to me, jest afore he died, that he set
gret store by ye. But ye mustn't cry now ; that
won't do ye no good, ye know."

The boy, at the mention of his father's name, had
dropped the look of pride that Uncle Nathan's words
had aroused. His mouth twitched with a great sob,
and he laid his head on old Whitey's shoulder.
What was the victory to him ? Old Whitey could
sympathize with him at least. They had had many
a quiet cry out in the barn. The old horse turned
his head and rubbed his nose affectionately against
the boy's shoulder. Aunt Susan, too, soothed the
poor little home soldier.

" Ye mustn't cry now, Reuben — you're gointer be
our boy now, ye know, an' we'll do by ye jest as we
would by one of our own."

Her voice trembled a little as she spoke, and
Uncle Nathan hid behind old Whitey's face. At
last they induced the coat sleeve to leave the over-
flowing eyes, and the boy, with many a sob and
choke, recovered his self-control. Uncle Nathan
was bound to make the recovery as complete as pos-
sible. He pulled a ten-cent scrip from his pocket,
and gave it to Reuben.

" You've ben such a good boy, that I'm gonter

breezetown's welcome 109

make ye a present. You're pretty spry-legged, an' I
guess ye can run home, an' then agin we'll pretty
nigh fill up the wagon. Git ye some candy, if ye
wanter, only remember," he added, cautiously, " be
sorter careful what kind of a bargain ye make,
'cause money don't grow on every bush, an' it has
ter be handled keerfal to make anything out on't."

Reuben ran away to invest his capital, and Uncle
Nathan and John lielped the women into the wagon.
It is safe to say that Reuben went home sweeter at
mouth and lighter at pocket. Candy is to the aver-
age country boy what whiskey is to the drinking
man. Not a country boy but will hoard up his
pennies and leave the wholesome home sweets to
purchase the uncertain mixture of sweets and dis-
ease found at the country store.

" We want you to go home with us, John, an' we
won't take ' no ' fer uo answer," said Uncle Nathan,
as he climbed over the wheel.

John had not the least thought of saying " no "
when Nellie looked at him as she did. Without a
word, he climbed into the wagon and took his place
on the front seat. Uncle Nathan picked up the reins
and clucked to old Whitey, as an intimation that
they were all ready to proceed. The patient horse
had grown old and stiff during the years of war, and
under the doubtful training of the " wimmin folks "
and Reuben he had gained remarkably fast in lazi-
ness. It was only after several sharp applications of
the stick that he could be induced to develop a rate
of speed in any way satisfactory to the soldier. In
thus forcibly starting the current of old Whitey 's

110 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

being, Uncle Natlian did not wish to be unnecessa-
rily cruel. He selected a place on old Whitey's
tough hide where the blows could be heard rather
than felt. The old horse understood matters at once.
They drove through the town, old Whitey keeping
up his stumbling trot of his own accord, as if proud
of his burden, and desirous of showing it off to tlie
best advantage. The crowd had scattered and tlie
green was deserted. The people had gone home to
the gray old farmhouses, to take up the dull life
again, and try to forget that under the joy of victory
there crouched the agony of despair. A few loung-
ers were gathered about the post-ofhce, and the
seats in front of the store were all occupied. Uncle
Nathan pulled in his steed at the post-office, as was
his wont to do. It seemed to him that he had just
returned from a visit.

" Jest bring me my mail, will ye, Deacon Smith ?
I kinder hate to leave the boss alone."

No one took an exception to this very flimsy rea-
son for asking Deacon Smith to bring the mail.
John and the '* wimmin folks " did not feel in the
least insulted. Deacon Smith and the rest of the
spectators knew that it was tlie delight of old
Whitej^'s life to be left alone in such a condition.
The entire company understood the matter, so there
was nothing to be said. Deacon Smith disappeared
in the office and presently returned with a paper in
his hand. He brouo^ht it out to the was^on and
lianded it to Uncle Nathan. He glanced over his
spectacles at the two soldiers, as he nervously
brushed the dust away from the wheel.

bueezetown's welcome 111

" Didn't see nothin' o' my boy, did ye, Nathan ? "
said Deacon Smith. " We ain't heard a word frum
him sense you was took pris'ner. I wnz kinder in
hopes you might have ben there when he died so'st
we could know whether he died in peace or not.
'Twould be a great comfort to us to know how
'twas. His mother ain't ben well sense the news
come. Gittin' sorter childish, 'pears ter me, an' 1
dunno as I wonder at it much."

Uncle Nathan reached down and shook the dea-
con's hand. That warm hand-clasp told more than
his words ever could tell.

" We left him in that prison when we come out,
deacon. He'd ben low then for quite a spell, an' I
don't s'pose he ever gut up at all. We all set great
store by him. He was one of the best boys in the
whole company. He never shirked nothin' an' done
his duty all the time — without a word."

" I'm glad to hear that — I declare I be. His
mother'll be glad to hear it. I'm glad he done his
duty — bat 'pears to me sometimes jest as if I'd 'a'
gin all the world ef I cud only see that boy agin.
'Pears ter me I'd feel better if he was buried here.
It don't seem jest right somehow — I s'pose it is,
though."

He glanced again over the spectacles, and still
brushed the dust from the wheel.

" Ye mustn't feel that way about it," said Uncle
Nathan bravely. *' I know jest how 'tis myself; but
ye wanter remember what's ben done — what's ben
gained by the war."

The deacon's head sank lower as he turned away.

112 ANDERS ON VILLE VIOLETS

" Mebby so — I s'pose ye're right — I wish I could
think so," he said, as he walked back to the side-
walk, and Uncle Nathan started the horse asrain.

Old Whitey jogged on through the quiet street,
and out under the trees towards the country. A
jjigli sand hill that raised the road up into the free
country air, soon gave him a chauce to show his
favorite quality — slow progression — to good advan-
tage. Uncle Nathan kept liis eye open to note all
tiie village improvements that had been planned dur-
ing his absence.

" Seems ter me^ John, this grade to this hill ain't
nigh ser steep as it wuz when we went away " — but
he added critically — " they might hev done a good
deal better job if they hed jest scraped that dirt up
to one side an' put some sand on the brow of the
liill. I don't s'pose, though, they felt much like fixin'
things up when the heft of the pushin' men was
away."

Uncle Nathan had been an honored town officer.
Perhaps this fact had something to do with his criti-
cism of town affairs. They had reached the brow of
the hill by this time, and old AVhitey stopped to take
a good breath before pushing on again. Uncle
Nathan stood up in the wagon to obtain a better
view of the country.

'' Wall, there's the old place," he shouted eagerly
— "looks nat'rel, don't it, John? Git up there — we
wanter git home an' see how it seems ter set foot on
yer own sile. Git up !" — and he gave old Whitey a
blow that started that good-natured piece of horse-
flesh into a trot.

breezetown's welcome 113

" I guess I'll have ter git me a new hoss afore
long," said Uncle Nathan as he seated himself. But
he noticed old Whitey's frantic efforts to obey orders,
and his heart softened. '' I guess I'll keep this one
too — we'll need him to do our runnin' round with."

Old Whitey kept up his pace so well that in a
short time they pulled up before the gate at Uncle
Nathan's place. John opened the gate — it was no
easy task, for one of the hinges had rusted away —
and Uncle Nathan drove up to his own door. He
looked about him with a critic's eye.

" I s'pose like enough Reuben has done his best,
but things looks pooty slack arter all. I'll git me a
couple of scythes sharpened up an' mow them weeds
the fust thing I do."

Uncle Nathan planned other needed reforms as he
and John took the horse out of the waoron and led
him to the barn. The old man went through the
buildings, and looked over the stock. He laid out
the work for the summer as he walked about the
place, with his uniform laid away, and an old farm
hat on his head. They went into the house at last,
and the old soldier's cup of happiness seemed as full
as possible as he drew his armchair up to the old
place at the window. He looked out into the
orchard, white with blossoms.

How pleasant it seemed, after the years of fighting,
to sit there at home. His boys never could come
back — he thought of that as he drew his chair up to
the window — but they died like men — the country
had been saved.

The old orchard just bursting into bloom, the

114 ANDEPwSONVILLE VIOLETS

sandy road lagging past the old stone wall, the bare,
hilly pasture rising beyond, with the rocks starting
from it gray and moss-covered, made a beautiful pict-
ure to his eyes. The cows were coming down from
the hills, with Reuben behind them. The red sun
dropped behind the woods, so slowly that the gray
hillsides smiled back in pleasure. A wondrous feel-
ing of rest fell over the grizzled soldier's heart, as he
looked out over the fields he knew so well. He had
never seen anything more beautiful.

Aunt Susan and Nellie bustled about to prepare
the supper. John sat and watched Nellie as she
drew out the table and sliced the bread. She looked
at him every now and then in a way that honest
John could not understand at all. Every time she
looked in that way, John felt a thrill run all over
him, and he felt instinctively for the letter under his
vest. Miss Nellie grew happier and brighter the
more John looked at her. She pulled Uncle
Nathan's hair and glanced at John merrily, as if she
knew how he would go over the dead line again to
have her pull his hair. She ran down cellar after
the butter, singing as she had not done since the
news came that Archie had been taken prisoner.
That news had killed her mother, and she herself
had almost lost hope when the months rolled by and
brought no word. She had been nearer than a
daughter to Aunt Susan all through the terrible days
of suspense, and when at last Uncle Nathan's letter
with John's postscript had told them how death had
been cheated, the two women had wept tears of joy
together.

breezetown's welcome 115

Uncle Nathan and Aunt Susan looked meaningly
at John as Nellie went singing down stairs. Perhaps
they remembered something of their own youth.
Poor John blushed like a girl, and the two old people
smiled kindly at each other. Uncle Nathan forgot
to watch the hills. He sat nodding his head as he
thought — perhaps of the night in the Georgia forest.
The table was ready at last and Aunt Susan brought
a great smoking dish of baked beans from the stove.
The family drew around the table, and Uncle Nathan,
with a voice that trembled a little, spoke a few words
of thanks and praise.

The meal was a pleasant, but not a merry one.
The three boys who used to fill up the places at the
table were gone forever. The new children, Nellie
and John and Reuben, filled up the places, yet there
was something lacking — something that might not
perhaps be so plain in the future. They all realized
what a change the war had made with them. It was
not until John reminded Uncle Nathan of the meal
they had eaten with Sol and his family that the con-
versation became general. The older man told the
story of the escape, urged on by an occasional ques-
tion from the others. Nellie and Aunt Susan shud-
dered as he told how Sol had killed the dog. John
smiled, and Reuben — the " home soldier " — grasped
his knife as if to show that he would like to face the
enemy. Uncle Nathan told the story so well that
almost before they knew it they found themselves
listening so intently that they forgot to eat. All but
Reuben. He felt bound to keep up the reputation
of the family. He pushed a large doughnut into his

116 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

eye. He had kept his eyes upon Uncle Nathan so
carefully that he forgot the way to his mouth.

Aunt Susan quickly called the meeting to order.
" Don't never neglect your vittles for stories," she
urged, and her practical suggestion broke the spell,
and they all fell back to their knife exercise with a
will.

After supper. Uncle Nathan took his place by the
window, in his favorite armchair. John found an old
hat and coat, and went out to help Reuben do the
chores. Nellie and Aunt Susan cleared away the
dishes. It was growing dark rapidly, yet they did
not light a lamp. Uncle Nathan did not care to
read. He sat watching the two women as they
moved about at their work. Aunt Susan was wash-
ing, while Nellie wiped and arranged the dishes. At
last the work was done, and Aunt Susan hurried
away to prepare a bed for John. Nellie brought a
lamp to the table, but she did not light it, for Uncle
Nathan spoke to her in a tone she had never noticed
before.

'' Come here, little gal, an' set by me. I wanter
tell you something before the rest come in."

She brought a cricket and sat down at his side.
He had always been her favorite uncle. She could
hardl}^ remember her own father, and this gruff, yet
kind man had always made her his pet. Whatever
Uncle Nathan said had always been a law from which
there could be no appeal. She had always been his
"little gal," and she had found a place in his heart
that no one else — not even his wife — had ever
found. She came and sat on the cricket, clasping

BREEZETOWN's WELCOIME 117

both hands over his knee, and put her chin upon
them just as she had done so often before. She
looked smilingly at his face. They made a pretty
picture, sitting there in the moonlight. The sweet
little woman leaning so lovingly upon the grizzled
old man, who stroked with his rough hand the hair
back from her forehead.

" I wanter talk to my little gal," he began. *' I
wanter talk about Archie an' John. John can tell
ye a good deal more about Archie than I can.'*

He spoke slowly, and stroked her hair as he
talked. She raised her eyes and looked into his
without a word.

" We all done our best for him, done the best we
could, but John done more than any of us. He was
jest like a brother to Archie, an' I've seen him time
an' agin pick him up an' carry him along. The day
Archie died, John walked right up to the muzzle of
a gun, an' picked him a bunch of flowers. He done
it for you, little gal. He tried to tell me how 'twas,
but I heard Archie talkin' afore John went, an' I
know he done it all for you. Now, little gal, when
John gives you what Archie sent, I want you shud
remember all these things. There ain't no truer
man, nowhere, than John Eockwell is, if he was the
widder Rockwell's boy."

Nellie listened, without a word, to what Uncle Na-
than said. Her eyes glistened in the moonlight, yet,
when she rose at last, she w^as smiling. She came,
and leaned over Uncle Nathan's chair, and pushed
back his stiff hair, and kissed him on the forehead,
on the eyes, on the cheeks, and at last square on the

118 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

mouth. The old soldier laughed, as he caught her
by the ear, and pulled her face down to him. He
kissed her, and then rose from his chair and guessed
he'd go and see where Aunt Susan had gone. He
chuckled and pinched Nellie's cheeks, as he gave this
shameless reason for taking himself away. He dis-
covered the whereabouts of Aunt Susan so well that
nothing was seen of either of them for an hour.

When John and Reuben came in from the barn,
they found Nellie sitting alone in the kitchen. She
sat by the window, looking out into the moonlight.
Her eyes were fix^l upon the sandy road that swept
like a silver ribbon up over the rocky hills. It lay
like the track of an angel's finger before the house.
Reuben was tired. The excitement of the day had
been too much for him. He lay on a lounge in the
corner, and in a few moments was fast asleep.

John brought in the milk, and strained it into the
pans. He washed out the pail, and put it carefully
on the shelf. He pulled off his great boots at last,
and put on a pair of Uncle Nathan's slippers, and got
into the soldier's coat again. Somehow, he felt braver
in his uniform. At a gesture from Nellie, he drew
his chair to the window, and sat in bashful silence
opposite her. Poor John, he dared to face the rebel
sentry, but the words he longed to speak stuck in his
throat. Nellie looked up from the road at last.

*' You have something for me, haven't you, John ? "
she said, almost in a whisper, while her eyes seemed
full of the moonlight.

And John, without a word, placed the rough letter
and the curl in her hand.

breezetown's welcome 119

"Let me light the lamp," he said, with awkward
politeness, but she motioned him to keep his seat.

She leaned up against the window, and slowly
read the note. The moonlight was bright enough,
yet she spent a long time over the little piece of pa-
per. John sat there in the shadoAV, with a feeling in
his heart like that of a man who has thrown his life
into the balance.

How like an angel she seemed to him, as she sat
with the moonlight streaming over her. She was
looking directly at the paper, yet her eyes held a
dreamy expression that told him she Avas not read-
ing. What if she should speak to him as she did
before? His heart grew cold, as he thought of such
words, and he felt how awkward and rough he was
beside her. And yet he felt that whatever she said
must be right, and that he would abide by it.

Nellie folded the paper at last, and put it in her
pocket. She did not take her eyes from the hills
for a long time. She seemed to have forgotten that
John was waiting there, — waiting with a terrible
doubt in his heart for her answer. She was think-
ing as only a woman can think at such times. Her
eyes followed the sandy road, white in the moonlight,
as it climbed higher and higher up the rocky hill, to
lose itself at the top in a wide space of glittering
sand. The rough stone wall, gray with age and ser^
vice, followed the road, and seemed to join it at the
top of the hill. Nellie watched the two as they met.
Who could read her thoughts ? Who can tell what
a woman thinks when the great question of her life
comes up and demands an answer ? She turned from

120 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

the window at last, with a bright face. The answer
had come to her, and she had dropped all her doubt
and fear.

John's heart almost stopped its beating, as she rose
and stepped to his side. A feeling he had never
known before rose in his heart, as she took his great
hand in both of hers, and whispered: "Dear John,
I am so sorry I ever said what I did — I think I shall
know you now — I am sio-e of it."

That was all there was of it. Why should I say
more ? Who that has one spot of freshness left in
his heart cannot tell how John's thirsty soul drank
of the water of life, as she brushed back his hair, and
put her face against his as they sat in the golden
moonlight, telling over and over again the old, old
story, ever old, yet ever new. Why should I say
that the weary years behind them seemed changed
to brightness, and how the future seemed to them
like a stair of gold ? The dreams of 3'outh are still
the same. The moon smiled in upon them, and laid
its kindly hand upon their heads with a loving bene-
diction. Never had it seen greater happiness more
truly won.

When Uncle Nathan and Aunt Susan came back,
the lamp was lighted, and John and Nellie sat with
the table between them ; but the old people looked
at John's face, and saw that the letter had been
answered right.

When Uncle Nathan read the chapter that night,
John listened attentively, and when the prayer was
offered, who should kneel with the rest but the
" widder Rockwell's boy " I

breezetown's welcome 121

It was the first time in his life that John had ever
been known to kneel, and Aunt Susan remarked it.
She told her husband, after John had gone to bed,
that she never knew before that John was a "per-
fessor." She hoped he wouldn't change his mind, for
" them suddin' awakenin's is shaky."

Nellie blushed and smiled at the sage remark. She
knew that John's conversion was a permanent one.

CHAPTER XII.

AFTER THE WAR

The soldiers could not settle down to anything
like regular work for a long time. There were too
many stories to be told. So many reminiscences
were constantly coming to mind that it seemed im-
possible to pick up the dull routine of country life
at once. The whole North was one great blaze of
patriotism. Sober work was well nigh impossible,
while the excitement lasted. It was hardest for Un-
cle Nathan to forget the stirring days of the march
to the sea. He read, with keen interest, all that the
papers had to say concerning the state of affairs at
the South. At some particularly startling news he
would take hoe in hand and vent his feelings upon
the weeds in his garden. The vegetables that year
were noted for their excellence.

The old soldier was never tired of fighting his bat-
tles over and over. It will be noticed that these oft-
repeated battles grow in vigor and importance as
they are fought over. Any statement concerning a
battle in whicli Uncle Nathan had taken part was
enough to wind him up for an hour's talk — and he
was always sure of an audience.

The village people listened, day after day, to tlie
story of the escape from Andersonville, without

122

AFTER THE WAR 123

tiring of it. They would sit with open mouths, as
Uncle Nathan pictured the scene, or gave a practical
illustration of the way in which lie overcame the
Confederate guard. Sol and the fat soldier came to
be well known personages in Breezetown. One class
of citizens, of which Reuben was a very good exam-
})le, could not see why Sol had not done about as
much to preserve the Union as old Abe Lincoln
himself.

" Do yo-u have any idee you killed that fat man,
Uncle Nathan ? " Reuben asked this question, after
listening to the story for the fiftieth time.

"Wal, I never cud tell how 'twas. Ye see his
head must V ben putty hard or he wouldn't 'a' gin
me the chance at him, but then, agin, I hit him a
putty hard crack. I call it about a tie, an' I hope
the chances is in his favor. One thing is sartin — I
don't s'pose that dog never showed no signs of life
agin."

It was much easier for John to settle down and
forget the war times. He found himself quite a
hero among the village people. Uncle Nathan was
never tired of singing the praises of his comrade.
He was glad to put John ahead, as an example of
wliat "Maine men" could accomplish. There may
have been something in the fact, too, that every
brave act of John's introduced one in which he had
figured.

"It tuck grit to do them things, an' there warn't
no grittier soldiers in the army than them that went
from the State o' Maine. I s'pose John, here, done
about the grittiest thing that was done down there."

124 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

John would blush painfully at this glowing eulogy,
prouder by far of the glad look in Nellie's eyes than
of the whole chorus of, " I declare," and, " I vow, it
beats all," and the admiring glances of the audience.
He had told Nellie the whole story of the Anderson-
ville violets, and she had complimented his bravery,
in a way that made John wish he could find a chance
to do the like again. They were speaking about it
one Sunday afternoon, when Nellie suddenly said : —

"I wonder what made that man let you pass over
and get the flowers?"

'' I don't know," said John. " P'raps he had some
one at home like you. That's about the only thing
that would make me do it."

'' Ain't you ashamed ? " said Nellie, blushing with
pleasure at John's honest compliment.

" Not a mite. I don't see nothing to be ashamed
of."

Nellie did not seem to see anything either, yet, of
course, it would not do to let John know it. After
a long silence, Nellie spoke again : —

''I would like to see him, John."

"What for?" demanded John.

"Oh, because" — and she ended the conversation
by brushing John's hair down over his eyes, and
then running away. Neither of them knew how
soon they were to see Jack Foster again, and learn
the true reason of his conduct. Sureljs these were
golden days for John. He worked on Uncle Na-
than's farm in a way that startled the neiglibors.
His heart was in the work, and he never knew what
fatigue meant. Politics meant nothing to him : he

AFTER THE WAR * 125

was planning for Nellie's comfort. As the little
woman grew rosy and bright with happiness, John
grew away from his old awkward self. He grew to
be a strong, earnest man, with but one idea, and
that one the noblest that a man ever can have, — to
give his life up to the happiness of the one woman
he loves. So they lived on, drawing more and more
of the rays of happiness to the old farmhouse.

In the latter part of July, John got a letter that
produced quite an excitement in the little household.
It was from the colonel of John's regiment — not the
one in which he had served at first, for that had
been swallowed up at Andersonville, but the one
he had joined after the escape. In consequence of
the free and easy style of marching adopted by Sher-
man's army, John had several times been thrown
into close relationship with Colonel Gray. The offi-
cer, a warm-hearted Western man, had taken a great
fancy to the sturdy Yankee, and after the war he
had kept track of him. He wrote now, to offer
John a position. Shortly after the close of the war,
Colonel Gray had bought a large plantation in Mis-
sissippi. It was badly run down, and he bought it
for a small sum, expecting to go himself and build it
up. Like many Northern soldiers, he hoped to settle
at the South, and take advantage of her great nat-
ural advantages. A proffered office in one of the
Territories had tempted him to give up his farm
operations, and he wrote to try and induce John to
go down and practise a little Northern agriculture
on Southern soil.

" The chance seems a good one," he wrote. " You

126 " ANDERSONVTLLE VIOLETS

know how these cotton planters have abused their
land, and what can be done in tiiat country with
regular, systematized work. You are just the man
to go down and take hold of this place, and make it
worth something. I am satisfied that you could
make it a very profitable property, and help yourself
in many ways. I do not look for very much trouble.
Society may be broken up, for a time, to some ex-
tent, yet the war memories must be buried, since
there is now nothing to fight about. The Northern
men, who are flocking by the thousands to the South,
will, in my opinion, with the aid of the negro, over-
come the more turbulent class of Southerners. The
soldiers of the rebel army will be glad, I think, to
drop the contest, and develop the arts of peace."

At the close of the war it is probable that a good
share of the thinking Union soldiers held about these
ideas in regard to the state of affairs at the South.
As slavery had been killed, they could not see why
the North and the South could not be one.

This letter was a sore temptation to John. With
New England thrift, he had made many a calculation
as to what these plantations could be made to accom-
plish. He had figured many a time how, with one of
these great farms at his command, he could make a for-
tune such as Breezetown's rocky hills could never
know. He never made a single suggestion, however,
when the letter came. He was sitting in the kitchen
with Nellie tliat night when Reuben brought the
letter from town. Uncle Nathan and Aunt Susan
had gone to make a visit. Reuben, with his charac-
teristic watchfulness, fell asleep on the lounge before

AFTER THE WAR 127

John finished reading the letter. John was not a
great literary man, and he read the letter through
slowly and carefully before he could get its real
meaning. When he had finished he handed it to
Nellie without a word. She put down her work and
read it through with a troubled face. Her under
lip quivered as she put the letter down at last.

" Please don't go, John," she said. " I could not
leave home now."

John said never a word in reply. He folded up
the letter with the air of a man who has just listened
to some unanswerable argument. He smiled a little
as he thought how utterly impossible it would be for
him to go when she wished him to stay. Nellie
watched him with eyes that glistened a little. She
came and stood at the back of his chair and ran her
fingers through his hair, and at last bent over and
kissed him. She had read his thoughts perfectly.
John could not have concealed them from her if he
had tried.

" I know you would like to be rich and famous
for my sake," she whispered to him, " but I don't
mind. I know I can make you happy here, and that
is better for us both, isn't it? "

John answered in a way that left very little doubt
as to his sincerity, and Nellie went back to her work,
happy again. John picked up the county paper.
The first thing his eyes fell upon was a little poem
in the " Poets' Corner." He had not read a line of
poetry for years, yet he studied this poem out word
by word — he knew not why. It was a simple little
thing ; there was not even a name to it.

128 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

The sun went merrily up the hills
That stood like sentinels grim and gray

Between the vale and the busy world
Where fame and honor and fortune lay.

The shepherd wistfully watched the light
Fade over the mountains far and dim.

Could he but follow and find the place
Where fame's bright mantle was waiting him?

A soft hand tenderly touched his arm,
A sweet voice spoke in his waiting ear:

Fame lies over the mountain high,
Love and happiness yet are here.

The sun went over the hills alone,

Touching 1 he sky with a crimson flame.

Men may long to be great, yet still
Love is better by far than fame.

John studied away at the poetry until Nellie came
and pulled the paper away from him. He woke
Reuben and sent him off to bed, where he could slum-
ber on a more economical basis. Then John came
back to the table and thought the poetry over till
Uncle Nathan and Aunt Susan came home. He
kept the little poem in his mind, and studied over it
for many a day. Nellie cut it out of the paper and
pasted it into her scrap-book.

John wrote Colonel Gray a plain letter, telling liini
honestly the reason for declining the offer. Tlie
''little girl" that he praised so proudly looked over
his shoulder and boxed his ears for daring to write
what she loved so well to see. Why a woman will
take such forcible and contradictory methods of in-
dicating her pleasure, will always remain one of the
mysteries of nature. Surely these were golden days

AFTER THE WAR 129

for honest John, though at times the hours seemed
to crawl by with lagging footsteps. At last the
nights began to grow cool, and the first frosts bit
savagely at the flowers and grass. The fall is the
saddest season of the year. It is the season of death.
To John, however, it was the season of life.

Thanksgiving day came at last, and John and Nel-
lie were married. They tried to have a quiet wed-
ding, but the village people would not hear of this
at all. All Breezetown crowded into the weather-
beaten church, and when John and Nellie stood up
before the pulpit, every woman envied Nellie and
every man envied John. Reuben drove them home
in fine style to eat the great dinner that Aunt Susan
had prepared. Even old Whitey entered into the
spirit of the occasion. He kicked up his heels and
fairly Tan down hill, something he had not done since
Nellie was a baby. It may have been Reuben's stick
that taught old Whitey this complimentary caper,
but let us not take such a practical view of it. Let
us believe it was pure sentiment that pulled up the
heels.

After dinner Uncle Nathan made a speech to the
company. He closed with his old eulogy of Maine
men in general and John in particular, and then, not
knowing of any compliment strong enough to do
anything like justice to Nellie, he kissed her, and
then hurried out into the woodshed, ostensibly to
get some fuel, but really to blow his nose. Many
men like Uncle Nathan are obliged to relieve tlie
heart through the nose. Would that there were
more of them. The company had a very merry time

130 ANDERSONVILLB VIOLETS

with singing and games, till at last they went away
with many a heartfelt wish for the happiness of the
young couple. And John and Nellie standing at the
door to bid their good friends good-night, he like a
strong, rugged oak, and she like a tender, clinging
vine, felt indeed that the world was opening before
them bright and fair.

The days went by like sunbeams in the little
household. Each day left a little of its brightness
as a sweet memory. Reuben grew up under John's
influence, into a faithful boy. Uncle Nathan grew
more grizzled as the years went by. His eyesight
began to give out at last, and even his spectacles
failed to enable him to read all the political news, of
which he was so fond. This eye trouble induced
him to take a great interest in Reuben's elocutionary
training. He pressed the young gentleman into the
service, and, by means of promised help at the chores,
bribed him to read aloud the long statements and in-
terviews concerning the South that filled up the
papers at that time. It was funny to watch the two
politicians thrashing the grain out of the political
stack — Reuben slowly and painfully struggling
through the long words, skipping or widely guessing
at the meanings, and glancing every few moments
at the end to see how much there was left, and
the gray old man listening patiently in his armchair,
putting in a word now and then, or explaining with
a theory of his own some intricate point.

If Reuben did not make a very strong Republican,
it was surely no fault of Uncle Nathan's. Some-
times Nellie would take Reuben's place as reader.

AFTER THE WAR 131

This would make the audience larger, for John
would come and listen — believing every word be-
cause she read it. Uncle Nathan and Reuben even
carried their political discussions into the barn,
where the old man went to pay in work for the
reading.

" You said they give them niggers twenty licks
apiece, didn't ye ? " Uncle Nathan would ask, the
more fully to digest some point of the reading.

" That's jest what the paper said," Reuben would
answer stoutly. Printers' ink was to him but a syn-
onym for truth. " They tied 'em up to a tree, an'
licked 'em awful, an' they had something like white
piller cases on their heads, an' sheets tied around
'em."

" An' them is the folks that fit us so hard," Uncle
Nathan would answer. ** I wish I'd 'a' been there
with sech a company as we tuk outer here. It beats
all," and he fed the young heifer with so much vio-
lence that that innocent creature started back in
alarm at the force with which her food was pre-
sented. He would go muttering his displeasure at
Southern outrages, down past the cattle. It was
woe then to the unfortunate animal that kicked out
at him. Such an action would force the kicker to
act as a scapegoat for all the Ku Klux that Uncle
Nathan had ever heard of.

But John and Nellie had no need to hire Reuben
to read to them. John took no interest in politics.
He always voted, but as far as discussing the ques-
tions as Uncle Nathan did, he felt that he had much
better business in hand. What was it to him what

132 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

the politicians thought, when there was sometliiiig
to do to make Nellie happy ?

So the days went by, and after a few bright years
had joined their hearts closer than ever, there came
a new member into the family, to share tlie sun-
shine. It was a little Nellie, with the same bright
golden hair and the same blue eyes. She grew into
a sober little tot of a girl, with John's honest face
and quiet ways, and Nellie's gentleness. The whole
family grew wondrous proud of the little treasure.
Aunt Susan would do her best to make the little
thing sick by feeding it upon little cakes and other
home confectionery. Reuben would even try to
keep awake for the sake of holding the baby.
Uncle Nathan would allow her to pull his nose and
whiskers, without a word of complaint. The dear
little baby would always pull her own hair just as
hard as she pulled the whiskers, and then, finding
how she must have hurt Uncle Nathan, she would
kiss him to make matters right. No wonder he
never complained. John was proudest of them all.
The little girl would always come toddling out to
meet him as he came in from work. She would
often run in advance of her mother, that she might
get the first kiss. John would lift her on his shoul-
der and carry her in triumph into the house. Every
night, just before baby was put to bed, John would
take her on his knee and ask her a series of ques-
tions, that might well take the place of many a
prayer. The little girl was always tired and sleepy,
yet she would always answer just the same.

" Do you love mamma ? " — John would ask the

AFTER THE WAR 133

question as the little one nestled up to him, while
Nellie would stop her work while she listened for the
answer.

" Es, I does."

" And papa too ? "

" Es, I does."

" Which .do you love the best ? "

This was always a tough question for the little
girl to decide. Sometimes it had to be repeated be-
fore she would answer. At last, after carefully
thinking the matter over, she would say :

" I love ou bof the best."

This was always most satisfactory to John, and he
would explain the triangular bond that held them
all together. During liis explanation, Uncle Nathan
would sit and smile over his spectacles at the loving
group.

" I love mamma the best, and mamma loves me
the best, and baby loves us both the best."

This explanation would satisfy all parties so well
that when Nellie came to take the little girl away to
bed, there was always a triangular kiss, where it was
very hard to say which one had any advantage.
John would go back to his work, thinking himself
the happiest man in the world, and Nellie would
sing beside the little one's bed the sweetest music
human ears can ever hear.

The little girl changed John and Nellie in many
waj^s. They felt that this little life had been given
them to build up and develop. It seemed as if all
the good in their lives had centred in this little one.
The baby fingers pulled their hearts still closer to-

134 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

gether, so that while they loved each other even
more than before, they had still a wealth of love to
bestow upon the baby. As the little Nellie grew
older and developed more and more of her baby
graces, a feeling came to John and Nellie that all
young parents probably experience. It was a desire
to educate their little girl and give her every advan-
tage of refinement and culture. They planned for
her hundreds of things that they well knew the sim-
ple country home and the sandy farm could never
provide.

By the time baby was five years old, John and
Nellie had determined to adopt some plan for im-
proving their circumstances. John had long since
found the farm growing too narrow for him. He
began to feel, as he told Nellie, "like a man workin'
in a peck measure." Perhaps his ideas had broad-
ened since the baby began to be so much like her
mother. Reuben was now a young man, and fully
able, with Uncle Nathan's help, to carry on all the
farm work. There was a good living to be made on
the farm, but no money with which to care for the
little girl as they wished to do.

John and Nellie talked the matter over many
times after baby had fallen asleep. They decided
that they would make any sacrifice that might be
demanded, so that baby might be helped. It was
Nellie who at last proposed a plan that John had
often thought of, yet never had spoken. They were
standing one night at little Nellie's bed, looking at
the little dreamer. Nellie had been quiet and
thoughtful all day. John had noticed it. She bent

AFTER THE WAR 135

down to brush back the baby's hair, and then sud-
denly turned and put her hand on John's shoulder.
She was obliged to reach up to put her hand there,
for the top of her head did not rise higher than John's
heart. John looked down at her with a feeling in
his heart that always brought the look into his eyes
that she loved to see.

" Do you think we could have that place at the
South now, John ? I would be willing to go now, I
think."

She whispered this slowly and glanced at the
sleeping baby. John understood her. There was
a strange huskiness in his voice as he said : —

" My dear little woman, what can I ever do to pay
you for this ? "

She looked up at him with a bright smile that told
him how she could be paid. There was but little
more said about the matter. Both knew what a
sacrifice the little woman had made in thus offering
to leave her home for the sake of baby. John
wrote at once to Colonel Gray, and stated his case
with Yankee honesty ;• The officer wrote an enthu-
siastic letter and urged John to go down at once.
The plantation had been run by negroes since it was
bought, and needed more than ever a good man to
take charge of it.

" We hear, of course, a great many reports of vio-
lence in that country," he wrote, " but I think many
of them are exaggerated. I feel sure that a man
who will mind his own business and keep out of
politics will be safe enough. In any event, they
won't run an old soldier like you very far — and

13G ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

by the way," he continued, with a soldier's gal-
lantry, " I wish you would kiss that little soldier of a
woman and that little girl for me ; of course I can't
do it myself. I'm afraid of you. You are a lucky
man, Rockwell, and I wish I was in your place."

It is needless for me to say that John carried out
these suggestions to the letter, and fully agreed that
he was a " lucky man."

And so they decided to go. John helped through
the summer's work, and then went with Nellie on a
short trip to bid all their friends good-by. Most of
the old people shook their heads dubiously when
they learned where the young folks were going.

'' Better stop right where ye be. Ye're doin' well
'nough now. Ye're jest takin' yer life right inter yer
ban's when ye go down inter that country," dismally
urged one old croaker.

Uncle Natlian always came to the rescue when
such attacks were made.

" I'd resk my life in John's hands jest about's
quick ez I'd put it anywhere, I tell ye," he would
declare, stoutly. No one conjd give John a better
character for carefulness than this, surely. It was
very hard work for Uncle Nathan to advise John
and Nellie to leave the old home, but he brought
himself to do it at last. He knew how much of the
home happiness and sunshine tlie little family would
take out of his life, yet the noble old man knew just
how John felt. He was willing that the last of his
life might be darkened a little so that those he loved
might come to him at last with brighter and happier
lives.

AFTER THE WAR 137

" I dunno but ye're doin' jest what I shud do,
John," he said bravely, "if I was in yer place. I
can't blame ye a mite. That little gal comes about
as nigh ter bein' an angel as I ever see. Looks jest
as if the Lord hed picked out all the good pints you
an' Nellie ever hed an' bundled 'em together so tight
tliat all the bad pints got squeezed out. But you
don't wanter make too much of an idol out o' her,
John. That won't do, noway."

Uncle Nathan always began these talks bravely
enough, but he never could finish without being
forced to go out-of-doors to blow his nose.

At last the time came for starting. Who can
describe the feelings that come into the heart when
such a farewell is spoken ? It is a sad scene, that
haunts one for a lifetime. How the heart seems
ready to burst, how the throat fills with something
we cannot control, how the eyes ivill fill with tears,
how doubly dear each old association seems, how
the sweet home music rings in our ears. It is
the saddest and tenderest picture of a life. It is
cut into the heart, and long, long years after, we
look back to it with souls that pine for the old home
rest, and almost wish we had turned back at the
trial.

It was hard indeed for the young people to leave
the old home, where they had been so happy ; but
the thought of little Nellie kept the tears back, and
strengthened their hearts for the trial. There was
no great " scene " at parting, and they were all glad
of it. A natural home picture is the best that one
can take away at such a time. The stage was a

138 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

trifle late, and they were glad to hear Sam Jones call
out, " Hurry up, no time to lose ! " In the bustle of
a hurried departure, they might forget something of
their grief. All the home people kissed Nellie and
the baby and shook hands with John. Uncle Nathan
gave him a great grip.

" I wish I was goin' with ye," he said ; " I'm too
old, I s'pose, but I'd like to go. Don't ever back
down a might afore them fellers, an' don't never
forgit whar ye come frum."

The old man held a shoe in his hand, which he
proposed throwing after the stage for good luck.
The stage rolled away at last in a cloud of dust. It
disappeared over the hill, and the home folks went
back to their work. The immigrants kissed the
little girl that drew them away from home, and then
resolutely set their faces to the future.

CHAPTER XIII.

A SOUTHERN TOWN

John and Nellie reached Sharpsburg on Saturday.
They stood on the platform of the station and
looked about thera with the peculiar feeling that
every Northern person experiences on entering a
Southern town. It is a feeling that can hardly be
described. A mingled feeling of distrust, curiosity,
surprise, and criticism. All the old stories that have
been told concerning the country and people crowd
into the mind, and the first impulse is to look about
to see how much of the record appears to be true.
The first impression is not generally calculated to
put the mind at rest. Everything was different
from the order of things at home. There was no
great stir and bustle of business. A good crowd of
people had gathered about the station, yet there was
no excitement. Every one seemed to have plenty of
time to think matters thoroughly over before begin-
ning to work. A few white men stood listlessly
about, watching the train with eyes entirely devoid of
curiosity. Not one stood erect. Every one of them
leaned against some convenient post or wall. On a
platform opposite the station a group of negroes
were busy unloading a bale of cotton from a wagon.
The workers, mules, negroes, and all, had suspended

139

140 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

operations to watch the train. A crowd of ragged
darkies, with clothes that hung about them in tat-
ters, swarmed about the steps or sat in a long row in
the shade at the rear. The train seemed to have
stopped in a most unpromising portion of the town.
There was nothing to be seen save a few rough un-
painted negro cabins, and a little blacksmith's shop,
the most striking feature of which was a glaring
mistake in the spelling of the sign. The wliite men
stared curiously at John, but they stepped back and
touched their hats as Nellie appeared.

As the passengers paused on the platform, one of
the most ragged of all the little negroes ran up the
steps and pushed his remnant of a hat up from his
forehead by way of salute.

" Hotel, boss ? Bes' in de city ! whar all de gem-
mens stop at," he said as he caught at John's satchel.

John looked at the little fellow with a smile. He
thought how easily he could carry the darky and
the satchel, too. It seemed absurd for such a little,
ragged shadow of humanity to offer to do work for
a strong man.

"Show us the way to the tavern," he said, "an'
I'll carry the bag."

But the boy pulled the baggage away, and, plac-
ing it carefully on his head, skipped merrily along
before his patrons. John and Nellie, each holding a
hand of the little girl, followed their conductor.

The newly arrived Yankees did not present a
remarkably imposing appearance as they walked up
the street from the station. The little walking rag-
bag that led the way trotted on with the satchel on

A SOUTHERN TOWN 141

his head. He balanced the burden with one hand,
while the other was occupied in holding his various
garments about him. His costume was of such a
fragmentary nature that a good shake would have
taken it entirely from him. The various fractions
of garments were held together by a series of strings
that met at a common centre as though to brace
themselves for a strong pull. It was such a ludi-
crous sight that John and Nellie could not help
laughing, though Nellie's first impulse was to offer
to patch the garment that sinned most visibly. The
walking rag-bag turned at the sound and joined in
the laugh as heartily as any of them, though he
knew nothing of the cause of the laughter. It was
such a cheap exercise, and one so pleasurable to him,
that he was glad to join. By a skilful movement, he
changed the occupation of his hands without drop-
ping the satchel or his clothes. Then he trotted on
again. As they walked along, John could not help
thinking how Uncle Nathan would have groaned at
the lack of thrift and care everywhere visible. The
town was built on a series of low hills, over which
the streets lamely progressed. Great gulleys, worn
out by the water in its effort to get out of the way
of public travel, ran up and down and across the
streets, like the wrinkles on the face of an old man.
There was a most feeble apology for a plank walk
that ran along the side of the street with about the
spirit of a dog that had been caught stealing meat.
In many places the earth beneath the walk had been
washed away so completely that the foot passengers
were in great danger of falling through. The houses

142 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

were low, and most of tliem unpainted and dismal-
looking. The yards seemed slack and disorderly.
The fences were old and unpainted or built of
barbed wire that seemed to reach out with its hun-
gry teeth to cut into the clothing of the passer-by.

There was not a single white woman to be seen.
A few men were in sight ; most of them were sitting
in the shade ; many were asleep. Negroes were
working listlessly in some of the yards. They all
stopped their work to look at the new-comers, and
many of them touched their hats with "Howdy,
boss?" John, with New England friendliness,
bowed to them all, which act of recognition caused
the white men to look at him in wonder. What
manner of man could this be, they thought, who
would thus publicly recognize all the ''niggers"
he met.

The little darky who served as guide halted at
last before a gate, and led the way through it up a
long avenue of trees to a large white house. It was
a massive structure, with a wide piazza in front.
Years before, it had been the home of some proud
Southern planter, but the fortunes of war had sadly
changed it.

The rag-bag placed the satchel on the floor and
went in search of some responsible person. John
and Nellie sat on the broad piazza and looked about
them with curious eyes. It is easy to pick out faults
where one has been taught for years to believe they
exist. Everything seemed strange because it was
new. They could not imagine at first how people
could become used to such an arrangement. The

A SOUTHERN TOWN 143

high, airy rooms pleased Nellie exceedingly, and the
little cook-house at the rear seemed to her a great
improvement upon the hot kitchen at home. John
noticed how far the well was from the house —
almost a day's journey, as he afterwards stated — ■
and how carelessly the wood-pile was arranged. He
would have had every stick of that wood in under a
shed. Everything about the house seemed to him
slack and unbusinesslike. He was yet to learn by
sad experience that cheap labor was expected to
make up for lack of conveniences. As they sat
looking about them, a living poultry market in the
shape of an old negro came up from the gate. He
carried about twenty chickens tied about him by the
legs. They were all over him, peeping out from
under his arms, over his shoulders, and between the
folds of his ragged coat. The old fellow hobbled up
to the cook-house and began an animated discussion
with the cook about the sale of a portion of his bur-
den. The cook, after a long argument, bought sev-
eral of the largest, and, there being no place in which
to secure them, and evidently not wishing to spend
his time and energy in chasing them about, he cut
off their heads at once, much to the wonder of John,
who was watching carefully. John wondered what
the landlord could be thinking of to permit such a
shiftless proceeding.

At last the mistress of the house appeared. A
tall, dignified woman, with gray hair and a face that
showed deep lines of suffering. The war had cut
the lines into her face as plainly as it had cut the
scars on the face of the country. She brought out

144 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

a book, in which Nellie, who did the most of John's
writing, registered. The old lady glanced at the
names with a slight shrug of her slioulders.

'' You are from the North, I see," she said,
quietly.

" Yes, mar'm," answered John. " We come from
the State o' Maine."

" Ah, indeed ? " She spoke in a tone that gave
John to understand that he might just as well have
come from Germany, so far as his former residence
concerned her. The landlady led her guests into a
large room on the first floor, and then bowed herself
away. It was not long before the bell rang for din-
ner, and the immigrants walked out to the dining-
place. One long table extended the full length of
the room. A swarm of flies were buzzing about the
room. There were no screen doors or windows.
Near the head of the table stood the little negro who
had brought the satchel from the station. He held
his clothes together with one hand while the other
pulled at a string which kept in motion a series of
paper frames, swinging over the table. The wind
caused by this motion served to keep away most of
the flies. A massive negro woman stood at a side
table where the soup was to be served. She was
barefooted and unkempt. The cook stood at the
door of the cook-house, ready to pass in the dinner
whenever it should be needed.

The grave politeness of the company at dinner
rather disconcerted honest John. He had been used
to the free-and-easy New England society, where one
is perfectly free to try and find out his neighbor's

A SOUTHERN TOWN 145

business ; where the strange thing about a new-
comer would be his failure to ask questions. The
grave courtesy of the men he met at dinner, and the
cool way in which they evaded all his questions, was
something entirely new to him. No one seemed to
be able to tell him anything about the soil or the
crops. He made but a poor meal.

Another thing that seemed strange to him was the
fact that he was the only man in the company with-
out a title of some kind. The rest were all captains,
or doctors, or professors, and one tall man with a
very red nose rose as high as " General." John was
the only plain Mister, until the landlady, wishing
doubtless to maintain the reputation of her table,
addressed him as " Judge." He was known as
Judge Rockwell thereafter, much to the amusement
of Nellie, and the great embarrassment of John him-
self. Nellie hardly knew what to say to the ladies
she met at dinner. She was almost as nervous as
John, and could not seem to start a conversation.
She had no common feeling with these people who
seemed to look at her so sneeringly when she asked
some questions in regard to the preparation of the
meal. She did not know that these ladies knew
almost nothing about cooking, and probably cared
still less. All these points were to be learned in
time.

There was only one thing that happened to make
John and Nellie feel better. One old gentleman
smiled at little Nellie, and came over to pat her on
the head as he went out. The little girl's mother
smiled so sweetly that he bowed as he passed

146 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

her. John wanted to get up and shake hands with
him.

Little Nellie was very tired, and soon after dinner
she fell asleep. John sat and watched his wife as
she soothed the child. The little woman's lip was
trembling in spite of the song she tried to sing to
the baby. John knew she was thinking of home.
He carried little Nellie to the bed and laid her
tenderly there ; then he came back to his wife. She
sat in a low rocking-chair by the window. He knelt
on the floor at her side and put his head in her lap.
She brushed his hair back from his forehead, and
then, with both her hands, turned his face so that
slie could look straight into his eyes.

" What are you thinking about now, John ? " she
asked.

Her lip had stopped its trembling, and she smiled
down at him, though John knew that her heart was
wrenched with homesickness.

" My dear little girl," he broke out, " I know it is
hard for you, but it won't be so hard when we have
a home of our own."

The brave little woman tried hard to smile, but
her lip quivered strongly, and before she could stop
them, the tears came down over her cheeks. She
had meant to comfort John and have her cry all to
herself, but she was too tired, and tlie tears tvould
force themselves out, and she covered her face with
her hands and sobbed like a little child. And good,
brave John, though his own eyes were wet, soothed
his wife, and whispered comforting words to her till
she stopped crying.

A SOUTHERN TOWN 147

" I am so tired, John," she said, wearily.

" I know it, my dear little girl, and I want you to
sleep now. I am going down town to find out some-
thing about the place, and while I am gone you
must take a nap."

John kissed her, and went out. He sat on the
piazza for a while, and then softly opened the door
of the room and looked in. Nellie had fallen asleep.
She lay with her arm thrown over the baby. John
closed the door, and walked down the path to the
street. As he passed through the gate, he met the
old gentleman who had noticed the little girl at din-
ner. This new friend bowed and held out his hand,
which John shook heartily.

" I am glad to see you, judge." The old gentleman
spoke with an emphasis on the new title, that showed
that he fully understood how John regarded it. " I
am glad to see you — my name is Lawrence, and if I
can be of any service to you I shall be very glad.
You are a stranger here, and, if I am not mistaken,
a Northern man."

John shook the old gentleman's hand again.
" Yes, I'm a Yankee, I s'pose," he said simply. " I
come from the State o' Maine."

He had determined to say as little as possible
about his State or his former home, being convinced,
as most Northern people are, before they come to the
South, that the mere mention of his former residence
would be used as an argument against him.

"Ah, indeed?" replied Mr. Lawrence — by this
time they were walking together down the street —
" I had some relatives in New Hampshire years ago, in

148 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

fact, T came from that State, but it was so long ago
that I expect they are dead long since. It is very
hard, however, for one to forget those old hills."

John would not have been a Yankee if he had not
tried to cross-question his new friend.

" You've been here a good while, I s'pose."

" A great many years. I have seen many changes,
and many stirring times. You have come here at a
very trying time, and you will find it necessary to
do many things that you would not think of doing
at the North."

"What sort of a country is it? " John asked the
question a little hesitatingly.

"It is a country of magnificent possibilities —
that is the best I can say. You will see what I
mean when you are fairly at work. The strength of
this land lies in the future — it will be strength or
weakness, just as the present generation shall decide.
There is no place in the land where the immigrant
will find it so hard to become contented, yet there
is no place where strong-hearted men and women
can do so much for themselves and for their country
as they can here. By the way, you were a soldier, I
suppose ? "

'' Of course I was," said John, stoutly. This was
one of the questions that he felt unable to dodge.
The old gentleman looked at him keenly.

" You think the negroes are the equals of our
white people, I suppose, that is, you think the gov-
ernment did right in giving them equal rights with
white people? "

" Of course," answered John ; " wasn't that what
we fought the war for ? "

A SOUTHERN TOWN 149

His companion smiled sadly and shook his head.

"Let me give you a word of advice, my friend.
Never give one of our Southern negroes to under-
stand that you consider him as an equal. At home
you would doubtless invite a negro to your table.
Never think of doing it here, if you want to enjoy
any of the privileges of society or business. You
have come among a very proud and impulsive peo-
ple. They have strong beliefs — stronger than your
own in fact. They know the negroes are incapable
of governing people who are superior in intelligence.
You will see that this is true before long, and I must
advise you as a friend to be guarded in your remarks.
Nothing is to be gained by talking too much, and
everything may be lost. I am an old man and I have
studied this question carefully."

John felt that this was all true. It was about what
Uncle Nathan had meant when he said : — " 'Twon't
do ye no good ter spread yer idees round there too
thick. People ain't gonter change their notions in
a minnit. If they ask you where ye come frum,
jest tell 'em and don't stop ter make no argyments
ner excuses. They'll think a great site more of ye
if ye mind yer own biz'ness. You jest stick ter
work, an' let them run their own wagin."

" I've made up my mind to keep my mouth shut
and mind my own affairs," John said, as they walked
on toward the business part of the town. In a few
moments they stood in front of the court-house,
where they could command a good view of the main
street.

It was a dreary sight to John, accustomed as he

150 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

was to the stir and bustle of New England. A
group of men sat in front of every store. They
were staring vacantly into the street, or talking in a
listless manner, each word being obliged to fight its
way out through their jaws. Before several of the
larger groups a few sidewalk orators were holding
forth in thrilling style. The stores seemed to be
kept for the most part by Jews. They stood in the
doorways with that peculiar smile and hand motion
for which the Jews are famous the world over. A
line of sad-looking mules, some saddled and others
attached to wagons, stood along the street. They
hung their heads down as if trying to appear as lazy
and spiritless as their masters. Surely a man is
known by his mule or dog. Near a small tree that
was making a brave struggle for existence on a high
clay bank, John saw a horse standing in a crowd of
mules. The degraded animal seemed heartily ashamed
of himself at thus being forced to associate with
mules. If he had straightened up proudly or even
pranced a little, he would have appeared finely in
the crowd of lazy creatures about him.

A yoke of bony oxen had hauled a heavy wagon
up near the village well. One of the animals lay
contentedly upon the ground, while the other stood
patiently holding the whole weight of the yoke.
The driver, a long, lean, yellow-faced man, with hair,
face, and clothes all of the same color, stood leaning
against the wagon, holding a long whip which he
cracked at intervals in the direction of a group of
negroes. The stores were low and discolored. One
felt that trade must be cramped and dwarfed before

A SOUTHERN TOWN 151

it could enter them. The sidewalks were broken
and dirty. There was little paint to be seen. What
little there w^as seemed creeping into the dirt for
protection. A few white men were at work, but
most of them sat in the comfortable chairs and gazed
at the street. The negroes supplied most of the life
in the picture. It was Saturday, and they had
gathered from all sides for a general holiday. In all
stages of costume, from a few rags held together by
a strap, to a gorgeous combination introducing all
the colors of the rainbow, they stood or walked
about talking and laughing as though the chief end
of life consisted in manufacturing all the fun possi-
ble. In one corner a crowd had gathered about a
ragged musician who discoursed sweet music from a
mouth-organ. The crowd stood about in open-
mouthed attention, often beating time with their
hands or feet as he played. The driver of the ox
team listened until " Rally Round the Flag " roused
him to action. That melody evidently brought the
old times back to him. To drive them back into the
past, he cracked his long whip over the crowd, in
such close proximity to the player's head, that the
tune came to a very abrupt termination. The com-
pany broke up with mutterings and head-shaking.
The ox-driver drew in his long lash and placed him-
self in readiness for another shot.

In a vacant lot near the street a negro orator was
selling various bottles of a "Kunger" medicine of
his own manufacture. He was dressed in a bright
uniform of red and yellow. He wore a tall white
hat from which floated several black feathers. He

152 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

was addressing a crowd of open-mouthed negroes,
and eloquently stating a series of tlie most remarka-
ble physiological facts that ever came to the light.

Several refreshment stands were placed along the
street for the benefit of the darkies. There was
nothing princely about these establishments. An
upturned dry-goods box or a board laid across two
barrels served for a counter. A basket of small
cakes, a great, shapeless piece of pork, and a pile
of biscuits formed the stock in trade. An old crone
with gray hair and a face twisted into a mass of
wrinkles presided over the stand near where John
stood. She was smoking a long pipe directly over
the great piece of boiled pork. A big negro ap-
proached and laid a dime on the board. The old
woman cut a large block of meat from the mass and
laid it upon one of the little cakes. This, with one
of the biscuits, formed the ration. The negro grasped
his food eagerly and crouched on the edge of the
sidewalk to devour it. A rival establishment near
by was doing a fine business in fried sausage. A
small oil-stove supplied the heat, and a battered tin
pan held the food. It was cooked in great balls in a
rusty frying-pan, and turned about with a jack-knife.
The purchasers received the meat directly into their
hands.

CHAPTER XIV.

COLONEL FAIR

As John stood watching the negroes, Mr. Law-
rence touched his arm, and at the same time beck-
oned to a tall man who had just left one of the
groups of white men.

"My friend. Colonel Fair — Judge Rockwell," he
introduced, as the tall man came near. "Colonel
Fair is a Northern man ; he lives near your place
and can doubtless give you some information con-
cerning it. Now I must bid you good evening, for
I am obliged to go. I leave you in good hands. I
shall be glad to see you again," — and with a shake
of the hand and a stately bow Mr. Lawrence walked
down the street to the place where his horse had
been tied.

"Nice ole man," said Colonel Fair, abruptly.
" Doc. Lawrence is a nice ole man, but he ain't
got much sense."

John looked curiously at the man who spoke his
ideas with so little reserve. A tall, thin man, with
long, bony hands. The skin on his face seemed to
be drawn so tight that it pushed his eyes into undue
prominence. He wore a thin, short beard, and his
hair was just in the struggle of turning from gray to
white. His mouth was strong and firm. He was a
trifle round-shouldered, and carried his head a little

153

154 ANDERSON YILLE VIOLETS

in advance of liis bod3\ He looked keenly at John,
and held out his hand in a sharp, businesslike way.

^'Glad to see 3^ou, judge," he said. "You're gon-
ter take the old Bell place, I reckon. I'm glad you
be — you'll be neighbors to me."

"Yes, an' I'm gonter move right out," said John,
"but, look here — I ain't no judge at all. They give
me the name up to the tavern, but I dun no how
they come by it."

"That's all right," the new friend laughed.
"You'll git used to that after a while. Every-
body here has to be somethin', when, right down
to business, they ain't nothin'. Somethin' like the
two fellers up here to Memphis."

Colonel Fair cleared his throat and coaxed his
face into the self-satisfied expression that comes to
announce a good story.

"A couple of these fellers — lawyers they was —
went up there to tend court. They got to talkin',
an' at last one of 'em says, ' By the way, I've been
told that I look jest like the poet Byron — do you
reckon there's any truth in that story?' The other
feller looked at him sorter sharp, an' then says, * I
reckon so — you do look jest like him, I reckon.'
The talk went on till after a while the second feller
says — ' By the way, a heap of my friends say that I
remind them of Thomas Jefferson — what do yc»u
reckon about that?' The first feller looked at him
pretty sharp, and then says, ' Well, sar, I can't see
no resemblance at all.' The second feller he drawed
off an' said — 'No, sar, and you don't look no more
like Byron than my old mule does.'"

COLONEL FAIR 155

John laughed heartily at this story, and Colonel
Fair went on to apply it.

"Now look at them men settin' in front of that
store," — and he pointed to the nearest group.
*' There's a cap'n, two majors, a doctor, and two
colonels, an' I'll bet there ain't two of 'em that's got
any real hold on his title. They just set there and
carry out the play. Them fellers jest set there all
day long an' tell how many slaves their fathers used
to have, an' cuss this free-nigger labor. While they
are wearin' the paint away from them chairs, the
niggers are wearin' out their arms for 'em."

John was a little surprised at this plain talk.
This man was evidently not in the least afraid of
being shot.

"What sort of a country zs this any way ?" He
asked the question to draw out his new friend.
Somehow he liked these blunt sentences.

" The country's all right if the people only had
some git up to 'em. They jest lay right back and
make the niggers do all the work. How many white
men do you see a-workin' on this street? You go
through the countr}^ an' you'll find it jest so all
along. When a man comes down here ready to dip
in an' work, he'll do fine. This country won't be
much till these boys grow up. I tell 'em that all
these old fellers have got to die off before the coun-
try kin come up. These old chaps live 'way back
yonder. They fight every new idee."

Colonel Fair talked rapidly and earnestly, pointing
down the street as he talked. John listened in sur-
prise. He hardly expected to find a man talking

156 ANDERSONYILLE VIOLETS

this way right in the very heart of the Svouth. He
indicated his surprise at tins very plain talk.

" I ain't a bit afraid of 'em," said Colonel Fair,
" and they know it. I've been here a good while
and they know who I be. They know I don't know
how to run worth a cent. I'm a Democrat — always
have been. Down in this country you've got to be
either a Democrat or a nigger. You ain't got no
idee yet what a nigger is. Wait till you have 'em
to work for ye an' all around ye. That's the kind
of men that runs this country " — and he pointed to
a group of men gathered in front of one of the
stores.

''They set there all day an' do nothin' but talk
politics, an' yet there ain't one of 'em that can tell
ye what Protection means. I'll bet ten dollars I can
go up to that crowd an' ask 'em what the news is,
an' every man will say ' not a word to-day ' — come
an' try it." And he drew John along with him.

They reached the group after a short walk. Col-
onel Fair introduced John as Judge Rockwell. He
shook hands with some of the men, and with a sly
twinkle in his eye asked, ''Well, gentlemen, what's
the news?" The»men looked sadly at one another
and mournfully replied, "Not a word — you got
any?"

The men regarded John in sullen silence. At
last a good-natured-looking fat man, who appeared
to be the proprietor of the store, seemed to realize
that John was in an awkward position. He kindly
came to the rescue.

"I reckon you'll like this country, sar," he said,

COLONEL FAIR 157

as he pushed his hat up from his face. *' Good coun-
try, I reckon. Mighty easy fo' a man to make a
livin' down yer. Right smart of chances, I reckon."

" That's jest what ails the countrj^" broke in Col-
onel Fair. "It's too powerful easy to make a livin'
here. If you fellers had to scratch a little harder
you'd be better off. But it's just as I tell ye —
you've all got to die before this country can come
up any. You all know it, an' there ain't no use try-
in' to dodge it."

John was surprised at the way the crowd took
this verbal attack. He fully expected to see them
start up and attack the blunt speaker. Not a word
was said, however. The men all glanced sullenly at
each other, but made no audible reply. After a few
ordinary remarks John and Colonel Fair walked on
down the street. As they passed away John caught
a glimpse at the downcast faces of several of the
white men. They must have hated his companion
intensely. Colonel Fair noticed his surprised
look.

"I reckon they hate me," he said, ''but it don't
make no odds. I've got a good place, out of debt,
an' money ahead. I don't owe 'em nothin', an' a
heap of 'em do owe me. They can't run me out, an'
they've jest got to stand up an' hark at what I tell
'em. You're a stranger here, an' don't know what's
goin' on. You'll find out quick enough, an' I'll be
glad to help ye all I kin."

They stopped at the bank, where John was intro-
duced to several other Northern men. They were
all quiet, determined, marked men, who looked him

158 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

straight in the eye. They all seemed glad to see
him, and were ready to give advice and information.
John easily obtained the needed knowledge in re-
gard to his place. It was close to Colonel Fair's
phmtation. That gentleman invited John to stay at
his house until the place could be cleared up.

"I reckon it's nothin' but a nest o' niggers now,"
was Colonel Fair's opinion.

John gladly accepted the invitation. He prom-
ised to come out on Monday for the purpose of look-
ing over the place. He shook hands with his new
friends at last and started back to the hotel. He
bcGfan to fear that Nellie miorht need him. As he
passed by the store where they had spoken with the
group of loungers, the fat proprietor smiled with so
much good-nature that John stopped, Yankee-like,
for a talk. The crowd of lazy men had departed in
search of more comfortable seats, and the fat man
was able to reserve the best chair for his own use,
and give John the choice of all the rest. John sat
down beside his portly friend and glanced curiously
up and down the street.

" I reckon we have a heap mo' niggers than you
all does," said the fat man, as he saw John's look of
curiosity.

" I guess you do," said John cautiously. " We
don't liave only here and there one."

" I don't reckon you knows what the nigger is.
Down yer whar we have 'em all around us, we un-
derstand 'era. You all has ter come whar they is
befo' you kin know much about 'em. The nigger " —
here he waved one lazy hand in front of him — " ain't

COLONEL FAIR 159

never a-goiii' to be nothin', an' he don't know how
ter learn. He's sorter like a pinter dog. He can
read an' write, but the mo' lie learns, the mo' devil
he gits inter him. You'll see jest how it is befo'
you've ben yer a year. You give the nigger his
schoolin' an' ye spoil him to wonct. He wants ter
go right ter teachin' or preachin'. He don't know
nothin' an' he never will. There they be to-day. I
don't reckon there's a dozen in this town that knows
what tliey come in fer. They spend their time an'
money on some little trick that ain't got nothin' to
it, an' there they be."

At this moment two negroes came up to the store
to make a purchase. The fat merchant was obliged
to close his argument while he attended to the wants
of his customers. During his absence John walked
away. He had listened to some curious views
surely. It seemed as if all the men lie met eyed him
suspiciously — all but the Jews — they smiled, and
invited him to walk in. The negroes all bowed or
touched their hats. John returned all these saluta-
tions, much to the scorn of the white men who
watched him. He reached the hotel to find Nellie
and the little girl sitting on the piazza. Sleep had
driven all the homesickness away, for the time, and
they were eagerly watching the curious things about
them. John brought out a chair, and, taking the
little girl on his knee, told them all about his adven-
tures in the town. Nellie was anxious to move out
to the plantation at once, and John decided to go
out on Monday to look the house over. As they sat
talking, a man came out of one of the rooms that

160 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

opened into the hall. He looked cautiously about,
as if to see that no one was watching him, and then
walked up to John with his hand held out, as he in-
troduced himself.

"My name's Battle — I live up in Ohio — don't
make no odds jest where — I come from York State
when I was a boy, an' I'll be dogged if I ain't glad
to see a Northern man — only 'twon't do ye no good
to say I told ye so," he added, as he glanced behind
him. " Of course I ain't no special friend of these
folks, an' I ain't got no notion of gittin' 'em down
on me — but jest you an' me a-talkin' — I'm dogged
if I ain't glad to see ye."

John shook hands with the cautious stranger, and
introduced Nellie. Mr. Battle brought a cliair from
the hall, and placed it so near John that he could
talk without the least risk of attracting attention to
himself.

He was a short man w^ith a stoop in the shoulders,
and a head almost completely bald. A slight rim of
gray hair ran just above his ears and under his chin.
It seemed as if his bare head had been pushed up
through a woollen bag, and that the edges of the bag
had fallen over. He had a large, good-natured-look-
ing mouth and nose. His eyes were small and
partly hid by shaggy eyebrows. Mr. Battle held out
his hands to little Nellie and made up a face that was
intended to show that he was ready to play with
her. After a little urging the little girl left her
father and went to Mr. Battle's chair. He pulled
out his watch and held it to her ear a moment, and
then began a careful examination of his pocket to see

COLONEL FAIR 161

if the piece of candy was still there. These pleasant
advances captivated the little girl, and she climbed
on his knee, taking care to show John and her
mother that this was only a temporary arrange-
ment.

" Jest gut in, ain't ye ? '' said Mr. Battle, when
the little girl had settled in his lap.

" Yes, we come in this mornin'. I s'pose you've
ben here quite a spell, ain't ye ? " John answered
cautiously.

*' Wal, no, I ain't been here no great sight o' time,
after all. I just came down to sorter look up a
little property, like. My wife's mother, ye see, has
considerable property, like, an' sence I quit farmin'
I ain't done much but sorter run round an' look
after it. I've been sorter lookin' round fer a spell,
an' I'm jest about done now — an', jest me an' you
a-talkin', I won't be a mite sorry when I get outer
this country agin."

John said nothing, but let the old gentleman talk
on as he pleased.

" I've alluz heard a good deal about this country,
an' I'm glad I've had a good chance to sorter look it
over. A feller can't tell nothin' about what the
prospects is till he comes and sorter sees for himself.
Now you take these niggers " — and he looked care-
fully about to see that he was alone — " they don't
seem ter have much man about 'em, do they? I'll be
dogged ef they don't 'pear ter be a sorter shiftless
set like. 'Pears ter me, ef I was down here myself,
I'd hate to have 'em a-runnin' me. Now we've gut
niggers up where I live, but they gut some man to

162 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

'em. They 'pear ter be right up onto business, right
straight along. These fellers here is alliiz leanin' up
agin a liouse. I'll be dogged if ivliite folks 'pear ter
have niuch more life in 'em. Jest look at the side-
walks they gut in this town. I jest wanter take me
a hoe and go ter scrapin' 'em off myself. I've ben out
in the country, an' I'll be dogged if it don't beat all
how they farm it. Great big houses — all entry an'
doors — no tools, an' a great crowd of lazy niggers,
jest eatin' their heads off."

At this moment the supper bell rang, and Mr.
Battle put the little girl down and beckoned the
others to follow him into the dining-room.

" I guess we'd better sorter fill up our places,
hadn't we ? " he said as he led the way from the
piazza. *' Don't it beat all, though, what the}^ give
us t' eat here ? Fm dogged ef I know what I'm eatin'
half the time, but I jest shet my eyes an' risk it."

He was not entirely satisfied yet, for he stopped
John in the middle of the hall to whisper, *' Of
course I don't know wlio you be — don't make no
special odds what my politics is, you understand —
that's jest me an' you talkin'."

The supper was a pleasanter meal to John and
Nellie than the dinner had been. Mr. Battle was a
great help. He talked to every one and asked ques-
tion after question. The boarders seemed to regard
him with a pitying scorn, but he never noticed it.

"What's them?" he asked, as the waiter handed
him a new dish.

"Grits," was the answer.

"What be they made of? I'm sorter new here, ye

COLONEL FAIR 163

see, an' I wanter be able to answer all questions
when I git home. I expect I'll be in the wetness
stand for quite a spell."

The supper came to an end at last, and John and
Nellie went to their own room. Here they were
followed by Mr. Battle.

" I s'pose you folks is singers, ain't ye ? " he asked,
after a short conversation. " Because if ye be, there
ain't no reason why we can't have us a good sing.
I sing bass myself — I do. There's a sort of an organ
^ like into my room, an' pears ter me we might sing a
tune or two without no trouble."

They all adjourned to Mr. Battle's room, where
the '' sort of an organ like " proved to be an old-
fashioned melodeon. With Nellie at this instrument
and John and Mr. Battle to sing, they began. In a
short time one after another of the boarders dropped
in, and quite a large choir was formed. This little
"sing" did them all good. When they stopped at
last and John and Nellie went to their own room,
Mr. Battle seemed to feel that he ought to say a
word to cheer the young people. Perhaps he feared
that his own dismal view of Southern society might
make them homesick.

"I s'pose like enough you may feel sorter home-
sick, Mis' Rockwell. Ye mustn't do that, 't won't do
ye no good. My folks to home is sorter alone, I
expect, but I sorter fixed things sos't they'll git
along. I went out an' gut 'em a ham, there's milk
an' bread comes right to the door an' all these things.
I expect they'll git along fust-rate."

CHAPTER XV.

THE MAN AT THE DOOR

Sunday morning found our friends up bright and
early. Mr. Battle took his station on the piazza
within sight of the dining-room door. When John
appeared, the old gentleman at once picked up the
discussion of the night before.

"How's all the folks this mornin'?" he asked, as
he shook John's hand. "Beats all how holler a
feller gits in this climate, don't it?" he added as he
glanced in the direction of the cook-house. "If I
was runnin' this place I'd had them niggers rousted
out long afore this. It beats all how these niggers
lives, don't it ? " Mr. Battle dropped into his confi-
dential tone again. "I gut me a boss t'other day
an' rode out inter the country a piece. I kinder
thought I'd go inter one of these cabins jest <ter see
how they looked. They told me it was jest as they
have it in winter. Don't never fix nothin' up. I
could take me a pile of boards an' throw 'em into a
better house than them folks had, easy. Big cracks
under the door, an' holes in the sides big enough for
me to shove my hand through anywhere. There
they live, jest like that. I could see jest how 'tis.
What's your idees about 'em? "

John was getting a little nettled at the old gentle-
man's talk. He could not help remembering what

164

THE MAN AT THE DOOR 165

Sol had done for him years before, and how that
despised negro cabin had seemed like home to him.

" My idee is," lie said stoutly, ^' that the darkies
would come out all right if they only had a chance.
They're gonter do jest what the white folks do. If
white folks shirk an' loaf around, ye can't blame the
darky for doin' the same thing. I ain't gonter be
ser quick ter give this thing up till I see some of 'em
have a fair chance."

This was a long speech for John to make, but he
meant every word of it, and Mr. Battle made haste
to put himself in a position where he could reach
either side of the question.

"Like enough that's so — like enough they ain't
had no fair chance. You train 'em up an' give 'em
a chance an' they might do fust-rate. I ain't gut no
idea that I'm a-gonter stay here an' try it myself,
though."

He was about to answer Mr. Battle in a very
forcible manner, when Nellie — who had probably
heard part of the conversation — came from her
room. When she came John forgot all about the
argument, and Mr. Battle entirely forgave the late
cook as he played with little Nellie. He got a
chance at John again as they went into breakfast.

"I dunno who you be, of course, but I'll be
dogged if I don't like ye. If you ever come 'round
within gunshot of me, I want you to hunt me up."

It did not seem like a Sunday morning breakfast
to John and Nellie. There were no baked beans on
the table. It is a fact that the true New Englander
sadjy misses this toothsome evidence of the day of

166 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

rest. The bean worshippers are sincere in tlieir
religion — how sincere they themselves do not know
until the}^ go into the land of "hog and homin}-."
After breakfast John and Nellie walked through the
town and out to a hill that rose just behind an old
church. They left Mr. Battle discussing religion
with one of the boarders.

The streets were dull and deserted. The stores
were all closed, and, save a small group in front of
the court-house, there were no white men to be seen.
A barber's shop was open, and a number of negroes
lounged about in the sun. Out on the hill they sat
under a large tree and looked down upon the village.
They sat there and talked as only such a family ever
can talk — words of sympath}^ of strength, and of
tenderness — till the bell on the cliurch below them
began to ring out the first call to worship. The
sound of the bell seemed to carry their thoughts
back to the gray old church at Breezetown. They
could see the old home picture as they sat in the
sunshine looking down over the dull town.

The white-haired sexton was pulling slowly and
heavily at the bell rope. The rope coiled and
twisted about his feet as though seeking to trip him
up. The church stood open, and the bright sun-
shine was working its way up over the battered
pews to the pulpit. The little organ was opened.
The choir had been practising. It would take a
wonderful amount of practising to fill the gap caused
by the loss of John and Nellie. The rough farm
wagons, laden with worshippers, were crawling
lazily over the sandy road. The flowers in the min-

THE MAN AT THE DOOR 167

ister's garden were nodding brightly in the sun.
The birds were singing in the little grove back of
the church. There would be a vacant space in
Uncle Nathan's pew that would make many a heart
sad and add a tenderness to the minister's prayer.
It was the hardest hour in the lives of John and
Nellie — worse than the parting at home. They
began to realize at last how far they had gone from
the old life, and what a lonely, heart-breaking work
it would be to grow up into this new one. But they
never doubted and never questioned. They looked
at the little girl and then at each other, and were
satisfied.

The bell brought them to their feet, and they
walked slowly back to the hotel to prepare for
church. The very thought of worship seemed to
give them comfort. Just as the sound of the bell
carried them back, in thought, to the old home,
with all its cherished associations, so the very
thought of going to church seemed to strengthen
them and drive the homesickness away.

They were indebted to Mr. Battle for facts con-
cerning the religious condition of the community.
Mr. Battle had spent the morning in drawing out
his fellow-boarders. He had obtained much valuable
information, which he made haste to condense for
the benefit of John and Nellie. He was on the
watch for them, and, on their return, he followed
them into their room and carefully shut the door.

"Where ye goin' to church this mornin'?" he
asked. " It would be a good thing for ye to go, I
s'pose. Give ye a good chance to see how folks

168 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

looks, an' then agin it'll show folks that ye're all
ready ter chum right in with 'em. Guess we'd bet-
ter go 'long, hadn't we ? "

" I'm gonter find my church, an' go to that," said
John, simply.

" What church is yourn ? I guess I kin tell ye
somethin' about that. I've kinder talked things
over with some of the folks."

" I am a Unitarian," said John.

" Oh, you be ? "

Mr. Battle had not the least idea in the world
what " Unitarian " meant, and he made haste to
change the drift of the conversation a little.

" I guess ye're sorter like me. I don't favor no
'special church. I go to 'em all, so's ter show that
there ain't no feelin' agin 'em. Can't nobody say
I've ever slighted any of 'em. You folks ain't gut
no church here. The Methodists an' the Baptists
'pear ter have the crowd in this place. Them Pres-
byterians seems ter be sorter strong, but they're
sorter split up like. That makes 'em sorter weak-
enin'. I guess we'd better go 'round ter the Meth-
odist this mornin', hadn't we ? I've sorter figgered
it out, and 'pears ter me that's our best holt. Our
landlady here is a Methodist, an' that might make a
little difference on board. Then, agin, there was a
feller this mornin' said he'd kinder like ter have us
set up in the choir. I s'pose he heard our music last
night. Like enough he heard me singin' bass.
Guess we'd better go 'round, hadn't we ? Ye see
they're buildin' a new church now, sos't they hold
services in the court-house. Sorter give ye a chance
o look 'round that, too."

THE MAN AT THE DOOR 169

As Mr. Battle was talking, the lady of the house
came to the door and invited John and Nellie to
attend her church. Her invitation had more effect
than Mr. Battle's arguments, and the 3^oung people
gladly accepted. They soon started for the court-
house under the pilotage of Mr. Battle, who seemed
to feel that they were under his immediate charge.

" They's one sorter cur'us thing about this church
business," remarked the guide, as they reached the
street. " The niggers don't go to the same church
that the white people do at all. They sorter git off
by themselves, an' have preachin'. As nigh as I can
come at it, from what they tell me, the Methodist
church sorter split like when the war bruck out, an'
they ain't never come back, except that the niggers
is sorter in with the Northern end, whilst the South-
ern end sorter hangs out. P'raps I ain't gut it
straight, but 'pears ter me the niggers an' the white
Methodists up North forms one sorter church, an'
the folks here is sorter in another click. Beats all,
don't it ? They say these niggers ain't got no idee
of religion at all. They jest go off by themselves,
an' folks say it beats all what they do an' say."

John studied a while before he made any answer.
Such talk made him think of the matter as he had
never done before. He looked at several groups
of negroes that passed on their way to church. The
men were neatly dressed, and the women were
radiant in many-colored costumes. At last he said,
slowly : —

" It 'pears to me that that's jest where these folks
makes a big mistake. They send these darkies

170 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

'way off somewhere, where there ain't nobody to
show 'em what's right, an' then blame 'em because
they don't do as well as white folks. I don't s'pose
that the common run of these darkies has got much
sense, but it ain't agoin' to give 'em any more to
send 'era 'way off by themselves. You set a fool to
teachin' fools, an' you'll raise fools faster'n ye can
take care of 'em."

This was a new line of thought to Mr. Battle. He
could only say, ''Like enough that's so." By the
time he had found any other answer they had
reached the court-house.

A small group of young men stood about the door.
These stood back as John's party approached.
Once inside, a tall man at the end of the room rose
and beckoned them to a place at the front. After
taking their seats, they looked carefully about them.
They were in a large, high hall. The walls were
discolored in many places, and a colony of indus-
trious spiders had left their marks all over the
corners of the ceiling. A light railing marked off
perhaps one-third of the room — drawing the divid-
ing line between lawyers and spectators. The seats
were low and rough, and many an industrious knife
had used them for an autograph album. The men
sat on one side of the room, while the women filled
the other. Behind the bar, at one side, sat a line of
old, white-haired men, with their heads bent forward
upon their canes. At the other side, the members
of the choir were gathered about a small organ.
The singers were mostly bright, young girls, there
being but three men to hold up the masculine portion

THE MAN AT THE DOOR 171

of the music. Mr. Battle went up and took his seat
with the choir. He tried to get John and Nellie to
follow him, but they preferred to stay in the congre-
gation. The preacher sat on a little platform at the
extreme end of the room. It was the place usually
reserved for the judge. Just over his head stood a
small statue of " Justice." By some accident the
bandage over the eyes of this image had been
broken, and one eye looked carefully at the scales
held in the hand. The dust of time and neglect
had done its best to take the place of the bandage,
but it was not much of a success. The eye still
kept upon the scales.

The church services were conducted with spirit
and dignity. There was nothing about the sermon
that could not have been said at the old church at
Breezetown. Many of the expressions seemed odd
to the New England people — as, for instance, the
preacher spoke of giving a great ''dining." In mak-
ing an illustration of the freedom of salvation, he
said: "Suppose you were all invited to attend a
great dining. You would all go, I reckon. The man
who gave the dining would come out of his house
and say, * You are all free to come. This is for you.
You are all free to attend this dining.' "

John had somehow expected that the preacher
would allude to the political situation in his sermon.
There was nothing of the kind to be observed. The
sermon was simply a plain, earnest talk, and John
felt better after hearing it. The hymns, in which
Mr. Battle's bass did yeoman service, were well
sung. There was one deep alto voice in the choir

172 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

that swept like a flood of melody through the hymns.
At the last prayer the people all knelt together.
The sun shone brightly on the white-haired group at
the side. The old men prayed earnestly, with their
arms thrown over the railing. Kneeling there at
their side it did not seem possible to John that he
had fought these men, and that these women had
cursed him so terribly.

One thing happened that caused John a great deal
of study. As he entered the building he had noticed
a man of about his own age standing near the door.
This man stood in a humble, lifeless attitude, with
his hat pulled down over his eyes. John could only
see a portion of the face, but there was something
about it that made him stop in surprise. He could
not tell what it was — he was ashamed of himself
for stopping — yet when Nellie pulled at his arm he
went on into the court-house, trying to think where
he had seen that face before. It seemed burned
upon his memory, and yet he could not tell where it
had looked into his life. The man at the door did
not notice John at all. He pushed farther into the
corner, but his eyes were bent upon a young woman
who came slowly up the steps just behind John
and Nellie. He kept his eyes on the ground as
she came in the door, only now and then glancing
up at her face. She walked proudly past him, with-
out even looking in his direction.

She was a small woman — about as large as Nellie.
Her hair was black as jet, and her face pale and
pinched. Her eyes seemed to flash as she passed by
the man in the doorway, and her mouth came firmly

THE MAN AT THE DOOR 173

together as she turned her head away. The man
hung his head still lower as she entered the room.
He came in at length, and sat on the end of the
row where she was sitting. He kept his eyes straight
ahead, and never looked at her until she bent forward
during the last prayer. Then he watched her with a
wistful look in his eyes. After the service he walked-
slowly out with the rest. He seemed to be alone.
Few people spoke to him, and John saw him at last
mount his horse and ride slowly out of town.

John and Nellie talked about him as they walked
home from church. Mr. Battle stayed behind. He
wished to practise with the choir, and there was a
good prospect of his being invited to address the
Sunday-school. John was greatly puzzled. He
could not bring himself to remember where he had
seen that face, and yet he remembered it well.
Nellie laughed at him. She had only noticed that
the strange man was dreadfully in love with the
pale woman in black. She was glad John had
noticed the man, for now he could tell just how he
had looked on a certain memorable occasion. John
laughed at this and said he was sure he had never
looked quite like that ; but Nellie was sure of it, so
he said nothing more about it, though he still studied
away to try and see if he could not tell where he
had seen the stranger.

As they walked slowly onward, a man came brisk-
ly behind them. John turned aside to make room
for passing, but the new-comer did not seem at all
disposed to hurry by. He seemed so evidently
desirous of speaking that John nodded and at last

174 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

held out his hand. The stranger shook the proffered
hand heartily.

" Mr. Rockwell, I reckon," he said.

" Yes, sir : that's my name," answered John.

"I'm mighty glad to see you, sar," said the new-
comer, as he shook hands again. "My name is
Bond — David Bond. I come from Iowa. I heard
that you come in last night, an' I wanted to speak to
ye after preachin', but somehow I didn't like to
bother ye. My wife thought I'd better step along
an' invite ye to come round an' eat dinner with us.
We ain't gut no great show, but, such as 'tis, we'd
like to have ye come an' eat."

There was a bluff heartiness about this invitation
that pleased John and Nellie greatly. It came
nearer the home style of doing such things than
anything they had found since they had left New
England. They accepted at once, and followed Mr.
Bond up a side street till he stopped before a little
cottage that stood back from the street in a perfect
mass of vines and trees. " This is my place," said
Mr. Bond, as he opened the gate for them to pass
through.

Mrs. Bond stood at the front of the house to wel-
come them. She was a thin, sickly woman with a
sweet, patient face, that told of strengthening suffer-
ing. She greeted the new-comers so pleasantly that
Nellie could not help kissing her. This act tended
to bring out the best possible feeling among the
whole party. John and Mr. Bond, of course, had to
shake hands again, and Mr. and Mrs. Bond had to
kiss little Nellie, while John gathered about him the

THE JSIAN AT THE DOOR 175

small army of little people that came trooping out of
the house. Nellie afterwards told John that it
seemed just like meeting "home folks."

After a short talk Mrs. Bond excused herself.
The dinner was well under way, and she was obliged
to superintend it. Nellie went too, though Mrs.
Bond tried to make her remain on the piazza. She
did not like to ask her 'visitor to work, but Nellie
was determined to help. Most of the children fol-
lowed the women, and Mr. Bond and John were left
to talk.

John simply asked a few questions and let Mr.
Bond talk. He had listened to so many different
opinions that he hardly knew what to say. Mr. Bond
seemed glad of the chance of telling his story. It
had been locked up in his heart too long. It seemed
to take some of the bitterness away to relate it to
friendly ears. He talked so long and earnestly that
both of the men were surprised when the crowd of
children came rushing back with a loud call for din-
ner. The two men rose and followed the little army
of hungry mouths back to the dinner-table, where
the two women were waiting. The baby — of course
there had to be a baby in such a well ordered
family — was staring from the arms of a little negro
boy as they passed through the hall. David caught
the little end of the family on his shoulder, and car-
ried him in triumph into the room. When they sat
at the table, baby sat on his father's knee in order
to save room.

The dinner was a very merry one. To be sure
the table was small and the company was a large

176 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

one, yet the two families were on such good terms that
a little crowding did not hurt them at all — in fact
it did them good. The little negro boy, with one or
two of the smaller children to help him wash dishes
and spoons, did nobly as a waiter. The children
who helped him sat at the ends of the table, in con-
venient places for sliding in and out of their chairs
without giving a serious shock to the whole company.
Sometimes they took part of their dinner with them
and ate with one hand while they helped with the
other. The dinner was a great success. There was
nothing elegant about it, but everybody, down to
the baby, had enough to eat. The guests felt tliat
they Avere being handsomely treated, and the host
and hostess knew that their friends enjoyed them-
selves. How could a dinner be more of a success?
When it was finished, David showed John about the
little place. By hard work and study the few rough
acres had been turned into a garden. There was a
small vineyard, a little orchard, a good garden, and a
pasture for the cow. Below the garden fence was a
rough hillside, cut with great gullies that seemed to
have turned red with the blood of murdered agricul-
ture. On the other side of the fence was the neat
garden. It seemed as if some monster had gnawed
its way up to the fence and then turned back in rage
before the careful culture that dulled its cruel teetli.
The red gullies had been closed up and every foot
of land inside the fence was doing its duty. David
pointed out the difference to John.

"Five years ago," lie said, "it was all just like
that land below that fence. Now you see what a

THE MAN AT THE DOOR 177

little work and mother-wit have done. They told
me all along that I couldn't raise grapes or apples or
peaches in this country. They all said this land
would wash out. Here it is, an' it don't look like it
was goin' to wash much this year. You can raise
anything you want in this country. People hang
onto cotton an' won't touch nothin' else. They buy
their meat an' corn an' pay three prices for 'em.
They can raise every ounce of meat an' every peck
of corn right in this country, an' they have got to do
it or leave for some other State where the land ain't
wore out. They have got to pick up Yankee farmin'
an' the Yankee style of doin' things, whether they
want to or not."

As John and Nellie walked back to the hotel, they
talked over the events of the day. Mrs. Bond had
told Nellie her side of the life during the '' Radical
rule."

John studied away in silence for a moment. Then
he said, suddenly :

" Are you sorry we came down here ? "

" Not a mite," said Nellie, brightly. " We shall
get along all right, I'm sure — only don't say a word
about politics, John. It won't do us any good and
it might hurt us dreadfully."

They found Mr. Battle waiting on the piazza.

" Where you folks ben ? " he asked, as they came
up. " I've sorter lost run of ye sence the preachin' —
ye orter stayed an' heard what I said to the Sunday-
school. They 'peared to like it first-rate."

" We've ben makin' a visit," said John.

"Where'd ye go? — beats all how you folks pick

178 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

up friends, don't it? There was a feller like to in-
vited me home ter dinner, but somehow he didn't
git round to it. Beats all how these folks sorter
hang off an' never come up when ye want 'em. Goin'
to preachin' agin this evenin', I suppose, ain't ye ? "
John and Nellie decided to stay at home, and, after
further talk, Mr. Battle went alone to contribute his
bass to the volume of the choir's music.

CHAPTER XVI.

EUN TO KUINS

As soon as breakfast was over, Monday morning,
John went to the livery stable to secure a horse. A
sleepy negro was the only business occupant of the
stable, and, while this individual was caring for the
horse, John walked slowly up the main street. He
felt so full of energy that he could not sit down and
wait. There were very few people abroad. The
Jews were all in their stores, and a few men sat
along in front of the buildings, smoking their pipes
as if the week could never be properly opened with-
out an extra flood of smoke. They smoked with
great seriousness and kept their eyes fixed upon the
ground. There was no energy about their pleasure.
The smoke crawled lazily out of their mouths, as if
caring little what its future might be. A melan-
choly individual was standing in front of the store
where John had talked with the fat merchant — a
tall, thin man with a yellow face and hair of the
same color. The face was long and thin — the
cheeks hollow — and the eyes were small and dull
with a heavy, boiled appearance. The forehead re-
ceded as if in haste to meet the tangle of hair that
looked as if the thin man had placed a quantity of
poorly cured hay under his hat. The face looked as

179

180 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

if this hay had been steeped and the water permitted
to slowly trickle down to the chin. The man was
clothed in a suit of jean of a most uncertain color.
His clothing hung about him with about as much
grace — as John expressed it — as the week's wash-
ing hung on the clothes-line. A pair of great shape-
less shoes covered his feet. He had evidently just
driven into town, and was resting against a rickety
wagon before which stood two stunted oxen, leaning
against each other for support. The man held an
empty bag in his hand.

As John came nearer, this melanchol}^ individual
started from his position near the wagon, and
walked slowly and despairingly into the store. The
fat proprietor met him at the door, and John fol-
lowed the two, curious to see wliat the mission of
such a melancholy specimen of humanity could be.
After along discussion the customer bought a peck
of corn and a great lump of salt pork. He looked
longingly at other provisions which the proprietor
temptingly displayed, but they seemed to be too ex-
pensive for him. He walked back to his wagon at
last — walked wearily, as if the rust had gathered on
all his joints. After packing his supplies away in
the wagon, he started his gaunt oxen into activity,
and walked down the street at their side, cracking
his great whip as he walked. It seemed like a per-
fect picture of agricultural despair.

The portly merchant, rendered affable by his early
sale, smiled as he glanced at John's face.

"Mighty hard way ter live, I reckon," he said, as
he nodded in the direction of his gaunt customer.

RUN TO RUINS 181

" He'll go out till he eats that meat up, an' then
he'll come back for mo'."

" How do you git yer pay ? " asked John.

The customer had paid no cash for the goods, and
John could hardly see how such a looking man could
secure credit. At home, a merchant would not have
trusted such a man with a box of matches.

" Oh, that's all right, I reckon. We don't lose no
pay scarcely. Them things is all paid for now, ye
might say. We jest take a lien on his crop, an'
when he brings it in we run up his account an' start
him off agin for next year. Such fellers as him don't
raise nothin' but cotton. We keep 'em in corn an'
meat an' take their crop to pay for it. They might
raise every pound o' meat, I reckon. Folks uster
could befo' the war, but that ain't none of my busi-
ness, I reckon. Them fellers don't never git nothin'
ahead. They ain't gut no pluck, an' they won't
never be nothin'. I reckon they'll all have ter move
out for Texas, some day. I'd hate powerful to see
'em go, for there's a heap of money to be made trad-
in' with 'em."

" Where do ye git yer pork an' corn ? " asked
John.

" Right smart of it comes from Chicago. It costs
a heap to git it yer, too."

" Couldn't ye raise the heft of it here ? "

" I reckon so. I reckon we cud raise it all if folks
warn't so powerful lazy."

John walked back to the stable, thinking over
what he had seen and heard. If this farmer was a fair
type of the men who were to be his neighbors, he

182 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

would certainly have very little in the way of society.
The facts concerning the provisions pleased him ex-
ceedingly. With keen Yankee thrift he saw at once
tlie key to the situation. With these thousands of
people raising nothing but cotton, and buying such
a large proportion of their meat, the meat producer or
stock grower would be in a position to reap an
abundant profit.

Colonel Gray had given John unlimited authority.
The officer knew nothing of agriculture, and he had
the utmost confidence in John's wisdom and ability.
He stood ready to supply any reasonable capital, and
place the entire management of it in John's hands.
John was acquainted with but one style of farming,
and he was not the man to experiment with the prop-
erty of others. The first principle of agriculture, as
he understood it, was to supply as much as possible of
the food used at home. On the thin, rocky farm in
Maine, he had raised almost all the provisions
needed in the family. Those that could not be
raised at home were bought with the money ob-
tained from the sale of extra hay or stock. This was
the only style of farming that John understood, and
the more he saw of the South, the more he became
convinced that the system could be made very suc-
cessful on a larger scale.

John rode slowly out of town, over a lonely coun-
try road that went crawling lazily over little sand
hills and low, level places, as if it liad been left to
pick out its own way. John rode slowl3\ He was
painfully aware of the fact that he was not a grace-
ful rider. He preferred to let the horse select its

RUN TO RUINS 183

own pace rather than urge the animal to a rate of
speed that would betray his own awkwardness.
The animal he bestrode was of such a very mild dis-
position that the arrangement suited liim exactly.
He went on with a long, swinging walk, peculiar to
the Southern riding horse, tossing his head slowly
up and down, to show how well this pace suited
him.

It was not a cheerful ride. The country seemed,
somehow, to be covered with a shadow. The woods
were green and beautiful, the flowers were springing
by the road, and the sun came sparkling in right
good humor — yet there was something, it was hard
10 say what, that seemed to deaden and chill what
should have been a beautiful picture. No doubt if
John had never seen the hills and lanes of New Eng-
land, he would have been satisfied with this pros-
pect. No doubt the picture was more magnificent
than any he had ever seen on his gray old rocks at
home, but he could not appreciate it. Most of the
land near the road seemed dead and wasted. A few
scattering fields of corn or cotton showed green and
beautiful in the sunshine, but the vast tract of land
stretched back from the road, dull and gnawed by
great waste patches that disfigured its surface, dis-
appointing the visitor. There was only a rank
growth of weeds or worthless grasses to cover its
nakedness. In the great agricultural prize fight it
had been soundly whipped.

The fields were not even used as pastures. In
New England every acre would have been dotted
with cattle or sheep. Here, the only stock to be

184 ANDERS ON VILLE VIOLETS

seen were a few work horses or mules, and some an-
gular cows that kept close to the house, as if for
society. In place of the great smile of hospitality
that seems to light up the front of a New England
home, a pack of savage dogs came tearing out at
almost every yard to snarl and bark the sentiments
of the family. No wonder the country seemed
dreary and lifeless to John. There was no life and
bustle of industry. All nature lay idle and wasted.
There is nothing but work, or the evidence of it
that can put true beauty into a landscape.

There were but few houses to be seen along the
road. A few negro cabins, rough, and broken, and
disorderly, each with its little patch of cotton or
"truck," stood at wide intervals. At longer dis-
tances, the house of some large planter would start
gloomily out from its little grove of trees. Most of
them were massive structures, with wide piazzas and
great pillars in front. They all seemed neglected
and gloomy. The paint had been worn away, and
never replaced. The grounds, planned in the days
of magnificence, before the war, had never been kept
up. Now, the weeds and grass ran over walks and
flower-beds, and choked out the beauty of the orig-
inal design. The fences were ragged and unpainted.
All things bore the mark of some terrible blight that
was still eating its way to the heart.

John was directed to his own place by an old negro,
who sat sunning himself in front of a cabin. This old
fellow pointed, with liis stick, a short distance down
the road, to a place where a broken gate admitted a
side track into a small grove. John rode on in the

RUN TO RUINS 185

direction thus indicated, and halted at the gate for a
first view of his new home. The gate had fallen di-
rectly across the road, and several teams had evi-
dently been driven over it. Some of the slats had
been cut off for firewood. The fence was falling in
many places. The road wound gracefully up through
the little grove, to the front of a large white house,
inclosed by a low picket fence. The house looked
dingy and dirty. The paint had peeled away in
spots, and the blinds hung broken and unjointed, or
stood up against the house. Many of the windows
were broken, and the door that opened into the wide
hall was off its hinges. It stood helplessly up against
the side of the hall, leaving the open door to grin
over its victory. There were great dingy spots of
decay about the door and windows, like the dark
lines that gather about the mouth and eyes of a sick
person. The little yard in front of the house was
foul with weeds and vines. It looked like a face on
which is growing a two-weeks beard. It is too short
to be picturesque, and too long to be tidy.

As John rode in from the gate, he found a negro
working by the side of the driveway. It was John's
first view of Southern haj^making, and he watched
the process with a curious mixture of feelings. The
negro had gathered his hay into a number of small
piles. He was engaged in carrying it to some point
behind the house. He had a broken wheelbarrow,
which he placed at some central point. Then, with
a long-handed sliovel, he made a trip to each little
pile, returning witli a shovelful to the wheelbarrow.
When about one-fourth of an ordinary " forkful " had

186 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

been collected in this vehicle, he started leisurely
with his load, stopping to " rest " at short intervals.
John watched one of these trips without a word.
When the negro came back, he ducked his head,
with, " Howdy, boss ? "

"Why don't ye use yer fork an' take a good-sized
load ? " asked John.

" I ain't gut nary a one, boss," was the answer, as
the negro stopped work to lean on his shovel and
scratch his head.

"What'd ye cut that hay with?" asked John, as
he dismounted and fastened his horse to a tree. The
ground from which the hay had been cut looked
more like a shingled roof than the smooth mowing
ground at home.

" I reckon I done cut it with a hoe, boss."

The negro spoke as though he considered the only
surprising thing connected with this fact to be the
thought that a white man should not know what
tools were in use.

As John was speaking, two men came riding along
the road. At the gate they separated. One came
up the driveway to the house, while the other rode
on down the road towards the town. John knew
the first to be Colonel Fair, while the other was tlie
strange man he had noticed at the court-house the
day before. Colonel Fair rode up and fastened his
horse to a tree. He shook hands with John.

"Glad to see ye, judge. I thought I'd ride over,
an' show ye round a little. Them niggers have jest
about run things into the ground, I reckon. Here,
you, Jim," he said, sharply, to the black hay-

RUN TO RUINS 187

maker, *'go git me some water; bring it into the
house."

Jim dropped his shovel, and at once started for
the well, while Colonel Fair led the w^ay into the
house. John groaned aloud at the weedy garden
and the ding}' house.

The house was in wild disorder. In what was
once the grand parlor the negroes had heaped a great
pile of cotton. Most of the furniture had been re-
moved. The walls were discolored, and the floors
blackened. John wondered what Nellie would say
when she saw the dirty rooms.

An old negro woman sat sunning herself on the
back porch. She was smoking a short clay pipe,
which she removed from her mouth as the two men
came through the hall. After some discussion, she
was induced to stir from her comfortable position
and kindle a fire under a large kettle that hung be-
tween two posts in the yard. John was determined
to begin operations at once, with a liberal applica-
tion of hot water to the inside of the house. The
black haymaker was detailed to assist the old woman;
and leaving the two at their new work, the white men
started out to look over the plantation.

It was a sad-looking sight to a thrifty farmer like
John. Not one-tenth of the land was under cultiva-
tion in any form. A few fields of sickly cotton and
consumptive corn, and some few truck patches around
the negro cabins, comprised the entire agricultural
system of the place. Great barren fields, covered
with weeds, and cut and slashed with great red
wounds, stretched away on every hand. There was

188 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

only one small shed to serve for a barn. The only
stock to be seen ran swiftly away at their approach,
— a small drove of long-nosed hogs, and two bony
cows; old tools, sticks, and litter of all kinds were
scattered about. A gin-house stood at some little
distance from the shed, and a pan for evaporating
sugar was built near the well. The plantation had
evidently been once owned by a large slaveholder.
The negro cabins were numerous; they formed a
little village just below the house. A few negroes
w^ere at work in the cotton fields, while a small army
of little blacks ran about the place or played under
the trees. John and Colonel Fair walked down to
the little hill back of the gin-house, where they could
look over the entire plantation. Never had John
seen the literature of idleness, mismanagement, and
lack of thrift written so deeply upon a farm. Here
in this beautiful country, with everj^ natural advan-
tage, this grand old plantation, with all its wonder-
ful possibilities, was running to a desert. He did
not feel in the least discouraged. He had perfect
confidence in his own ability. He knew what land
could be made to do. His life had shown him what
honest work could accomplish.

" What be they thinkin' of, to run a farm this
way ? " he asked, as they started back to the house.
"I see that feller in front of the house loadin' hay
with a round-pinted shovel. That beats all the
hayin' I ever see."

" You'll see plenty more jest like it afore you git
done here," said Colonel Fair. " They don't know no
better, an' a heap of 'em don't care nothin' about

KUN TO KUINS 189

learnin'. A heap of the white folks jest leave their
farms to such niggers as you've gut here, an' then
growl because they can't make nothin' at farmin'.
The great trouble with this country " — he stopped
in the shade of the gin-house to put a rivet on his
argument — "is jest what I told you in town.
There's a heap of old fellers here that jest live to
keep this country back. I've lived here a good
many years, an' I've studied these fellers like a book.
I've done well here — mighty well. I started with
nothin' an' now I kin show the best place in the
county. I'm well fixed, but I ain't satisfied. There
ain't nobody here for me to talk to as I wanter talk.
It's worth a heap ter live up North among them
people, I reckon. I'm mighty glad you've come in.
We ain't had much for neighbors afore now. Old
Doc. Lawrence is a nice old man, but he ain't gut
no sense at all. Sorter cracked, I reckon. Foster
over yunder ain't no company. Sorter slack, he is,
an' yet, come to git him to work, he might do some-
thin'. We must work together an' try to fill this
country up with Northern men. If we kin get a
hundred families in round us here, we won't want no
better thing at all. We can run the county an' fix
things to suit us. I sorter like you. I reckon you've
come here to stay. We can work together on a good
many things."

As they walked in from the gin-house, John told
all of his story that he thought advisable. He told
enough to show Colonel Fair what he meant to try
and do. His new neighbor showed much interest in
the plans.

190 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

"You're gut jest tlie riglitidee," was his comment.
" You kin turn every one of them rough-looking
fields into a pasture. Don't try to raise nothin' but
cotton. That's a good crop to raise, jest like they
raise wheat at the North. Make it the surplus crop
an' you've gut 'era."

They reached the house to find the cleaning opera-
tions suspended for the time being. The fire under
the kettle had gone out while listening to an ani-
mated discussion on religion, that had been started
by the haymaker and warmly taken up by the old
woman. The two debaters stood by the side of the
kettle, talking and gesticulating with such earnest-
ness that they did not notice the approach of the
white men. When they looked up to find that a
new and critical audience had assembled, they
dropped the debate and fell upon their work with a
vigor which would, if kept up, soon have finished
the job. The haymaker dropped upon his knees and
put his breath to a more practical use, by blowing
fresh life into the fire. The old woman hurriedly
stirred the water, as if that process would hasten its
heating. Colonel Fair smiled at John's expression
of disgust. *' That's all riglit," he said, "you've
got to stay right over 'em an' make 'em work.
That's jest nigger-like, an' you can't change it at
all."

John did "stay over " them with a royal good will
for the rest of the forenoon. He even took off his
coat and worked with them. With an old broom
and a bucket of hot water, they scrubbed out the
hall and two rooms. John tried to find a scythe

RUN TO RUINS 191

with which to mow the weeds that had formed a
dense mat in the little yard. Such an implement
was unknown on the plantation. The little hay-
that had been secured had been cut with hoes.
John hunted out a negro who brought a great
clumsy hoe witli which he slashed the weeds. There
was no such thing as a pitchfork on the place.

Colonel Fair rode away, on some errand of his
own, shortly after John began work. At noon he
came back and insisted that John should go home to
take dinner with him. John was glad of this invita-
tion. There was something about this blunt neigh-
bor that he liked. Leaving the negroes at work, the
two men rode out at the broken gate and down along
the road over which John had come.

Colonel Fair's house stood about half a mile from
John's gate. They were neighbors, as the two plan-
tations joined. The house stood back from the road,
in a beautiful group of trees. Everything about it
was neat and orderly. The paint was fresh, the
fences were well kept, and the lawn was clean and
well arranged. It was a beautiful picture of thrift
and comfort. There were no dead and wasted-look-
ing fields in sight. Everything was covered with a
beautiful cloak of green — Nature's bridal color.

" Looks sorter nice, don't it ? " said Colonel Fair,
as he reined in his horse at the gate. " It was wuss-
lookin' than yours is when I fust took hold of it. It
takes work, an' an almighty stout heart, to git along
here, but it's sure to count in the end."

Colonel Fair's family consisted of his wife and
two young boys. They all greeted John very pleas-

192 ANDEliSONVILLE VIOLETS

antly. The boys seemed a little strange to John.
Born at the North and inheriting Northern senti-
ments and tastes, they had been brought up at the
South, with all the peculiar influences that affect the
Southern youth. They were different from North-
ern boys, and yet unlike the boys born at the South.
Colonel Fair touched upon this very point when,
after dinner, they drew their chairs out on the
piazza.

" I'm mighty sorry," he said, " that I can't bring
up my children at the North. It's mighty bad to
have children, boys 'specially, come up here
amongst these niggers. It spoils a smart boy to
bring him up here where he kin git a nigger to
breathe for him if he wants. The nigger was born
to work an' he knows it. These boys understand
jest how 'tis an' they are goin' ter shirk all they kin.
You notice now in these Southern families, an' see if
it ain't jest as I tell ye. The girls are the smartest
every time. Nine times out of ten, the brains an'
the ' git up ' of the family will be found right in
the girls. The woman of the next Southern genera-
tion will run things. Now you see. if that ain't so."

"But what makes 'em let things run so ter
ruins?" asked John. He could not bring himself to
understand how men with ordinary common sense
could live as most of the people were evidently
living.

"They're sorter lazy, an' then agin they all wanter
be boss. They kin all talk some big scheme about
doin' things in a hurry, but you talk to 'em about
usin' a lighter hoe, or ploughin' deeper, an' they won't

RUN TO RUINS 193

listen to ye. Some like the story I heard a feller
tell once about General Scott. They was fightin' the
Mexicans, an' old Scott had his hands about full.
Jest when the fight gut hottest, there riz up a cloud
o' dust about a half a mile back of Scott's head-
quarters. Nobody knowed what 'twas. A squad
rode back to look things up, an' when they come
near they see a crowd of men markin' time in the
road — jest kickin' up a big dust. The officer called
out ' Who are ye ? ' One man stopped markin' time
and yelled back, 'A regiment of Kentucky kernels
come to reenforce Scott ! ' There warn't a private in
the whole crowd — nobody to obey orders, and there
they stood markin' time."

As Colonel Fair finished his story, and before he
could make any application, a horseman came riding
slowly in at the gate. He directed his horse up the
driveway, and when within a short distance of the
house stopped and held up several letters to indicate
that he had brought the mail. John recognized the
horseman at once. It was the man he had seen at
the court-house who had watched the pale woman in
black so closely. John knew he had seen that face
before, and yet he could not tell where. He was
glad to follow Colonel Fair down to the fence. He
hoped to get a better look at the horseman. He
followed so closely that an introduction was abso-
lutely necessary.

The two men shook hands and glanced closely at
each other. The name of Foster brought no intel-
ligence to John. He knew he had never spoken
with the man before, and yet there was something in

194 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

the face that seemed natural. Jack Foster — for it
was surely he — looked down into John's face with
a puzzled expression. Where had he seen this tall
Yankee before ? He started once, as if about to
speak, but at last, after a few commonplace remarks,
he turned his horse and rode slowly back to the
gate. Half-way down the road he turned back for
another look at John. He nodded his head and
closed his mouth firmly, while a bitter look crept
over his face. Every movement of that little drama
that had so rudely broken his life had been burned
deeply into his memor3\ That famine-stricken face,
looking up from that terrible Andersonville, rose in
his mind again. He knew that John was the des-
perate prisoner. The man for whose sake he had
killed his own happiness had come to live near him.

'' Maybe he's come to bring me good luck," he
muttered grimly. " He can't bring any more bad
luck, I reckon."

"There's a man that orter make a good neighbor
if somebody could only stir him up a little," said
Colonel Fair, as Jack Foster rode away. " They
don't like him fust-rate 'round here. They've gut
sometliin' agin him that dates 'way back to the war.
He done somethin', I can't make out jest what it is,
that they can't never git over. He went back on 'em
some way. He ain't no coward, for I've seen him
fight. But there's somethin' wrong an' they don't
trust him. He won't never say nothin' about it to
me. He's a good sharp feller, but somehow he ain't
gut no ambition to fix up his place au' be some-
body."

BUN TO KUINS 195

As John started back to work at his own planta-
tion, Mrs. Fair came and invited him to bring Nellie
and stay until his own house could be arranged.
Colonel Fair seconded the invitation so heartily that
John accepted at once. He rode back to town, stop-
ping only for a moment at the plantation, to see that
the work of cleaning was still going on. It was
"going on," but so slowly that he saw it would
never be finished until he superintended it in per-
son. The negroes were applying the hot water as
tenderly as they would have applied it to their own
bodies. It is wonderful how laziness cultivates pity.
The lazy man always seems to feel that the object
upon which his work is exerted is in danger of being
seriously injured.

John rode into town and had a busy afternoon.
He bought a pair of horses and a wagon and such
tools as he needed for immediate work. The little
luggage that he had brought from New England was
at the depot. With Nellie's help he selected enough
furniture to furnish a few rooms of the great house.
John was glad to be at work again. He worked
with an energy that fairly surprised the natives.
The men who sat in front of the stores watched him
with sneers.

"He works mighty brash, don't he?" they mut-
tered. ''He'll git over that afore he's ben here
long."

John gave his social standing a staggering blow
before he went home. On his way to the hotel he
stopped at the village well for a drink of water. An
old, white-haired negro, bent and twisted with age,

196 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

came hobbling up just as John reached the well.
The old fellow caught hold of the rope to draw the
water. He was pulling feebly at the heavy weight
when John took the rope out of his hands.

"Let me pull it, uncle," he said. "I s'pose I've
gut more muscle than you have."

Of course he should have w^aited and made the
old fellow pull the weight alone, but John had curi-
ous notions with regard to gray hairs. He pulled
up the water and then actually filled tlie cup and
handed it to the old negro before he drank himself.
The old fellow pulled off his hat in his great pleasure
at this compliment. He did not take the cup, but
motioned John to drink first. When John walked
up the street, the old fellow stood watching him
with admiring eyes.

After supper John sat on the piazza and told his
wife and little Nellie all about the day's adventures.
Mr. Battle was greatly interested in the story. He
followed the party from their room, and questioned
John very closely with regard to his plans and the
value of the plantation.

" I s'pose you've gut quite a place out there, ain't
ye ? Must be worth a hundred thousand dollars, I
expect."

" I don't know," said John, cautiously. He was
getting a little tired of this constant questioning.

" Wal, call it seventy-five thousand — it must be
worth that, I s'pose — ain't it? "

" I don't know," was John's only answer.

" Wal, say sixty thousand — there ain't no doubt
about that, I s'pose ? "

EUN TO KUINS 197

*' I don't know how 'tis."

" Wal, say fifty thousand — it can't be no less
than that, can it ? "

John did not know, and Mr. Battle very accommo-
datingly reduced the price to twenty-five thousand.
This had no better effect, and at last he changed his
tactics a little.

" I s'pose you're somethin' like a feller that lived
in our town a number o' years ago. He was a good,
honest feller, but somehow or nuther he didn't seem
to git along fust-rate. Folks sorter made fun of
him. He couldn't go nowheres but he'd be the fool
of the crowd. Gut so at last that he went away, an'
folks sorter forgot him. After a year or so, back he
come, an' I tell ye folks didn't make no more fun
o' him. He'd done fust-rate in some new country,
an' I s'pose he cud buy an' sell 'em all."

Mr. Battle might have produced other facts con-
cerning his friend, had not the sound of the melo-
deon attracted his attention at this moment. He
was pulled out of his chair by the music.

" Better come in an' sing, hadn't ye ? " he asked,
as he rose to go.

John and Nellie excused themselves. They were
tired, and they wished to talk over the events of the
day. So Mr. Battle went alone. In a short time
they heard his bass forming a strong combination
with the instrument. They were glad to see him
go. They wished to talk alone.

John and Nellie sat and talked till the little girl
fell asleep on her mother's lap. Then the little fam-
ily went to their room.

198 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

" Do you know, John," said Nellie, as they stood
watching the child asleep, " that I feel, somehow,
that we are going to meet the man who let you get
those flowers in that prison I "

" And I believe I've seen him already," said John,
quickl}^ and he told her about Jack Foster and how
he knew he had seen the man before.

" What if it should be him ? " he asked suddenly.

"I hope it is; I shall be very glad, for I want to
say something to him."

" What is it ? " demanded John.

" Oh, you must wait and see," and the little
woman reached up to kiss her husband.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE GERMS OF A NEW MANHOOD

The rest of the week was packed full of work for
John and Nellie. There was more to be done than
they had supposed. After looking the house over
carefully, John decided to make some extended re-
pairs. This work would take some little time, and
Nellie decided to stay with Mrs. Fair rather than try
and occupy the house before it could be finished.
She came to the plantation every day and helped
John arrange for the future. John worked hard
and thoughtfully. Acting upon Colonel Fair's ad-
vice, he determined to clear out half the negro
cabins and turn them into stables or shelters for
stock. Most of the negroes were working ''on
shares." He was able to arrange with them to
leave when the crops should be gathered. Load
after load of lumber was brought out from town,
and John worked early and late to complete his ar-
rangements for stock-growing.

Like most Northern men, John made a mistake,
at first, in dealing with the negroes. He was too
easy with them, and he expected them to do or-
dinary work without direction. He soon found
that they took advantage of his lack of firmness.
They became so familiar that he was obliged to be

109

200 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

very strict with them in order that they might know
their place. They were like great children in many
things. Careless and good-natured, they would
laugh and sing, or lie about in the sun and play
some simple game. Well superintended and kept in
good spirits, they did fair w^ork, but the great ma-
jority of them were unable to plan their own work
to any advantage. After John came to understand
them, he got on better with his work than he did
at first. He found, after many sore trials, that
about the only way to succeed with the present sys-
tem of negro labor is to give the negro to under-
stand that he cannot enter the white man's place.
Such, unfortunately, is the present idea. There are
in every community a few clear-headed and digni-
fied negroes, but the great masses of black workmen
are ignorant, and cannot be governed as one would
govern men of intelligence.

As John studied the matter, this question came
up in his mind: "What shall we do with this mass
of workmen when they learn, as they surely will,
something of the dignity of manhood?" It will be
impossible then to treat them as they are treated
now. To say that they will not improve and grow
out of tlieir present ignorance, is to say that all
history is a lie. Jolin brought himself to believe
that behind the negro's mask of ignorance and care-
lessness there lie the germs of a new manhood that
will surely push to the outside. To be sure, the
most of his negroes were lazy and careless. They
were shockingly immoral. He was obliged to admit
that he could not possibly allow them to eat at his

THE GERMS OF A NEW MANHOOD 201

table, or appear in his family, except as servants.
Yet there were keen-minded and thoughtful negroes.
Even his careless workmen, when they thought they
had his entire confidence, showed that there was a
little something of sober manhood hidden behind
their black faces. That manhood will be developed
— slowly, it may be imperceptibly — yet it will
grow, and must, in time, assert itself.

A common impression prevails at the North that
the Southern man treats the negro cruelly. The few
old cases of slave-whipping or starving are quoted as
being fair examples of the way in which the negroes
were treated before the war. This idea is not a
just one. The Southern man aims to treat the
negro kindly, and to see that he does not suffer.
There is no thought of a possible equality. He is
simply dealing with a " nigger," who is treated
kindly or affectionately, just as one would show
affection for the family horse or the family cow.

People do not even blame the negro particularly
for the part he took in the " Radical " government.
The blame is laid upon the " Radicals," who organ-
ized the negroes, and supplied the brain power of the
movement. The negro is regarded generally as
harmless when left to himself, and treated as a valu-
able animal would be treated — kindly but firmly.
He was simply a tool in the hands of designing
" carpet-baggers." There was no particular reason
why he should be greatly blamed for what had
taken place. When we consider the condition of
the ordinary negro, and the course of treatment that
has placed him in his present position, we can under-

202 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

stand why he is treated as he is, and what a disgust
fills the heart of the Southern man or woman at the
bare suggestion of living on terms of equality with
former slaves.

John fought through the war with the belief that
the sole object of the struggle was to free the slaves.
Such was the real object, though it was covered for
a time by questions of political economy. John
came to the South with the idea firmly fixed in his
mind that all the negro needed to make him a good
citizen was a little encouragement and practical
example. He had common sense enough to see»
after a few weeks, that Northern arguments and
theories would not w^ork on Southern soil. While
the Northern theory of negro advancement and in-
telligence might work to perfection in Pennsylvania
or New York, it was destined to make a complete
and ridiculous failure at the South at the present
day, for the simple reason that there was no one to
help the negro develop himself. He must do the
work alone. Surrounded as he was by men and cir-
cumstances so directly opposed to his rapid advance-
ment in intelligence and dignity, it was absurd to
suppose that strange men, having only a theorist's
idea of his nature and capabilities, men who could
not even command the entire confidence of the com-
munities in which they live, could deal with him
as they would have dealt with ignorant workmen at
home.

As matters stand to-day — with the brains, the
money, and the majority of his party hundreds of
miles away from him — the negro must work out

THE GERMS OF A NEW MANHOOD 203

his own social and political freedom. He can do it
only by showing himself worthy to be called a man.
He can do it only by writing a man's record on the
pages of history. It will be a long and heart-break-
ing work, but the work will only develop a truer and
nobler manhood. The white man can assist his
black neighbor as a child might be taught — not
by assuming that both are upon an equality, but by
patient yet firm teaching — better yet by practical
examples of industry and manhood.

It was a little awkward at first for John and
Nellie to assume the roles of master and mistress.
They had done all their own work so long that they
hardly knew, at first, how to direct the labor of
so many childish people. No doubt they made
mistakes at first, but after a little study the
mantle of authority fell easily about them, and
they were able to direct the work with dignity
and decision.

The first day that Nellie came to the plantation,
as she came up to the little gate before the house,
an old negro woman, bent and wrinkled, came hob-
bling down from the steps. The poor old creature
peered with her dim eyes at the new-comers, and
turned aside into the grass that they might pass her.
Nellie hurried forward to open the gate. She stood
beside it, and smilingly invited the old woman to
pass through before her. Bowing and ducking with
pleasure, the old creature came through. She paused
to peer into Nellie's smiling face.

" You is pooty, honey — I 'clare you is," she said,
as she dropped a courtesy that seemed like the

204 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

starting of a rusty machine. " You is po'ful pooty,
you is."

Nellie blushed with pleasure at this direct compli-
ment, and John seemed to appreciate it, too. The
old woman started mumbling away when slie caught
a look at John's face. She stopped and held one
withered hand before her eyes, that she might exam-
ine him carefully. She raised her stick and pointed
it at him as she spoke, slowly : —

" I know youse — I reckon you done stop at de
ole cabin in Georgy when you all kill dat dorg."

As she spoke, a tall negro, black as coal and
straight as an arrow, came walking past the cor-
ner of the house. The old woman looked at him
proudly.

" Dere's Solermun," she chuckled ; " I reckon
youse 'member him, sho' 'nuff."

John looked earnestly at the negro for a mo-
ment. The black man stood like a statue before
him.

" It is Sol," said John, as he sprang forward and
held out his hand. It was the black soldier who
had led the fugitives through the woods from Ander-
sonville. A gleam of pleasure spread over the
negro's heavy face. He took off his hat and shook
John's hand with — " Howdy, boss ? I's po'ful glad
to see you, boss — I reckon I is, sho' 'nuff."

Sol took little Nellie and raised her high in his
strong arms. She was not in the least afraid of
him. She laughed merrily, and when he settled her
upon his shoulder, she wound her little arm about
his woolly head. She had listened to the story of

THE GERMS OF A NEW MANHOOD 205

Sol's bravery many times. To her cluldish eyes he
was not simply a poor " nigger," but a man who had
saved her dear father's life.

''Did you help my papa an' Uncle Nathan when
they were lost in the woods ? " she asked, pushing
up his face so that she could see him.

" I reckon so, honey," was all Sol could say.

" I love you, then," — and the dear little girl bent
down and touched his black forehead with her rose-
bud mouth.

" I love you " — the words sank deep into the soul
of that black man. " I love you " — simple words
from a little child that knew nothing of the great
gulf that opened between her race and the man she
kissed. " I love you ! " What a hopeless love it
was, and yet who shall say that these simple words
were thrown away? Who can say that they may
not kindle into flame a spirit of chivalry as pure as
that of the days of old romance ?

Nellie took Sol's great hand in hers and thanked
him with the tenderness that belongs to such a
woman. He looked at her curiously, and his lips
came closely together. He did not rub his head and
laugh, as most negroes would have done. He stood
erect and firm — like a man. The old negress had
been watching the group carefully. She tottered
up to Sol's side, and patted his arm affectionately.

'' You is a good boy, Solermun. I done tole you
dat we's sho' to come out all right. I is Solermun's
mammy," she added to the rest. " Aunt Jinny dey
calls me alius. I is po'ful glad to see you all, bekase
I tinks a heap ob you all sence my ole man done gib
me dat little flag."

206 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

They all shook hands with Aunt Jinny, much to
her delight, and then John led the way up to the
house. Sol came last, carrying little Nellie on his
shoulders. John brought chairs to the piazza for
the company, but Sol would not sit down. He stood
erect, holding his hat in his hand. He seemed to
feel the difference between himself and his former
comrade. Aunt Jinny sat on the upper step and
took little Nellie in her lap. The old slave crooned
and rocked with the little girl until the latter laughed
out in glee.

Sol told his story simply and with few words.
He went back to the old plantation after the surren-
der, intending to settle down and work for his
parents. He did not lose his head, as many of the
negroes did during the period of reconstruction. He
kept honestly at work, and tried to keep out of poli-
tics. The negroes obtained control of affairs, and
for several years held the offices. Then came the
days, or rather nights, of the Ku Klux. Sol's father,
a harmless old man, who had no weapon but a loose
tongue, was taken from his house and whipped. Sol
came upon the whipping party and with his axe
knocked two of them senseless. His father died and
Sol was obliged to run for his life. After a month's
absence he came back by night and brought his
motlier away.

No one could tell how the two had wandered all
through these years. Up and down through Ala-
bama, through Mississippi, moving on aimlessly from
year to year. They would work through one crop
and then wander on to some new place. It is hard

THE GERMS OF A NEW MANHOOD 207

for the negro to build a new home without help.
Once driven from his old home, and he wanders
about aimlessly unless some stronger mind can
direct him. Sol had heard that a Northern man had
settled in the neighborhood. His mother had urged
him to come and apply for work. The old woman
had a reverence for Northern soldiers, that nothing
could destroy. So Sol had come. When the negro
finished his story, John rose and shook hands with
him again.

*'I want you to stay here, Sol," he said; *' you're
jest the man I want to help me."

" Tanky, boss. I'll do de bes' I knows," said Sol
as he looked anxiously at his mother.

Nellie understood him at once.

" She must stay here too, Sol," she said quickly.
" We will make her comfortable and take good care of
her."

Aunt Jinny looked up as Nellie spoke.

" You is mighty pooty, honey, you is, sho' 'nuff. I
is old and mighty nigh def, I reckon, but I kin work
yit, an' I'll take car ob little honey de bes' I kin."

And so the wanderers found a home. One of the
cabins was repaired and Sol and his mother moved
in at once. In their great gratitude John and Nellie
were almost ready at first to treat the negroes as
they would have treated white people ; but Sol never
stepped out of what he deemed to be his place. It
was only in private, where he knew he had John's
confidence, that Sol would ever drop the negro and
speak and think like a man. When other white peo-
ple were about he was only a respectful servant.

208 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

Colonel Fair called Sol a " likely nigger."
"You're a good boy, I reckon," he said. "You

wanter behave an' keep away from these night meet-

in's. Jest keep to work an' keep out o' politics.

Such fellers as you be never gut no office, did ye ? "
" I reckon not, boss," was all Sol said. There was

not a movement of his heavy face.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE ANDERSONVILLE SENTINEL

The more John thought about Jack Foster, the
more thoroughly he convinced himself that Jack was
the sentinel who had spared his life at Anderson-
ville. He hardly knew what to do in the matter —
whether to go to Jack and speak at once, or wait till
some chance should open a conversation on the sub-
ject. He decided at last to wait. They did not see
Jack again until the next Sunday, when they spent
the day with Mrs. Fair. After dinner Colonel Fair and
John sat on the piazza, when Jack Foster came rid-
ing slowly from town. They had been talking about
him but a moment before, and when he came in sight
Colonel Fair hailed and beckoned him to come up to
the house. After a moment's hesitation he turned
his horse in at the gate and rode up to a tree, where
he dismounted. Then he came up to the piazza.

" Come in and have dinner," said Colonel Fair.
" I reckon you're hungry after your ride."

Jack declined this invitation — he was not hungr}^
he said. Lucy's pale face at church had driven all
the hunger into his heart. He drew a chair up to
the others, and tilted back on it against one of the
pillars of the piazza. He looked at John keenly for
a moment, and studied his face carefully. Then his

209

210 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

eyes turned away and a dark look passed over Lis
face. John longed to thank the man — to do some-
thing to show how he felt, but that dark look forbade
such a thing.

The three men talked of the crops, the weather,
and general agriculture, until at last they drifted in-
to a discussion of politics and the general condition
of the country. Colonel Fair was pronounced and
bitter in his denunciations of the people. Jack
Foster listened attentively and at times answered
some statements that seemed to him too strong. He
talked like a well informed man, but he did not enter
into the discussion with any heart. His eyes kept
wandering down the road in the direction of the
town. There was a longing look in them at such
times. John had little to do but sit and listen to
the others.

"I claim — as I always have claimed," argued
Colonel Fair, " that this is a mighty good country.
I reckon there's room enough here for a heap o*
them poor folks up North, but they can't never do
nothin' here till a heap o' these old fellers dies off.
There's too many folks up there that care more for a
home than they do for money. That's jest the kind
o' folks this country needs, an' it's jest the kind o'
folks that ain't comin' here, because they can't git
no society. They keep on goin' out West, passin'
by this beautiful country, till it's too late to bring
'em here. They've gut to come in crowds an' settle
in colonies, an' if they do that they'll have a fight on
their hands right away. They'll rally the niggers
jest as sure as you live, an' if they do that you've

THE ANDEKSONVILLE SENTINEL 211

gut to do jest as ye did along back, or else let the
niggers have a show. Now ain't that so, Foster? "

"I reckon a heap of it is," said Jack slowly, "but
I don't reckon there's any way of helping it.
There's a heap of folks here in this country that's
lazy and don't know how to work. They are too
proud to learn of you Yankees, and I don't reckon
there is anybody else to show them how. If you all
could come down here and be like us, and not stir
up our niggers, we might get along well enough after
a while. If a man comes down here and minds his
own business I won't say a word against him, but it's
no more than natural that I should remember that I
was whipped, and that we ju^t ground our noses in
the dust for ten years. Folks judge you all by the
men that came down here after the war and ruined our
niggers. I know there are good men at the North
that perhaps ought to be here. We need them — I
admit that — but I haven't got much heart to welcome
them. I know very well they are different from our
folks, and I don't see how they can make themselves
feel at home. It's no use trying to get people in
here that will be discontented and then want to
quit. If I should go up into your country and say
what I think and what I know about the niggers,
and about the war, I don't reckon I could make as
many friends as you have here."

The two men talked on in this strain for some
time. John could not help seeing how little they
had in common after all. There could be but little
confidence or concert of action between two such
men.

212 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

There was something about Jack Foster's manner
that repelled John. There was no chance to say the
words he longed to say. Jack rose at last to take
his leave. The conversation had drifted into a dis-
cussion of the real ideas that held Northern and
Southern men apart. John never forgot the last
words of this discussion. Jack stood with his foot
on the upper step as he said slowly : —

" I did a thing for a Yankee soldier once that I
don't reckon I could do again. It saved him, but I
reckon it about ruined me."

He looked directly at John as he spoke. His
voice was hard, and there was a bitter look on his
face. As he turned to pass down the steps, Mrs.
Fair and Nellie with the little girl came from the
hall. Jack was introduced to the ladies. He almost
started at the sight of Nellie. How much like the
"little babe" she looked. He glanced at John un-
easily, and after a few words took leave of the party.
Mounting his horse, he rode slowly down to the road,
with his head hanging on his breast.

This little golden-haired woman, he thought, must
have been the sister of that sick boy at Anderson-
ville. Suppose he had shot this Yankee, what would
she have done ? And then the thought of the long
years of suffering and of Lucy's scorn pushed the
better feelings out of his heart. It seemed hard to
think that this man was living so happily, while he,
who had spared the life on which so much happiness
depended, was so miserable.

John told Nellie all about what Jack had said to
him. The little woman was much concerned over

THE ANDERSON VILLE SENTINEL 213

the matter. She was anxious to show her gratitude
to Jack, and jet she could not tell how to do it.
They felt so awkward and strange in their new
position, and there seemed to be something about
Jack Foster that made it impossible for them to
approach him. It was evident tliat he recognized
John, but it was yet more evident that there was
something so very unpleasant about the matter that
he would not speak of it, or willingly give them an
opportunity of telling him what they wished to tell
him.

Just as the new life began to settle into its regu-
lar groove, a terrible feeling of homesickness came
to John and Nellie. The excitement of preparation,
and the novelty of the new life, had kept their
thoughts away from their real condition for a time,
but at last they were brought face to face with it.
They longed with a terrible heart-hunger for the old
familiar faces — for a glimpse of the old home.
Their great house seemed desolate with no friends to
share it with them. They had no one to take into
their confidence. People seemed to view them with
suspicion. Every face seemed ready to curl itself up
into a sneer.

John and Nellie fought hard and bravely against
this homesickness. They had set their faces to the
task, and they would not turn back now, though the
work was harder than they had expected. They did
their best to comfort each other, yet there were
times when it seemed as if they could not stand the
awful longing for home. Night after night they
would stand and watch the little girl as she lay

214 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

asleep, and then their hearts would grow stronger as
they thought how their work was all for her. Little
Nellie cried sometimes for the old people at home,
but her grief was short-lived. There were so many
new and pretty things to take up her mind. She
became greatly attached to Aunt Jinny, who followed
lier about and told her strange stories that pulled the
blue eyes open in wonder.

There were very few visitors. Colonel Fair and
his wife came over frequently, but the other neigh-
bors made but one visit. John did his best to get
acquainted with those who lived near him, but there
was something, he could not understand what, that
kept him from talking to them as he could talk to
the neighbors at home.

Their first entertainment of visitors was not a
complete success. They were both at work one
day, Nellie in the house, and John at the new barn,
when a carriage rolled up to the gate. This vehicle
was a trifle rusty and decayed, but it bounded up
and down on its old-fashioned springs, as if deter-
mined to keep up its share of the family pride. The
two worn old mules were driven by a negro, who
opened the door with a tremendous flourish. A
stately old lady stepped from the carriage and
advanced toward the house. She held an eye-
glass haughtily to her eye, and glanced over the
smooth lawn and the painted house with curious
interest.

Nellie saw the carriage stop, and hastened to re-
ceive her visitor. She hastily dried her hands, and
took off her apron. She sent little Nellie out to

THE ANIXERSONVILLE SENTINEL 215

bring John in, and then went forward just as the
lady's card was brought out by Aunt Jinny. When
John came in, he found his wife sitting uneasily in
her chair, with the old lady examining her critically.
John did not add much dignity to the household.
He wore his old working dress, and his clothes were
covered in places with sawdust. The end of a car-
penter's rule peeped curiously out from his breast
pocket. Little Nellie had done her best to brush
his coat, but her hand was small and she bad not
succeeded as well as one could wish. John knew
that he had entertained visitors at home in a much
worse suit of clothes.

The old lady made a very short call. She was
very polite, but the young people could easily see
that she was horrified at their appearance. She
went away at last, much to Nellie's relief. John
rubbed his head ruefully, as he saw the old carriage
roll down the road. They had done their best, but
they felt after all that they were only plain country
people. This was the only call they received for a
long time. People seemed to have decided to let
them entirely alone. Colonel Fair laughed, when he
heard of this adventure.

" Don't worry about that," he said ; " they'll all
come round in a year's time — jest as soon as ye
make a mark on your plantation. Then, ye can pick
and choose yer company. I don't know but you'll
be something like me," he added, slowly; "I've
ben here some years, an' I've picked up mighty few
of 'em yet."

But John did not wish to live as Colonel Fair was

216 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

living. He wanted to be on good terms with all his

neighbors.

John's farm operations opened most successfully.
He bought a mowing machine at once, and drove the
shovel-and-wheelbarrow method of haymaking into a
permanent retirement. He bought a small herd of
cows, and a few sheep and hogs. He determined to
plough up the old cotton fields and get them into
pastures as quickly as possible. Sol was of great
help in, this work. He seemed to have a white man's
head with a negro's strength and endurance. John
was soon able to trust much of the rouglier work to
Sol's judgment.

John had something to sell from his place in a
very short time. Nellie's butter had been famous
at home, and she determined to gain a like fame at
Sharpsburg. John took a package of delicious golden
rolls into the town, to see what market could be se-
cured. After much bargaining, he sold his load to
one of the Jews, who promised to take all tliat could
be made.

" I knows a good ting ven I sees dot — dot vas von
of de segrets of my peesness," the Jew said, rubbing
his fat hands together, and nodding his head at John.
" Dere is too much of this cotton-seed butter in dis
goundry. Dey feeds de cows on de cotton-seed, an'
dot chust won't melt in your mout wid dot dellegate
flavor dot is de life of good butter. De butter pees-
ness in dis goundr}' vas chust like all oders. Dere is
no system und no push in dese men. People say dot
dey can't find out how dese Jews vas suckseed chust
like dey does. It is chust good peesness manage-

THE ANDERSONVILLE SENTINEL 217

ment — clot's cliust how it vas. Ve vorks, iind dey
sleeps. Ve manages, und dey let tings go mitout
any system."

At this moment, the Jew was called off by a cus-
tomer. He went behind the counter to give a prac-
tical example of his " peesness ability." A tall man
had been listening to the conversation.

" I reckon a heap of what he says is true," he said,
as John passed him. " Them Jews is jest suckin'
this country like an orange. They come down here
an' sell goods so cheap that they drive white people
out of business. They can live on nothin', I reckon.
They don't never pay no taxes, scarsely. They keep
all their money in cash, and they ain't gut no idee of
building up the country at all. They hurt our nig-
gers bad, I reckon. A Jew will put his arm around
a nigger's neck, for the sake of sellin' him a nickel's
worth of goods. They sell their goods and make
money, because they know how to manage."

By this time, the Jew had finished his business.
He came back, smiling at the bargain he had just
made, and the tall man moved away. The Jew
seemed to have marked John out as a profitable man
to cultivate.

"You vas goin' do de speakin'?" he asked, as he
moved his fat hand in the direction of the court-
house.

John's eye followed the gesture, and noticed a
crowd of negroes and a few white men gathered
about the court-house.

" Dere is some speakin' over dere," announced the
Jew, noticing John's questioning look. "I vas a

218 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

Demograt, of course," he remarked, complacently,
seeming to imply that it would show very poor
"peesness management" to be anything else. "I
vas a Demograt, but I likes to see fair play all de
vile. I drades mit dose Republicans, an' always
dreats dem chust de same. If you go to dot speak-
in', you vill find blenty of fair blay. Eferybody
has a good chance to say chust wliat dey pleases.
Now, chust look here vonce." A sudden idea
seemed to seize him. He drew John to one corner
of the store, and, after looking carefully about,
whispered : —

" You vas a Northern man, so I dells you somedink.
I gives you von or dree boints. You chust hang
right onto your broperty in dis coundry chust as
close as you can. Don't you get discouraged. De
time is coming when all dese lazy people must all
git avay. Dere is blendy of dese farms dot is mort-
gaged, and de capital dot holds dem is from de
North. Northern men will never buy land unless
dey means to improve it. Den de niggers begins to
see dat dey must vork for demselves."

The Jew would have said more, but at this mo-
ment a small wave of custom rolled into the store,
and floated the proprietor away. John walked out
on the street, and stood for a moment watching the
crowd by the court-house. He had a strong desire
to pass over and see for himself how the political
meeting was being conducted. At home he would
have cared nothing about it ; but here he was begin-
ning to be deeply interested.

" Who's speakin' over yunder ? " he asked of liis

THE ANDERSONVILLE SENTINEL 219

friend, tlie tall man, who stood leaning against the
building.

" There's a heap of 'em," was the answer. ** Two
Radicals an' some good Democrats. They always
give everybody a fair hack — jest go over an' see if
that ain't so."

Thus urged, John walked across the street and
into the court-house. A large crowd had gathered
to listen to the discussion. They were mostly white
men, who sat solemnly on the rough benches and
listened with sober politeness. A few negroes sat
on the back seats, and as many more peered in at
the windows and doors. The speakers sat in a row
behind the bar, while in front of them sat the pre-
siding officer — a short gentleman, with a red face
and long, white beard.

As John entered, one of the speakers was just
taking his seat. The audience applauded in what
seemed to John a spiritless way. The men stamped
their feet, and gave a series of cat-calls and yells.
John found a vacant place on one of the front
benches. As he took his seat, a man rose from the
line of speakers and came dov/n to the rail. There
was no effort at applause. The white people looked
at the speaker with scowling faces, while the negroes
bent forward to listen carefully.

The speaker deposited a package of papers on a
little desk, and then put on a pair of spectacles and
looked calmly over the audience. His scrutiny
ended, he removed the spectacles and placed them
on the desk by the papers. He was a tall, deter-
mined-looking man. His mouth closed firmly, and

220 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

his eyes were covered with great, shaggy, gray eye-
brows. He did not show the slightest fear or hesi-
tation. He announced himself as a Republican, and
went on to state his reasons for being one.

*' I carried a gun all through the war," he said,
" an' done my best for the South. I was an almighty
big fool to fight the last two years, I reckon. We
was whipped, an' we knowed it. When the war
was over, I made up my mind I'd wait an' sorter see
what was comin'. We all know what we expected.
What did General Grant say? He said, * Let every
man have his boss an' mule to go home an' make
him a crop.' I reckon there ain't nobody could have
said more than that. I says, ' That's good enough
fer me, I reckon.'

*' I tuck my mule an' made me a crop in North
Car'liny, an' then I worked on yer to Mississippi.
I married one of the loveliest of Mississippi's daugh-
ters, an' yer I've been ever sence. I says, we're
whipped — the other side's on top, an' they're gon-
ter have the call. It ain't no use ter buck agin 'em,
for we had ter give it up an' take our lickin'. So I
says, let's all turn in agin an' sorter straighten
things out. General Grant, he spoke mighty fair,
an' I says, that's good enough fer me, I reckon. I
come out an' joined the Republican party. I've
been thar ever sence, an' I reckon I'll stay there fer
good."

There was no sign of applause at this bold an-
nouncement. The white men sat in grim silence,
and the negroes nudged each other, though their
faces never moved a muscle. One rough-looking

THE ANDERSOKVILLE SENTINEL 221

man on the seat in front of John shook his head in a
satisfied manner, and bent forward to listen more
carefully as the speaker went on.

'' There was a heap of men, as you all know, that
said they never would surrender. They went off to
Mexico, an' Europe, an' all these other places, an' it
warn't long before they had ter send home for help.
What did General Grant do? He sent a ship all
'round, an' picked 'em up an' brought 'em home. I
reckon we'd 'a' ben better off to-day if a heap of 'em
had kep' away. But come down in a little closter
an' see Avliat the Republican party done. We give
ye yer free schools, we built up yer buildin's, an' we
give ye a start all along. That didn't satisfy ye.
What did ye do ? You killed niggers an' stuffed
ballot boxes till ye gut things back where they
started from. But it didn't do yer nigh ser much
good as ye thought it would. It was just like a dog
gittin' a taste of a sheep. You stuffed folks m, and
I'm dosfored ef ye didn't learn the trick of stuffin'
folks out agin. It's a mighty poor rule that won't
work two ways, I reckon."

Here the speaker produced his package of news-
papers. He read a series of wordy articles, in which
the State administration was most violently attacked.
'' The most corrupt administration ever known," "a
despotic ring power," and other violent epithets
were used in abundance. '' That's the way some of
your Democratic friends talk," said the speaker, as
he laid down liis spectacles.

"Now, I ain't no nigger. I'm a white man, I be.
I fit as hard as any of ye till I gut licked, an' then I

222 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

quit, ril be dogged if I don't hate to see ye hangin*
'way back yonder. Why don't ye come out of yer
shell an' be somebody ? You go up where the Re-
publicans is an' you'll find that they've got all the
big men an' all the likely fellers in the country.
Why don't ye jine hands with the best men up thar,
and git some help in buildin' up this country?

" It needs help, 1 reckon. You can buy land here
fer a song. Bad's I kin sing I cud git sum fer a
solo. The same land up in the North would be
worth ten times as much. There ain't no folks
corain' in yer, but there's a heap of 'em goin' out.
All yer likely young men are startin' out fer Texas
— ain't that so ? What's the matter with this coun-
try ? You folks have give it such a name that peo-
ple don't dare to come here. That's jest the size of
it, an' you know it."

The rough-looking man in front of John brought
his great foot down on the floor with a stamp of
approval. There was no other applause. A little
Jew, encouraged by the stamp of the foot to make
an effort to secure the Republican trade, started to
clap his hands, but he seemed to realize the lone-
someness of his position in time, for the hands never
came together. The white men bent looks of the
fiercest hate upon the speaker, while the negroes
never moved.

" Another point I'm goin' to talk about is, where
the Republican party stands on protection. I'm gon-
ter make it so clear, that I reckon even a way-down,
back-country farmer can understand it. You put up
a cotton factory in this town, an' I'll guarantee that

THE ANDERSONVILLE SENTINEL 223

your farmers will build up a home market for all the
pertaters an' fruit an' such like they cud raise. We
want a cash business in this country, an' there ain't
no way to git it, until we git up a new market."

We cannot follow the speaker all through his talk.
I have given enough of his exact words to illustrate
his arguments and mode of expression. He spoke
fearlessly and forcibly for about an hour, and then
took his seat. There was not a murmur of applause.
A look of relief seemed to come over the faces of
the white men. They seemed glad that a disagreea-
ble duty had been performed. They had listened to
these words to show that they were perfectly ready
to allow " fair play."

The next speaker was a tall, elegant gentleman,
who rose with much dignity from his seat, and came
down to the rail. He was greeted with loud ap-
plause. The white men struck the floor with their
feet, and yelled loudly as he bowed to them. He
had the sympathy of his audience from the very first
sentence.

" I deny the right of this man who has just taken
his seat, or, in fact, the right of any Republican, to
speak words of advice to the white people of Mis-
sissippi. Don't you remember, gentlemen, how, but
a few years ago, these very men, wuth their army of
ignorant plunderers, had the intelligent white men
of this country down on their very backs, with a
death grip on their throats ? Don't you remember,
gentlemen, those dark days when we hung our heads
in shame before our ladies, for allowing this crime to
remain unpunished? You cannot forget it. It is

224 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

burned into the heart of every Southern man. It is
a dishonor that galls our very souls with its remem-
brance. Will you ever follow the advice of one who
turned his back upon his bleeding country in her
hour of need, who helped to fasten this chain upon
us, and who now comes before you as an office-
holder — a blood-sucker — pleading only for more of
your life ? "

A mighty chorus of "never" demonstrated the
feeling of the audience. The speaker might have
spared himself all further talk. As it was, he spoke
on for an hour and a half, and, to John's mind, sim-
ply repeated his opening sentences over and over
again. John was anxious to stay and hear what the
Republican speaker Avould have to say in reply, but
he knew that Nellie would be anxious if he waited,
so, after listening to an hour of this oration, he went
away to try and digest a few of the theories that
had been advanced so liberally.

He collected his load as rapidly as possible, and at
last rode out of town towards home. About a quar-
ter of a mile out of the village, he came upon a foot-
passenger, whom he recognized as the rough-looking
man who had occupied the seat in front of him at
the court-house. John stopped his horses and invited
the pedestrian to ride with him. The man glanced
curiously at John for a moment, and then, without
a word, stepped into the wagon.

"You're a Northern man, I reckon," he said, after
a moment's pause.

*' I s'pose I be," said John cautiously.

" How'd ye like that speakin' ? " The man had a

THE ANDERSON VILLE SENTINEL 225

rough, hard voice, that was as unpolished as his
face.

" Wall, I s'pose I've heard better," said John, who
did not care to commit himself.

" I reckon so. Speakin' don't do no good down
here, I reckon. Folks sorter goes through all the
motions so they can keep a good holt on the offices.
Old Byrox talked pretty brash there to-day, but it
don't do no good. We uster have speakin' here that
tore things all up, but it's all one way, now."

" How long have you been down here ? " asked
John.

" I come down here right after the war. I went
out on a cotton plantation an' made two or three
crops, an' then I moved in here. We had big
pickin's then. I built a court-house over in the
next county. Charged 'em my own price for the
work. They hed a lot o' niggers on the board of
supervisors, and they done everything I said.
Mighty lively times them was, an' money was plenty.
But I'll have to leave ye here. I left my horse here
when I come in."

John stopped the horse before a little white house,
and his new friend jumped out. The two men shook
hands, and John started on toward home again. If
the talk of the afternoon had gone to show him how
far he was from the people, events had been trans-
piring at home that promised to bring him closer
than ever to one of his neighbors. As he turned in at
the gate, he saw Jack Foster sitting on the piazza,
holding little Nellie on his knee.

This sight was enough to make John stop his

226 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

horses in surprise. There could be no doubt about
it. It was surely Jack Foster. As little Nellie saw
her father, she ran down to meet him, while Jack
Foster turned to his former prisoner with a curious
expression on his face.

CHAPTER XIX.

BOB GLENN WANTS HIS PAY

The first trouble John had with his neighbors was
caused by a dog. The dog is a perfectly harmless
animal so long as lie is left to prey upon his own
species, but when he comes in contact with live
mutton he often causes much trouble. John bought
a small flock of sheep just after coming to the plan-
tation. They had always kept sheep at home, and
John believed these woolly servants to be the most
perfect farm scavengers known. There were but
few other sheep in the neighborhood that he could
find. Even Colonel Fair shook his head at John's
purchase.

"Too many dogs here," he said. '' Every nigger
and every poor white man has got a dozen curs
hangin' 'round. You'll have ter w*atch them sheep
all the time. There ain't nothin' but a good charge
of shot that'll ever cure a dog of sheep-killin'. The law
allows ye to kill all dogs found huntin' round a flock o'
sheep. Jest kill a dozen or so, an' they'll all keep
clear of ye."

A few days after this talk, one of the best sheep
was found dead in the pasture. A big, gray dog had
been seen prowling about. John gave Sol instruc-
tions to shoot all dogs found on the place, and so

227

228 AlCDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

well was this order heeded that the next day the
gray dog lay dead in the pasture. He had been
caught in the very act of chasing sheep.

Nothing more was thought of the affair until the
next day, when a most unwelcome visitor came walk-
ing in from the road — a long, lanky, beardless
''poor white." He walked up to the little gate in
front of the house, and there stopped to lean lazily
upon his gun while he surveyed the premises. His
colorless clothes were ragged and limp. There was
nothing but a cruel slit, stained with tobacco juice,
and a pair of little, fishy eyes that gave any charac-
ter to his face. Sol was at work near the corner of
the house. The new-comer watched the negro for
a moment, and then called, in a thin, rasping voice :

"Look yer, nigger, call out yer boss an' tell him
I've cum round yer to get pay fer that dorg you all
done killed."

Sol walked straight to the barn, where John was
working. " Dere's a man out dere wants to see you,
boss," he said. " I reckon it's 'bout that dorg I done
killed. You better take you' pistol when youse go,
I reckon."

"I don't want no pistol, I guess," said John, as he
put down his hammer and started for the front oi
the house. Sol did not consider the hammer such a
useless implement evidently. He caught up the tool
and hid it under his vest, and foHowed John. The
visitor still stood in front of the house, leaning on his
gun. John walked up to him, and, nodding with the
New England idea of politeness, said: "Howdy
do?"

BOB GLENN WANTS HIS PAY 229

"I'm tollerble, I reckon," was the answer.

The long individual looked curiously at John
over the muzzle of his gun.

" Your nigger killed my dorg," he said, at last.
"I've cum round yer ter git my pay fer 'im."

John was as near to being angry as he often got.
Things had gone wrong all the afternoon, and Nellie
was at Colonel Fair's house. The man before him
was such a miserable specimen of humanity, and
he spoke so insolently, that John grew obstinate at
once.

" I ketched 3'our dog killin' sheep. I've gut the
law on my side, an' ye can't collect nothin'."

"I don't care a shuck fer the law. I've come
ter git the pay fer my dorg. Your nigger killed him.
You Yankees needn't a think ye're comin' down yer
to kill my dorg."

There was a wicked look on the dog-owner's face
as he. straightened up and raised his gun from the
ground. He had sadly mistaken his man, however,
if he expected to frighten John. An old soldier
does not forget his military experience so readily.

"Don't yer pint that gun at me!" John said as
he stepped forward. " I warn't brought up in the
woods ter be scart by no owls. Stand back an' clear
out."

John found himself well supported by Sol. The
negro quickly drew the hammer from under his vest
and stepped to the side of the stranger.

Before the gun could have been raised, Sol could
easily have broken the dog-owner's skull. This lat-
ter geoitleman seemed to appreciate the situation.

230 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

" You've got the drop on me, I reckon," he said,
as he lowered the point of his gun ; " but it's my
turn next."

He turned and walked slowly down the path
toward the gate. He did not go far, but sat down
under a tree and examined his musket. Tljen lie
sat with his weapon across his knees and watched
the house. John grew uneasy at tliis watcliing.
Every time he turned from his work, he could see
the unwelcome visitor still sitting under tlie tree.
At last he went down to the little gate and called to
the man to " clear out."

" I want the pay fer that dorg," was all the answer
he could get.

Late in the afternoon Colonel Fair brought Nellie
home.

"What ye gut down under them trees, judge?"
he asked, pointing to the visitor.

John explained the matter, much to the amusement
of Colonel Fair.

"Look out he don't burn yer gin-house some
night," he said.

As Colonel Fair drove back to his own house he
stopped near the seated figure under the tree.

" What are ye doin' here ? " he asked sternly.

" I want the pay fer my dorg," was the sullen
answer. The man had but one idea.

" You'd better quit now, an' keep the rest of yer
dogs to home, I reckon. That man up y under don't
waste no words at all. I expect he's killed a dozen
men. He says if you don't go mighty soon, he's
comin' out on the porch an' jest use ye fer a target.

BOB GLENN WANTS HIS PAY 231

He can snuff a candle at ten rod, he can, an' you'd
better quit afore he comes out."

The man was evidently moved by this address.
He called out the object of his mission once or
twice, and at last shouldered his gun and walked
slowly out of the grounds. He paused for a moment
at the gate, as if about to return and insist upon the
payment, but John's reputation as a marksman was
too much for him — he walked off along the road,
looking back at intervals to see if John appeared on
the porch.

This incident troubled John and Nellie consider-
ably. They were afraid the man would return and
make more trouble. The days went by, however,
and nothing was heard from him until the day that
John went to town and attended the political meet-
ing. Late in the afternoon of that day, little Nellie
determined to go down to the gate to meet her
father on his return from town. Her mother was
busy in the house, so the little girl induced Aunt
Jinny to go down to the gate with her. The old
negress was always willing to do whatever " little
honey " proposed, so the two started on their pil-
grimage. The old woman hobbled painfully along
with her stick, but the little girl danced gleefully all
over the road. She would run far ahead, and then
dance back to help Aunt Jinny along.

" You is mighty spry, you is," said the old woman,
as little Nellie danced back to take hold of the stick
and thus increase Aunt Jinny's rate of progression.
" You is mighty spry. I reckon it ud take a po'ful
big piece of sunshine fer ter keep ahead o' youse."

232 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

Aunt Jinny sat down under a tree near the gate,
while little Nellie climbed on the fence to obtain a
better view of the road.

"There comes papa," she shouted at last, pointing
down the road. Far in the distance, just coming
over a little hill, she saw a wagon that looked
exactly like her father's. She did not examine it
closely, but, child-like, jumped to the ground at once
to run and meet it.

" Come, Aunt Jinny," she shouted, " come" and
ride back with papa."

Aunt Jinny rose stifiSy and followed the little girl
down the road. Little Nellie did not stop to run
back now. She danced on ahead, eager to meet her
father. She was quite a little distance ahead of
Aunt Jinny when a man started up from under a
tree by the road, and shouted to her : —

" Hold on, thar ! "

She stopped with her eyes wide open in wonder at
this command. The voice was so hard and rasping
that it frightened her. It was the same man that
had troubled John. He picked up his gun from the
ground and walked out into the road. He scowled
fiercely at the little girl, and growled out his old
demand : —

" I want the pay fer that dorg."

Little Nellie was badly frightened. Her finger
went up to her mouth, and the little eyes filled with
tears as the brute lowered upon her. Aunt Jinny
did her best to reach the spot, but she was old and
stiff. She hobbled on with a firm clutch at her
stick, and shouted as best she could : —

BOB GLENN WANTS HIS PAY 233

" Let go dat chile — drop dat, yo' po' white trash."

The man pointed his gun directly at the old
"Woman.

" Fall back, nigger," he growled, " or I'll blow
ye inter rags."

Aunt Jinny never halted, but pushed on right
up to the face of the gun.

" Drop that gun. Bob Glenn, or Til blow the day-
light right through yer head ! "

It was a man's voice, sharp and clear as a bell.
The dog-owner seemed to know it well, for he
dropped his gun in an instant, and turned his face
savagely toward the speaker.

Jack Foster stood in his wagon, one hand holding
the reins, and the other pointing a bright revolver.
It was he that Nellie had seen down the road.

"Pick up that gun and put it in my wagon," said
Jack, sternly. " You know me," he said, as the man
hesitated. " I always do just what I say I will, and
I'd just as soon shoot you as eat."

The man sullenly picked up his weapon and car-
ried it to the wagon.

"Now, clear out. If you want that gun again
come up to my house, and if you come inside my
gate I'll shoot you without warning."

Bob Glenn seemed to feel after this speech that he
might just as well bid his gun a long farewell. He
gave one last glance at it, and then slunk into the
woods like a whipped cur. His sting had been
taken from him. He was no longer dangerous.

Jack put his pistol back into his pocket, and got
out of the wagon to speak a word to little Nellie.

234 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

The poor little girl was crying bitterly. She had
been badly frightened. Aunt Jinny sat on the
ground, holding the baby in her arms, and rocking
to and fro with her.

" Nebber mine, lille honey," she muttered, " he
done gone away now, I reckon. Yo' papy he come
mighty soon now, sho' 'nufP."

'* Don't cry now, little girl," said Jack, as he knelt
on the grass beside her. Jack had always loved
children, though of late years, in his silent and soli-
tary life, he had seen but few of them.

Little Nellie looked up at him and smiled through
her tears. She sprang away from Aunt Jinny, and
put her arms about his neck and kissed him.

" I know you," she said, eagerly. " You are the
man who didn't shoot my papa. I heard papa and
mamma talk about you, and I love you."

She kissed him again, and at the touch of her lips
Jack felt all the bitter feeling he had held toward
John Rockwell pass from his heart.

That kiss came into his lonely life like a beam of
sunshine into a prisoner's cell. He drew the dear
little thing close to him and kissed her again and
again, until she dried her eyes and laughed merrily.
Jack placed her on the seat, by his side, and even
helped Aunt Jinny into the wagon.

They drove on and reached the gate just as Nellie
and Sol came hurrying down from the house to seek
for the wanderers. Nellie had missed the little girl
shortly after she started from the house. Jack Fos-
ter told the story in a few words. He handed the
little girl down to her mother, and, after a short con-

BOB GLENN WANTS HIS PAY 235

versation, gathered up his reins to drive on. Nellie
noticed how her little girl clung to him, and it seemed
as if his face had lost that hard, bitter look it had
worn before. A sudden impulse led her to say, as
he reached for the reins : —

"Won't you come up to the house for a moment?
Please do, for I have something I must say to you."

The little woman wondered at her boldness, after
she had spoken. The invitation pleased little Nellie
greatly.

*' Please tum," she said, and tried to climb again
into the wagon. Jack hesitated a moment, but the
little face looking up at him was more than he could
stand, and he dropped the reins again and jumped to
the ground. He helped Nellie into the wagon, and
put the little girl at her side. Then he drove slowly
up to the house. Aunt Jinny, poor old soul, had not
been able to climb to the ground at all.

Jack tied his horse to the post, and then walked
slowly up to the piazza, where he took his seat. Lit-
tle Nellie ran at his side, and, when he had seated him-
self, climbed on his knee. What a flood of memories
swept through the heart of this lonely man as he
looked down into this sweet little face. How true
he had been to that one woman he loved better than
his life. How the beautiful eyes of this child seemed
to touch his very soul, and clear away a great weight
that had rested on his heart for years. His eyes were
dim with the mist of tenderness, when the little thino-
put her arms about his neck, and whispered again :
"I do love you."

Nellie left Jack on the piazza, and went straight

236 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

to her own room. The thought of what she had
done, and what she was going to do, frightened her.
She wondered what John would say, and yet she
could not stop now. She unlocked her trunk, and
drew from tlie very bottom a little wooden box that
her mother had given her years before. It was the
most valuable thing that Nellie owned, yet there was
nothing in it but the long yellow curl that John had
cut from Archie's head, and the letter that had found
its answer so well.

Nellie held this little box tightly in her hand, as
she walked slowly back to the piazza. How could
she show these sacred tokens ? No one but John
had ever seen them, and yet — but for this man —
she could not finish the thought.

She drew her chair to Jack's side, and told her
story simply, while Jack sat with the little girl's arms
about his neck, and her great eyes looking into his
very soul. She told her story as only such a woman
can talk. She did not cry, but her heart was in her
words. Her voice trembled, and her lip quivered,
but Jack, looking down through a strange blindness
into the great eyes before him, did not think that she
was only a poor, weak, simple woman.

Nellie told her story bravely, but when it was fin-
ished her woman's heart gave way, and she could
not keep the tears from her eyes. Little Nellie left
Jack and climbed into her mother's lap. She brushed
away the tears with her little hand, and kissed all
traces of them from sight. Jack waited till Nellie
had composed herself, and then he handed back the
little box. His face was strangely bright, and his
voice was gentle with tenderness.

BOB GLENN WANTS HIS PAY 237

"Mistress Rockwell," he said, "I must thank you
for speaking as you have to me. I have carried a
load ill my heart for years. It is lighter now. I
have never told my people here why I refused to
shoot your husband. I have lived a lonely and
awful life for years. I knew that no one could un-
derstand why I did not do my duty ; but I reckon
you can understand it, and I will tell you.

" When I went to the war, I left a little woman at
home — almost as sweet and tender as you are. I
loved her then, and I love her now a great deal bet-
ter than I love my life. I reckon I'd die for her in
a minute. I'd been reading her letters when your
brother died, and when your husband came after the
flowers. I couldn't drive that little woman out of
my mind. I couldn't kill him for doing just what I
would have done myself.

" People called me a traitor — and they had a right
to, I reckon. It killed my mother, and my little girl'
has never looked at me since I told her I let your
husband live. I couldn't tell her just how it was,
and I reckon she hates me now. I've lived all these
years here alone. God knows what I've suffered,
and yet I can't bring myself to regret having spared
that life. I am glad I did it."

And so Jack told his story. His head sank on his
breast, as he told of Lucy's anger and his lonely life,
and his eyes wandered wistfully down the road to-
wards the town. It was the first time he had spoken
of his trouble, and he hardly knew how to frame
words for his story. Little Nellie came at last, and
climbed on to his knee again. It was thus that
John found them as he rode home.

238 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

Jack rose, and walked down to the gate to meet
John. He held out his hand in silence, and John
shook it heartily. Not a word was said about tlie
matter, but the two men understood each other.
Men witli weaker minds would have stood and talked
for an hour about it, but these two strong-hearted
men could not find words to express what they felt.
They knew that Nellie could explain far better than
they ever could.

Jack could not take supper with his new friends.
They all understood why. They all needed to think
and talk over the new order of things before they
could meet as they desired to. So Jack bade them
good-by. He kissed the little girl, and gave John
and Nellie a great hand-clasp, and then rode away
down the road through the twilight. His heart was
lighter than it had been for years before. It was
filled with a strange tenderness too. Somehow,
there seemed to be a hope for him at last. Of
course, Nellie told John the whole story. John
seemed very thoughtful that night as they stood
watching the sleeping baby.

".What are you thinking about, John?" she
asked, as she reached up to pull his face down so
that she could look into his eyes.

" I was thinking how much better you are than
anybody else in the world," said John, honestly.

Then it was Nellie's turn to be thoughtful, and
John had to ask her the same question.

" I was wishing that we might do more fur /ii'm,"
she answered.

CHAPTER XX.

JACK Foster's trouble

Life seemed pleasanter to John and Nellie, after
the talk with Jack Foster. They had felt before
that he hated them, and now that they knew his
story, and how much he had suffered, they longed to
offer their sympathy and help. They could under-
stand his position exactly.

" Suppose you had been a traitor, John ; or sup-
pose I thought you had been," said Nellie, as they
were speaking of Jack's case, one night.

" Well, would you have married me ? " asked
John.

"No, indeed," said Nellie, stoutly.

" But would you have stopped loving me ? " and
John caught his wife's face in both his hands, and
held it where she could not look away from him.

She looked up at him almost sadly, as she an-
swered slowly : " I don't think I could have stopped
loving you, John, though I never would have let
you know it. I don't think a woman ever can drive
love out of her heart as a man can. She must stay
at home and keep it in her heart."

It was some time before Jack Foster came to the
plantation again. He seemed to realize that his
friendship would help the new people but little, and

239

240 ANDERSON VI LLE VIOLETS

perhaps the sight of the happiness of John and Nel-
lie made hiin think of what might have been his
own.

At last, John, at Nellie's suggestion, fonnd an er-
rand that took him over to Jack's plantation. Both
men understood all about this errand. Its object
was hardly mentioned after the conversation opened.
The two men talked long and earnestly, and the
visit was ended by Jack's coming back to look at
John's stock and improvements. They walked
about the place, discussing agriculture and politics.
It seemed now as if they had known each other for
years. They were surprised to find how much they
had in common, when they were once brought into
anything like confidential relations. Nellie would
not liear of Jack's goiiig home before supper, so he
sta3^ed until after dark. The}^ all sat on the piazza
and talked. It was the merriest time Jack had
known for years.

After this Jack came to the plantation quite fre-
quently, often making errands as transparent as
John's first one had been. He seemed to enjoy talk-
ing politics with John, though there were few points
upon which they could agree. He was never tired
of holding the little girl, and it seemed impossible fur
him to go to town without bringing her back a pres-
ent of some kind.

In all their talks, John and he never discussed
their first awful meeting. It seemed to be under-
stood between them that this topic should not be
mentioned. They spoke of the war, of the various
battles iu which they had fought, of reconstruction

JACK Foster's trouble 241

and its results, but not a word was ever said of the
day when John walked up to the dead line and the
musket dropped.

Jack Foster was about the only friend that the New
England people could find. There were plenty of
people in the town who treated John civilly, and
were glad to trade with him, but it always seemed as
if there was a feeling of distrust behind it all. No
one invited him home or asked him to bring his fam-
ily to call. Their manner gave him to understand
that he was on trial, and that he must prove his hon-
esty and respectability before they could take liim
into their families. There seemed to be something
— he could not tell what it was — between himself
and the rest of the people. He was to find that this
feeling would in time wear away, to a certain ex-
tent, yet he never could feel as he had felt with his
neighbors at home.

No one came to call upon Nellie for a long time.
A number of men came to look over the plantation
and see what John was doing with it. They seemed
like sensible, practical men. There was a very no-
ticeable lack of energy about most of them, and a
tendency to make great schemes rather than to
suggest any practical way of working such plans ont.
Some of these visitors were ready to admit that
farmers were raising too much cotton and too little
corn and meat, yet they were every one of them
doing this very same thing. They seemed to under-
stand that a change must be made, yet they had
neither the patience nor the energy to go through
the slow process of development. They looked over

242 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

John's plantation carefully, examined the stock,
looked at the new barn, and all the genuine Yankee
contrivances that John was building, and noted the
great preparations that John had made for pasturage
and the grass crop. Some laughed outright at what
they called John's foolishness.

"Cotton is the only thing you can raise here,"
they said. " You'll ruin yourself in two years, and
then go back and curse this country."

Others concealed their ridicule or doubt behind a
stolid face ; they went away and told others of the
Yankee's foolishness and sure failure. There were
still others who frankly admitted that John was
right in his ideas of farming. They shook their
heads sadly, however, as they said : —

" You all kin do these things, but I don't reckon
we ever kin. We're lazy, I reckon, by nature. You
all will git lazy before you've ben here five years, an'
then you kin see how it is with us."

And John, not knowing what laziness meant, and
not appreciating what lives these men had lived,
would justly set his neighbors down as being the
most shiftless and indolent set of men he had ever
seen. In New England the lazy man of the com-
munity was so rare, that he was picked out to serve
as a terrible example for the boys and girls. Here
the energetic men were as solitary as were their lazy
brothers in Breeze town.

If there was a lack of agreeable society, there
were many things about the new life that John and
Nellie enjoyed. The weather all through the autumn
was beautiful. Instead of the early frosts and cold

JACK FOSTER'S TROUBLE 243

nights of New England, there was a succession of
beautiful sunny days, and nights so pleasant that
they could sit upon the piazza long after supper.
The days seemed longer too, and John was able to
push his work with all speed. The splendid agricul-
tural advantages of the country became more and
more apparent to John the longer he studied them.
He could not understand how men could have neg-
lected the land so long.

Jack Foster's plantation was about as badly run
down as any of them. Jack had but little ambition
to improve his place. He had been satisfied to
"make a living." After talking with John, how-
ever, he really went to work with some sort of sys-
tem. He bought stock, and did his best to imitate
John's methods of work.

Jack had given up all hope of speaking to Lucy
again, and he hardly knew why he was anxious to
improve his place. But it is certain that after every
visit to John's house, and every talk with Nellie, he
went back home with some new plan for work. If
the rest of his neighbors had looked upon him dif-
ferently, no doubt he would have joined the majority
of them in saying that John's system might do for a
Yankee, but that it never would work at the Soutli.
His neighbors did not trust him and he knew it.
John was the first man with whom he had talked
confidentially since the war. The two men were
placed in such a peculiar position that they devel-
oped their friendship and grew towards each other
more and more.

Whenever Nellie went to town, she did her best to

244 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

get a glimpse of Lucy. She saw her whenever they
went to church, for Lucy was sure to be there. It
made Nellie's heart ache to see poor Jack Foster
watch Lucy as she sat in church. Lucy seemed pale
and ill. There were deep lines of suffering on her
face, and she had lost most of her beauty. She
never looked at Jack, but sat cold and stern, except
when at the last prayer she knelt with her face in
her hands. Kellie learned more of her story as time
went by. Her mother had died a few years after
the war. She lived now with an old aunt in the
house where Jack had met his doom. Jack pointed
out the place to Nellie one day. He had lived so
near it for years, and yet he had never dared to enter
since that morning, when Lucy's scorn had driven
him away. Nellie wondered what she could do to
soften that proud heart. She seemed powerless.
There appeared to be no tenderness in that stern
face, and yet Nellie could not help feeling how she
would have felt had she been placed in like circum-
stances, and been told the true story. She longed
for a chance to talk to Lucy and tell her what she
had told Jack.

It was a great mystery to John at first how far-
mers had so much time to sit about the stores in the
town. He found them tliere on all occasions when
he knew there must be work to be done at home.
Seated on comfortable chairs, smoking their unfail-
ing pipes or chewing tobacco, they all seemed to take
life as a remarkably pleasant dream. He could not
understand how these men ever made a living.
With him a "living " had always stood as the repre-

JACK Foster's trouble 245

sentative of a number of hard days' work. The
lazy men at home were generally paupers. Here,
they seemed to be leading citizens. One of these
stationary farmers said to him one day : " I reckon I
kin make mo' money right yer in my chair than I kin
out on ary farm in this country."

This only served to heighten John's perplexity,
and he went to Colonel Fair for an explanation.
Colonel Fair had a most supreme contempt for these
loungers. They were a part of that class of citizens
that he insisted would have to "die off" before the
country could ever come to anything.

" They live on the niggers," he explained, when
John came with his question. " They rent out their
land to niggers, and make the poor black fellers do
all the work, while they hold down them chairs and
take the money. There's a heap of men in this
country that jest cuss the nigger up hill an' down, an'
yet them same men would starve to death if the nig-
ger should go away. It's mighty easy, I reckon, to
make money outer niggers if a man only has a tough
conscience. I reckon a heap of the men here have
got consciences like sole leather. A man with a
little cash can buy half a dozen mules in the spring
o' the year, an' make 'em support him.

'' A nigger comes in an' wants to buy a mule.
Them fellers sell him one for, say, $150. The nigger
gives a lien on his crop for the money. The nigger
goes out an' makes his crop. The white man sells
him meat and corn enough to run him through the
summer. The nigger works out in the sun, and the
white man sets in the shade. When they come to

246 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

settle up, the nigger is always behind. He can't
never git ahead. He loses his mule, an' he loses his
crop. The white man can figger, an' the nigger
can't. The nigger, like enough, signs his name to
whatever the white man draws up. Nine times out
of ten, he can't read any way. When he comes up
with his crop, he finds a statement about like this."

Colonel Fair picked up a piece of board as lie
spoke, and wrote with his pencil the following remark-
able statement of account : —

Nigger Dr.

Mule and Harness §200

Rations 75

$275
Interest at 2 1-2 per mo 40

$315

Nigger Cr.
By Cotton 225

Bal. against Nigger $90

" Then the white man," continued Colonel Fair,
"says, 'I'll allow you $50 for that mule and har-
ness, an', as you've had hard luck, I'll knock off $25,
so you'll only owe me $15.'

" So the nigger, after workin* hard all summer,
only finds himself in debt. The white man has his
mule to sell — like enough to the same nigger next
year. That's the way them fellers live. I know one
mule that's been sold that way six times.

" That's why I claim the nigger ain't never gon-
ter be nothin'. He won't never git no chance. The
nigger is the cleverest-hearted mortal in the world.

JACK Foster's trouble 247

He'll work his hands off fer a little flattery, I reckon.
These fellers down here know how to work it sharp,
an' the nigger is always goin' to do the work, while
the white man pulls in the money."

John kept the board, and showed it to Jack Fos-
ter a few days later.

" Is that true ? " he asked.

" I reckon a heap of it is," said Jack, slowly.
" It's a little exaggerated, of course, but a heap of it
is true, sure enough. It's a mighty bad thing for
the country that labor is so unreliable."

CHAPTER XXI.

THE NEGRO QUESTION

The more John studied the negro question, the
more difficult of solution the problem seemed. Not
long after the election he listened to a discussion
that did much to point out still more clearly the
difference between the Northern and Southern
methods of studying the question. In one of his
visits to town John found a young Northern man
who had come to the South for his health. This
man, at John's invitation, spent a week at the plan-
tation. He was a man of fine education, who studied
with keen interest the curious problems of Southern
life. He was an ardent Republican, and something
of a theorist as regards the negro. He found in
Jack Foster a man who would discuss the negro
question without getting angry, and who could give
him many new points. Jack had done considerable
reading. During his lonely life he had thought a
great deal and studied hard at the social problems of
the day. He could not drop his old belief in the
inferiority of the negro, but he could discuss tlie
question with a much better spirit than most South-
ern men. His great friendship for John gave him a
certain respect for a Northern opinion, though he
could not be converted. John was never tired of

248

THE NEGRO QUESTION 249

listening to the discussion that was sure to come up
whenever Jack and the young Northerner met.

" The nigger," Jack would say, in all seriousness,
" is an inferior man, and never can be the equal of
the white man."

*' How do you know that ? "

" Because in all the history of the world there never
has been a bhick race that ever showed superior in-
telligence. The niggers are different from white
men " — and Jack would describe the difference in
finger nails, liair, and head. " The nigger was made
to serve, and it is against all ideas of religion and
morality for us to dream of him as an equal. The
bare idea of such a thing would drive a Southern
lady nearly crazy. No one can imagine what a hor-
rible disgust the very suggestion of such a thing
brings up. Petting the nigger, and making him
think he is anything but a slave, only tends to spoil
him forever."

"How spoil him?"

" It gives him fool-notions, and would in a short
time break up all the safety of our society."

" Then you believe in keeping the negro in igno-
rance? "

*' No, I do not, though I must confess that too
many Southern men do. I am in favor of educating
the nigger, because I know that his educational
powers are limited. The nigger learns quickly, but
he gets filled up in a very short time. Take a white
boy and nigger boy, each, say, nine years old, give
them equal advantages, and the nigger will beat the
white boy all to death. When the nigger gets to be

250 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

fifteen years old you can't get anything more into
his head — he is filled up, while the white boy goes
on gaining every week. There are some niggers
who are smart and know how to learn. They are so
few that they seem like any other freak of nature —
simple monstrosities. I can't think of any more un-
desirable position than that of an educated nigger
who knows what the rest of his race must be."

" Then it is not possible, in your opinion, for the
negro to master enougli of an education to fit him
for the society of white men ? "

" No, sar, it makes no difference how refined and
talented a nigger might be, I never could ask him to
my table and have any more respect for myself. A
sensible nigger will realize his position, and never
step over it. Do you mean to say that you would
sit at the same table with a nigger? "

" To be sure, I would ; there are plenty of negroes
in the country who are superior to me in education
and manhood. I should be proud to sit at table
wdth them."

" I'm mighty sorry to hear it. If that was known
here, how many people do you suppose would invite
3'ou to their houses ? Do you reckon that these
Republican leaders up North, who have so much to
say about the nigger, would really invite a regular
black nigger to their houses, and let him eat with
them and sleep in their beds ? "

" Certainly they would, if he was deserving of it.
I know plenty of men that would do so."

Jack shook his head a little doubtingly. He could
hardly bring himself to believe this. Southern men

THE NEGRO QUESTION 251

generally have little faith in the sincerity of the
Republican leaders who urge the elevation of the
negro. The experience that the South has had with
Republicanism leads her people to think that the
Republicans simply wish to use the negro as a tool,
to spoil him for work, and then leave hira to injure
political enemies.

" But what are you going to do when the negroes
all learn to read and write, and the ' freaks of
nature,' as you call them, increase in number, as
they are sure to do ? "

" I reckon we'll have to keep them down. They
don't know enough to organize, and they never will.
We know that they are an inferior race, and we
know from experience that we must keep them
down."

" How are you going to do it ? "

" We know how. It is a matter of self-preserva-
tion with us and we cannot afford to let the nigger
dream of social equality. I might as well ask you
how you propose to keep down the workingmen and
foreigners at the North. They will multiply so in a
few years that you will have work to control them.
You know perhaps how the work will be done, and
in the same way ive know how we are going to keep
our niggers in shape."

'' But we have no thought of keeping our working-
men 'down ' as you call it. We aim to educate them
and bring them up to a higher plane of usefulness."

" That is well enough to talk of white men, but
you can't tell niggers such stuff. It would spoil
them in no time."

252 ANDEESONVILLE VIOLETS

"Did it ever occur to you tliat the Saxons were at
one time as low clown as these negroes are now?
History shows that the ignorant ol)stinate Saxons
held together for centuries, kept their language and
religion, and in time forced the superior Norman to
the rear. Why is it not possible for American his-
tory to repeat, in part at least, this record ? The ne»
groes are not breaking up politically. They draw
away from the whites and have begun already to be
an exclusive race. Fifty years from now, when
every negro can read and write, when the race has
increased in numbers and crowded itself upon a
smaller area, when it has a literature of its own and
can show in black and white its own story of its
wrongs, — what will you do tlien ? "

" That's not a fair argument — not a fair way of
talking. The Saxons were white. The nigger is
black and you cannot show in all the history of the
world an instance where a race of black men have
ever proved themselves capable of coping with white
men, or of forming a literature.

" You speak from a theorist's point of view. You
don't understand the nigger, how ignorant he is, and
how easy it is for us to manage him. Niggers are
the cleverest people in the world, but they are good
for nothing but work. Understand me, I don't want
tlie nigger to go back to slavery, but I want him to
keep in his place. What he did in the days of the
'Radical' rule shows that he is incapable of gov-
erning."

" But how can you tell by the conduct of tlie
negro at that time, what he is capable of doing?

THE NEGRO QUESTION 253

You remember perhaps that familiar quotation from
Macaulay's Essay on Milton : — ' Till men have been
some time free they know not how to use their free-
dom. The final and permanent fruits of liberty are
wisdom, moderation, and mercy. Its immediate
effects are often atrocious crimes, conflicting errors,
dogmatism on points the most mysterious. It is just
at this crisis that its enemies love to exhibit it . . .
and ask in scorn where the promised splendor and
comfort is to be found.' Xow why is not this true
in the case of the negro government ? "

And so the two men would discuss, neither convin-
cing the other, and each one proving his own idea to
his own satisfaction.

CHAPTER XXII.

AUNT jinny's favorite STORY

The warm, pleasant weather continued all through
November and to within two weeks of Christmas.
It seemed strange enough to John and Nellie to
think of eating their dinner at Thanksgiving with
the doors wide open and the sun shining hotly on
them. At home, Thanksgiving usually came with a
white mantle of snow or a rough overcoat of frozen
earth. Thanksgiving is the great day of New Eng-
land country life. City people prefer Christmas, but
the plain, honest folks who wrest their living from
the rocky hillside farms hold to the old Puritan
holiday. It is the day when great families come to-
gether, when old scenes are pictured, old stories are
told, old memories are brushed to life, when the
golden grains of the past are brought from beneath
the dust of years. The social nature of the Thanks-
giving celebration somehow appeals to the lonely
country life as Christmas never can.

Thanksgiving was a very thoughtful time for John
and Nellie. It was the anniversary of their marriage.
All the old da3^s were brought to their minds. They
did their best to appear merry and thankful for the
sake of the little girl, but it was hard work. How
gladly would they have changed this great planta-

254

AUNT jinny's favorite STORY 255

tion and the beautiful weather for the rocky old
farm at home. Go where he will, improve his cir-
cumstances as he may, the New England man can
never repress the yearning for the rough old hills
that seem so dull and barren to a stranger.

A short time before Christmas, a heavy rain set in
that seemed, in a few hours, to double the distance
between the plantation and the town. The road
was changed into a mass of deep mud through which
an empty wagon could hardly be pulled. The little
family seemed to be shut out from the rest of the
world. John was obliged to make his trips into
town on horseback. He would come back completely
covered with mud, longing for the frozen ground
and packed snow of a New England winter.

As Christmas drew near, the negroes began to
show signs of an increased jollity and merriment.
Even Sol and his mother joined in the fun.

Aunt Jinny told little Nellie a series of such re-
markable stories that the child came to have an
entirely new idea of Christmas and Santa Glaus.
She had lost considerable faith in the old story the
year before at home, when by an accident she dis-
covered that Uncle Nathan had endeavored to take
the place of old Saint Nick. Aunt Jinny's stories
put such a new face upon the matter that the little
girl resolved to give Santa Glaus another fair trial.
Aunt Jinny could not understand much about little
Nellie's description of the reindeer and sledge that
formed so important a part of the Christmas proces-
sion. Snow and ice were unknown to her. Santa
Claus came through the mud on a stout mule or in a

256 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

hack. The deer and tlie sledge were entirely out of
place.

" I reckon dey's a heap ob folks, honey, dat done
know nnffin' about dese tings. I reckon dera raindeer
ud git stuck mighty bad in de murd. I knows a
heap about Santa Claus, I does, bekase I heard all
about de man what done seen him onct."

''Tell me all about it. Aunt Jinny," little Kellie
would say, bringing her chair up to the side of the
old slave.

" Well, honey, I reckon it ud take a heap ob time
ter tell all about it. 'Pears like I'd better tell about
one p'int at a time. Whar you reckon I'd better
begin ? "

The little girl, after much thought, would at last
decide upon some "p'int."

" What do people hang up their stockin's for,
Aunt Jinny ? " Nellie soon came to know that this
was Aunt Jinny's favorite story.

" What make dey hang up dere stockin's ? "

Aunt Jinny was in her glory, surely, when this
point was raised. She claimed to be one of the very
few people in the world who could answer this lead-
ing question. She never would impart the coveted
information except to those who she felt sure would
make good use of it.

"What make dey will hang up dere stockin's?
Wall, chile, dere is a mighty cur'us story about dat.
Hit's de cur'uses story dey zs, I reckon. I reckon I's
hev ter tell yer, chile, bekase youse gonter 'member
it, an' it look like you done git yo' idees sorter shuck
up like, on dis p'int.

AUNT jinny's favorite STORY 257

" Onct dey wuz a man dat lib 'way back yunder in
de country. He wuz a po' man — a mons'us po'
man, sho' 'nuff. An' de longer he lib de po'er he
git, tell bime by he didn't hab nuffin' skersely."

" Where did he live ? " the little girl would ask in
breathless interest. She meant to mark the fatal
spot in her little geography, so that papa never
would go there.

" Whar he live at ? " Aunt Jinny proposed to tell
one thing at a time. " I don't reckon you'd know,
honey, ef I wuz ter go an' tell you. You jes' wait
tell youse go over de groun' an' den you'll know
sho' 'nuff. Dis man wuz po'ful po' ; corn an' meat
dey wuz 'way up yunder, an' when Christmas come
along, he done hab nuffin'."

" But why didn't he wait for Santa Claus, Aunt
Jinny ? "

" It's a-comin' ter dat p'int, honey, right away.
I reckon ole Santy Claus he jes' whip his mules
when he drive fru dat country. He mighty glad ter
git away frum it, an' he make mighty few calls, I
reckon. But the night afo' Crismus, dis po' man he
go out ter git him sum light wood, an' while he wuz
pickin' it up, he year somebody way off in de swamp
holler. De man he ain't gut nuffin' ter do, so he
sorter walks down ter de swamp fer ter see who dat
is. Who you tink he fine down dere, honey ? "

'•• It wasn't Santa Claus, was it ? "

Aunt Jinny felt a little disappointed to have the
point of surprise thus taken out of her story.

" I reckon it were Santy, sho' 'nuff."

" How did he know who it was. Aunt Jinny ? "

258 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

" Why, chile, dey is a heap ob tings about Sauty
Claus dat is difreiit frum odder people. I reckon
youd know him de minnit you see him, an' den
agin, I reckon he tole dat po' man who he wuz.
You see, honey, Santy were stuck in de murd. His
hack wuz 'way up to de hubs in de road, an' one
mule wuz kickiii' while de odder wuz backin' up
agin de hack. It were a hard place fer Santy, sho'
'nuff, fer he had a heap ob groun' to cover yit. Dat
po' man he stan' by, wid his ban's in his pockets, an'
sorter watch der doin's. Bime by he ask Santy
Claus have he gut nary a piece ob terbarker. Dat
sorter interjuice 'em, like, an' Santy he up en' say
dat his hack wuz full ob tricks, an' dat he'd fill up
enyting dat po' man had ef he'd help him out.

*' Dat po' man he look in dat hack, an' he see a
heap ob tings dat he wanted. He sorter made up
his mind what was what. He talk mighty brash at
dem mules, but de mo' he talk de mo' dey pull back.
Den he borry Santy 's knife, an' cut him a big pule in
de woods, an' while Santy he push agin de back ob
de hack, dat po' man he jes' tan de hides on deni
mules po'ful, till dey pull togedder, an' jes' yank
dat hack outer de murd. You jes' orter see deni
mules pull, honey."

"But wasn't it too bad that they had to whip
them so ? " said the dear little girl.

"No, I don't reckon it wuz. Mules is mighty
ornery. I reckon dey ain't nuffin' but lickin' will
do 'em eny good. Dey is a heap ob folks, honey,
dat is jes' like mules about dat. Ole Santy Claus
he mightily tickled about de way he git outer dat

AUNT jinny's favorite STORY 259

miircl, an' when he come to de po' man's house, he
say, ' Now you jes' bring out de biggest ting you gut,
an' I'll fill it up.'

"Dat po' man he mighty sharp, I reckon. He
done scratch his head, an' den he bring out a big
stockin'. Ole Santy Claus he tink he git out miglity
easy, but when he come with his truck, he fine dere
is a mighty big hole in de heel ob dat stockin'. All
de truck run fru the hole, an' take mighty nigh all
dey is in de hack ter fill it up."

" That man didn't do right, did he, Aunt Jinny? "

" Wall, chile, dat's a mighty hard question, dat is.
Dere's a heap ob folks dat ud 'a' done de same ting
— an' mighty good folks, too, I reckon. Dat po'
man he uz mighty tickled about de way he beat ole
Santy Claus, an' he tole all de folk dey cud do de
same ting. When Santy he come' along de nex'
time, he fine all de holy stockin's hung up fer 'im
ter fill. Hit mighty nigh busted ole Santy ter fill
'em up. Santy he sorter figgered on de ting, an' he
see dat dere weren't no money in dem holy stock-
in's, so he say dat he gib a prize to de one dat hung
up de bes'-lookin' stockin'.

"Santy Claus he mighty sharp, I reckon. Every-
body goes in fer de prize an' all de holy stockin's is
sorter patched up like. So, honey, done yo' nebber
hang up no holy stockin's, but jest take de bes' one
yo' hab.'*

CHAPTER XXIII.

FADED FLOWERS OF AXDERSONVILLE

Jack Foster had promised to eat his Christmas
dinner with John and Nellie.

The day had always been a melancholy one with
him, bringing back, as it did, tlie memories of hap-
pier days. He hoped for a pleasant time with his
new friends, but he hardly dared to hope for the great
happiness that the beautiful holiday brought him.
Jack had been a little ill. He caught a severe cold
at the opening of the rainy season. Three days before
Christmas he rode back from town through a severe
rain. He stopped at the plantation, and was easily
induced to stay to supper. His head ached and he
grew hot and cold by turns. He was surprised to
find how weak he was when he rose to go home.
He almost fell as he stag^orered to the door. Nellie
quickly saw that Jack was a sick man. She insisted
upon his staying all night, and Jack, after one be-
wildered look at the blackness and rain, helplessly
consented.

" I shall be all right in the morning, I reckon," he
said, as John led him back to a seat by the fire.
They all thought this, but when the morning came,
Jack was unable to stand. He lay in a daze, with
his eyes wide open, muttering and whispering to

260

FADED FLOWERS OF ANDERSONVILLE 261

some imaginary person. He roused for a time and
seemed to know John, but at last the look of intelli-
gence faded out of his eyes, and he lay vacantly
staring at the wall as before.

John and Nellie grew frightened as the hours
went by and Jack never ceased staring and mutter-
ing. They could not understand what he said, but
Nellie could imagine, for there was one name that
was always pronounced more distinctly than the rest
— it was Lucy. At last John sent Sol for a horse
that he might ride to town after a doctor. The rain
was still pouring down, and the road was a great
mass of mud, but John did not think of this at all.
As Sol brought the horse up to the door, an old
negro woman came up from the gate. She was
drenched with the rain and covered with mud, but
she hobbled bravely up to the door.

" Whar's Massa Jack at ? " she asked, peering
dimly about her. "I's his ole mammy, I is done
nuss him, an' 'pears like dey ain't nobody kin take
car ob him like I kin. Whar is he at. Missy? I
reckon I can't lib no longer if Massa Jack die."

Nellie brought the poor old woman in and gave
her a seat by the fire. Old Mammy dried herself as
hastily as possible, and then asked again to see Jack.

" I knows a heap mo' about Massa Jack dan eny
one else do," she explained, and so it proved, for
when Nellie led the old woman to Jack's room she
was surprised to see how quickly old Mammy under-
stood what to do.

The old slave watched her master as a dog might
have done. Jack turned his vacant eyes upon her,

262 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

and something like a gleam of intelligence passed
over his face. Mammy sat down by the bed and
placed her hand on Jack's head.

*' I reckon you'd better send fo' ole Massa Law-
rence," she muttered to Xellie. " 'Pears like he
know about Massa Jack like nobody else do."

John was just mounting his horse as Nellie came
down and told him of old Mammy and her advice.
Mr. Lawrence was the old gentleman that John had
met at the hotel. Jack had often spoken of him as
an old physician and friend of his father's. John
decided to follow old Mammy's advice. He rode
down to the gate and turned past Colonel Fair's
place. An hour later he returned with Mr. Law-
rence. The old gentleman came at once when John
told his story. He had known Jack from his earli-
est childhood, and had treated him for many a seri-
ous illness.

The two men were covered Avith mud and
drenched through with the rain. They dried them-
selves before the fire, and then the older man went
above into the room where old Mammy was watch-
ing her "boy." John and Xellie waited anxiously
fur the report. They read it in the grave and sor-
rowful face that Mr. Lawrence brought back from
the sick-room.

" It is a very serious case. I am afraid he will
have a hard struggle for life. There has been some-
thing on his mind for years that has tortured him
continually. He is thinking of it now, and unless
something can be done to drive it from his mind, I
do not think my medicine can ever help him. I

FADED FLOWERS OF ANDERSONVILLE 263

speak plainly, for I think you know, judging from
what you said to-day, what this matter is. I have
known it for a long time, though I never told John
Foster that it was so. She told me about it years
ago. I feel that I am free to speak of it now, for the
end that I have been fearing seems to have begun."

Nellie's eyes were filled with tears, and even John's
strong hand shook as he brought a chair for the visi-
tor. How well they understood what awful thoughts
were filling the brain of the sick man. John and
Nellie had but to place themselves in his position.
The older man found that sweet romance of his
youth forcing itself into his heart again.

Nellie quietly stole from the room at last to dry
her eyes. Something seemed to draw her to the
chamber, where, with dazed brain, the sick man was
lying. She entered softly, and sat in one gray,
shadowy corner to think. The gloom of the dismal
day seemed to force itself into the silent chamber.
Old Mammy sat at the head of the bed, rocking her-
self to and fro, and muttering some old song that had
hushed the sick man years before. Jack lay in the
old position, with his eyes wide open and his chin
fallen. His hands worked occasionally, and once
they were raised in a gesture of entreaty, but in an
instant they fell feebly down. Jack's muttering
was louder and more distinct than before. Nellie
could easily understand him now. His words
seemed to cut her very heart, and she listened with
streaming eyes as she thought how this man had
suffered for her.

'' He'll do it, I reckon," the sick man muttered.

264 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

" That little one don't know what he's saying. Sup-
pose Lucy's brother should ask me to do that. I
reckon Fd do it — but I must shoot him."

One hand was raised slightly, and the eyes opened
wider than before.

" I couldn't do it " — the voice trembled a little.
" My dear little woman, I know you wouldn't have
me shoot him. I'm glad you looked at me as you
did."

He was silent for a time, but at last he reached
out his hand, as if in the act of picking something
from the bed.

" I'll take this anyhow, I reckon. Poor little
chap. How much he looked like her. I'll carry
this to her, I reckon. I'm glad, after all, I didn't
shoot him."

His voice died away in a whisper, and he went on
so low that Nellie could not hear him. At last he
said, in almost a shout, " My dear little woman,
listen to me. I do love you — I'll sell my soul for
you. I did it because I loved you — because I loved

you."

Nellie could not listen longer. She hurried away
with a mighty resolution in her heart. Old Mammy
followed her out.

" Yer's suffin' fer youse, I reckon. Missy. Massa
Jack sorter reckoned dat it uz you's. I foun' it on
de flo', near whar his coat is at."

How the old woman had read the sick man's
thoughts no one can tell. Nellie opened the little
package. It was an envelope filled with cotton, in
which was a little bunch of dried violets. She

FADED FLOWERS OP ANDERSONVILLE 265

placed the package in her pocket, and then went
down to the room where John and Mr. Lawrence
were sitting. The men looked at her in surprise, for
her purpose was written on her face. She placed
her hand on her husband's shoulder, and said,
simply : —

" John, I am going to ride to town at once."

John looked at her in wonder. She had never
yet made a proposition that had not been carried
out, but this was so strange and unexpected. Nellie
noticed John's look of wonder, and patted his cheek
to reassure him.

^' I mean to ride to town and see Lucy," she said,
simply. " I shall never feel that I have done my
duty until I try to show her how he has loved her all
these 3'ears. It may do no good, but I must try. If
you could only hear him talk, John," — and the
brave little woman faltered as she thought how
Jack had spoken.

Mr. Lawrence rose from his seat, and grasped
Nellie's hand.

" God bless you, madam," he said, huskily. " You
are a noble woman. Your husband has told me all
the story.- I hope and pray that you may succeed.
She has always loved him, I know — it is her pride
that holds her back. I cannot tell you what to do.
You are a woman, and know far better than I how
to reach a woman's heart. I know it is a matter of
life or death with John Foster, and I think I know
how you long to bring him happiness."

"But I must go with you," said John, sturdily.

" No, John," said Nellie, gently. " You cannot

266 ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS

help me in tins — stay here and wait for me. I
shall take Sol, and there will be no danger at all."

She made her preparations as qnickly as pos-
sible. Sol brought the horses to the door. The rain
glistened on the negro's heavy face as he glanced
down the road.

" Don't you let nothin' touch her, Sol," said John,
as he went out to inspect the horses.

"I reckon I'd die fust, boss," said the negro.
He opened his coat, and showed the bright handle of
a revolver.

" Please let me go with you, Nellie ! " pleaded
John, as his wife came to the door all ready for the
ride.

" No, John," she answered, gently. " I must do
this alone — this is nothing to what you did for me
once " — and she smiled up at him to try and liide
the tears that would force themselves into her eyes.
She kissed little Nellie, and shook hands with Mr.
Lawrence. When she came to John he gathered her
up in his arms and kissed her again and again, and
carried her to the horse. With one last word of
caution to Sol, John reluctantly withdrew his hand
from the bridle of his wife's horse, and then, into
the early twilight that came creeping darkly upon
them, they rode away upon their errand of love.
John and Mr. Lawrence waited at the gate — heed-
less of the rain and storm ■ — till the slow toiling
liorses passed out of sight behind the trees. Then
they went sadly back to the house.

" Your wife is an angel — God bless lier," said the
older man, with a strange tremor in liis voice, as he

FADED FLOWERS OF ANDERSONVILLE 267

shook John's hand. " She is strangely like one I
knew years ago, in New England. Is she like her
mother ? "

"Very much," answered John. " The same hair
and eyes, and the same face."

The old gentleman smiled sadly as he listened.
He said no more, but his head fell on his breast as
he sat watching the fire. At last, he rose to go to
the sick man's room.

" I have to thank your wife and yourself," he said,
w^ith old-fashioned courtesy, as he shook John's hand
again, "for a great happiness that you cannot under-
stand. There are many things in our lives that we
cannot always explain or understand, yet I think we
are able to see at last, that under every fancied
wrong there lies a blessing that must gain in
strength as the years go by."

He bowed gravely, and passed out at the door and
went to the sick-room, where Jack lay, with vacant
eyes, still muttering the old story.

The gloom came settling down over the house. It
crept in at the windows and gathered about the sick-
bed. The savage fire on the hearth snapped bravely
at the intruder, and sent its sparks out to man the
outworks. Still the gloom deepened, and still the
old gentleman sat with bowed head, thinking of
Nellie's mother. In the other room, with little Nel-
lie on his knee, John sat praying for his wife's safe
return. No wonder that the little girl, when she
said her prayers that night, added : " God bess my
mamma, an' please let her come home all safe."

The anxious watcher waited far into the night.

268 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

The fire snapped and snarled at the darkness, the
old slave still crooned by the bed, and the sick man
still talked vacantly on. At last, John caught the
gleam of a lantern far down the dark road. It
turned in at the gate. A splashing in the mud and
water followed, and John rushed out into the storm,
hardly daring to speak for fear lest Kellie had
failed.

Covered with mud, his black face shining in the
light, Sol stood holding two horses. The tired
beasts hung their heads wearily.

John's heart gave a great throb of joy, as he saw
two faces in the dim light. Nellie smiled at him with
the face of an angel. The other face was white and
still — ghastly in the light. John silently lifted the
women from the horses. He carried Nellie, and half
led, half carried Lucy to the hall. There Nellie's
courage gave way. She laid her head on John's
breast and sobbed like a little child. Her brave
task was ended, she was only a woman now.

Lucy steadied herself against the door. Her face
was pale as death. Her black hair, wet with the
rain, fell about her shoulders. Her eyes were filled
with a strange light as she looked at John inqui-
ringly. He understood her, and pointed silently to
the room where Jack was lying. She walked with a
firm step to the door and noiselessly opened it.
Gently she crossed the floor and knelt at the side of
the bed where old Mammy was sitting.

" Dear Jack," she whispered, " I do love you, and
I have come to ask you to forgive me. You are no-
bler and truer than I knew."

FADED FLOWERS OF ANDERSONVILLE 269

The vacant face slowly turned to her. She bent
forward and kissed him. A flash of intelligence
gleamed in the staring eyes, and he said, in a clear
tone, as his feeble arm passed about her neck : " My
dear little girl, I did it because I loved you."

There is little more that we can say. We cannot
tell how Lucy's proud heart melted when the little
Northern woman knelt before her, and told the
story of the Andersonville Violets. The curl, the
letter, and the faded flowers touched her, and the
love that she had fought down for years mastered
her at last. Back through the wild night they came.
Back through the gloom and darkness to save a life.
For Jack did not die. How could he die when the
gates of an earthly paradise swung open that he
might better fit himself for that higher one ?

The four people whose lives have been thus
strangely brought together live on through many
years of happiness. Jack and Lucy grow closer and
closer together as the years trail past them.

John and Nellie live the same self-sacrificin<2: lives.
They live for little Nellie. The years bring them
prosperity, but they are glad only that they can do
more for their little one. The old lonoringr for home
never dies out. They can never forget that they
are "strangers in a strange land." That mighty
gulf that opens between the two sections can never
be bridged in their lifetime. Even their little girl
must be sent away to be educated. But patiently
and trustingly they work on, thanking God that
they are permitted to develop so grandly the beau-

270 ANDERSON VILLE VIOLETS

tiful little life he has given them, and treasured
above all else, binding their hearts closer together,
filling their lives with the sweet perfume of romance,
Nellie still keeps the little bunch of faded flowers
that have brought so much misery and yet so much
happiness — the Andersonville Violets,

DoIfl8NO£8iii:.:j

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upon the higher nature. Its literary quality is fiue."
LENOX DARE

"Among the best of her productions we place the volume here under
notice. In temper and tone the work is calculated to exert a healthful
and elevating influence, and tends to bring the reader into more intimat*
•yropathy with what is most pure and noble in our nature." — New-Eng'
land Methodist.

DARYLL GAP; or. Whether it Paid

"A story of the petroleum days, and of a family who struck oil. Her
plots are well arranged, and her characters are clearly and strongly
J'rawn." — Pittsburg Recorder.
A WOMAN'S WORD, AND HOW SHE KEPT IT

'•The celebrity of Virginia F. Townsend as an authoress, her brilliant
desCiiptive powers, and pure, vigorous imagination, will insure a hearty
welcome for the above-entitled volume in the writer's happiest veiu." —
Fashion Quarterly.

THAT QUEER GIRL

"A fresh, wholesome book about good men and good women, bright
»nd cheery in style, and pure in morals. Just the book to take a young
girl's fancy, and help her to grow up, like Madeline and Argia, into the
•weetnesB of real girlhood," — P^r»/)/e** Monthly.
ONLY GIRLS

"This volume shows how two persons, * only girls,' saved two men
trom crime, even from ruin of body and soul. The story is ingenious and
graphic, and kept the writer of this notice up far into the small hours of
yesterday morning." — Washington Chronicle.

Tlie Holland Series Cloth. $1.00 each.
THE HOLLANDS

SIX IN ALL

THE DEERINGS OF MEDBURY

THE MILLS OF TUXBURY

" There is a fascination about the stories of Miss Townsend that gives
them a firm hold upon the public, their chief charm being their simplicity
and fidelity to nature."— Commonwealth.

Sold by all booksellers and newsdealers, and sent by mail, postpaid^
on receipt of prict

LEE AND SHEPARD Publlshois Boston

[ T. Trowbridge'8 I] • • new • •

U, ' " NOV ELS ' ' ' UNI FORM EdITIGN

FARNELL'S FOLLY.

" Aa a Novel of American Society, this book has never been surpassed.
Hearty in style and wholesome in tone. Its pathos often meltingj to
tears, its humor always exciting merriment."

CUDJO'S CAVE.

Like "Uncle Tom's Cabin," this thrilling story was a stimulatJno
power in the civil war, and had an immem^e sale. Secretary Chase, of
President Lincoln's cabinet, said of it, "1 could not help reading it : it
Interested and impressed me profoundly. '

THE THREE SCOUTS.

Another popular book of the same stamp, of which " The Boston Tran-
script " said, "It promifies to have a larger sale than ' Cudjo's Cave.*
It is irapostsible to open the volume at any page without being struck by
the quick movement and pervading anecdote of the story."

THE DRUMMER BOY.

A Story of Burnside's Expedition. Illustrated by F. O. C. Darley.

" The most popular book of the season. It will sell without puehiue.'*
— Zion' 8 Herald. ^ *

MARTIN MERRIVALE: His X Mark.

" Strong in humor, pathos, and unabated interest. In none of the booki
Issued from the American press can there be found a purer or more deli-
cate sentiment, a more genuine good taste, or a nicer appreciation and
brighter delineation of character." — Engliis/i Journal.

NEIGHBOR JACKWOOD.

A story of New-England life in the slave-tracking days. Dramatized
for the Boston Museum, it had a long run to crowded houses. The story
is one of Trowbridge's very best.

COUPON BONDS, and other Stories.

The leading story is undoubtedly the most popular of Trowbridge'a
short stories. The others are varied in character, but are either intenesJy
lutereslinjj or " highly amusing."

NEIGHBORS' WIVES.

An ingenious and well-told story. Two neighbors' wives are tempted
beyond their strength to resist, and eteai ?ach from the other. One is
discovered in the act, under ludicrous and humiliating circumstances,
but -8 generously pardoned, with a promise of secrecy. Of course sh«
tif^"!* her secret, and of course perplexities come. It is a capital story.

12mo. Cloth. Price per volume, fl .60,

Sold by all booksellers and newsdealers, and sent by mail, postpaid^

on receipt of price

LEE AXD SHEPARD Publishers Boston

D — Fr I Ladies "P

OPULAR
AUTHORS

SEVEN DAUGHTERS.

By Miss A, M. Douglas, Author of "In Trust," "Stephen Dane," "Claudia,''

" Sydnic Adriancc," " Home Nook," " Nelly Kennard's Kingdom."

ismo, cloth, illustrated. $1.50.

" A charming romance of Girlhood," full of incident and humor. The " Stvea

Daugnters" are characters which reappear in s"me of Miss Douglas' later books. \n

this book they form a delightful group, hovering on the verge oi" Womanhood, with

all the little perplexities of home life and love dreams as incidentals, making afrcshanc

attractive story.

OUR HELEN.

By Sophie May. lamo, cloth, illustrated. $1.50.
" The story is a very attractive one, as free from the sensational and impossible as
could be desired, and at the same time full of interest, and pervaded by the same bright,
cheery sunshine that we find in the author's earlier books. She is to be congratulated
On the success of her essay in a new field of literature, to which she will be warmly wel-
comed by those whc know and admire her ' Prudy Books.' " — Graphic.

THE ASBURY TWINS.

By Sophie May, Author of "The Doctor's Daughter," "Our Helen," &c. lamo,
cloth, illustrated. $1.50.
" Has the ring of genuine genius, and the sparkle of a gem of the first water. We
read it one cloudy wmter day, and it was as good as a Turkish bath, or a three hours'
soak in the sunshine." — Cooperstown Republican.

THAT QUEER GIRL.

By Miss Virginia F. Townsend, Author of " Only Girls," &c. izmo, cloth, illus-
trated. $1.50.
Queer only in being unconventional, brave and frank, an " old-fashioned girl," and
Very sweet and charmmg. As indicated in the title, is a little out of the common track,
and the wooing and the winning are as queer as the heroine. The Neiv Haven
Register says: " Decidedly the best work which has appeared from the pen of Miss
Townsend."

RUNNING TO WASTZ.

The Story of a Tomboy. By George M. Baker. i6mo, cloth, illustrated.

$1.50.
" This book is one of the most entertaining we have read for a long time. It is well
written, full of humor, and good humor, and it has not a dull or uninteresting pags.
It is lively and natural, and overflowing with the best New England character and
traits. There is also a touch of pathos, which always accompanies humor, in the life
and death of the tomboy's mother." — Newburyport Herald.

DAISY TRAVERS;

Or the Girls of Hive Hall. By Adelaide F. Samuels, Author of " Dick and
Daisy Stones," " Dick Travers Abroad," &c. i6mo, cloth, illustrated. $1.50.
The story of Hive Hall is full of life and action, and told in the same happy
style which made the earlier life of its heroine so attractive, and caused the Dick and
Daisy books to become great favorites with the young. What was said of the younget
books can, with equal truth, be said of Daisy grown up.

The above six hooks are fitrnished in a handsome box for fq.oo, or sold
separate, by all booksellers, and sent by mail , postpaid , on receipt 0/ price.

LEE AND SHEPARD Publishers Boston
17

J EE AND g HEPflRD'S

^ W HITE B LEK MP QOLD gERIES

On fine paper, profusely illustrated, and bound in white, black, and gold,

with new and original dies, making uery attractive books

Per uolume, $1.50 New edition

ADVENTURES OF A CHINAMAN By Jules Verne

50 full-page illustrations

This is one of the most entertaining of this author's remarkable stories. It
abounds in exciting adventures, and in humorous situations excels all his other
books.

" In this volume he gives a full rein to his lively fancy, and the result is a
book that will compare with any of his preceding works in the matter of
pleasure to be derived from its pages. The Flowery Kingdom offers a fertile
field for a writer such as he is, and he has made it the scene of incidents that
show his fertility of invention, his keen sense of humor, and his faculty for
imparting valuable information, garnished with much that is extravagant and
only designed to amuse." — Budget.
FIGHTING PHIL The Life of Gen. Philip H. Sheridan, by

Headlev With full-page illustrations

" The present volume is one of the most successful that the author has
produced. It is the life-record of a brave and good man, who was honored,
admired, and respected. Little Phil Sheridan endeared himself to the hearts
of a nation whose offspring should learn the story of his life. The work
is very handsomely printed, illustrated and bound, and, while it is one of the
most desirable gifts for a boy, it is a thoroughly historical and readable work,
suitable for all who wish to learn the facts in the career of a noble American
hero." — American Hebrew.
PERSEVERANCE ISLAND or The Robinson Crusoe of

THE Nineteenth Century By Douglas Frazar With full-page illus-
trations

" It is an admirably told story, full to repletion of the most exciting adven-
ture. Its author was cast away alone upon a desolate island in mid-ocean,
and all his shipmates lost. The writing is a histor>' of his life and adventures.
This history was launched in the balloon, and reached civilization and the
public in the manner specified. The old Robinson Crusoe was a bungler, but
this modern specimen was an adept in all mechanical contrivance, and the
young reader will be not only entertained, but instructed, in the chapters.
How he prepared fresh water, how he made gunpowder, lucifer matches,
edged tools, built houses and boats, is graphically told in these pages."
— Inter-Ocean.
OUR STANDARD-BEARER Oliver Optic's Life of Gen.

U. S. Grant With full-page illustrations

" This volume is specially adapted to the youth of the country, but is
equally, if not more, interesting to those of maturer years. It is just such a
book as will be a favorite in the library of any household, be that library large
or small. It gives fine entertainment and capital instruction. The scenes
and incidents of the great general's infancy, childhood, and youth are told in
a pleasant way, while the later incidents of his eventful career are described
with a faithful and graphic pen." — Keokuk Democrat.
LIVES OF THE PRESIDENTS From Washington to

Cleveland \yith new portraits.

A very interesting series of short biographies of the Presidents, describing
the principal events of each administration in an entertaining and readable
manner, giving just the information that is needed to convey, in brief, the
history of the United Slates, and affording in compact form a ready reference
book on national affairs.

*** Sold by all booksellers, or sent by 7nail on receipt of price

LEE AND SHEFAED Publishers Boston
26

LEE AND SHEPARD'S

QOpD.GQMPANY

As the best of all good company is found in the fellowship of genial, well-
informed people, whose wit, wisdom, or general knowledge is generously
bestowed for the benefit of all, this collection of some of the best thoughts of
the best writers on religious, scientific, and romantic themes will be found ele-
vating, instructive, or entertaining, as the humor of the reader may desire or
select. All the authors are favorite writers, and the volumes of " Good
Company " their best productions.

Modern Classics, in neat 16mo volumes, good type, English cloth binding,
60 cents per volume

FIRESIDE SAINTS Mr. Caudle's Breakfast Talk, and

Other Papers By Douglas Jerrold 357 pages

" It will be diflficult to find another volume in the language which will sur-
pass this one in its plenteous harvest of jest and fancy, tenderness and pathos,
sound sense and keen satire."

THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS By Leigh Hunt 456 pages
" The brilliant and varied gifts of the author nowhere appear to more advan-
tage than in these papers."

THE LOVER By Richard Steele

" Belongs to that epoch of English literature which was richest in style, and
which it would do young writers great good to study."
DREAMTHORPE By Alexander Smith

" A volume of delightful essays which are replete with rare gems of thought,
and sparkle with telling anecdotes and other illustrations."
A PHYSICIAN'S PROBLEMS By Charles Elam

The questions here presented are not alone interesting to the professional,
but to all those seeking the best good of his species.

RELIGIOUS PUTY Teaching of Duty, Offences, FaulLs, and
Obligations in Religious Life By Frances Power Cobbe
A thoughtftjl and uplifting book, simple in style, fervent in sentiment,

liberal in spirit, and worthy the earnest attention of all who find comfort in

religious reflection.

BROKEN LIGHTS An Inquiry into the Present Condition and
Future Prospects of Religious Life By Frances Power Cobbe
Wide reading, scholarly taste, and deep thought are made manifest on

every page, and the spirit in which the book is written is broad and impartial.

The following, among other volumes, are to be added to the series :
THE TRUE STORY OF THE EXODUS Together
WITH A Brief View of Monumental Egypt By Dr. Henry Brugsch
Bey Edited by F. H. Underwood, LL.D.

THE STORY OF EVOLUTION The Development
Theory By Joseph Y. and Fanny Bergen

THE PHILOSOPHY OF MIRTH With Seven Hundred
and Fifty Appropriate Anecdotes By B. F. Clark

THE GENTLEMAN By George H. Calvert

THE CHAPEL OF ST. MARY'S By the author of " The
Rectory of Moreland "

SIR ROHAN'S GHOST By Harriet Prescott Spofford
*** So/d by all booksellers, or settt by mail on receipt 0/ price

LEE AND SHEPARD PubUshers Boston
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l^flRRflTIVES •

OF • NOTED-

TRAVELLERS

GERMANY SEEN WITHOUT SPECTACLES; or, Random
Sketches of Various Subjects, Penned from Different Stand-
points in the Empire
By Henry Ruggles, late United States Consul at the Island of Malta, and

at Barcelona, Spain. $1.50.

" Mr. Ruggles writes briskly: he chats and gossips, slashing right and left
with stout American prejudices, and has made withal a most entertaining
book.'' — Nexv-York Tribune.

TRAVELS AND OBSERVATIONS IN THE ORIENT, with »
Hasty Flight in the Countries of Europe ,■

By Walter Harriman (ex-Governor of New Hampshire). $1.50.

" The author, m his graphic description of these sacred localities, refers
with great aptness to scenes and personages which history has made famous
It is a chatty narrative of travel." — Concord Monitor.
FORE AND AFT
A Story of Actual Sea-Life. By Robert B. Dixon, M.D. $1.25.

Travels in Mexico, with vivid descriptions of manners and customs, form a
large part of this striking narrative of a fourteen-months' voyage.
VOYAGE OF THE PAPER CANOE
A Geographical Journey of Twenty-five Hundred Miles from Quebec to the

Gulf of Mexico. By Nathaniel H. Bishop. With numerous illustra-
tions an<f maps specially prepared for this work. Crown 8vo. $1.50.

" Mr. Bishop did a very bold thing, and has described it with a happy
mixture of spirit, keen observation, and bonhomie." — London Graphic.
FOUR MONTHS IN A SNEAK-BOX
A Boat Voyage of Twenty-six Hundred Miles down the Ohio and Mississippi

Rivers, and along the Gulf of Mexico. By Nathaniel H. Bishop. With

numerous maps and illustrations. $1.50.

"His glowing pen-pictures of ' shanty-boat ' life on the great rivers are
true to life. His descriptions of persons and places are graphic." — Zion's
Herald.
A THOUSAND MILES' WALK ACROSS SOUTH AMERICA,

Over the Pampas and the Andes
By Nathaniel H. Bishop. Crown 8vo. New edition. Illustrated. $i.5a

" Mr. Bishop made this journey when a boy of sixteen, has never forgotten
it, and tells it in such a way that the reader will always remember it, and
wish there had been more."
CAMPS IN THE CARIBBEES
Being the Adventures of a Naturalist Bird-hunting in the West-India Islands.

By Fred A. Oher. New edition. With maps and illustrations. $1.50.

" During two years he visited mountains, forests, and people, that few, if
any, tourists had ever reached before. He carried his camera with him, and
photographed from nature the scenes by which the book is illustrated." —
Louisville Courier-Journal.
ENGLAND FROM A BACK WINDOW; With Views of

Scotland and Ireland
By J. M. Bailey, the " ' Danbury News' Man." izmo. $1.00.

" The peculiar humor of this writer is well known. The British Isles have
never before been looked at in just the same way, — at least, not by any one
who has notified us of the {zct. Mr. Bailey's travels possess, accordingly, a
value of their own for the reader, no matter how many previous records of
journeys in the mother country he may have read." — Rochester Express.

Sold by all booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of pric9

I££ AND SHEPAED Publishers Boston

B RIGHT pooKS OF TRAYII
REEZY ■ - - ■ BY SIX BRIGHT WOMEN - - - -

A WINTER IN CENTRAL AMERICA AND MEXICO

By Helen } Sanborn. Cloth, $1.50.
" A bright, attractive narrative by a wide-awake Boston girl."

A SUMMER IN THE AZORES, with a Glimpse of Madeira

By Miss C. Alice Baker. Little Classic style. Cloth, gilt edges. $125,
" Miss Baker gives us a breezy, enteruining description of iliese picturesque

islands. She is an obser%'ing traveller, and makes a graphic picture of the

quaint people and customs." — Chicago Advatue.

LIFE AT PUGET SOUND

With sketches of travel in Washington Territory, British Columbia, Oregon,
and California. By Caroline C. Leighton. i6mo, cloth, $1.50.
" Your chapters on Puget Sound have charmed me. Full of life, deeply

interesting, and with just that class of facts, and suggestions of truth, tha*

cannot fail to help the Indian and the Chinese." — Wendell Phillips.

EUROPEAN BREEZES

By Margery Deane. Cloth, gilt top, $1.50. Being chapters of travel
through Germany, .Austria, Hungary, and Switzerland, covering places not
usually visited by Americans in making " the Grand Tour of the Conti-
nent," by the accomplished writer of " Newport Breezes."
" A very bright, fresh and amusing account, which tells us about a host of

things we never heard 01 before, and is worth two orduiary books of European

travel." — \Vot7tans JoHrnal.

BEATEN PATHS; or, A Woman's Vacation in Europe

By Ella W. Tho.mpson i6mo, cloth. $1 50.
A lively and chatty book of travel, with pen-pictures humorous and graphic,

that are decidedly out of the " beaten paths " of description.

AN AMERICAN GIRL ABROAD

By Miss Adeline Trafton, author of " His Inheritance," " Katherine
Earle," etc. i6mo. Illustrated. $1.50.
" A sparkling account of a European trip by a wide-awake, intelligent, asid

irrepressible American girl. Pictured with a freshness and vivacity that is

delightful." — Utica Observer

CURTIS GUILD'S TRAVELS
BRITONS AND MUSCOVITES; or, Traits of Two Empires

Cloth, $2.00.

OVER THE OCEAN; or, Sights and Scenes in Foreign Lands
By Curtis Guild, editor of " The Boston Commercial Bulletin ' Crown 8vo.

Cloth, $2.50.

" The utmost that any European tourist can hope to do is to tell the old
story in a somewhat fresh way, and .Mr. Guild has succeeded in every part of
his book in doing this." — Philadelphia Bulletin.
ABROAD AGAIN ; or, Fresh Forays in Foreign Fields
Uniform with " Over the Ocean." By the same author Crown 8vo.

Cloth, $2.50.

" He has given us a life-picture. Europe is done in a style that must serva
as an invaluable guide to those who go ' over the ocean,' as well as an inter-
esting companion." — Halifax Citizen.

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LEE AND SHEPAED PubUshers Boston

y OUNG p OLKS' ;

B OOKS OF Travel

DRIFTING ROUND THE WORLD; A Boy's Adventures by

Sea and Land
By Capt. Charles W. Hall, author of " Adrift in the Ice-Fields," " Th«
Great Bonanza," etc. With numerous full-page and letter-press illustra-
tions. Royal Svo. Handsome cover. $1.75- Cloth, gilt, $2.50.
"Out of the beaten track" in its course of travel, record of adventures,
and descriptions of life in Greenland, Labrador, Ireland, Scotland, England,
France, Holland, Russia, Asia, Siberia, and Alaska. Its hero is young, bold,
and adventurous ; and the book is in every way interesting and attractive.

EDWAHD GREEY'S JAPANESE SERIES
YOUNG AMERICANS IN JAPAN ; or, The Adventures of the

Jewett Family and their Friend Oto Nambo
With 170 full-page and letter-press illustrations. Royal Svo, 7 x 9^ inches.

Handsomely illuminated cover. $1.75- Cloth, black and gold, $2.50.

This story, though essentially a work of fiction, is filled with interesting and
truthful descriptions of the curious ways of living of the good people of the
land of the rising sun.

THE WONDERFUL CITY OF TOKIO; or, The Further Ad-
ventures of the Jewett Family and their Friend Oto Nambo
With 169 illustrations. Royal Svo, 7x9^ inches. With cover in gold and

colors, designed by the author. $1.75- Cloth, black and gold, $2.50.

" A book full of delightful information. The author has the happy gift of
permitting the reader to view things as he saw them. The illustrations are
mostly drawn by a Japanese artist, and are very unique." —C/iica^o Herald.

THE BEAR WORSHIPPERS OF YEZO AND THE ISLAND
OF KARAFUTO ; being the further Adventures of the
Jewett Family and their Friend Oto Nambo

180 illustrations. Boards, $1.75. Cloth, $2.50.

Graphic pen and pencil pictures of the remarkable bearded people who live

in the north of Japan. The illustrations are by native Japanese artists, and

give queer pictures of a queer people, who have been seldom visited.

HARRY W, FRENCHES BOOKS
OUR BOYS IN INDIA
The wanderings of two young Americans in Hindustan, with their exciting

adventures on the sacred rivers and wild mountains. With 145 illustrations.

Royal Svo, 7 x 9^ inches. Bound in emblematic covers of Oriental design,

$1.75. Cloth, black and gold, $2.50.

While it has all the exciting interest of a romance, it is remarkably vivid in
its pictures of manners and customs in the land of the Hindu. The illustra-
tions are many and excellent.

OUR BOYS IN CHINA

The adventures of two young Americans, wrecked in the China Sea on their
return from India, with their strange wanderings through the Chinese
Empire. 188 illustrations. Boards, ornamental covers in colors and gold,
$1.75. Cloth, $2.50.
This gives the further adventures of" Our Boys" of India fame in the land

of Teas and Queues.

9old by all booksellers, and sent by mail, postoaid, on receipt of prict

LEE ASB SHEPAED Publishers Boston

[ RENE E J EROME'S . . . .
1 ...*... A RT RnOKf^

AEI BOOKS

THE "PERPETUAL PLEASURE" SERIES

" The sketches are such as the most famous men of the country might
be proud to own. They are original strong, and impressiue, even the
lightest of them ; and their variety, like a procession of Nature, is a
perpetual pleasure."

A BUNCH OF VIOLETS. Original illustrations, engraved on
wood and printed under the direction of George T. Andrew. 4to, cloth,
$3.75; Turkey morocco, $9.00; tree calf, $9.00; English seal style, $7.00.
The new volume is akin to the former triumphs of this favorite artist, whose
" Sketch Books" have achieved a popularity unequalled in the history of fine
art publications. In the profusion of designs, originality, and delicacy of
treatment, the charming sketches of mountain, meadow, lake, and forest
scenery of New England here reproduced are unexcelled. After the wealth of
illustration which this student of nature has poured into the lap of art, to pro-
duce a volume in which there is no deterioration of power or beauty, but, if
possible, increased strength and enlargement of ideas, gives assurance that the
ijremost female artist in America will hold the hearts of her legion of admirers.

NATURE'S HALLELUJAH. Presented in a series of nearly
fifty full-page original illustrations (9'/^ x 14 inches), engraved on wood by
George T. Andrew. Elegantly bound in gold cloih, full gilt, gilt edges,
$6.00; Turkey morocco, $12.00; tree calf, $12.00; English seal style, $10.00.
This volume has won the most cordial praise on both sides of the water.
Mr. Francis H. Underwood, U. S. Consul at Glasgow, writes concerning it:
" I have never seen anything superior, if equal, to the delicacy and finish of
the engravings, and the perfection of the press-work. The copy you sent me
has been looked over with evident and unfeigned delight by many people of
artistic taste. Every one frankly says, ' It is impossible to produce such
effects here,' and, whether it is possible or not, I am sure it is noi done ; no
such effects are produced on this side of the Atlantic. In this combination of
art and workmanship, the United States leads the world; and you have a right
to be proud of the honor of presenting such a specimen to the public"
ONE YEAR'S SKETCH BOOK. Containing forty-six full-
page original illustrations, engraved on wood by Andrew; in same bindings
and at same prices as " Nature's Hallelujah."

" Every thick, creamy page is embellished by some gems of art. Sometimes
it is but a dash and a few trembling strokes; at others an impressive landscape,
but in all and through all runs the master touch. Miss Jerome has the genius
of an Angelo, and the execution of a Guido. The beauty of the sketches will
be apparent to all, having been taken from our unrivalled New England
scenery." — IVashington Chronicle.
THE MESSAGE OF THE BLUEBIRD, Told to Me

to Tell to Others. Original illustrations engraved on wood by
Andrew. Cloth and gold, $2.00; palatine boards, ribbon ornaments, $1.00.
" In its new bindings is one of the daintiest combinations of song and illus-
tration ever published, exhibiting in a marked degree the fine poetic taste and
wonderfully artistic touch which render this author's works so popular. Ihe
pictures are exquisite, and the verses exceedingly graceful, appealing to the
highest sensibilities. The little volume ranks among the choicest of holiday
souvenirs, and is beautiful and pleasing." — Boston Transcript.

Sold by all boohsellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of pric*

J.v:p. and SHEPARD Publishers Boston

RARE BOOK
COLLECTION

THE LIBRARY OF THE

UNIVERSITY OF

NORTH CAROLINA

CHAPEL HILL

Wilmer
249