The fact that this paper was a religious publication, the outgrowth of the New England conscience, gave its columns a peculiar power over the Northern mind.

The South retorted in kind. De Bow's Review declared:

"The basic framework and controlling inference of Northern sentiment is Puritanic, the old Roundhead rebel refuse of England, which has ever been an unruly sect of Pharisees, the worst bigots on earth and the meanest tyrants when they have the power to exercise it."

When the Conventions met a few months later to name candidates for the Presidency and make a declaration of principles, leaders had ceased to lead and there were no principles to declare.

The mob mind was supreme.

The Democratic Convention met at Charleston, South Carolina, to name the successor of James Buchanan. Their constituents commanded a vast majority of the voters of the Nation. The Convention became a mob. The one man, the one giant leader left in the republic, the one constructive mind, the one man of political genius who could have saved the nation from the holocaust toward which it was plunging was Stephen A. Douglas of Illinois. He could have been elected President by an overwhelming majority had he been nominated by this united convention. He was entitled to the nomination. He had proven himself a statesman of the highest rank. He had proven himself impervious to sectional hatred or sectional appeal. He was a Northern man, but a friend of the South as well as the North. He was an American of the noblest type.

But the radical wing of his party in the South were seeing Red. Old Brown's words to them meant the spirit of the North. They heard echoing and reechoing from every newspaper and pulpit:

"I, JOHN BROWN, AM NOW QUITE CERTAIN THAT THE CRIMES OF THIS GUILTY LAND WILL NEVER BE PURGED AWAY BUT WITH BLOOD."

If the hour for bloodshed had come they demanded that the South prepare without further words. And they believed that the hour had come. They heard the tread of swarming hosts. They were eager to meet them.

Reason was flung to the winds. Passion ruled. Compromise was a thing beyond discussion. Douglas was a Northern man and they would have none of him. He was hooted and catcalled until he was compelled to withdraw from the Convention.

The radical South named their own candidate for President. He couldn't be elected. No matter. War was inevitable.

Let it come.

The Northern Democratic Convention named Douglas for President. He couldn't be elected. No matter. War was inevitable. Let it come.

In dumb amazement at the tragedy approaching—the tragedy of a divided Union and a bloody civil war—the Union men of the party nominated a third ticket, Bell of Tennessee and Everett of Massachusetts. They couldn't be elected. No matter. War was inevitable. It had to come. They would stand by their principles and go down with them.

When the new Republican party met at Chicago they were sobered by the responsibility suddenly thrust upon them of naming the next President of the United States. Fremont, a mere figurehead as their candidate, had polled a million votes in the campaign before. With three Democratic tickets in the field, success was sure.

They wrote a conservative platform and named for their candidate Abraham Lincoln, the one man in their party who had denounced John Brown's deeds, the man who had declared in his debates with Douglas that he did not believe in making negroes voters or jurors, that he did not believe in the equality of the races, that he did not believe that two such races could ever live together in a Democracy on terms of political or social equality.

Their candidate was the gentlest, broadest, sanest man within their ranks. Unless the nation had already gone mad they felt that in his triumph they would be safe from the Red Menace which stalked through their crowded hall. Their radical leaders were furious. But they were compelled to submit and fight for his election. The life of their party depended on it. Their own life was bound up in their party.

There was really but one issue before the nation—peace or war. The new party, both in its candidate and its platform, sought with all its power to stem the Red Tide of the Blood Feud which John Brown had raised.

Their well-meant efforts came too late.

War is a condition of mind primarily. Its causes are always psychological—not physical. The result of this state of mind is an abnormal condition of the nervous system, in which the thoughts and acts of men are controlled by the collective mind—the mob mind. Indians execute their war dances for days and nights to produce this mental state. Once it had been created, the war cry alone can be heard.

This mind, once formed, deliberative bodies cease to exist. The Congress of the United States ceased to exist as a deliberative body at the session which followed John Brown's execution.

The atmosphere of both the Senate and the House was electric with hatred and passion. Men who met at the last session as friends, now glared into each other's faces, mortal enemies.

L. Q. C. Lamar, the young statesman from Mississippi, threw a firebrand into the House on the day of its opening.

"The Republicans of this House are not guiltless of the blood of John Brown, his conspirators, and the innocent victims of his ruthless vengeance."

Keitt of South Carolina shouted:

"The South asks nothing but her rights. I would have no more, but as God is my judge I would shatter this republic from turret to foundation stone before I would take a little less!"

Old Thaddeus Stevens of Pennsylvania scrambled up on his club foot and with a face flaming with scorn replied:

"I do not blame gentlemen of the South for using this threat of rending God's creation from foundation to turret. They have tried it fifty times, and fifty times they have found weak and recreant tremblers in the North who have been affected by it, and who have retreated before these intimidations."

He turned to the group of conservative members of his own party with a look of triumphant taunting. He wanted war. He courted it. He saw its coming with a shout of joy.

The House was in an uproar. Members leaped from their seats and jammed the aisles, shouting, cheering, hissing, catcalling. The clerk was powerless to preserve order.

For two months the bedlam continued while they voted in vain to elect a Speaker. The new party was determined to have John Sherman. The opposition was divided but finally chose Mr. Pennington, a moderate of mediocre ability.

During these eight weeks of senseless wrangling the members began to arm themselves with revolvers. One of the weapons dropped from the pocket of a member from New York and he was accused of attempting to draw it for use against an opponent.

The sergeant at arms was summoned and pandemonium broke loose. For a moment it seemed that a pitched battle before the dais of the Speaker was inevitable.

John Sherman rose and made a remarkable statement—remarkable in showing how the mob mind will inevitably destroy the mind of the individual until its unity is undisputed. He spoke in tones of reconciliation.

"When I came here I did not believe that the Slavery question would come up; and but for the unfortunate affair of Brown's at Harper's Ferry I do not believe that there would have been any feeling on the subject. Northern members came here with kindly feelings, no man approving of the deed of John Brown, and every man willing to say so, every man willing to admit it an act of lawless violence."

It was true. And yet before that mad session closed they were Brown's disciples and he had become their martyr here. The mob mind devours individuality, and reduces all to the common denominator of the archaic impulse.

In the fierce conflict for Speaker four years before, when Banks had been chosen, Slavery was then the issue. Good humor, courtesy and reason ruled the contest which lasted three days longer than the fight over Sherman. Instead of courtesy and reason—hatred, passion, defiance, assertion were now the order of the day. Four years before a threat of disunion was made on the floor. The House received it with shouts of derision and laughter. Keitt's dramatic threat had thrown the House into an uproar which had to be quelled by the sergeant at arms. Envy, hate, jealousy, spite, passion were supreme. The favorite epithets hurled across the Chamber were:

"Slave driver!"

"Nigger thief!"

The newspapers no longer reported speeches as delivered. They were revised and raised to greater powers of vituperation and abuse. Instead of a convincing, logical speech, their champion hurled a "torrent of scathing denunciation," "withering sarcasm," and "crushing invective!"

At this historic session appeared the first suit of Confederate Gray, worn by Roger A. Pryor, the brilliant young member from Virginia.

Immediately a Northern member leaped to his feet. He had caught the significance of the Southern emblem. He gave a moment's silent survey to the gray suit and opened his address on the State of the Country by saying:

"Virginia, instead of clothing herself in sheep's wool, had better don her appropriate garb of sackcloth and ashes!"

The nation was already at war before Abraham Lincoln left Springfield for Washington to take his seat as President. It was deemed wise that he should enter the city practically in disguise.

In vain the great heart that beat within his lonely breast tried to stem the Red Tide in his first inaugural. With infinite pathos he turned toward the South and spoke his words of peace, reconciliation and assurance:

"I have no purpose directly or indirectly to interfere with the institution of Slavery in the States where it exists. I believe I have no lawful right to do so, and I have no inclination to do so."

His closing sentences were spoken with his deep eyes swimming in tears.

"I am loath to close. We are not enemies but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave, to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature."

The noblest men of North and South joined with the new President, pleading for peace. They knew by the light of reason that a war of brothers would be a wanton crime. They proved by irresistible logic that every issue dividing the nation could be settled at the Council Table.

They pleaded in vain. They pitched straws against a hurricane. From the deep, subconscious nature of man, the lair of the beast, came only the growl of challenge to mortal combat.

The new President is but a leaf tossed by the wind. The Union of which our fathers dreamed is rent in twain. With tumult and shout, the armies gather, blue and gray, brother against brother. A madman's soul now rides the storm and leads the serried lines as they sweep to the red rendezvous with Death.



CHAPTER XXXVI

A little mother with a laughing boy two years old and baby in her arms was awaiting at a crowded hotel in Washington the coming of her father from the Western plains. Her men were going in opposite directions in these tragic days that were trying the souls of men. Colonel Phillip St. George Cooke was a Virginian. Lieutenant J. E. B. Stuart was a Virginian. The soul of the little mother was worn out with the question that had no answer. Why should her lover-husband and her fine old daddy fight each other?

She stood appalled before such a conflict. She had written to her father a letter so gentle, so full of tender appeal, he could not resist its call. She had asked that he come to see her babies and her husband and, face to face, say the things that were in his heart.

Her own sympathies were with her husband. He had breathed his soul into hers. She thought as he thought and felt as he felt. But her dear old daddy must have deep reasons for refusing to follow Virginia, if she should go with the South in Secession. She must hear these reasons. Stuart must hear them. If he could convince them, they would go with him.

In her girl's soul she didn't care which way they went, as long as they did not fight each other. She had watched the shadow of this war deepen with growing anguish. If her father should meet her husband in battle and one should kill the other! How could she live? The thought was too horrible to frame in, words, but it haunted her dreams. She couldn't shake it off.

That her rollicking soldier man would come out alive she felt sure somehow. No other thought was possible. To think that he might be killed in the pride and glory of his youth was nonsense. Her mind refused now to dwell on the idea. She dismissed it with a laugh. He was so vital. He lived to his finger tips. His voice rang with the joy of living. The spirit of eternal youth danced in his blue eyes. He was just twenty-eight years old. He was the father of a darling boy who bore his name and a baby that nestled in her arms to whom they had given hers.

Life in its morning of glory was his—wife, babies, love, youth, health, strength, clean living and high thinking. No, it was the thought of harm to her father that was eating her heart out. He has passed the noon-tide of life. His slender, graceful form lacked the sturdy power of youth. His chances were not so good.

The thing that sickened her was the certainty that both these men, father and husband, would organize the cavalry service and fight on horseback. They had spent their honeymoon on the plains. She had ridden over them with her joyous lover.

He would be a cavalry commander. She knew that he would be a general. Her father was a master of cavalry tactics and was at work on the Manuel for the United States Army.

The two men were born under the same skies. Their tastes were similar. Their clean habits of life were alike. Their ideals were equally high and noble. How could two such men fight each other to the death over an issue of politics when some wife or sister or mother must look on a dead face when the smoke has cleared?

Her soul rose in rebellion against it all. She summoned every power of her mind to the struggle with her father.

She brought them together at last in the room with her babies, asleep in their cradles. She sat down between the two and held a hand in each of hers.

"Now, daddy dear, you must tell me why you're going to fight Virginia if she secedes from the Union."

The gentle face smiled sadly.

"How can I make you understand, dear baby? It's foolish to argue such things. We follow our hearts—that's all."

"But you must tell me," she pleaded.

"There's nothing to tell, child. We must each decide these big things of life for himself. I'll never draw my sword against the Union. My fathers created it. I've fought for it. I've lived for it. And I've got to die for it, if must be, that's all—"

He paused, withdrew his hand from hers, rose and put it on Stuart's shoulder.

"You've chosen a fine boy for your husband, my daughter. I love him. I'm proud of him. I shall always be proud that your children bear his name. He must fight this battle of his allegiance in his own soul and answer to God, not to me. I would not dare to try to influence him."

Stuart rose and grasped the Colonel's hand. His eyes were moist.

"Thank you, Colonel. I shall always remember this hour with you and my Flora. And I shall always love and respect you, in life or death, success or failure."

The older man held Stuart's hand in a strong grip.

"It grieves me to feel that you may fight the Union, my son. I have seen the end in a vision already. The Union is indissoluble. The stars in their courses have said it."

"It may be, sir," Stuart slowly answered. "Who knows? We must do each what we believe to be right, as God gives us to see the right."

The little mother was softly crying. Her hopes had faded. There was the note of finality in each word her men had uttered. She was crushed.

For an hour she talked in tender commonplaces. She tried to be cheerful for her father's sake. She saw that he was suffering cruelly at the thought of saying a goodbye that might be the last.

She broke down in a flood of bitter tears. The father took her into his arms and soothed her with tender words. But something deep and strange had stirred in the mother heart within her.

She drew away from his arms and cried in anguish.

"It's wrong. It's wrong. It's all wrong—this feud of blood! And God will yet save the world from it. I must believe that or I'd go mad!"

The two men looked at each other in wonder for a moment and then at the mother's convulsed face. Into the older man's features slowly crept a look of awe, as if he had heard that voice before somewhere in the still hours of his soul.

Stuart bent and kissed her tenderly.

"There, dear, you're overwrought. Don't worry. Your work God has given you in these cradles."

"Yes, that's why I feel this way," she whispered on his breast.



CHAPTER XXXVII

If reason had ruled, the Gulf States of the South would never have ordered their representatives to leave Washington on the election of Abraham Lincoln. The new administration could have done nothing with the Congress chosen. The President had been elected on a fluke because of the division of the opposition into three tickets. Lincoln was a minority President and was powerless except in the use of the veto.

If the Gulf States had paused for a moment they could have seen that such an administration, whatever its views about Slavery, would have failed, and the next election would have been theirs. The moment they withdrew their members of Congress, however, the new party had a majority and could shape the nation's laws.

The crowd mind acts on blind impulse, never on reason.

In spite of the President's humane purpose to keep peace when he delivered his first inaugural, he had scarcely taken his seat at the head of his Cabinet when the mob mind swept him from his moorings and he was caught in the torrent of the war mania.

The firing on Fort Sumter was not the first shot by the Secessionists. They had fired on the Star of the West, a ship sent to the relief of the Fort, weeks before. They had driven her back to sea. But the President at that moment had sufficient power to withstand the cry for blood. At the next shot he succumbed to the inevitable and called for 75,000 volunteers to invade the South. This act of war was a violation of his powers under Constitutional law. Congress alone could declare war. But Congress was not in session.

The mob had, in fact, declared war. The President and his Cabinet were forced to bow to its will and risk their necks on the outcome of the struggle.

So long as Virginia, North Carolina and Tennessee refused to secede and stood with the Border States of Maryland, Missouri and Kentucky inside the Union, the Confederacy organized at Montgomery, Alabama, must remain a mere political feint.

The call of the President on Virginia, North Carolina, Tennessee, Kentucky, Missouri and Maryland, all slave States, to furnish their quota of troops to fight the seceders, was in effect a declaration of war by a united North upon the South.

Virginia had refused to join the Confederacy before by an overwhelming majority. All eyes were again turned on the Old Dominion. Would she accept the President's command and send her quota of troops to fight her sisters of the South, or would she withdraw from the Union?

The darkest day of its history was dawning on Arlington. Lee had spent a sleepless night watching the flickering lights of the Capitol, waiting, hoping, praying for a message from the Convention at Richmond. On that message hung the present, the future, and the sacred glory of the past.

The lamp on the table in the hall was still burning dimly at dawn when Mary Lee came downstairs and pulled the old-fashioned bell cord which summoned the butler.

Ben entered with a bow.

"You ring for me, Missy?"

"Yes. You sent to town to see if an Extra had been issued?"

"Yassam. De boy come back more'n a hour ago."

"There was none?"

"Nomum."

"And he couldn't find Lieutenant Stuart?"

"Nomum. He look fur him in de telegraph office an' everywhar."

"Why don't he come—why don't he come?" she sighed.

"I spec dem wires is done down, an' de news 'bout Secesum come froo de country fum Richmon' by horseback, M'am."

The girl sighed again wearily.

"The coffee and sandwiches ready, Ben?"

"Yassam. All on de table waitin'. De coffee gittin' cold."

"I'll bring Papa down, if I can get him to come."

"Yassam. I hopes ye bring him. He sho must be wore out."

"It's daylight," she said, "open the windows and put out the lamp."

Mary climbed the stairs again to get her father to eat. Ben drew the curtains and the full light of a beautiful spring morning flooded the room. A mocking bird was singing in the holly. A catbird cried from a rosebush, a redbird flashed and chirped from the hedge and a colt whinnied for his mother.

The old negro lowered the lamp, blew it out and began to straighten the room. A soft knock sounded on the front door.

He stopped and listened. That was queer. No guest could be coming to Arlington at dawn. Lieutenant Stuart would come on horseback and the ring of his horse's hoofs could be heard for half a mile.

He turned back to his work and the knock was repeated, this time louder.

He cautiously approached the door.

"Who's dar?"

"Hit's me."

"Me who?"

"Hit's me—Sam."

"'Tain't no Sam nuther—"

"'Tis me."

"Sam's bin free mos' ten year now an' he's livin' in New York—"

"I done come back. Lemme come in a minute!"

Ben was not sure. He picked up a heavy cane, held it in his right hand and cautiously opened the door with his left, as Sam entered.

The old man dropped the cane and stepped back in dumb amazement. It was some time before he spoke.

"Name er Gawd, Sam—hit is you."

"Sho, hit's me!"

"What yer doin' here?"

"I come to see my old marster when I hears all dis talk 'bout war. Whar is he?"

Ben lifted his eyes to the ceiling and spoke in a solemn tone:

"Up dar in his room all night trampin' back an' forth lak er lion in de cage, waitin' fur Marse Stuart ter fetch de news fum Richmond 'bout secessun—"

"Secessun?"

Ben nodded—and raised his eyes in a dreamy look.

"Some say Ole Virginy gwine ter stay in de Union. Some say she's a gwine ter secede. De Convenshun in Richmon' wuz votin' on hit yestiddy. Marse Stuart gone ter town ter fetch de news ter Arlington."

Sam stepped close and searched Ben's face.

"What's my ole marster dat set me free gwine ter do?"

"Dat's what everybody's axin. He bin prayin' up dar all night."

Sam glanced toward the stairway and held his silence for a while. He spoke finally with firm conviction.

"Well, I'se gwine wid him. Ef he go wid de Union, I goes. Ef he go wid ole Virginy, I go wid ole Virginy. Whichever way he go, dat's de right way—"

"Dat's so, too!" Ben responded fervently.

Sam advanced to the old butler with the quick step of the days when he was his efficient helper.

"What ye want me ter do?"

Ben led him to the portico and pointed down the white graveled way to Washington.

"Run doun de road ter de rise er dat hill an' stay dar. De minute yer see a hoss cross dat bridge—hit's Marse Stuart. Yer fly back here an' tell me—"

Sam nodded and disappeared. Ben hurried back into the hall, as Mary and her mother came down the stairs.

Mrs. Lee was struggling to control her fears.

"No sign of Lieutenant Stuart yet, Ben?"

"Nomum. I'se er watchin'."

"Look again and see if there's any dust on that long stretch beyond the river—"

Ben shook his head.

"Yassam, I look."

He passed out the front door still wagging his head in deep sympathy for the stricken mistress of the great house.

Mary slipped her arm around her mother, and used the pet name she spoke in moments of great joy and sorrow.

"Oh, Mim dear, you mustn't worry so!"

Her mother's lips trembled. She tried to be strong and failed. The tears came at last streaming down her cheeks.

"I can't help it, darling. Life hangs on this message—our home—"

She paused and her eyes wandered about the familiar room and its furnishings.

"You know how I love this home. It's woven into the very fiber of my heart. Our future—all that we have on earth—it's more than I can bear—"

The daughter drew the dear face to her lips.

"But why try to take it all on our shoulders, dearest? We must leave Papa to fight this out alone. We can't decide it for him."

The mother brushed her tears away and responded cheerfully.

"Yes, I know, dear. Your father didn't leave his room all day yesterday. He ate no dinner. No supper. All night the tramp of his feet overhead has only been broken when he fell on his knees to pray—"

Her voice wandered off as in a half dream. She paused, and then rushed on impetuously.

"Why, why can't we hear from Richmond? The Convention should have voted before noon yesterday. And we've waited all night—"

"The authorities may be holding back the news."

"But why should they suppress such news? The world must know."

She stopped suddenly—as if stunned by the thought that oppressed her. She seized Mary's hand, and asked tensely:

"What do you think, dear? Has Virginia left the Union?"

A quick answer was on the young lips. She had a very clear opinion. She had talked to Stuart. And his keen mind had seen the inevitable. She didn't have the heart to tell her mother. She feigned a mind blank from weariness.

"I can't think, honey. I'm too tired."

Ben came back shaking his gray head.

"Nomum. Dey ain't no sign on de road yet."

The waiting wife and mother cried in an anguish she could not control.

"Why—why—why?"

Ben sought to distract her thoughts with the habit of house control. He spoke in his old voice of friendly scolding.

"Ain't Marse Robert comin' doun to his coffee, M'am?"

"Not yet, Ben. I couldn't persuade him." The mistress caught the effort of her faithful servant to help in his humble way and it touched her. She was making a firm resolution to regain her self-control when a distant cry was heard from the roadway.

"Uncle Ben!"

"What's dat?" the old man asked.

"He's coming?" Mrs. Lee gasped.

"I dunno, M'am. I hears sumfin!"

Sam's cry echoed near the house now in growing excitement.

"Uncle Ben—Uncle Ben!"

"See, Ben, see quick—" Mary cried.

"Yassam. He's comin', sho. He's seed him."

The mother's face was uplifted in prayer.

"God's will be done!"

The words came in a bare whisper. And then as if in answer to the cry of her heart she caught new hope and turned to her daughter.

"You know, dear, the first Convention voted against Secession!"

Sam reached the door and met Ben.

"Uncle Ben—he's a comin'—Marse Stuart's horse! I seen him 'way 'cross de ribber fust—des one long, white streak er dust ez fur ez de eye can reach!"

The mother gripped Mary's arm with cruel force. The strain was again more than she could bear.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear, what have they done? What have they done?"

Ben entered the hall holding himself erect with the dignity of one who must bear great sorrows with his people. The mistress called to him weakly:

"Tell Colonel Lee, Ben."

The old man bowed gravely.

"Yassam. Right away, M'am."

Ben hurried to call his master as Sam edged into the front door and smiled at his mistress.

Mrs. Lee saw and recognized him for the first time. His loyalty touched her deeply in the hour of trial. She extended her hand in warm greeting.

"Why, Sam, you've come home!"

"Yassam. I come back ter stan' by my folks when dey needs me."

Mary's eyes were misty as she smiled her welcome.

"You're a good boy, Sam."

"Yassam. Marse Robert teach me."

The echo of Stuart's horse's hoof rang under the portico and Sam hurried to meet him.

His clear voice called:

"Don't put 'im up, boy!"

Mary's heart began to pound. She knew he would be galloping down the white graveled way again in a few minutes. His next order confirmed her fear.

"Just give him some water!"

"Yassah!"

The two women stood huddled close in tense anxiety.

Lee hurried down the stairs and met Stuart at the door. Before the familiarity of a handshake or word of welcome he asked:

"What news, Lieutenant?"

Stuart spoke with deep emotion. On every word the man and the woman hung breathlessly.

"It has come, sir. Virginia has answered to the President's call to send troops against her own people. She has sacrificed all save honor. The vote of the Convention was overwhelming. She has withdrawn from the Union—"

A moment's deathly silence. And the cry of pain from a woman's white lips. Mary caught her mother in her arms and held her firmly. The cry wrung her young heart.

"Oh, dear God, have mercy on us—and give us strength to bear it—"

Stuart hurried to her side and tried to break the blow with cheerful words.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Lee. The South is right."

Lee had not spoken. His brilliant eyes had the look of a man who walks in his sleep. They were in the world but not of it. The deep things of eternity were in their brooding. He waked at last and turned to Stuart sadly.

"God save our country, my boy."

He paused and looked out the doorway on the beautiful green of the lawn. The perfume from the rose garden stole in on the fresh breeze that stirred from the river.

"A frightful blow," he went on dreamily, "this news you bring."

Stuart's young body stiffened.

"You're the foremost citizen of Virginia, sir. Others may doubt and waver and be confused. I think I know what you're going to do, in the end—"

"It's hard—it's hard," the strong man cried bitterly.

The mother and daughter studied his face in eager, anxious waiting. On his word life hung. Stuart glanced at their tense faces and couldn't find speech. He turned and spoke briskly.

"I must hurry, sir. I'll be in Richmond before sunset."

The sound of carriage wheels grated on the road and a foaming pair of horses drew under the portico. A woman sprang out.

Mrs. Lee turned to the Colonel.

"It's your sister, Annie, Colonel."

"Yes," Stuart added, "I passed her on the way—"

Mrs. Marshall hurried to greet Mrs. Lee. The two women embraced and wept in silence.

"Mary!"

"Annie!"

The names were barely breathed.

Mary silently kissed her aunt as she turned from her mother. The Colonel's sister raised her eyes and saw Stuart. Her tones were sharp with the ring of a commander giving orders:

"Our army is marching, Lieutenant Stuart! You here in civilian clothes?"

The strong, young body stiffened.

"I have resigned my commission in the United States Army, Mrs. Marshall—"

Her finger rose in an imperious gesture.

"You will live to regret it, sir!"

Lee frowned and laid his hand on his sister's arm in a gesture of appeal.

"Annie, dear, please."

She regained her poise at the touch of his hand and turned to Mrs. Lee.

Stuart extended his hand briskly.

"Goodbye, sir. I hope to see you in Richmond soon—"

Lee's answer was gravely spoken.

"Goodbye, my boy. I honor you in your quick decision, with the clear vision of youth. We, older men, must halt and pray, and feel our way."

With a laugh in his blue eyes Stuart paused at the door half embarrassed at Mrs. Marshall's presence. He waved his hat to the group.

"Well, goodbye, everybody! I'm off to join the Cavalry!"

Outside as he hurried to his horse he waved again.

"Goodbye—!"

There was a moment's painful silence. They listened to the beat of his horse's hoof on the white roadway toward Washington. As the tall soldier listened he heard the roar of the hoofs of coming legions. And a warrior's soul leaped to the saddle. But the soul of the man, of the father and brother uttered a cry of mortal pain. He looked about the hall in a dazed way as if unconscious of the presence of the women of his home.

Mrs. Lee saw his deep anxiety and whispered to Mrs. Marshall.

"Come to my room, Annie, and rest before you say anything to Robert—"

She shook her head.

"No—no, my dear. I can't. My heart's too full. I can't rest. It's no use trying."

The wife took both her hands.

"Then remember, that his heart is even fuller than yours."

"Yes, I know."

"And you cannot possibly be suffering as he is."

"I'll not forget, dear."

Mrs. Lee pressed her hands firmly.

"And say nothing that you'll live to regret?"

"I promise, Mary."

"Please!"

With a lingering look of sympathy for brother and sister, Mrs. Lee softly left the room.

Lee stood gazing through the window across the shining waters of the river whose mirror but a few months ago had reflected the distorted faces of John Brown and his men at Harper's Ferry. It had come, the vision he had seen as he looked on the dark stains that fateful morning.

He dreaded this interview with his sister. He knew the views of Judge Marshall, her husband. He knew her own love for the Union.

She was struggling for control of Her emotions and her voice was strained.

"You've—you've heard this awful news from Richmond?"

"Yes," he answered quietly. "And I've long felt it coming. The first thunderbolt struck us at Harper's Ferry. The storm has broken now—"

"What are you going to do?"

She asked the question as if half afraid to pronounce the words. Lee turned away in silence. She followed him and laid a hand on his arm.

"You'll let me tell you all that's in my heart, my brother?"

The soldier was a boy again. He took his sister's hand and stroked it as he had in the old days at Stratford.

"Of course, my dear."

"And remember that we are brother and sister?"

"Always."

She clung to his hand and made no effort now to keep back the tears.

"And that I shall always believe in you and be proud of you—"

A sob caught her voice and she could not go on. He pressed her hand.

"It's sweet to hear you say this, Annie, in the darkest hour of my life—"

She interrupted him in quick, passionate appeal.

"Why should it be the darkest hour, Robert? What have you or I, or our people, to do with the madmen who are driving the South over the brink of this precipice?"

Lee shook his head.

"The people of the South are not being driven now, my dear—"

He stopped. His eyes flashed as his words quickened.

"They are rushing with a fierce shout as one man. The North thinks that only a small part of the Southern people are in this revolution, misled by politicians. The truth is, the masses are sweeping their leaders before them, as leaves driven by a storm. The cotton states are unanimous. Virginia has seceded. North Carolina and Tennessee will follow her to-morrow, and the South a Unit, the Union is divided."

The sister drew herself up with pride, and squarely faced him. She spoke with deliberation.

"Our families, Robert, from the beginning have stood for the glory of the Union. It is unthinkable that you should leave it. Such men as Edmund Ruffin—yes—the impulsive old firebrand has already volunteered as a private and gone to South Carolina. He pulled the lanyard that fired the first shot against Fort Sumter. We have nothing in common with such men—"

Lee lifted his hand in protest.

"Yes, we have, my dear. We are both sons of Virginia, our mother and the mother of this Republic."

"All the more reason why I'm begging to-day that you dedicate your genius, your soul and body to fight the men who would destroy the Union!"

Lee raised his eyes as if in prayer and drew a deep breath.

"There's but one thing for me to decide, Annie—my duty."

His sister clasped her hands nervously and glanced about the room. Her eyes rested on the portraits of Washington, and his wife and she turned quickly.

"Your wife is the grand-daughter of Martha Washington. Can you look on that portrait of the father of this country, handed down to the mother of your children, and dare draw your sword to destroy his work?"

"I've tried to put him in my place and ask what he would do—"

He stopped suddenly.

"What would Washington do if he stood in my place to-day?"

"My dear brother!"

"Remember now that you are appealing to me as my sister. Did Washington allow the ties of blood to swerve him from his duty? His own mother was a loyal subject of the King of Great Britain and died so—"

"Washington led an army of patriots in a sacred cause," she interrupted.

"Surely. But he won his first victories as a soldier fighting the French, under the British flag. He denounced that flag, joined with the French and forced Cornwallis to surrender to the armies of France and the Colonies of America. He was equally right when he fought under the British flag against the French, and when he fought with Lafayette and Rochambeau and won our independence. Each time he fought for his rights under law. Each time with mind and conscience clear, he answered the call of duty. The man who does that is always right, my sister, no matter what flag flies above him!"

"Oh, Robert, there is but one flag—the flag of Washington, and your father, Henry Lee—"

The brother broke in quickly.

"And yet, the first blood in this conflict was drawn by a man who cursed that flag, who again and again defied its authority, and gloried in the fact that he had trampled it beneath his feet. The North has proclaimed him a Saint. Their soldiers are now marching on the South singing a song of glory to John Brown and all for which he stood. What would Washington do if he were living, and these men were marching to invade Virginia, put his home at Mount Vernon to the torch, and place pikes in the hands of his slaves—"

Lee searched his sister's eyes and drove his question home.

"What would he do?"

The woman was too downright in her honesty to quibble or fence. She couldn't answer. She flushed and hesitated.

"I don't know—I don't know. I only know," she hastened to add, "that he couldn't be a traitor."

"Even so. Who is the traitor, my dear? The man who defies the Constitution and the laws of the Union? Or the man who defends the law and the rights of his fathers under it?"

Again she couldn't answer. She would not acknowledge defeat. She simply refused to face such a problem. It led the wrong way. With quick wit she changed her point of attack. She drew close and asked in passionate tenderness:

"Have you counted the cost? The frightful cost which you and yours must pay if you dare defend Virginia?"

Lee nodded his head sorrowfully.

"On my knees, I've tried to reckon it." He looked longingly over the wide lawn that rolled in green splendor toward the river.

"I know that if I cast my lot with Virginia, this home, handed down to us from Washington, will be lost, and its fields trampled under the feet of hostile armies. That my wife and children may wander homeless, dependent on the charity or courtesy of friends. The thought of it tears my heart!"

His voice sank to a whisper. And then he lifted his head firmly.

"But I must not allow this to swerve me an inch from my duty—"

The sound of horses' hoofs again echoed on the roadway, as Ben entered from the dining room to announce breakfast.

Lee listened.

"See who that is, Ben."

"Yassah."

As Ben passed out the door, Lee continued:

"I will not say one word to influence my three sons. I will not even write to them. They must fight this battle out alone, as I am fighting it out to-day."

His sister smiled wanly.

"Your sons will follow you, Robert. And so will thousands of the best men in Virginia. Your responsibility is terrible."

Ben announced from the door.

"Mr. Francis Preston Blair, ter see you, sir."

Lee waved the butler from the room.

"I'll receive him, Ben. You can go."

"Thank God!" Mrs. Marshall breathed. "He's the most influential man in Washington. He is in close touch with the President, and he is a Southerner—"

She looked at her brother pleadingly.

"You'll give him the most careful hearing, Robert?"

"I don't know the object of his visit, but I'll gladly see him."

"He's a staunch Union man. He can have but one object in coming!" she cried with elation.

With courtesy Lee met his distinguished visitor at the door and grasped his hand.

"Walk in, Mr. Blair. You know my sister, Mrs. Marshall of Baltimore?"

Blair smiled.

"I am happy to say that Mrs. Marshall and I are the best of friends. We have often met at the house of my son, Montgomery Blair, of Mr. Lincoln's Cabinet."

"Let me take your hat, sir," Lee said with an answering smile.

"Thank you."

The Colonel crossed the room to place it on a table.

Mrs. Marshall took advantage of the moment to whisper to Blair.

"I've done my best. I'm afraid I haven't convinced him. May God give you the word to speak to my brother to-day!"

Blair rubbed his hands and a look of triumph overspread his rugged face.

"He has, Madame. I have a message for him!"

"A message?"

"From the highest authority!"

"May I be present at your conference?" she pleaded eagerly.

"By all means, Madame. Stay and hear my announcement. He cannot refuse me."

Lee sought at once to put Blair at ease on his mission.

"From my sister's remark a moment ago, I may guess the purpose of your coming, Mr. Blair?"

His guest surveyed Lee with an expression of deep pleasure in the unfolding of his message.

"In part, yes, you may have guessed my purpose. But I have something to say that even your keen mind has not surmised—"

"I am honored, sir, in your call and I shall be glad to hear you."

Blair drew himself erect as if on military duty.

"Colonel Lee, I have come after a conference with President Lincoln, to ask you to throw the power of your great name into this fight now to put an end to chaos—"

"You have come from the President?"

"Unofficially—"

"Oh—"

"But with his full knowledge and consent."

"And what is his suggestion?"

Blair hesitated.

"He cannot make it until he first knows that you will accept his offer."

"His offer?"

Blair waited until the thought had been fully grasped and then uttered each word with solemn emphasis.

"His offer, sir, of the supreme command of the armies of the Union—"

A cry of joy and pride came resistlessly from the sister's lips.

"Oh, Robert—Robert!"

Lee was surprised and deeply moved. He rose from his seat, walked to the window, looked out, flushed and slowly said:

"You—you—cannot mean this—?"

Blair hastened to assure him.

"I am straight from the White House. General Scott has eagerly endorsed your name."

"But I cannot realize this to me—from Abraham Lincoln?"

"From Abraham Lincoln, whose simple common sense is the greatest asset to-day which the Union possesses. His position is one of frank conciliation toward the South."

"Yet he said once that this Republic cannot endure half slave and half free and the South interpreted that to mean—war—"

"Exactly. Crowds do not reason. They refuse to think. They refuse, therefore, to hear his explanation of those words. He hates Slavery as you hate Slavery. He knows, as you know, that it is doomed by the process of time. To make this so clear that he who runs may read, he wrote in his inaugural address in so many words his solemn pledge to respect every right now possessed by the masters of the South under law.

"'I have no purpose to interfere with the institution of Slavery in the States where it exists.'"

"His sole purpose now is to save the Union, Slavery or no Slavery—"

"Surely, Robert," his sister cried, "you can endorse that stand!"

"Mr. Lincoln," Blair went on eagerly, "is a leader whose common sense amounts to genius. No threats or bluster, inside his own party or outside of it, can swerve him from his high aim. He is going to save this Union first and let all other questions bide their time."

Lee searched Blair with his keen eyes.

"But Mr. Lincoln, without the authority of Congress, has practically declared war. He has called on Virginia to furnish troops to fight a sister State. My State has decided that he had no power under the Constitution to issue such a call. It is, therefore, illegal. The organic law of the republic makes no provision for raising troops to fight a sister State."

Blair lifted both hands in a persuasive gesture.

"Let us grant, Colonel Lee, that in law you are right. The States are sovereign. The Constitution gives the General Government no power to coerce a State. Our fathers, as a matter of fact, never faced such a possibility. Grant all that in law. Even so, a mighty, united nation has grown through the years. It is now a living thing, immutable, indissoluble. It commands your obedience and mine."

Lee was silent and Mrs. Marshall cried:

"Surely this is true, Robert!"

"My dear Mr. Blair," Lee slowly began, "your claim is the beginning of the end of law—the beginning of anarchy. If under the law, Virginia is right, is it not my duty to defend her? Obedience to law is the cornerstone on which all nations are built if they endure. Reverence for law is to-day the force driving the South into revolution—"

"A revolution doomed to certain failure," Blair quickly interrupted. "The border slave states of Maryland, Kentucky and Missouri, under Mr. Lincoln's conservative leadership, will never secede. Without them the South must fail. You have served under the flag of the Union for thirty years. You know the North. You know the South. And you know that such a revolution based on a division of the Union without these border States is madness—"

"It is madness, Robert," Mrs. Marshall joined, "utter madness!"

"Right and duty, Mr. Blair, have nothing to do with success or failure," Lee responded. "I know the fearful odds against the South. I know the indomitable will, the energy, the fertile resources, the pride of opinion of the North, once set in motion. I know that the South has no money, no army, no organized government, no standing in the Court of Nations. She will have a white population of barely five millions against twenty-two millions—and her ports will be closed by our Navy—"

Blair interrupted and leaned close.

"And let me add, that as our leader you will not only command the greatest army ever assembled under the American flag, backed by a great Navy—but that your victory will be but the beginning of a career. From your window you see the White House and the Capitol. The man who leads the Union armies will succeed Mr. Lincoln as President."

Lee's protest was emphatic.

"I aspire to no office, Mr. Blair. I'm fifty-four years of age. I am on the hilltop of life. The way leads down a gentle slope, I trust, to a valley of peace, love and happiness. Ambition does not lure me; I have lived. I have played my part as well as I know how. I am content. I love my Country, North and South, East and West. I am a trained soldier—I know nothing else."

"The highest honor of this Nation, Colonel Lee, is something no man born under our flag dares to decline. Few men in history have been so well equipped as you for such an honor, both by birth and culture. You must also remember that the President of the United States is Commander in Chief of the Army and Navy. You are proud of your profession. You would honor it in the highest office of the Republic. You are held in the highest esteem by every soldier in the army. The President calls you. The Nation calls you. All eyes are upon you."

Blair studied the effect of his appeal. He saw that Lee was profoundly moved. Yet his courteous manner gave no hint of the trend of his emotions. He did not reply for a moment and then spoke with tenderness.

"My dear friend, you must not think that I am deaf to such calls. They move me to the depths. But no honor can reconcile me to this awful war. It is madness. It is absolutely unnecessary. But for John Brown's insane act it could have been avoided. But it has come. Its glory does not tempt me. I wish peace on earth and good will to all men. I am a soldier, but a Christian soldier—"

His voice broke.

"I am one of the humblest followers of Jesus Christ. There is but a single question for me to decide—my duty—"

A horseman dashed under the portico, threw his reins to Sam and entered without announcement.

"Colonel Lee?" he asked.

"Yes."

He handed Lee a folded paper bearing the great seal of the State.

"A message, sir, from Richmond."

Lee's hand trembled as he broke the seal. He stared at its words as in a dream.

"You have important news?" Blair asked.

"Most important. I am summoned to Richmond by the Governor in obedience to a resolution of the Legislature."

Mrs. Marshall advanced on the dusty, young messenger, her eyes aflame with anger.

"How dare you enter this house unannounced, sir?"

The boy did not answer. He turned away with a smile. She repented her words immediately. They had sounded undignified, if not positively rude. But she had been so sure that Blair could not fail. This call from Richmond, coming in the moment of crisis, drove her to desperation. She looked at Blair helplessly and he rallied to the attack with renewed determination.

"A Nation is calling you. The Union your fathers created is calling you, Colonel Lee!"

Lee's figure stiffened the least bit, though his words were uttered in the friendliest tones.

"Virginia is also calling me, Mr. Blair. Your own State of Maryland has not seceded. For that reason you cannot feel this tragedy as I feel it. Put yourself in my place. I ask you the question, is not the command of a State that of a mother to a child? We are citizens of the State, not of the Union. There is no such thing as citizenship in the Union. We vote only as citizens of a State. We enlist as soldiers by States. I was sent to West Point as a cadet by the State of Virginia. Even President Lincoln's proclamation calling for volunteers to coerce a State, revolutionary as it is, is addressed, not to individual men, but to the States. He must call on each to furnish her quota of soldiers—"

"Yet the call is to every citizen of the Nation!"

Lee's hand was raised in a gesture of imperious affirmation.

"There is no such thing as citizenship of the Nation! We don't pay taxes to the Nation. We may yet become a Nation. We are as yet a Union of Sovereign States. Virginia has refused to furnish the troops called for by the President and has withdrawn from the Union. She reserved in her vote to enter, the right to withdraw. I am a Virginian. What is my duty?"

"To fight for the Union, Robert—always!" Mrs. Marshall answered.

"I love the Union, my dear sister, my heart aches at the thought of its division—"

He turned sharply to Blair.

"But is not the South to-day in taking her stand for the rights of the State asserting a principle as vital as the Union itself? All the great minds of the North have recognized that these rights are fundamental to our life. Bancroft declares that the State is the guardian of the security and happiness of the individual. Hamilton declares that, if the States shall lose their powers, the people will be robbed of their liberties. George Clinton says that the States are our only security for the liberties of the people against a centralized tyranny. These rights once surrendered, and I solemnly warn you, my friend, that your children and mine may live to see in Washington a centralized power that will dare to say what you shall eat, what you shall drink, and what you shall wear!"

Blair laughed incredulously.

"Surely it's a far cry to that, Colonel—"

"I'm not so sure, Mr. Blair. And the cry from Virginia rings through my heart. I see her in mortal peril. My father was three times Governor of the Commonwealth. Virginia gave America the immortal words of the Declaration of Independence. She gave us something greater. She gave us George Washington, a Southern slaveholder, whose iron will alone carried our despairing people through ten years of hopeless revolution and won at last our right to live. Madison wrote the Constitution. John Marshall of Virginia, as Chief Judge of the Supreme Court, established its power on the foundations of Justice and Law. Jefferson doubled our area in the Louisiana Territory. Scott and Taylor extended it to the Pacific Ocean from Oregon to the Gulf of California. Virginia in the generosity of her great heart gave the Northwest to the Union and forbade the extension of slavery within it—"

Blair leaped to make a point.

"Surely these proud recollections, of her gifts to the Union should form bonds too strong to be broken!"

"So say I, sir! Surely they should place the people of all sections under obligations too deep to permit the invasion of her sacred soil! Can I stand by as her loyal son and see this invasion begun? I regret that Virginia has withdrawn. But the deed is done. Her people through their Governor and their Legislature call me—command me to come to her defense. They may be wrong. They may be blinded by passion. They are still my people, my neighbors, my friends, my children—and I cannot—"

He drew a deep breath and rose to his full height.

"I will not draw my sword against them!"

"Glory to God!" the messenger exulted.

Blair spoke with despair.

"This is your final decision?"

"Final."

The messenger slipped close to Lee and spoke hurriedly.

"I came by special train, sir—an engine and coach. They wait you on a siding just outside of town. We're afraid the line may be cut. The Northern troops are bivouacing on the Capitol hill. They may stop us. We've no time to lose. I hope you can come at once."

The messenger walked quickly through the door and seized his horse's reins.

Lee turned to Blair.

"Troops are on the Capitol Hill?"

"A regiment of Pennsylvanians has just arrived, I believe."

Sam had edged through the door and stood smiling at his old master. The Colonel had not seen him to this moment.

"You here, Sam?" he said with feeling.

"Yassah. I come home ter stan' by you, Marse Robert."

"Saddle my horse, you can go with me!"

"Yassah. Thankee, sah!"

"Bring Sid to fetch our horses back from the train."

"Yassah, glory hallelujah!" Sam shouted as he darted for the stable.

The anxious mother, praying in her room upstairs, heard Sam's shout and hurried down with Mary. The other children happily were on the Pamunkey at the home of Custis.

The mother's heart was pounding. There was war in Sam's shout. She felt its savage thrill. She gripped herself for the ordeal. There should be no vain regrets, no foolish words. Her soul rose in the glory of sacrificial love.

"What is it, my dear?" she asked softly.

"I go to Richmond immediately. Northern troops are pouring into Washington. Send my things to me if you can."

His eyes wandered about the room he loved. He would never see it again. He felt this in his inmost soul. It would be but the work of an hour for the troops to sweep across the bridge, sack its rooms and leave its beautiful lawn a sodden waste.

The wife saw the anguish in his gaze and her words rang with exaltation.

"Then it is God's will. And I shall try to smile. You have reached this decision in deepest thought and prayer. And I know that you are right!"

Lee took her in his arms and held her in silence. Those who saw, wept. At last he kissed her tenderly and turned to the others.

His sister walked blindly toward him.

"Oh, Robert, you have broken my heart—"

"I know, Annie, that you'll blame me," he answered, gently.

She slipped her arms about his neck.

"No, I shall not blame you. I understand now. I only grieve—"

Her voice broke. She struggled to control herself.

"How handsome you are in this solemn hour, my glorious, soldier-brother—" Again her voice failed.

"The pity and horror of it all! My husband and my son will fight you—and—I—shall—pray—for—their—success—oh—how can God permit it!—Goodbye, Robert!"

Her arms tightened and his responded. His hand touched her hair and he said slowly:

"If dark hours come to us, my sister, we are children again roaming the fields hand in hand. We'll just remember that."

She kissed him tenderly.

"And success or failure, dear Annie," he continued, "shall be in God's hands—not ours. I go to lead a forlorn hope perhaps. But I must share the miseries of my people."

He slipped from her arms and silently embraced his daughter, and again her mother.

"Say goodbye to the other children for me when you see them, dear."

Blair took his extended hand.

"I know what you feel, Colonel Lee," he said solemnly. "I'm only sorry I could not hold you."

"Thank you, my friend. My people believe, and I believe that we have rights to defend. And we must do our best—even if we perish."

He strode quickly to the door, and paused. A sudden pain caught his heart as he crossed its threshold for the last time. He looked back, lifted his head as in prayer and passed out.

He mounted his horse and rode swiftly through the beautiful spring morning toward Richmond—and Immortality. The women stood weeping. The President's messenger watched in sorrow.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

When John Brown cunningly surveyed the lines around those houses in Kansas, observed the fastenings of their doors, marked the strength of the shutters, learned the names of their dogs, crept under the cover of darkness on his prey as a wild beast creeps through the jungle and hacked his innocent victims to pieces, we know that he was a criminal paranoiac pursuing a fixed idea under the delusion that God had sent him.

Yet on the eighteenth of July, 1861, Colonel Fletcher Webster's regiment, the Twelfth Massachusetts, marched through the streets of Boston singing a song of glory to John Brown which one of its members composed. They were also marching Southward to kill. The only difference was they had a Commission.

War had been declared.

Why did the war crowd on the streets and in the ranks burst into song as they marched to kill their fellow men?

To find the answer we must go back to the dawn of human history and see man, as yet a savage beast, with but one impulse the dominant force in life, the archaic impulse to slay.

All wars are not begun in this elemental fashion. There are wars of defense forced on innocent nations by brutal aggressors. But the joy that thrills the soul of the crowd on the declaration of war is always the simple thing. It is the roar of the lion as he springs on his prey.

In this Song to the Soul of John Brown there was no thought of freeing a slave. War was not declared on that ground. The President who called them had no such purpose. The men who marched had no such idea. They sang "Glory, Glory Hallelujah! Glory, Glory Hallelujah!" because they saw Red.

The restraints of Law, Religion and Tradition had been lifted. The primitive beast that had been held in check by civilization, rose with a shout and leaped to its ancient task. The homicidal wish—fancy with which the human mind had toyed in times of peace in dreams and reveries—was now a living reality.

Not one in a thousand knew what the war was about. And this one in a thousand who thought he knew was mistaken. It had been made legal to kill. They were marching to kill. They shouted. They sang.

They were marching to the most utterly senseless and unnecessary struggle in the history of our race. The North in the hours of sanity which preceded the outburst did not wish war. The South in her sane moments never believed it possible. Yet the hell-lit tragedy of brothers marching to slay their brothers had come. Nothing could dampen the enthusiasm of this first joyous mob.

On the night of the twentieth of July the Army of the North was encamped about seven miles from Beaureguard's lines at Bull Run. The volunteers were singing, shouting, girding their loins for the fray. They had heard the firing on the first skirmish line. Fifteen or twenty men had been killed it was reported.

The Red Thought leaped!

At two o'clock before day on Sunday morning, the order came to advance against the foe. The deep thrill of the elemental man swept the crowd. They had come loaded down with baggage. They hurled it aside and got their guns.

What many of them were afraid of was that the whole rebel army would escape before they could get into the thick of it. Many had brought handcuffs and ropes along with which to manacle their prisoners and have sport with them after the fight, another ancient pastime of our half-ape ancestors. They threw down some of their blankets but held on to their handcuffs.

When the first crash of battle came these raw recruits on both sides fought with desperate bravery for nine terrible hours. They fought from dawn until three o'clock in the afternoon under the broiling Southern sun of July. Charge and counter charge left their toll of the dead and then the tired archaic muscles began to wonder when it would end. Why hadn't victory come? Where were the prisoners they were to manacle?

Both sides were sick with hunger and weariness. The Southerners were expecting reinforcements from Manassas Junction. The Northerners were expecting reinforcements. Their eyes were turned toward the same road which led from the Shenandoah Valley.

A dust cloud suddenly rose over the hill. A fresh army was marching on the scene. North and South looked with straining eyes. They were not long in doubt. The first troops suddenly swung in on the right flank of the Southern army and began to form their lines to charge the North.

Suddenly from this fresh Southern line rose a new cry. From two thousand throats came the shrill, elemental, savage shout of the hunter in sight of his game—the fierce Rebel Yell.

They charged the Northern lines and then pandemonium—blind, unreasoning wolf-panic seized the army that had marched with songs and shouts to kill. They broke and fled. They cut the traces of their horses, left the guns, mounted and rode for life.

The mob engulfed the buggies and carriages of Congressmen and picnickers who had come out from Washington to see the fun. A rebellion crushed at a blow!

Stuart at the head of his Black Horse Cavalry, his saber flashing, cut his way through this mob again and again.

When the smoke of battle lifted, the dazed, ill-organized ambulance corps searched the field for the first toll of the Blood Feud. They found only nine hundred boys slain and two thousand six hundred wounded. They lay weltering in their blood in the smothering heat and dust and dirt.

The details of men were busy burying the dead, some of their bodies yet warm.

The morning after dawned black and lowering and the rain began to pour in torrents. Through the streets of Washington the stragglers streamed. The plumes which waved as they sang were soaked and drooping. Their gorgeous, new uniforms were wrinkled and mud-smeared.

The President called for five hundred thousand men this time. The joy and glory of war had gone.

But war remained.

War grim, gaunt, stark, hideous—as remorseless as death.



CHAPTER XXXIX

In a foliage-embowered house on a hill near Washington Colonel Jeb Stuart, Commander of the Confederate Cavalry, had made his headquarters.

Neighing horses were hitched to the swaying limbs. They pawed the ground, wheeled and whinnied their impatience at inaction. Every man who sat in one of those saddles owned his mount. These boys were the flower of Southern manhood. The Confederate Government was too poor to furnish horses for the Cavalry. Every man, volunteering for this branch of the service, must bring his own horse and equipment complete. The South only furnished a revolver and carbine. At the first battle of Bull Run they didn't have enough of them even for the regiments Stuart commanded. Whole companies were armed only with the pikes which John Brown had made for the swarming of the Black Bees at Harper's Ferry. They used these pikes as lances.

The thing that gave the Confederate Cavalry its impetuous dash, its fire and efficiency was the fact that every man on horseback had been born in the saddle and had known his horse from a colt. From the moment they swung into line they were veterans.

The North had no such riders in the field as yet. Brigadier-General Phillip St. George Cooke was organizing this branch of the service. It would take weary months to train new riders and break in strange horses.

Until these born riders, mounted on their favorites, could be killed or their horses shot from under them, there would be tough work ahead for the Union Cavalry.

A farmer approached at sunset. He gazed on the array with pride.

He lifted his gray head and shouted:

"Hurrah for our boys! Old Virginia'll show 'em before we're through with this!"

A sentinel saluted the old man.

"I've come for Colonel Stuart. His wife and babies are at my house. He'll understand. Tell him."

The farmer watched the spectacle. Straight in front of the little portico on its tall staff fluttered the Commander's new, blood-red battle flag with its blue St. Andrew's cross and white stars rippling in the wind. Spurs were clanking, sabers rattling. A courier dashed up, dismounted and entered the house. Young officers in their new uniforms were laughing and chatting in groups before the door.

An escort brought in a Federal Cavalry prisoner on his mount. The boys gathered around him and roared with laughter. He was a good-natured Irishman who could take a joke. His horse was loaded down with a hundred pounds of extra equipment. The Irishman had half of it strapped on his own back.

A boy shouted:

"For the Lord's sake, did you take him with all that freight?"

An escort roared:

"That's why we took him. He couldn't run."

The boy looked at the solemn face of the prisoner and chaffed:

"And why have ye got that load on your own back, man?"

Without cracking a smile the Irishman replied:

"An' I thought me old horse had all he could carry!"

The boys roared, pulled him down, took off his trappings and told him to make himself at home.

Inside the house could be heard the hum of conversation, with an occasional boom of laughter that could come from but one throat.

Work for the day completed, he came to the door to greet his visitor. The farmer's eyes flashed at the sight of his handsome figure. He was only twenty-eight years old, of medium height, with a long, silken, bronzed beard and curling mustache.

He waved his hand and cried:

"With you in a minute!"

His voice was ringing music. He wore a new suit of Confederate gray which his wife had just sent him. His gauntlets extended nine inches above the wrists. His cavalry boots were high above the knee. His broad-brimmed felt hat was caught up on one side with a black ostrich plume. His cavalry coat fitted tightly—a "fighting jacket." It was circled with a black belt from which hung his revolver and over which was tied a splendid yellow sash. His spurs were gold.

A first glance would give the impression of a gay youngster over fond of dress. But the moment his blue eyes flashed there came the glint of steel. The man behind the uniform was seen, the bravest of the brave, the flower of Southern chivalry.

For all his gay dress he was from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, every inch the soldier—the soldier with the big brain and generous, fun-loving heart. His forehead was extraordinary in height and breadth, bronzed by sun and wind. His nose was large and nostrils mobile. His eyes were clear, piercing, intense. His laughing mouth was completely covered by the curling mustache and long beard.

He had darted around the house on waving to his visitor and in a minute reappeared, followed by three negroes. He was taking his minstrels with him on the trip to see his wife.

The cavalcade mounted. He waved his aides aside.

"No escort, boys. See you at sunrise."

The farmer's house was only half a mile inside his lines. When the army of the North was hurled back into Washington he had sent for his wife and babies and arranged for their board at the nearest farmhouse.

The little mother's heart was fluttering with love and pride. Richmond was already ringing with the praises of her soldier man. They were recruiting the first brigade of Cavalry. He was slated for Brigadier-General of the mounted forces. And he was only twenty-eight!

Stuart sprang from his horse and rushed to meet his wife. She was waiting in the glow of the sunset, her eyes misty with joyous tears.

It was a long time as she nestled in his arms before she could speak. Her voice was barely a whisper.

"You've passed through your first baptism of blood safely, my own!"

"Baptism of blood—nothing!" He laughed. "It wasn't a fight at all. We had nothing to do till the blue birds flew. And then we flew after 'em. Oh, honey girl, it was just a lark. I laughed till I cried—"

She raised her eyes to his.

"And you didn't see my dear old daddy anywhere?"

"No. I wish I had! I'd have taken the loyal old rascal prisoner and made you keep him till the war's over."

"It is over, isn't it, dear?"

"No."

"Why, you've driven the army back in a panic on Washington. They'll ask for peace, won't they?"

"They won't, honey. I know 'em too well. They'll more than likely ask for a million volunteers."

"It's not over, then?"

"No, dear little mother. I'll be honest with you. Don't believe silly talk. We're in for a long, desperate fight—"

"And I've been so happy thinking you'd come home—"

"Your home will be with me, won't it?"

"Always."

"All right. This is the beginning of my scheme for the duration of the war. I'm going to get you a map of Virginia, showing the roads. I'll get you a compass. There'll always be a little farmhouse somewhere behind my headquarters. Our home will be in the field and saddle for a while."

He kissed his babies and ate his supper laughing and joking like a boy of nineteen. The table cleared, he ordered a concert for their entertainment.

Bob, the leader of his minstrels, was a dandified mulatto who played the guitar, the second was a whistler and the third a master of the negro dance, the back step and the breakdown.

Bob tuned his guitar, picked his strings and gazed at the ceiling. He was apparently selecting the first piece. It, was always the same, his favorite, "Listen to the Mocking Bird." He played with a plaintive, swaying melody that charmed his hearers. The whistler amazed them with his marvelous imitation of birds and bird calls. The room throbbed with every note of the garden, field and wood.

The mother's face was wreathed in smiles. The boy shouted. The baby crooned. The first piece done, the audience burst into a round of applause.

Bob gave them "Alabama" next, accompanied by the whistler and his bird chorus.

Stuart laughed and called for the breakdown. Bob begins a jig on his guitar, the whistler claps and the sable dancer edges his way to the center of the floor in little spasmodic shuffles. He begins with his heel tap, then the toe, then in leaps and whirls. The guitar swelled to a steady roar. The whistler quickens his claps. And Stuart's boyish laughter rang above the din.

"Go it, boy! Go it!"

The dancer's eyes roll. His step quickens. He cuts the wildest figures in a frenzy of abandoned joy. With a leap through the door he is gone. The guitar stops with a sudden twang and Stuart's laughter roars.

And then he gave an hour to play with his children before a mother's lullaby should put them to sleep. He got down on his all fours and little Jeb mounted and rode round the room to the baby's scream of joy. He lay flat on the floor with the baby on his breast and let her pull his beard and mustache until her strength failed.

The children were still sound asleep when they sat down and ate breakfast before day.

At the first streak of dawn he was standing beside his horse ready for the dash back to his headquarters and the work of the day.

The shadow had fallen across the woman's heart again. He saw and understood. He put his hand under her chin and lifted it.

"No more tears now, my sweetheart."

"I'll try."

"We may be here for weeks."

"There'll be another fight soon?"

"I think not."

"For a month?"

"Not for a long time."

"Thank God!"

A far-off look stole into his eyes.

"It will be a good one though when it comes, I reckon."

"There can be no good one—if my boy's in it."

"Well, I'll be in it!"

"Yes. I know."

She kissed him and turned back into the house, with the old fear gripping her heart.



CHAPTER XL

The early months of the war were but skirmishes. The real work of killing and maiming the flower of the race had not begun.

The defeat had given the sad-eyed President unlimited power to draw on the resources of the nation for men and money. His call for half a million soldiers met with instant response. The fighting spirit of twenty-two million Northern people had been roused. They felt the disgrace of Bull Run and determined to wipe it out in blood.

Three Northern armies were hurled on the South in a well-planned, concerted movement to take Richmond. McDowell marched straight down to Fredericksburg with forty thousand. Fermont, with Milroy, Banks and Shields, was sweeping through the Shenandoah Valley. McClellan, with his grand army of one hundred and twenty thousand men, had moved up the Peninsula in resistless force until he lay on the banks of the Chickahominy within sight of the spires of Richmond.

To meet these three armies aggregating a quarter of a million men, the South could marshall barely seventy thousand. Jackson was despatched with eighteen thousand to baffle the armies of McDowell, Fremont, Milroy, Shields and Banks in the Valley and prevent their union with McClellan.

The war really began on Sunday, the second of June, 1862, when Robert E. Lee was sent to the front to take command of the combined army of seventy thousand men of the South.

The new commander with consummate genius planned his attack and flung his gray lines on McClellan with savage power. The two armies fought in dense thickets often less than fifty yards apart. Their muskets flashed sheets of yellow flame. The sound of ripping canvas, the fire of small arms in volleys, could no longer be distinguished. The sullen roar was endless, deafening, appalling. Over the tops of oak, pine, beech, ash and tangled undergrowth came the flaming thunder of two great armies equally fearless, the flower of American manhood in their front ranks, daring, scorning death, fighting hand to hand, man to man.

The people in the churches of Richmond as they prayed could hear the awful roar. They turned their startled faces toward the battle. It rang above the sob of organ and the chant of choir.

The hosts in blue and gray charged again and again through the tangle of mud and muck and blood and smoke and death. Bayonet rang on bayonet. They fought hand to hand, as naked savages once fought with bare hands. The roar died slowly with the shadows of the night, until only the crack of a rifle here and there broke the stillness.

And then above the low moans of the wounded and dying came the distant notes of the church bells in Richmond calling men and women again to the house of God.

There was no shout of triumph—no cheering hosts—only the low moan of death and the sharp cry of a boy in pain. The men in blue could have moved in and bivouaced on the ground they had lost. The men in gray had no strength left.

The dead and the dying were everywhere. The wounded were crawling through the mud and brush, like stricken animals; some with their legs broken; some with arms dangling by a thread; some with hideous holes torn in their faces.

The front was lighted with the unclouded splendor of a full Southern moon. Down every dim aisle of the woods they lay in awful, dark heaps. In the fields they lay with faces buried in the dirt or eyes staring up at the stars, twisted, torn, mangled. The blue and the gray lay side by side in death, as they had fought in life. The pride and glory of a mighty race of freemen.

The shadows of the details moved in the moonlight. They were opening the first of those long, deep trenches. They were careful in these early days of war. They turned each face downward as they packed them in. The grave diggers could not then throw the wet dirt into their eyes and mouths. Aching hearts in far-off homes couldn't see; but these boys still had hearts within their breasts.

The fog-rimmed lanterns flickered over the fields peering into the faces on the ground.

The ambulance corps did its best at the new trade. It was utterly inadequate on either side. It's always so in war. The work of war is to maim, to murder—not to heal or save.

The long line of creaking wagons began to move into Richmond over the mud-cut roads. Every hospital was filled. The empty wagons rolled back in haste over the cobble stones and out on the muddy roads to the front again.

At the hospital doors the women stood in huddled groups—wives, sweethearts, mothers, sisters, praying, hoping, fearing, shivering. Far away in the field hospitals, the young doctors with bare, bloody arms were busy with saw and knife. Boys who had faced death in battle without a tremor stood waiting their turn trembling, crying, cursing. They could see the piles of legs and arms rising higher as the doctors hurled them from the quivering bodies. They stretched out their hands in the darkness to feel the touch of loved ones. They must face this horror alone, and then battle through life, maimed wrecks. They peered through the shadows under the trees where the dead were piled and envied them their sleep.

The armies paused next day to gird their loins for the crucial test. Jackson was still in the Shenandoah Valley holding three armies at bay, defeating them in detail. His swift marches had so paralyzed his enemies that McDowell's forty thousand men lay at Fredericksburg unable to move.

Lee summoned Stuart.

When the conference ended the young Cavalry Commander threw himself into the saddle and started Northward with a song. Determined to learn the strength of McClellan's right wing and confuse his opponent, Lee had sent Stuart on the most daring adventure in the history of cavalry warfare. Stuart had told him that he could ride around McClellan's whole army, cut his communications and strike terror in his rear.

With twelve hundred picked horsemen, fighting, singing, dare-devil riders, Stuart slipped from Lee's lines and started toward Fredericksburg.

On the second day he surprised and captured the Federal pickets without a shot. He dreaded a meeting with the Cavalry. His father-in-law, General Cooke, was in command of a brigade of blue riders. He thought with a moment's pang of the little wife at home praying that they should never meet. Let her pray. God would help her. He couldn't let such a thing happen.

He suddenly confronted a squadron of Federal Cavalry. With a yell his troops charged and cleared the field. They must ride now with swifter hoofbeat than ever. The news would spread and avengers would be on their heels. They were now far in the rear of McClellan's grand army. They had felt out his right wing and knew to a mile where its lines ended.

They dashed toward the York River Railroad which supplied the Northern army, surprised the company holding Tunstall's Station, took them prisoners, cut the wires and tore up the tracks.

On his turn toward Richmond when he reached the Chickahominy River, its waters were swollen and he couldn't cross. He built a bridge out of the timbers of a barn, took his last horse over and destroyed it, as the shout of a division of Federal Cavalry was heard in the distance.

With twelve hundred men he had made a raid which added a new rule to cavalry tactics. He had ridden around a great army, covering ninety miles in fifty-six hours with the loss of but one man. He had established the position of the enemy, destroyed enormous quantities of war material, captured a hundred and sixty-five prisoners and two hundred horses. He had struck terror to the hearts of a sturdy foe, and thrilled the South with new courage.

Jackson's victorious little army joined Lee at Gaines' Mill on the twenty-seventh of June, and on the following day McClellan was in full retreat.

On the first of July it ended at Malvern Hill on the banks of the James. Of the one hundred and ten thousand men who marched in battle line on Richmond, eighty-six thousand only reached the shelter of his gunboats.

The first great battle of the war had raged from the first of June until the first of July. Fifty thousand brave boys were killed or mangled on the red fields of death. Washington was in gloom. The Grand Army of more than two hundred thousand had gone down in defeat. It was incredible.

Richmond had been saved. The glory of Lee, Jackson and Stuart filled the South with a new radiance. But the celebration of victory was in minor key. Every home was in mourning.

Six days later Stuart once more clasped his wife to his heart. It had been a month since he had seen her. The thunder of guns she had heard without pause. She knew that both her father and her lover were somewhere in the roaring hell below the city. Stuart never told her how close they had come to a charge and counter charge at the battle of Gaines' Mill.

The old, tremulous question she couldn't keep back:

"You didn't see my daddy, did you, dear?"

Stuart shouted in derision at the idea.

"Of course not, honey girl. It's not written in the book of life. Forget the silly old fear."

"And they didn't even scratch my soldier man?"

"Never a scratch!"

She kissed him again.

"You know I've a little woman praying for me every day. I lead a charmed life!"

She gazed at his handsome, bronzed face.

"I believe you do, dearest!"



CHAPTER XLI

McClellan fell before the genius of Lee, and Pope was put in his place.

They met at Second Manassas. The new general ended his brief campaign in a disaster so complete, so appalling that it struck terror to the heart of the Nation. Lee had crushed him with an ease so amazing that Lincoln was compelled to recall McClellan to supreme command. When the toll of the Blood Feud was again reckoned twenty-five thousand more of our brave boys lay dead or wounded beneath the blazing sun of the South.

The Confederate Government now believed its army invincible, led by Lee. In spite of poor equipment, with the men half clad and half barefooted, Lee was ordered to invade Maryland. It was a political move, undertaken without the approval of the Commander.

As the gray lines swept Northward to cross the Potomac into Maryland, Lincoln was jubilant. To Hay, his young secretary, he whispered:

"We've got them now, boy. We've got them! The war must speedily end. Lee can never get into Maryland with fifty thousand effective men. The river will be behind them. I'll have McClellan on him with a hundred thousand well-shod, well-fed, well-armed soldiers and the finest equipment of artillery that ever thundered into battle.

"McClellan's on his mettle. His army will fight like tigers to show their faith in him. They were all against me when I removed him. Now they'll show me something. Mark my words."

Luck was with McClellan. By an accident Lee's plan of campaign had fallen into his hands. Yet it was too late to forestall his first master stroke. In the face of a hostile army of twice his numbers Lee divided his forces, threw Jackson's corps on Harper's Ferry, captured the town, Arsenal and Rifle Works, twelve thousand five hundred prisoners and vast stores of war material. Among the booty taken were new blue uniforms with which Jackson promptly clothed his men.

Lee met McClellan at Antietam and waited for Jackson to arrive from Harper's Ferry.

When McClellan's artillery opened in the gray dawn, more than sixteen thousand of Lee's footsore men had fallen along the line of march unable to reach the battlefield. The Union Commander was massing eighty-seven thousand men behind his flaming batteries. Lee could count on but thirty-seven thousand. He gave McClellan battle with his little army hemmed in on one side by Antietam Creek and on the other by the sweeping Potomac.

The President in Washington received the news of the positions of the armies and their chances of success with exultation. As the sun rose a glowing dull red ball of fire breaking through the smoke of the artillery, Hooker's division swept into action and drove the first line of Lee's men into the woods. Here they rallied and began to mow down the charging masses with deadly aim. For two hours the sullen fight raged in the woods without yielding an inch on either side. Hooker fell wounded. He called for aid. Mansfield answered and fell dead as he deployed his men. Sedgwick's Corps charged and were caught in a trap between two Confederate brigades concealed and massed to meet them. Sedgwick was wounded and his command barely saved from annihilation.

While this struggle raged on the Union right, the center saw a bloodier tragedy. French and Richardson charged the Confederate position. A sunken road crossed the field over which they marched. For four tragic hours the men in gray held this sunken road until it was piled with their bodies. When the final charge of massed blue took it, they found to their amazement that but three hundred living men had been holding it for an hour against the assaults of five thousand. So perfect was the faith of those gray soldiers in Robert E. Lee they died as if it were the order of the day. It was simply fate. Their Commander could make no mistake.

Burnsides swung his reinforced division around the woods and pushed up the heights against Sharpsburg to cut Lee's only line of retreat. He forced the thin, gray lines before him through the streets of the village. On its outer edge he suddenly confronted a mass of men clad in their own blue uniform.

How had these men gotten here?

He was not long in doubt. The blue line suddenly flashed a red wave squarely in their faces. It was Jackson's Corps from Harper's Ferry in their new uniforms. The shock threw the Union men into confusion, a desperate charge drove them out of Sharpsburg, and Lee's army camped on the field with the dead.

For fourteen hours five hundred guns and a hundred thousand muskets thundered and hissed their message of blood. When night fell more than twenty thousand of our noblest men lay dead and wounded on the field.

Lee skillfully withdrew his army across the Potomac. Safe in Virginia he rallied his shattered forces while he sent Stuart once more in a daring ride around McClellan's army.

Again McClellan fell before the genius of Lee. Burnsides was put in his place.

They met at Fredericksburg. Burnsides, the courtly, polished gentleman, crossed the Rappahannock River and charged the hills on which Lee's grim, gray men had entrenched. His magnificent army marched into a death trap. Lee's batteries had been trained to rake the field from three directions.

Five times the Union hosts charged these crescent hills and five times they were rolled back in waves of blood. A fierce freezing wind sprang up from the North. The desperate Union Commander thought still to turn defeat into victory and ordered the sixth charge.

The men in blue pulled down their caps and charged once more into the jaws of death. The lines as they advanced snatched up the frozen bodies of their comrades, carried them to the front, stacked the corpses into long piles for bulwarks, dropped low and fought behind them. In vain. The gray hills roared and blazed, roared and blazed with increasing fury. Darkness came at last and drew a mantle of mercy over the scene.

The men in blue planted the frozen bodies of their dead along the outer line as dummy sentinels and crept through the shadows across the river shattered, broken, crushed. They left their wounded. Through the long hours of the freezing night the pitiful cries came to the boys in gray on the wings of the fierce North winds. They crawled out into the darkness here and there and held a canteen to the lips of a dying foe.

At dawn they looked and saw the piles of the slain wrapped in white shrouds of snow. The shivering, ragged, gray figures, thinly clad, swept down the hill, stripped the dead and shook the frost from the warm clothes.

Burnsides fell before the genius of Lee and Hooker was put in his place.

Fighting Joe Hooker they called him. At Chancellorsville a few months later he led his reorganized army across the same river and threw it on Lee with supreme confidence in the results. He led an army of one hundred and thirty thousand men in seven grand divisions backed by four hundred and forty-eight great guns.

Lee, still on the hills behind Fredericksburg, had sixty-two thousand men and one hundred and seventy guns. He had sent Longstreet's corps into Tennessee.