A smile touched her eyes with tender sympathy:

"You won't be vain if I tell you exactly what I said, Mr. President?"

"After all the brickbats that have been coming my way?" he laughed. No man could laugh with more genuine hearty enjoyment. His laughter convulsed his whole being for the moment and fairly hypnotized his hearer into sympathy with his mood.

"Out with it, Miss Betty, I need it!" he urged.

"I said, Mr. President, that you were very tender and very strong——" she paused and looked straight into his deep set eyes "——and that a great man had appeared in our history."

He was still for a moment and a mist veiled the light at which she gazed. He took her hand in both his, pressed it gently and murmured:

"Thank you, Miss Betty, I shall try to prove worthy of my little champion."

"I think you do things without trying, Mr. President," she answered.

"And you don't want an office, do you?"

"No."

"You have no favors to ask for your friends, have you?"

"None whatever."

"And you're Senator Winter's daughter?"

"Yes."

"The old grizzly bear! He hates me—but I've always liked him——"

"I hope you'll always like him," Betty quickly broke in.

"Of course I will. I've never cherished resentments. Life's too short, and the office I fill is too big for that. Do you know why I've sent for you?"

Betty smiled:

"To have me flatter you, of course. All men are vain. The greater the man, the greater his vanity."

Again he laughed with every muscle of his face and body.

"Honestly—no, that's not the reason," he said confidentially. "I want you to accept a position in my Cabinet."

"I didn't know that women were admitted?"

"They're not, but I've always been in favor of votes for women and I'm going to make a place for you."

Betty's lips trembled with a smile:

"What's the salary?"

"No salary, save the eternal gratitude of your Chief—will you accept?"

"I'll consider it—what duty?"

He looked steadily into her brown eyes:

"You have very bright, clear eyes, Miss Betty, I can see myself in them now more distinctly than in that mirror over the mantel. I'd like to borrow your eyes now and then to see things with. Will you accept the position?"

"If I can be of service, yes."

"The White House is open to you at all hours, and I shall send for you sometimes when I'm blue and puzzled and want a pair of pure, beautiful, young eyes—you understand?"

Betty extended her hand and her voice trembled:

"You have conferred on me a very great honor, Mr. President."

"For instance now," he said dreamily: "You endorse my Inaugural?"

"I'm sure it was wise, firm, friendly, dignified."

"I couldn't have said less than that I must possess and hold the property of the Government, could I? Well, I must now order a fleet to sail for Charleston Harbor to relieve our fort or allow the men who wear our uniform and fly our flag to die of starvation or surrender. Pretty poor Commander-in-Chief of the Army and Navy if I do that, am I not? Suppose I send a fleet to provision our men in Fort Sumter, not reinforce it—mind you, merely provisions for the handful of men who are there,—and suppose the Southern troops manning those land batteries open fire on our flag and force Major Anderson to surrender—what would happen in the North?"

He paused and looked at her steadily. The fine young figure suddenly stiffened:

"Every man, woman and child would say fight!"

The big jaws came together with firm precision and his huge fist struck the table:

"That's what I think. And at the same time something else would be happening over there——" His long arm swept toward the hills of Virginia, dark and threatening on the horizon. "The moment that shot crashes against our fort, North Carolina, Virginia, Arkansas, and Tennessee will join the Confederacy, to say nothing of what may happen in Maryland, Delaware, Kentucky and Missouri—all Slave States. The shock will be felt on both sides with precisely opposite effects. Sometimes we must do our duty and leave the rest to God, mustn't we? Yes—of course we must—and now, I've kept you too long, Miss Betty. It's a bargain, isn't it? You accept the position in my Cabinet?"

"Of course, Mr. President,—but if my duties are no heavier than I find them on this occasion, I fear I shall be of little help."

"You've been of the greatest service to me. You've confirmed my decision on a great problem of State. Come now and see Mother and the children. I want you to know them and like them."

He led her quickly into the family apartment and introduced her to Mrs. Lincoln. He found her in the midst of a grave discussion with Lizzie Garland, her colored dressmaker.

"This is old Grizzly's lovely daughter, Miss Betty Winter, Mother. She has joined the administration, stands squarely with us against the world, the flesh, the devil—and her father! I told her you'd give her the keys to the house——"

With a wave of his big hand he was gone.

Mrs. Lincoln's greeting was simple and hearty. In half an hour Betty had found a place in her heart for life, the boys were claiming her as their own, and a train of influences were set in motion destined to make history.



CHAPTER V

THE FIRST SHOT

The first month of the new administration passed in a strange peace that proved to be the calm before the storm. On the first day of April, All Fool's Day, Mr. Seward decided to bring to a definite issue the question of supreme authority in the government. That Abraham Lincoln was the nominal President was true, of course. Mr. Seward generously decided to allow him to remain nominally at the head of the Nation and assume himself the full responsibilities of a Dictatorship.

The Secretary of State strolled leisurely into the executive office more careless in dress than usual, the knot of his cravat under his left ear, a huge lighted cigar in his hand. He handed the President a folded sheet of official paper, bowed carelessly and retired.

He had drawn up his proclamation under the title:

SOME THOUGHTS FOR THE PRESIDENT'S CONSIDERATION.

In this remarkable document he proposed to assume the Dictatorship and outlined his policy as director of the Nation's affairs.

He would immediately provoke war with Great Britain, Russia, Spain and France!

The dark-visaged giant adjusted his glasses and read this paper with a smile of incredulous amazement. He wiped his glasses and read it again. And then without consultation with a single human being, and without a moment's hesitation he wrote a brief reply to the great man and his generous offer. There was no bluster, no wrath, no demand for an apology to his insulted dignity, but in the simplest and friendliest and most direct language he informed his Secretary that if a dictator were needed to save the country he would undertake the dangerous and difficult job himself inasmuch as he had been called by the people to be their Commander-in-Chief, and that he expected the cooeperation, advice and support of all the members of his Cabinet.

He did not even refer to the wild scheme of plunging the country into war with two-thirds of the civilized world. The bare announcement of such a suggestion would have driven the Secretary from public life. The quiet man who presided over the turbulent Cabinet never hinted to one of its members that such a document had reached his hands.

But as the shades of night fell over the Capitol on that first day of April, 1861, there was one distinguished statesman within the city who knew that a real man had been elected President and that he was going to wield the power placed in his hands without a tremor of fear or an instant's hesitation.

It took many months for other members of his Cabinet to learn this—but there was no more trouble with his Secretary of State. He became at once his loyal, earnest and faithful counsellor.

On April the 6th, the fleet was sent to sea under sealed orders to relieve Fort Sumter in the harbor of Charleston, South Carolina. The President had been loath to commit the act which must inevitably provoke war—unless the whole movement of Secession in the South was one of political bluff. The highest military authority of the country had advised him that the fort could not be held by any force at present visible, and that its evacuation was inevitable in any event.

His Cabinet, with two exceptions, were against any attempt to relieve it. The sentiment of the people of the North was bitterly opposed to war on the South.

On April the 7th, the fleet was at sea on its way to the Southern coast, its guns shotted, its great battle flags streaming in the wind.

In accordance with the amenities of war the President notified General Beauregard, Commander of the Southern forces in Charleston Harbor, that he had sent his fleet to put provisions into Sumter, but not at present to put in men, arms or ammunition, unless the fort should be attacked.

On the night this message was dispatched Roger A. Pryor, of Virginia, made a speech in Charleston, from the balcony of the Mills Hotel to practically the entire white population of the city. Its message was fierce, direct, electric. It was summed up in a single sentence:

"Strike the first armed blow in defense of Southern rights and within one hour by Shrewsbury clock, old Virginia will stand, her battle flags flying, by your side!"

On the morning of the 11th General Beauregard sent Pryor as a special messenger to Major Anderson demanding the surrender of Fort Sumter, and on his refusal, which was a matter of course, instructed him to go at once to the nearest battery and order its Commander to open fire.

The formalities at Sumter quickly ended, Pryor repaired to Battery Johnson, met the young Captain of artillery in command and presented his order.

With a shout the Captain threw his arms around the messenger and with streaming eyes cried:

"Your wonderful speech last night made this glorious thing possible! You shall have the immortal honor of firing the first gun!"

And then a strange revulsion of fooling—or was it a flash of foreboding from the hell-lit, battle-scorched future! The orator hesitated and turned pale. It was an honor he could not now decline and yet he instinctively shrank from it.

He mopped the perspiration from his brow and looked about in a helpless way. His eye suddenly rested on a grey-haired, stalwart sentinel passing with quick firm tread. He recognized him immediately as a distinguished fellow Virginian, a man of large wealth and uncompromising opinions on Southern rights.

When Virginia had refused to secede, he cursed his countrymen as a set of hesitating cowards, left the State and moved to South Carolina. He had volunteered among the first and carried a musket as a private soldier in spite of his snow-white hairs.

Pryor turned to the Commandant:

"I appreciate, sir, the honor you would do me, but I could not think of taking it from one more worthy than myself. There is the man whose devotion to our cause is greater than mine."

He introduced Edmund Ruffin and gave a brief outline of his career. The boyish Commandant faced him:

"Will you accept the honor of firing the first shot, sir?"

The square jaw closed with a snap:

"By God, I will!"

The old man seized the lanyard and waited for the Captain and messenger to reach the front to witness the effect of the shot.

They had scarcely cleared the enclosure when the first gun of actual civil war thundered its fateful message across the still waters of the beautiful Southern harbor.

They watched the great screaming shell rise into the sky, curve downward and burst with sullen roar squarely over the doomed fort.

The deed was done!

Instantly came the answering cry of fierce, ungovernable wrath from the millions of the North. The four remaining Southern States wheeled into line, flung their battle flags into the sky, and the bloodiest war in the history of the world had begun.



CHAPTER VI

THE PARTING OF THE WAYS

The wave of fiery enthusiasm for the Union which swept the North was precisely what the clear eyes of the President had foreseen. A half million men would have sprung to their arms if there had been any to spring to. The whole country, North, South, East and West was utterly unprepared for war. The regular army of the United States consisted of only sixteen thousand men scattered over a vast territory.

The President called for seventy-five thousand volunteer militiamen for three months' service to restore order in the Southern States. Even this number was more than the War Department could equip before their terms would expire and the President had no authority to call State troops for a longer service.

On the day following the call, Massachusetts started three fully equipped regiments to the front. The first reached Baltimore on the 19th. On their march through the streets to change cars for Washington, they were attacked by a fierce mob and the first battle of the Civil War was fought. The regiment lost four killed and thirty-six wounded and the mob, twelve killed and a great number wounded. Grimed with blood and dirt the troops reached Washington at five o'clock in the afternoon, the first armed rescuers of the Capital. They were quartered in the magnificent Senate Chamber on the Capitol Hill.

The President was immediately confronted by the gravest crisis. The first blood had stained the soil of the only Slave State, which lay between Washington and the loyal North. If Maryland should join the Confederacy it would be impossible to hold the Capital. The city would be surrounded and isolated in hostile territory.

From the first he had believed that the only conceivable way to save the Union was to prevent the Border Slave States of Maryland, Kentucky and Missouri from joining the South. For the moment it seemed that Maryland was lost, and with it the Capital of the Nation. A storm of fury swept through the city of Baltimore and the whole State over the killing of her unarmed citizens by the "Abolition" troops from Massachusetts!

The Mayor of Baltimore sent a committee to the President who declared in the most solemn tones:

"It is not possible for more soldiers to pass through Baltimore unless they fight their way at every step."

And to make sure that the attempt would not be repeated he burned the railroad bridges connecting the North and cut every telegraph wire completely isolating the Capital.

Gilbert Winter, with his cold blue eyes flashing their slumbering fires of hate, stalked into the White House as the Baltimore committee were passing down the steps. Without announcement he confronted the President.

"In the name of the outraged dignity of this Republic," he thundered, "I demand that these traitors be arrested, tried by drumhead court-martial and hanged as spies!"

The patient giant figure lifted a big hand in a gesture of mild protest:

"Hardly, Senator!"

"And what was your answer?"

"I have written the Governor and the Mayor," the quiet voice went on, "that for the future troops must be brought here, but I make no point of bringing them through Baltimore——"

"Indeed!" Winter sneered.

"All I want is to get them here. I have ordered them to march around Baltimore. And in fulfilment of this promise I've sent a regiment back to Philadelphia to come by water——"

"Great God—could cowardice sink to baser crawling!"

The tall man merely smiled—his furious visitor starting for the door, turned and growled:

"It is absolutely useless to discuss this question further?"

"Absolutely, Senator."

"And you will not order our regular troops to take Baltimore immediately at the point of the bayonet?"

"I will not."

"Good day, sir!"

"Good day, Senator."

With a muttered explosion of wrath Gilbert Winter shook the dust of the White House floor from his feet and solemnly promised God it would be many moons before he degraded himself by again entering its portals.

The President had need of all his patience and caution in dealing with Maryland. The next protest demanded that troops should not pass by way of Annapolis or over any other spot of the soil of the State.

He calmly but firmly replied:

"My troops must reach Washington. They can neither fly over the State of Maryland nor burrow under it: therefore, they must cross it, and your people must learn that there is no piece of American soil too good to be pressed by the foot of a loyal soldier on his march to the defense of the Capital and his country."

During these anxious days while the fate of Maryland hung in the balance the Government was given a startling revelation of what it would mean to have Maryland hostile territory.

For a week the President and his Cabinet were in a state of siege. They got no news. They could send none save by courier. The maddest rumors were daily afloat. The President was supposed to be governing a country from which he was completely isolated.

The tension at last became unbearable. The giant figure stood for hours alone before his window in the White House, his sombre hazel-grey eyes fixed on the hills beyond the Potomac. When the silence could no longer be endured the anguish of his heart broke forth in impassioned protest:

"Great God! Why don't they come? Why don't they come! Is our Nation a myth? Is there no North?"

And then the tide turned and the troops poured into the city.

His patient, careful and friendly treatment of the Marylanders quickly proved its wisdom. A reaction in favor of the Union set in and the State remained loyal to the flag. The importance of this fact could not be exaggerated. Without Maryland, Washington could not have been held. And the moment the Capital should fall Europe would recognize the Confederacy.

The saving of Maryland for the Union, in fact, established Washington as the real seat of Government, though it was destined to remain for years but an armed fortress on the frontiers of a new Nation.

The stirring events at Sumter and Baltimore brought more than one family to the grief and horror of brother against brother and father against son.

John Vaughan stood in his room livid with rage confronting Ned on the first day that communication was opened with the outside world.

"You are not going to do this insane thing I tell you, Ned!"

The boyish figure stiffened:

"I am going home to Missouri on the first train out of Washington, raise a company and fight for the South."

The older man's voice dropped to persuasive tones:

"Isn't there something bigger than fighting for a section? Let's stand by the Nation!"

"That's just what I refuse to do. The United States have never been a Nation. This country is a Republic of Republics—not an Empire. The South is going to fight for the right of local self-government and the liberties our fathers won from the tyrants of the old world. The South is right eternally and forever right. The States of this Union have always been sovereign."

"All right—all right," John growled impatiently, "granted, my boy. Still Secession is impossible. A Nation can't jump out of its own skin once it has grown it. This country has become a Nation. Steam and electricity have made it so. Railroads have bound us together in iron bands. Can't you see that?"

"No, I can't. Right is right."

"But if we have actually grown into a mighty united people with one tongue and one ideal is it right to draw the sword to destroy what God has joined together? Silently, swiftly, surely during the past thirty years we have become one people and the love of the Union has become a deathless passion——"

"You've had a poor way of showing it!" Ned sneered.

"Still, boy, it's true. I didn't realize it myself until that fort was fired on and the flag hauled down. And then it came to me in a blinding flash. Old Webster's voice has been hushed in death, but his soul lives in the hearts of our boys. There's hardly one of us who hasn't repeated at school his immortal words. They came back to me with thrilling power the day I read of that shot. They are ringing in my soul to-day——"

John paused and a rapt look crept into his eyes, as he began slowly to repeat the closing words of Webster's speech:

"'When mine eyes shall be turned to behold for the last time the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious Union; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent; or a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, with fratricidal blood! Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gracious ensign of the Republic, now known and honored throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original lustre, not a stripe erased or polluted, not a single star obscured, bearing for its motto no such miserable interrogatory as "What is all this worth?" nor those other words of delusion and folly, "Liberty first and Union afterward," but everywhere, spread all over with living light, blazing in all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and over the land and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment dear to every American heart—"Liberty and Union, now and forever, one and inseparable——"'"

He paused, his voice choking with emotion, as he seized Ned's arm:

"O, Boy, Boy, isn't that a greater ideal? That's all the President is asking to-day—to stand by the Union——"

"He is making war on the South!"

"But only as the South is forcing him reluctantly to defend the Union by force. The South is mad. She will come to her senses after the shock of the first skirmish is over. With the Southern members in their places, they have a majority in Congress against the President. He can move neither hand nor foot. What has the South to gain by Secession? They always controlled the Union and can continue to do so if they stand united with their Northern friends. In the end their defeat is as sure as that twenty millions of free white Americans can whip five millions of equal courage and daring. They have everything to lose and nothing to gain. It's madness—it surpasses belief!"

"That's why I'm going to fight for them!" Ned's answer flashed. "They stand for a principle—their equal rights under the Republic their fathers created. They haven't paused to figure on success or failure. Five million freemen have drawn the sword against twenty millions because their rights have been invaded. Might has never yet made right. The South's daring is sublime and, by God, I stand with them!"

His words had the ring of steel in their finality. The two men faced each other for a moment, tense, earnest, defiant.

The younger extended his hand:

"Good-bye, John."

The handsome face of the older brother went suddenly white and he shook his head:

"No. From to-day we are no longer brothers—we can't be friends!"

Ned smiled, waved his hand and from the door firmly answered:

"As you like—from to-day—foes——"

He closed the door and with swift step turned his face toward the house of Senator Winter.



CHAPTER VII

LOVE AND DUTY

The pretty Irish maid nodded and smiled with such a sympathetic look as she ushered Ned into the cosy back parlor, he wondered if it meant anything. Could she have guessed Betty's secret? She might give him a hint that would lift the fear from his heart.

He smiled back into her laughing eyes and began awkwardly:

"Oh, I say, Peggy——"

She dropped a pretty courtesy:

"Yiss-sor?"

Somehow it wouldn't work. The words refused to come. Love was too big and sweet and sacred. It couldn't be hinted at to a third person. And so he merely stammered:

"Will you—er—please—tell Miss Betty I'm here?"

"Yiss-sor!" Peggy giggled.

He was glad to be rid of her. He drew his handkerchief, mopped the perspiration from his brow and sat down by the open window to wait. His heart was pounding. He looked about the room with vague longing. He had spent many a swift hour of pain and joy in this room. The sight and sound of her had grown into his very life—he couldn't realize how intimately and how hopelessly until this moment of parting perhaps forever.

The portrait of her mother hung over the mantel—a life-size oil painting by a noted French artist, the same brilliant laughing eyes, the same deep golden brown hair, its wayward ringlets playing loosely about her fine forehead and shell-like ears.

Beyond a doubt this pretty mother with the sunshine of France in her blood had known how to flirt in her day—and her beautiful daughter was enough like that picture to have been her twin sister.

On the mantel beneath this portrait sat photographs in solid silver frames, one of Wendell Phillips, one of William Lloyd Garrison and one of John C. Fremont, the first Republican candidate for President. Directly opposite on the wall hung an oil painting of John Brown. Ned caught the flash of the fanatic in the old madman's eye and was startled at the striking resemblance to Senator Winter. He had never thought of it before. Gilbert Winter might have been his brother in the flesh as he undoubtedly was in spirit.

The thought chilled. He looked out the window with a sigh and wondered how far the old tyrant would carry his hatred of the South into his daughter's life. His eye rested for a moment on the row of lilacs in full bloom in the garden and caught the flash of the big new leaves of the magnolia which shadowed the rear wall. The early honeysuckle had begun to blossom on the south side, and the violet beds were a solid mass of gorgeous blue. Through the open window came the rich odor of the long rows of narcissus in full white glory where the jonquils had flamed a month ago.

What a beautiful world to be beaten into a scarred battlefield!

For just a moment the thought wrung the heart of youth and love. It was hard just when the tenderest and sweetest impulses that ever filled his soul wore clamoring for speech, to turn his back on all, say good-bye and go—to war—perhaps to kill his own brother.

And there could be no mistake, war had come. Overhead he caught the steady tramp of Senator Winter's feet, a caged lion walking back and forth with hungry eyes turned toward the South. He could feel his deadly hostility through the very walls.

A battery of artillery suddenly roared through the streets, the dull heavy rattle of its wheels over the cobblestones, and the crack of the driver's whip echoing and reechoing through the house. Behind it came the steady tramp, tramp, of a regiment of infantry, the loud call of their volunteer officers ringing sharply their orders at the turn of the street. Far off on the Capitol Hill he heard the sharp note of a bugle and the rattle of horses' hoofs. Every hour the raw troops were pouring into the city from the North, the East and the West.

He wondered with a strange catch in his throat what difference this was going to make between him and the girl he loved. There was no longer any question about the love. He marvelled that he had been too stupid to realize it and speak before this shadow had fallen between them. She knew that his sympathies were with the South and he knew with equal certainty she had never believed that he would fight to destroy the Union when the test should come. He dreaded the shock when he must tell her.

His heart grew sick with fear. What chance had he with everything against him—her old, fanatical father who loved her with the tender devotion of his strong manhood—her own blind admiration for the new President, whose coming had brought war—and worst of all he must go and leave John by her side! His brother had given no hint of his real feelings, but his deeds had been more eloquent than words. He had seen Betty every week since the day they had met—sometimes twice. This he knew. There may have been times he didn't know.

All the more reason why he must put the thing to the test. Besides he must speak. His hour had struck. His country was calling, and he must go—to meet Death or Glory. The woman he loved must know.

He heard the soft rustle of her dress on the stairs and sprang to his feet. She paused in the doorway a vision of ravishing beauty in full evening dress, her bare arms and exquisite neck and throat gleaming in the shadows.

She smiled graciously, her brown eyes sparkling with the conscious power which youth and beauty can never conceal.

She held out her soft warm hand and his trembling cold fingers grasped it.

"I'm sorry to have kept you, Ned," she began softly, "but I was dressing for the reception at the White House. I promised Mrs. Lincoln to help her."

"I didn't mind the wait, Miss Betty," he answered soberly. "Come into the garden—I can talk better there among your flowers—I never mind waiting for you."

"Why?"

"I've time to dream."

"Before you must wake?" she laughed.

"I'm afraid it's so this time——"

"Why so serious—what's the matter?"

"I'm going to the front."

"So are thousands of brave men, Ned. I've always known you'd go when the test came."

He bit his lips and was silent. It was hard, but he had to say it:

"I am going to fight for the South, Miss Betty."

The silence was painful. She looked steadily into his dark earnest eyes. There was something too big and fine in them to be met with anger or reproach. He was deadly pale and waited breathlessly for her to speak.

"I'm sorry," she breathed softly.

"You know that it costs me something to say this to you," he stammered.

"Yes, I know——"

"But it must be. It's a question of principle—a question that cuts to the bone of a fellow's life and character. A man must be true to what he believes to be right, mustn't he?"

His voice was tender, wistful, pleading. The sweet, young face upturned to his caught his mood:

"Yes, Ned."

"I couldn't be a real man and do less, could I?"

"No—but I'm sorry"—she paused and suddenly asked, "Your brother agrees with you?"

Ned frowned: "Why do you ask that question?"

"Because I was sure that he was on our side——"

"Is that all?"

"And I've always supposed he was a sort of guardian——"

"Only because he has always been my big brother and I've loved and admired him very much. I cried my eyes out the day he left home out in Missouri and came East to college."

"And you're going to fight him?"

"It's possible."

"It's horrible!"

"And yet, men who are not savages could only do such things drawn by the mightiest forces that move a human soul—you must know that, Miss Betty."

"Yes."

"There's only one thing in life that's bigger——"

"And that?"

"Is love. I've held it too high and holy a word to speak lightly. I shall tell but one woman that I love her——"

She looked at him tenderly:

"You glorious, foolish boy!"

Pale and trembling he took her hand, led her to a seat and sank on his knees by her side.

"I love you, Betty!" he gasped. "I've loved you from the moment we met, tenderly, madly, reverently. I've been afraid to touch your hand lately lest you feel the pounding of my heart and know. And now it's come—this hour when I must say I love you and good-bye in the same breath! Be gentle and sweet to me. I'm afraid to ask if you love me. It's too good to be true. I'm not worthy to even touch your little hand—and yet I'm daring to hold it in mine——"

He paused and bowed his head, overcome with emotion.

Betty gently pressed his trembling fingers. Her voice was low.

"I'm proud of your love, Ned. It's very beautiful——"

"But you don't love me?" he groaned.

"Not as you love me."

He looked searchingly and hungrily into her brown eyes:

"Is it John?"

She shook her head slowly and thoughtfully:

"No."

"And it's no one else?"

"No."

"Then I won't take that answer!" he cried with desperate earnestness. "I'm going to win you. I'll love you with a love so big and true I'll make you love me. Everything's against me now. Your father's against me. I'm going to fight your country and your people. You admire the new President. I despise him. The passions of war have separated us, that's all. But I won't give up. The war can't last long. You'll see things in a different way when it ends."

Betty smiled into his pleading eyes:

"How little you know me, Boy! Nothing on this earth could separate me from the man I love——" she paused and breathed quickly "——I'd follow him blindfold to the bottomless pit once I'd given him my heart!"

Ned rose suddenly to his foot and drew Betty with him. His hand now was hot with the passion that fired his soul.

"Then you're worth fighting for. And I'm going to fight—fight for what I believe to be right and fight for you——"

He stopped suddenly and his slender figure straightened:

"I'm coming back to you, Betty!" he said with clear ringing emphasis. "I'm coming back to Washington. I'll be with an army conquering, triumphant, because they are right. There'll be a new President in the White House and I'll win!"

He bowed and reverently kissed the tips of her fingers.

"You glorious boy!" she sighed. "It's beautiful to be loved like that! I'm proud of it—I'll hold my head a little higher with every thought of you——"

"And you'll think of me sometimes when war has separated us?"

"I'll never forget!"

"And remember that I'm fighting my way back to your side?"

A tender smile played about the corners of her eyes and mouth:

"I'll remember."

With a quick, firm movement he turned, passed through the house, and strode toward the iron gate.

He suddenly confronted John entering.

The two brothers faced each other for a moment angrily and awkwardly, and then the anger slowly melted from the younger man's eyes.

"You are taking dinner with Miss Betty to-night?" Ned asked in friendly tones.

"Yes, I'm going with her to the White House," was the cold reply.

"I'm leaving in an hour. Don't you think it's foolish for two brothers who have been what you and I have been to each other to part like this? We may not see one another again."

John hesitated and then slowly slipped his arm around the younger man, holding him in silence. When his voice was steady he said:

"Forgive me, Boy. I was blind with anger. It meant so much to me. But we'll face it. We'll have to fight it out—as God gives us wisdom to see the right——"

Ned's hand found his, and clasped it firmly:

"As God gives us to see the right, John—Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Boy,—it's hard to say it!"

They clung to each other for a moment and slowly drew apart as the shadows of the soft spring night deepened.



CHAPTER VIII

THE TRIAL BY FIRE

The troops transformed Washington from a lazy Southern town of sixty thousand inhabitants into an armed fortress of the frontier, swarming with a quarter of a million excited men and women. Soldiers thronged the streets and sidewalks and sprawled over every inch of greensward, their uniforms of every cut and color on which the sun of heaven had shone during the past two hundred years of history.

When the tumult and the shouts of departing regiments had died away from the home towns in the North and the flags that were flying from every house had begun to fade under the hot rays of the advancing summer, the patriotic orators and editors began to demand of their President why his grand army of seventy-five thousand lingered at the Capital. When he mildly suggested the necessity of drilling, equipping and properly arming them he was laughed at by the wise, and scoffed at as a coward by the brave.

Mutterings of discontent grew deeper and more threatening. They demanded a short, sharp, decisive campaign. Let the army wheel into line, march straight into Richmond, take Jefferson Davis a prisoner, hang him and a few leaders of the "rebellion," and the trouble would be over. This demand became at length the maddened cry of a mob:

"On to Richmond!"

Every demagogue howled it. Every newspaper repeated it. As city after city, and State after State took up the cry, the pressure on the man at the helm of Government became resistless. It was a political necessity to fight a battle and fight at once or lose control of the people he had been called to lead.

The Abolitionists only sneered at this cry. They demanded an answer to a single insistent question:

"What are you going to fight about?"

A battle which does not settle the question of Slavery they declared to be a waste of blood and treasure. If the slave was not the issue, why fight? The South would return to the Union which they had always ruled if let alone. Why fight them for nothing?

Gilbert Winter, their spokesman at Washington, again confronted the President with his uncompromising demand:

"An immediate proclamation of emancipation!"

And the President with quiet dignity refused to consider it.

"Why?" again thundered the Senator.

His answer was always the same:

"I am not questioning the right or wrong of Slavery. If Slavery is not wrong, nothing is wrong. But the Constitution, which I have sworn to uphold in the Border States of Maryland, Missouri and Kentucky, guarantees to their people the right to hold slaves if they choose. We have already eleven Southern States solidly arrayed against us. Add the Border States by such a proclamation, and the contest is settled before a blow is struck. I know the power of State loyalty in the South. I was born there. Many a mother in Richmond wept the days the stars and stripes were lowered from their Capitol. And well they might—for their sires created this Republic. But they brushed their tears away and sent their sons to the front next day to fight that flag in the name of Virginia. So would thousands of mothers in these remaining Slave States if I put them to the test. I'm going to save them for the Union. In God's own time Slavery will be destroyed."

Against every demand of the heart of the party which had given him power, he stood firm in the position he had taken.

But there was no resisting the universal demand for a march on Richmond. The cry was literally from twenty millions. He must heed it or yield the reins of power to more daring hands.

To add to the President's burden, his Secretary of State was still dreaming of foreign wars. He had drawn up a letter of instruction to our Minister to Great Britain which would have provoked an armed conflict. When the backwoodsman from Southern Illinois read this document he was compelled to lay aside his other duties and practically rewrite it. His work showed a freedom of mind, a balance of judicial temperament, an insight into foreign affairs, a skill in the use of language, a delicacy of criticism, a mastery of the arts of diplomacy which placed him among the foremost statesmen of any age, and all the ages.

He saved the Nation from a second disastrous war, as a mere matter of the routine of his office, and at once turned to the pressing work of the approaching battle.

John Vaughan had joined the army as correspondent for his paper, and Betty had been his companion on many tours of inspection through camp, hospitals and drill grounds. Her quick wit and brilliant mind were an inspiring stimulus. She was cool and self-possessed and it rested him to be near her. She was the only restful woman he had ever encountered at short range. He was delighted that she seemed content without love-making. There was never a moment when he could catch the challenge of sex in a word or attitude. He might have been her older brother, so perfect and even, so free and simple her manner.

Betty had watched him with the keenest caution. The first glance at John's handsome face had convinced her of his boundless vanity and beneath it a streak of something cruel. She would have liked him instantly but for this. His vanity she could forgive. All good-looking men are vain. His character was a study of which she never tired. He strangely distressed and disturbed her—and this kept puzzling and piquing her curiosity. Every time she determined to end their association this everlasting question of the man's inner character came to torment her imagination.

She was a little disappointed at his not volunteering at the first call as his gallant young brother had done. Yet his reasoning was sound.

"What's the use?" he replied to her question. "Five men have already volunteered for every one who can be used. I'm not a soldier by profession or inclination. A campaign of thirty days, one big battle and the war's over. The President has more men than he can arm or equip. My paper needs me——"

The army encamped along the banks of the Potomac received orders to advance for the long expected battle in the hills of Virginia.

Betty stood with the crowds of sweethearts and wives and sisters and mothers and watched them march away through the dust and heat and grime of the Southern summer, drums throbbing, banners streaming, bayonets flashing and bands playing.

John Vaughan was in the ranks of a New York regiment. He pressed Betty's hand with a lingering touch he hadn't intended. She seemed unconscious that he was holding it.

"You are going to march in the ranks?" she asked in surprise.

"Yes. I want to see war as it is. These boys are my friends from New York."

"You will fight with them?"

"No—just see with their eyes—that's all. And then tell you exactly what happened. I can hide behind a barn or a tree without being court-martialed."

She looked at him quickly with a new interest, pressed his hand again and said:

"Good luck!"

"And home again soon!" he cried with a wave of his arms as he hurried to join his marching men.

The army camped at Centreville, seven miles from Beauregard's lines, and spent the 19th and 20th of July resting and girding their loins for the first baptism of fire. The volunteers were eager for the fray. The first touch of the skirmishers had resulted in fifteen or twenty killed. But the action had been too far away to make any serious impression.

Between the two armies crept the silvery thread of the little stream of Bull Run, its clear beautiful waters flashing in the July sun.

Saturday night, the 20th, orders were issued to John's regiment to be in readiness to advance against the enemy at two o'clock before day on Sunday morning. A thrill of fierce excitement swept the camp. They were loaded down with overcoats, haversacks, knapsacks and baggage, baggage, baggage without end. The single New York regiment to which he had attached himself required forty wagons to move its baggage. They had a bakery and cooking establishment that would have done credit to Broadway. They hurriedly packed all they could carry in readiness for the march into battle. What would happen to the rest God only knew, but they hoped for the best. Of course, the battle couldn't last long. It was only necessary for this grand army to make a demonstration with its drums throbbing, its fifes screaming, its bayonets flashing and its magnificent uniforms glittering in the sun—the plumes, the Scotch bonnets, the Turkish fez, the Garibaldi shirts, the blue and grey and gold, the black and yellow, and the red and blue of the fire Zouaves—when the rebel mob saw these things they would take to their heels.

What the boys were really afraid of was that every rebel would escape before they could use their handcuffs and ropes. This would be too bad because the procession through the crowded streets at home would be incomplete without captives as a warning to future traitors. They were going to have a load to carry with their blanket rolls, haversack and knapsack and the full fighting rounds of cartridges, but they were not going to leave the handcuffs. If they had to drop anything on the march they might ease up on a blanket or half their heavy cartridges.

John found sleep impossible, and was ready to move at one o'clock. The dust was rising already in parched clouds from the dry Virginia roads. He walked to the edge of the woods and gazed over the dark moonlit hills around Centreville. A gentle breeze began to stir the leaves overhead but it was hot and lifeless. He caught the smell of sweating horses in a battery of artillery, hitched for the march. It was going to be a day of frightful heat under the clear blazing sun of the South, this Sunday, the 21st of July, 1861. He could see already in his imagination the long lines of sweating half fainting marchers staggering under the strain. Yet not for a moment did he doubt the result.

From a store on the hill at Centreville came the plaintive strains of a negro's voice accompanied by a banjo. A crowd of Congressmen had driven out from Washington on a picnic to see the spectacle of the first and last battle of the "Rebellion." They were drinking good whiskey and making merry.

For the first time a little doubt crept into his mind. Were they all too cocksure? It might be a serious business after all. It was only for a moment and his fears vanished. He was glad Ned was not in those grey lines in front. His company had been formed promptly, and he had been elected first lieutenant, but they were still in Southern Missouri under General Sterling Price. He shouldn't like to come on his brother's body dead or wounded after the battle—the young dare-devil fool!

Promptly at two o'clock the sharp orders rang from the regimental commander:

"Forward march!"

The lines swung carelessly into the powdered dust of the road and moved forward into the fading moonlight, talking, laughing, chatting, joking. War was yet a joke and the contagious fire of patriotism had flung its halo even over this night's work. Except here and there a veteran of the Mexican War, not one of these men had ever seen a battle or had the remotest idea what it was like.

John was marching with Sherman's brigade of Tyler's division. At six o'clock they reached the stone bridge which crossed Bull Run. On the hills beyond stretched a straggling line of grey figures. It couldn't be an army. Only a few skirmishers thrown out to warn off an attempt to cross the bridge. A white puff of smoke flashed on a hill toward the South, and the deep boom of a Confederate cannon echoed over the valley. Tyler's guns answered in grim chorus. The men gripped their muskets and waited the word of command. John's brigade was deployed along the edge of a piece of woods on the right of the Warrenton turnpike and stood for hours. A rumble of disgust swept the lines:

"What t'ell are we waitin' for?"

"Why don't we get at 'em?"

"And this is war!"

And no breakfast either. An hour passed and only an occasional crack of a musket across the shining thread of silver water and the slow sullen echo of the artillery. They seemed to be just practising. The shots all fell short and nobody was hurt.

Another hour—it was eight o'clock and still they stood and looked off into space. Nine o'clock passed and the fierce rays of the climbing July sun drove the men to the shelter of the trees.

"If this is war," yelled a red-breeched, fierce young Zouave, "I'll take firecrackers and a Fourth of July for mine!"

"Keep your shirt on, Sonny," observed a corporal. "We may have some fun yet before night."

At ten o'clock something happened.

Suddenly a thousand grey clad men leaped from their cover over the hills and swept up stream at double quick. A solid mass of dust-covered figures were swarming below the stone bridge.

The regiment's battery dashed into position, its guns were trained and their roar shook the earth. The swarming grey lines below the bridge paid no attention. The shots fell short and Sherman sent for heavier guns.

The men in grey had formed a new line of battle and faced the Sudley and New Market road. Far up this road could now be seen a mighty cloud of dust which marked the approach of the main body of McDowell's Union army. He had made a wide flank movement, crossed Bull Run at Sudley Ford and was attempting to completely turn the Confederate position, while Sherman held the stone bridge with a demonstration of force.

A cheer swept the line as the dust rose higher and denser and nearer.

Banks of storm clouds were rising from the horizon. The air was thick and oppressive, as the two armies drew close in tense battle array. The turning movement had only been partly successful. It had been discovered before complete and a grey line had wheeled, gripped their muskets and stood ready to meet the attack.

The dust, cloud suddenly fell. McDowell's two divisions of eighteen thousand men spread out in the woods and made ready for the shock.

The sun burst through the gathering clouds for a moment and the edge of the woods flashed with polished steel.

A Federal battery dashed into position and placed one of its big black-wheeled guns in the front yard of a little white-washed farmhouse. The farmer's wife faced the commander with indignant fury:

"Take that thing outen my front yard!"

The dust-and sweat-covered men paid no attention. They quickly sunk the wheels into the ground and piled their shells in place for work.

The old woman stamped her foot and shouted again: "Take that thing away I tell you—I won't have it here!"

The captain seized his lanyard, trained his piece and the big black lips roared.

With a scream of terror the woman covered her ears, rushed inside and slammed the door. They found her torn and mangled body there after the battle. An answering shell had crashed through the roof and exploded.

Sherman's men, standing in the woods before the stone bridge waiting orders, saw the white and blue fog of battle rise above the tree tops and felt the earth tremble beneath their feet.

And then came to John's ears the first full crash of musketry fire in close deadly range. As company, regiment and brigade joined in volley after volley, it was like the sound of the continuous ripping of heavy canvas, magnified on the scale of a thousand. As the storm cloud swept over the smoke-choked field the rattle of musketry sounded as if an angry God rode somewhere in their fiery depths, and with giant hand was ripping the heavens open!

An hour passed and a shout of triumph swept the Federal lines. They charged and drove the Confederate forces back a half mile from their first stand. There was a lull—a strange silence brooded over the flaming woods and the guns opened from their new position—the artillery's deep thunder and the ripping crash of muskets. Another hour and another wild shout of victory. They had driven the Southerners three quarters of a mile further.

The shouts suddenly stopped. They had struck something.

The grim dust-covered figure of a Southern Brigadier General on a little sorrel horse had barred the way. His bulging forehead with its sombre blue eyes hung ominously over the pommel of his saddle.

General Bee, of South Carolina, rallying his shattered, broken brigade, pointed his sword to the strange figure and shouted to his men:

"See Jackson standing like a stone wall—rally to the Virginians!"

A bursting shell struck him dead in the next instant, but the world had heard and the name "Stonewall" became immortal.

With the last shout, the cry of victory had swept the field to the farthest line of reserves. John Vaughan secured a horse, galloped to the nearest telegraph line and sent the thrilling news to his paper. Already the wires were flashing it to the farthest cities of the North and West.

Victory! The first and last battle of the war had been settled. He spurred his horse through the blistering heat back to his regiment to join in the pursuit of the flying enemy.

They were just dashing across Bull Run going into action, their battle flag flying and their band playing. They were not long in finding the foe. The obstruction still remained in the path of the advancing hosts. The grim figure on the little sorrel horse had just ordered his brigade to fix bayonets.

In sharp tones his command was snapped:

"Charge and take that battery!"

A low grey cloud rose from the hill, swept over the crack Federal battery of Ricketts and Griffin and captured their guns.

John's regiment reached the field just in time to see the cannoneers fall in their tracks at the first deadly volley from the charging men.

Every horse was down dead or wounded. The pitiful cries of the stricken horses rang over the field above the roar of the battle, pathetic, heartrending, sickening.

The two armies had clinched now in the grim struggle which meant defeat or victory. It was incredible that the army which swept the field for four terrible hours should fail. The new regiments formed in line and with a shout of desperation charged Jackson's men and retook the captured battery.

Again the men in grey rallied and tore the guns a second time from the hands of their owners.

John saw a shell explode directly beneath a magnificent horse on which a general sat directing his men. The horse was blown to atoms, the general was hurled twenty feet into the air and struck the ground on his feet. He was unhurt, called for another horse, mounted and led the third charge to recover the guns. For a moment the two battle lines mingled in deadly hand to hand combat and once more the guns were retaken.

It had scarcely been done before Jackson's men rallied, turned and swift as a bolt of lightning from the smoke-covered hill captured the guns the third time and held them.

And then the unexpected, unimaginable thing happened. A new dust cloud rose over the hill toward Manassas Junction. The Southerners were hoping against hope that it might be Kirby Smith with his lost regiment from the Shenandoah Valley. The regiment had been expected since noon. It was now half past three o'clock. General McDowell, the Union Commander, was hoping against hope that Patterson's army from the Shenandoah would join his.

They were not long in doubt. The fresh troops suddenly swung into position on McDowell's right flank. If they were allies all was well. If they were foes! Suddenly from this line of battle rose a new cry on the face of the earth. From two thousand dusty throats came a heaven-piercing, soul-shivering shout, the cry of the Southern hunter in sight of his game, a cry that was destined to ring over many a field of death—the fierce, wild "Rebel Yell."

They charged McDowell's right flank with resistless onslaught. Kirby Smith fell desperately wounded and Elzey took command. Beckham's battery unlimbered and poured into the ranks from the rear a storm of shell. McDowell swung his battle line into a fiery crescent and made his last desperate stand.

Jubal Early, Elzey's brigade, and Stonewall Jackson charged at the same signal—and then—pandemonium!

Blind, unreasoning panic seized the army of the North. They broke and fled. Brave officers cursed and swore in vain. The panic grew. Men rushed pell mell over one another, white with terror. They threw down their muskets, their knapsacks, their haversacks and ran for their lives, every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost. In vain the regular army, with splendid discipline, formed a rear guard to effect an orderly retreat. The crack of their guns only made the men run faster.

The wildest rumors flew from parched tongue to throbbing ear.

An army of a hundred thousand fresh troops had fallen on their tired, bloody ranks. They were led by Jeb Stuart at the head of four thousand Black Horse Cavalry. If a single man escaped alive it would be for one reason, only they could outrun them. It was a crime for officers to try to round them up for a massacre. That's all it was—a massacre! With each mad thought of the rushing mob the panic grew. They cut the traces of horses from guns and left them on the field. The frantic mob engulfed the buggies and carriages of the Congressmen and picnickers from Washington who had come out to see the Rebellion put down at a single blow. The road became a mass of neighing, plunging horses, broken and tangled wagons, ambulances and riderless artillery teams. Horses neighed in terror more abject than that which filled the hearts of men. Men once had reason—the poor horse had never claimed it. The blockades on the road formed no barrier to the flying men on foot. They streamed around and overflowed into the woods and fields and pressed on with new terror. God in Heaven! They pitied the poor fools engulfed in those masses of maddened plunging brutes and smashing wagons. It was only a question of a few minutes when Stuart's sabres would split every skull.

John Vaughan was swept to the rear on the crest of this wave of terror. Up to the moment it began he had scarcely thought of danger. After the first few minutes of nerve tension under fire his spirit had risen as the combat raged and deepened. It didn't seem real, the falling of men around him. He had no time to realize that they were being torn to pieces by shot and shell and the hail of lead that whistled from those long sheets of flaming smoke-banks before him.

And then the panic had seized him. He had caught its mad unreasoning terror from the men who surged about him. And it was every man for himself. The change was swift, abject, complete from utter unconsciousness of fear to the blindest terror. Some ran mechanically, with their eyes set in front as if stiff with fear, expecting each moment to be struck dead, knowing it was useless to try but going on and on because involuntary muscles were carrying them.

A fat man caught hold of John's coat and held on for half a mile before he could shake him off. He begged piteously for help.

"Don't leave me, partner!" he panted. "I'm a sinful man. I ain't fit to die. You're young and strong—save me!"

The dead weight was pulling him down and John shook the fellow off with an angry jerk.

"To hell with you!"

They suddenly came to a lot of horses hid in the woods, rearing and plunging and neighing madly.

John swerved out of their way and an officer rushed up to him crying:

"Why don't you take a horse?"

He looked at him in a dazed way before he could realize his meaning.

"Take a horse!" he yelled. "The rebels will get 'em if you don't——"

The men were too intent on running to try to save horses. Horses would have to look out for themselves.

It suddenly occurred to John that a horse might go faster. Funny he hadn't thought of it at once. He turned, seized one, mounted, and galloped on. There was a quick halt. A panting mob came surging back over the way they had just fled. A ford in front had been blocked, and in the scramble the cry was raised that Stuart's cavalry were on them and cutting every soul down in his tracks at the crossing.

John leaped from his horse, turned, and ran straight for the woods. He didn't propose to be captured by Stuart's cavalry, that was sure. He turned to look back and ran into a tree. He climbed it. If he could only get to the top before they saw him. He had been an expert climber when a boy in Missouri and he thanked God now for this. He never paused for breath until he had reached the very top, where he drew the swaying branches close about his body to hide from the coming foe. The sun was yet hanging over the trees in the woods—a ball of sullen red fire lighting up the hiding place of the last poor devil for the eyes of the avenging hosts who were sweeping on. If it were night it would be all right. But this was no place for a man with an ounce of sense in broad daylight. The sharpshooters would see him in that tall tree sure. They couldn't take him prisoner up there—they would shoot him like a squirrel just to see him tumble and, by the Lord Harry, they would do it, too!

He got down from the tree faster than he climbed up and from the edge of the woods spied a dense swamp. He never stopped until he reached the centre of it, and dropped flat on his stomach.

"Thank God, at last!" he sighed.

The Northern army fleeing for Washington had left on the field twenty-eight guns, four thousand muskets, nine regimental flags, four hundred and eighty-one dead, a thousand and eleven wounded and fourteen hundred captured. The road to the rear was literally sown with pistols, knapsacks, blankets, haversacks, wagons, tools and hospital stores.

And saddest of all the wreck, lay the bright new handcuffs with coils of hang-man's rope scattered everywhere.

The Southern army had lost three hundred and eighty-seven killed, including two brigadier generals, Bee and Barton, and fifteen hundred wounded. They were so completely scattered and demoralized by their marvellous and overwhelming victory that any systematic pursuit of their foe was impossible.

The strange silent figure on the little sorrel horse turned his blue eyes toward Washington from the last hilltop as darkness fell, lifted his head suddenly toward the sky, and cried:

"Ten thousand fresh troops and I'd be in Washington to-morrow night!"

The troops were not to be had, and Stonewall Jackson ordered his men to bivouac for the night and sent out his details to bury the dead and care for the wounded of both armies.

Monday morning dawned black and lowering and before the sun rose the rain poured in steady torrents. Through every hour of this desolate sickening day the weary, terror-stricken stragglers trailed through the streets of Washington—their gorgeous plumes soaked and drooping, the Scotch bonnets dripping the rain straight down their necks and across their dirty foreheads, the Garibaldi shirts, the blue and grey, the black and yellow and gold and blazing Zouave uniforms rain-soaked and mud-smeared.

Betty Winter bought out a peddler's cake and lemonade stand on the main line of this ghastly procession and through every bitter hour from sunrise until dark stood there cheering and serving the men without money and without price, while the tears slowly rolled down her flushed cheeks.



CHAPTER IX

VICTORY IN DEFEAT

The President had risen at daylight on the fateful Sunday morning. He was sorry this first action must be fought on Sunday. It seemed a bad omen. The preachers from his home town of Springfield, Illinois, had issued a manifesto against his election without regard to their party affiliations on account of his supposed hostility to religion. It had hurt and stung his pride more than any single incident in the campaign. His nature was profoundly religious. He was not a church member because his religion had the unique quality of a personal faith which refused from sheer honesty to square itself with the dogmas of any sect. The preachers had not treated him fairly, but he cherished no ill will. He knew their sterling worth to the Republic and he meant to use them in the tremendous task before him. He had hoped the battle would not be joined until Monday. But he knew at dawn that a clash was inevitable.

At half past ten o'clock, though keenly anxious for the first news from the front, he was ready to accompany Mrs. Lincoln to church. The breeze was from the South—a hot, lazy, midsummer heavy air.

The Commander-in-Chief bent his giant figure over a war map, spread on his desk, fixed the position of each army by colored pins, studied them a moment and quietly walked with his wife to the Presbyterian Church to hear Dr. Gurley preach. He sat in reverent silence through the service, his soul hovering over the distant hills.

Before midnight the panic stricken Congressmen began to drop into the White House, each with his story of unparalleled disaster. At one o'clock the President stood in the midst of a group of excited, perspiring statesmen who had crowded into the executive office, the one cool, shrewd, patient, self-possessed courageous man among them. He reviewed their stories quietly and with no sign of excitement, to say nothing of panic.

They marvelled at his dull intellect.

He was listening in silence, shaping the big new policy of his administration.

He spent the entire night calmly listening to all these stories, speaking a word of good cheer where it would be of service.

Mr. Seward entered as he had just finished a light breakfast.

The Secretary's hair was disheveled, his black string tie under his ear, and he was taking two pinches of snuff within the time he usually took one.

In thirty minutes the outlines of his message to Congress and his new proclamation were determined. Mr. Seward left with new courage and a growing sense of reliance on the wisdom, courage and intellectual power of the Chief he had thought to supplant without a struggle.

At eight o'clock the man with a grievance made his first appearance. His wrath was past the boiling point, in spite of the fact that his handsome uniform was still wet from the night's wild ride.

He went straight to the point. He was a volunteer patriot of high standing in his community. As a citizen of the Republic, wearing its uniform, he represented its dignity and power. He had been grossly insulted by a military martinet from West Point and he proposed to test the question whether an American citizen had any rights such men must respect.

The President lifted his calm, deep eyes to the flushed angry face, glanced at the gold marks of his rank, and said:

"What can I do for you, Captain?"

"I've come to ask you, Mr. President," he began with subdued intensity, "whether a volunteer officer of this country, a man of culture and position, is to be treated as a dog or a human being?"

The quiet man at the desk slipped his glasses from his ears, polished them with his handkerchief, readjusted them, and looked up again with kindly interest:

"What's the trouble?"

"A discussion arose in our regiment on the day we were ordered into battle over the expiration of our enlistment. I held, as a lawyer, sir, that every day of rotten manual labor we had faithfully performed for our country should be counted in our three months military service. Our time had expired and I demanded that we be discharged then and there——"

"On the eve of a battle?"

"Certainly, sir—what had that to do with our rights? We could have reenlisted on the spot. I refused to take orders from the upstart who commanded our brigade."

"And what happened?" the calm voice asked.

"He dared to threaten my life, sir!"

"Who was he?"

"A Colonel in command of our brigade—named Sherman!"

"William Tecumseh Sherman?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did he say to you?"

"Swore that if I moved an inch to leave his command he'd shoot me——"

"He said that to you?"

"Swore he'd shoot me down in my tracks like a dog!"

The President gravely rose, placed a big hand on the young officer's shoulder and in serious, friendly tones said:

"If I were in your place, Captain, I wouldn't trust that man Sherman—I believe he'll do it!"

The astonished volunteer looked up with a puzzled sheepish expression, turned and shot out of the room.

The long figure dropped into a chair and doubled with laughter. He rose and walked to his window, looking out on the trees swaying beneath the storm, still laughing.

"They say that every cloud has its silver lining!" he laughed again. "I'll remember that fellow Sherman."

Late in the day a report reached him of a beautiful young woman serving refreshments without pay to the straggling, broken men.

He turned to Nicolay, his secretary:

"Get my carriage, find her, and bring her to me. I want to see her."

Betty's eyes were still red when she walked into his office.

He sprang to his feet, and with long strides met her. He grasped her hand in both his and pressed it tenderly.

"So it's you!" he whispered.

Betty nodded.

"My little Cabinet comforter——"

"I'm afraid I'll be no good to-day," she faltered.

"Then I'll cheer you," he cried. "I just wanted to thank the woman who's been standing behind a lemonade counter through this desolate day giving her time, her money, and her soul to our discouraged boys——"

"And you are not discouraged?" Betty asked pathetically.

"Not by a long shot, my child! Brush those tears away. Jeffy D.'s the man to be discouraged to-day. This will be a dearly bought victory. Mark my word. For the South it's the glorious end of the war. While they shout, I'll be sawing wood. It needed just this shock and humiliation to bring the North to their senses. Watch them buckle on their armor now in deadly earnest. The demagogues howled for a battle. They pushed us in and they got it. Some of the Congressmen who yelled the loudest for a march straight into Richmond without a pause even to water the horses got tangled up in that stampede from Bull Run. They thought Jeb Stuart's cavalry were on them and lost their lunch baskets in the scramble. They've seen a great light. I'll get all the money I ask Congress for and all the soldiers we need for any length of time. I've asked for four hundred million dollars and five hundred thousand men for three years. I shouldn't be surprised if they voted more. The people will have sense enough to see that this defeat was exactly what they should have expected under such conditions."

His spirit was contagious. Betty forgot her shame and fear.

"You're wonderful, Mr. President," the girl cried in rapt tones. "Now I know that you have come into the kingdom for such a time as this."

"And so have you, my child," he answered reverently. "And so has every brave woman who loves this Union. That's what I wanted to say to you and thank you for your example."

Betty left the White House with a new sense of loyal inspiration. She walked on air unconscious of the pouring rain. She paused before a throng that blocked the sidewalk.

Some of them were bareheaded, the rain drops splashing in their faces, apparently unconscious of anything that was happening.

She pushed her way into the crowd. They were looking at the bulletin board of the Daily Republican, reading the first list of the dead and wounded. Her heart suddenly began to pound. John Vaughan had not reported his return. He might be lying stark and cold with the rain beating down on his mangled body. She read each name in the list of the dead, and drew a sigh of relief. But the last bulletin was not cheering. It promised additional names for a later edition. Besides, the War Department might not be relied on for reports of non-combatants. A newspaper correspondent was not enrolled as a soldier. His death might remain unrecorded for days.

On a sudden impulse she started to enter the office and ask if he had returned, stopped, blushed, turned and hurried home with a new fear mingled with a strange joy beating in her heart.



CHAPTER X

THE AWAKENING

John Vaughan had secured a loose horse on emerging from his friendly swamp. The shadows of night had given him the chance to escape. His horse was fresh, the rain had begun to fall, the heat had abated and he made good time.

He reached the office before midnight, took his seat at his desk, pale and determined to tell the truth. He wrote an account of the battle and the panic in which it had ended so vivid, so accurate, so terrible in its confession of riot and dismay, the editor refused to print it.

"Why not?" John sternly demanded.

"It won't do."

"It's true!"

"Then the less said about it the better. Let's hush it up."

John smiled:

"I'm sorry. I would like to see that thing in type just as I saw and felt and lived it. It's a good story and it's my last—it's a pity to kill it——"

"Your last? What do you mean?" the chief broke in.

"That I'm going into the ranks, and see if I am a coward—" he paused and scowled—"it looked like it yesterday for a while, and my curiosity's aroused. Besides, the country happens to need me."

"Rubbish," the editor cried, "the country will get all the men it needs without you. You're a trained newspaper man. We need you here."

"Thanks. My mind's made up. I'm going to Missouri and raise a company."

The chief laid a hand on John's shoulder. "Don't be a fool. Stand by the ship. I'll put your damned story in just as you wrote it if that's what hurts."

John flushed and shook his head:

"But it isn't. You may be right about the stuff. If I were editor I'd kill it myself. No. My dander's up. I want a little taste of the real thing. I saw enough yesterday to interest me. The country's calling and I've got to go."

The boys crowded around him and shook hands. From the door he waved his good-bye and they shouted in chorus:

"Good luck!"

Arrived at his room, he wrote a note to Betty Winter. He read it over and it seemed foolishly cold and formal. He tore it up and wrote a simpler one. It was flippant and a little presumptuous. He destroyed that and decided on a single line:

"MY DEAR MISS BETTY:

"Can I see you a few minutes before leaving to-night?

"JOHN VAUGHAN."

He sent it and began hurriedly to dress, his mind in a whirl of nervous excitement. His vanity had not even paused to ask whether her answer would be yes. He was sure of it. The big exciting thing was that he had made a thrilling discovery in the midst of that insane panic. He was in love—for the first time in life foolishly and madly in love. Fighting and elbowing his way through that throng of desperate terror-stricken men and horses it had come to him in a flash that life was sweet and precious because Betty Winter was in it. The more he thought of it the more desperate became his determination not to be killed until he could see and tell her. Through every moment of his wild scramble through woods and fields and crowded road, up that tree and down again, his heart was beating her name:

"Betty—Betty—Betty!"

What a blind fool he had been not to see it before! She, too, had been blind. It was all clear now—this mysterious power that had called them from the first, neither of them knowing or understanding.

When Betty took his note from the maid's hand her eyes could see nothing for a moment. She turned away that Peggy should not catch her white face. She knew instinctively the message was from John Vaughan. It may have been written with his last breath and sent by a friend. She broke the seal with slow, nervous dread, looked quickly, and laughed aloud when she had read, a joyous, half hysterical little laugh.

"The man's waiting for an answer, Miss," the maid said.

Betty looked at her stupidly, and blushed:

"Why, of course, Peggy, in a moment tell him."

She wrote half a page in feverish haste, telling him how happy she was to know that he had safely returned, read it over twice, flushed with anger at her silly confusion and tore it into tiny bits. She tried again, but afraid to trust herself, spread John's note out and used it for a model,

"MY DEAR MR. VAUGHAN:

"Certainly, as soon as you can call.

"BETTY WINTER."

And then she sat down by her window and listened to the splash of the rain against the glass, counting the minutes until he should ring her door bell.

And when at last he came, she had to stand before her clock and count the seconds off for five minutes lest she should disgrace herself by rushing down stairs.

Their hands met in a moment of awkward silence. The play of mind on mind had set each heart pounding. The man of easy speech found for the first time that words were difficult.

"You've heard the black news, of course," he stammered.

"Yes——"

Her eyes caught the haggard drawn look of his face with a start.

"You saw it all?" she asked.

"I saw so much that I can never hope to forget it," he answered bitterly.

He led her to a seat and she flushed with the sudden realization that he had been holding her hand since the moment they met. She drew it away with a quick, nervous movement, and sat down abruptly.

"Was it really as bad as it looks to-day?" she asked with an attempt at conventional tones.

"Worse, Miss Betty. You can't imagine the sickening shame of it all. I was never in a battle before. I wouldn't mind repeating that experience at close quarters—but the panic——"

"The President is the coolest and most courageous man in the country to-day," she put in eagerly. "It's inspiring to talk to him."

A bitter speech against a Commander-in-Chief who could allow himself to be driven into a battle by the chatter of fools rose to his lips, but he remembered her admiration and was silent. He fumbled at his watch chain and pulled the corner of his black moustache with growing embarrassment. The thing was more difficult than he had dreamed.

"I have resigned from the paper," he said at last.

"Resigned?" she repeated mechanically.

"Yes. I'm going back home to-night and help raise a company in answer to the President's proclamation."

The room was very still. Betty turned her eyes toward the window and listened to the splash of the wind driven rain.

"To your home town?" she faltered.

"Yes. To Palmyra."

"Where your brother went to raise a company to fight us—strange, isn't it?" Her voice had a far-away sound as if she were talking to herself.

"Yes—to fight us," he repeated in low tones.

Again a silence fell between them. He looked steadily into her brown eyes that were burning now with a strange intensity, tried to speak, and failed. He caught the gasp of terror in the deep breath with which she turned from his gaze.

"My chief was bitter against my going—I—I hope you approve—Miss Betty?" He spoke with pauses which betrayed his excitement.

"Yes, I'm glad——"

She stopped short, turned pale and fumbled at the lace handkerchief she carried.

"Every brave man who loves the Union must feel as you do to-day—and go—no matter how hard it may be for those who—for those he leaves at home——"

She paused in embarrassment at the break she had almost made, and flushed scarlet.

He leaned close:

"I'm afraid I'm not brave, Miss Betty. I ran with the rest of them yesterday, ran like a dog for my life"—he paused and caught his breath—"but I'm not sorry for it now. In the madness of that scramble to save my skin I had a sudden revelation of why life was sweet——"

He stopped and she scarcely breathed. Her heart seemed to cease beating. Her dry lips refused to speak the question she would ask. The sweet moment of pain and of glory had come. She felt his trembling hand seize her ice-cold fingers as he went on impetuously:

"Life was sweet because—because—I love you, Betty."

She sprang to her feet trembling from head to foot. He followed, whispering:

"My own, I love you—I love you——"

With sudden fierce strength he clasped her in his arms and covered her lips with kisses.

She lifted her trembling hands:

"Please—please——"

Again he smothered her words and held her in mad close embrace.

"Let me go—let me go!" she cried with sudden fury, thrusting him from her, breathless, her eyes blinded with tears.

"Tell me that you love me!" he cried with desperate pleading.

The splendid young figure faced him tense, quivering with rage.

"How dare you take me in your arms like that without a word?" Her eyes were flashing, her breast rising and falling with quick furious breathing.

He seized her hand and held it with cruel force. Her eyes blazed and he dropped it. She was thinking of the scene with his slender chivalrous brother. She could feel the soft kiss on the tips of her fingers and the blood surged to her face at the thought of this man's lips pressed on hers in mad, strangling passion without so much as by your leave! She could tear his eyes out.

He looked at her now in a hopeless stupor of regret.

"Forgive me, Betty," he faltered. "I—I couldn't help it."

Her eyes held his in a cold stare:

"I suppose that's all any woman has ever meant to you, and you took me for granted——"

He lifted his hand in protest.

"Please, please, Miss Betty," he groaned.

"You may go now," she said with slow emphasis.

He looked at her a moment dazed, and a wave of sullen anger slowly mounted his face to the roots of his black tangled hair, which he suddenly brushed from his forehead.

Without a word he walked out into the storm, his jaws set. The door had scarcely closed, when the trembling figure crumpled on the lounge in a flood of bitter tears.



CHAPTER XI

THE MAN ON HORSEBACK

Before the sun had set on the day of storm which followed the panic at Bull Run, the President had selected and summoned to Washington the man who was to create the first Grand Army of the Republic—a man destined to measure the full power of his personality against the Chief Magistrate in a desperate struggle for the supremacy of the life of the Nation itself.

General George Brinton McClellan, in answer to the summons, reached Washington on July the 20th, and immediately took command of the Army of the Potomac—or of what was left of it.

The President did not make this selection without bitter opposition and grave warning. He was told that McClellan was an aggressive pro-slavery Democrat, a political meddler and unalterably opposed to him and his party on every essential issue before the people. These arguments found no weight with the man in the White House. He would ask but one question, discuss but one issue:

"Is McClellan the man to whip this new army of 500,000 citizens into a mighty fighting machine and level it against the Confederacy?"

The all but unanimous answer was:

"Yes."

"Then I'll appoint him," was the firm reply. "I don't care what his religion or his politics. The question is not whether I shall save the Union—but that the Union shall be saved. My future and the future of my party can take care of themselves—if they can't, let them die!"

The new Commander was a man of striking and charming personality, but thirty-four years old, and graduated from West Point in 1846. He had served with distinction in the war against Mexico, studied military science in Europe under the great generals in command at the Siege of Sebastopol, and had achieved in West Virginia the first success won in the struggle with the South. He had been opposed in West Virginia by General Robert E. Lee, the man of destiny to whom the President, through General Scott, had offered the command of the Union army before Lee had drawn his sword for Virginia. He was a past master of the technical science of engineering, defense and military drill.

In spite of his short physical stature, he was of commanding appearance. On horseback his figure was impressively heroic. It took no second glance to see that he was a born leader of men.

On the first day of his active command he had already conceived the idea that he was a man of destiny. He wrote that night to his wife:

"I find myself in a new and strange position here—President, Cabinet, General Scott and all deferring to me. By some strange operation of magic, I seem to have become the power of the land——"

Three days later he wrote again of his sensational reception in the Senate Chamber:

"I suppose half a dozen of the oldest members made the remark I am becoming so much used to:

"'Why how young you look and yet an old soldier!'

"They give me my way in everything, full swing and unbounded confidence. All tell me that I am held responsible for the fate of the Nation, and that all its resources shall be placed at my disposal. It is an immense task that I have on my hands, but I believe I can accomplish it. When I was in the Senate Chamber to-day and found those old men flocking around me; when I afterward stood in the library looking over the Capital of a great Nation, and saw the crowd gathering to stare at me, I began to feel how great the task committed to me. How sincerely I pray God that I may be endowed with the wisdom and courage necessary to accomplish the work. Who would have thought when we were married, that I should so soon be called upon to save my country?"

Nor was McClellan the only man who saw this startling vision. He made friends with astounding rapidity, and held men to him with hooks of steel.

With utter indifference to his own fame or future, the President joined the public in praise of the coming star. The big heart at the White House rejoiced in the strength of his Commanding General. But the man who measured the world by the fixed standards of an exact science had no powers of adjustment to the homely manners, simple unconventional ways, and whimsical moods of Abraham Lincoln.

McClellan's one answer to all inquiries about his relation to the Chief Executive was:

"The President is honest and means well!"

The smile that played about the corners of his fine, keen, blue eyes when he said this left no doubt in the mind of his hearer as to his real opinion of the poor country lawyer who had by accident been placed in the White House.

And so the inevitable happened. The suggestions of the President and his War Department were early resented as meddling with affairs which did not concern them.

The President saw with keen sorrow that there were brewing schemes behind the compelling blue eyes of the "Napoleon" he had created. The talk of McClellan's aspirations to a military dictatorship, which would include the authority of the Executive and the Legislative branches of the Government, had been current for more than two months. His recent manner and bearing had given color to these reports.

The splendor and ceremony of his headquarters could not have been surpassed by Alexander or Napoleon. His growing staff already included a Prince of the Royal Blood, the distinguished son of the Emperor of France, and the Comte de Paris his attendant. His baggage train was drawn by one hundred magnificent horses perfectly matched, hitched in teams of four to twenty-five glittering new vans. His Grand Army spread over mile after mile of territory far back into the hills of Virginia. The autumnal days were brilliant with fresh uniforms, stars, sabres, swords, spurs, plate, dinners, wines, cigars, the pomp and pride and glory of war.

Men stood in little groups and discussed in whispers the significance of his continued stay in the Capital.

"If the President has any friends, the hour has come when they've got to stand by him!" The speaker was a man of fifty, a foreigner who had made Washington his home and liked Lincoln.

"Nonsense, my dear fellow," a tall Westerner replied, "we may have to get a few rifles and guard the White House from somebody's attempt to occupy it, but we'll not need any big guns."

"If you'd heard the talk last night," the foreigner replied, with a shrug of his shoulder, "you'd change your mind——"

The Westerner shook his head:

"No! The General's not that big a fool and the men around him have better sense. And if they haven't—if they all should go crazy—it couldn't be done. They couldn't control the army."

"Did you ever hear the army cheer as 'Little Mac' rides along the line?"

"Yes, but it don't mean an Emperor for all that——"

"I'm not so sure!"

And there were men of National reputation who considered the chances of the man on horseback good at this moment. Such a man had openly attached himself to the General as his attorney—no less a personage than the distinguished Attorney General of the late Cabinet, Edwin M. Stanton. During the closing days of Buchanan's crumbling administration Stanton had become the dominating force of the Capital. His daring and his skill had defeated the best laid schemes of the Southern party and broken its grip on the administration. He had remained in Washington as a lawyer practicing before the Supreme Court and had become the most aggressive observer and critic of Lincoln and his Cabinet. His scorn for the President knew no bounds.

"No one," he wrote to General John A. Dix, "can imagine the deplorable condition of this city and the hazard of the Government, who did not witness the weakness and the panic of the administration and the painful imbecility of Lincoln."

To Buchanan, his ex-Chief, he wrote:

"A strong feeling of distrust in the candor and sincerity of Lincoln's personality and of his Cabinet has sprung up. It was the imbecility of this administration which culminated in the catastrophe of Bull Run. Irretrievable misfortune and National disgrace never to be forgotten are to be added to the ruin of all peaceful pursuits and National bankruptcy as the result of Lincoln's running the machine for five months. Jefferson Davis will soon be in possession of Washington."

Not only in letters to the leaders of public opinion in the Nation did the aggressive and powerful lawyer seek to destroy the Government, but in his conversation in Washington he was equally daring, venomous and personal in his abuse of the President. "A low, cunning clown" and "the original gorilla" were his choice epithets.

Stanton's influence over McClellan was decided and vital from the moment of their introduction. It was known among the General's intimate friends that he had advised again and again that he use his power as Commander of the Army to declare a Dictatorship, depose the President and dissolve the sittings of Congress until the war should be ended.

How far McClellan had dallied with this dangerous and alluring scheme was a matter of conjecture. It is little wonder that the wildest rumors of intrigues, of uprisings, of mutiny, filled the air.

McClellan had doggedly refused either to move his army or to formally go into winter quarters until the middle of December, when he took to his bed and announced that he was suffering from an attack of typhoid fever.

The President was further embarrassed by the course of his Secretary of War, Cameron, who, while laboring under the censure of Congress for the conduct of his office, had allowed Senator Winter to stab his chief in the back by recommending in his report that the slaves be armed by the Government and put into the ranks of the armies. Senator Winter, as the Radical leader, knew that to meet such an issue once raised the President must rebuke his Secretary and apologize to the Border Slave States. He would thus alienate from his support all Cameron's friends, and all friends of the negro. The Senator did not believe the President would dare to fight on such an issue.

He had misjudged his man. The President not only rebuked his Secretary by suppressing his report and revising its language, he demanded and received his resignation, notwithstanding the fact that Cameron was the most powerful politician in the most powerful State of the North.

He at once sought a new Secretary of War, free from all party entanglements, who could not be influenced by contractors or jobbers or scheming politicians, who was absolutely honest and who had a boundless capacity for work.

Strangely enough, his eye rested on Edward M. Stanton, his arch enemy, the man who had become McClellan's confidential attorney.

As an aggressive patriotic Democrat, Stanton had won the confidence of the public in the last administration. His capacity for work had proved limitless. He was under no obligations to a living soul who could ask aught of Lincoln's administration. He was savagely honest. At the moment the discovery of gigantic frauds practiced on the War Department by thieving contractors, coupled with fabulous expenditures in daily expenses, had destroyed the confidence of the money lenders in the integrity of the Government. The Treasury was facing a serious crisis.

And then the astounding thing happened. Without consulting a soul inside his Cabinet or out, Abraham Lincoln appointed his bitterest foe from the party of his enemies his Secretary of War. He offered the place to Edwin M. Stanton.

Perhaps the most astonished man in America was Stanton himself. To the amazement of his friends, as well as his critics, he promptly accepted the position.

Senator Winter, whose radical temperament had found in Stanton a congenial spirit, though as wide as the poles apart in politics, met him in the lobby of the Senate Chamber on the day his appointment was confirmed.