The listener looked up suddenly:

"I believe you are right. Excuse me—I want to speak to the long-legged Southerner. I've never seen him before."

To the astonishment of the Senator, the editor pushed his way into the group who were shaking hands with the President.

He paused an instant, extended his hand and felt the rugged fingers close on it with a hearty grip. Before he realized it he was saying something astounding—something the farthest possible removed from his thoughts on entering the room.

"I want to thank you, sir, for that document. The heart of an unselfish patriot speaks through every word. I came here to criticise and find fault. I'm going home to stand by you through thick and thin. You've given us a glimpse inside."

Both big hands were now clasping his and a mist was clouding the hazel-grey eyes.

"The Senator accuses you," he went on, "of being a Southerner. He must be right. No Northern man could have seen through the clouds of passion to-day clearly enough to have written that letter. You can see things for all the people, North, South, East and West. God bless you—I'm going home to fight for you and with you——"

In angry amazement Senator Winter saw most of the men he had led to this carefully planned attack walk up and pledge their loyalty to his smiling foe. He turned on his heel and left, his jaw set, his blue eyes dancing with fury.

Old Edward was again rubbing his hands apologetically at the door:

"A body of clergymen from Chicago, sir——"

"Clergymen from Chicago?"

"Yes, sir."

"I didn't know they ever used such things in Chicago!"

He caught his knee in his big hands, leaned back and laughed heartily. The doorman looked straight ahead and managed to keep his solemn countenance under control.

"All right, let them in, Edward."

The reverend gentlemen solemnly filed into the executive office. They looked around in evident amazement at its bare poverty-stricken appearance. They had been shocked at the threadbare appearance of the White House grounds as they entered. This room was a greater shock—this throbbing nerve centre of the Nation. In the middle stood the long, plain table around which the storm-racked Cabinet were wont to gather. There was not a single piece of ornamental or superfluous furniture visible. It appeared almost bare. A second-hand upright desk stood by the middle window. In the northwest corner of the room there were racks with map rollers, and folios of maps on the floor and leaning against the wall.

The well-dressed, prosperous-looking gentlemen gazed about in a critical way.

Their spokesman was a distinguished Bishop who knew that he was distinguished and conveyed the information in every movement of his august body.

"We have come, Mr. President," he solemnly began, "as God's messengers to urge on you the immediate and universal emancipation of every slave in America."

The faintest suggestion of a smile played about the corners of the big, firm mouth as he rose and began a reply which greatly astonished his visitors. They had come to lecture him and before they knew it the lamb had risen to slay the butchers.

"I am approached, gentlemen," he said softly, "with the most opposite opinions and advice, and that by religious men, who are equally certain that they represent the Divine Will. I am sure that either one or the other class is mistaken in that belief, and perhaps in some respects, both. I hope it will not be irreverent for me to say that if it is probable that God would reveal His will to others on a point so connected with my duty, it might be supposed He would reveal it directly to me——"

He paused just an instant and his bushy eyebrows were raised a trifle as if in search of one friendly face in which the sense of humor was not dead. He met with frozen silence and calmly continued:

"Unless I am more deceived in myself than I often am, it is my earnest desire to know the will of Providence in this matter. And if I can learn what it is I will do it! These are not, however, the days of miracles, and I suppose it will be granted that I am not to expect a direct revelation. I must study the plain physical facts of the case, ascertain what is possible, and learn what appears to be wise and right. The subject is difficult and good men do not agree——"

"We are all agreed to-day!" the leader interrupted.

"Even so, Bishop, but we are not all here to-day."

The gentle irony was lost on the great man, and the President went on good-naturedly:

"What good would a proclamation of emancipation do as we are now situated? Shall I issue a document that the whole world will see must be of no more effect that the Pope's bull against the comet? Will my words free the slaves when I cannot even enforce the Constitution in the rebel States? Is there a single court or magistrate, or individual that will be influenced by it there? I approved the law of Congress which offers protection and freedom to the slaves of rebel masters who come within our lines. Yet I can not learn that the law has caused a single slave to come over to us.

"Now then, tell me, if you please, what possible result of good would follow the issuing of such a proclamation as you desire? The greatest evils might follow it—among them the revolt of the Border Slave States which we have held loyal with so much care, and the desertion from the ranks of our armies of thousands of Democratic soldiers who tell us plainly that they are not fighting and they're not going to fight to free negroes!

"Understand me, I raise no objection against it on legal grounds. As Commander-in-Chief of the Army and Navy in time of war, I suppose I have a right to take any measure which may best subdue the enemy. Nor do I urge objections of a moral nature in view of possible consequences of servile insurrection and massacre in the South. I view this matter now as a practical war measure. Has the moment arrived when I can best strike with this weapon?

"Do not misunderstand me because I have mentioned objections. They indicate some of the difficulties that have thus far prevented my action in some such way as you desire. I have not decided against a proclamation of liberty to the slaves. I hold the matter under advisement. And I can assure you that the subject is on my mind, by day and night more than any other. What shall appear to be God's will I will do——"

He stopped suddenly and a smile illumined his dark face:

"But I cannot see, gentlemen, why God should be sending his message to me by so roundabout route as the sinful city of Chicago. I trust that in the freedom with which I have canvassed your views and expressed my own, I have not in any respect injured your feelings."

The ice was broken at last and the men of God began to smile, press forward and shake his hand. They came his critics, and left his friends.

And yet no hint was given to a single man present that his Emancipation Proclamation had been written two months before and at this moment was lying in the drawer of the old desk before which he sat. Long before the revelation of God's will through these clergymen he had discussed its provisions before his Cabinet and enjoined absolute secrecy. Men from all walks of life came to advise the backwoods lawyer on how to save the country. He listened to all and then did exactly what he believed to be best.

His plan had long been formed on the subject of the destruction of Slavery. His purpose was to accomplish this great task in a way which would give his people a just and lasting peace. He held the firm conviction that the North was equally responsible with the South for the existence of Slavery, and that the Constitution which he had sworn to defend and uphold guaranteed to the slave owner his rights. He was determined to free the slaves if possible, but to do it fairly and honestly and then settle the question for all time by colonizing the negro race and removing them forever from physical contact with the white.

At his request Congress had already passed a bill providing for the colonization of emancipated slaves. He now sent for a number of representative negroes to hear his message and deliver it to their people.

Old Edward ushered them into his office with a look of unmistakable superiority.

It was a strange meeting—this facing for the first time between the supreme representative of the dominant race of the new era and the freed black men whose very existence the President held to be an eternal menace against the Nation's future. It is remarkable that the first words Abraham Lincoln ever addressed as President to an assemblage of negroes should have been the words which fell from his lips.

The ebony faces, their cream-colored teeth showing with smiles and their wide rolling eyes roaming the room made a striking and dramatic contrast to the rugged face and frame of the man who addressed them.

"Your race is suffering," he began with distinct, clean cut emphasis, "in my judgment the greatest wrong inflicted on any people. But even when you cease to be slaves, you are yet far removed from being placed on an equality with the white race. On this broad continent not a single man of your race is made the equal of a single man of ours. Go where you are treated best and the ban is still upon you. I cannot alter it if I would.

"It is better for us both, therefore, to be separated. One of the principal difficulties in the way of colonization is that the free colored man cannot see that his comfort would be advanced by it. For the sake of your race you should sacrifice something of your present comfort. In the American Revolution sacrifices were made by the men engaged in it. They were cheered by the future.

"The Colony of Liberia is an old one, is in a sense a success and it is open to you. I am arranging to open another in Central America. It is nearer than Liberia—within seven days by steamer. You are intelligent and know that success does not so much depend on external help as on self-reliance. Much depends on yourself. If you will engage in the enterprise, I will spend some of the money intrusted to me. This is the practical part of my wish to see you. I ask you then to consider it seriously, not for yourselves merely, nor for your race and ours for the present time, but for the good of mankind."

He dismissed his negro hearers and sent again for the representatives of the Border Slave States. Here his plan must be set in motion. He proposed to pay for the slaves set free and arrange for their colonization.

He spoke with deep emotion. His soul throbbed with passionate tenderness in every word.

"You are patriots and statesmen," he solemnly declared, "and as such I pray you to consider this proposition, and at the least commend it to the consideration of your States and people. Our common country is in grave peril demanding the loftiest views and boldest action to bring it speedy relief. You can make it possible to accomplish the just destruction of this curse of our life. It will bring emancipation as a voluntary process, leaving the least resentment in the minds of our slave-holders. It will not be a violent war measure, to be remembered with fierce rebellious anger. It will pave the way for good feeling at last between all sections when reunited. It is reasonable. It is just. It will leave no cause for sectional enmity. This plan of gradual emancipation with pay for each slave to his owner will secure peace more speedily and maintain it more permanently than can be done by force alone. Its cost could be easier paid than the additional cost of war and would sacrifice no blood at all.

"In giving freedom to the slave, we assure freedom to the free—honorable alike in what we give and what we preserve. We shall nobly save or meanly lose the last best hope of earth. Other means may succeed. This could not fail. The way is plain, peaceful, generous, just—a way which if followed, the world will forever applaud, and God must forever bless."

His tender, eloquent appeal fell on deaf ears. The men who represented the Border Slave States refused to permit the question of tampering with Slavery to be submitted to their people—no matter by what process, with or without pay.

They demanded with sullen persistence that the President defy all shades of Northern opinion and stand squarely by his Inaugural address. In vain he pointed out to them that the fact of a desperate and terrible war, costing two million dollars a day and threatening the existence of the Government itself, had changed the conditions under which he made that pledge.

When the President at last introduced into Congress through his spokesman the bill appropriating fifteen million dollars with which to pay for their slaves, the men from the Border States united with the Democrats and defeated it!

With a sorrowful heart and deep forebodings of the future he turned to his desk and drew forth the document he had written declaring as an act of war against the States in rebellion that their slaves should be free.

He read its provisions again with the utmost care. He made no attack on Slavery, or the slave-holder. He was striking the blow against the wealth and power of the South for the sole purpose of crippling her resources and weakening her power to continue the struggle to divide the Union. There was in it not one word concerning the rights of man or the equal rights of black and white men. His mind was absolutely clear on that point. The negro when freed would be an alien race so low in the scale of being, so utterly different in temperament and character from the white man that their remaining in physical contact with each other in our Republic was unthinkable. In the Emancipation Proclamation itself, therefore, he had written the principles of the colonization of the negro race. The two things were inseparable. He could conceive of no greater calamity befalling the Nation than to leave the freed black man within its borders as an eternal menace to its future happiness and progress.

He called his Secretary and ordered a Cabinet meeting to fix the date on which to issue this momentous document to the world—a challenge to mortal combat to his foes in all sections.



CHAPTER XVII

THE DAY'S WORK

Betty Winter held John Vaughan's note in her hand staring at its message with increasing amazement:

"DEAR LITTLE SWEETHEART:

"The President has just called General McClellan again to the chief command. His act vindicates my loyalty. Our quarrel is too absurd. Life is too short, dear, for this—it's only long enough for love. May I see you at once?

"JOHN."

Could it be true? For a moment she refused to believe it. The President had expressed to her his deep conviction of McClellan's guilt. How could he reverse his position on so vital and tremendous a matter over night? And yet John Vaughan was incapable of the cheap trick of lying to make an engagement.

A newsboy passed yelling an extra.

"Extra—Extra! General McClellan again in the saddle! Extra!"

It was true—he had made the appointment. What was its meaning? Had they forced the President into this humiliating act? If the General were really guilty of destroying Pope and overwhelming the army in defeat, his treachery had created the crisis which forced his return to power. The return under such conditions would not be a vindication. It would be a conviction of crime.

She would see the President at once and know the truth. The question cut the centre of John Vaughan's character. The orderly who brought the note was waiting for an answer.

She called from the head of the stairs:

"Tell Mr. Vaughan there is no answer to-day."

"Yes, Miss."

With quick salute he passed out and Betty stood irresolute as she listened to the echo of his horse's hoof-beat growing fainter. It was only six o'clock, but the days were getting shorter and it was already dark. She could walk quickly down Pennsylvania Avenue and reach the White House before dinner. He would see her at any hour.

In five minutes she was on the way her mind in a whirl of speculation on the intrigue which might lie behind that sensational announcement. She was beginning to suspect her lover's patriotism. A man could love the South, fight and die for it and be a patriot—he was dying for what he believed to be right—God and his country. But no man could serve two masters. Her blood boiled at the thought of a conspiracy within the lines of the Union whose purpose was to betray its Chief. If John Vaughan were in it, she loved him with every beat of her heart, but she would cut her heart out sooner than sink to his level!

She became conscious at last of the brazen stares of scores of brutal-looking men who thronged the sidewalks of the Avenue.

Gambling dens had grown here like mushrooms during the past year of war's fevered life. The vice and crime of the whole North and West had poured into Washington, now swarming with a quarter of a million strange people.

The Capital was no longer a city of sixty thousand inhabitants, but a vast frontier post and pay station of the army. And such a pay station! Each day the expenditures of the Government were more than two millions. The air was electric with the mad lust for gain which the scent of millions excites in the nostrils of the wolves who prey on their fellow men. The streets swarmed with these hungry beasts, male and female. They pushed and crowded and jostled each other from the sidewalks. The roar of their whiskey-laden voices poured forth from every bar-room and gambling den on the Avenue.

A fat contractor who had made his pile in pasteboard soles for army shoes and sent more boys to the grave from disease than had been killed in battle, touched elbows with the hook-nosed vulture who was sporting a diamond pin bought with the profits of shoddy clothes that had proven a shroud for many a brave soldier sleeping in a premature grave.

They were laughing, drinking, smoking, swearing, gambling and all shouting for the flag—the flag that was waving over millions they hoped yet to share.

A feeling of sickening fear swept the girl's heart. For the first time in her life she was afraid to be alone on the brightly lighted streets of Washington at dusk. The poison of death was in the air. Every desperate passion that stirs the brute in man was written in the bloodshot eyes that sought hers. The Nation was at war. To cheat, deceive, entrap, maim, kill the enemy and lay his home in desolation was the daily business now of the millions who backed the Government. Whatever the lofty aims of either of the contending hosts, they sought to win by war and this was war. It was not to be wondered at that this spirit should begin to poison the springs of life in the minds of the weak and send them forth to prey on their fellows. It was not to be wondered at that men planned in secret to advance their own interests at the expense of their fellows, to climb the ladder of wealth and fame in this black hour no matter on whose dead bodies they had to walk.

With a pang of positive terror Betty asked herself the question whether the man she loved had been touched by this deadly pestilence? A wave of horror swept her. A drunken brute brushed by and thrust his bloated face into hers.

With a cry of rage and fear she turned and ran for two blocks, left the Avenue at the corner and hurried back to her home.

She would wait until morning and see the President before the crowd arrived.

He greeted her with a joyous shout:

"Come right in, Miss Betty!"

With long, quick stride he met her and grasped her hand, a kindly twinkle in his eye:

"And how's our old grizzly bear, your father, this morning?"

"He's still alive and growling," she laughed.

The President joined heartily:

"I'll bet he is," he said, "and hates me just as cordially as ever?"

Betty nodded.

"But his beautiful daughter?"

"Was never more loyal to her Chief!"

"Good. Then my administration is on a sound basis. You want no office. You ask no favors. Such clear, pure, young eyes in the morning of life don't make mistakes. They know."

"But I've come to ask you something this morning——"

The smile faded into a look of seriousness.

"What's the matter?" he asked quickly.

Betty hesitated and the red blood slowly mounted to her cheeks. He led her to a seat, beside his chair, touched her hand gently and whispered:

"Tell me."

"I hope you won't think me presumptuous, Mr. President, if I ask you to tell me why you recalled General McClellan?"

The rugged face suddenly flashed with a smile.

"Presumptuous?" he laughed. "My dear child, if you could have heard a few things my Cabinet had to say to me in this room on that subject! The tender deference with which you put the question is the nearest thing to an endorsement I have so far received! Go as far as you like after that opening. It will be a joy to discuss it with you. Presumptuous—Oh, my soul!"

He caught his knee between his hands and rocked with laughter at the memory of his Cabinet scene.

Reassured by his manner Betty leaned closer:

"You remember the morning you gave me the pass to Alexandria?"

"To see a certain young man?"

"Yes."

"Perfectly."

"You distinctly gave me the impression that morning that you were sure General McClellan was betraying his trust in his failure to support General Pope and that your confidence in him was gone forever."

"Did I?"

"Yes."

"Then it wasn't far from the truth," he gravely admitted.

"And yet you recalled him to the command of the army?"

"I had to."

"Had to?"

"It was the only thing to do."

Betty spoke in a whisper:

"You mean that their conspiracy had become so dangerous there was no other way?"

He threw her a searching look, was silent a moment and slowly said:

"That's a pointed question, isn't it?"

"I'm a member of your Cabinet, you know——"

"Yes, I know—but why do you happen to ask me such a dangerous question at this particularly trying moment? Come, my little bright eyes, out with it?"

"The certain young man and I are not very happy——"

"You've quarrelled?"

"Yes."

"About what?"

"You."

"You don't mean it, Miss Betty?" he said incredulously.

Her eyes were dim and she nodded.

"But why about me?"

"I saw things which confirmed your suspicions. He admitted his desire that General Pope should fail and defended McClellan's indifference. We quarrelled. I asked him to resign from the staff of his Chief——"

"You didn't!" he exclaimed softly, his deep eyes shining.

"I did—and he refused."

Again the big hands both closed on hers:

"God bless you, child! So long as I hold such faith from hearts like yours, I know that I'm right. They can say what they please about me——"

"You see," she broke in, "if he is in this conspiracy and they have forced you to this surrender, he is equally guilty of treachery——"

"And you hold him responsible for his Commander's ambitions?"

"Yes."

The President sprang to his feet and paced the floor a moment, stopped and gazed at her with a look of curious tenderness:

"By jinks, Miss Betty, if I had a few more like you in my Cabinet I wouldn't be so lonesome!"

"They did force you?" she demanded.

"Not as you mean it, my child. I'm not going to pretend to you that I don't understand the seriousness of the situation. The Army of the Potomac is behind McClellan to a man. It amounts to infatuation. I sounded his officers. I sounded his men. To-day they are against me and with him. If the issue could be sprung—if the leaders dared to risk their necks on such a revolution, they might win. They don't know this as clearly as I do. Because they are not so well informed they are afraid to move. I have chosen to beat them at their own game——"

He paused and laughed:

"I hate to shatter your ideal, Miss Betty, but I'm afraid there's something of the fox in my make-up after all. Will it shock you to learn this?"

"I shall be greatly relieved to know it," she responded firmly.

"Think, then, for a moment. I suspend McClellan for his failure and replace him with a man I believe to be his superior. The army sullenly resent this change. They do not agree with me. They believe McClellan the greatest General in sight. It's a marvellous thing this power over men which he possesses. It can be used to create a Nation or destroy one. It's a dangerous force. I must handle it with the utmost care. So long as their idol is a martyr the army is unfit for good service. The moment I restore the old commander, in whom both officers and men have unbounded faith, I show them that I am beyond the influence of the political forces which demand his destruction—don't I?"

"Yes."

"And the moment I dare to brave popular disapproval and restore their commander don't you see that I win the confidence of the army in my fairness and my disinterested patriotism?"

"Of course."

"See then what must happen. Now mind you, I would never have restored McClellan to command if I did not know that at this moment he can do the work of putting this disorganized and defeated army into fighting shape better than any other. McClellan thus returned to power must fight. He must win or lose. If he wins I am vindicated and his success is mine. If he loses, he loses his power over the imagination of his men and at last I am master of the situation. I shall back him with every dollar and every man the Nation can send into his next campaign. No matter whether he wins or loses, I must win because the supremacy of the civil power will be restored."

"I see," Betty breathed softly.

She rose with a new look of reverence for a great mind.

"And the civil power was not supreme when you restored McClellan to his command?"

"Miss Betty, you'd make a good lawyer!" he laughed.

"Was it?" she persisted.

"No."

"Thank you," she said, rising and extending her hand. "I learned exactly what I wished to know."

"And you'll stop quarreling?"

"If he's reasonable——"

He lifted his long finger in solemn warning.

"Remember now! This administration is honestly and sincerely backing General McClellan for all it's worth. It has always done this. We are going to try to make even a better record in the next campaign——"

"When will it open?"

"Sooner than any of us wish it, if our scouts report the truth. Flushed with his great victory over Pope, General Lee is sure to invade Maryland. The campaign will be a dangerous and crucial one. The moment Lee crosses the Potomac, his communications with Richmond will be imperiled. If he dares to do it we can crush his army in a great battle, cut his communications with Richmond, drive his men into the Potomac and end the war. I have given McClellan the opportunity of his life. I pray God to give success——"

Edward appeared at the door.

"Well, what is it?"

"The crowd, sir—they are clamoring to get in."

Betty hurried into the family apartments to speak to Mrs. Lincoln, her mind in a whirl of resentment against John Vaughan.

The President turned to the crowd which had already poured into the room.

As usual, the cranks and inventors led the way. The inventors found the President an easy man to talk to. His mind was quick to see a good point and always open to conviction. He had once patented a device for getting flat boats over shoals himself. His immediate approval of the first model of Ericsson's famous Monitor had led to its adoption in time to meet and destroy the Merrimac in Hampton Roads on the very day the iron terror had sent his big ships to the bottom. He allowed no inventor to be turned from the door of the White House no matter how ridiculous his hobby might appear. The inventions relating to the science of war he would test himself on the big open field between the White House grounds and the river.

The first inventor in line carried the model of a new rifle which would shoot sixteen times. The army officers believed in the idea of a single shell breech loader on account of the simplicity of its mechanism. Our muskets were still muzzle loaders and the men were compelled to use ramrods to load.

The President examined the new gun with keen interest, pulled his black, shaggy beard thoughtfully, looked at the breathless inventor, and slowly mused:

"Well, now as the fat girl said when she pulled on her stocking, it strikes me there's something in it!"

The inventor laughed with nervous joy, and watched him write a card of endorsement:

"Take that to the War Department, and tell them I like your idea—I want them to look into it."

His face wreathed in smiles, the man pushed his way through the crowd, and hurried to the War Department.

The next one was a little fellow who had a gun of marvellous model, double-barrelled, with the barrels crossed. The President adjusted his spectacles and took a second look before he made any comment. He lifted his bristling eyebrows:

"What's it for?"

"For cross-eyed men, sir!" he whispered.

"You don't say?" he roared.

"Yes, sir," the little man continued eagerly. "The cross-eyed men ain't never had no chance in this war. They turn 'em all down. They won't take 'em as soldiers. That gun'll fix 'em. Push a regiment o' good cross-eyed men to the front with that gun a-pourin' hot lead from two barrels at the same time an' every man er cross firin' at the enemy an' we'll jist natchally make hash outen 'em, sir——"

"And we may need the cross-eyed men, too, before the war ends." The sombre eyes twinkled thoughtfully. "Thank you, my friend, when I draft the cross-eyed men come in again and we'll talk it over. Your heart's in the right place, anyhow."

He glanced doubtfully at the little skillet-shaped head and reached over his shoulder for the next one. It was a bullet proof shirt for soldiers—a coat of mail which weighed fifty pounds.

"How long do you think a man could march with that thing on and the thermometer at ninety-eight in the shade?"

He handed it back with a shake of his head and grasped the next one—a model water-tight canoe to fit the foot like a snow shoe.

"What's the idea?" he asked.

"Shoe the army with my canoes, sir, and they can all walk on water——"

"And yet they say the age of miracles has passed! Take it over to old Neptune's office. He's a sad man at times and I like him. This ought to cheer him."

The next one was a man of unusually interesting face. A typical Yankee farmer with whiskers spilling over his collar from his neck and bristling up against his clean shaven chin. He handed the President a model of a new musket. He examined it with care and fixed the man with his gaze:

"Well, sir?"

"Hit's the rekyle, sir," he explained softly. "Hit's the way she's hung on the stock."

"Oh——"

"Ye see, sir," he went on earnestly, "a gun ought not to rekyle, and ef hit rekyles at all, hit ought to rekyle a leetle forred——"

"Right you are!" the President roared with laughter. "Your logic's sound whether your gun kicks or not. I say so, too. A gun ought not to rekyle at all, and if it does rekyle, by jinks, it ought to rekyle and hit the other fellow, not us!"

The tall figure dropped into the chair by his desk and laughed again.

"Come in again, Brother 'Rekyle' and we'll talk it over when I've got more time."

The stocky, heavy set figure of the Secretary of War suddenly pushed through the crowd and up to the desk. Stanton's manner had always been rude to the point of brusqueness and insult. The tremendous power he was now wielding in the most important Department of the Government had not softened his temper or improved his manners. The President had learned to appreciate his matchless industry and sterling honesty and overlooked his faults as an indulgent father those of a passionate and willful child.

Stanton's eyes were flashing through his gold rimmed glasses the wrath he found difficult to express.

The President looked up with a friendly smile:

"Well, Mars, what's the trouble now?"

Stanton shook his leonine locks and beard in fury at the use of the facetious word. He loathed levity of any kind and the one kind he could not endure was the quip that came his way.

He regarded himself seriously every day, every hour, every minute in every hour. He was the incarnate soul of Mars on earth. He knew and felt it. He raged at the President's use of the term because he had a sneaking idea that he was being laughed at—and that by a man who was his inferior and yet to whom he was rendering indispensable service.

An angry retort rose to his lips, but he suppressed the impulse. It was a waste of breath. The President was a fool—he would only laugh again as he had done before. And so he plunged straight to the purpose of his call:

"Before you get to your usual batch of passes and pardons this morning I want to protest again, Mr. President, against your persistent interference with the discipline of the army and the affairs of my Department. Your pardons are hamstringing the whole service, sir. It must stop if you expect your generals to control their men!"

"Is that all, Mars?" the even voice asked.

"It is, sir!"

"Thanks for the spirit that prompts your rage. I know you're right about most of these things. I'll do my best to help and not hinder you——"

"There's a woman coming here this morning to present a petition over my head."

"Oh, I see——"

"I have refused it and I demand that you support, not make a fool of me."

He turned without waiting for an answer and strode from the room.

The President whispered to Nicolay:

"We may have to put a few bricks in Stanton's pocket yet, John!"

He glanced toward the waiting crowd and whispered again:

"Any news to-day from the front before I go on?"

Nicolay drew a telegram from his file:

"Only this dispatch, sir, announcing the capture of fifty mules and two brigadier generals by Stuart's cavalry——"

"Fifty mules?"

"And two brigadier generals."

"Fifty mules—and they're worth two hundred dollars a piece. Tell 'em to send a regiment after those mules. Jeffy D. can have the generals."

A slender little dark-haired girl about fifteen years old, with big wistful blue eyes, had taken advantage of the pause to slip close. When the President lifted his head she caught his eyes. He rose immediately and drew her to his side.

"You're all alone, little girl?"

"Yes, sir," she faltered.

"And what can I do for you?"

"If you please, I want to pass through the lines to Virginia—my brother's there—he was shot in the last battle. I want to see him."

"Of course you do," the kindly voice agreed, "and you shall."

He wrote the pass and handed it to her.

She murmured her thanks and he placed his big hand on her dark head and asked casually:

"Of course you're loyal?"

The young lips quivered, she hesitated, looked up into his face through dimmed eyes, and the slender body suddenly stiffened, as she slowly said:

"Yes—to the heart's core—to Virginia!"

The trembling fingers handed the pass back and the tears rolled down her cheeks.

The tall man dared not look down again. Something about this slim wistful girl brought back over the years the memory of the young mother who had come from the hills of old Virginia.

He was still for a moment, stooped, and took her hand in his. His voice was low and tender and full of feeling:

"I know what it cost you to say that, child. You're a brave, glorious little girl, if you are a rebel. I love you for this glimpse you've given me of a great spirit. I'm sure I can trust you. If I let you go, will you promise me faithfully that no word shall pass your lips of what you've seen inside our lines?"

"I promise!" she cried, smiling through her tears.

He handed her back the pass and slowly said:

"May God bless you—and speed the day when your people and mine shall be no longer enemies."

He turned again to his desk, and beside it stood a quiet woman dressed in black.

He bowed to her with easy grace:

"And how can I serve you, Madam?"

She smiled hopefully:

"You have children, Mr. President?"

A look of sorrow overspread the dark face.

"Yes," he said reverently, "I have two boys now. I had three, but God has just taken one of them."

"I had two," the mother responded. "Both of them went into the army to fight for their country and left me alone. One has been killed in battle. I tried to be brave about it. I said over and over again, 'the Lord gave and the Lord has taken away, blessed is the name of the Lord!' But I had to give up. I'm all alone in my little place in the mountains of Pennsylvania and I can't endure it. I know they say I have no right to ask, but I want my last boy to come home. All night I lie there alone and cry. Can't you let me have my boy back? He's all I've got on earth—others have more. I have only this one. I'm just a woman—lonely, heartsick and afraid. They say I can't have him. But I've come to ask you. I've heard that you have a loving heart——"

She stopped suddenly.

"You have seen Stanton?" the President asked.

"Yes. He wouldn't listen. He swore I shouldn't have him."

The hazel-grey eyes gazed thoughtfully out the window across the shining river for a moment.

"I have two," he murmured, "and you have only one. It isn't fair. You shall have your boy."

He turned to his desk and wrote the order for his discharge. The mother pressed close, gently touched with the tips of her fingers his thick black hair and softly cried while he was writing.

She took the precious paper, tried to speak and choked.

"Go away now," the President whispered, "or you'll have me crying in a minute."

When the last man had gone he stood alone before his window in brooding silence. A tender smile overspread his face and he drew a deep breath. In the hills of Pennsylvania he saw a picture—a mother in the door of a humble home waiting for her boy. He is coming down the road with swift, strong step. She sees and rushes to meet him with a cry of joy, holds him in her arms without words a long, long while and will not let him go. And then she leads him into the house, falls on her knees and thanks God.

He smiles again and forgets the burden of the day.



CHAPTER XVIII

DIPLOMACY

In the whirlwind of passion, intrigue, slander and hate which had circled the head of the new President since the day of his Inauguration, the mother of his children had not been spared.

The First Lady of the Land had found her position as difficult in its way as her husband had found his. She had met the cynical criticism at first with dignity, reserve, and contempt. But as it increased in violence and virulence she had more than once lost her temper. She had never been blessed with the serenity of spirit that with Lincoln in his trying hours touched the heights of genius.

She was just a human little woman who loved her husband devotedly and hated every man and woman who hated him. And when her patience was exhausted she said things as she thought them, with a contempt for consequences as sublime as it was dangerous.

From the moment of the opening of the war she hated the South, not only because the Southern people had flung the shadow of death over her splendid social career and blighted the brightest dream of her life by war, but she had a more intimate and personal reason for this hatred. Her own flesh and blood had gone into the struggle against her and the husband she loved. Both her brothers born in the South, were in the Confederate army fighting to tear the house down over her head. One of these brothers had been made the Commandant of Libby Prison in Richmond. The woman in her could never forgive them.

And yet men in the North who sought the destruction of her husband saw how they might use the fact of her Southern kin to their own gain, and did it with the most cruel and bitter malignity.

One thing she was determined to do—maintain her position in a way to put it beyond the reach of petty spite and gossip. She had always resented the imputation of boorishness and lack of culture his enemies had made against the man she loved. She held it her first duty, therefore, to maintain her place as the First Lady of the Land in a way that would still those slanderous tongues. For this reason her dresses had been the most elaborate and expensive the wife of any Chief Magistrate of the Republic had ever worn. Her big-hearted, careless husband had no more idea of the cost of such things than a new-born babe.

Lizzie Garland, the negro dressmaker, to whom she had given her patronage, practically spent her entire time with the President's wife, who finally became so contemptuous of unreasonable public criticism in Washington that she was often seen going to Lizzie Garland's house to be fitted.

As Lizzie bent over her work basting the new seams in fitting her last dress, the Mistress of the White House suddenly stopped the nervous movement of her rocking-chair.

"He demands a thousand dollars to-night, Lizzie?"

"Swears he'll take the whole account to the President to-morrow unless he gets it, Madam."

"You tried to make him reasonable?"

"Begged him for an hour."

"That's what I get for trading with a little rat in Philadelphia. I'll stick to Stewart hereafter."

She rose with a gesture of nervous rage:

"Well, there's no help for it then. I must ask him. I dread it. Mr. Lincoln calls me a child—a spoiled child. He's the child. He has no idea of what these things cost. Why can't a Nation that spends two millions a day on contractors and soldiers give its President a salary he can live on?"

She threw herself on the lounge and gave way for a moment to despair.

"He'll give it to you, of course, when you ask it," Lizzie ventured cheerfully.

"If I'm diplomatic, yes. But I hate to do it. He's harassed enough. I wonder sometimes if he's human to stand all he does. If he knew the truth—O my God——"

"Don't worry, Madam," Lizzie pleaded. "It will come out all right. The President is sure to be re-elected."

"That's it, is he? I'm beginning to lose faith. He'll never win if the scoundrels in Washington can prevent it. There's just one man in Congress his real friend. I can't make him see that the hypocrites he keeps in his Cabinet are waiting and watching to stab him in the back. But what's the use to talk, I've got to face it to-day—ask Phoebe to come here."

"Let me go, Madam," Lizzie begged. "I hate the sight of that woman. I suspect her of nosing into our affairs."

"Nonsense!" was the contemptuous answer. "Phoebe's just a big, fat, black, good-natured fool. It rests me to look at her—she's so much fatter than I am."

With a shrug of her shoulders the dressmaker rose and rang for the colored maid, who had just entered Mrs. Lincoln's service.

Phoebe walked in with a glorious smile lighting her dusky face. Seeing her mistress lying down at the unusual hour of eleven o'clock in the morning, she rushed to her side:

"Laws of mussy, Ma'am, ain't you well!"

"Just a little spell of nerves, Phoebe, something that never worries your happy soul——"

"No, Ma'am, dat dey don't!" the black woman laughed.

"Hand me a pencil and pad of paper."

Phoebe executed her order with quick heavy tread, and stood looking while her mistress scribbled a note to her husband.

"Take that to the President, and see that he comes."

Phoebe courtesied heavily:

"Yassam, I fetch him!"

The Hon. Salmon P. Chase, Secretary of the Treasury, was engaged with the President when Phoebe presented herself at the door of the executive office.

John Hay tried in vain to persuade her to wait a few minutes. Phoebe brushed the young diplomat aside with scant ceremony.

"G'way fum here, Boy!" she laughed. "Miss Ma'y sent me ter fetch 'im right away. An' I gwine ter fetch 'im!"

She threw her ponderous form straight through the door and made for the Chief Magistrate.

Mr. Chase was delivering an important argument, but it had no weight with her.

She bowed and courtesied to the President.

"Excuse me, Governor," he said with a smile. "Good morning, Phoebe."

"Good mornin', sah."

She extended the note with a second dip of her ponderous form:

"Yassah, Miss Ma'y send dis here excommunication ter you, sah!"

"You don't say so?" the President cried, breaking into a laugh.

"Yassah."

"Then I'm excommunicated, Governor!" he nodded to Chase. "I must read the edict." He adjusted his glasses and glanced at the note:

"Your mistress is lying down?"

"Yassah, she's sufferin' fum a little spell er nervous prosperity, sah—dat's all—sah——"

"Oh, that's all?"

"Yassah."

The President roared with laughter, in which Phoebe joined.

"Thank you, Phoebe, tell her I'll be there in a minute——"

"Yassah."

"And Phoebe——"

The maid turned as she neared the door:

"Yassah?"

"I hope you'll always bring my messages from your mistress——"

"Yassah."

"I like you, Phoebe. You're cheerful!"

"I tries ter be, sah!" she laughed, swinging herself through the door.

The President threw his big hands behind his head, leaned back, and laughed until his giant frame shook.

The dignified and solemn Secretary of the Treasury scowled, rose, and stalked from the room.

"Sorry I couldn't talk longer, Chase."

"It's all right," the Secretary replied, with a wave of his hand.

The President found his wife alone.

"I hope nothing serious, Mother?" he said tenderly.

"I've a miserable headache again. Why were you so long?"

"I was with Governor Chase."

"And what did the old snake in the grass want this time?"

The President glanced toward the door uneasily, sat down by her side and touched her hand:

"You should be more careful, Mother. Servants shouldn't hear you say things like that——"

The full lips came together with bitter firmness:

"I'll say just what I think when I'm talking to you, Father—what did he want?"

"He offered his resignation as my Secretary of the Treasury."

His wife sprang up with flashing eyes:

"And you?"

"Refused to accept it."

"O my Lord, you're too good and simple for this world! You're a babe—a babe in the woods with wolves prowling after you from every tree and you won't see them! You know that he's a candidate against you for the Presidency, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You know that he never loses an opportunity to sneer at you behind your back?"

"I've heard so."

"You know that he's hand in glove with the conspirators in Congress who are trying to pull you down?"

"Perhaps."

"You know that he's the greatest letter writer of the age? That he writes as many letters to your generals in the field as old Winter—that he writes to every editor he knows and every politician he can influence, and that the purpose of these letters is always the same—to pull you down?"

"Possibly."

"You have this chance to put your foot on this frozen snake's head and yet you bring him into your house again to warm him into life?"

"Chase is a great Secretary of the Treasury, my dear. The country needs him. I can't afford to take any chances just now of a change for the worse."

"He has no idea of leaving. He's only playing a game with you to strengthen himself—can't you see this?"

"Maybe."

"And yet you submit to such infamy in your own Cabinet?"

"It's not a crime, Mother, to aspire to high office. The bee is in poor Chase's bonnet. He can't help it. I've felt the thing tickle myself. If he can beat me let the best man win——"

"Don't—don't—don't say such fool things," his wife cried. "I'll scream! You need a guardian. You have three men in your Cabinet who are using their positions to climb into the Presidency over you—old Seward, Chase and now Stanton, and you smile and smile and let them think you don't know. You'll never have a united and powerful administration until you kick those scoundrels out——"

"Mother—Mother—you mustn't——"

"I will—I'll tell you the truth—nobody else does. I tell you to kick these scoundrels out and put men in their places who will loyally support you and your policies!"

"I've no right in such an hour to think of my own ambitions, my dear," was the even, quiet answer. "Seward is the best man for his place I know in the country. Stanton is making the most efficient War Secretary we have ever had. Chase is a great manager of our Treasury. I'm afraid to risk a new man. If these men can win over me by rendering their country a greater service than I can, they ought to win——"

"But can't you see, you big baby, that it isn't the man who really gives the greatest service that may win? It's the liar and hypocrite undermining his Chief who may win. Won't you have common sense and send those men about their business? Surely you won't lose this chance to get rid of Chase. Won't you accept his resignation?"

"No."

There was a moment's tense silence. The wife looked up appealingly and the rugged hand touched hers gently.

"I think, Father, you're the most headstrong man that God ever made!"

The dark, wistful face brightened:

"And yet they say I'm a good-natured, easy-going fellow with no convictions?"

"They don't know you——"

"I'm sorry, Mother, we don't see it the same way, but one of us has to decide these things, and I suppose I'm the one."

"I suppose so," she admitted wearily.

"But tell me," he cried cheerfully, "what can I do right now to make you happy? You sent for me for something. You didn't know that Chase was there, did you?"

She hesitated and answered cautiously:

"It doesn't matter whether I did or not. You refuse to listen to my advice."

He bent nearer in evident distress:

"What can I do, Mother?"

"I need some money. Since Willie's death last winter I've thought nothing of my dresses for the next season. I must begin to attend to them. I need a thousand dollars."

"To-day?"

"Yes."

He looked at her with a twinkle playing around the corner of his eyes as he slowly rose:

"Send Phoebe in for the check."

"Ring for her, please."

He pulled the old-fashioned red cord vigorously, walked back to the lounge, put his hands in his pockets and looked at his wife in a comical way.

"Mother," he said at last, "you're a very subtle woman. You'd make a great diplomat if you didn't talk quite so much."



CHAPTER XIX

THE REBEL

While Betty Winter was still brooding in angry resentment over the problem of John Vaughan's guilt in sharing the treason of his Chief, the army was suddenly swung into the field to contest Lee's invasion of Maryland.

The daring venture of the Confederate leader had developed with startling rapidity. The President was elated over the probable annihilation of his army. He knew that half of them were practically barefooted and in rags. He also knew that McClellan outnumbered Lee and Jackson two to one and that the Southerners, no longer on the defensive, but aggressors, would be at an enormous disadvantage in Maryland territory.

That Lee was walking into a death trap he was morally sure.

The Confederate leader was not blind to the dangers of his undertaking. Conditions in the South practically forced the step. It was of the utmost importance that he should have full and accurate information before his move, and a group of the coolest and bravest young men in his army were called on to go into Washington as scouts and spies and bring this report. Men who knew the city were needed.

Among the ten selected for the important mission was Ned Vaughan. He had been promoted for gallantry on the field at Malvern Hill, and wore the stripes of a lieutenant. He begged for the privilege of risking his life in this work and his Colonel could not deny him. He had proven on two occasions his skill on secret work as a scout before the second battle of Bull Run. His wide circle of friends in Washington and the utter change in his personal appearance by the growth of a beard made his chances of success the best of any man in the group.

He was anxious to render his country the greatest possible service in such a crisis, but there was another motive of resistless power. He was mad to see Betty Winter. He knew her too well to believe that if he took his life in his hand to look into her eyes she could betray him.

His disguise in the uniform of a Federal Captain was perfect, his forged pass beyond suspicion. He passed the lines of the Union army unchallenged and spent his first night in Washington in Joe Hall's famous gambling saloon on Pennsylvania Avenue. He arrived too late to make any attempt to see Betty. He stood for half an hour on the corner of the street, gazing with wistful eyes at the light in her window. He dared not call and involve her in the possibility of suspicion. He must wait with caution until she left the house and he could speak to her without being recognized. If he failed to get this chance he would write her as a last resort.

In Hall's place he found scores of Congressmen and men from every department of the Government service. Old Thaddeus Stevens, the leader of the war party in the House, was playing for heavy stakes, his sullen hard face set with grim determination.

He watched a young clerk from the War Department stake his last dollar, lose, and stagger from the table with a haunted, desperate look. Ned followed him into two saloons and saw the bartenders refuse him credit. He walked through the door of the last saloon, his legs trembling and his white lips twitching, stopped and leaned against the wall of the little bookstore on the corner, the flickering street lamp showing dimly his ghastly face and eyes.

Ned glanced uneasily behind him to see that he had not been followed. He had left under the impression that a secret service man had seen them both leave. He knew that Baker, the head of the Department, might know the name of every clerk who frequented a gambling den. No one was in sight and he debated for a moment the problem of offering this boy the bribe to get from Stanton's office the information he wanted.

It was a question of character and his judgment of it. Could he speak the word to this boy that might send one or both to the gallows? He was well born. His father was a man of sterling integrity and a firm supporter of the Union. The boy was twenty-two years old and had been a pet in the fast circle of society in which he had moved for the last three years. If his love for his country were the real thing, he would hand Ned over as a spy without a moment's hesitation. If the mania for gambling had done its work he would do anything for money.

Ned's own life was in the decision. He took another look into the haggard face and made up his mind.

He started on as if to pass him, stopped suddenly and extended his hand:

"Hello, Dick, what's up?"

The boy glowered at him and answered with a snarl:

"I don't know you——"

Ned drew a sigh of relief. One danger was passed. He couldn't recognize him. The rest should be easy.

"You don't need to, my boy," he whispered. "You're looking for a friend—money?"

"Yes. I'll sell my soul into hell for it right now," he gasped.

"You don't need to do that." Ned drew two hundred dollars in gold from his pocket and clinked the coin.

"You see that gold?"

"Yes, yes—what do you want for it?"

"I want you to get for me to-morrow morning the exact number of men in McClellan's army. I want the figures from Stanton's office—you understand. I want the name of each command, its numbers and its officers. I know already half of them. So you can't lie to me. Give me this information here to-morrow night and the gold is yours. Will you do it?"

The boy glanced at Ned for a moment:

"I'll see you in hell first. I've a notion to arrest you—damned if I don't——"

He wheeled and started toward the corner.

Ned's left hand gripped his with the snap of a steel trap, his right holding his revolver.

"Don't you be a fool. I know that you're ruined. I saw you in Joe Hall's——"

The boy's jaw dropped.

"You saw me?" he stammered.

"Yes. You're done for, and you know it. Bring me those figures and I'll double the pile—four hundred dollars."

The weak eyes shifted uneasily. He hesitated and faltered:

"All right. Meet me here at seven o'clock. For God's sake, don't speak to me if there's anyone in sight."

All next day Ned watched Betty's house in vain. At dark, in despair and desperation, he wrote a note.

"DEAR MISS BETTY:

"For one look into your dear eyes I am here. I've tried in vain to meet you. I can't leave without seeing you. I'll wait in the park at the foot of the avenue to-morrow night at dusk. Just one touch of your hand and five minutes near you is all I ask——"

There was no signature needed. She would know. He mailed it and hurried to his appointment.

The boy was prompt. There was no one in sight. Ned hurriedly examined the sheet of paper, verified the known commands and their numbers and, convinced of its genuineness, handed the money to the traitor.

"For God's sake, never speak to me again or recognize me in any way," he begged through chattering teeth. "I got those things from Stanton's desk and copied them."

Ned nodded, placed the precious document in his pocket, and watched the fool hurry with swift feet straight to Joe Hall's place and disappear within.

Betty failed to come at the appointed time and he was heartsick. He would finish his work in six hours to-morrow and he should not lose a moment in passing the Federal lines. The precious figures he had bought were memorized and the paper destroyed. In six hours next day he completed the drawings of the fort on which information had been asked and was ready to leave.

But he had not seen Betty. He tried to go and each effort only led him to the corner from which he watched her house. He lingered until night and waited an hour again in the dark. And still she had not come. And then it slowly dawned on him that she must have realized from the moment she read his message the peril of his position and the danger of his betrayal in their meeting.

He turned with quick, firm tread to pass the Federal lines without delay, and walked into the arms of two secret service men.

Without a word he was manacled and led to prison. The boy he had bribed had been under suspicion since his first visits to Joe Hall's. Stanton had discovered that his desk had been rummaged. Five of his nine Southern comrades had been arrested and he was the sixth. The rage of the Secretary of War had been boundless. He had thrown out a dragnet of detectives and every suspicious character in the city was passing through it or landing in prison.

The men stripped him and searched with the touch of experts every stitch of his clothing, ripped the lining of his coat, opened the soles of his shoes, split the heels and found nothing. He had been ordered to dress and given permission to go, when suddenly the officer conducting the search said:

"Wait!"

Ned stopped in the doorway. It was useless to protest.

"Excuse my persistence, my friend," he said apologetically. "You seem all right and my men have apparently made a mistake, all the same I'm going to examine your mouth——"

Ned's eyes suddenly flashed and his figure unconsciously stiffened.

"I thought so!" the officer laughed.

The door was closed and the guard stepped before it.

And then, with quick sure touch as if he saw the object of his search through the flesh, the detective lifted Ned Vaughan's upper lip and drew from between his lips and teeth the long, thin, delicately folded tinfoil within which lay the tissue drawing of the fort.

The drumhead court-martial which followed was brief and formal. The prisoner refused to give his name or any clue to his identity. He was condemned to be hanged as a spy at noon the next day and locked in a cell in the Old Capitol Prison.

On his way they passed Senator Winter's house. Six hours' delay just to look into her face had cost him his life, but his one hopeless regret now was that he had failed to see her.

Betty Winter read the account of the sensational arrest and death sentence. He had been arrested at the trysting place he had appointed. She dropped the paper with a cry and hurried to the White House. She thanked God for the loving heart that dwelt there.

Without a moment's hesitation the President ordered a suspension of sentence and directed that the papers be sent to him for review.

In vain Stanton raged. He shook his fist in the calm, rugged face at last:

"Dare to interfere with the final execution of this sentence and I shall resign in five minutes after you issue that pardon! I'll stand for some things—but not for this—I warn you!"

"I understand your position, Stanton," was the quiet answer. "And I'll let you know my decision when I've reached it."

With a muttered oath, the Secretary of War left the room.

Betty bent close to his desk and whispered:

"You'll give me three days to get his mother here?"

"Of course I will, child, six days if it's necessary. Get word to her. If I can't save him, she can say good-bye to her boy. That can't hurt anybody, can it?"

With a warm grasp of his hand Betty flew to the telegraph office and three days later she saw for the first time the broken-hearted mother. The resemblance was so startling between the mother and both sons she couldn't resist the impulse to throw her arms around her neck.

"I came alone, dear," the mother said brokenly, "because his father is so bitter. You see we're divided at home, too. I'm with John in his love for the Union—but his father is bitter against the war. It would do no good for him to come. He hates the President and says he's responsible for all the blood and suffering—and so I'm alone—but you'll help me?"

"Yes, I'll help and we'll fight to win."

The mother held her at arms' length a moment:

"How sweet and beautiful you are! How happy I am that you love my John! I'm proud of you. Is John here?"

Betty's face clouded:

"No. I telegraphed him to come. He answered that a great battle was about to be fought and that it was absolutely useless to ask for pardon——"

"But it isn't—is it, dear?"

"No, we'll fight. John doesn't know the President as I do. We'll never give up—you and I—Mother!"

Again they were in each other's arms in silence. The older woman held her close.

And then came the long, hard fight.

The President heard the mother's plea with tender patience and shook his head sorrowfully.

"I'm sorry, dear Madam," he said at last, "to find this case so dangerous and difficult. Our army is approaching a battle. Tremendous issues hang on the results. It looks now as if this battle may end the war. The enemy have as good right to send their brave scouts and spies among us to learn our secrets as we have to send ours to learn theirs. They kill our boys without mercy when captured. I have just asked Jefferson Davis to spare the life of one of the noblest and bravest men I have ever known. He was caught in Richmond on a daring errand for his country. They refused and executed him. How can I face my Secretary of War with such a pardon in my hands?"

The mother's head drooped lower with each sorrowful word and when the voice ceased she fell on her knees, with clasped hands and streaming eyes in a voiceless prayer whose dumb agony found the President's heart more swiftly and terribly than words.

"O my dear little mother, you mustn't do that!" he protested, seizing her hands and lifting her to her feet. "You mustn't kneel to me, I'm not God—I'm just a distracted man praying from hour to hour and day to day for wisdom to do what's right! I can't stand this—you mustn't do such things—they kill me!"

He threw his big hands into the air with a gesture of despair, his face corpse-like in its ashen agony. He took a step from her and leaned against the long table in the centre of the room for support.

Betty whispered something in the mother's ear and led her near again.

"If you'll just give my boy to me alive," she went on in low anguish, "I'll take him home and keep him there and I'll pledge my life that he will never again take up arms against the Union——"

"You can guarantee me that?" he interrupted, holding her gaze.

"I'm sure of it. He's noble, high-spirited, the soul of honor. He was always good and never gave me an hour's sorrow in his life until this war came——"

The long arm suddenly swung toward his Secretary:

"Have the prisoner, Ned Vaughan, brought here immediately. When he comes, Madam, I'll see what can be done."

With a sob of joy the mother leaned against Betty, who took her out into the air until the wagon from the jail should come.

They had led Ned quickly into the President's office before his mother and Betty knew of his arrival. His wrists were circled with handcuffs. The President looked over his spectacles at the irons and spoke sharply:

"Take those things off him——"

The guard hesitated, and the high pitched voice rang with angry authority:

"Take off those handcuffs, I tell you. His mother'll be here in a minute—take 'em off!"

The guard quickly removed the manacles and the President turned to him and his attendants:

"Clear out now. I'll call you when I want you."

Ned bowed:

"Thank you, sir."

"I hope I can do more than that for you, my boy. It all depends on you——"

The mother's cry of joy stopped him short as she walked into the door. With a bound she reached Ned's side, clasped him in her arms and kissed him again and again with the low caressing words that only a mother's lips can breathe. He loosened her hands tenderly:

"I'm glad you came, dear. It's all right. You mustn't worry. This is war, you know."

"But we're going to save you, my darling. The President's going to pardon you. I feel it—I know it. That's why he sent for you. God has heard my prayer."

"I'm afraid you don't understand these things, dear," Ned replied tenderly. "The President can't pardon me—no one understands that better than I do——"

"But he will, darling! He will——"

Ned soothed her and turned to Betty.

"Just a moment, Mother, I wish to speak to Miss Betty."

He took her hand and looked into her face with wistful intensity.

"One long look at the girl of my dreams and I'll wait for you on the other side! This is not the way I told you I would return, is it? But it's war. We must take it as it comes—good-bye—dearest——"

"O Ned, Boy, the President will pardon you if you'll be reasonable. You must, for her sake, if not because I ask it."

"It's sweet of you to try this, dearest, but of course, it's useless. The President must be just."

The tall figure rose and Ned turned to face his desk.

"Young man," he began gently, "you're a soldier of exceptional training and intelligence. You knew the danger and the importance of your mission. You have failed and your life is forfeited to the Nation, but for your mother's sake, because of her love and her anguish and her loyalty, I have decided to trust you and send you home on parole in her custody if you take the oath of allegiance——"

The mother gave a sob of joy.

"I thank you, Mr. President," was the firm reply, "for your generous offer for my mother's sake, but I cannot take your oath. I have sworn allegiance to another Government in the righteousness and justice of whose cause I live and am ready to die——"

"Ned—Ned!" the mother moaned.

"I must, Mother, dear," he firmly went on. "Life is sweet when it's worth living. But man can not live by bread alone. They have only the power to kill my body. You ask me to murder my soul."

He paused and turned to the President, whose eyes were shining with admiration.

"I believe, sir, that I am right and you are wrong. This is war. We must fight it out. I'm a soldier and a soldier's business is to die."

The tall figure suddenly crossed the space that separated them and grasped his hand:

"You're a brave man, Ned Vaughan, the kind of man that saves this world from hell—the kind that makes this Nation great and worth saving whole! I wish I could keep you here—but I can't. You know that—good-bye——"

"Good-bye, sir," was the firm answer.

The mother began to sob piteously until Betty spoke something softly in her ear.

Ned turned, pressed her to his heart, and held her in silence. He took Betty's hand and bent to kiss it.

"You shall not die," she whispered tensely. "I'm going to save you."

She felt the answering pressure and knew that he understood.

Betty held the mother at the door a moment and spoke in low tones:

"I can get permission from the President to delay the execution until his sister may arrive and say good-bye to him in prison the night before the execution. Wait and I'll get it now."

The mother stood and gazed in a stupor of dull despair while Betty pressed to his desk and begged the last favor. It was granted without hesitation.



The President wrote the order delaying the death for three days and handed her his card on which was written:

"Admit the bearer, the sister of the prisoner, Ned Vaughan, the night before his execution to see him for five minutes.

"A. LINCOLN."

"I'm sorry, little girl, I couldn't do more for your sake—but you understand?"

Betty nodded, returned the pressure of his hand and hurriedly left the room.

The hanging was fixed for the following Friday at noon. The pass would admit his sister on Thursday night. Betty had three days in which to work. She drew every dollar of her money and went at her task swiftly, silently, surely, until she reached the guard inside the grim old prison, who held the keys to the death watch.

She couldn't trust the sister with her daring plan. She might lose her nerve. She must impersonate her. It was a dangerous piece of work, but it was not impossible. She had only to pass the inspectors. The guards inside were her friends.

On Thursday night at eight o'clock a carriage drew up at the little red brick house, on whose door flashed the brass plate sign:

ELIZABETH GARLAND, MODISTE

She had made an appointment with Mrs. Lincoln's dressmaker and arranged for it at this late hour. She must not be seen leaving her father's house to-night.

She drove rapidly to the Capitol, stopped her carriage at the north end, entered the building through the Senate wing, quickly passed out again, and in a few minutes had presented her pass to the commandant of the Old Capitol Prison.

The woman inspector made the most thorough search and finding nothing suspicious, allowed her to enter the dimly lighted corridor of the death watch.

The turnkey loudly announced:

"The sister of the prisoner, Ned Vaughan!"

She met him face to face in the large cell in which the condemned were allowed to pass their last night on earth. The keen eyes of a guard from the Inspector's office watched her every act and every movement of her body.

Ned stared at her. His heart beat with mad joy. She was going to play his sister's part! He would take her in his arms for the first time and feel the beat of her heart against his and their lips would meet. He laughed at death as he looked into her eyes with the hunger of eternity gleaming in his own.

There could be no hesitation on her part.

She threw both arms around his neck crying:

"Brave, foolish boy!"

He held her close, crushed her with one mad impulse, and slowly relaxed his arms. She would forgive him for this moment of delirium on the brink of the grave, but he must be reasonable.

"I am ready to die, now, dearest," he murmured.

She slowly lifted her lips to his in a long kiss—a kiss that thrilled body and soul—and pressed into his mouth a tiny piece of tissue paper.

She stood holding both his hands for a moment and hesitated, glancing at the guard from the corner of her eye. He was watching with steady stolid business-like stare. She must play her part to the end carefully and boldly.

"I've only this moment just to say good-bye, Boy," she faltered. "I promised not to stay long." Slowly her arms stole round his neck, and the blood rushed to his face in scarlet waves.

"Love has made death glorious, dearest," he breathed tenderly. "God bless you for coming, for all you have done for me, and for all this holy hour means to my soul—you understand."

The tears were streaming down her cheeks now. The plan might fail after all—the gallows was there in the jail yard lifting its stark arms in the lowering sky. She pressed his hands hysterically:

"Yes, yes, I understand."

She turned and hurried to the guard:

"Take me out quickly. I'm going to faint. I can't endure it."

The guard caught her arm, supporting her as she made her way to the street.

In fifteen minutes she had returned to the dressmaker's and from there called another carriage and went home.

The guard had no sooner turned his back than Ned Vaughan quickly opened and read the precious message which gave the plan of escape.

When the sentinel on his corridor was changed at midnight the blond, blue-eyed boy would be his friend and explain.

When he found the rope ladder concealed on the roof it was raining. He fastened it carefully in the shadow of an offset in the outer wall and waited for the appearance of the guard. As he passed the gas lamp post and the flickering light fell on his face he studied it with care. He was stupid and allowed the rain to dash straight into his fat face. It should be easy to reach the shadows by a quick leap when he turned against the rain and reached the length of his beat.

He calculated to a second the time required to make the descent, threw himself swiftly to the end of his rope and dropped to the pavement.

In his eagerness to strike the ground on the run, his foot slipped and he fell. The guard heard and ran back, blinking his stupid eyes through the rain. He found a young sport who had lost his way in the storm.

"I shay, partner," the fallen drunk blubbered. "What'ell's the matter here? Ain't this Joe Hall's place?"

"Not by a dam sight."

"Ah, g'long with yer, f-foolishness—man—and open the door—I'm an old customer—I ain't no secret service man—I'm all right—open her up——"

"Here, here, get up an' move on now, I can't fool with you," the guard growled good-naturedly. He lifted Ned to his feet and helped him to the end of his beat, waved him a jolly good-night, and turned to his steady tramp. The rope was still dangling next morning ten feet above his head.

The sensation that thrilled the War Department was one that made history for the Nation, as well as the individuals concerned, and for some unfortunately who were not concerned.



CHAPTER XX

THE INSULT

The day General Lee's army turned toward the north for the Maryland shore, the President, with the eagerness of a boy, hurried to McClellan's house to shake his hand, bid him God's speed and assure him of his earnest support and good wishes.

The absurdity of the ruler of a mighty Nation hurrying on foot to the house of one of his generals never occurred to his mind.

The autocratic power over the lives and future of millions to which he had been called had thrown no shadow of vanity or self pride over his simple life. Responsibility had only made clearer his judgment, strengthened his courage, broadened and deepened his love for his fellow man.

He wished to see his Commanding General and bid him God's speed. The General was busy and he wished to take up but a few minutes of his time. And so without a moment's hesitation he walked to his house accompanied only by Hay, his Assistant Secretary.

On the way he was jubilant with hope:

"We've got them now, Boy—we've got them, and this war must speedily end! Lee will never get into Maryland with fifty thousand effective men. With the river hemming him in on the rear I'll have McClellan on him with a hundred thousand well shod, well fed, well armed and with the finest artillery that ever thundered into battle. We're bound to win."

"If McClellan can whip him, sir?"

"Yes, of course, he's got to do that," was the thoughtful answer. "And you know I believe he'll do it. McClellan's on his mettle now. His army will fight like tigers to show their faith in him. He's vain and ambitious, yes—many great men are. Ambition's a mighty human motive."

"I'm afraid it's bad diplomacy, sir, to go to his house like this—he is vain, you know," the younger man observed with a frown.

"Tut, tut, Boy, it's no time for ceremony. Who cares a copper!"

The clock in the church tower struck ten as Hay sprang up the steps and rang the bell.

"I hope he hasn't gone to bed," the Secretary said.

"At ten o'clock?" the President laughed, "a great general about to march on the most important campaign of his life—hardly."

The straight orderly saluted and ushered them into the elegant reception room—the room so often graced by the Prince de Joinville and the Comte de Paris, of the General's staff.

The orderly sniffed the air in a superior butler style:

"The General has not come in yet, gentlemen."

"We'll wait," was the President's quick response.

They sat in silence and the minutes dragged.

The young Secretary, in rising wrath, looked again and again at the clock.

"Don't be so impatient, John," the quiet, even voice said. "Great bodies move slowly, they say—come here and sit down—I'll tell you a secret. The Cabinet knows it—and you can, too."

He leaned his giant figure forward in his chair and touched an official document which he had drawn from his pocket.

"Great events hang on this battle. I've written out here a challenge to mortal combat for all our foes, North, South, East and West. I'm going to free the slaves if we win this battle and we're sure to win it——"

Hay glanced at the door with a startled look.

"McClellan and I don't agree on this subject and he mightn't fight as well if he knew it. It's a thing of doubtful wisdom at its best to hurl this challenge into the face of my foe. But the time has come and it must be done. We have made no headway in this war, and we must crush the South to end it. If the Copperhead leaders should get control of the Democratic party because of it—well, it means trouble at home. Douglas is dead and the jackal is trying to wear the lion's skin. He may succeed, but then I must risk it. I'll lose some good soldiers from the army but I've got to do it. All I'm waiting for now is a victory on which to launch my thunderbolt——"

A key clicked in the front door and the quick, firm step of McClellan echoed through the hall.

The orderly was reporting his distinguished visitor. They could hear his low words, and the sharp answer.

The General mounted the stairs and entered the front room overhead. He was there, of course, to arrange his toilet. He was a stickler for handsome clothes, spotless linen and the last detail of ceremony.

Again the minutes dragged. The tick of the clock on the mantel rang through the silent room and the face of the younger man grew red with rage.

Unable to endure the insolence of a subordinate toward the great Chieftain, whom he loved with a boy's blind devotion, Hay sprang to his feet:

"Let's go, sir!"

The big hand was quietly raised in a gesture of command and he sank into his seat.

Five minutes more passed and the sound of approaching footsteps were heard quickly, firmly pressed with military precision.

The President nodded:

"You see, my son!"

But instead of the General the handsome figure of his aide, John Vaughan, appeared in the doorway:

"The General begs me to say, Mr. President, that he is too much fatigued to see any one this evening and has retired for the night."

The orderly stepped pompously to the door to usher them out and John Vaughan bowed and returned to his commander.

Hay sprang to his feet livid with rage and spoke to his Chief with boyish indignation.

"You are not going to take this insult from him?"

The tall figure slowly rose and stood in silence.

"Remove him from his command," the younger man pleaded. "For God's sake do it now. Write the order for his removal this minute—give it to me! I'll kick his door open and hand it to him."

The deep set dreamy eyes were turned within as he said in slow intense tones:

"No—I'll hold McClellan's horse for him if he'll give us one victory!"



CHAPTER XXI

THE BLOODIEST DAY

The struggle opened with disaster for the Union army. Though Lee's plan of campaign fell by accident into McClellan's hands, it was too late to frustrate the first master stroke. Relying on Jackson's swift, bewildering marches, Lee, in hostile territory and confronted by twice his numbers, suddenly divided his army and hurled Jackson's corps against Harper's Ferry. The garrison, after a futile struggle of two days, surrendered twelve thousand five hundred and twenty men and their vast stores of war material.

The contrast between General White, the Federal officer in command who surrendered, and Jackson, his conqueror, was strikingly dramatic. The Union General rode a magnificent black horse, was carefully dressed in shining immaculate uniform—gloves, boots and sword spotless. The Confederate General sat carelessly on his little shaggy sorrel, dusty, travel-stained and carelessly dressed.

The curiosity of the Union army which had surrendered was keen to see the famous fighter. The entire twelve thousand prisoners of war lined the road as Jackson silently rode by.

A voice from the crowd expressed the universal feeling as they gazed:

"Boys, he ain't much for looks, but, by God, if we'd had him we wouldn't have been caught in this trap!"

The first shock of Lee's and McClellan's armies was at South Mountain, where the desperate effort was made to break through and save Harper's Ferry. The attempt failed, though the Union forces won the fight. Lee lost twenty-seven hundred men, killed and wounded and prisoners, and the Federal general, twenty-one hundred.

Lee withdrew to Sharpsburg on the banks of the Antietam to meet Jackson's victorious division sweeping toward him from Harper's Ferry.

On the first day the Confederate commander made a display of force only, awaiting the alignment of Jackson's troops. His men were so poorly shod and clothed they could not be brought into line of battle. When the fateful day of September 17th, 1862, dawned, still and clear and beautiful over the hills of Maryland, more than twenty thousand of Lee's men had fallen by the roadside barefooted and exhausted. When the first roar of McClellan's artillery opened fire in the grey dawn, they hurled their shells against less than thirty-seven thousand men in the Confederate lines. The Union commander had massed eighty-seven thousand tried veterans behind his guns.

The President received the first news of the battle with a thrill of exultation. That Lee's ragged, footsore army hemmed in thus with Antietam Creek on one side and the broad, sweeping Potomac on the other would be crushed and destroyed he could not doubt for a moment.

As the sun rose above the eastern hills a gleaming dull-red ball of blood, the Federal infantry under Hooker swept into action and drove the Confederates from the open field into a dense woods, where they rallied, stood and mowed his men down with deadly aim. Hooker called for aid and General Mansfield rushed his corps into action, falling dead at the head of his men as they deployed in line of battle.

For two hours the sullen conflict raged, blue and grey lines surging in death-locked embrace until the field was strewn with the dead, the dying and the wounded.

Hooker was wounded. Sedgwick's corps swept into the field under a sharp artillery fire and reached the shelter of the woods only to find themselves caught in a trap between two Confederate brigades massed at this point. In the slaughter which followed Sedgwick was wounded and his command was saved from annihilation with the loss of two thousand men.

While this desperate struggle raged in the Union right, the centre was the scene of a still bloodier one. French and Richardson charged the Confederate position with reckless valor. A sunken road lay across the field over which they rushed. For four terrible hours the men in grey held this sunken road until it was piled with their bodies, and when the last charge of the resistless blue lines took it, they found but three hundred living men who had been holding it against the assaults of five thousand—and "Bloody Lane" became immortal in American history.

It was now one o'clock and the men had fought almost continuously since the sun rose. The infantry fire slowly slackened and ceased in the Union right and centre.

Burnside, who held the Union left, was ordered to advance by the capture of the stone bridge over the Antietam. But a single brigade under General Toombs guarding this bridge held an army at bay and it was one o'clock before the bridge was captured.

Burnside now pushed his division up the heights against Sharpsburg to cut Lee's line of retreat. The Confederates held their ground with desperate courage, though outnumbered here three to one. At last the grey lines melted and the men in blue swept triumphantly through the village and on its edge suddenly ran into a line of men clad in their own blue uniform.

They paused in wonder. How had their own men gotten in such a position? They were not left long in doubt. The blue line suddenly blazed with long red waves of flame squarely in their faces. It was Hill's division of Jackson's corps from Harper's Ferry. The ragged men had dressed themselves in good blue suits from the captured Federal storehouse. The shock threw the Union men into confusion and a desperate charge of the strange blue Confederates drove them back through the village, and night fell with its streets still held by Lee's army.

For fourteen hours five hundred pieces of artillery and more than one hundred thousand muskets had thundered and hissed their cries of death. On the hills and valleys lay more than twenty thousand men killed and wounded.

Lee's little army of thirty-seven thousand had been cut to pieces, having lost fourteen thousand. He had but twenty-three thousand left. McClellan had lost twelve thousand, but had seventy-five thousand left. And yet so desperate had been the deadly courage with which the grey tattered army had fought that McClellan lay on his arms for three days.

The day's work had been a drawn battle, but the President's heart was broken as he watched in anguish the withdrawal of Lee's army in safety across the river. It was the last straw. McClellan had been weighed and found wanting. He registered a solemn promise with God that if the great Confederate Commanders succeeded in making good their retreat from this desperate situation he would remove McClellan.

The Confederates withdrew, rallied their shattered forces safely in Virginia, and Jeb Stuart once more rode around the Northern army!

The President issued his Emancipation Proclamation, challenging the South to war to the death, and flung down the gauntlet to his rival, the coming leader of Northern Democracy, George Brinton McClellan, by removing him from command.



CHAPTER XXII

BENEATH THE SKIN

John Vaughan saw the blow fall on McClellan's magnificent headquarters in deep amazement. The idol of the army was ordered to turn over his command to General Burnside and the impossible had happened.

Instead of the brilliant coup d'etat which he and the entire staff had predicted, the fallen leader obeyed and took an affectionate leave of his men.

McClellan knew, what his staff could not understand, that for the moment the President was master of the situation. He still held the unbounded confidence of his officers, but the rank and file of his soldiers had become his wondering critics. They believed they had crushed Lee's army at Antietam and yet they lay idle until the skillful Southern Commander had crossed the Potomac, made good his retreat, and once more insulted them by riding around their entire lines. The volunteer American soldier was a good fighter and a good critic of the men who led him. He had his own ideas about how an army should be fought and maneuvered. As the idol of fighting men, McClellan had ceased to threaten the supremacy of the civil law. There was no attempt at the long looked for coup d'etat. It was too late. No one knew this more clearly than McClellan himself.

But his fall was the bitterness of death to the staff who adored him and the generals who believed in him. Burnside, knowing the condition of practical anarchy he must face, declined the command. The President forced him to accept. He took it reluctantly with grim forebodings of failure.

John received his long leave of absence from his Chief and left for Washington the night before the formal farewell. His rage against the bungler who ruled the Nation with autocratic power was fierce and implacable.

His resentment against the woman he loved was scarcely less bitter. It was her triumph, too. She believed in the divine inspiration of the man who sat in the chair of Washington and Jefferson. Great God, could madness reach sublimer folly! She had written him a letter of good wishes and all but asked for a reconciliation before the battle. Love had fought with pride through a night and pride had won. He hadn't answered the letter.

He avoided his newspaper friends and plunged into a round of dissipation. Beneath the grim tragedy of blood in Washington flowed the ever widening and deepening torrent of sensual revelry—of wine and women, song and dance, gambling and intrigue.

The flash of something cruel in his eye which Betty Winter had seen and feared from the first burned now with a steady blaze. For six days and nights he played in Joe Hall's place a desperate game, drinking, drinking always, and winning. Hour after hour he sat at the roulette table, his chin sunk on his breast, his reddened eyes gleaming beneath his heavy black brows, silent, surly, unapproachable.

A reporter from the Republican recognized him and extended his hand:

"Hello, Vaughan!"

John stared at him coldly and resumed his play without a word. At the end of six days he had won more than two thousand dollars from the house, put it in his pocket, and, deaf to the blandishments of smooth, gentlemanly proprietor, pushed his way out into the Avenue.

It was but four o'clock in the afternoon and he was only half drunk. He wandered aimlessly down the street and crossed in the direction of hell's half-acre below the Baltimore depot. His uniform was wrinkled, his boots had not been blacked for a week, his linen was dirty, his hair rumpled, his handsome black moustache stained with drink, but he was hilariously conscious that he had two thousand dollars of Joe Hall's ill-gotten money in his pocket. There was a devil-may-care swing to his walk and a look in his eye that no decent woman would care to see twice.

He ran squarely into Betty Winter in the crowd emerging from the depot. The little bag she was carrying fell from her hands, with a cry of startled anguish:

"John—my God!"

He made no effort to pick up the fallen bag or in any way return the greeting. He merely paused and stared—deliberately stood and stared as if stupefied by the apparition. In fact, he was so startled by her sudden appearance that for a moment he felt the terror of a drunkard's first hallucination. The thought was momentary. He knew better. He was not drunk. The girl was there all right—the real thing—living, beautiful flesh and blood. For one second's anguish the love of her strangled him. The desire to take her in his arms was all but resistless in its fierce madness. He bit his lips and scowled in her face.

"John—John—dearest," she gasped.

The scowl darkened and he spoke with insulting deliberation: "You have made a mistake. I haven't the honor of your acquaintance."

Before Betty could recover from the horror of his answer he had brushed rudely past her and disappeared in the crowd. She picked up her bag in a stupor of dumb rage and started home. She was too weak for the walk she had hoped to take. She called a hack and scarcely had the strength to climb into the high, old-fashioned seat.

Never in all her life had blind anger so possessed her soul and body. In a moment of tenderness she had offered to forgive and forget. It was all over now. The brute was not worth a tear of regret. She would show him!

Two weeks later John Vaughan stared into the ebony face of a negro who had attached himself to his fortune somewhere in the revelry of the night before. Washington was swarming with these foolish black children who had come in thousands. They had no money and it had not occurred to them that they would need any. Their food and clothes had always been provided and they took no thought for the morrow.

John had forgotten the fact that he had taken the negro in his hack for two hours and finally adopted him as his own.

He sat up, pressed his hand over his aching head and stared into the grinning face:

"And what are you doing here, you imp of the devil?"

Julius laughed and rolled his eyes:

"I'se yo' man. Don't you min' takin' me up in de hack wid you las' night?"

"What's your name?"

"Julius Caesar, sah."

"Then it's all right! You're the man I'm looking for. You're the man this country's looking for. You're a born fighter——"

"Na, sah, I'se er cook!"

"Sh! Say not so—we're going back to war!"

"All right, sah, I'se gwine wid you."

"I warn you, Julius Caesar, don't do it unless you're in for a fight! I'm going back to fight—to fight to kill. No more red tape and gold braid for me. I'm going now into the jaws of hell. I'm going into the ranks as a private."

"Don't make no difference ter me, sah, whar yer go. I'se gwine wid yer. I kin look atter yer shoes an' cook yer sumfin' good ter eat."

"I warn you, Julius! When they find your torn and mangled body on the field of Death, don't you sit up and blame me!"

"Don't yer worry, sah. Dey ain't gwine fin' me dar, an' ef dey do, dey ain't gwine ter be nuttin' tore er mangled 'bout me, I see ter dat, sah!"

Three weeks later Burnside's army received a stalwart recruit. Few questions were asked. The ranks were melting.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE USURPER

The answer which the country gave the President's Proclamation of Emancipation was a startling one, even to the patient, careful far-seeing man of the people in the White House. For months he had carried the immortal document in his pocket without even allowing his Cabinet to know it had been written. He had patiently borne the abuse of his party leaders and the fierce assaults of Horace Greeley until he believed the time had come that he must strike this blow—a blow which would rouse the South to desperation and unite his enemies in the North. He had finally issued it with grave fears.

The results were graver than he could foresee. More than once he was compelled to face the issue of its repeal as the only way to forestall a counter revolution in the North.

Desertions from the army became appalling—the number reached frequently as high as two hundred a day and the aggregate over eight thousand a month. His Proclamation had provided for the enlistment of negroes as soldiers. Not only did thousands of men refuse to continue to fight when the issue of Slavery was injected, but other thousands felt that the uniform of the Republic had been dishonored by placing it on the backs of slaves. They refused to wear it longer, and deserted at the risk of their lives.

The Proclamation had united the South and hopelessly divided the North. How serious this Northern division was destined to become was the problem now of a concern as deep as the size and efficiency of General Lee's army.

The election of the new Congress would put his administration to a supreme fight for existence. If the Democratic Party under its new leader, Clay Van Alen of Ohio, should win it meant a hostile majority in power whose edict could end the war and divide the Union. They had already selected in secret George B. McClellan for their coming standard bearer.

For the first time the question of Union or Disunion was squarely up to the North in an election. And it came at an unlucky moment for the President. The army in the West had ceased to win victories. The Southern army under Lee was still defending Richmond as strongly as ever.

There was no evading the issue at the polls. The Proclamation had committed the President to the bold, far-reaching radical and aggressive policy of the utter destruction of Slavery. The people were asked to choose between Slavery on the one hand and nationality on the other. The two together they could not again have.

The President had staked his life on his faith that the people could be trusted on a square issue of right and wrong.

This time he had underestimated the force of blind passions which the hell of war had raised.

Maine voted first and cut down her majority for the administration from nineteen thousand to a bare four thousand. The fact was ominous.

Ohio spoke next and Van Alen's ticket against the administration swept the State, returning fourteen Democrats and only five Republicans to Congress.

Indiana, the State in which the President's mother slept, spoke in thunder tones against him, sending eight Democrats and three Republicans. Even the rockribbed Republican stronghold of Pennsylvania was carried by the opposition by a majority of four thousand, reversing Lincoln's former majority of sixty thousand.

In New York the brilliant Democratic leader, Horatio Seymour, was elected Governor on a platform hostile to the administration by more than ten thousand majority. New Jersey turned against him, Michigan reduced his majority from twenty to six thousand. Wisconsin evenly divided its delegates to Congress.

Illinois, the President's own State, gave the most crushing blow of all. His big majority there was completely reversed and the Democrats carried the State by over seventeen thousand and the Congressional delegates stood eleven to three against him.

And then his Border State Policy, against which the leaders of his party had raged in vain was vindicated in the most startling way. True to his steadfast purpose to hold these States in the Union at all hazards, he had not included them in his Emancipation Proclamation.

One of the reasons for which they had refused his offer of United States bonds in payment for their slaves was they did not believe them worth the paper they were written on. A war costing two million dollars a day was sure to bankrupt the Nation before the end could be seen.

And yet because he had treated them with patience and fairness, with justice and with generosity, the Border States and the new State of West Virginia born of this policy, voted to sustain the President, saved his administration from ruin and gave him another chance to fight for the life of the Union.