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Brother Against Brother; or, The Tompkins Mystery.

by John R. Musick · English · Gutenberg #40541 · 514,052 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Brother Against Brother; or, The Tompkins Mystery.

Author: John R. Musick


        
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BROTHER AGAINST BROTHER; OR, THE TOMPKINS MYSTERY. ***

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BROTHER AGAINST BROTHER

OR,

THE TOMPKINS MYSTERY.

_A Story of the Great American Rebellion._


BY JOHN R. MUSICK,

_Author of "The Banker of Bedford," "Orland Hyde,"
"Calamity Row," Etc._

(COPYRIGHT, 1887, BY J. S. OGILVIE & CO.)

FIRESIDE SERIES, No. 28. JULY, 1887.
Issued Monthly, Subscription, $3 per year.
Entered at New York Post-Office as second-class matter.

J. S. OGILVIE & COMPANY,
57 Rose Street, New York; 79 Wabash Ave., Chicago.




LIST OF POPULAR NOVELS

CONTAINED IN THE FIRESIDE SERIES,

The Cover of which is Printed in Colors, and is very attractive. Each
one contains from 200 to 480 pages.


No. 1. The Mohawks, by Miss M. E. Braddon.
 "  2. Lady Valworth's Diamonds, by the Duchess.
 "  3. A House Party, by Ouida.
 "  4. At Bay, by Mrs. Alexander.
 "  5. Adventures of an Old Maid, by Belle C. Greene.
 "  6. Vice Versa, by F. Anstey.
 "  7. In Prison and Out, by Hesba Stretton.
 "  8. A Broken Heart, by author of Dora Thorne.
 "  9. A False Vow, by author of Dora Thorne.
 " 10. Nancy Hartshorn at Chautauqua, by Nancy Hartshorn.
 " 11. Beaton's Bargain, by Mrs. Alexander.
 " 12. Mrs. Hopkins on her Travels, by Mrs. Hopkins herself.
 " 13. A Guilty River, by Wilkie Collins.
 " 14. By Woman's Wit, by Mrs. Alexander.
 " 15. "She," by H. Rider Haggard.
 " 16. The Witch's Head, by H. Rider Haggard.
 " 17. King Solomon's Mines, by H. Rider Haggard.
 " 18. Jess, by H. Rider Haggard.
 " 19. The Merry Men, by R. L. Stevenson.
 " 20. Miss Jones' Quilting, by Josiah Allen's Wife.
 " 21. Secrets of Success, by J. W. Donovan.
 " 22. Drops of Blood, by Lily Curry.
 " 23. Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
 " 24. Dawn, by H. Rider Haggard.
 " 25. Me. A companion to "She."
 " 26. East Lynne, by Mrs. Henry Wood.
 " 27. Allan Quartermain, by H. Rider Haggard.
 " 28. Brother against Brother. A Story of the Rebellion,
         by John R. Musick.




CONTENTS.


CHAPTER.                                         PAGE.
     I. In the Stage-Coach and at the Inn,           5

    II. A New Arrival,                              17

   III. Dinner Talk,                                28

    IV. More of the Mystery,                        36

     V. The Mud Man,                                46

    VI. A Transition Period,                        52

   VII. The Election and the Result,                62

  VIII. Mr. Diggs in a New Field,                   69

    IX. The Chasm Opens,                            81

     X. The Beginning of Soldier Life,              89

    XI. Mr. Tompkins' Peril,                       102

   XII. Foraging,                                  108

  XIII. Uncle Dan Means Business,                  114

   XIV. Mrs. Juniper Entertains,                   120

    XV. Mr. Diggs Again in Trouble,                127

   XVI. Yellow Steve,                              143

  XVII. A Soldier's Turkey Hunt,                   151

 XVIII. Mr. Tompkins Receives Strange News,        158

   XIX. Irene's Dilemma--The Brothers Meet,        162

    XX. War in the Neighborhood,                   174

   XXI. Crazy Joe's Mistake,                       182

  XXII. Diggs Gets out of His Scrape Again,        193

 XXIII. The Abduction,                             201

  XXIV. He is My Husband. Oh, Spare His Life,      209

   XXV. At Home Again,                             219

  XXVI. Another Phase of Soldier Life,             223

 XXVII. A Prisoner,                                227

XXVIII. Olivia,                                    231

  XXIX. The Alarm--The Manuscript,                 236

   XXX. Yellow Steve's Mysterious Story,           242

  XXXI. The Reconciliation,                        247




BROTHER AGAINST BROTHER.




CHAPTER I.

IN THE STAGE-COACH AND AT THE INN.


Thick, misty clouds overcast the sky; peals of thunder in the distance
came rolling nearer and nearer, until they burst into one prolonged roar
just above a lumbering old stage-coach slowly making its way over the
muddy roads of a Virginia post route, the driver incessantly cracking
his long whip over the backs of his jaded horses, and urging them, with
shouts and exclamations, to accelerate their speed.

This scene occurs in what is now West Virginia. It is west of the
mountain range, but where, on every hand, are frowning precipices, deep
gorges and swift-flowing torrents. On the right, the jutting headlands
are crowned with huge old bowlders, just peeping out from the thicket of
evergreens and creeping vines which surround them. Although not called
mountainous, it is a country whose picturesque heights and umbrageous
valleys would excite a degree of enthusiasm in the bosom of a lover of
the beautiful. Down in those lonely valleys, almost hidden in their
leafy groves, was the home of many an old Virginia aristocrat. The
great, gnarled oak standing upon the verge of some miniature precipice,
and glooming sullenly through the misty rain, seems but part of some
pictured scene. Far in the distance, faintly penciled against the misty
sky, rise headlands to what seems an enormous height, about them a dark
mass of clouds, like some giant's garment caught upon the peaks and
blown about at the will of the wind. It envelops and conceals the
highest peaks, leaving the imagination to add to the belief in their
stupendous height.

It has been raining all day, and the driver of the stage-coach is
anxious to reach his destination.

"Gee-up! If we don't git to Lander's Hill before dark, I be hanged if we
don't stick there for the night," he exclaimed.

The stage-coach moves slowly along, and the shades of evening are
closing in. Six or seven passengers are seated within, and are about as
uncomfortable as stage-coach travelers could well be. There is but a
single lady among them, and the chivalric spirit of the Southron has
assigned to her the most comfortable place in the coach. We are
interested in but one of these travelers, a man about forty-five or
fifty years of age, something over medium size, whose appearance stamped
him as a well-to-do Virginia planter. His face was smooth-shaven, and
his hair, once dark, was silvered with the flight of years. His was a
handsome face, and a pleasant one to look upon; there was something
pleasing and attractive about its expression, and the mild gray eyes
burned with no ambitious designs or fiery passions; his dress was plain
gray homespun, commonly worn as the traveling dress of a Southerner at
the time of which we write. His hat was of the finest silk,
broad-brimmed and low-crowned, such as Southern planters invariably
wore. Though unostentatious in manner, he was evidently a man accustomed
to the manifold comforts of Southern life. He was, moreover, a man
accustomed to looking at both sides of a question, and arriving at
conclusions without bias or prejudice. His frame was a fine type of
manhood, and his muscular arms showed him possessed of more than an
ordinary degree of strength.

This man alone of all the passengers maintained a silent and thoughtful
mood as the coach passed on its way. A constant conversation was kept up
by the other passengers on the weather, the roads, the journey, its
termination, and last, but not least, the politics of the day. However,
while the gentleman whom we have more particularly described, and now
introduce to our readers as George W. Tompkins, of Virginia, sat moody
and silent, and seemingly utterly oblivious of the discomforts within
or the gloomy prospect without, his fellow passengers were continually
talking, and continually jostling against him, without rousing Mr.
Tompkins from his reverie.

His mind was clouded by a horror that made him careless of present
surroundings. He looked worn and weary, more so than any of the other
passengers, and occasionally, when the coach rolled over smooth ground,
he would lean back in his seat and close his eyes. No sooner done,
however, than a thousand fantastic shapes would glide before his mental
vision, that seemed to take delight in annoying him. Whenever he became
unconscious to his real surroundings, shrieks seemed to sound in his
ear, and he seemed to hear the cry:

"Search, search, search! Your task's not over, your task's not over!"

"And where shall I search?" he mentally asked.

"Ah, where?" the voice wailed.

Then the planter would rouse himself, and glance at the passengers and
out of the window in the endeavor to keep his mind free from the
annoyances. For a few moments he would succeed, but days and nights of
exertion, horror and excitement were telling upon him; once more he
would succumb and once more the fantastic shadows thronged about him,
and the voice, mingling strangely with the grating roar of the coach's
wheels, smote on his ear:

"Search, search, search! Your task's not over! Your task's not over!"

"Where shall I search?"

"Ah, where?"

"You don't seem to be well, friend," remarked a fellow-traveler,
observing the startled and restless manner of Mr. Tompkins.

"Yes, I am well; that is--no, I am not; I am somewhat wearied," Mr.
Tompkins answered.

"So are we all," rejoined the passenger. "This journey has been enough
to wear out men of iron, and the prospects for the night are far from
cheering."

"I had expected to reach home to-night," said the planter, "but I shall
fail by a good dozen miles."

"You live in this State?"

"Yes, sir," answered Mr. Tompkins, settling himself in his corner.

The gentleman, evidently a Southern man, seeing that Mr. Tompkins was
indisposed to carry on any further conversation, relapsed into silence.
With another effort Mr. Tompkins conquered the stupor which, with all
its fantastic concomitants, was once more overcoming him, and sat bolt
upright in his seat.

"This has been a fearful week," he soliloquized, "but I have done all I
could."

The gentleman by his side, catching the last part of the remark, and
supposing it had reference to the present journey, remarked:

"Yes, it is not the fault of the passengers, but of the managers of this
line. They should be prepared for such emergencies, and have a supply of
fresh horses."

Observing that his exclamation, though misinterpreted, had arrested
attention, Mr. Tompkins, to guard against its recurrence, lest he should
divulge the subject of his disturbed thoughts, aroused himself and
resisted, with determination, the stupor that was overcoming him. It was
while thus combating the fatigue that weighed him down that the
stage-coach came to a very sudden stop.

The driver, pressing his face to the aperture at the top of the coach,
cried out:

"Here we are at Lander's Hill, and I be hanged if the hosses are able to
drag ye all up. They are completely fagged out, so I guess ye men
folks'll hev to hoof it to the top, an' occasionally give us a push, or
we'll stick here until mornin'."

"How far is it to where we can stop over night?" asked the passenger who
had endeavored to draw Mr. Tompkins into conversation.

"After we git on top of the hill it's only 'bout three miles to Jerry
Lycan's inn, where we'll stop for the night, an' it's down hill 'most
all the way," replied the driver.

With much grumbling and many imprecations on the heads of the managers
of the stage line, the passengers clambered out of the coach. A long,
muddy hill, in places quite steep, lay before them. It was nearly half a
mile to the top, and portions of the road were scarcely passable even
in good weather.

"These are public roads in Virginia!" exclaimed one gentleman, as he
alighted in the mud.

"We can't have railroads to every place," essayed a fellow-traveler,
evidently a Virginian; "but you will find our soil good."

"Yes, good for sticking purposes," said the first speaker, trying to
shake some of the mud from his boots; "I never saw soil with greater
adhesive qualities."

"Now look 'ee," said the driver, "we'll hev some purty smart jogs, where
the hosses 'll not be able to pull up, and you'll hev to put your
shoulders agin the coach an' give us a push."

"May I be blessed!" ejaculated the Southerner. "They are not even
content to make us walk, but want us to draw the coach."

"Better to do that an' hev a coach at the top to ride in than to walk
three miles," said the driver.

After allowing his horses a brief rest, the driver cracked his whip and
the lumbering coach moved on, the passengers slowly plodding along
behind. None seemed pleased with the prospect of a walk up the long,
muddy hill, but the grumbling Southerner manifested a more decided
repugnance than either of the others.

"This is worse than wading through Carolina swamps waist deep," he
exclaimed, as he trudged along, dragging his weary feet and
mud-freighted boots after him.

The coach had not proceeded more than a dozen rods when it came to one
of the "jogs" in the hill alluded to by the driver. "Now help here, or
we'll stick sure. Git up!" cried the driver, and the poor, tired horses
nerved themselves for the extra effort required of them. The ascent here
was both steep and slippery, and it required the united strength of
horses and passengers to pass the coach over the place.

Here the passengers discovered the prodigious strength which lay in the
broad shoulders of Mr. Tompkins. Not a murmur had escaped his lips when
required to walk up the hill, and he was the first to place his shoulder
to the wheel to push the coach over the difficult passage. To still
further increase the discomforts of their position they were thoroughly
drenched by a passing shower which overtook them before they reach the
summit of the hill. Here they again climbed into the coach, and resuming
their seats, were whirled along through the gathering darkness toward
the inn.

Old Jerry Lycan stood on the long porch of his old-fashioned Virginia
tavern, and peered down the road through the gloom. It had been dark but
a few moments. The old man's ears caught the sound of wheels coming down
the road, and he knew the stage was not far off.

"The roads are just awful," said the landlord, "and no wonder it is
belated."

The night was intensely dark; not a star was to be seen in the sky; an
occasional flash of lightning momentarily lit up surrounding objects,
only to render the blackness more complete. Far down the road the old
man's eyes caught a glimpse of the coach-lights bobbing up and down as
the ponderous vehicle oscillated over the rough roads. Approaching
slowly, like a wearied thing of life, the cumbrous stage at last
appeared, made visible only by its own lamps, which the driver had
lighted. The splashing of six horses along the miry roads and the dull
rolling of the huge wheels made the vehicle heard long before it was
seen.

"Rube haint no outside passengers to-night," said the landlord, seeing
that the top seats of the coach were vacant. "'Spose nobody'd want to
ride out in the rain."

"Here ye are at Lycan's inn," called out the driver to the inmates of
the coach as he reined in his weary horses in front of the roadside
tavern.

Uncle Jerry as he was called, with his old, perforated tin lantern, came
to open the stage door and show his guests into the house. Rube, the
driver, tossing the reins to the stable-boy, climbed down from his lofty
perch, and went into the bar-room to get "something hot" to warm his
benumbed body.

The landlord brought the wet and weary men into the room, where a great
fire was blazing, and promised that supper should be ready by the time
they were dry. The Southerner declared that he was much too dry within,
though he was dripping wet without. Uncle Jerry smiling invited him
into the bar-room. The Southerner needed no second invitation, and soon
returned, saying that Virginia inns were not so bad after all.

The lady had been shown to a private apartment, while the gentlemen were
attempting to dry their clothing by the fire in the public room. The
Southerner, who had been in much better humor since his visit to the
bar, seemed now to look very philosophically upon his soaking and other
inconveniences of travel.

Our planter, Mr. Tompkins, sat in front of the pile of blazing logs,
gazing at the bright, panoramic pictures constantly forming there.
Sleeping or waking, darkness of the stage-coach and in those glowing
embers, he saw but one picture, and its horrors were constantly haunting
his mind.

The other guests talked and laughed while their soaked clothes were
drying, but Mr. Tompkins was silent, whether sitting or standing. Almost
before their clothes were dry supper was announced, and they all
repaired to the long, low dining room and seated themselves at the
table. The supper, plain and substantial, was just suited to the needs
of the hungry guests.

The evening meal over, they returned to the sitting room. The Southerner
had lit a cigar, and kept up a constant flow of conversation.

"Virginia is too near the Free-soilers," he said, evidently directing
his remarks to Mr. Tompkins; "don't they come over here and steal your
niggers?"

"They never have," Mr. Tompkins answered.

"I take it for granted you own slaves?"

"Yes, sir; I have a number on my plantation, and never have had one
stolen yet."

"Don't the 'Barnburners,' 'Wooly Heads' and Abolitionists from Ohio and
Pennsylvania come over here and steal them away?"

"They have never taken any from me."

"Well, that's a wonder. I know a number of good men on the border who
find it impossible to keep niggers at all."

"Perhaps they are not good masters," said Mr. Tompkins.

"They were the best of masters, and they lost their niggers, though
they guarded them with watchful overseers and bloodhounds."

"But do you think that a good master needs to guard his slaves with
armed overseers and dogs?" said Mr. Tompkins.

"Of course," the Carolinian answered; "how else would you keep the black
rascals in subjection? Are we not horrified almost every week by reports
of some of their outrages? Swamps and canebrakes have become the haunts
of runaway blacks, who, having murdered their master, seek to wreck
vengeance on innocent children or women."

Mr. Tompkins started at these assertions, as though he felt a pang at
his heart.

"My friend, what you say is true, too true," he said; "but is the master
always blameless? The negro possesses feelings, and even a beast may be
goaded to madness. Is it not an unrighteous system which is crushing and
cursing our beloved country?"

"What system?"

"Slavery."

"Why, sir, you are a singular slave-holder," cried the Southerner. "Are
you going to turn a Martin Van Buren and join the Free-soilers?"

"There is a great deal in that question, sir, outside of politics. I
believe in slavery, else I would not own a slave; but, if our slaves are
to be treated as animals, it were better if the institution were
abolished."

"How would you treat them?"

"Discharge the overseers, to begin with."

"I am sure, you would fail."

"The plan has succeeded well on my plantation," said Mr. Tompkins, "and
I do not own a single negro who would not die for me."

Here were met two men, both believing in the institution of human
slavery, but carrying out its principles, how differently! The one with
cool Northern blood and kindly feelings, advocating a humane mode of
ruling the helpless being in his power. The other, representing the
extreme type of refined cruelty and oppression. The mind of the one grew
more and more in harmony with the idea of abolition, while the other
came to hate, with all the fierceness of his Southern heart, the idea of
universal freedom; became willing, even, to strike at that flag which
had failed to protect his interests and his opinions.

The date at which we write was directly after the election and
inauguration of Taylor as President of the United States. The opposition
to human slavery had steadily been gaining ground, regardless of taunts
and sneers, and the ranks of the Abolitionists were hourly on the
increase. Slavery was peculiarly a selfish institution. It is folly to
say that only men born and reared in the South could be numbered among
the upholders of this "peculiar institution," for many Northern men went
South and purchased plantations and slaves, and in 1861 many of these
enlisted on the Confederate side, and fought under the Confederate flag,
not from principle, but from self-interest.

Mr. Tompkins, who was Northern born, believed in slavery simply because
he owned slaves, and not from any well defined principle. Even now the
same conflict that later convulsed the Nation was raging in his
heart--the conflict between self-interest and the right. Press and
pulpit, the lecturer's rostrum and the novelist's pen, had almost
wrought out the doom of slavery, when the politician took up the stormy
dispute.

The discussion in the Virginia inn was warm but friendly, the Carolinian
declaring that God and Nature had ordained the negro for slavery; that
his diet should be the ash-cake, his stimulant the whip, his reward for
obedience a blanket and a hut, his punishment for rebellion chains and
death. Doubtless his passion over-reached his judgment in the heat of
argument, and his brain, perhaps, was not so cool since his visit to the
bar-room.

"My dear sir," Mr. Tompkins finally said, hoping to end the discussion,
which was drawing to them the attention of all, "the policy you suggest
will, I fear, plunge our whole country into trouble. Few men are born
rulers, and history has never shown one successful who ruled by harsh
measures only. Admitting that a negro is not a rational being, kindness
with a beast can accomplish more than harshness. It is cruel masters who
make runaway slaves. The parting of parent and child, husband and wife,
torn ruthlessly asunder, never to see each other again, will make even a
negro furious. I fear, sir, that slavery is a bad institution, but it is
firmly established among us, and I see no way at present to get rid of
it."

The other guests at Jerry Lycan's inn had gathered in groups of two and
three, and were listening silently to the differing views of these two
upholders of slavery, for there were factions in those days among the
slavery men. The landlord had entered the room, and, being a politician
himself, drank in the discussion with deepest interest.

Just as the argument was at its height the outer door of the inn opened
and a boy, wild-eyed, but handsome, entered. A glance at the strangely
wild eyes and disheveled hair convinced all present that he was insane.
He was about twelve years of age, with a slender figure and a
well-shaped head, but some great shock had unseated his reason. His
mania was of a mild, harmless type. Walking directly up to Mr. Tompkins,
he said:

"Have you seen my father? You look very much like my father, but I know
he has not yet come into Egypt."

The voice was so plaintive and sad that it touched at once the hearts of
all, and happily put an end to the conversation.

"Who is your father?" asked Mr. Tompkins.

"Jacob is my father. I am his favorite son. My brothers sold me a slave
into Egypt, and told my father I had been slain by wild beasts. Have you
seen my father?"

"He is crazy. Humor him, say something to him," whispered the landlord.

"Your father is not yet ready to come into Egypt," said Mr. Tompkins.

"And my brother Benjamin--did you see him?" the lad asked.

"Yes."

"Is the famine sore in the land where my father dwells?"

"Yes."

"And does he suffer--is he old? Oh, yes, I remember; my father must be
dead." He seated himself on a low stool by the fireside, and, bowing his
head in his hands, seemed lost in thought.

"He does that twenty times a day," said the landlord.

"Who is he?" asked one of the travelers, "and where does he come from?"

"He has been here only a few days, and I know nothing about him. His
first question was, 'Have you seen my father Jacob?'"

"Have you tried to find out about him?" asked Mr. Tompkins.

"Yes, but to no purpose," answered Uncle Jerry. "He came one morning and
said he was fleeing from Potiphar's wrath. After inquiring for his
father, he remained silent for some time. I tried to find where he came
from, but no one knows and he can not tell. I should judge by the
clothes he wore that he was from the South, and, from the worn condition
of his shoes, that he came a great way. He is of some respectable
family, for he has been well educated, and I fancy it's too much book
learning that has turned the boy's head. He talks of Plato and Socrates
and Aristotle, and all the ancient philosophers, and his familiarity
with historical events shows him to have been a student; but he always
imagines that he is Joseph."

"Where does he live?" asked Mr. Tompkins.

"Oh, he stays here at the inn, and shows no disposition to leave. He
makes himself useful by helping the stable-boy and carries in fuel,
imagining himself a servant of the high priest."

"Has he lucid intervals?" asked Mr. Tompkins.

"No, not what could be called lucid intervals. Once he said to a girl in
the kitchen that it was books that made his head dizzy, and said
something of a home a great ways off, from which he had fled to escape
great violence. They hoped then to clear up the mystery, but the next
moment his mind wandered again and he was Joseph sold into Egypt,
bewailing his father Jacob and his brother Benjamin."

"What is his name?" asked Mr. Tompkins.

"We can't get any other name than Joseph, and the boys here call him
Crazy Joe."

"His malady may be curable; have you consulted a physician about it?"
inquired the Californian, who was very much interested in the strange
case.

"Yes, sir; a doctor from the State Lunatic Asylum was here day before
yesterday, but he pronounced him incurable."

"Could not the doctor tell how long he had been in this condition?"
asked Mr. Tompkins.

"Not with certainty, but thought it only a few weeks or months. He said
he had probably escaped from his guard and ran away."

At this moment the subject of conversation rose from the low stool and
looked about with a vacant stare.

"Do you want to go home to your parents?" Mr. Tompkins asked.

"When the famine is sore in the land they will come for me."

"Why did you run away?"

"My brothers sold me to the merchants with their camels. They made my
father believe I was killed, and brought me here and sold me; but I know
it is written that my brother Benjamin will come and bring my father to
me."

"Is it not written that Jacob did go down into Egypt with his whole
family, and that he wept on Joseph's neck, and said he was willing to
die?" said Mr. Tompkins, to lead him out of this strange hallucination.

"Yes, yes--oh, yes!" the boy cried, eagerly.

"Did not Moses deliver the children of Israel from bondage long after
Jacob's death?"

"I remember now that he did," said Joe.

"Then how can you be Joseph, when he died three or four thousand years
ago?"

The boy reflected a moment, and then said:

"Who can I be, if I am not Joseph?"

"Some one who imagines himself Joseph," said Mr. Tompkins. "Now, try to
think who you really are and where you came from."

"I am not Socrates, for he drank the hemlock and died, nor am I Julius
Caesar, for he was killed by Brutus," the poor lunatic replied.

"Try to think what was your father's name," persisted Mr. Tompkins,
hoping to discover something.

"My father's name was Jacob, and I was sold a slave into Egypt by my
brothers; but there must be something wrong; my father must be dead."

Again he seated himself on the low stool and buried his face in his
hands.

"It's no use," said the landlord; "that's as near as you'll ever come to
knowing who he is from him. I have advertised him in the Pittsburg
daily, but no one has come yet to claim him."

"A very strange hallucination," said the Carolinian. "Is he always
mild?"

"Yes; he is never cross or sullen, and seems delighted with children. He
answers them in many ways."

It was growing late, and the weary travelers were ready to go to bed.
The landlord assisted by Crazy Joe and another boy, took lighted candles
to the various rooms for the guests.

By the combined aid of a good supper, a warm discussion on slavery, and
his interest in the insane boy, Mr. Tompkins had succeeded in fighting
away the legion of gloomy thoughts that harassed his mind, and a few
minutes after retiring was sleeping peacefully.




CHAPTER II.

A NEW ARRIVAL.


Forty years ago a Virginia planter was a king, his broad acres his
kingdom, his wife his queen, his children heirs to his throne, and his
slaves his subjects. True, it was a petty kingdom and he but a petty
monarch; but, as a rule, petty monarchs are tyrannical, and the Southern
planter was not always an exception. In those days men were measured,
not by moral worth, mental power, or physical stature, but by the number
of acres and slaves they owned. The South has never possessed that
sturdy class of yeomanry that has achieved wonders in the North. Before
the war labor was performed by slaves, now it is done by hired help, the
farmer himself there seldom cultivating his soil.

The home of Mr. George W. Tompkins, our acquaintance, was a marvel of
beauty and taste. Located in the Northwestern portion of the State,
before its division, it was just where the heat of the South was
delightfully tempered by the cool winds of the North. No valley in all
Virginia was more lovely. To the east were hills which might delight any
mountain lover, all clothed and fringed with delicate evergreens,
through which could be caught occasional glimpses of precipitous bald
rocks. Over the heights the sun climbed every morning to illuminate the
valley below with a radiance of glory. Mountain cascades came tumbling
and plunging from mossy retreats to swell a clear pebble-strewn stream
which afforded the finest trout to be found in the entire State.

The great mansion, built after the old Virginia plan, with a long stone
piazza in front, stood on an eminence facing the post-road, which ran
within a few rods of it. The house was substantial, heavy columns,
painted white as marble, supporting the porch, and quaint, old-fashioned
gables, about which the swallows twittered, breaking the lines of the
roof. In the front yard grew the beech and elm and chestnut tree, their
wide-spreading branches indicating an existence for centuries. A little
below the structure, and south-west from it, was a colony of low, small
buildings, where dwelt the slaves of Mr. Tompkins. One or two were
nearer, and in these the domestics lived. These were a higher order of
servants than the field-hands, and they never let an opportunity pass to
assert their superiority over their fellow slaves.

Socially, as well as geographically, Mr. Tompkins' home combined the
extremes of the North and South. He, with his calm face and mild gray
eyes, was a native of the green hills of New Hampshire, while his
dark-eyed wife was a daughter of sunny Georgia.

Mrs. Tompkins was the only child of a wealthy Georgia planter. Mr.
Tompkins had met her first in Atlanta, where he was spending the Winter
with a class-mate, both having graduated at Yale the year before. Their
meeting grew into intimacy, from intimacy it ripened into love. Shortly
after the marriage of his daughter, his only child, the planter
exchanged his property for more extensive possessions in Virginia, but
he never occupied this new home. He and his wife were in New Orleans,
when the dread malady, yellow-fever, seized upon them, and they died
before their daughter or her husband could go to them.

Mr. Tompkins, a man who had always been opposed to slavery, thus found
himself the owner of a large plantation in Virginia, and more than a
hundred slaves. There seemed to be no other alternative, and he accepted
the situation, and tried, by being a humane master, to conciliate his
wounded conscience for being a master at all.

He and his only brother, Henry, had inherited a large and valuable
property from their father, in their native State. His brother, like
himself, had gone South and married a planter's daughter, and become a
large slave-holder. He was a far different man from his brother.
Naturally overbearing and cruel, he seemed to possess none of the
other's kindness of heart or cool, dispassionate reason. He was a hard
task-master, and no "fire-eating" Southerner ever exercised his power
more remorselessly than he, and no one hated the Abolition party more
cordially. But it is not with Henry Tompkins we have to deal at present.

It was near noon the day after the travelers reached Jerry Lycan's inn.
Mrs. Tompkins sat on the piazza, looking down the road that led to the
village. She was one of those Southern beauties who attract at a first
glance; her eyes large, and dark, and brilliant; her hair soft and
glossy, like waves of lustrous silk. Of medium height, though not quite
so slender as when younger, her form was faultless. Her cheek had the
olive tint of the South, and as she reclined with indolent grace in her
easy chair, one little foot restlessly tapping the carpet on which it
rested, she looked a very queen.

The Tompkins mansion was the grandest for many miles around, and the
whole plantation bore evidence of the taste and judgment of its owner.
There seemed to be nothing, from the crystal fountain splashing in front
of the white-pillared dwelling to the vast fields of corn, wheat and
tobacco stretching far into the back-ground, which did not add to the
beauty of the place.

On the north were barns, immense and well filled granaries and stables.
Then came tobacco houses, covering acres of ground. One would hardly
have suspected the plain, unpretentious Mr. Tompkins as being the
possessor of all this wealth. But his house held his greatest
treasures--two bright little boys, aged respectively nine and seven
years.

Abner, the elder, had bright blue eyes and the clear Saxon complexion of
his father. Oleah, the younger, was of the same dark Southern type as
his mother. They were two such children as even a Roman mother might
have been proud to call her jewels. Bright and affectionate, they
yielded a quick obedience to their parents, and--a remarkable thing for
boys--were always in perfect accord.

"Oh, mamma, mamma!" cried Oleah, following close after his brother, and
quite as much excited.

"Well, what is the matter?" the mother asked, with a smile.

"It's coming! it's coming! it's coming!" cried Oleah.

"He's coming! he's coming!" shouted Abner.

"Who is coming?" asked the mother.

"Papa, papa, papa!" shouted both at the top of their voices. "Papa is
coming down the big hill on the stage-coach."

Mrs. Tompkins was now looking for herself. Sure enough there was the
great, old-fashioned stage-coach lumbering down the hill, and her
husband was an outside passenger, as the sky was now clear and the sun
shone warm and bright. The clumsy vehicle showed the mud-stains of its
long travel, and the roads in places were yet filled with water.

The winding of the coachman's horn, which never failed to set the boys
dancing with delight, sounded mellow and clear on the morning air.

"It's going to stop! it's going to stop!" cried Oleah, clapping his
little hands.

"It's going to stop! it's going to stop!" shouted Abner, and both kept
up a frantic shouting, "Whoa, whoa!" to the prancing horses as they drew
near the house.

It paused in front of the gate, and Mrs. Tompkins and her two boys
hurried down the walk.

Mr. Tompkins' baggage had just been taken from the boot and placed
inside the gate, and the stage had rolled on, as his wife and two boys
came up to the traveler.

"Mamma first, and me next," said Oleah, preparing his red lips for the
expected kiss.

"And I come after Oleah," said Abner.

Mr. Tompkins called to a negro boy who was near to carry the baggage to
the house, and the happy group made their way to the great piazza, the
two boys clinging to their father's hands and keeping up a torrent of
questions. Where had he been? What had he seen? What had he brought home
for them? The porch reached, Mrs. Tompkins drew up the arm-chair for her
tired husband.

"Rest a few minutes," she said, "and then you can take a bath and change
your clothes, and you will feel quite yourself once more."

The planter took the seat, with a bright-faced child perched on each
side of him.

"You were gone so long without writing that I became uneasy," said his
wife, drawing her chair close to his side.

"I had a great deal to do," he answered, shaking his head sadly, "and it
was terrible work, I assure you. The memory of the past three weeks, I
fear, will never leave my mind."

"Was it as terrible as the message said?" asked Mrs. Tompkins, with a
shudder.

"Yes, the horrible story was all true. The whole family was murdered."

"By whom?"

"That remains a mystery, but it is supposed to have been done by one of
the slaves, as two or three ran away about that time."

"How did it happen? Tell me all."

The little boys were sent away, for this story was not for children to
hear, and Mr. Tompkins proceeded.

"We could hardly believe the news the dispatch brought us, my dear, but
it did not tell us the worst. The roads between here and North Carolina
are not the best, and I was four or five days making it, even with the
aid of a few hours occasionally by rail. I found my brother's next
neighbor, Mr. Clayborne, at the village waiting for me. On the way he
told all that he or any one seemed to know of the affair. My brother had
a slave who was half negro and part Indian, with some white blood in his
veins. This slave had a quadroon wife, whom he loved with all his wild,
passionate heart. She was very beautiful, and a belle among the negroes.
But Henry, for some disobedience on the part of the husband, whose
Indian and white blood revolted against slavery, sold the wife to a
Louisiana sugar planter. The half breed swore he would be revenged, and
my brother, unfortunately possessing a hasty temper, had him tied up and
severely whipped--"

"Served the black rascal quite right," interrupted the wife, who, being
Southern born, could not endure the least self-assertion on the part of
a slave.

"I think not, my dear, though we will not argue the question. After his
punishment the black hung about for a week or two, sullen and silent.
Several friends cautioned my brother to beware of him, but Henry was
headstrong and took no man's counsel. Suddenly the slave disappeared,
and although the woods, swamps and cane-breaks were scoured by
experienced hunters and dogs he could not be found. Three weeks had
passed, and all thought of the runaway had passed from the minds of the
people. Late one night the man who told me this was passing my brother's
house, when he saw flames shooting about the roof and out of the
windows. He gave the alarm, and roused the negroes. As he ran up the
lawn toward the house a bloody ax met his view. On entering the front
door my brother Henry was found lying in the hall, his skull cleft in
twain. I cannot repeat all that met the man's horror-stricken gaze. They
had only time to snatch away the bodies of my brother, his wife and two
of the children when the roof fell in."

"And the other two children?" asked Mrs. Tompkins.

"Were evidently murdered also, but their bodies could not be found. It
is supposed they were burned to ashes amid the ruins."

"Did you cause any extra search to be made?"

"I did, but it was useless. I have searched, searched,
searched--mountain, plain and swamp. The rivers were dragged, the wells
examined, the ruins raked, but in vain. The oldest and the youngest of
the children could not be found. A skull bone was discovered among the
ruins, but so burned and charred that it was impossible to tell whether
it belonged to a human being or an animal. I have done everything I
could think of, and yet something seems to tell me my task is not
over--my task is not over."

"What has been done with the plantation?" Mrs. Tompkins asked.

"The father of my brother's wife is the administrator of the estate, and
he will manage it."

"And the murderer?"

"No trace of him whatever. It seems as though, after performing his
horrible deed, he must have sank into the earth."

Mrs. Tompkins now, remembering that her husband needed a bath and a
change of clothes, hurried him into the house. The recital of that
horrible story had cast a shadow over her countenance, which she tried
in vain to drive away, and had reawakened in Mr. Tompkins' soul a
longing for revenge, though his better reason compelled him to admit
that the half-breed was goaded to madness and desperation.

The day passed gloomily enough after the first joy of the husband and
father's return. The next morning, just as the sun was peeping over the
gray peaks of the eastern mountains and throwing floods of golden light
into the valley below, dancing upon the stream of silver which wound
beneath, or splintering its ineffectual lances among the branches and
trunks of the grand old trees surrounding the plantation, Mr. Tompkins
was awakened from the dreamless sleep of exhaustion.

"What was that?" he asked of his wife.

Both waited a moment, listening, when again the feeble wail of an infant
reached their ears.

"It is a child's voice," said Mrs. Tompkins; "but why is it there?"

"Some of the negro children have strayed from the quarters; or, more
likely, it is the child of one of the house servants," said Mr.
Tompkins.

"The house servants have no children," answered Mrs. Tompkins, "and I
have cautioned the field women not to allow their children to come here
especially in the early morning, to annoy us."

Mr. Tompkins, whose morning nap was not yet over, closed his eyes again.
The melodious horn of the overseer, calling the slaves to the labors of
the day, sounded musical in the early morning air, and seemed only to
soothe the wearied master to sleep again. Footsteps were heard upon the
carpeted hallway, and then three or four light taps on the door of the
bedroom.

"Who is there?" asked Mrs. Tompkins.

"It's me, missus, if you please." The door was pushed open and a dark
head, wound in a red bandana handkerchief, appeared in the opening.

"What is the matter, Dinah?" Mrs. Tompkins asked, for she saw by the
woman's manner that something unusual had occurred. Dinah was her
mistress' handmaid and the children's nurse.

"If you please, missus," she said, "there is a queerest little baby on
the front porch in the big clothes-basket."

"A baby!" cried the astonished Mrs. Tompkins.

"Yes'm, a white baby."

"Where is its mother?"

"I don't know, missus. It must a been there nearly all night, an' I
suppose they who ever left it there wants you to keep it fur good."

"Bring the poor little thing here," said Mrs. Tompkins, rising to a
sitting position in the bed.

In a few minutes Dinah returned with a baby about six months old,
dressed in a faded calico gown, and hungrily sucking its tiny fist,
while its dark brown eyes were filled with tears.

"It was in de big basket among some ole clothes," said Dinah.

"Poor, dear little thing! it is nearly starved and almost frozen.
Prepare it some warm milk at once, Dinah," said the kind-hearted
mistress.

The girl hurried away to do her bidding, leaving the baby with Mrs.
Tompkins, who held the benumbed child in her arms and tried to still its
cries.

Mr. Tompkins was wide awake now, and his mind busy with conjecture how
the child came to be left on their piazza.

"What is that?" called Oleah, from the next room.

"Why, it's a baby," answered Abner, and a moment later two pairs of
little bare feet came pattering into their mother's room.

"Oh, the sweet little thing!" cried Oleah; "I want to kiss it."

His mother held it down for him to kiss.

"Isn't it pretty!" said Abner. "Its eyes are black, just like Oleah's.
Let me kiss it, too."

The little stranger looked in wonder at the two children, who, in their
joy over this treasure-trove, were dancing frantically about the room.

"Oh, mamma, where did you get it?" asked Oleah.

"Dinah found it on the porch," the mother answered.

"Who put it there?"

"I don't know, dear."

"Why, Oleah," said Abner, "it's just like old Mr. Post. Don't you know
he found a baby at his door? for we read about it in our First reader."

"Oh, yes; is this the same baby old Mr. Post found?" asked Oleah.

"No," answered the mother; "this is another."

"Oh, isn't it sweet?" said Oleah, as the child cried and stretched out
its tiny hands.

"It's just as pretty as it can be," said Abner.

"Mamma, oh, mamma!" said Oleah, shaking his mother's arm, as she did not
pay immediate attention to his call.

"What, dear?" she asked.

"Are we goin' to keep it?"

"Yes, dear; if some one who has a better right to it does not come to
claim it."

"They shan't have it," cried Oleah, stamping his little, bare foot on
the carpet.

"No," added Abner; "it's ours now. They left it there to starve and
freeze, and now we will keep it."

"You think, then, that the real owner has lost his title by his
neglect?" said the father, with a smile.

"Yes, that's it," the boy answered.

"It's a very good common law idea, my son."

Dinah now came in with warm milk for the baby, and Mrs. Tompkins told
her to take the two boys to their room and dress them; but they wanted
to wait first and see the baby eat.

"Oh, don't it eat; don't it eat!" cried the boys.

"The poor little thing is almost starved," said the mother.

"Missus, how d'ye reckin it came on the porch?" Dinah asked.

"I cannot think who would have left it," answered Mrs. Tompkins.

"That is not a very young baby," said Mr. Tompkins, watching the little
creature eat greedily from the spoon, for Dinah had now taken it and was
feeding it.

"No, marster, not berry, 'cause it's got two or free teef," said the
nurse. "Spect it's 'bout six months old."

As soon as the little stranger had been fed, Dinah wrapped it in a warm
blanket and laid it on Mrs. Tompkin's bed, where it soon fell asleep,
showing it was exhausted as well as hungry. Dinah then led the two boys
to the room to wash and dress them.

"Strange, strange!" said Mrs. Tompkins, beginning to dress. "Who can the
little thing belong to, and what are we to do with it?"

"Keep it, I suppose," said Mr. Tompkins; and, stumbling over a
boot-jack, he exclaimed in the same breath, "Oh, confound it!"

"What, the baby?"

"No, the boot-jack. I've stubbed my toe on it."

"We have no right to take upon ourselves the rearing of other people's
children," said Mrs. Tompkins, paying no attention to her husband's
trifling injury.

"But it's our Christian duty to see that the little thing does not die
of cold and hunger," said Mr. Tompkins, caressing his aching toe.

Soon the boys came in, ready for breakfast, and inquired for the baby;
when told that it was sleeping, they wanted to see it asleep, and stole
on tiptoe to the bed, where the wearied little thing lay, and nothing
would satisfy them until they were permitted to touch the pale,
pinched, tear-stained cheek with their fresh, warm lips.

The breakfast bell rang, and they went down to the dining-room, where
awaiting them was a breakfast such as only Aunt Susan could prepare.
They took their places at the table, while a negro girl stood behind
each, to wait upon them and to drive away flies with long brushes of
peacock feathers. The boys were so much excited by the advent of the
strange baby that they could scarcely keep quiet long enough to eat.

"I am going to draw it on my wagon," said Oleah.

"I'm going to let it ride my pony," said Abner.

"Don't think too much of the baby yet, for some one may come and claim
it," said their mother.

"They shan't have it, shall they, papa?" cried Oleah.

"No, it is our baby now."

"And we are going to keep it, ain't we, Aunt Susan!" he asked the cook,
as she entered the dining-room.

"Yes, bress yo' little heart; dat baby am yours," said Aunt Susan.

"It's a Christmas gift, ain't it, Maggie?" he asked the waiter behind
him. Oleah was evidently determined to array everyone's opinion against
his mother's supposition.

"Yes, I reckin it am," the negro girl answered with a grin.

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Abner. "Why, Oleah, this ain't Christmas."

Seeing his mistake, Oleah joined in the laugh, but soon commenced again.

"We're goin' to make the baby a nice, new play-house, ain't we, Abner?"

"Yes, and a swing."

The baby slept nearly all the forenoon. When she woke (for it was a
girl) she was washed, and dressed in some of Master Oleah's clothes, and
Mrs. Tompkins declared the child a marvel of beauty, and when the little
thing turned her dark eyes on her benefactor with a confiding smile the
lady resolved that no sorrow that she could avert should cloud the
sweet, innocent face.

When the boys came in they began a war dance, which made the baby
scream with delight. Impetuous Oleah snatched her from his mother's lap,
and both boy and baby rolled over on the floor, fortunately not hurting
either. His mother scolded, but the baby crowed and laughed, and he
showered a hundred kisses on the little white face.

A boy about twelve years of age was coming down the lane. He entered the
gate and was coming towards the house. Mr. Tompkins, who was in the
sitting-room, in a moment recognized the boy as Crazy Joe, and told his
wife about the unfortunate lad. He met the boy on the porch.

"How do you do, Joe?" he asked, extending his hand.

"I am well," Joe answered. "Have you seen my father Jacob or my brother
Benjamin?"

"No, they have not yet come," answered the planter.

For several years after, Joe was a frequent visitor. There was no
moment's lapse of his melancholy madness, which yet seemed to have a
peculiar method in it, and the mystery that hid his past but deepened
and intensified.




CHAPTER III.

DINNER TALK.


America furnishes to the world her share of politicians. The United
States, with her free government, her freedom of thought, freedom of
speech and freedom of press, is prolific in their production. One who
had given the subject but little thought, and no investigation, would be
amazed to know their number. Nearly every boy born in the United States
becomes a politician, with views more or less pronounced, and the
subject is by no means neglected by the feminine portion of the
community. That part of Virginia, the scene of our story, abounded with
"village tavern and cross-roads politicians." Snagtown, on Briar creek,
was a village not more than three miles from Mr. Tompkins'. It boasted
of two taverns and three saloons, where loafers congregated to talk
about the weather, the doings in Congress, the terrible state of the
country, and their exploits in catching "runaway niggers." A large per
cent of our people pay more attention to Congressional matters than to
their own affairs. We do not deny that it is every man's right to
understand the grand machinery of this Government, but he should not
devote to it the time which should be spent in caring for his family.
Politics should not intoxicate men and lead them from the paths of
honest industry, and furnish food for toughs to digest at taverns and
street corners.

Anything which affords a topic of conversation is eagerly welcomed by
the loafer; and it is little wonder that politics is a theme that rouses
all his enthusiasm. It not only affords him food, but drink as well,
during a campaign. Many are the neglected wives and starving children
who, in cold and cheerless homes, await the return of the husband and
father, who sits, warm and comfortable, in some tavern, laying plans for
the election of a school director or a town overseer.

Snagtown could tell its story. It contained many such neglected homes,
and the thriftless vagabonds who constituted the voting majority never
failed to raise an excitement, to provoke bitter feelings and foment
quarrels on election day.

Plump, and short, and sleek was Mr. Hezekiah Diggs, the justice of the
peace of Snagtown. Like many justices of the peace, he brought to the
performance of his duties little native intelligence, and less acquired
erudition; but what he lacked in brains he made up in brass. He was one
of the foremost of the political gossipers of Snagtown, and had filled
his present position for several years.

'Squire Diggs was hardly in what might be termed even moderate
circumstances, though he and his family made great pretension in
society. He was one of that rare class in Virginia--a poor man who had
managed by some inexplicable means, to work his way into the better
class of society. His wife, unlike himself, was tall, slender and sharp
visaged. Like him, she was an incessant talker, and her gossip
frequently caused trouble in the neighborhood. Scandal was seized on as
a sweet morsel by the hungry Mrs. Diggs, and she never let pass an
opportunity to spread it, like a pestilence, over the town.

They had one son, now about twelve years of age, the joy and pride of
their hearts, and as he was capable of declaiming, "The boy stood on the
burning deck," his proud father discovered in him the future orator of
America, and determined that Patrick Henry Diggs should study law and
enter the field of politics. The boy, full of his father's conviction,
and of a conceit all his own, felt within his soul a rising greatness
which one day would make him the foremost man of the Nation. He did not
object to his father's plan; he was willing to become either a statesman
or a lawyer, but having read the life of Washington, he would have
chosen to be a general, only that there were now no redcoats to fight.
Poor as Diggs' family was, they boasted that they associated only with
the _elite_ of Southern society.

'Squire Diggs had informed Mr. Tompkins that he and his family would pay
him a visit on a certain day, as he wished to consult him on some
political matters, and Mr. Tompkins and his hospitable lady, setting
aside social differences, prepared to make their visitors welcome. On
the appointed day they were driven up in their antiquated carriage,
drawn by an old gray horse, and driven by a negro coachman older than
either. Mose was the only slave that the 'Squire owned, and though sixty
years of age, he served the family faithfully in a multiform capacity.
He pulled up at the door of the mansion, and climbing out somewhat
slowly, owing to age and rheumatism, he opened the carriage door and
assisted the occupants to alight.

Though Mrs. Tompkins felt an unavoidable repugnance for the gossiping
Mrs. Diggs, she was too sensible a hostess to treat an uninvited guest
otherwise than cordially.

"I've been just dying to come and see you," said Mrs. Diggs, as soon as
she had removed her wraps and taken her seat in an easy chair, with a
bottle of smelling salts in her hand and her gold-plated spectacles on
her nose, "you have been having so many strange things happen here; and
I told the 'Squire we must come over, for I thought the drive might do
me good, and I wanted to hear all about the murder of your husband's
brother's family, and see that strange baby and the crazy boy. Isn't it
strange, though? Who could have committed that awful murder? Who put
that baby on your piazza, and who is this crazy boy?"

Mrs. Tompkins arrested this stream of interrogatories by saying that it
was all a mystery, and they had as yet been unable to find a clew.
Baffled at the very onset in the chief object of her visit, Mrs. Diggs
turned her thoughts at once into new channels, and, graciously
overlooking Mrs. Tompkins' inability to gratify her curiosity, began to
recount the news and gossip and small scandals of the neighborhood.

'Squire Diggs was in the midst of an animated conversation on his
favorite theme, the politics of the day. The slavery question was just
assuming prominence. Henry Clay, Martin Van Buren, and others, had at
times hinted at emancipation, while John Brown and Jared Clarkson, and a
host of lesser lights, were making the Nation quake with the thunders of
their eloquence from rostrum and pulpit. 'Squire Diggs was bitter in his
denunciations of Northerners, believing that they intended "to take our
niggers from us." He invariably emphasized the pronoun, and always spoke
of _niggers_ in the plural, as though he owned a hundred instead of one.
'Squire Diggs was one of a class of people in the South known as the
most bitter slavery men, the small slaveholders--a class that bewailed
most loudly the freedom of the negro, because they had few to free. At
dinner he said:

"Slavery is of divine origin, and all John Brown and Jared Clarkson can
say will never convince the world otherwise."

"I sometimes think," said Mr. Tompkins, "that the country would be
better off with the slaves all in Siberia."

"What? My dear sir, how could we exist?" cried 'Squire Diggs, his small
eyes growing round with wonder. "If the slaves were taken from us, who
would cultivate these vast fields?"

"Do it ourselves, or by hired help," answered the planter.

"My dear sir, the idea is impracticable," said the 'Squire, hotly. "We
cannot give up our slaves. Slavery is of divine origin. The niggers,
descending from Ham, were cursed into slavery. The Bible says so, and no
nigger-loving Abolitionist need deny it."

"I believe my husband is an emancipationist," said Mrs. Tompkins, with
a smile.

"I am," said Mr. Tompkins; "not so much for the slaves' good as for the
masters'. Slavery is a curse to both white and black, and more to the
white than to the black. The two races can never live together in
harmony, and the sooner they are separated the better."

"How would you like to free them and leave them among us?" asked the
'Squire.

"That even would be better than to keep them among us in bondage."

"But Henry Clay, in his great speech on African colonization in the
House of Representatives, says: 'Of all classes of our population, the
most vicious is the free colored.' And, my dear sir, were this horde of
blacks turned loose upon us, without masters or overseers to keep them
in restraint, our lives would not be safe for a day. Domineering niggers
would be our masters, would claim the right to vote and hold office.
Imagine, my dear sir, an ignorant nigger holding an important office
like that of justice of the peace. Consider for a moment, Mr. Tompkins,
all of the horrors which would be the natural result of a lazy, indolent
race, incapable of earning their own living, unless urged by the lash,
being turned loose to shift for themselves. Slavery is more a blessing
to the slave than to the master. What was the condition of the negro in
his native wilds? He was a ruthless savage, hunting and fighting, and
eating fellow-beings captured in war. He knew no God, and worshiped
snakes, the sun and moon, and everything he could not understand. Our
slave-traders found him in this state of barbarism and misery. They
brought him here, and taught him to till the soil, and trained him in
the ways of peace, and led him to worship the true and living God. _Our_
niggers now have food to eat and clothes to wear, when in their native
country they were hungry and naked. They now enjoy all the blessings of
an advanced civilization, whereas they were once in the lowest
barbarism. Set them free, and they will drift back into their former
state."

"A blessing may be made out of their bondage," replied Mr. Tompkins.
"As Henry Clay said in the speech from which you have quoted, 'they will
carry back to their native soil the rich fruits of religion,
civilization, law and liberty. And may it not be one of the great
designs of the Ruler of the universe (whose ways are often inscrutable
by short-sighted mortals) thus to transform original crime into a single
blessing to the most unfortunate portions of the globe? But I fear we
uphold slavery rather for our own mercenary advantages than as a
blessing either to our country or to either race."

"Why, Mr. Tompkins, you are advocating Abolition doctrine," said Mrs.
Diggs.

"I believe I am, and that abolition is right."

"Would you be willing to lose your own slaves to have the niggers
freed?" asked the astonished 'Squire.

"I would willingly lose them to rid our country of a blighting curse."

"I would not," said Mrs. Tompkins, her Southern blood fired by the
discussion. "My husband is a Northern man, and advocates principles that
were instilled into his mind from infancy; but I oppose abolition from
principle. Slaves should be treated well and made to know their place;
but to set them free and ruin thousands of people in the South is the
idea of fanatics."

"I'm mamma's Democrat," said Oleah, who, seated at his mother's side,
concluded it best to approve her remarks by proclaiming his own
political creed.

"And I am papa's Whig," announced Abner, who was at his father's side.

"That's right, my son. You don't believe that people, because they are
black, should be bought and sold and beaten like cattle, do you?" asked
the father, looking down, half in jest and half in earnest, at his
eldest born.

"No; set the negroes free, and Oleah and I will plow and drive wagons,"
he replied, quickly.

"You don't believe it's right to take people's property from them for
nothing and leave people poor, do you, Oleah?" asked the mother, in
laughing retaliation.

"No, I don't," replied the young Southern aristocrat.

"You are liable to have both political parties represented in your own
family," said 'Squire Diggs. "Here's a difference of opinion already."

"Their differences will be easy to reconcile, for never did brothers
love each other as these do," returned Mr. Tompkins, little dreaming
that this difference of opinion was a breach that would widen, widen and
widen, separating the loving brothers, and bringing untold misery to his
peaceful home.

"What are you in favor of, Patrick Henry?" Mrs. Diggs asked, in her
shrill, sharp tones, of her own hopeful son.

"I'm in favor of freedom and the Stars and Stripes," answered Patrick
Henry, gnawing vigorously at the chicken bone he held in his hand.

"He is a patriot," exclaimed the 'Squire. "He talks of nothing so much
as Revolutionary days and Revolutionary heroes. He has such a taste for
military life that I'd send him to West Point, but his mother objects."

"Yes, I do object," put in the shrill-voiced, cadaverous Mrs. Diggs,
"They don't take a child of mine to their strict military schools. Why,
what if he was to get sick, away off there, and me here? I wouldn't stop
day or night till I got there."

Dinner over, the party repaired to the parlor, and 'Squire Diggs asked
his son to speak "one of his pieces" for the entertainment of the
company.

"What piece shall I say?" asked Patrick Henry, as anxious to display his
oratorical talents as his father was to have him.

"The piece that begins, 'I come not here to talk,'" said Mrs. Diggs, her
sallow features lit up with a smile that showed the tips of her false
teeth.

Several of the negroes, learning that a show of some kind was about to
begin in the parlor, crowded about the room, peeping in at the doors and
windows. Patrick Henry took his position in the centre of the room,
struck a pompous attitude, standing high as his short legs would permit,
and, brushing the hair from his forehead, bowed to his audience and, in
a high, loud monotone, began:


     "I come not to talk! You know too well
     The story of our thraldom. We--we--"


He paused and bowed his head.

"We are slaves," prompted the mother, who was listening with eager
interest. Mrs. Diggs had heard her son "say his piece" so often that she
had learned it herself, and now served as prompter. Patrick Henry
continued:


                         "We are slaves.
     The bright moon rises----"


"No, sun," interrupted his mother.


     "The bright sun rises in the East and lights
     A race of slaves. He sets--and the--last thing"--


The young orator was again off the track.

"And his last beam falls on a slave," again the fond mother prompted.

By being frequently prompted, Patrick Henry managed to "speak his piece
through."

While the mother, alert and watchful, listened and prompted, the father,
short, and sleek, and fat, leaned back in his chair, one short leg just
able to reach across the other, listening with satisfied pride to his
son's display.

"The poor child has forgotten some of it," said the mother, at the
conclusion.

"Yes," added the father; "he don't speak much now, and so has forgotten
a great deal that he knew."

Mr. Tompkins and his wife, inwardly regretting that he had not forgotten
all, willingly excused Patrick Henry from any further efforts. And
though they had welcomed and entertained their guests with the cordial
Southern hospitality, they felt somewhat relieved when the Diggs
carriage, with its ancient, dark-skinned coachman, rolled away over the
hills towards Snagtown.




CHAPTER IV.

MORE OF THE MYSTERY.


We have seen the perfect harmony which prevailed in the household of Mr.
Tompkins, though his wife and himself were of totally different
temperaments, and, on many subjects, held opposite opinions. He, with
his cool Northern blood, was careful and deliberate, slow in drawing
conclusions or forming a decision; but, once his stand was taken, firm
as a rock. She had all the quick Southern impetuosity, that at times
found rash expression, though her head was as clear and her heart as
warm as her husband's. Her prejudices were stronger than his, and her
reason was more frequently swayed by them.

The great Missouri Compromise was supposed to have settled the question
of slavery forever, and abolition was regarded only as the dream of
visionary fanatics. Though a freeholder by birth and principle,
circumstances had made Mr. Tompkins a slave-holder. He seldom expressed
his sentiments to his Southern neighbors, knowing how repugnant they
were to their feelings; but when his opinions were asked for he always
gave them freely. The movements on the political checker-board belong
rather to history than to a narrative of individual lives, yet because
of their effect on these lives, some of the most important must be
mentioned. While the abolition party was yet in embryo, the Southern
statesmen, or many of them, seeming to read the fate of slavery in the
future, had declared that the Union of States was only a compact or
co-partnership, which could be dissolved at the option of the
contracting parties. This gave rise to the principle of States' rights
and secession, and when the emancipation of the slaves was advocated,
Southern politicians began to talk more and more of dissolution.

Not only in political assemblies was the subject discussed, but even in
family circles, as we have seen. Mrs. Tompkins, of course, differed
from her husband on the subject of "State" rights, as she did on
slavery, and many were their debates on the theme. Their little sons,
observing their parents' interest in these questions, became concerned
themselves, and, as was very natural, took sides. Abner was the Whig and
Oleah his mother's Democrat. Still, love and harmony dwelt in that happy
household, though the prophetic ear might have heard in the distant
future the rattle of musketry on that fair, quiet lawn, and the clash of
brothers' swords in mortal combat beneath the roof which had sheltered
their infancy.

Little did these fond parents dream of the deep root those seeds of
political difference had taken in the breasts of their children, and the
bitter fruit of misery and horror they would bear. Their lives now ran
as quietly as a meadow brook. All the long Summer days they played
without an angry word or thought, or if either was hurt or grieved a
kiss or a tender word would heal the wound.

The tragic fate of his brother's family, and his unavailing efforts to
bring the murderers to justice, directed Mr. Tompkins' thoughts into new
channels. The strange baby grew in strength and beauty every day. Its
mysterious appearance among them continued to puzzle the family, and all
their efforts failed to bring any light on the subject. The servant to
whom was assigned the washing of the clothes the baby had on when found
was charged by her mistress to look closely for marks and letters upon
them. When her work was done, she came to Mrs. Tompkins' room, and that
lady asked:

"Have you found anything, Hannah?"

"Yes, missus; here am a word wif some letters in it," the woman
answered, holding up a little undershirt and pointing to some faint
lines.

Mrs. Tompkins took the garment, which, before being washed, had been so
soiled that even more legible lines than these would have been
undistinguishable; it was of the finest linen, and faintly, yet surely,
was the word "Irene" traced with indelible ink.

"As soon as all the clothes had been washed and dried, bring them to
me," said Mrs. Tompkins, hoping to find some other clew to the child's
parentage.

"Yes, missus," and Hannah went back to her washing.

"Irene," repeated Mrs. Tompkins aloud, as she looked down on the baby,
who was sitting on the rug, making things lively among a heap of toys
Abner and Oleah had placed before her.

The baby looked up and began crowing with delight.

"Oh, bless the darling; it knows its name!" cried Mrs. Tompkins. "Poor
little thing, it has seldom heard it lately. Irene! Irene! Irene!"

The baby, laughing and shouting, reached out its arms to the lady, who
caught it up and pressed it to her heart.

"Oh, mamma!" cried Oleah, running into the room, with his brother at his
heels, "me and Abner have just been talking about what to call the baby.
He wants to call it Tommy, and that's a boy's name, ain't it, mamma?"

"Of course it is--"

"And our baby is a girl, and must have a girl's name, musn't it, mamma?"

"Yes."

"I just said Tommy was a nice name; if our baby was a boy we'd call it
Tommy," explained Abner.

"But the baby has a name--a real pretty name," said the mother.

"A name! a name! What is it?" the brothers cried, capering about, and
setting the baby almost wild with delight.

"Her name is Irene," said Mrs. Tompkins.

"Oh, mamma, where did you get such a pretty name?" asked Abner.

"Who said it was Irene?" put in Oleah.

"I found it written on some of the clothes it wore the morning we found
it," answered the mother.

"Then we will call it Irene," said Abner, decisively.

"Irene! Irene! Little Irene! ain't you awful sweet?" cried the impetuous
Oleah, snatching the baby from his mother's arms and smothering its
screams of delight with kisses. So enthusiastic was the little fellow
that the baby was in peril, and his mother, spite of his protestations,
took it from him. As soon as released, little Irene's feet and hands
began to play, and she responded, with soft cooing and baby laughter, to
all the boys' noisy demonstrations.

A youth, with large sad eyes and pale face, now entered the door.

"Oh, come, Joe, come and see the baby!" cried Oleah. "Isn't it sweet?
Just look at its pretty bright eyes and its cunning little mouth."

Joe had visited the plantation frequently of late, and Mr. Tompkins
having given orders that he should always be kindly treated, had finally
established himself there, and was now considered rather a member of the
household than a guest.

The poor, insane boy came close to Mrs. Tompkins' side and looked
fixedly at the baby for a few moments. An expression of pain passed over
his face, as though some long forgotten sorrow was recalled to his mind.

"I remember it now," he finally said. "It was at the great carnival
feast, and after the gladiators fought, this babe, which was the son of
the man who was slain, was given to the lions to devour, but although it
was cast in the den, the lions would not harm a hair of its head."

"Oh, no, Joe; you are mistaken," said Abner; "it was Daniel who was cast
into the lions' den."

"You are right," said Crazy Joe. "It was Daniel; but I remember this
baby. It was one of the two taken by the cruel uncle and placed in a
trough and put in the river. The river overflowed the banks and left the
babes at the root of a tree, where the wolf found them, and taking
compassion on the children, came every day and furnished them
nourishment from his own breast."

"No, no," interrupted Abner, who, young as he was, knew something of
Roman mythology. "You are talking about Romulus and Remus."

"Ah, yes," sighed the poor youth, striving in vain to gather up his
wandering faculties; "but I have seen this child before. If it was not
the one concealed among the bulrushes, then what can it be?"

"It's our baby," put in Oleah, "and it wasn't in no bulrushes; it was in
the clothes-basket on the porch."

"It was a willow ark," said Joe; "its mother hid it there, for a decree
had gone forth that all male children of the Israelites should be
exterminated--"

"No; it was a willow basket," interrupted Oleah. "Its mother shan't
have it again. It's our little baby. This baby ain't a liverite, and it
shan't be sterminated, shall it, mamma?"

"No, dear; no one shall harm this baby," said Mrs. Tompkins.

"It's our baby, isn't it mamma?"

"Yes, my child, unless some one else comes for it who has a better right
to it."

"Who could that be, mamma?"

"Perhaps its own father or mother might come--"

"They shan't have it if they do," cried Oleah, stamping his little foot
resolutely on the floor.

Joe rose from the low chair on which he had been sitting, and went out,
saying something about his father coming down into Egypt.

"Mamma," said Abner, when Joe had gone out, "what makes him say such
strange things? He says that he is Joseph, and that his brothers sold
him into Egypt, and he calls papa the captain of the guard. He goes out
into the fields and watches the negroes work, and says he is Potiphar's
overseer, and must attend to his household."

"Poor boy, he is insane, my son," answered Mrs. Tompkins; "he is very
unfortunate, and you must not tease him. Let him believe he is Joseph,
for it will make him feel happier to have his delusion carried out by
others."

"The other day, when we were playing in the barn, Joe and Oleah and me,
I saw a great scar and sore place on poor Joe's head, just like some one
had struck him. I asked him what did it, and he said he fell with his
head on a sharp rock when his brothers threw him into the pit."

Oleah now was anxious to go back to his play, and dragged his brother
out of the house to the lawn, leaving Mrs. Tompkins alone with the baby.

Several weeks after the baby and Crazy Joe became inmates of Mr.
Tompkins' house, a man, dressed in trowsers of brown jeans and hunting
shirt of tanned deer skin, wearing a broad-brimmed hat and heavy boots,
came to the mansion. The Autumn day was delightful; it was after the
Fall rains. The Indian Summer haze hung over hill, and mountain, and
valley, and the sun glowed with mellowed splendor. The stranger carried
a rifle, from which a wild turkey was suspended, and wore the usual
bullet-pouch and powder-horn of the hunter slung across his shoulder. He
was tall and wiry, about thirty-five years of age, and, to use his own
expression, as "active as a cat and strong as a lion."

Daniel Martin, or "Uncle Dan," as he was more generally known, was a
typical Virginia mountaineer, whose cabin was on the side of a mountain
fifteen miles from Mr. Tompkins' plantation. He was noted for his
bravery and his bluntness, and for the unerring aim of his rifle.

He was the friend of the rich and poor, and his little cabin frequently
afforded shelter for the tourist or the sportsman. He was called "Uncle
Dan" by all the younger people, simply because he would not allow
himself to be called Mr. Martin.

"No, siree," he would say; "no misterin' fur me. I was never brought up
to it, and I can't tote the load now." He persisted in being called
"Uncle Dan," especially by the children. "It seems more home-like," he
would say.

Why he had not wife and children to make his cabin "home-like" was
frequently a theme for discussion among the gossips, and, as they could
arrive at no other conclusion, they finally decided that he must have
been crossed in love.

Mr. Tompkins, who chanced to be on the veranda, observed the hunter
enter the gate, and met him with an extended hand and smile of welcome,
saying:

"Good morning, Dan. It is so long since you have been here that your
face is almost the face of a stranger."

"Ya-as, it's a'most a coon's age, and an old coon at that, since I been
on these grounds. How's all the folks?" he answered, grasping Mr.
Tompkins' out-stretched hand.

"They are all well, and will be delighted to see you Dan. Come in."

"Ye see I brought a gobbler," said Dan, removing the turkey from his
shoulder. "I thought maybe ye'd be wantin' some wild meat, and I killed
one down on the creek afore I came."

Mr. Tompkins took the turkey, and calling a negro boy, bade him take it
to the cook to be prepared for dinner. Then he conducted his guest to
the veranda. Uncle Dan placed his long rifle and accoutrements in a far
corner, and sat down by Mr. Tompkins.

"Wall, how's times about heah, any how, and how's politicks?" he asked,
as soon as seated.

The mountain air in America, as in Switzerland, seems to inspire those
who breathe it with love of liberty. The dwellers on the mountains of
Virginia, North Carolina and Tennessee were chiefly Abolitionists, who
hated the slave-holder as free men do tyrants, and when the great
struggle came on they remained loyal to the Government. As a rule, they
were poor, but self-respecting, possessing a degree of intelligence far
superior to that of most of the lower class of the South.

The secret of the friendship between the planter and the hunter was that
both were, at heart, opposed to human bondage, and though they seldom
expressed their real sentiments, even when alone, each knew the other's
feelings.

Before Mr. Tompkins could reply to the mountaineer's question, Abner and
Oleah ran up to the veranda with shouts of joy and noisy demonstrations
of welcome. Uncle Dan placed one on each knee, and for some time the
boys claimed all his attention.

"Oh, Uncle Dan, you can't guess what we've got," Oleah cried.

"Why, no; I can't. What is it?" asked Uncle Dan, abandoning attempt to
return to the social chat the boys had interrupted.

"A baby! a baby!" cried Oleah, clapping his hands.

"A baby?" repeated Uncle Dan, in astonishment.

"Yes, sir; a bran new baby, just as sweet as it can be, too."

The puzzled mountaineer, with a suspicious look at Mr. Tompkins, said:
"Thought ye said the folks was all well?"

"They are," answered Mr. Tompkins, with an amused smile.

"Dinah found the baby in a clothes-basket," put in Abner.

"Oh, it's a nigger baby, is it?" asked Uncle Dan.

"No, no, no; it's a white baby--a white baby," both boys quickly
replied.

"What do the children mean?" asked Uncle Dan, bewildered, looking from
the boys to their father.

"They mean just what they say," said Mr. Tompkins. "A baby was left at
our door a short time ago in the clothes-basket by some unknown person."

"Don't you want to see it, Uncle Dan?" Master Oleah eagerly asked.

"To be sure I do. I always liked babies; they are the perfection o'
innocence."

Before he had finished his sentence, Oleah had climbed down from his
knee, and was scampering away toward the nursery. Abner was not more
than two seconds in following him.

"Wall, now, see heah," said the hunter; "while them young rattletraps is
gone, jest tell me what all this means. Hez someone been increasin' yer
family by leavin' babies a layin' around loose, or is it a big doll some
one haz give the boys?"

"It's just as the boys say," Mr. Tompkins answered. "Some one did
actually leave a baby about six months old on this porch, and no one
knows who he was, where he came from, or where he went."

"That's mighty strange. How long ago was it?"

"About six weeks."

"Wall, now, ain't that strange? Have you any suspicion who done it?"

"Not the least."

"Wall, it is strange. Never saw no un sneakin' about the house, like?"

"No one at all."

"Humph! Well, it's dog gone strange."

At this moment the two boys, with Dinah in attendance, came out, bearing
between them little Irene.

"Here it is; here is our baby! Ain't she sweet, though?" cried Oleah, as
they bore their precious burden toward the mountaineer.

"Why it's a spankin' big un, by jingo! Ya-as, an' I be blessed ef I
ain't seen that baby before," cried Uncle Dan.

"Where?" asked Mr. Tompkins, eagerly.

Uncle Dan took the little thing on his lap, and, as it turned its large
dark-gray eyes up to his in wonder, he reflected a few minutes in
silence and then said:

"I saw a baby what looked like this, and I'll bet a good deal it is the
same one, too."

"Where did you see it?" again demanded the planter.

"That's jest what I'm tryin' to think up," said Uncle Dan. "Oh, yes; it
war in the free nigger's cabin, on the side o' the east Twin Mountain.
You know where the old cabin stands, where we used to camp when we war
out huntin'!"

"Yes."

"Wall, I war roamin' by there one day, and found two nigger men and a
woman livin' there. They had this baby with them, and I questioned them
as to where they war gwine, but one nigger, who had a scar slaunch-ways
across his face," here the narrator made an imaginary mark diagonally
across his left cheek to indicate what he meant by "slaunch-ways," "said
they war gwine to live thar. I asked 'em whar they got the baby, and
they said its people war dead, and they war to take it to some of its
relations. I left 'em soon, for I couldn't git much out o' them, but I
detarmined to keep an eye on 'em. The next time I came by that way they
were gone, bag and baggage."

"The free nigger's cabin is at least twenty miles from here," said Mr.
Tompkins. "It is strange why they should bring the baby all that way
here and leave it."

"It do look strange, but I guess they war runaway niggers what had stole
the child out of spite, and when they got heah give out an' left it. I
kinder think these niggers war from the South."

"Have you ever seen or heard of them since?" asked Mr. Tompkins.

"Neither har nor hide."

At this moment a stranger to Uncle Dan came sauntering up the lawn, and,
stepping on the porch, addressed them with:

"Can you tell me where my brothers feed their flocks?"

"He's crazy," whispered Abner to the hunter. "He's crazy, and mamma says
pretend as if he was talking sense."

"Oh, they are out thar somewhar on the hills, I reckin'," Uncle Dan
answered.

Joe looked at the mountaineer for a moment, carefully examining the
hunting jacket of tanned skins, the hair of which formed an ornamental
fringe, and then said:

"I know you now. You are my Uncle Esau; but why should you be here in
Egypt? It was you who grew angry with my father because he got your
birthright for a mess of potage. You sought to slay him and he fled.
Have you come to mock his son?"

"Oh, no, youngster; yer pap and me hev made up that little fuss long
ago. I forgive him that little steal, an' now we ar' all squar' agin."

"But why are you in Egypt? You must be very old. My father, who is
younger than you, is old--bowed down--"

"Poor boy," said Mr. Tompkins, with a sigh, "he has been a close
student, and perhaps that was what turned his head."

"Does he ever git rantankerous?" asked Uncle Dan.

"No; he is always mild and harmless."

"Have you seen my father?" Joe now asked. "He has long white hair and
snowy beard."

"No, youngster; I ain't got a sight o' the old man fur some time," said
Uncle Dan.

"Potiphar resembles my father, but my father must be dead," and he sank
into a chair, with a sad look of despair, and, burying his face in his
hands, groaned as if in pain.

"He does that way a dozen times a day," Abner whispered to Uncle Dan.

"It's maughty strange," said Uncle Dan, shaking his head in a puzzled
manner.

The next day, when the mountaineer was about to return to his lonely
cabin, Crazy Joe asked permission to accompany his Uncle Esau. Consent
was given, and he went and stayed several weeks. For years afterward he
stayed alternate on Mr. Tompkins' plantation and at the home of the
mountaineer.




CHAPTER V.

THE MUD MAN.


Sixteen years, with all their joys and sorrows, all their pleasures and
pains, have been numbered with the dead past. Boys have grown to be men,
men in the full vigor of their prime have grown old, and creep about
with bent forms and heads whitening, while men who were old before now
slumber with the dead. Girls are women, and women have grown gray, yet
father Time has touched gently some of his children.

Abner and Oleah Tompkins are no longer boys. Only the memory is left
them of their childhood joys, when they played in the dark, cool woods,
or by the brook in the wide, smooth lawn. Happy childhood days, when
neither care nor anxiety weighed on their young hearts, or shadowed
their bright faces.

Abner is twenty-five--a tall, powerful man, with dark-blue, fearless
eyes, light-haired, broad-chested and muscular.

Oleah, two years younger, and not quite so tall, is yet in physical
strength his brother's equal. He has the dark hair and large, dark,
lustrous eyes of his Southern mother.

The brothers were alike and yet dissimilar. They had shared equally the
same advantages; they had played together and studied together.
Playmates in their childhood, friends as well as brothers in their young
manhood, no one could question a doubt of their brotherly love. Where
one had been, the other had always been at his side. No slightest
difference had ever yet ruffled the smooth surface of their existence.
Yet they were dissimilar in temperament. Abner was slow and cool, but
perhaps more determined than his brother, and his reason predominated
over his prejudice. Oleah was rash, impetuous and bold, and more liable
to be moved by prejudice or passion than by reason. Abner was the exact
counterpart of his Northern father, Oleah of his Southern mother.

Their political sympathies were different as their dispositions.
Although of the same family, they had actually been taught opposite
political creeds--one parent in a half-playful way, unconsciously
advocating one idea; the other as firmly and unconsciously upholding
another, and it was quite natural that the children should follow them.
But this difference of opinion had bred no discord.

Sixteen years have wrought a wonderful change in Irene, the foundling.
Her parentage is still a mystery, and she bears the name of her foster
parents. She is just budding into womanhood, and a beautiful woman she
promises to make--slender and graceful, her small, shapely head crowned
with dark brown hair, her cheeks dimpling with smiles, mouth and chin
firm and clear-cut and large, dark-gray eyes beneath arching brows and
long silken lashes filled with a world of tenderness.

Irene could not have been loved more tenderly by the planter and his
wife had she been their own child. They lavished care and affection upon
her and filled her life with everything that could minister to her
comfort and delight, and every one knew that they would make generous
provision for the little waif who had gained so sure a place in their
hearts.

Sixteen years had made some change in the planter. His hair had grown
whiter, his brow more furrowed with care, and he went about with a heavy
cane; yet he was vigorous and energetic. He had grown more corpulent,
and his movements were less brisk than of yore. Father Time had dealt
leniently with his wife. Her soft, dark hair was scarcely touched with
silver; her cheeks were smooth and her eyes were still bright and
lustrous. Her voice had lost none of its silver ring, her manner none of
its queenly grace.

No ray of light had pierced the darkened mind of Crazy Joe. All these
long, weary years he had been waiting, waiting, waiting, for his father
Jacob to come down into Egypt, but he came not. He still talked as if it
was but yesterday that he had been cast into the pit by his brethren,
and then taken out and sold into Egypt. He spent his time in turns at
the planter's and Uncle Dan's cabin. He was well known throughout the
neighborhood, and pitied and kindly treated by all. His strange
hallucination, although causing pain and perplexity to his shattered
mind, worked no change in his gentle disposition; his sad eyes never
flashed with anger; no emotion varied the melancholy monotone of his
voice. When at the home of the planter, Joe divided his time between the
stables, the garden and the library. He would have been a constant
reader of the Bible, Josephus, Socrates, Milton's "Paradise Lost," had
it not been discovered by Mrs. Tompkins that these books only tended to
increase the darkness in which his mind was shrouded, and she had them
kept from him. At Uncle Dan's mountain home he passed his time in
hunting and trapping, becoming expert in both.

Sixteen years had wrought a great change in Uncle Dan, bowing his tall
and sinewy form. His face, which he had always kept smooth shaven, had
grown sharper and thinner, and his long hair hanging about his
shoulders, had turned from black to gray; yet his eye was as true and
his hand as steady as when, in his youthful days, he carried away the
prize at the shooting match. His visits to the plantation became more
frequent and his stays longer, for the old man grew lonesome in his hut,
and he was ever a welcome guest at the Tompkins mansion.

Sixteen years had made a wonderful transformation in the politics of the
country. The Whig party had been swallowed up by the Republican or
Abolition organization. The seeds of freedom, sown by Clarkson, Brown
and others, had taken root, and, in the Fall of 1860, bade fare to ripen
into a bounteous harvest. The Southern feeling against the North had
grown more and more bitter, and the low, rumbling thunders of a mighty
storm might have been heard--a storm not far distant, and whose fury
naught but the blood of countless thousands could assuage.

"In the beginning, God created Heaven and the earth, and all that was in
them, in six days, and rested on the seventh."

The speaker was Crazy Joe, the time, midsummer of 1860, the place the
banks of a creek at the foot of the mountains, not more than two or
three hundred feet from Uncle Dan's cabin.

"Then the book says God made man out of clay. Josephus says he called
the first man Adam, because Adam means red, and He made him out of red
clay. Now, if man could once be made out of clay, why not now? Maybe God
will let me make a man, too."

Filling his hands with mud, he set vigorously to work. No sculptor could
have been more in earnest than was Crazy Joe. He rolled and patted the
mud into shape, first the feet, then the legs, then the body.
Occasionally the body would tumble down, but he patiently set to work
again, persevering until he had body, arm and head all completed. His
mud man was a little over five feet in height, and greatly admired by
his maker and owner.

"Now I have accomplished almost as much as God did," soliloquized Joe.
"I have made a man of clay; it only remains for him to speak and move,
and he will be equal to any of us."

He went to the cabin and acquainted Uncle Dan with the wonderful work he
had performed, and asked him to come and see it. The next day he went to
view the object of poor Joe's two days' labor, greatly to Joe's delight.
Uncle Dan then returned to his cabin for his gun, and Joe went to
Snagtown, which was between Mr. Tompkins' plantation and the hunter's
cabin.

Joe there informed the storekeeper, the village postmaster, and a few
others, of his remarkable piece of handiwork, and asked them to come and
see it. They promised to go the next day, if Joe would stay all night in
the village.

Joe stayed, and that night there came a heavy rain. The creek overflowed
and Joe's mud man was washed away. He conducted a party of hunters to
the spot next morning, but the man of clay had vanished.

"He must have walked away," said Joe shaking his head in a puzzled
manner. "He has gone off, though I cautioned him to wait until I came
back."

The hunting party explained to Joe that his mud man had become tired of
waiting, and left, and went off themselves, leaving the mortified Joe
searching about the soft soil for tracks of the missing mud man. His
search for the trail took him to Snagtown.

Patrick Henry Diggs, whom we met in his boyhood as the youthful orator
at Mr. Tompkins' was, in 1860, a lawyer. His parents were dead, leaving
him a limited education, a superficial knowledge of law, and a very
small property. The paternal homestead was mortgaged, but Mr. Diggs
still kept old Mose, for the sake of being a slaveholder and maintaining
aristocratic appearance. Mr. Diggs had but little practice, and found it
a difficult thing to make his own living. He was about twenty-eight
years old, short and plump like his father. The most peculiar portion of
his anatomy was his head. The forehead was low, and the small round head
more nearly resembled a cocoanut painted white, with hair on its top,
than anything else to which we can compare it. The hair was very thick
and cut very short. The eyebrows were heavy and close together, the eyes
dark gray and restless, the nose small and straight. The most admirable
portion of his physiognomy, Mr. Diggs thought, were his side-whiskers,
which were short and dark, growing half-way down his small, red cheeks
and coalescing with his short mustache. Mr. Diggs was exceedingly
aristocratic, and wore gold-rimmed spectacles on his short nose. These
glasses, which gave him a ridiculous appearance, were removed when he
wanted to read or exercise his unobstructed vision. His friends tried to
persuade him to give them up, but in vain. And with his glasses on his
nose, his head thrown back in order to see persons of ordinary height,
and his fat little hands in his pockets, he strutted about the streets
of Snagtown.

Mr. Diggs, like his father, was a politician. In the campaign of 1860 he
was a candidate for the district attorneyship of his county. His dingy
little office, with its scant furniture and exceedingly small library,
was deserted, and he spent most of his time on the streets, discussing
the political issues. On the day that Crazy Joe was in search of his mud
man, Mr. Diggs, as usual was strutting about the streets, his hands in
his pockets, his glasses mounted on his nose, wherefrom a very evident
string extended to his neck.

"I tell you," said Mr. Diggs, closing his little fat right hand and
striking therewith the palm of his little fat left hand, "I tell you,
sir, I--I do not favor outlawry, but I do believe one would be doing our
country a service by hanging every man who votes or attempts to vote the
Abolition ticket."

"Oh, no, Mr. Diggs," said Abner Tompkins, who chanced that day to be in
Snagtown, and overheard the remark; "the ballot is a constitutional
privilege, and no man should be deprived of his right."

"Yes--ahem--ahem! but you see, when there is a man on the track who, if
elected, will set all _our_ niggers free, we should object. You
know--no, you don't know, but _we lawyers_ all know--that private
property can not be taken for public use without a just compensation,
and still the Abolition candidate will violate this portion of our
constitutional law."

"You don't know yet; Mr. Lincoln has not yet declared what he will do,"
replied Abner.

"Has not? Hem, hem, hem!" Mr. Diggs stumped about furiously, his head
inclined backward in order to see his companion's face through his
ornamental glasses, while he cleared his throat for a fresh burst of
thunder. "Has not, hey? Hem, hem! He might as well. We all know what he
will do if elected. And I'll tell you something more," he added, walking
back and forth, his hands plunged in his pockets, while seeming to grow
more and more furious, "if Lincoln is elected there will be _war_!"
(Great emphasis on the last word.)

At this moment Crazy Joe, who had reached the village in search of his
mud man, came up to the excited Diggs, and, laying his hand on his arm,
in a very serious voice said:

"Say, why didn't you stay where I put you until I showed you?"

"What do you mean?" demanded Mr. Diggs, pausing in his agitated walk,
and gazing furiously into the lunatic's face, for he suspected some one
of attempting to play a joke on him.

"What made you go away before I showed you?" said Joe, earnestly, gazing
down upon the furious little fellow.

"I--I don't understand what you mean," said the puzzled Mr. Diggs,
drawing himself up to his full height, which was hardly imposing.

"When I make a man of mud, and go off and leave him, to get people to
come and look at him, I don't want him to go off, as you did, before I
come back."

Abner Tompkins, and several others, who had heard the story of Joe's mud
man, were now almost bursting with suppressed merriment.

"I can't tell what the deuce you mean?" said the angry Mr. Diggs.

"I made you out of mud and clay, and left you standing by the big tree
at the creek while I went to get some people to show you to, that I
might convince them that man was made out of clay, but before I got back
you walked off. Now, why didn't you stay until I showed you?"

The men gathered about Mr. Diggs could no longer restrain themselves,
and burst into peals of laughter, which made Mr. Diggs furious.

"This is some trick you are playing," he cried, and, turning upon his
heel, he strutted away to his office, where he shut himself up for the
next two hours.

The joke spread rapidly, and in two hours every one in the village knew
that Crazy Joe claimed Mr. Diggs as his mud man; while poor Joe,
satisfied that he had found the object of his creation, consented to go
home with Abner.




CHAPTER VI.

A TRANSITION PERIOD.


All Snagtown was astonished one day when a flaring handbill announcing
that Abraham Lincoln and Stephen A. Douglas would speak in that
unpretentious little village. Their presence there was due to the
accident of missing connections in passing from one city to another.

It would have been hard to say whether the citizens of Snagtown were
more astonished or indignant. A public meeting was called the day before
the Abolitionists were advertised to speak, to determine what means
could be taken in this emergency. The Mayor presided, and the residents,
not only of the village, but of all the surrounding country, were urged
to be present.

"I tell you, gentlemen--hem! hem!--it will never do," said Mr. Diggs, as
he strutted about, his glasses on his nose, casting upward glances into
the faces of those who were discussing the question. "Hem! hem! hem! I
tell you it will not do at all," and he expectorated spitefully upon the
pavement. "We must prevent Lincoln's speaking here, if we have to mob
him. He comes not only to deprive us of our slaves, but to destroy the
flag of Washington and Marion, the glorious Stars and Stripes! I, for
one, am in favor of saying he shall not speak."

"So am I," said another.

"And so am I," said a third.

"And I, and I, and I," came responses from many voices.

"Hem, hem, hem!" began Mr. Diggs, shrugging his shoulders, and moving
about furiously, indicating thereby how much in earnest he had become.
"I tell you we must not permit it. Why, it's treason. Yes, sir; he
teaches treason, and it's our duty, as law-abiding citizens, not to
permit him to speak."

"Well, now, do you make them pints, when we have our meetin' to-morrow
night," said an illiterate Virginian.

"Hem, hem, hem!" began Mr. Diggs, thrusting his hands deep into his
pockets, his head on one side, kicking his feet alternately one against
the other. "I will. Hem, hem! I am going to make a speech just about an
hour long--ha! ha! ha!--so that no one else will get a chance to put in
a word, and we shall have it all our own way." The young lawyer, highly
pleased with the favor that he flattered himself he was gaining
politically, finished his sentence with a gleeful chuckle, and strutted
about, swelling with his own importance.

All over the village could be seen groups of men, from five to twenty in
number, discussing the propriety of allowing "Abe Lincoln" to speak in
the village. A majority seemed opposed to it, and a few of the more
reckless spirits talked of tar and feathers and fence rails.

The evening for the public meeting, which was to decide the
all-important question, arrived. The town hall was crowded to its utmost
capacity. Mr. Tompkins and his two sons were present, and so was Uncle
Dan, the mountaineer. The meeting was called to order and the Mayor took
the chair. He was a man past the meridian of life, a slaveholder and a
royal Southerner. The long, white beard falling down upon his breast
gave him a patriarchal look.

The uproar and confusion of tongues were hushed, and all awaited the
speaker in anxious silence.

A call was made on any one present to state the object of the meeting. A
man sprang at once to his feet, and succinctly informed the chairman
that the "object of this meetin' is to determine the question whether or
not it is best to 'low Abraham Lincoln, the great Abolitionist, to speak
in the town. I believe them's all the pints to be discussed," and he sat
down. Another and more voluble speaker arose and addressed the meeting.
He was of the class called "fire-eaters," and was strongly and directly
opposed to Lincoln's visit to Snagtown. His speech was replete with the
vilest vituperations his brain could conceive, or his tongue utter,
against the Republican party. He regarded them as robbers, as enemies
who should be shot down at sight, and he was in favor of greeting Abe
Lincoln with tar and feathers if he dared show himself in Snagtown.

Several others spoke in the same vein, and then Mr. Diggs rose. His
speech of an hour proved not half so long. It was full of empty-sounding
words and borrowed ideas, for there was little originality about Mr.
Diggs.

All, so far, had been against the proposed debate between Lincoln and
Douglas, but now a man rose in the audience whose word always carried
weight. It was Mr. Tompkins, the planter.

"Mr. Chairman," he began, in even, modulated tones, "I am, indeed,
surprised that men of intelligence should give vent to such expressions
and such feelings as we have heard this evening--men who know the law,
and claim to be law abiding citizens. Are we savages or border
ruffians, that we must be swayed and controlled by mob law? Have we not
a Constitution and Constitutional privileges? Have we not statute laws
to protect us against wrongs which others may inflict? Then why resort
to mob law? Why disgrace our fair State and put the blush of shame on
all good citizens by attacking, like outlaws, a stranger among us? Our
Constitution gives to all freedom of speech, and we have no right to
deny any man this Constitutional privilege."

Mr. Tompkins proceeded quietly but forcibly, pointing out to the
malcontents the error of their plans. In conclusion, he said:

"I may be the only one in the house who opposes these views, but as one
I say this, though I be alone. I will oppose with violence the attempt
to injure Mr. Lincoln. You are not compelled to vote for him, even to
hear him speak; but if Mr. Lincoln comes here, by Heaven! he shall
speak."

"So say I, an' I swar if any sorry hound attempts the mobbin' business,
he'll have to cross my carcass fust." The speaker was Uncle Dan, and as
he spoke he drew up his tall figure by the side of Mr. Tompkins, holding
his ominous-looking rifle in his hand.

Abner also rose and took his place at his father's side, but Oleah kept
his seat. This was the first visible difference of opinion between the
brothers.

Several who had been emboldened by Mr. Tompkins' words now declared that
they thought it best not to oppose Mr. Lincoln's speaking there, as it
would increase his popularity in other localities.

One or two of the more fiery replied, maintaining that their case was
beyond the remedy of civil law; that mob law was the only law which
should be meted out to scoundrels and Abolition thieves, and if some of
the citizens intended to espouse the cause of Abe Lincoln, and fight for
him, now was as good as any to settle the matter. A riot seemed
inevitable, but a laughable event now happened, changing anger into
mirth.

Mr. Diggs, fearing that his legal knowledge would be called into
question, now rose and said:

"I wish to make one other statement, in order to put myself right
before the people. I knew the Constitutional law referred to by Mr.
Tompkins, giving every man freedom of speech, and I can give you the
book and the page--"

"Oh, you need not," said a wag in the audience. "Answer this question
instead: Are you Crazy Joe's mud man, and why did you leave before he
came back to exhibit you?"

"Oh, stop that nonsense! I came here to talk sense, not to hear of a
fool's ravings," cried the indignant Mr. Diggs.

But everybody had heard the story of the mud man, and hostile feelings
now gave way to laughter. The laugh was kept up until Mr. Diggs became
enraged and left the assembly, swearing that they were "all a pack of
fools."

A compromise was effected. Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Douglas were to be
permitted to speak in a grove near the village, but not in the village
itself. The next day Mr. Tompkins and Abner, and a few others, with the
aid of their negroes, erected a speaker's stand, and arranged seats for
an audience of over two thousand persons. There were still low murmurs
of discontent, but the most bitter malcontents had been overawed by the
firm stand taken by Mr. Tompkins. Many others had caught his spirit, and
defied the hostile threats of the opponents of free speech.

The occasion had been so thoroughly advertised by the meeting and the
threats and opposition of those who wanted to prevent it, that the whole
country for miles around turned out. People on foot, on horseback, in
carriages and in wagons, came until thousands were assembled on the
spot, many prompted by curiosity to see the bold Abolitionist who dared
invade the sacred soil of Virginia and propound his infamous doctrine.

About ten o'clock two carriages rolled in from the nearest railroad
station, bearing the two disputants, with friends of each in attendance.
There was an eager craning of necks, and a hushed whisper went through
that vast audience as the two opponents for the highest political honors
of the country descended from the carriage.

"Who are they?" "Where are they?" "Is that big,
two-hundred-and-fifty-pounder Douglas?" "Is that short, stout-built man
with big burnsides Lincoln?" and a hundred other questions of a like
character were asked.

A few preliminaries were arranged. Mr. George Washington Tompkins was
chosen chairman, and took his place on the stand. Two New York reporters
were present with note-books and pencils.

The first speaker introduced was Mr. Stephen A. Douglas. His
speech--eloquent, patriotic and straightforward--generously concluded
with an exhortation to the audience to listen calmly, without any
expression of bitterness, to his opponent, who chanced to differ from
him on the great question of the day. When Mr. Douglas took his seat,
Mr. Tompkins rose and introduced Mr. Abraham Lincoln, a tall man,
wearing short, dark whiskers on his chin, and with hair slightly
streaked with gray.

A subdued hiss from many lips was heard as the great "Abolition
candidate" arose.

After a smile as of compassion upon his audience, Mr. Lincoln began
speaking. He talked mildly and candidly, yet freely, notwithstanding the
feeling evinced by some of his hearers. Those deep, rich tones rang
through the surrounding grove as he clearly and forcibly expounded the
principles of the Republican party, showing them to have been either
misunderstood or misrepresented by his opponent. Many who had come to
prevent the hated Abolitionist from speaking now listened with interest.
This was not such iniquitous doctrine after all. Every point made by Mr.
Douglas was successfully met, and his own argument arrayed against him.
Mr. Lincoln spoke for two hours, and at the conclusion of his address
his bitter enemies were forced to admit that he was a man of immense
power. His oratory was so grandly sublime in effect that when he took
his seat an outbreak of applause, which could not be suppressed, could
not be restrained, burst from the spell-bound audience.

Mr. Tompkins went to the meeting a Douglas man, but he left with the
full determination to vote for Abraham Lincoln at the coming Fall
election, as did Uncle Dan and many others. This was truly a transition
period, as the whole world was to learn in a few short months. The Whig
party was dwindling away, and slavery was withered and scorched before
the fiery eloquence of Lincoln, Sumner, and other similar orators.
Freedom was dawning, but it was to be ushered in with fire, and sword,
and death.

Mr. Tompkins and his sons were late in coming home that evening. Abner
and Oleah sat side by side in the family carriage, yet neither spoke.
Hitherto, every event had been fully discussed; every feeling shared by
the brothers; but a silence that was almost coolness now sealed their
lips. A thousand conflicting thoughts swept through their minds.

Abner was convicted, converted, by the new doctrine to which he had
listened, and the melodious voice of the orator was still ringing in his
ears as the carriage rolled homeward. He still seemed to see the tall,
rugged form and plain face, lit up with something rarer than beauty by
his eloquent pleading for four millions of enslaved human beings.

Oleah was in a gloomy mood. He had listened with angry impatience to the
exposition of views so different from his own, and that his father
should have presided over the meeting, and stood openly side by side
with the Abolitionist, stung his Southern prejudices and vexed him to
the soul.

The trio were driven home in silence, and parted for the night, without
any reference to the events of the day.

At the table the next morning the discussion of the day before was first
alluded to. Mr. and Mrs. Tompkins, Abner and Oleah, sat for some moments
in silence--a silence both painful and awkward, and, in this family
circle, unusual; but Irene entered the breakfast room, bright and
unconscious, eager to know all that had passed at Snagtown the day
before.

"We heard an excellent speech," said Abner.

"Yes; Douglas did well," put in Oleah.

"I mean Mr. Lincoln," said Abner. "Douglas' speech was good, but his
position was entirely demolished by Mr. Lincoln's eloquent reasoning."

"You don't call the harangue of that contemptible old demagogue
reasoning, do you?" asked Oleah, astonished and indignant.

"I certainly do," replied Abner. "His reasoning appeared to me clear,
and his conclusions logical."

"And I," cried Oleah, laying down his knife and fork in his excitement,
"I declare I never before heard so much sophistry, and not very
plausible sophistry, either."

"You are prejudiced," said Abner, coolly.

"It is you who are prejudiced. Why he actually asserted we would be more
prosperous if there was not a slave in the United States."

"Yes, and proved his assertion," said Abner.

"Oh, you let him pull the wool over your eyes." There was a sneer in his
voice. "I tell you there was neither logic nor reason in what he said.
No logical conclusions can be drawn from false premises; no assertions
can stand unsupported by proof."

"What did he assert that he did not prove?" asked Abner.

"What did he prove that he asserted?"

"You evade my question by asking another."

"Precisely the same plan Mr. Lincoln adopted," replied Oleah.

"You are prejudiced against Mr. Lincoln, Oleah. Now, tell me what he
said that any fair-minded man in the world can not agree to?"

"He said that slavery should not wither and blight another inch of
territory if he could help it."

"What objection can even a believer in slavery have to that? We have an
immense scope of country where slavery is permitted; then why extend it
to Territories where it is unpopular?"

"But can you not see what lies in the background?" said Oleah, bitterly.
"Mr. Lincoln lifted the curtain high enough for one who was not blinded
by his eloquence to see what was behind it. I would not fear to wager
everything I own that Mr. Lincoln, if elected, will set free every slave
in the United States, before he has been in the presidential chair a
twelvemonth."

"Did he not say that such emancipation would be unwise policy?"

"He said so, but his tone and manner belied his words."

"Confess now, Oleah, that you are a little prejudiced against Mr.
Lincoln," said the father, good-humoredly.

"You may call it prejudice or what you like, father," Oleah answered,
his flushed face showing how deep was his feeling; "but if Mr. Lincoln
is elected you will not have a nigger when his term is over, if he
should be permitted to take his seat."

"Why, my son, you can't think he would not be permitted to take his
seat?"

"That is a question, father. Each State has its rights. Southern people
have rights, and rather than be cheated of them they may resort to
force."

"Now, Oleah," said Abner, "you don't for a moment suppose that if Mr.
Lincoln should be chosen President by the voters of the United States,
that any considerable body of intelligent people could be found who
would be unfair enough, or foolhardy enough, to attempt to prevent him
from taking his seat?"

"I certainly do," answered Oleah, with an air of conviction.

"You are a Democrat; do you not hold with us Democrats that the majority
should rule?"

"That has nothing to do with it," said Oleah, hotly. "The North and the
East outnumber the South, and they have formed a combination for her
ruin, and the impoverishment of her people. They have nothing at stake
in Lincoln's election; we have everything. They have nothing to
lose--we, all. Our interests conflict. They see an opulent and growing
South, and have set their inventive Yankee genius at work to compass its
ruin. Our cotton fields, our rice fields, our sugar crops, our tobacco
crops, are the production of slave labor, and the abundant wealth of the
South excites the emulation of the cold and envious North. If they can
deprive us of this slave labor, they will have killed the goose that
lays our golden eggs, and may surpass us in wealth and power. This they
have determined to do. They have tried it by legislation, and so far
have failed. They outnumber us in votes, because there every worthless
fellow's vote counts as much as that of a Governor or a man who owns a
thousand slaves. How can they accomplish our ruin? By electing as
president a man whose every breath is poison to slavery; a man who may,
at any time, under the fancied exigencies of the moment, declare all
slaves free. Their plans are deep and shrewd, but there are heads in the
South as wise as theirs, and eyes that can see the danger in time to
avert it."

"You are crazy, Oleah," said Abner; "your very words are treason."

"If treason, then his mother is infected with the same disease, and, in
the language of Patrick Henry, 'If this be treason, make the most of
it,'" said Mrs. Tompkins, with a laugh, in which all joined.

"I am sure we ought to get at the truth of this question," said Mr.
Tompkins; "we have both sides represented."

"Who will judge between us?" asked Mrs. Tompkins.

"All have taken sides except Irene. Which side are you on?" asked Oleah.

"I know nothing about either side," the girl answered, lightly; "so how
can I choose?"

Mrs. Tompkins' love for her sunny land was next in her heart to her love
for her husband, and forced her to espouse a cause which, to her, seemed
patriotic. This was the only question on which she and her husband
differed, and it was avoided by both as much as possible, yet sometimes,
in spite of their precautions, it would creep into their family
conversations.

"Irene is the proper one to act as judge," said Abner.

"Why?" Irene lifted her eyes in wonder.

"Because you know nothing about it."

"Do they make the best judges who know the least?"

"Frequently; and a juror who knows anything of the case he is to pass a
verdict on is incompetent, so you are a competent juror, any way, Irene;
and as one woman is equal to twelve men you can complete the entire
panel."

"I beg pardon of the court," said Irene, rising from the table, "but I
can not sit on this jury. I am prejudiced on both sides. I have friends
on both sides, and I could not render an unbiased verdict."

"That's no excuse," said Abner.

"If it's not, the new piece of music you bought me is, so I leave you
to your discussion, and hope you may effect a happy compromise." She was
gone.

There was a moment's silence, and then the rippling music of her voice
filled the halls and rooms of the great house.

"I wish the name she bears was rightfully hers, though I am glad she is
not my sister," Abner said to himself. The same thought flashed through
Oleah's mind, and, as usual, the mobile face betrayed his thoughts.
Every one seemed always to understand his feelings.

Irene had just returned from school, an accomplished beauty and an
acknowledged belle.

No wonder strange emotions stirred the hearts of the brothers, and that
thoughts gained entrance in their breasts which might prove more
disastrous than mere political differences.




CHAPTER VII.

THE ELECTION AND THE RESULT.


The election of 1860 was an exciting one. No means were spared to poll
every possible vote. Lincoln was the Republican candidate, Douglas a
Northern, and Breckinridge a Southern Democrat, and Bell the Whig and
"Know-Nothing" candidate, and all four parties worked vigorously.

Mr. Tompkins and his sons reached Snagtown early in the morning. The
village was already alive with the stir and excitement. The polls opened
at sunrise, and men were soon crowding around them, quarreling,
disputing, joking. The morning air was crisp and frosty, and the people
were compelled to walk about briskly to keep from being chilled.

A dirty faced urchin, with a pumpkin under one arm and some turnips
under the other, paused in front of the polls, and, stretching out his
neck like a young rooster achieving his first crow, bawled out:

"Hurrah for Douglas!"

It was the first patriotic wave which had caused an undulation of his
infantile breast.

There chanced to be another boy, more dirty than the first, sitting on a
fence near by gnawing an apple-core. His "pa" was a Breckinridge man,
and, regarding this outburst as a challenge, he threw away the
apple-core and fell with fury upon him of the pumpkin and turnips.
Coming head first into the stomach of the Douglasite, he sent boy,
pumpkin, and turnips into the gutter.

The enraged young Douglasite scrambled to his feet, and, leaving his
vegetables behind, started in hot pursuit of the now fleeing
Breckinridgeite, while shouts and cheers went up from the many
spectators.

Mr. Diggs came along, engaged in conversation with a farmer whom he was
trying to persuade to vote for himself and Breckinridge, for Mr. Diggs
was a candidate for the office of District Attorney. On account of his
small stature, the candidate was compelled to walk with upturned face,
in order to watch the effect of his words upon the tall Virginian. The
sidewalk being crowded, they had taken the middle of the street, and Mr.
Diggs struck his toe with such force against the abandoned pumpkin that
he was thrown down, and, falling on the pumpkin, he rolled with it into
the gutter, which was half full of mud and water. Shouts and yells of
laughter greeted Mr. Diggs as he scrambled to his feet and picked up the
glasses which he had lost in his fall.

"By jingo, Diggs, ye look like Crazy Joe's mud man now!" cried some one
from the crowd.

This was too much for the candidate, and, with something very much like
an oath, he hurried away to change his clothes.

As the day advanced, the crowd increased, and as electioneering
progressed, the crowd became very noisy.

There was Mr. Snag, a direct descendant of the founder of Snagtown, who
claimed political honors. He was a candidate for County Judge. He had
been one of the pioneers, had fought Indians, bears, wolves, panthers,
and rattlesnakes, to establish this growing country. He had always been
the workingman's friend, and was now ready to sacrifice himself on the
official altar.

Mr. Snag had been a clothing merchant, noted for close dealings with his
customers and oppression of his employes; but two or three months before
he announced himself a candidate, a change came over him. His harshness
of voice and manner grew subdued. He became not agreeable only, but
accommodating and charitable. He attended church and the bar-rooms
regularly, and was developing into a general favorite. He was welcomed
in the most select circles, yet he was not exclusive. No man was too
ragged, too dirty, or too drunk to cause Mr. Snag to be ashamed of his
society. He was more than changed; he was completely metamorphosed.

On election day he was more affable than ever. He was at hand to lift up
a drunken rowdy who had fallen over the pumpkin, and led him at once to
the voting place, to poll his vote for himself and Breckinridge. But the
pumpkin remained.

Later in the day, two rowdies, from the country, having imbibed too much
of the electioneering beverage, got in a quarrel. One struck the other,
and he fell by the pumpkin. A friend of the fallen man seized the
pumpkin, and broke it into fragments over the other man's head, bringing
him to the ground, of course. A general melee was averted only by the
appearance of some good-natured candidate, who tried to restore peace,
followed by a couple of constables, who at once arrested the
malcontents.

In the afternoon Abner and Oleah went up to the polls. The two brothers
had been silent during the forenoon, both seeming to avoid the political
question which was agitating the Nation.

"Who are you going to vote for, Abner?" asked Mr. Diggs, strutting up to
the young planter with a smile he thought becoming a District Attorney.
"Is it Breckinridge, Douglas, or constitutional unionist Bell?"

"Neither," Abner answered.

"Who, then, is your man?" asked the inquisitive Mr. Diggs, thrusting his
hands deep into his pockets, and tipping first on his heels then on his
toes, as he looked up, with an engaging smile, into the face of the man
before him.

"I shall vote for Abraham Lincoln," Abner answered firmly.

"Pshaw! you are joking," said Mr. Diggs, his little eyes twinkling
idiotically behind his glasses.

"I was never more in earnest."

"Why, man, they'd hang you if you voted for Lincoln!"

"I shall risk it, at all events."

His brother's words brought a sharp pain to Oleah's heart. He stopped
suddenly, and laid a detaining hand on Abner's arm.

"Abner, you surely do not intend to vote for that Abolitionist?" he
said, with a ring of defiance in his voice.

"I do," was the firm reply.

"For heaven's sake, think what you are about. Do you want to ruin the
country?" Entreaty and distress was melting his indignation.

"No, I want to save it," was the calm reply.

"How can it be that you will vote for an abolitionist?"

"Because his principles and mine are the same," said Abner, earnestly.

The brothers were nearer a quarrel than they had ever been in their
lives. Oleah's feelings were wounded, and he turned away, leaving his
brother to go his way alone.

But three votes were polled in Snagtown for Abraham Lincoln, and Abner
Tompkins, his father, and Uncle Dan, were supposed to have cast them.

Late that evening Mr. Tompkins and his sons rode home. The trio were
silent and thoughtful, but they little dreamed what that day's work
would bring forth.

Great was the consternation of the Southern leaders when the result of
the election became known. Reports were fluctuating from the first, yet
soon began to show favorable returns for Lincoln. Betting was heavy in
Snagtown. In a few days the leaders began to threaten a dissolution,
and, no sooner was it ascertained beyond a doubt that Mr. Lincoln was
elected than they proceeded to put their menaces into execution. At this
time secession was rife, the very air was full of it. Southern
politicians alleged that Mr. Lincoln was a sectional candidate, pledged
to the overthrow of slavery. On the 20th of December, 1860, a
convention in Charleston declared that "the union before existing
between South Carolina and other States, under the name of the United
States of America, was dissolved."

By the 1st of February, 1861, through the influence of the press and the
devices of a few leaders, Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia,
Louisiana, and Texas, following the example of South Carolina, had
passed ordinances of secession, and their Senators and Representatives
left their seats in the American Congress.

On the 4th of February, delegates from six of the seceded States met at
Montgomery, Alabama, and formed a union under the title of the
"Confederate States of America." For provisional President they elected
Mr. Jefferson Davis, of Mississippi, who had been a Colonel of some note
in the Mexican War, a member of Pierce's cabinet, and a prominent
advocate of Southern rights in the United States Senate.

But we must now attend to the individuals in this history, whom other
historians have neglected.

On the evening of the 23d of December, 1860, Mr. Tompkins and his family
were assembled in the large, cheerful sitting-room. The fire-place was
piled with blazing logs, and the light and warmth of the room seemed
more pleasant, contrasted with the soughing winds and falling snow
without.

No thought of the approaching holidays seemed to have entered the minds
of any of the group. The brothers were silent and sat apart. The cloud,
so small as to be scarcely discernable, was growing larger and
overshadowing each. It had first been visible on election day, when they
parted on the way to the polls. Though no allusion had ever been made to
this conversation, their brotherly union had been shaken. They drove,
rode, and hunted together as usual, but there was one question they
could never approach without disagreeing, and disagreement was apt to
produce disagreeable feelings.

There was a ring at the bell, and the girl who answered the summons
ushered in Uncle Dan, closely followed by Crazy Joe.

"Good evenin' to ye all," said the old man, as he entered the cozy
sitting room. "How do you all do?"

"Pretty well, Uncle Dan. How are you and Joe this evening?" returned
Mr. Tompkins, rising and grasping the hard, rough hand of the old
hunter.

"We ar' both purty well," said Uncle Dan, shaking hands with all
present. "I tell ye what's a fact, it's gettin' cold out, an' no
mistake, snowing just like blazes."

Joe, who was in no talkative mood, took a seat in a corner, and fixed
his gaze on the fire.

"I thought from the way the wind whistled it had grown colder. Come,
Maggie, fix Uncle Dan and Joe some supper," said the planter.

"Ya-as, fur I'm hungry as a wolf," returned the old man, with the
familiarity of a frequent and welcome guest.

"Are you hungry, Joe?" asked Mrs. Tompkins.

"I am, but it is written that man shall not live by bread alone, but by
every word of God."

"I'll put that ar' fellur agin any preacher in the settlement for
quotin' Scriptur. He jest seems to know the whole thing by heart."

"Have you heard any news recently?" Mr. Tompkins asked.

"News! Don't talk about news! Jist wait till I've had some supper, an'
I'll give ye a little mess o' news that'll make ye hair stand on ye
head."

After the mountaineer had partaken of a warm meal, and returned to the
comfortable sitting-room, Mr. Tompkins asked:

"What is that remarkable news, Uncle Dan?"

"Wall, I kin tell it now," he answered, resuming his seat, "but I sw'ar
it war too much for a empty stomach. About two hours ago the news first
come to Snagtown, an' now the whole place is wild. The convention, which
met at Charleston, South Carliny, three days ago, passed ordernances o'
secession, and declar' the State out o' the Union."

"Oh, pshaw! it must be a mistake," said Mr. Tompkins.

"Mistake? Not by a jug full. It ar' a actual fact. The news came in as
straight as a crow flies. There war rumors o' it before, but now it's
sartin."

"Great heaven! that means civil war."

"It means war, but it wont be civil, not by a jug full. They ar'
already talkin' about musterin' men and gettin' ready to fight. Thar's
to be a grand muster and speakin' at Snagtown next Saturday. They say
that Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and Texas ar'
sure to foller South Carliny, in a few weeks, and maybe all them slave
States, even Virginia and Missouri."

"Have the people gone crazy?" cried Mr. Tompkins.

"It's no more than might be expected," said Oleah. "The North has set
her foot on the South, and if she feels like withdrawing from the
partnership, she certainly has a right to do so."

"Partnership?" put in Abner, with an astonished look.

"It is merely a confederation of States, formed by a compact, and, if
one wishes to withdraw, she has the right," answered Oleah.

"Our Government is formed by the people, and not by the States," said
Abner.

"Then, why is it not called the United People, and not the United
States? Each State is a separate corporation, capable of suing and being
sued, contracting and dissolving contracts. They were originally
colonies, but when they freed themselves from Great Britain, for
protection and safety, they united. Who can doubt that South Carolina
has not the right, when she has become capable of taking care of
herself, to withdraw from others?"

"There is a great difference between corporations and governments," said
Abner. "Our Constitution does not say, 'We, the United States,' 'As the
people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union.'
When they belonged to England, they were considered as a whole and not
as a part. In the Declaration of Independence, declaring the Colonies
free and independent States, does so in the name and by the authority of
the good people whom they represented, and not of the States."

"All that sounds very well, Abner," said Oleah, bitterly, "but words
will have no effect on an oppressed and downtrodden people. The South
will be free--"

"Yes, if they have to enslave one-half of humanity to do so,"
interrupted Abner.

"That's just the point Abolitionists are driving to, though few are as
honest as you to admit. The slaves make the South wealthy and powerful.
The North is jealous and wants to deprive us of the means of wealth.
There is but one remedy left us--the same remedy adopted by the Colonies
when oppressed by Great Britain--withdraw, rebel."

"You are too hasty," said Abner, more coolly. "You have no assurance
that when Abraham Lincoln does take his seat, the 4th of March next, he
will abolish slavery. Wait and see."

"Wait and see?" cried Oleah. "Wait until he has withdrawn every gun and
armed vessel from the South? Wait until he has overrun the whole country
with armed soldiers? Wait until he has bound us hand and foot? Then what
can we do? No! Now is the time for action."

"I don't believe Lincoln will free the negroes," said Abner.

"I will stake my life as the wager," said Oleah, "that before his term
of office expires, he declares _every negro in the United States a free
American citizen_, war or no war. Mark my words and see if I am not a
true prophet."

"Come, come, boys, we have had political discussion enough for the
present," said Mr. Tompkins.

"Ya-as," said Uncle Dan, "we don't want the civil war to commence
to-night; least of all places, heah. One thing sure about it, you
youngsters had better let us old folks talk 'bout these things, we can
do it without gettin' so red in the face. The whole country is in a bad
fix, an' ef it comes to a smash up, I swar I don't want to see it begin
between brothers."




CHAPTER VIII.

MR. DIGGS IN A NEW FIELD.


Mr. Diggs was defeated for the office of county attorney by a large
majority, but he was young and buoyant, and after a few days of repining
began to revive.

A new excitement took possession of him. Strange talk came to his ears,
and his little round eyes glistened with delight from behind his
glasses, and his little round lips parted with smiles of pleasure. War
on a gigantic scale--a new Nation, with new men at its head--was the
all-absorbing topic. The Union was shattered, and a new Nation was
rising out of the ruins and fragments of the old.

Mr. Diggs concluded to espouse the cause of the new Nation. He would
raise a company of volunteers to fight its battles; he would be captain.
From captain he would be promoted for his bravery to colonel, from
colonel to brigadier-general, or commander-in-chief. Mr. Diggs' fertile
imagination planned a glorious future for himself. Other men had risen
from obscurity to renown, and why not he?

He strutted about with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, reveling
already in his future greatness. The new and powerful Nation was his
all-absorbing theme. When he met any one he would say:

"Well, what's the news, and what's the prospect of war?"

The prospect was very good, every one thought.

One day, talking with a young man about his own age, but cooler and less
blood-thirsty, Mr. Diggs said they were too slow about fighting. Since
the surrender of Twiggs in Texas no other event had transpired, and such
indifference was monstrous.

"Don't be in a hurry, Diggs," said his friend. "Let them have time for
consideration."

"There's no need of consideration. I am ready now. I will go, like
Marion, to avenge my country's wrongs," said Diggs.

"This is war against our own countrymen," said his friend, "and I don't
think there is any place in either rank for me."

"There is a place for me," said Diggs, strutting about with his hands in
his pockets and expectorating profusely. "My country needs me, and I
reckon there's a place for me."

"Will you take a colonelcy to commence with?" his friend asked, with a
smile.

"I don't expect a colonelcy at first," said Diggs. "I want to start at
the foot of the ladder, as captain, and gradually rise until I am
commander-in-chief."

"You would make such a noble-looking general!" said a bystander,
surveying the fat little fellow.

"You can talk, Howard Jones, but I--hem! hem!--have always had a taste
for military life."

"You would make such a fine-looking commander," said Jones. "Mounted on
a tall charger you would yourself strike terror to the enemy."

"I can prove that all generals were small men," said Diggs, strutting
about.

"Of course they were; but you--you would kill all your enemies. They
would die with laughter when they saw a general on a horse seventeen
hands high, looking like a bug on a log."

"Oh, talk sense, Jones."

"On a big war-horse you would look very much like a bug on a log," said
Jones. "But wouldn't it be grand for Crazy Joe's mud man to turn out a
general?"

"Can't you talk sense, or are you a fool?" roared the exasperated Diggs;
and, unable longer to endure the ridicule of his companions, he turned
abruptly around and left the crowd gathered about him.

The Winter of 1860-61 passed away; but little had been done in Snagtown
save mustering and speech-making. Those in favor of open rebellion were
in the minority in the neighborhood, but those in favor of neutrality in
the majority; but those in favor of standing for the Stars and Stripes
the smallest class of all.

Patrick Henry Diggs was in a dilemma. His ambition pointed him to the
battle-field, that his great abilities, which no one seemed to
appreciate, might be shown to the world. The idea of a new Nation
dazzled him and showed a path as splendor for his willing feet to
follow. But he felt reluctant to draw his sword against the flag of
Washington and Marion. He was sure, however, that these turbulent times
meant something great for himself. He never lost an opportunity to
muster in the ranks of the Home Guards or to make a speech.

The eastern part of Virginia seceded on April 17, 1861, but the
northwestern portion, about Snagtown, was at peace, save from the
mustering of Home Guards to protect home and families from the
incursions of either army.

Oleah Tompkins was an avowed secessionist, attended the Meetings of the
Knights of the Golden Circle, and was already sworn to support the
Southern cause. Secret meetings were taking place all over the country,
and night meetings held three or four times a week.

Mr. Diggs joined one of these secret organizations, and met with them
one night in an old school-house which stood on the side of an abandoned
road, about four miles from Snagtown in the direction of the Twin
Mountains. About forty in all had assembled there, among them Howard
Jones and Seth Williams, two men who seemed, Mr. Diggs thought, to live
only to annoy him.

Mr. Diggs had come to the meeting with the intention of making one of
his most patriotic speeches; but when he discovered his old enemies,
their eyes sparkling with mischief, his heart sank within him.

Nearly all present were armed with shot-guns, rifles and pistols, and a
guard was placed about the school-house. Preliminary matters settled,
Howard Jones rose and addressed the chairman of the meeting, stating
that, as they had with them the distinguished attorney, Patrick Henry
Diggs, who was in sympathy with the cause, he would like to hear from
him.

Despite the stirring times, everybody present was eagerly expectant of
fun. Cries for Diggs were heard all over the house. Mr. Diggs' opinion
of Jones rose rapidly.

"Mr. Speaker," began Mr. Diggs, rising and gazing about through his
glasses, "in the language of one of old


     "'I come not here to talk. You know too well
     The story of our thralldom.--'"


Here he made a gesture with both hands, which Jones declared looked like
a turtle trying to crawl up hill.


                              "'We are slaves.'"


A solemn pause.


     "'The bright sun rises to his course, and lights
     A race of slaves; he sets, and his last beam
     Falls on a slave.
     Friends, Romans, countrymen--'"


"I say," interrupted Seth Williams, in an audible whisper, nudging the
orator, "s'pose you leave Rome, and come down to our present age. Give
us something about the new Confederacy."

"That's just what I am coming to," said Mr. Diggs, "and I hope you will
not interrupt me again." After a short pause he resumed:

"It is no common cause which brings us here to-night. Tyrants and
traitors are abroad in the land. A gigantic foe is invading the fair
soil of Virginia, and we are here to protect our firesides. All law
writers, from Blackstone down, agree that all men should protect their
homes. Now, fellow-citizens, remember our forefathers all fought, and
bled, and died for this glorious Union." [Applause.]

"Touch lightly on that," whispered Jones.

"I repeat" said Mr. Diggs, "that Washington was the greatest man that
ever lived." And now, grown eloquent and excited, he mounted a bench and
whipped his left hand under the tails of his coat, while he waved his
right in vehement gesture.

All the efforts of Seth Williams and Howard Jones to keep him on the
track were unavailing. He commenced to speak about the Stars and
Stripes.

"Oh, thunder! go back to Rome if you can't make a better secession
speech," said Jones.

The truth was that Mr. Diggs, like a great many others at this time,
hardly knew which side he was on. When he swore to preserve the Union at
all hazards, his astonished friends pulled him down.

A call was made for volunteers, and Mr. Diggs was the first to enroll
his name. Though calling themselves a Home Guard, these volunteers were
really enrolled in the army of the Southern Confederacy. Oleah Tompkins
was among the first to thus espouse the Southern cause.

The clouds of war grew darker and darker every hour. At any moment the
storm might burst in all its fury. Snagtown was in a constant state of
excitement as the crisis approached. Her more timid citizens trembled
with dread.

Henry Smith, a farmer's son, a young man of limited education, but of
strong common sense, stood in the street one bright morning, engaged in
conversation with Seth Williams.

"Come, now, Harry," said Williams, persuasively, "you had better come in
with us. The time has come, or will soon come, when our homes will have
to be defended. We shall be overrun with soldierly hirelings, who will
rob and burn and murder as they go. Our families will need protection,
and this duty devolves on us."

"But, Seth, some say the Home Guard will be marched South into the
Confederate army."

"Oh, nothing of the kind," said Williams. "Our only object is to protect
our homes from the soldiers of both sides, and to meddle with neither
unless they invade our State."

"I think we are justified in protecting our own interests; but, though I
despise Abraham Lincoln, I cannot raise my hand against the old Stars
and Stripes."

"Oh, there is no danger that you will be forced into the Confederate
army. We are only organizing a Home Guard now; if we raise troops for
the South, that will be another thing."

"When do you meet again?" asked Harry.

"To-morrow night; we go into camp next week in real earnest."

"Where?"

"On Wolf Creek, about three or four miles away, between here and the
Twin Mountains."

"Where do you meet to-morrow night?"

"At the school-house on the road between here and Twin Mountains."

"I will be there," said Harry.

As Williams walked away, a young man who had been observing the two with
keen interest, approached Harry and said:

"I can tell what you and Seth Williams were talking about."

"I will give you three guesses, Abner," said Harry, laughing.

"He was trying to persuade you to enlist in the Home Guards."

"That was just it," replied Harry.

"Don't do it, Harry, or you will repent it. I tell you the name Home
Guard is only a cover, and every one who enlists will be in the
Confederate army in three months. Unless you mean to take up arms
against your country, keep clear of the Home Guard."

"I don't want to fight in Lincoln's army, nor do I want to enter the
confederate ranks, so I thought the Home Guards would be the place for
me."

"Don't you enlist," said Abner Tompkins, "or you will repent it."

As Harry walked away, Mr. Diggs came along, his short legs, in rapid
motion, resembling the thick spokes of a wheelbarrow, and his head
inclined backward at an angle of forty-five degrees, and his glasses, as
usual, on his nose, and his little fat hands thrust deep into his
pockets.

"Hold on, Diggs!" said Abner. "I want to speak to you."

"Hem, hem, hem!" began Mr. Diggs. "Good morning, Mr. Tompkins.
Well--hem--I am--that is, I am--hem--glad to see you. I was just going
to have my man drive me out to your house. Have a little important
business with--that is with one member of your family, he--he he!"

"Diggs, I hear that you have enlisted in the Confederate army; is it
so?" asked Abner, abruptly.

"Well, sir, I expect--that is, I apprehend, my dear sir,
that--you--perhaps are correctly informed."

"Why, Diggs, what in the world do you mean?" asked Abner.

"Oh, our country is too large; should be divided. We intend to build up
a vast Southern empire. The North has always trampled on our rights, and
it is time for us to resist."

"But how do you intend to resist? By overthrowing the best government
the world has ever known? Build up a Southern empire! Is not the grand
old republic established by Washington good enough for you? The North is
not trampling on your rights. Your wrongs are imaginary. And as to our
country being too large, can a nation like ours grow too powerful?
Think, Diggs, before you act, or, like Calhoun, you may expect
Washington to come to you in sleep, and place the black spot on your
hand which Arnold wears in the other world. Think Diggs! Don't raise
your hand against your country without well considering the matter."

Diggs, for a few minutes, was silent, and then he said:

"I think you are right, Abner. I will not prove a traitor to my country.
I shall ask to have my name taken off the roll to-morrow night."

"Do so, or you will surely repent it as you live. If you want military
honors, seek them in the ranks of your country. There is a call for
seventy-five thousand volunteers."

"You are right, you are right. I will go and volunteer. Where shall I
go?"

"We are raising a company at the junction, about twenty miles from
here."

"I will go day after to-morrow, but I am in a hurry now. I am going to
your house on business. The fact is--I don't mind telling the facts to
you--I am going on purpose to see Miss Irene. He, he, he! I am
determined to see how I stand there, he, he, he!"

Abner started back in amazement, but Mr. Diggs hurried away, without
observing his movement.

"The consummate fool!" muttered Abner. "The idiot! To think of our
Irene!"

Mr. Diggs hurried off with an air of much importance, and ordered Mose
to make ready the carriage, and drive him to the Tompkins mansion.

Mose was not as quick of movement as he had been fifty years before, but
he managed to have the equipage in readiness by four o'clock in the
afternoon.

At Mr. Tompkins' door Mr. Diggs alighted, to be informed by Miss Irene's
maid that her mistress was calling with Mrs. Tompkins, and would not
return for an hour.

"I will wait," said Mr. Diggs. "I must--hem, hem--must see Miss Irene."

After a few moments of waiting Mr. Diggs became tired of sitting in the
house and sauntered out to the piazza, and there met the ladies on their
return.

"Miss Irene,--hem, hem, hem," he began advancing. "I am delighted to see
you, I--hem--that is--hem--I came on purpose to see you, and--and talk
with you, and bid you good-by before I leave for the field of glory. I
have joined the Confederate army--hem--no, I mean to say I am going to
join the Union army in a day or two. That is, I don't know exactly which
army I shall join yet--and I come to bid you adieu."

Irene looked a little puzzled and felt not a little annoyed at this
address. There was something she did not like about Mr. Diggs' manner.

"Will you come in?" she said, "and I will see you presently."

Mr. Diggs accordingly re-entered the house, and Irene went up to her
room to change her dress. She managed to detain herself until tea was
announced and then invited Mr. Diggs to the dining-room.

After tea the little fellow followed her back to the parlor, and she
resigned herself to be bored for an hour or more by him, but did not yet
suspect the real cause of his visit.

"Hem--hem," began Mr. Diggs, "Miss Irene, these are troublous times."

"They are indeed," answered Irene, from her seat opposite the loquacious
Mr. Diggs.

"We don't know one minute what will happen the next."

"No, we do not," said Irene, who really did not imagine what was to
happen on this occasion.

"Hem, hem! two large armies are raising."

"So I am informed," said Irene.

"And they mean destruction to each other."

"I fear some damage will be done."

"Hem, hem! Sumter has fallen."

"So I have heard."

"Deuce take it!" thought Mr. Diggs aside, "she is as cool as an
iceberg, and I am getting flurried. What had I better say or do next?"
Then a short pause.

"Some of your friends will doubtless take part in the coming struggle,"
he finally said.

"I fear they will be rash enough to do so," she replied.

"And some may go to return no more,"--voice and eyes were growing
pathetic.

"Alas! such is too often the fate of war."

"I have concluded to enter the army."

"A great many young men are now talking of going into the army."

"I feel that my country needs my services."

"You are patriotic."

Mr. Diggs felt flattered.

"You are--hem--hem, very kind, Miss Irene, to attribute patriotism to
me. Patriotism, true patriotism is one of man's most noble attributes."

"I agree with you."

"But, Miss Irene, it is hard to go, even to our country's aid, and leave
behind friends dearer to us than life."

"Mercy!" mentally ejaculated Irene, "does the little fool mean to
propose?" Then, still without any encouraging warmth in her tone, she
asked, "When do you expect to leave Snagtown?"

"In two or three days at most, and I feel--hem--pardon me, Miss Irene."
He rose and drew his chair nearer hers.

"He really means it!" thought Irene, her eyes bright, half with
mischief, half with annoyance.

"I have something--hem, hem, hem!--I wish to say to you. I--I--that
is--hem--I cannot leave for the field of danger until I--have--hem, hem!
until I have revealed to you my feelings."

Mr. Diggs paused, and tried to look sentimental; but a more sheepish,
simple-looking specimen of humanity Irene was sure she had never before
beheld.

The farce had been carried too far, and she said coldly:

"Your manner and words are quite incomprehensible, Mr. Diggs."

"I will make myself plain," said Mr. Diggs, swallowing something in his
throat, and taking hope. "You shall understand me. I say I cannot leave
for the field of battle, cannot face the cannon's mouth, in this
suspense--"

"Then don't go, Mr. Diggs," interrupted Irene, with difficulty
restraining her merriment, all her pity put to flight by his affectation
and conceit.

"I should almost feel inclined to turn a deaf ear to the 'obstreperous
trump of fame,' and 'only list to love and thine,' should you command me
to stay."

"Sir, you are growing more and more incomprehensible. Let us leave this
subject."

"Not yet, oh no, not yet! Wait until you have heard all. I love you,
Irene, dearest, and--and--ah! come to my arms and say you will be mine!"

Down he went on one knee, with upturned face and out-stretched arms.
Poor Irene felt an almost irresistible impulse to laugh, and for a
moment dared not speak.

He mistook her silence and again began to plead.

"Speak, O brightest sylph, fairer than the angels, sweeter than--hem,
hem!--than the honey in the honey-comb!"

"For mercy's sake, stand up, Mr. Diggs!" said Irene.

"Not until you say you will be mine!" and his arms expanded, like an
opened double gate.

"Then Mr. Diggs, I fear you will never reach the field of glory, for the
war will be over before you rise from your knees," said Irene.

"Oh! ah! Hem, hem! You cannot be so cruel,"--still kneeling, and leaning
further forward, as though to compel her to his embrace.

"Mr. Diggs, you can never be to me more than a friend. Pray, do not
pursue the subject further."

"Miss Irene, dear, dear Miss Irene, you utterly wreck my life! I care
not a straw for it now!" whined little Mr. Diggs, turning, still on his
knees, towards Irene who had crossed the room, the most pitiful of
faces.

No answer.

"You are--hem, hem!--very cruel, Miss Irene," he rose and awkwardly took
his seat.

"I regret to have given you pain," said Irene graciously, as, at Mr.
Diggs' request, she rang for his carriage, "but I am sure you will soon
forget it, and will see that you had mistaken your feelings."

As Mr. Diggs was in the act of getting into his carriage the sound of
horse's feet came to his ear, and a moment later Oleah Tompkins galloped
up to the side of the old rockaway.

"Halloo, Diggs! are you just leaving?" asked Oleah.

"Yes--hem, hem!--I am going home," said Diggs.

"Well, be on hand to-morrow night without fail, now. We want every
member of the company there, as we shall go into camp in a day or two."

"Well,--hem, hem, hem!--Oleah, I have almost concluded not to go. I can
not--hem, hem!--take up arms against the flag of Washington."

"Oh, that's abolitionist nonsense! What care you for a flag that will
not protect you?"

"That's so," said Diggs.

"Then why should we consent to bow our necks to tyrant's heels simply
because the great and good Washington fought under a rag with certain
stripes and certain stars upon it?"

"That is so. Hem, hem, hem! 'They first have breathed treason.'"

"Yes, they stole our property. The interests of the North and South are
directly opposite. They want to ruin us, and we must protect ourselves
while we can. We can not live in peace with the North; the next best
thing is to separate."

"That's so,--hem, hem!--that's so," said Mr. Diggs.

"Then why refuse to enter the Confederate army? The South is your
country, and if you want military renown seek it in the ranks of your
country. If they call you a rebel be proud of the name. Washington and
Marion were rebels."

Mr. Diggs was completely won back to the Southern cause; and, assuring
Oleah he would be with them the next night, drove away.




CHAPTER IX.

THE CHASM OPENS.


The storm clouds were gathering dark about the Tompkins mansion. The
heads of the household were silent on the question, each knowing the
different feelings and sympathies of the other. Their sons were also
silent, but there was a sullenness in their silence that foretold the
coming strife. There was one member of the once happy household who
could not comprehend the trouble, whose very gentleness kept her in
ignorance of the threatened danger.

Yet neither love nor loving care could keep her from knowing that
trouble was brewing. She could not but notice the coldness gradually
growing between the two brothers. Brothers whose affection she once
thought no earthly power could lessen, were growing daily colder and
more and more estranged. Every morning each mounted his horse, and rode
away alone, and it was always late in the night when they came home,
never together. Gloomy and silent, the morning meal was hurried through,
the pleasant conversation that had always accompanied it, was heard no
more, if we except the efforts of Irene, who strove with all her power
to infuse some of the old-time harmony and brightness into the altered
family.

It was the evening of Mr. Diggs' visit to the Tompkins mansion, one of
those clear bright evenings when the curtains of night seem reluctant to
fall, and the fluttering folds seem held apart to reveal the beauty of
the dying day. Irene sat by the window, gazing up at the dark blue
vault, and listening to the far-off song of a whip-poor-will upon the
lonely hillside. Nature to her had never seemed more calm or lovely. The
moon, serenely bright, shed mellow light over the landscape, and the
dark old forest on whose trees the early buds had swelled into green
leaves, lay in a quiet repose. Only man, of all created things seemed
unresting. Far down the road she heard the clatter of horses' hoofs. At
all times now, day and night, she heard them.

Clatter, clatter, clatter--sleeping or waking, it was always the same,
always this beat of hoofs. To her it seemed as if ten thousand dragoons
were constantly galloping, galloping, galloping down the great road:
somewhere their marshalled thousands must be gathering. Horsemen singly,
horsemen in pairs, horsemen in groups, were galloping, galloping, until
her ears ached with the awful din.

As she looked, a horseman came dashing down the hill; he passed through
the gate and down the avenue.

"That must be either Abner or Oleah," thought Irene. "Six months ago,
they would have gone and returned together."

When he stepped on the piazza, the moon fell on his face and revealed
the features of Abner Tompkins. He came rapidly up the steps and into
the house. Staying only a few moments in the room below, where his
parents were, then came directly to Irene's door and knocked.

She bade him come in.

"Irene," he said in tremulous tones, "I have strange news for you. I
must leave to-night for months perhaps, perhaps forever, my home, my
parents--and you."

Irene sprang to his side eager and excited.

"Why, Abner, what do you mean?"

"Is it such a surprise to you? I will try to speak calmly, but I have
only a few moments to stay. I have a load on my heart that I must
unburden to you."

"What is it?" she said, drawing a low stool to his feet and seating
herself she took both his hands in her own. "Tell me what troubles you,
let me share it with you. Who should share your troubles if not your
sister?"

"Irene, what I have to say will shock you."

"No, no, it will not. If you have done anything wrong, I shall be sure
it was not your fault--"

"No, you misunderstand me; it is nothing I have done," he interrupted.

"Then what is this secret, brother?"

"_I am not your brother._"

Irene had promised that his secret should not shock her, yet had a
bombshell burst at her feet, she could not have been more astonished.

She sprang from the low stool, and stood with clasped hands, the color
fading from her face, her slight form swaying as though she had received
a blow.

Abner, alarmed, sprang from his chair, and caught her in his arms.

"Irene, Irene, don't take it so," he said, bending tenderly over the
white face.

"_Not my brother?_ Why you must be mad!" she gasped.

"Irene, I am not your brother, but I love you a thousand times more
fondly than a brother could love. It was this I wanted to tell you
before I leave you. What, Irene, weeping--weeping because I am not your
brother! My darling, let me be nearer and dearer than a brother!"

"Abner, I can not realize it, I can not think!" she said, pressing her
hands to her throbbing temples.

"Think of it when I am gone, Irene, for I must go. To-morrow's sun must
find me miles from here. But through all the coming strife I shall
cherish your image. I shall hope for your love if I return. Now,
good-by, my love, my Irene!"

He caught her in his arms, but it was only a sisterly embrace that Irene
returned. She could not yet believe that Abner was not her brother.

He went down stairs, she heard his mother's sobs, his father's broken
voice; the door opened and closed, and from her window she saw him pass
down the avenue, out of sight. Soon she heard a horse galloping down the
road, and knew that Abner was riding swiftly away in the gathering
darkness.

Completely overcome, and not daring to meet Mr. or Mrs. Tompkins till
she had controlled herself, Irene, throwing a light shawl about her
shoulders, went down stairs, stepped through an open window out on the
broad piazza. The cool night air fanned her cheeks and revived her
spirits. She walked through the grounds to a summer house covered with
trailing vines whose fragrant flowers filled the air with sweetest
odors.

"It can not be, it can not be," she murmured. "He was surely jesting. I
an outcast or foundling or a oh! merciful Heaven! I can not endure the
thought!" and her beautiful eyes filled with tears. The whip-poor-will's
call still sounded from the distant hillside, and soon another sound
broke the evening stillness--the tread of a man's feet on the graveled
walk. Irene turned her head quickly, and saw Oleah standing in the
doorway.

"I thought I should find you here, Irene," he said. "You always choose
this arbor on moonlight evenings."

"You have been absent all day, Oleah. What fearful business is it that
keeps both my brothers from my side!"

"Ah! Heaven be praised, Irene, darling Irene, that you know nothing of
it!"

"Abner left to-night, perhaps never to return he said," she went on,
wiping the tears from her face.

"I see you have been weeping, dear Irene. I have more news for you. I
too have to bid you what may prove a long farewell. I leave to-night for
our camp, and shall soon march to join the main army. But I can not
leave you, Irene, without telling you of something I have long kept a
secret."

Irene could not speak; sobs choked her voice. Then from Oleah's lips
fell those same startling words:

"I am not your brother."

She sat motionless. Then it must be true. They could not both be
mistaken, could not both possess the same hallucination. If anyone was
mad, it was herself. But Oleah went on in his quick passionate way:

"You are not my sister, dearest Irene, and that you are not gives me
only joy. When you were left at our house a tiny baby, I claimed you for
my sister, and when I learned you could not be my sister, I said you
should one day be my wife. I loved from the first time those bright eyes
laughed into mine, and that love has grown with my growth and
strengthened with my strength, until it has taken possession of my
entire being. O, Irene, Irene, you can never know how deep is the love I
have born you from early childhood. I could not leave this old home
without telling you that I loved you with more than a brother's love."

He paused, and Irene remained silent.

"Speak, Irene! Will you not speak?"

She was still silent, her large dark eyes fixed and staring, her white
lips motionless, her whole form rigid as a statue. She thought of
Abner's parting words, and pain and terror filled her soul. Had she
entered this happy home only to bring discord, to widen the breach
between the two brothers?

"O Irene, Irene," he pleaded, "by the memory of our happy childhood I
implore you, speak once more before I go. Say that you will love me,
that you will pray for me--pray for my safe return, pray for my soul if
I fall in battle!"

The marble statue found voice.

"I will pray for you, Oleah, to heaven day and night, for your safe
return."

"But will you give me your love? O Irene, if you only knew how dear you
are to me, you will surely learn to love me!"

"I have always given you a sister's warmest love, Oleah," she replied,
"and this is all too new, too strange, for me to change so suddenly."

"But you promise you will change?" he asked eagerly.

"I can not promise yet," she said. "I do not know myself, and neither do
you comprehend your own feelings."

"Irene, dearest, I have known myself for years. Try to love me, and pray
for me," he said, and taking both her hands as she came to his side,
"for now I must go." He stooped and pressed a kiss on those white lips,
and Irene was alone. Soon she heard again the hoof beats of a flying
horse, and knew that Oleah had left his home.

When he had returned to bid farewell to his home, Abner Tompkins, before
entering the house, walked down the long gravel walk, through the avenue
of grand old elms, until the outer gate was reached. Here he paused a
moment, and gazed up at the moon riding through the dark blue,
fathomless vault of heaven; then he turned his gaze upon the spacious
pillared mansion, his pleasant home, that he was to leave that night,
perhaps forever. It was the home of his childhood; beneath its roof
dwelt those he loved; and feelings of sadness filled his heart as he
realized the fact that he must leave it. On his right lay the great
road, the road that, in his boyhood, he had imagined, led to far-off
lands and fairy kingdoms; the road he had thought must be endless, and
had desired to follow to its end. Across the road was the forest where
he and his brother had so often wandered. Every spot seemed hallowed
with sacred remembrances of childhood, and associated with every object
and every thought was that brother from whom he was gradually drifting
away. He stood beneath the old hickory tree, whose nuts they had
gathered, and whose topmost branches they had climbed in their
adventurous boyhood. To-night all were fading away. He was going to
different scenes, to see strange faces, to meet hardships, danger,
perhaps death; worse than all to draw his sword against that very
brother whose life had so long been one with his.

"Oh, what a curse is civil war," said Abner, with a sigh, "dividing
nations, people and kindred." And, leaning against the trunk of the
giant old hickory, he stood for a moment lost in painful reverie.

The beat of a horse's hoofs aroused him, and he saw his brother
approaching. To reach the house he was compelled to pass within a few
feet of the hickory tree, and must inevitably discover Abner, who,
however, made no effort to conceal himself. Standing in the shade of the
tree as he was, Oleah did not see his brother until he was within a few
feet of him, and then could not distinguish his features.

"Halloo, whom have we here?" he said, reining in his horse abruptly.

"Who is there? Speak quick, or it may be the worse for you," cried
impetuous Oleah, not receiving an immediate answer.

"It is I, Oleah," said Abner, stepping from under the branches of the
old tree.

The two brothers had grown more and more estranged, but as yet there had
been no open rupture between them.

"Well, I might inquire what you are doing there?" said Oleah.

"And I might ask what you are doing here, and where you are going, and
a hundred other questions. If I were to tell you I was star-gazing you
would not believe me."

"I don't know; I might," said Oleah. "You were sentimental at times when
a boy, and the habit of looking at the moon and stars may have followed
you into maturer years."

"I was just thinking," said Abner, "that this tree is very old, yet very
hale."

"It is," answered Oleah; "it was a full grown tree when I first remember
seeing it."

"Yes, and we have often climbed its branches or swung beneath them."

"That is all true," said Oleah, restlessly, "but why talk of that, above
all other times, to-night?"

"It brings pleasant memories of our happy childhood. And why not
to-night as well as any other time?" said Abner.

"I have reasons for not wishing to talk or to think of the past
to-night," said Oleah. "I have enough to trouble me without bringing up
recollections that are now anything but pleasant."

"Recollections of childhood are always pleasant to me," said Abner, "and
when storms of passion sway me, such thoughts calm the storm and soothe
my turbulent mind once more to peace."

"Have you been in a rage to-night?" asked Oleah, with a smile.

"No."

"Then why are you conjuring recollections of the past?"

"I have not conjured them up; they come unbidden. This night, _above all
others_, I would not drive the thoughts of our past away."

"And why?" asked Oleah, uneasily.

"Because this night we part, Oleah, perhaps forever."

Oleah, rash, hot-headed, fiery Oleah, had a tender heart in his bosom,
and now he was trembling with emotion, although he made an effort to
appear calm.

"How do you know that we are to part to-night?" he asked.

"We are both going from our home, and going in different directions. We
are standing on opposite sides of a gulf momentarily growing wider."

A fearful suspicion crossed Oleah's mind. "Do you leave home to-night?"

"Yes."

"Where are you going?"

"To join the army of my country and the Union."

Oleah started back as if he had received a stunning blow in the face.
Abner was aware that Oleah had enlisted in the Confederate army, but
Oleah did not dream that his brother would enter the army of the North.

"Abner, Abner," he cried, hurriedly dismounting from his horse and
coming to his brother's side, "for heaven's sake say that it is not
true!"

"But it is true," said Abner sadly. "To-night we separate, you to fight
for the cause of the South, I for the preservation of the Union."

"O Abner, O my brother, how can you be so blinded? It is a war between
the North and South, the only object of the North being to give freedom
to our slaves. You will see if the North _should_ be successful, that
every negro in the land will be freed."

"And you will see that the North has no such intentions. Mr. Lincoln,
although a Republican, was born in a slave State, and he will not free
the slaves. But, Oleah, it is useless for us to discuss these matters;
we part to-night, and let us--"

"But should we meet," said Oleah, his hot blood mounting to his face,
"it will be as enemies. You are my brother now, but when you don the
hated uniform of an Abolition soldier you will be my enemy; for I have
sworn by the eternal heavens to cut asunder every tie of friendship or
kindred when I find them arrayed against our cause."

"Oleah," said Abner, "be not too rash in your vows. Do not make them
just yet."

"I have already made them; and whoever confronts me with a blue coat and
a Yankee musket is an enemy, whatever blood runs in his veins."

"I pray that we may never meet thus," said Abner. "Rather would I have
you find among the slain the body of one you no longer own as a
brother."

One of the stable men now appeared, leading Abner's horse. Oleah's hot
passion was gone; his eyes were misty, his voice was choked. The
brothers clasped hands in silence, and five minutes later Abner was
galloping down the great road.




CHAPTER X.

THE BEGINNING OF SOLDIER LIFE.


A curious scene presented itself at the Junction. But before we attempt
to describe the former, we will give the reader some idea of the latter.
The Junction was the terminus of one railroad and the junction of two
others. One of the railroads led to Washington, one to Pittsburg, and
one to Baltimore. It was not a large town; a village of perhaps twelve
or fifteen hundred inhabitants, blackened by the smoke of engines. The
surrounding country was broken and rough, with hills rising upon hills,
deep ravines, rocky gorges, and winding streams, lined with a luxuriant
growth of pine and maple, while far away in the distance the gray peaks
of mountains could be seen.

The Junction was about twenty miles north-east of Snagtown, there being
no railroad to the latter place, though there was a hard beaten
turnpike, with a daily mail-coach running between the two. Some of the
houses about the Junction were of brick, but the majority of wood. There
were neat little cottages, looking like fairy abodes, amid the green
vines and blooming flowers of Spring-time, and there were cottages
neither neat nor fairy-like in aspect; the log hovel, showing signs of
decay and neglect. But the village, taken as a whole, was a very pretty
place.

It was about the 1st of May. The President had called for eighty-two
thousand more men, finding seventy-five thousand wholly inadequate to
put down the rebellion. Virginia was at this period in a constant state
of alarm. Sumter had fallen, Harper's Ferry and Norfolk Navy-yard were
in the hands of the rebels, while a mob, in the city of Baltimore, had
attacked Massachusetts and Pennsylvania troops on their way to the
defense of Washington.

The Federal Government, on the other hand, was straining every nerve. It
had collected about Washington, as speedily as possible, under General
Scott, the veteran hero of Chippewa, Lundy's Lane, and the Mexican War,
the volunteers who flocked to their country's defense in answer to the
President's call. Volunteer companies were raising all over the country.
In the extreme Northern States, in the defense of the Federal
Government; in the extreme Southern States, in defense of the
Confederate Government, and in some of the Middle and Western States,
companies were raised for both sides. In fact, there were men in some of
the more Northern slave States, who mustered with the rebels and were
actually in the Confederate service before they knew it.

In Virginia, as we have shown, both sides were represented. The
Junction, on account of its railroad facilities, was an important point
to guard, and about three hundred volunteers, under Colonel Holdfast,
were here stationed. Of these raw recruits, there was but one company
that was a complete organization, uniformed and armed at the expense of
the Government. It was a company of mounted infantry, under command of
Captain Wardle, armed with musket, uniformed in the Government blue, and
furnished with horses in order to scout the country.

The Government found it impossible to turn out arms and clothing fast
enough to supply the volunteers at once, and it was late in the Summer
of 1861 before they were all equipped. Many armed themselves, as was the
case with two hundred of those at the Junction. Their arms consisted of
rifles, shot-guns, and such other weapons as they were able to furnish
themselves with.

The Junction, as we have said, presented a curious scene. Five tall,
white army tents had been erected for Captain Wardle's men, and there
were a score or more enclosures, ambitious to be known as tents, made
from Virginia wagon-covers, sail-cloth, oil-cloth, sheeting, and
bed-ticking. They were of various sizes and shapes; some so small that
four men would fill them; others large enough to hold twenty-five. Some
of them were square, some round, like Indian wigwams, and others more
like a circus canvas than anything we can compare them to.

The tents were a motley assemblage, and so, and to a greater extent,
were the men therein sheltered. There was first the company of Captain
Wardle, properly uniformed and armed, and intensely military in
appearance and behavior. They were always drilling when not scouting the
country; the raw recruits standing by, overwhelmed with admiration at
their easy proficiency in the manual of arms, or the intricate and
mysterious movements of the company drill.

It was early morning, and the smoke was ascending from half a hundred
camp-fires. The scene was a constantly varying panorama of straw hats,
linen coats, broadcloth coats, colored, flannel and white shirts. An
orderly sergeant was trying to initiate a squad of raw recruits into
some of the mysteries of drilling.

"Remember the position of a soldier," said the orderly. "Heels close
together, head up, the eyes striking the ground twenty paces away. Now,
shoulder arms! Great Moses! Tom Koontz, can't you learn how to handle a
gun? Keep the barrel vertical. Do you call that vertical?"

"What d'ye mean by sayin' vartical?" asked Koontz.

The orderly explained for the hundredth time, that vertical meant
straight up and down. He had them then count off by twos, beginning at
the right, then he instructed them that at the order of "right face,"
number one was to take a half step obliquely to the right, and number
two a step and a half to the left, bringing them in double file at right
face. But when he gave the order, half of the men had forgotten their
number. Confusion and dismay resulted, and the long suffering orderly
sat down and swore until he was exhausted.

Camp-life was new to all, and its novelty kept all in a perpetual
excitement. There was but little discipline. Officers ordered men and
men ordered each other. Every one had suggestions to make, and those who
knew the least offered the most of them.

"I tell you," said Sergeant Swords to Corporal Grimm, "that tent is not
strong. The center pole is too weak, and the guy ropes are rotten. It'll
go down."

"I always knowed them boys didn't know how to fix a tent," said
Corporal Grimm, plying his jaws vigorously on a huge piece of pig-tail
tobacco.

"Yes, sir; they've got a good deal to learn yet," said Sergeant Swords,
with a sigh.

"I do hate to see any one, who don't know anything about soldier life,
pretend to know so much," said Corporal Grimm, who had had ten days'
experience before he enlisted in his present company.

"So do I," said Sergeant Swords, who had seen at least six days'
service. "They'll find yet they had better take some one else's advice
what's had experience. Why, when I was with Captain Strong's men, and we
marched forty miles to Goose Creek Bridge to keep the rebels from
burnin' it, we fixed a tent up like that, and the first night after we
encamped, there came up a rain-storm, and blowed the thing a quarter of
a mile into a brush heap."

"Did I ever tell you what a hard time we had when I was under General
Preston;" asked Corporal Grimm, by way of introduction to a story which
should redound to his own greatness.

"No, I believe not," answered Sergeant Swords, with more courtesy than
truthfulness, for he had heard the story at least a dozen times.

"Well, sir, them was tryin' times," said Corporal Grimm, shaking his
head and masticating his quid with the air of a man who has suffered.
"Why, sir, we marched eighty-five miles on foot, and all the rations we
got was dried bacon, hams, and crackers. Oh, I just thought I would give
anything for something substantial to eat, or a drink of coffee! The
boys all run out of tobacco, too, an' we had an awful time." The thought
of these hardships brought to his face an expression of extreme agony.

"Why didn't you press something to eat? You passed through a country
where there was plenty, didn't you?" asked Sergeant Swords.

"Yes, but what could fifteen hundred men do at pressin'? Why, they
couldn't a got enough to feed one brigade, let alone our whole army,"
answered Corporal Grimm, who, as much service as he had seen, did not
exactly know how many men it took to constitute a brigade.

"We soldiers have hard times," said Sergeant Swords, brushing some of
the mud off his blue jean coat. "Wonder how soon we'll draw our clothing
and arms?"

"Don't know, but hope soon. I'm tired of these farmer brown breeches. I
want a blue coat with stripes on the sleeves."

At this moment there came a blast from the bugle.

"Roll call," said Sergeant Swords.

A general gathering of each company about the Captain's tent followed.

Abner Tompkins was First Lieutenant of the company of which Sergeant
Swords and Corporal Grimm were members. He had been with the company now
for over a week.

The morning drill was over, and the volunteers were lounging about the
tents, on the grass; Abner was leaning with his arm across the
saddle-bow of his faithful horse, that he was about to turn out to
graze. The mind of the young lieutenant was full of fancies and
memories. His sudden departure from home, his interview with Irene, the
parting with his brother, all were fresh in his thoughts, and his eyes
naturally wandered back toward the road that led to his home. A familiar
sight met his view. Coming down the hill, attended by a member of his
own company, who had been on picket guard, was his father's carriage
driven by the family coachman.

Abner started. Why was he coming to the Junction? The carriage drove up
to Abner's tent, and the guard, making what he meant for a military
salute, said:

"Lieutenant, here is a man as says he wants to see you."

"All right, Barney, you can leave him here."

The guard turned, and hurried back to his post as though the Nation's
safety depended on his speed.

The driver opened the carriage door, Mr. Tompkins alighted, and father
and son met with a cordial hand-grasp. Abner led his father into the
officers' tent which was at present deserted by its usual occupants.

"Have you seen Oleah since?" asked Abner.

"I have," was the reply.

"Where?"

"At his camp."

"Why, father, how dare you go there, when your sentiments are known to
be directly opposed to their cause? It was very dangerous."

"Not very dangerous, since I have a son who is an officer in that army."

"What office does Oleah hold?"

"Second Lieutenant."

"I suppose Seth Williams and Howard Jones are there?"

"Yes, and Harry Smith."

"Harry Smith?"

"Yes."

"Why, he is no Confederate at heart."

"So are not a great many who are in their ranks."

"I have been daily expecting Diggs here," said Abner.

"Diggs, Henry Diggs?" asked Mr. Tompkins curiously.

"Yes; he promised me he would come here and join our company," said
Abner.

"He is on the other side," replied Mr. Tompkins.

"What?"

"He is on the other side. He is a corporal in Oleah's company."

"Why, the contemptible little scamp! He promised me faithful he would
come here and enlist."

"He is a man who cannot resist persuasion, and someone on the other side
got the last persuade of him."

"True, Diggs has no mind of his own," said Abner.

"I have sometimes wished that my sons' minds were not quite so decidedly
their own," said the planter with a sad smile and a doubtful shake of
the head.

"Did you try to persuade Oleah to leave the Southern army?"

"No; he has conscientiously espoused the cause, and I would not have him
do violence to his conscience. I talked to him mostly about you."

"About me?"

"Yes. I told him, as I now tell you, that if he had a principle which he
thought right, he was right to maintain it; but while he fought in one
army to remember always that he had a brother in the other, and, if by
chance he should meet that brother in the struggle, to set brotherly
love above party principle."

"What did he say?"

"He promised that he would, and now I have come for your promise also."

"I make it freely, father. It has always been my intention to meet Oleah
as a brother whenever we meet."

"This is now a sundered Nation," said Mr. Tompkins, "and its division
has divided many families. It may be that brothers' swords shall drink
brothers' blood, but, oh Abner, let it not be your fate to be a
fratricide."

Mr. Tompkins lingered until late in the day, when he entered his
carriage, and was driven towards his home.

That night the Colonel sent for Captain Wardle and told him that he had
been informed of a body of rebels collecting on the headwaters of Wolf
creek, not more than three or four miles from Snagtown, and instructed
him to take sixty of his own company and fifty of the new recruits and
proceed there the next day, starting early in the morning, to break up
the rebel camp, and capture every person found there.

There was another motley and undisciplined body of men encamped on Wolf
creek. Wolf creek was a clear rapid stream, whose fountain-head was in
the Twin Mountains. It came dashing down their craggy sides in many
small rivulets, which, at their base, united to form this beautiful
stream that flowed through a dark, dense forest in the valley, passing
at one place within a half a mile of Snagtown.

The camp, however, was three or four miles further up the stream, in
what the military leaders considered a more advantageous location, on
the main road that led from Snagtown by the Twin Mountains to a village
beyond.

The numbers of the Confederates were increasing daily. As soon as the
volunteers went into camp, those in sympathy with the cause came in from
all the country round, until between three or four thousand men had
assembled, ill armed, undisciplined, confident, and full of enthusiasm.
But one company had yet elected officers. Colonel Scrabble, an old
Mexican soldier, was commander-in-chief of this force. Of the organized
company, Oleah Tompkins was second lieutenant and Patrick Henry Diggs
was corporal.

Mr. Diggs had experienced considerable disappointment when the company
failed to elect him captain; when a vote was taken for first lieutenant,
he made a speech which secured him two votes; for second lieutenant,
Oleah Tompkins was chosen. He was about to retire from the field and
from the army, and had even applied for his discharge, when the captain
appointed him corporal.

He did not like to accept a position so insignificant, but, when he
reflected that there were a number of corporals who had risen to be
generals, and that the prospect for his promotion was good, he became
pacified, and very reluctantly assumed the office.

The spot where the Confederates were encamped had formerly been used for
holding camp meetings; it was a grove, surrounded on every side by a
dense forest and the high road, which led past the place, approached it
in so circuitous a manner that it could not be seen fifty rods either
way.

The Confederates had chosen so secluded a spot that it was evident they
wished their camp concealed. Wolf Creek bounded their camping ground on
one side. The tents were fantastic affairs, and could vie even with
those of the Junction in variety of shape and material, and showed quite
as great a lack of skill in arrangement. The men were of almost every
class, dress, and nation; but the dark, sharp-cut Southern feature
predominated.

They were firey, quick-tempered men, whose rashness nearly always
excelled their judgment. Most of them were dressed in the garb of
Virginia farmers, without any appearance or pretense to uniform. Their
arms were shot-guns, rifles, and ancient muskets--a few of them
excellent, but the majority inferior. As a class, they were men who
enjoyed fox chases, wolf hunts, and horse races, and the present phase
of their life they appeared to regard as a frolic.

Camp fires were smoldering, and camp kettles hung suspended over them.
As at the Junction, there was a great deal of talk about camp life, and
suggestions by the score were indulged in. The sergeants walked about
with much dignity, and our corporal had grown to feel the importance of
his office; he had the drill manual constantly in his hands, and conned
its pages with the uttermost diligence.

Corporal Diggs was a general in embryo, and his name was yet to ring
through the trump of fame, until, among all nations it should become a
household word; he felt within his soul the uprising of greatness, as he
looked through his glasses with the air of one born to command. And to
think that he was an officer already--a corporal, men under him, to whom
his word was law! Truly, the dream of his life was now beginning to be
realized, his dearest desire was about to be fulfilled.

Corporal Diggs had, from his earliest boyhood, thirsted for military
glory; he had pored over the pictures of famous generals represented as
leading the dashing cavalry on their charge, amid blind smoke and
flashing swords, or guiding the infantry by a wave of the hand, and had
longed for an opportunity to do likewise. True, he was a mere corporal,
but it took only a few sweeping strides from corporal to general. The
soldiers did not seem at present to regard him with awe and admiration,
but they had not yet seen him under fire; they did not know how cooly he
could undergo so trying an ordeal. He longed for battle as the war horse
that already sniffs the fray. Once in battle, he would so signalize
himself by his coolness and daring as to be mentioned in the colonel's
report, and would undoubtedly be at once promoted.

Corporal Diggs was full of fire and running over with enthusiasm. No man
in all the camp seemed as busy as he; his tireless, short legs stumped
about from place to place continually, his head thrown back, his eyes
shining brilliantly through his glasses, a rusty, naked sword in his
right hand. Occasionally the official duty of Corporal Diggs brought him
to a standstill and then he would thrust the point of his sword in the
ground, and lean upon it. As the sword was a long one when standing upon
end, it came near reaching the chin of the born warrior who carried it.

No one could appreciate the greatness of this great man. "Why did you
leave before I showed you?" and other such frivolous phrases were
constantly sounded in his ears. The gallant soldier sometimes became
highly indignant, but he soothed himself with the reflection that all
this would be changed after they had once witnessed his powers on the
battle-field.

It was the middle of the afternoon. The recruits had exhausted all their
means of amusement, and were lounging about under the shade of the
trees, or cleaning their rusty guns.

"What shall we do to keep awake this evening?" said one fellow, lazily,
reclining flat on his back under the broad branches of an old elm.

"Dunno," said another, who was almost asleep.

"Let's get up a scout," proposed a third.

"I'll tell you how we can have some fun," said Seth Williams, his eyes
twinkling.

"How?" asked half a dozen at once.

"Get Corporal Diggs to make a speech."

"Good, good!" cried a number springing to their feet. "The very thing."

It was finally decided to present to Corporal Diggs a written petition
to address the members of his company on the question of the day, and
enthuse them with his magnificent and stirring eloquence. The Sergeant
himself circulated the petition, and had half a hundred names to it in
less than fifteen minutes.

Corporal Diggs had just returned from inspecting the guard when the
petition was presented to him.

"Well, yes--hem, hem!" began the soldier, orator, and general in embryo,
"I have been thinking for some time that I ought to make the boys a
speech. They--hem, hem!--should have something of the kind occasionally
to keep--to keep their spirits up."

"Well, come right along now," said the Sergeant pointing to where nearly
a hundred had gathered around a large elm stump. "They're waiting for
you."

Corporal Diggs felt that his star had risen, and with a face full of
becoming gravity, which the occasion and his official position demanded,
he went toward the place indicated, dragging his long sword after him,
much in the same way a small boy does the stick he calls his horse.

The crowd received him with enthusiastic cheers, and Corporal Diggs
mounted the stump.

"Hem, _hem_, HEM!" he began, clearing his throat by way of commencement.
"Ladies and gentlemen"--a slight titter in the audience--"I mean fellow
citizens, or, perhaps, fellow soldiers or comrades would be more
suitable terms for addressing those who are to share my toils and
dangers." [Cheers.] "'I come not here to talk,' as one of old said, 'for
you know too well the story of our thralldom.' What would the gentlemen
have? Is life so dear or peace so sweet that they must be bought with
slavery and chains? There are those who cry 'Peace, peace!' but there is
no peace! The next gale that sweeps down from the North will bring to
our ears the clash of resounding arms. [Cheers.] But, my comrades,
I--hem, hem!--feel it my imperative duty to tell you that the foe is
near at hand, and battle, glorious battle, where 'flame and smoke, and
shout and groan, and sabre stroke' fill the air." [Vehement cheering,
and Seth Williams trying to kick the bottom out of a camp kettle.]

"Gentlemen of the jury--hem, hem!--No, fellow comrades, I mean, gird on
the armor of determination, the helmet of courage, the shield of unity,
the breast-plate of honesty, and with the sword of the right never fear
to hew your way through the ranks of injustice." The orator paused for a
moment for the cheering to subside that not a word of that sublime
speech should be lost. All the soldiers in the camp, not on duty, had by
this time gathered about the speaker.

"Gentlemen of the jury, or fellow soldiers, I should say, hem!" he
resumed, "it may be that some day I shall have the honor of leading you
to battle. Then, fellow citizens, I hope, nay, I verily believe, that
not one in this camp will be found skulking or hiding. [Cheering, and
cries of, "No, no!"] May that day come that we may all prove to the
world that we have a principle, and that we can defend it. [Cheers and
cries of, "Let her come!"] Gentlemen, hem!--comrades, liberty is in the
very air, and the citizens of the South breathe it, and now that the
tyrants of the North have seen fit to loose the war dogs, not one of the
swords of Columbia's true sons shall be returned untarnished to its
sheath. [Long continued cheering.] While this voice has power to speak,
and this tongue power of proclaiming the truth, the wrongs of the South
shall be told. [Cheers and cries of "You bet."] And while this eye has
the power of sight to aim the gun, and this arm strength to wield the
sword, they shall be used wholly for the South." [Cheers and cries of
"Hurrah for Diggs."] Some scamp propounded the long unanswered question,
"Why didn't you wait till I had shown you?" but the orator is unmoved by
this attempt at ridicule. "Gentlemen of the jury, or, rather, fellow
comrades, when I think of all our wrongs, I long for the day to come,
when we may meet the foe face to face. Yes, face to face, with bristling
steel between, and canopies of smoke rolling above and mixing with the
clouds of the heavens. Then shall they feel the arm of vengeance. Oh, ye
boasters of the North," growing very loud and eloquent, while his right
hand, with fingers all apart, cleft the air, "if you would know with
whom you have to deal, come on! [Cheers and cheers of "Come on!"]
Cowards, boasters, how I long to meet you where the canon roars--the
glad thunders of war. [Cheering, and one young recruit trying to stand
on his head.] I tell you that we can now say with the poet:


     "'Hark, hark, the trump of war awakes
     And vengeance from the vigil breaks,
     The dreadful cry of carnage sounds,
     It seems that hell's let loose her hounds.'


"My brave comrades, remember Marion and Washington of old, and be like
them, ready to lay down your life for your country. [Wild cheering.] I
am ready to die in defense of the land that gave me--"

Bang, bang, bang! went three muskets about two hundred yards up the
creek.

"Oh, Lordy!" yelled Corporal Diggs, and he performed a leap which a frog
might have envied, alighting from the stump on his hands and knees on
the ground.

_Bang_, _bang_, CRASH! went half a hundred guns in the same direction,
and the air seemed alive with whistling balls.

"What is that?" cried Seth Williams.

"To arms! We are attacked!" shouted Colonel Scrabble.

"Run for your lives," cried the four pickets who now came in sight,
setting the example.

As the pickets had seen the enemy, and the Colonel had not, the men
considered that the former knew more of their number. As for the gallant
Corporal Diggs, after one ineffectual attempt to spring on a tall horse,
he ran rapidly away to the woods as fast as his short legs would carry
him, which Seth Williams afterward declared was faster than any horse
could. It was in vain that the officers attempted to rally their men.
The blue-coated soldiers of Captain Wardle, after the first fire, came
galloping into view out of the woods, and, dismounting, fell into line
of battle just in the edge of the cleared space where Corporal Diggs,
not two minutes before, had been entertaining the entire camp with his
eloquence. They poured another volley into the camp, which awoke the
echoes of the forest and seemed to the terrified recruits to shake the
Twin Mountains to their very center. They then charged down on the
enemy.

"Oh, Lordy, Lordy, have mercy on my soul!" gasped Corporal Diggs as,
impelled by the roar of fire-arms in his rear, the whistling of bullets
among the trees, and the thunder of plunging horses on every side, he
went over the ground at a rate of speed which almost took away his
breath. He ran as he never did before. He crushed through underbrush,
tore through thorns, dodged under limbs, and leaped logs, in a manner
that would have astonished any one who took into consideration the
shortness of his legs. He was leading the entire force, as, in his
speech a few minutes before, he had said he would. He was the first to
start, and as yet was ahead of any footman.

Many of the horses, about four hundred in number, which had been
picketed about the camp, had broken loose during the firing and were
running, plunging, and snorting through the thick woods, much to the
terror of poor Diggs, who imagined a Union soldier on every horse, and
supposed that there could not be less than fifty thousand of them.

On, on, and on he ran, for about three miles, when, coming up to a steep
bank of the creek, he found it impossible to check his headlong speed,
and tumbled head first into it. Down into the mud and water he went,
sticking his head so deep into the latter, that it was with some
difficulty he extricated himself. When he washed the mud out of his
eyes, he espied a drift a few feet away, and going to it managed to
conceal himself amid the brush and logs.

"Oh! Lordy! Lordy! have mercy on me! Oh, I know I shall be killed!"

"Thump, thump! crash, crash! splash!" It was simply one of the
frightened horses that had broken away from the camp, but it put
Corporal Diggs in extreme terror as he supposed it to be a regiment of
Union cavalry.

"Oh, I ought never to have engaged in this unholy cause! I thought I was
in error. I'll leave the Southern army sure, if ever I get out of this."

For hours Corporal Diggs was kept in a state of perpetual terror by
fleeing men and horses.




CHAPTER XI.

MR. TOMPKINS' PERIL.


Since the rebellion had assumed such proportions, and men, who had made
war with pen and tongue had taken up the sword, Mr. Tompkins had been
careful not to allude to the merits of either cause in his family. He
had been made to feel the bitterness of the strife that, in dividing the
Nation, had divided his home. He felt most keenly a parent's agony at
having his two sons in hostile armies. That, at any hour or moment, they
might meet in opposing ranks, was a horrible possibility, which, do what
he would, he could not banish from his mind. He knew, too, that the
companion of his life held views antagonistic to his own on the question
of the war. So he was reticent on questions on which every one else was
eagerly expressing opinions; but in his heart, he was firmly convinced
of the justice of the Union cause. Though Mrs. Tompkins, like her
husband, was silent as to her belief, she was as firmly convinced that
the cause of the South was just. How could she, with all her native
pride and prejudices, look on the subject in any other light? Her sunny
home, the home of her childhood, the pride of her maturer years, was to
be the field of contest. One side must win. On one side were arrayed the
cold, calculating strangers of the North; on the other the warm-hearted,
generous people of the South; but what endeared to her, more than any
other circumstance, the Southern cause, was that it was based on
principles which she believed just and right.

Americans, more than any other Nation on earth, fight from principle.
Other Nations blindly follow king or emperor, regardless of right or
wrong, but the American fights from principle approved by his judgment
and based upon his earnest convictions.

Mr. Tompkins did not reflect on the dangers that might arise to himself
from visiting two hostile armies. It was the day after his visit to the
Junction that he chanced to be at Snagtown. He found the village in a
state of excitement in consequence of "a large army of United States
soldiers" having passed on their way to Wolf Creek. The villagers,
unaccustomed to the sight of large bodies of men, put the number of
Captain Wardle's command at several thousand, when in reality it did not
exceed, including his own company and the others with him, one hundred
and fifty.

"Where were they going?" inquired Mr. Tompkins of the village grocer.

"Dunno," was the reply.

"Which way did they go?"

"Towards the Twin Mountains."

"There is no question as to where they was goin'," said the blacksmith.
"They was takin' a bee line for the camp on Wolf Creek, and they're
going to gobble up our boys along there; but although they outnumber
them twenty to one, they'll find the boys game."

"Where did these troops come from?" asked Mr. Tompkins.

"From the Junction."

Mr. Tompkins very well knew that the entire force at the Junction did
not number over four hundred men.

While the loungers and others were attempting to estimate the number of
the troops, and discussing the probable result of their visit to Wolf
Creek, a volley of musketry saluted their astonished ears.

"There, they are at it!" said the blacksmith, smoking his pipe more
vigorously.

The volley was quickly followed by another, another, and another. After
this, for a quarter of an hour, an occasional shot was heard, but no
more regular firing. Various were the conjectures as to the result of
the battle. A frightened

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