University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
JIMMIE.

THERE were loving words being breathed into
Rose's ear, when she came back to consciousness,
and there was something familiar in the
touch of the hand bathing her brow, and smoothing her
tangled hair, but Rose was too weak and sick to notice
who it was caring for her so tenderly, until she heard
the voice saying to her:

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“Is my daughter better?”

And then she threw herself with a wild scream of joy
into the arms which had cradled her babyhood, sobbing
piteously:

“Oh, mother, mother, Willie has gone to the war!
Willie has gone to the war!”

It was very strange, Rose thought, that her mother's
tears should flow so fast, and her face wear so sad an
expression just because of Will, who was nothing but
her son-in-law. Then it occurred to her that Tom might
be the occasion of her sadness, but when she spoke of
him, asking why her mother had not prevailed on him
to stay at home, Mrs. Carleton answered, promptly:

“I never loved him one-half so well, as on that night
when he told me he had volunteered. He would be unworthy
of the Carleton blood he bears, were he to hesitate
a moment!” and the eye of the brave New England
matron kindled as she added: “If I had twenty sons, I
would rather all should die on the Federal battle field
than have one turn traitor to his country! Oh, Jimmie,
Jimmie, my poor misguided boy!”

It was a piteous cry which came from the depths of
that mother's aching heart,—a cry so full of anguish that
Rose was startled, and asked in much alarm what it was
about Jimmie. Had she heard from him, and was he
really dead?

“No, Rose,” and in the mother's voice there was a
hard, bitter tone. “No, not dead, but better so, than
what he is. Oh, I would so much rather he had died
when a little, innocent child, than live to bear the name
he bears!”

“What name, mother? What has Jimmie done? Do
tell me, you frighten me, you look so white!” and Rose
clung closer to her mother, who, with quivering lip and

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No wonder that her heart grew faint when she thought
of her boy as a Rebel,—aye, a rebel of ten times deeper
dye than if he had been born of Southern blood, and
reared on Southern soil, for the roof-tree which sheltered
his childhood was almost beneath the shadow of Bunker
Hill's monument, and many an hour had he sported at its
base, playing directly above the graves of those brave
men who fell that awful day when the fierce thunders of
war shook the hills of Boston, and echoed across the
smoky waters of the bay. Far up the lofty tower, too,
as high as he could reach, his name was written with his
own boyish hand, and the mother had read it there since
receiving the shameful letter which told of his disgrace.
Climbing up the weary, winding flight of stairs, she had
looked through blinding tears upon that name,—James
Madison Carleton,—half hoping it had been erased, it
seemed so like a mockery to have it there on Freedom's
Monument, and know that he who bore it was a traitor to
his country. Yet there it was, just as he left it years ago,
and with a blush of shame the mother crossed it out, just
as she fain would have crossed out his sin could that have
been. But it could not. She knew that Jimmie was in
the Southern army, and not wishing to speak of it at
home, where he already bore no envied name, she had
come for sympathy to her only daughter; and it was well
for both she did, for it helped to divert Rose's grief into
a new and different channel; to set her right on many

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Tom had been her pride; the brother she honored and
feared, while Jimmie, nearer her age, was more a companion
of her childhood; the one who teased and petted
her by turns, one day putting angle worms in her bosom
just to hear her scream, and the next spending all his
pocket-money to buy her the huge wax doll she saw in
the shop window, down on Washington street, and coveted
so badly. Such were some of Rose's reminiscences
of Jimmie, and while time had softened down the horrid
sensations she experienced when she felt the cold worms
crawling on her neck, it had not destroyed the doll, the
handsomest she had ever owned, nor made her cease to
love the teasing boy. She could not feel just as her
mother did about him, for she had not her mother's
strong, patriotic feeling, but her tears flowed none the
less, while she, too, half wished him lying beneath the
summer grass, in beautiful Mt. Auburn.

“How did you hear from him?” she asked, when her
first burst of grief was over, and her mother replied by
taking out a letter, on which Rose recognized her brother's
handwriting.

“He sent me this,” Mrs. Carleton said, and tearing
open the letter, she read it aloud to Rose.

“Richmond, Va., June, 1861.

“Dear Mother: Pray don't think you've seen a ghost when you
recognize my writing. You thought me dead, I suppose, but there's
no such good news as that. I'm bullet-proof, I reckon, or I should
have died in New Orleans last summer when the yellow fever and I
had such a squabble. I was dreadfully sick then, and half wished I
had not run away, for I knew you would feel badly when you heard
how I died with nobody to care for me, and was tumbled into the
ground, head sticking out as likely as any way. I used to talk about
you, old Martha said, and about Rose, too. Dear little Rose. I

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actually laid down my pen just now, and laughed aloud as I thought
how she looked when I treated her to those worms; telling her I had
a necklace for her! Didn't she dance and didn't Tom thrash me,
too, till I saw stars! Well, he never struck me a blow amiss, though
I used to think he did. I was a sorry scamp, mother,—the biggest
rascal in Boston. But I've reformed. I have, upon my word, and
you ought to see how the people here smile upon and flatter me, telling
me what a nice chap I am, and all that sort of thing.

“In short, mother, to come at once to the point, and not spend
an hour in arguing, as Tom used to do when he took me up in the
attic where he kept the gads, you know,—in short, I've been naturalized,—have
sworn allegiance to the future Southern monarchy, and
am as true a Southern blood as you would wish to see. I've got a
Palmetto cockade on my cap,—a tiny Confederate flag on my sleeve,
and what is best of all, I've joined the Southern army under Beauregard,
and shall shortly bring the war to the threshold of the Capitol,
licking the Yankees there congregated like fun. It's about time
now, mother, for you to ring for Margaret. You'll want the camphor,
and make a fuss, of course, so while you are enjoying that diversion,
I'll go and practice a little with my gun. You know I could never
hit a barn without shooting twice, but I'm improving fast, and shall
soon be able to pick off a Yankee at a distance of a mile!

“2 o'clock, P. M.

“Well, mother, I take it for granted you are nicely tucked up in
bed, with the curtains drawn and a wet rag on your head, as the result
of what I've told you. I'm sorry that you should feel so badly, and
wish I could see you for an hour or so, as I could surely convince you
we are right. We have been browbeaten and trodden upon by the
North until forbearance has ceased to be a virtue, and now that
they've thrown down the gauntlet we will meet them on their own
terms. I dare say they have made you believe that we struck the
first blow by firing into Sumter, but, mother, those northern papers
do lie so, all except the Herald, and a few others, which occasionally
come within a mile of the truth, but even they have been bribed recently,
or something. If you want the unbiased truth of the matter
subscribe for the Richmond Examiner, or better yet, the Charleston
Mercury, whose editor is a New England man, and of course is capable
of judging right. He knows what has brought on this war.
He'll tell you how the South Carolinians generously bore the insult

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of the Federal flag flying there defiantly in their faces until they could
bear it no longer, and so one day we pitched in.

“I say we, for I was there in Fort Moultrie, and saw the fight, but
did not join, for the brave fellows, out of compliment to my having
been born near Bunker Hill, said I needn't, so I mounted a cotton
bale and looked on, feeling, I'll admit, some as I used to on the
Fourth of July, when I saw how noble old Sumter played her part.
And once, when a shell burst within ten feet of me, turning things
generally topsy turvy, and blowing shirt sleeves and coat sleeves,
and waistbands and boots, higher than a kite, I was positively guilty
of hurrahing for the Stars and Stripes. I couldn't help it, to save
me.

And yet, mother, I believe the North wrong,—and the South right,
but so generous a people are we, that all we ask now, is for you to
let us alone; and if the Lincolnites won't do that, why, then we must
stoop to fight the mud-sills. It's all humbug, too, about the negroes
being on the verge of insurrection. A more faithful, devoted set, I
never saw. They'll fight for their masters until they die, every man
of them. Tom will tell you that. What are his politics? Bell and
Everett, I dare say, so there's no danger of my meeting him in battle,
and I'm glad of it, for to tell the truth, I should feel rather ticklish
raising my gun against old Tom. May be, though, he is humbugged
like the rest, and forms a part of that until said to exist at the
North. What sort of a thing is that, mother? What does it look
like? Democrats and Republicans, Abolitionists and Garrisonites,
all melted in one crucible and bearing Abraham's image and superscription!
I wish I could see it. Must have changed mightily round
Boston from what they used to be when they quarreled so, some
against and some for Southern rights and Southern people. But
strange things happen nowadays, and it may be Tom, too, has turned
his coat, and taken sides with the Federals. If so, all I can say, is,
`Tommie, oh, Tommie, beware of the day, when Southern bloods
meet thee in battle array; for a field of weak cowards rushes full
on my sight, and the ranks of the Yankees are scattered in flight.'
Won't we rout them, though! I shall fight next time. I've played
pollywog long enough. I am regularly enlisted now. Am a Rebel, as
you call us at home. Nothing very bad about that, either, as I can
prove to you, if you'll take the trouble to hunt up my old dog-eared
History of the United States, where Washington is styled by the British
the Rebel Chief.

“The South are only doing what the Thirteen did in '76, trying to

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shake off the tyrant's yoke. It's the same thing precisely, only the
shoe is on the other foot, and pinches mightily. We did not at first
intend to subjugate the North, but maybe they'll provoke us to do
it, if they keep on. Now, however, we only want, or rather did want
a peaceable separation, and you may as well yield to it first as last.
What do you intend doing with us, any way, suppose you succeed
in lioking us? Hold us as a conquered province, just as England
holds Ireland? Much good that will do you. It will be some like
keeping a mad dog chained so tightly that he cannot get away, but is
none the less snappish and non-come-at-able for that. No, no, acknowledge
our independence, and call home the chaps you have
dragged from Poor Houses and State Prisons, lanes and ditches,
and sent to fight against Southern gentlemen. This, to me, is the
most humiliating feature of the whole; and if I must be shot or taken
prisoner, I hope it will be by some one worthy of my steel. This
last I'm writing for old Tom's benefit. Give him my compliments,
and tell him nothing would please me more than to welcome him to
our camp some day.

“Dear little Rose,—perhaps she would not let a Rebel kiss her,
and I don't know but I'd turn Federal for half an hour or so for the
sake of tasting her sweet lips once more. I do love Rose, and I feel
a mysterious lump in my throat every time I look at her picture,
taken just before I left home. I never show it, for somehow it
would seem like profanation to have the soldiers staring at it. So I
wear it next my heart, and when I go into battle I shall keep it
there. Perhaps it will save my life, who knows?

“I am getting tired, and must close ere long. Now, mother, please
don't waste too many tears over me. The time will come when you'll
see we are right; and if it will be any consolation, I will say in conclusion,
that I have written a heap worse than I really believe. I am
not a fool. I understand exactly how the matter stands, but I like the
Southern side the best. I think they are just as near right as the
North, and I'm going to stick to them through thick and thin. We
shall have a battle before long, and this may be the last time I'll ever
write to you. I've been a bad boy, mother, and troubled you so
much, but if I'm shot you will forget all that, and only remember
how, with all my faults, I loved you still,—you and Tom and little
Rose,—more than you ever guessed.

“By the way, I believe I'll send you a lock of my hair, cut just
over my left ear, where you used to think it curled so nicely. Perhaps
it will enhance its value if you know I severed it with a bowie

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knife, such as I now carry with me. Tell Rose I'll send her a calico
dress by and by. It will be the most costly present I can make her
if the blockade is carried out, but it won't be; that old Bull across
the sea will be goring you with his horns first you know. Then
you'll have a sweet time up there, beset before and behind, and possibly
annexed to Canada. But I don't want to make you feel any
bluer than you are probably feeling, so good bye, good bye.

“Your affectionate Rebel,

“James M. Carleton.”

“P. S.—I shall send this to Washington by a chap who is going
to desert, you know, and join the Federals with a pitiful story about
having been pressed into the Rebel service, telling them, too, how
poor and weak and demoralized we are,—how a handful of troops can
lick us, and so draw them into our web, as a spider tempts a fly, don't
you see? They offered me that honor, knowing that a son of George
Carleton, twice M. C. from Massachusetts, and now defunct, would
be above suspicion, and would thus gather a heap of items. But
hang me, if I could turn spy on any terms. So I respectfully declined.
You see I am quite a somebody, owing to my having had
sense enough to wait until I was twenty-one, ere I ran away, and so
bringing a part of my property with me. Money makes the mare
go here as elsewhere, but I'm about running out. I wish you
could send me a few thousand, can't you?”

And this was Jimmie's letter, over which the mother
had wept far bitterer tears than any she shed when her
eldest born bade her his last farewell, giving to her, just
as Jimmie had done, a lock of his brown hair. She had it
with her now, and she laid them both on Rose's hand,—
the dark brown lock, and the short black silken curl,
which twined itself around Rose's finger, as if it loved the
snowy resting-place. Rose's first impulse was to shake
it off as if it had been a guilty thing; but the sight of it
recalled so vividly the handsome, saucy face, and laughing,
mischievous black eyes it once had helped to shade,
that she pressed it to her lips, and whispered sadly,
“Dear Jimmie, I cannot hate him if I try, nor see how he
is greatly at fault,” while in her heart was the unframed

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Mrs. Carleton was proud of her family name,—proud of
her family pride,—and she shrank from having it known
how it had been disgraced, so after Rose's first grief was
over she bade her keep it a secret, and Rose promised
readily, never doubting for a moment her ability to do so.
Rose had already borne much that morning. Excessive
weeping for her husband, added to what she had heard
of Jimmie, took her strength away, and she spent that
first weary day in bed, sometimes sobbing bitterly as the
dread reality came over her that Will was really gone,
and again starting up from a feverish, broken sleep with
the idea that it was all a dream, or a horrid nightmare,
from which she should at last awake. Callers were all
excluded, and with a delicious feeling that she was not to
be disturbed, Rose, late in the afternoon, lay watching
the western sunlight dancing on the wall, when a step
upon the stairs was heard, and in a moment Widow
Simms appeared, her sharp face softening into an expression
of genuine pity when she saw how white and wan
Rose was looking.

“They tried to keep me out,” she said, “that brawny
cook of yours and that filigree waiting-maid, but I would
come up, and here I am.”

Then sitting down by Rose she told her Annie had
sent her there. “She's sorry for you,” the widow said,
“and she sent this to tell you so,” and the widow handed
Rose a tiny note, written by Annie Graham. Once Rose
would have resented the act as implying too much familiarity,
but her heart was greatly softened, while, had she
tried her best, she could not have regarded Annie Graham
in the light of an inferior. Tearing open the envelope
she read:

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“My dear Mrs. Mather—I am sure you will pardon the liberty I
am taking. My apology is that I feel so deeply for you, for I understand
just what you are suffering,—understand how wearily the
hours drag on, knowing as you do that with the waning daylight his
step will not be heard just by the door, making in your heart little
throbs of joy, such as no other step can make. I am so sorry for you,
and I had hoped you at least might be spared, but God in his wisdom
has seen fit to order it otherwise, and we know that what He
does is right. Still it is hard to bear,—harder for you than for me,
perhaps, and when this morning I heard the car signal given, I knelt
just where I did when my own husband went away, and asked our
Heavenly Father to bring your Willie back in safety, and, Mrs. Mather,
I am sure He will, for I felt, even then, an answer to my prayer,
—something which said, `It shall be as you ask.'

“Dear Mrs. Mather, try to be comforted; try to see the brighter
side; try to pray, and be sure the darkness now enveloping you so
like a pall will pass away, and the sunshine be the brighter for the
cloud. Come and see me when you feel like it, and remember, you
have at least two friends who pray for you, one at the Father's right
hand in Heaven, and one in her cottage in the Hollow.

“Annie Graham.”

Rose had not wept more passionately than she did
now, as she kissed the note, and wished she were one
half as good as Annie Graham.

“But I am not,” she said, “and never shall be. Tell
her to keep praying until Will comes home again.”

“I will tell her,” returned the widow, “but wouldn't
it be well enough to try what you can do at it yourself,
and not leave it all for her?”

“Try what I can do at praying?” Rose exclaimed.
“I can't do anything, only the few words I always say
at night, and they have nothing in them about Will.”

“Brought up like a heathen!” muttered the widow,
feeling within herself that to the names of her own sons
and Captain Carleton, William Mather's must now be
added, when, as was her daily custom, she took her
troubles to One who has said, “Cast you burdens upon
the Lord, for He careth for you.”

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“We'll both remember your husband, Miss Graham
and I, so don't fret yourself to death,” she said, soothingly,
as Rose broke into a fresh burst of tears.

It isn't him so much,” Rose sobbed, “though that is
terrible and will kill me, I most know, but there's something
else that ails me a great deal worse than that; at
least, mother has made me think it is, though I can't
quite see how having one's brother join the Rebel army
is so very bad.”

Rose forgot her promise of secrecy, just as her mother
might have known she would. The story of the Carleton
disgrace was told, and perfectly aghast, the horrified
widow listened to it.

“Your brother a rebel?” she almost shrieked, “a
good-for-nothing, ill-begotten rebel! I thought you said
he was a captain of a company;” and mentally the widow
struck from her list of names that of poor, scandalized
Tom, that very moment perspiring at every pore as
he went through with his evening drill within the Federal
camp.

“No, no,” Rose cried, vehemently, “not Tom; I
have another brother, a younger one,—Jimmie we call
him. Did you never hear of Jimmie, who ran away more
than a year ago?”

“Never!” and the staunch patriot of a widow pursed
up her thin lips with an expression which plainly said
the Carleton family had fallen greatly in her estimation,
in spite of all Tom had said of Isaac.

Rose, however, was not good at reading expressions,
and taking it for granted the widow wanted to hear all
about it, she told her what she knew, marvelling much at
the rigid silence her auditor maintained.

“Isn't it shameful?” she asked, when she had finished.

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“Shameful? Yes. I hope he'll be catched and hung
higher than Haman. I'll furnish rope to hang him!”
was the indignant widow's reply, and ere Rose could
quite make out what ailed her, she had said good-afternoon,
and banging the door behind her, was hurrying
off, muttering to herself, “Somethin' wrong in their
bringin' up. Needn't tell me. I'd like to see my boys
turnin' traitor! The rascal!” and as by this time the
widow had reached the shop where she was to stop for
burning-fluid, she turned into the little store, and catching
up the can with a jerk, spilt a part of its contents
upon her clean gingham dress, and then hurried off again
with rapid strides toward the cottage in the Hollow.

The Carletons, Tom and all, were below par in her
opinion, and kept sinking lower and lower, until she
reached the cottage, where she gave vent to her wrath
as follows:

“A pretty how d'ye do up to Miss Martherses. Her
brother Jim has jined the cowardly, sneakin', low-lived,
contemptible Rebels, and is comin' on to take Washington!
The scalliwag! If things go on at this rate, I'll
jine the army myself, and tar and feather every one on
'em! Needn't tell me.”

Annie was no lover of gossip, and knowing that the
widow was terribly excited, she made no reply except to
pass her a letter bearing the Washington postmark.
This had the desired effect, and utterly oblivious of Jimmie,
the widow tore open Isaae's letter, in which he spoke
of Captain Carleton as being very kind to him, and very
popular with the soldiers.

“I would fight for him till the very last,” Isaac wrote; “he has
been so good to me, always noticing me with a bow when he comes
into our regiment, as he sometimes does, and when he can, speaking
to me a pleasant word. He knows I sawed his sister's wood, for I
told him so. It seemed so mean-like to be passing myself off for better

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than I am, and you know a soldier's dress does improve a chap
mightily, giving him kind of a dandy air. Why, even Harry Baker
and Bill look like gentlemen, though Harry gets drunk awfully, and
has been in the guard-house twice. But, as I was saying, Captain
Carleton didn't appear to think a bit less of me, though he struck
me on the shoulder, and laughed kind of queer when I said why I
told him I sawed Mrs. Mather's wood, and the next day I saw him
talking with our colonel, and heard something about sergeant, and
Isaac Simms, and `too young to be expedient.' Then, when I met
him again, he asked me wasn't I twenty-one, in such a way that I
knew he wanted me to tell him yes; but, mother, I thought of that
prayer we said together, the morning I came away, `Lead us not
into temptation,' and I couldn't tell a lie, though the answer stuck
in my throat and choked me so, but I out with it at last. I said,
`No, sir, I was only eighteen last Thanksgiving,' and then his face
had the same look it wore when I told him I was a wood-sawyer. `And
so I suppose you'll be nineteen next Thanksgiving,' he said, adding
—`You don't know what you lost by telling the truth so frankly,
but the moral gain is much greater than the loss. You are a brave
boy, Isaac Simms, and worthy of being a second George Washington.'
I do like him so much! Can't you send him something,
mother, if it's nothing more than the nice cough-candy you used to
make, or some of that poke-ointment? I notice he coughs occasionally,
and I heard him say his feet were sore. I'd like to give him
something, just to see his handsome white teeth when he laughed,
and said `Thank you, my boy.' Oh, I would almost die for Captain
Carleton.”

Surely, after reading this, the widow could feel no
more animosity against the Carletons, on account of
Jimmie's sin.

“Every family must have a black sheep,” she said to
Annie, though where hers was she could not tell. It
surely was not John, nor Eli, nor Isaac, so she guessed
it must have been the girl-baby that died before 'twas
born, and for whom she shed so many tears. She
shouldn't do it again, she'd bet, for if it had lived, it
would most likely have cut up some rusty or other, just
as Jim Carleton had,—married Bill Baker, like as not;

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“I'm glad my boy didn't tell a lie,” she whispered
softly to herself, as she came again to that part of the
letter, poor, weak human nature creeping in with the
same thought, and suggesting how grand it would be to
have him “Sergeant Simms, with the increased wages
per month it would have brought.” This was the old
Adam counselling within her, while the new Adam said,
“Better never to be promoted than lose his integrity,”
and with a silent prayer for the boy who would not tell
a lie, the widow folded up the letter, and then repeated
to Annie the particulars of Jimmie Carleton in a much
milder manner than she would have done an hour before.
So much good little acts of kindness do, stretching on
link after link, until they reach a point from which they
recoil in blessings on the doer's head. Thus Captain
Carleton's friendly words to Isaac Simms were the direct
means of saving his mother and sister from the bitter
prejudice the Rockland people, in their then excitable
state, might have felt toward them, had Widow Simms
told the story of Jimmie in the spirit she surely would
have told it, had it not been for Isaac's timely letter.
This, together with a little judicious caution from Annie,
changed her tactics, and though she, that very night,
had several opportunities for telling how “Miss Martherses
brother was a rebel, and that Miss Marthers couldn't
see the mighty harm in it if he was,” she kept it to
herself, speaking only of the noble Tom, so kind to her
boy Isaac.