University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.

The treacherous four years lull was broken
at last by the mutter of the storm which was
so soon to sweep over the nation, prostrating
all interests, and bearing desolation to almost
every hearthstone in our once happy, smiling
land of constitutional freedom. Sleepless
watchmen on the tower of Southern Rights—
faithful guardians, like William L. Yancey,
who had stood for years in advance of public
opinion, lifting their warning voices far above
the howling waves of popular faction and
party strife, pointing to the only path of safety—now
discerned the cloud upon the horizon,
and at the selection of delegates to the
Charleston Convention hedged our cause with
cautious resolutions. Among the number appointed
was Russell Aubrey; and during the
tempestuous debates which ushered in the war
of 1861 his earnest, eloquent pleadings on the
question of a platform rang through his state,
touching the master-chord that thrilled responsive
in the great heart of the people.
When demagogism triumphed in that convention,
and the Democratic party was rent into
hopeless fragments, Russell returned, to stump
the state in favor of the only candidate whom
he believed the South could trust with her liberties;
and during the arduous campaign that
ensued, he gathered fresh laurels and won a
brilliant reputation. Aside from individual
ambitious projects, the purest patriotism nerved
him to his ceaseless labors. He was deeply
impressed with the vital consequences of the
impending election; and as the conviction
forced itself upon his mind that, through the
demoralization of the Northern wing of Democracy,
Lincoln would be elected, he endeavored

to prepare the masses for that final
separation which he foresaw was inevitable.
During that five months campaign faction,
fanaticism, demagogism, held high revel—ran
riot through the land. Seward cantered toward
Washington on the hobby labelled Emancipation,
dragging Lincoln at his heels; and
Breckinridge, our noble standard-bearer, with
the constitution in his hand, pressed on to save
the sacred precincts of the capitol from pollution.
The gauntlet had been thrown down by
the South at Charleston and Baltimore: “The
election of a sectional president will be the
signal for separation.” The North sneered at
the threat, derided the possibility, and in frantic
defiance the die was cast. The 6th of
November dawned upon a vast populous empire,
rich in every resource, capable of the
acme of human greatness and prosperity,
claiming to be the guardian of peaceful liberty.
It set upon a nation rent in twain, between
whose sections yawned a bottomless, bridgeless
gulf, where the shining pillars of the temple
of Concord had stood for eighty years; and a
grating sound of horror shuddered through the
land as the brazen, blood-clotted doors of
Janus flung themselves suddenly wide apart.
Lincoln was elected. Abolitionism, so long
adroitly cloaked, was triumphantly clad in
robes of state—shameless now, and hideous;
and while the North looked upon the loathsome
face of its political Mokanna, the South prepared
for resistance.

No surer indication of the purpose of the
Southern people could have been furnished,
than the temper in which the news was received.
No noisy outbursts, expending resolve
in empty words—no surface excitement—but
a stern calm gloom, set lips, heavy bent brows,
appropriate in men who realized that they had
a revolution on their hands; not indignation
meetings, with fruitless resolutions—that they
stood as body-guard for the liberty of the Republic,
and would preserve the trust at all
hazards. It would seem that, for a time at
least, party animosities would have been crushed;
but, like the Eumenides of Orestes, they
merely slept for a moment, starting up wolfish
and implacable as ever; and even here, in
many instances, the old acrimony of feeling
showed itself. Bitter differences sprung up at
the very threshold on the modus operandi of
Southern release from Yankee-Egyptic bondage.
Separate “state action” or “co-operation”
divided the people, many of whom were
earnestly impressed by the necessity and expediency
of deliberate, concerted, simultaneous
action on the part of all the Southern
states, while others vehemently advocated this
latter course solely because the former plan
was advanced and supported by their old opponents.
In this new issue, as if fate persistently
fanned the flame of hate between Mr.
Huntingdon and Russell Aubrey, they were
again opposed as candidates for the State Con
vention. Ah! will the ghost of Faction ever
be laid in this our republican land? Shall
this insatiate immemorial political Fenris for
ever prey upon the people?

W— was once more convulsed, and
strenuous efforts were made by both sides.
Russell was indefatigable in his labors for
prompt, immediate state action, proclaiming
his belief that co-operation was impracticable
before secession; and it was now that his researches
in the dusty regions of statistics came
admirably into play, as he built up his arguments
on solid foundations of indisputable
calculation.

For the first time in her life Irene openly
confronted her father's wrath on political
grounds. She realized the imminence of the
danger, dreaded the siren song of co-operation,
and dauntlessly discussed the matter without
hesitation. The contest was close and
heated, and resulted somewhat singularly in
the election of a mixed ticket—two Secessionists
being returned, and one Co-operationist,
Mr. Huntingdon, owing to personal popularity.

While the entire South was girding for the
contest, South Carolina, ever the avant courier
in the march of freedom, seceded; and if
doubt had existed before, it vanished now from
every mind—for all felt that the gallant state
must be sustained. Soon after, Russell and
Mr. Huntingdon stood face to face on the floor
of their own state convention, and wrestled
desperately. The latter headed the opposition,
and so contumacious did it prove that,
for some days, the fate of the state lay in dangerous
equilibrium. Finally, the vigilance of
the Secessionists prevailed, and, late in the
afternoon of a winter day, the ordinance was
signed.

Electricity flashed the decree to every portion
of the state, and the thunder of artillery
and blaze of countless illuminations told that
the people gratefully and joyfully accepted
the verdict. W— was vociferous; and as
Irene gazed from the colonnade on the distant
but brilliant rows of lights flaming along the
streets, she regretted that respect for her father's
feelings kept the windows of her own
home dark and cheerless.

Revolution is no laggard, but swift-winged
as Hermes; and in quick succession seven sovereign
states, in virtue of the inherent rights
of a people acknowledging allegiance only to
the fundamental doctrine that all just governments
rest on the consent of the governed,
organized a provisional government, sprang,
Pallas-like upon the political arena, and claimed
an important role in the grand drama of
the nineteenth century. It was not to be
expected that a man of Mr. Huntingdon's
known acerbity of temper would yield gracefully
to a defeat against which he had struggled
so earnestly, and he submitted with characteristic
sullenness.

Great contrariety of opinion prevailed concerning

the course of the Federal government
— many deluding themselves with the
belief that the separation would be peaceful.
But Russell had stated his conviction at the
time of Lincoln's election, that no bloodless
revolution of equal magnitude had yet been
effected, and that we must prepare to pay
the invariable sacrificial dues which liberty
inexorably demands.

So firm was this belief, that he applied himself
to the study of military tactics, in anticipation
of entering the army; and many a midnight
found him bending over Hardee, Mahan,
Gilham, Jomini, and Army Regulations.

The 12th and 13th of April were days of
unexampled excitement throughout the Southern
states. The discharge of the first gun
from Fort Moultrie crushed the last lingering
vestiges of “Unionism,” and welded the entire
Confederacy in one huge homogeneous mass of
stubborn resistance to despotism. With the
explosion of the first shell aimed by General
Beauregard against Fort Sumter burst the frail
painted bubble of “Reconstruction,” which
had danced alluringly upon the dark surging
billows of revolution. W— was almost
wild with anxiety; and in the afternoon of
the second day of the bombardment, as Irene
watched the avenue, she saw her father driving
rapidly homeward. Descending the steps, she
met him at the buggy.

“Beauregard has taken Sumter. Anderson
surrendered unconditionally. No lives lost.”

“Thank God!”

They sat down on the steps, and a moment
after the roar of guns shook the atmosphere,
and cheer after cheer went up the evening sky.

“Act 1, of a long and bloody civil war,”
said Mr. Huntingdon, gravely.

“Perhaps so, father; but it was forced upon
us. We left no honorable means untried to
prevent it, and now it must be accepted as the
least of two evils. Political bondage—worse
than Russian serfdom—or armed resistance; no
other alternative, turn it which way you will;
and the Southern people are not of stuff to
deliberate as to choice in such an issue. God
is witness that we have earnestly endeavored
to avert hostilities—that the blood of this war
rests upon the government at Washington;
our hands are stainless.”

“I believe you are right, and to-day I have
come to a determination which will doubtless
surprise you.”

He paused, and eyed her a moment.

“No, father; I am not surprised that you
have determined to do your duty.”

“How, Irene? What do you suppose that
it is?”

“To use Nelson's words, the Confederacy
`expects that every man will do his duty;'
and you are going into the army.”

“Who told you that?”

“My own heart, father; which tells me what
I should do were I in your place.”

“Well, I have written to Montgomery, to
Clapham, to tender my services. We were at
West Point together; I served under him at
Contreras and Chapultepec, and he will no
doubt press matters through promptly. The
fact is, I could not possibly stay at home now.
My blood has been at boiling heat since yesterday
morning, when I read Beauregard's first
despatch.”

“Did you specify any branch of the service?”

“Yes; told him I preferred artillery. What
is the matter? Your lips are as white as cotton.
Courage failing you already, at thought of
grape, shell, and canister?”

A long shiver crept over her, and she shielded
her face with her hands. When she met
his eagle eye again her voice was unsteady.

“Oh, father! if I were only a man, that I
might go with you—stand by you under all
circumstances. Could n't you take me anyhow?
Surely a daughter may follow her
father, even on the battle-field?”

He laughed lightly, and swept his fingers
over her head.

“Could n't you learn a little common-sense,
if you were to try? Do you suppose I want
all this gold braid of yours streaming in my
face while I am getting my guns into position?
A pretty figure you would cut in the midst of
my battery! Really, though, Irene, I do not
believe that you would flinch before all the
cannon of Borodino. My blood beats at your
heart, and it has never yet shown a cowardly
drop. If you were a boy, I swear you would
not disgrace my name in any conflict. By the
way, what shall I do with you? It won't do
to leave you here all alone.”

“Why not, father? Home is certainly the
proper place for me, if you can not take me
with you.”

“What! with nobody but the servants?”

“They will take better care of me than
anybody else. Nellie, and Andrew, and John
are the only guardians I want in your absence.
They have watched over me all my life, and
they will do it to the end. Give yourself no
trouble, sir, on my account.”

“I suppose your uncle Eric will be home
before long; he can stay here till I come
back—or—till the troubles are over. In the
meantime, you could be with the Harrises, or
Hendersons, or Mrs. Churchhill.”

“No, sir; I can stay here, which is infinitely
preferable on many accounts. I will, with
your permission, invite Mrs. Campbell to shut
up the parsonage in her husband's absence,
and remain with me till uncle Eric returns.
I have no doubt that she will be glad to make
the change. Do you approve the plan?”

“Yes. That arrangement will answer for
the present, and Arnold will be here to take
care of you.”

At the close of a week a telegraphic despatch
was received, informing Mr. Huntingdon

of his appointment as major in the provisional
army of the Confederacy, and containing an
order to report immediately for duty.

Some days of delay were consumed in
necessary preparations for an indefinite absence.
Sundry papers were drawn up by
Judge Harris — an old will was destroyed, a
new one made—and explicit directions were
reiterated to the overseer at the plantation.
More reticent than ever, Irene busied herself
in devising and arranging various little comforts
for her father, when he should be debarred
from the luxuries of home. No traces
of tears were ever visible on her grave, composed
face; but several times, on coming suddenly
into the room, he found that her work
had fallen into her lap, and that her head was
bowed down on her arms. Once he distinguished
low pleading words of prayer.
She loved him with a devotion very rarely
found between father and child, and this separation
cost her hours of silent agony, which
even her father could not fully appreciate.

Having completed his arrangements, and
ordered the carriage to be in readiness at daylight
next morning to convey him to the depot,
he bade her good-night much as usual, and
retired to his own room.

But thought was too busy to admit of sleep.
He turned restlessly on his pillow, rose, and
smoked a second cigar, and returned, to find
himself more wakeful than ever. The clock
down stairs in the library struck one; his door
opened softly, and, by the dim moonlight
struggling through the window, he saw Irene
glide to his bedside.

“Why don't you go to sleep, Irene?”

“Because I can't. I am too miserable.”

Her voice was dry, but broken, faltering.

“I never knew you to be nervous before; I
thought you scorned nerves? Here, my
daughter—take this pillow, and lie down by
me.”

She put her arm about his neck, drawing
his face close to hers, and he felt her lips
quiver as they touched his cheek.

“Father, when you know exactly where you
are to be stationed, won't you let me come and
stay somewhere in the vicinity, where I can be
with you if you should be wounded? Do
promise me this; it will be the only comfort I
can have.”

“The neighborhood of an army would not be
a pleasant place for you; beside, you could do
me no good even if I were hurt. I shall have
a surgeon to attend to all such work much
better than your inexperienced hands could
possibly do it. I am surprised at you, Irene;
upon my word, I am. I thought you wanted
me to go into service promptly?”

“So I do, father. I think that every man
in the Confederacy who can leave his family
should be in our army; but a stern sense of
duty does not prevent people from suffering
at separation and thought of danger. I should
be unworthy of my country if I were selfish
enough to want to keep you from its defence;
and yet I were unworthy of my father if I
could see you leave home, under such circumstances,
without great grief. Oh! if I could
only go with you! But to have to stay here,
useless and inactive!”

“Yes—it is bad to be obliged to leave you
behind, but it can't be helped. I should feel
much better satisfied if you were married, and
had somebody to take care of you in case anything
happens to me. It is your own fault that
you are not; I never could understand what
possessed you to discard Bainbridge. Still,
that is past, and I suppose irreparable, and
now you must abide by your own choice.”

“I am satisfied with my choice; have no
regrets on any score, save that of your departure.
But, father, the future is dark and
uncertain; and I feel that I want an assurance
of your entire reconciliation and affection before
you go. I came here to say to you that I
deeply regret all the unfortunate circumstances
of my life which caused you to treat me so
coldly for a season—that if in anything I have
ever seemed obstinate or undutiful, it was not
because I failed in love for you, but from an
unhappy difference of opinion as to my duty
under very trying circumstances. Father, my
heart ached very bitterly under your estrangement—the
very memory is unutterably painful.
I want your full, free forgiveness now, for all
the trouble I have ever occasioned you. Oh,
father! give it to me!”

He drew her close to him, and kissed her
twice.

“You have my forgiveness, my daughter—
though I must tell you that your treatment of
poor Hugh has been a continual source of
sorrow and keen disappointment to me. I
never can forget your disobedience in that
matter. I do not believe you will ever be
happy, you have such a strange disposition;
but since you took matters so completely in
your own hands, you have only yourself to
reproach. Irene, I very often wonder whether
you have any heart—for it seems to me that if
you have, it would have been won by the devotion
which has been lavished on you more
than once. You are the only woman I ever
knew who appeared utterly incapable of love;
and I sometimes wonder what will become of
you when I am dead.”

“God will protect me. I look continually
to his guardianship. Father, do not be offended
if I beg you most earnestly to give some
thought to Him who has blessed you so abundantly
in the privileges of this world, and to
prepare for that future into which you may be
ushered, at any moment, from the battle-field.
You have never allowed me to speak to you on
this subject; but oh, my dear father! it is too
solemn a question to be put aside any longer.
If you would only pray for yourself, my mind
would be eased of such a weight of anxiety and

apprehension. Oh! that the spirit of my
mother may join in my prayers before the
Throne in your behalf.”

He unclasped her arm and turned his face
away, saying, coldly:

“Do you consider it your privilege to tell
me that I am so wicked there is no hope for me
in the next world, if there be one?”

“No! no! father! but it is enjoined, as the
duty of even the purest and holiest, to acknowledge
their dependence on God, and to supplicate
His mercy and direction. It is true, I pray constantly
for you, but that is a duty which our
Maker requires every individual to perform
for himself. Do not be displeased, father; if it
were anything less than your eternal happiness,
I should not presume to question your
conduct. I can only hope and trust that your
life will be spared, and that some day you will,
without offence, suffer me to talk to you of
what deeply concerns my peace of mind. I
won't keep you awake any longer, as you have
a tedious journey before you. Good-night,
my dear father.”

She kissed him tenderly and left him, closing
the door softly behind her.

A spectral crescent moon flickered in the
sky, and stars still burned in the violet East,
when the carriage drove to the door, and Irene
followed her father to the steps.

Even in that dim, uncertain gray light he
could see that her face was rigid and haggard,
and tears filled his cold brilliant eyes as he
folded her to his heart.

“Good-by, Beauty. Cheer up, my brave
child! and look on the bright side. After all,
I may come back a brigadier-general, and
make you one of my staff officers! You shall
be my adjutant, and light up my office with
your golden head. Take care of yourself till
Eric comes, and write to me often. Good-by,
my dear, my darling daughter.”

She trembled convulsively, pressing her lips
repeatedly to his.

“Oh, may God bless you, my father, and
bring you safely back to me!”

He unwound her arms, put her gently aside,
and stepped into the carriage.

William, the cook, who was to accompany
him, stood sobbing near the door, and now
advancing, grasped her hand.

“Good-by, Miss Irene. May the Lord protect
you all till we come back!”

“William, I look to you to take care of
father, and let me know at once if anything
happens.”

“I will, Miss Irene. I promise you I will
take good care of master, and telegraph you if
he is hurt.”

He wrung her hand, the carriage rolled
rapidly away, and the sorrow-stricken, tearless
woman sat down on the steps and dropped her
head in her hands. Old Nellie drew near,
wiping her eyes, and essaying comfort.

“Don't fret so, child. When trouble comes
it will be time enough to grieve over it. Master
was in the Mexican war, and never had a
scratch; and maybe he will be as lucky this
time. Don't harden your face in that flinty
way. You never would cry like other children,
but just set yourself straight up, for all
the world like one of the stone figures standing
over your grandfather's grave. Try to come
and take a nap; I know you have n't shut
your eyes this night.”

“No—I can't sleep. Go in, Nellie, and
leave me to myself.”

The shrill scream of the locomotive rang
through the still, dewy air, and between two
neighboring hills the long train of cars dashed
on, leaving a fiery track of sparks as it disappeared
around a curve. Oppressed with a
horrible dread, against which she struggled in
vain, Irene remained alone, and was only
aroused from her painful reveric by the low
musical cooing of the pigeons, already astir.
As they fluttered and nestled about, she extended
her arms, and catching two of the
gentlest to her heart, murmured, mournfully:

“Come, messengers of peace! bring me
resignation. Teach me patience and faith.”

The empty carriage came slowly up the
avenue, as if returning from a funeral, and
passed to the stable-yard; birds chirped, twittered,
sang in the wavering, glistening treetops;
the sun flashed up in conquering splendor,
and the glory of the spring day broke upon
the world.