University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
THE WAR MEETING.

The long disputed point as to whether the South
was in earnest or not was settled, and through
the Northern States the tidings flew that Sumter
had fallen and the war had commenced. With the first
gun which boomed across the waters of Charleston bay,
it was ushered in, and they who had cried, “Peace!
peace!” found at last “there was no peace.” Then, and
not till then, did the nation rise from its lethargic slumber
and shake off the delusion with which it had so long
been bound. Political differences were forgotten. Republicans
and Democrats struck the friendly hand, pulse
beat to pulse, heart throbbed to heart, and the watchword
everywhere was, “The Union forever.” Throughout
the length and breadth of the land were true, loyal
hearts, and as at Rhoderic Dhu's command the Highlanders
sprang to view from every clump of heather on
the wild moors of Scotland, so when the war-cry came
up from Sumter our own Highlanders arose, a mighty
host, responsive to the call; some from New England's
templed hills, with hands inured to toil, and hearts as

strong and true as flint; some from the Empire, some
the Keystone State, and others from the prairies of
the distant West. It mattered not what place had given
them birth; it mattered little whether the Green Mountains
of Vermont, the granite hills of New Hampshire, or
the shadowy forests of Wisconsin had sheltered their
childhood's home; united in one cause they rallied round
the Stars and Stripes, and went forth to meet, not a
foreign foe, but alas, to raise a brother's arm against
another brother's arm in that most dreadful of all anarchies,
a national civil war.

In the usually quiet village of Rockland the utmost interest
was felt, and though there, as elsewhere, were
many whose hearts beat as warmly for their Southern
friends as when the sun shone on a nation at peace, all
felt the necessity of action, and when at last the evening
came in which the first war meeting of that place
was to be held, a dense and promiscuous crowd wended
its way to the old brick church, whose hallowed walls
echoed to the sound of fife and drum, strange music for
the house of God, but more acceptable, in that dark
hour, than songs of praise sung by vain and thoughtless
lips. In the centre of the church, the men were mostly
congregated, while the seats nearest the door were occupied
by the women,—the wives and mothers and sisters
who had come with aching hearts to see their brothers,
sons and husbands give their signatures to what seemed
their sure death warrant. Conspicuous among these was
Widow Simms, whose old-fashioned leghorn, with its
faded green veil, was visible at all public gatherings,
its broad frill of lace shading a pair of sharp grey eyes,
and a rather peculiar face. It was very white now, and
the thin lips were firmly compressed as the widow tried
to look resolute and unconcerned when two of her sons

went forward, their faces glowing with youthful enthusiasm,
as they heard the President repeat their names,
“John Simms,—Eli Simms.” The widow involuntarily
said it after him, her mother's heart whispering within
her, “Isaac won't go. He's too young. I can't give
Isaac up,” and her eye wandered to where her youngest
boy was sitting, twirling his old cloth cap, and occasionally
exchanging a word with the young man next to
him, William Baker, who, together with his brother,
arose, to follow John and Eli Simms.

Scarcely, however, had they risen to their feet, when
a woman occupying the same seat with Widow Simms,
uttered a cry more like the moaning howl of some wild
beast, than like a human sound.

“No, Harry, no, Bill—no, no,” and the bony arms
were flung wildly toward the two young men, who, with
a dogged, indignant glance at her, fell back among the
crowd where they could not be seen, muttering something
not very complimentary to “the old woman,” as
they called her.

But the old woman did not hear it, and if she had, it
would have made no difference. It mattered not to her
that they had ever been the veriest pests in the whole
village, the planners of every grade of mischief, the robbers
of barns and plunderers of orchards,—they were her
boys, and she didn't want them shot, so she continued
to moan and cry, muttering incoherently about the rich
treading down the poor, and wondering why Judge Warner
didn't send his own white fingered sons, if he thought
going to war was so nice.

“I wouldn't make such a fuss, let what would happen
to me,” said the Widow Simms, casting a half contemptuous
glance upon the weeping woman, whom she evidently
considered far beneath her, and adding, “They had

'nough-sight better be shot than hung,” as an aside to the
young woman just behind her,—sweet Annie Graham,
who was holding fast to her husband's hand, as if she
would thus keep him in spite of the speaker's eloquent
appeals, and the whispers of his companions, who were
urging him to join the company forming so rapidly before
the altar.

There was a terrible struggle going on in Annie Graham's
breast,—duty to her country and love for her husband
waging a mighty conflict, the former telling her
that if the right would triumph, somebody's husband
must go, and the wife-heart crying out, “Yes, somebody's
husband must go, I know, but not mine, not George.”

Very tenderly George Graham's strong arm encircled
the girlish form, and when he saw how fast the tears
came to the great dreamy eyes of blue, and thought how
frail was the wife of little more than a year, he bent
down until his chin rested on her pale brown hair, and
whispered softly to her,

“Don't, Annie, darling, you know I will never go unless
you think I ought, and give your free consent.”

Had George Graham wished, he could not have chosen
a more powerful argument than the words, “Unless you
think I ought.”

Annie repeated them to herself again and again, until
consciousness of all else around her was forgotten in that
one question of duty. She heard no longer the second
speaker, whose burning eloquence was stirring up hitherto
reluctant young men to place their names beside others
already pledged to their country's cause. Leaning forward
so that her forehead rested on the railing in front,
she tried to pray, but flesh and strength were weak, and
the prayer ended always with the unuttered cry, “I cannot
let George go,” while the fingers twined more and

more closely around the broad, warm hand, which sought
awhile to reassure her, and then was withdrawn from her
grasp as George arose and politely offered his seat to a
lady who had just arrived, and who, after glancing an
instant at his coat, accepted his civility as a matter of
course, but withheld the thanks she would have accorded
to one whom she considered her equal.

Spreading out her wide skirt of rich blue silk so that
it nearly covered poor Annie, she threw her crimson
scarf across the railing in front, hitting Widow Simms,
and so diverting the attention of Mrs. Baker, that the
latter ceased her crying, while the widow turned with an
expression half curious, half indignant. Annie, too,
attracted by the heavy fringe and softly-blended colors
of the scarf, a part of which had fallen upon her lap, as
the widow shook it from her shoulder with a jerk, stole a
glance at the new comer, in whom she recognized the
bride, the beauty, the envied belle of Rockland, Rose
Mather, from Boston,—and wife of the wealthy and aristocratic
William Mather, who three months before had
ended the strife between the Rockland ladies as to what
fair hand should spend his gold, and drive his iron greys,
by bringing to his elegant mansion a fairy little creature
with whose exquisite beauty even the most fastidious
could not find fault. Childish in proportions, and perfect
in form and feature, she would have been handsome
without the aid of the dancing brown eyes, and chestnut
curls which shaded her girlish brow. Rose knew she
was pretty,—knew she was stylish,—knew she was fascinating,—knew
she was just then the rage, and as such
could do and say what she pleased. Sweeping back
her chestnut hair with her snowy hand, she gave one
rapid glance at the sea of heads around her, and then, in
a half petulant tone, exclaimed to her companion!

“I don't believe Will is here. I can't see him anywhere.”

“Didn't you know he had enlisted?” asked a young
man, who had made his way through the crowd, and
joined her.

For an instant the bright color faded from Rose
Mather's cheek, but it quickly returned as she read in
Mr. Wentworth's eye, a contradiction of his words.

“Will enlisted!” she repeated. “Such people as Will
don't go to the war. It's a very different class, such, for
instance, as that one going up to sign. Upon my word,
it's the boy who saws our wood!” and she pointed at
the youth, offering himself up that just such people as
Rose Mather, radiant in silks and diamonds, and lace,
might rest in peace at home, knowing nothing of war,
and its attendant horrors, save what came to her through
the daily prints.

Widow Simms heard the remark, and with a swelling
heart turned toward the boy who sawed Rose Mather's
wood, for she knew who it was, and it did not need the
loud whisper of Mrs. Baker to tell her that it was her boy,
the youngest of the three, the one she loved the best, the
baby, who kept the milk of human kindness from turning
quite sour within her breast by his many acts of filial love,
and his gentle, caressing ways. How could she give him
up, her darling, her idol, the one so like his father, dead
ere he was born? Who would comfort her as he had
done? Who would give her the good-night kiss, timidly,
stealthily, lest the older ones should see and laugh at his
girlish weakness? Who would bring his weekly earnings,
and empty them slily into her lap? Who would find her
place in the prayer-book on Sunday, and pound her
clothes on Monday, long before it was light? Who
would split the nice fine kindlings for the morning fire,

or bring the cool fresh water in the summer from the
farther well, and who, when her head was aching sadly,
would make the cup of tea she liked so much? Homely
offices, many of them, it is true, but they made up the
sum of that mother's happiness, and it is not strange
that, for a moment, the iron will gave way, and the poor
widow wept over her cruel bereavement, not noisily, as
Mrs. Baker had done, but silently, bitterly, her body
trembling nervously, and her whole attitude indicative of
keen, unaffected anguish.

Rose did not know the relationship existing between
the widow and the boy who sawed her wood, but her
better nature was touched always at the sight of distress,
and for several minutes, she did not speak except to tell
Mr. Wentworth how much Brother Tom had paid for the
crimson scarf, one end of which he was twirling around
his wrist. To Annie it seemed an enormous sum, and a
little over-awed with her close proximity to one who
could sport so expensive an article of dress, she involuntarily
tried to move away, and avoid, if possible, being
noticed by the brilliant belle. She might have spared
herself the trouble, for Rose was too much absorbed with
the group of admirers gathering around her to heed
the shrinking figure at her side, and, after a time, as
Widow Simms recovered her composure, she resumed
her gay badinage, bringing in Will with every other
breath, and showing how completely her heart was bound
up in her husband, notwithstanding the evident satisfaction
with which she received the flattering compliments
of the gentlemen who, since her arrival at Rockland, had
made it a point to admire and flirt with the little Boston
belle, laughing loudly at speeches which, from one less
piquant and attractive, would have been pronounced
decidedly silly and meaningless.

Rose was not well posted with regard to the object of
that meeting. She knew that Sumter or Charleston had
been fired upon, she hardly could tell which, for she was
far too sleepy when Will read the news to comprehend
clearly what it was all about, and she had skipped every
word which Brother Tom had written about it in his last
letter, the one in which he enclosed five hundred dollars
for the silver tea-set she saw in Rochester, and wanted
so badly. Rose was an accomplished musician, a tolerable
proficient in both French and German, and had
skimmed nearly all the higher branches, but like many
fashionably educated young ladies, her knowledge of
geography comprised a confused medley of cities, towns
and villages, scattered promiscuously over the face of the
earth, but which was where she could not pretend to tell;
and were it not that Brother Tom had spent three winters
in Charleston, leaving at last his fair-haired wife
sleeping there beneath the Southern sky, she would
scarcely have known whether the waters of the Atlantic
or of Baffin's Bay, washed the shore of the Palmetto
State. And still Rose was not a fool in the ordinary acceptation
of the term. She knew as much or more than
half the petted belles of modern society, and could say
smart foolish things with so pretty an air of childishness,
that even those of her own sex who were at first
most prejudiced against her, confessed that she was certainly
very captivating, and possessed the art of making
everybody like her, even if she hadn't common sense!

On this occasion she chatted on in her usual style,
provoking from George Graham more than one good-humored
smile at remarks which evinced so much ignorance
of the matter then agitating the entire community.

“Will wouldn't go to the war, of course,” she said;
“supposing there were one, which she greatly doubted.

Northern men, particularly those of Rockland, were so
hateful toward the South. She didn't believe Boston
people were that way at all. At least, Brother Tom
was not, and he knew; he had lived in Charleston,
and described them as very nice folks. Indeed, she
knew they were, herself, for she always met them at
Newport, and liked them so much. She didn't credit one
word of what the papers said. She presumed Mr. Anderson
provoked them. Tom knew him personally.”

“You have another brother besides Tom—won't he
join the army?” asked Mr. Wentworth, a smile curling
the corners of his mouth.

Rose sighed involuntarily, for on the subject of that
other brother she was a little sore, and the mention of him
always gave her pain. He was not like Brother Tom, the
eldest, the pride of the Carleton family. He was Jimmie,
handsome, rollicking, mischievous Jimmie, to those who
loved him best, while to the Boston people, who knew
him best, he was “that young scapegrace, Jim Carleton,
destined for the gallows, or some other ignominious
end,” a prediction which seemed likely to be verified at
the time when he nearly broke a comrade's head for calling
him a liar, and so was expelled from college, covered
with disgrace. Something of this was known to Mr.
Wentworth, and he asked the question he did, just to see
what Rose would say. But if he thought she would attempt
to conceal anything pertaining to herself, or any
one else, for that matter, he was mistaken. Rose was
too truthful for anything like duplicity, and she frankly
answered:

“We don't know where Jimmie is. They turned him
out of college, and then he ran away. It's more than a
year since we heard from him. He was in Southern
Virginia, then. Mother thinks he's dead, or he would

sure y write to some of us,” and a tear glittered in Rose's
eyes, as she thought of recreant Jimmie, sleeping elsewhere
than in the family vault at beautiful Mt. Auburn.
Rose could not, however, be unhappy long over what was
a mere speculation, and after a few moments she resumed
the subject of her husband's volunteering.

“She knew he wouldn't, even if he did vote for Lincoln.
She was not one bit concerned, for no man who
loved his wife as he ought, would want to go and leave
her,” and the little lady stroked her luxuriant curls
coquettishly, spreading out still wider her silken robe,
which now completely covered the plain shilling calico of
poor Annie, whose heart for a moment beat almost to
bursting as she asked herself if it were true, that no man
who loved his wife as he ought, would want to go and
leave her. In a moment, however, she repelled the assertion
as false, for George had given too many proofs
of his devotion for her to doubt him now, even though
he had expressed a desire to join the army. Then she
wished she was at home, where she could not hear what
Rose Mather said, and she was about proposing to
George that they should leave, when Mr. Mather himself
appeared, and she concluded to remain. He was a
haughty-looking man, very fond of his little wife, on
whose shoulder he laid his hand caressingly, as he
asked “what she thought of war now?”

“I just think it is horrid!” and Rose's fat hand stole
up to meet her husband's; “Mr. Wentworth tried to
make me think you had volunteered, but I knew better.
The idea of your going off with such frights! Why, Will,
you can't begin to guess what a queer-looking set they
are. There was our milkman, and the boy who saws
our wood, and canal-drivers, and peddlers, and mechanics,
and”—

Rose did not finish the sentence, for something in her
husband's expression stopped her. He had caught the
quick uplifting of Annie Graham's head,—had noted the
indignant flashing of her blue eye, the kindling spot on
her cheek, and glancing at George, he saw at once how
Rose's thoughtless words must have wounded her. He
had seen the disgusted expression of Widow Simms, as
she flounced out into the aisle, and knowing that the
“boy who sawed his wood,” was her son, he felt sorry
that his wife should have been so indiscreet. Still, he
could not be angry at the sparkling little creature chatting
so like a parrot, but he felt impelled to say:

“You should not judge people by their dress or occupation.
The boy who saws our wood has a heart larger
than many who make far more pretensions.”

Rose tried to pout at what she knew to have been intended
as a reprimand, but in the excitement of the jam
as they passed out of the church, she forgot it entirely,
only once uttering an impatient ejaculation as some one
inadvertently stepped upon her sweeping skirt, and so
held her for a moment, producing the sensation which
nearly every woman experiences when she feels a sudden
backward pull, as if skirt and waist were parting company.

With the hasty exclamation, “Who is stepping on me,
I'd like to know?” she turned just in time to hear Annie
Graham's politely-spoken words of apology:

“I beg your pardon, madam; they push me so behind
that I could not help it.”

“It isn't the least bit of matter,” returned Rose, disarmed
at once of all resentment, by Annie's lady-like
manner, and the expression of the face, on which traces
of tears were still lingering.

“Who is that, Will?” she whispered, as they emerged
into the moonlight, and George Graham's tall form was
plainly discernible, together with that of his wife.

Will told her who it was, and Rose rejoined:

“He has volunteered, I 'most know. Poor, isn't he?”

“Not very rich, most certainly,” was Mr. Mather's
reply.

“Then I guess he's going to the war,” was Rose's
mental comment, as if poverty were the sole accomplishment
necessary for a soldier to possess, a conclusion to
which older and wiser heads than hers seemed at one
time to have arrived.

Annie Graham heard both question and answer, and
with emotions not particularly pleasant she whispered
to herself:

“Rose Mather shall see that one man at least will not
go, even if he is a mechanic and poor!” and clinging
closer to George's arm, she walked on in silence, thinking
bitter thoughts of the little lady, who, delighted with
having Will on one side of her, and Mr. Wentworth, his
partner, on the other, tripped gaily on, laughing as
lightly as if on the country's horizon there were no dark,
threatening cloud, which might yet overshadow her in
its gloomy folds, and leave her heart as desolate as that
of the Widow Simms, or the wailing mother of Harry
and Bill.