3. III.
HOT BLOOD.
Richmond, which I visited at this stormy period, was the fiery
heart from which flowed the blood of Revolution.
What a change had passed over the quiet old place! In past
years the city was the picture of repose. The white walls of the
Capitol rose from the deep-green foliage, silent, except when some
aspiring young legislator thundered in his maiden speech: the
falls of James River sent upon the air their soft and lulling murmur:
the birds sang in the trees of the Capitol Square: children
played there: the clouds floated: Richmond was all good-nature
and repose.
Now this was a tradition—a lost page in her history. Fierce
agitation had replaced the old tranquillity; and in the streets, the
hotels, the drawing-rooms, nothing was heard but hot discussion.
Men's pulses were feverish. Neighbors of opposite views scowled
fiercely at each other. Young ladies wore the Southern colors,
and would turn their pretty backs upon an admirer who was not
for secession. The cockade of South Carolina—a red rosette with
a palmetto tree upon it—was everywhere worn; and upon the
wearers the advocates of the old order of things looked with ill-concealed
hostility.
Meanwhile, the Convention, of which my father was a member,
thundered on from day to day: the press poured forth its
lava: the stump resounded with denunciations: and society was
evidently approaching one of those epochs when, having exhausted
the powers of the tongue, the human animal has recourse
to the sword.
Altogether, the period was jovial and inspiring; and I declare
to you, reader, that I would like to live it over, and hear the
bands play “Dixie” again, under the “bonnie blue flag!”
The hot current dragged me, and I speedily had a rencontre
which was not without importance in its bearing on my future.
I was sitting in the public room of my hotel, on an afternoon
of April, when a party of young men came in, and among them
I recognized a former acquaintance at the University, named
Baskerville. I had never liked him, and he was generally unpopular,
in consequence of his arrogance—the result, it was said,
of very great wealth. As I glanced at him now, his appearance
did not falsify the report. His costume was dazzling; his shirt
bosom sparkled with diamond studs; his hands were encased in
yellow kid gloves; and he carried a small ratan with a golden
head. Baskerville was about twenty-six, tall, straight, and exceedingly
handsome—but as arrogant in his bearing as a patrician
among the common people. It was overpowering!
Such was the figure which came into the room where I was
sitting, and began talking politics.
His denunciations of secession and secessionists were bitter
and violent; and his laughing companions seemed to be urging
him on. From secession, the abstract, he passed to the cockades,
the concrete; and denounced their wearers as “shallow-brained
traitors, who would suffer for their folly.” As I was wearing a
cockade, though it was invisible to the speaker, I did not much
relish this, but I controlled my temper—when all at once Baskerville
uttered some words which I could not possibly pass over.
“I heard a speech in the Convention to-day which deserves
the halter,” he said arrogantly.
“Who delivered it?” asked another of the party.
“That old traitor Surry!”
When he said that, I got up and went to the place where he
was standing.
“That is my father, sir,” I said.
His reply was a haughty stare and the words, “I am not
acquainted with you, sir!”
“You lie,” I said, “you recognize me perfectly;—but that is
not what I wanted to say. You call me a `shallow-brained
traitor' for wearing a cockade—which proves to me that you
are a fool. You insult the gray hairs of my father—that convinces
me that you are a coward.”
The above asterisks are gracefully substituted for what almost
immediately followed. The by-standers speedily “separated the
combatants,” as the newspapers say; and, informing my adversary
that I could be found at No. 45 in the hotel, I went to my
chamber, to avoid the crowd which began to collect.
I fully expected a message from baskerville; but none came
that evening, or the next morning. Tired of waiting, I was
about to go out, when a card was handed to me; and enter a
few moments afterward, one of the party of the previous evening—a
young gentleman elegantly clad.
At the grave and ceremonious air of my reception he began
to laugh.
“Excuse me, Mr. Surry,” he said, “but you are evidently
laboring under a slight misapprehension. I have not come as
Mr. Baskerville's representative to bring you a challenge—but
simply to make a friendly visit, at the risk, however, of appearing
intrusive.”
“Not at all, sir,” I said, “but I naturally supposed——”
“That Baskerville would fight? Well, you thought wrong,”
was the gay reply of my visitor, who balanced himself, with an
air of the most graceful insouciance, upon his chair. “Our dear
friend is a man of peace, not war—he insults people, but he
does not fight. I have seen him this morning, and he declares
that he remembers nothing whatever of the little affair of yesterday—says
he was inebriated, which is a truly shocking thing
—and professes that he had no quarrel whatever with you, or
anybody else.”
With which words my visitor began to laugh, in a manner so
careless and good-humored that it was impossible not to do likewise.
When he left me an hour afterward, the whole affair appeared
like a joke, and I forgot it.
But Baskerville was to have far more to do with my life than
I dreamed at that moment. Many an inward groan was to
salute the very mention of his name.
