University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
HORRORS OF CIVIL WAR.

All the State Legislatures, north and south, east and
west, were immediately convened; and the first measure
brought forward in most of them was an act ordering the
election of delegates to meet in State Conventions, or in
Conventions of Southern and Northern Confederated States.
Public meetings abounded everywhere, and the press
sounded its thunders. In the large cities ungovernable
mobs swept through the streets by day and by night, committing
every species of violence, and often indiscriminately,
on friend and foe. The Demon of Faction was unchained,
and in many places ruled supreme. In the North,
the Republicans demanded the utter subjugation of the
Southern people, and an unconditional enfranchisement of
the slaves. In the South, many of the Democracy urged
the invasion of the North; and, incited by British agents,
proposed the destruction of factories, the razing of cities,
and the conflagration of shipping at the wharves.

Nevertheless, the bold and dashing conduct of the President
in the repulse of General Crook, speedily engendered
a formidable party in almost every State, favorable to the
maintenance of the Federal authority. The brave always
inspire confidence; and President Randolph seemed to
know exactly what he was fighting for. In the North,
the strictly conservative men of substance, who deprecated
a violent collision of the opposing sections, embraced every
opportunity of manifesting their approbation of the action
of the Executive and of indicating their design of adhesion
to his cause. In the South, likewise, the less excitable
citizens who desired peace, and an amicable adjustment
of the differences between the sections, in the event,
now pretty generally conceded, of a perpetual separation,
instinctively regarded the President as a mediator and
protector.

Meanwhile the President's policy had been perfectly

conceived, and his measures, in some respects, indubitably
indicated. He had issued several proclamations, which
were disseminated throughout the country. In these,
without in the slightest degree identifying himself with
either of the parties to the disruption, he labored to demonstrate
the advantage to be reaped by a general acquiescence
in the Federal authority—as a pis aller, at
least, for a Provisional Government—and which seemed
to be demanded for the convenience, if not for the security
of the whole American family, distracted by internal
dissension. And in response to his suggestions, it
was almost universally agreed that the operations of the
Post Office and Revenue systems should not be interrupted.
As for the collection and safe-keeping of the
public money, President Randolph had made ample provision
by the powers conferred on him as the Chief Magistrate.
With inconceivable promptitude, he had secured
the fidelity of the best officers of the Army and Navy
to the Government from which their commissions had
been derived. It was even conjectured by some that he
had sounded these commanders long before the occurrences
at the Capital. But if such were really the case,
it could only be cited as one of the many evidences of
his superior judgment and foresight. It was certain, however,
that not a ship or a regiment refused to obey his
orders; and besides having an ample naval force stationed
off the principal ports of entry, to insure the collection
of duties, it was immediately apparent that notwithstanding
the troops concentrated in Washington, there were
ample military forces likewise in all the cities, to guard
the Federal treasure. In New York and Philadelphia
mobs were foiled in their attempts to pillage the mint,
the custom-houses, and post-offices. Cannon, charged to
the muzzle, commanded every avenue of approach to the
public edifices, and the duty of defending them had been
confided to officers of fidelity, skill, and determination.

It was different in the country. Predatory bands crossed
the borders from both sides, and maintained a guerilla warfare
for plunder. In the North, strangers and sojourners,
natives of the South, as well as citizens suspected or
known to sympathize with the pro-slavery party, were subjected
to many cruelties and sacrifices. Nor was it the

guilty alone that comprised the victims. Advantage was
taken of the prevailing exasperation by profligate, revengeful,
and grasping wretches, to consummate the ruin of the
rich, the exalted, and the purest members of society, who
had unconsciously incurred their envy or hatred. The
gutters ran with blood, and the waysides were strewn with
the dead. Banks were pillaged, daring burglaries and remorseless
assassinations were of frequent occurrence, and
the vault of heaven was every night illuminated with the
glare of conflagrations. And such frightful scenes were
not confined to the North. They were, if possible, excelled
by the retaliatory measures adopted in the South. If there
were no ungovernable mobs, and no instances of indiscriminate
destruction of great magnitude, it was owing to the
fact that no large cities existed to harbor any formidable
number of the degraded class of population, ever infesting
dense communities, whose demoniac delight consists in the
misfortunes of others. But there were not wanting the
“suspected,” or even the guilty, among them. For the
first, it was sufficient to have been born on Northern soil;
for the last, any former expression of aversion to slavery
was conclusive against them. Confiscations, executions,
imprisonments, and every conceivable mode of punishment
or annoyance seemed to be employed.

Not many days after the occurrences described at the
Capital, Mr. Langdon received an account of the ravage of
one of his estates in the country by his own neighbors and
constituents. The reason alleged was his alliance with the
“slave-driving” Blounts of the South. In disregard to the
entreaties of Edith and Alice, and the earnest solicitations
of the President himself, the indignant Senator resolved to
set out immediately for the North; and, when the hour
was fixed for his departure, Edith announced her purpose
of accompanying him. No opposition could avail, whatever
her reluctance might be to a separation from her dearest
female friend. She had a presentiment of danger
menacing her father, and it was her duty to attend him,
through evil as well as good report.

There were but two cars in the train that conveyed them
away from the Federal City, and these were not half filled
with passengers, and but few of these were destined to cross
the border—the line separating Delaware from Pennsylvania.

Although “little Delaware” had long been regarded
as almost a free State, and for many years the chief managers
of what was known as the “underground railroad”
had an office in Wilmington, yet it was a singular
fact, that this diminutive State, exposed as she was to the
first fury of the insane and fanatical invaders, had adopted
the most decided position of hostility to the North. Her
Senators and Representatives had been among the first to
abandon their seats in Congress, and her Legislature, the
first assembled, had immediately passed resolutions inviting
her sisters of the South to send an unlimited number of
volunteers within her limits, to hurl back the anticipated
hordes of Northern invaders. Already thousands from
Maryland and Virginia were on their march to occupy the
Northern line of brave “little Delaware.” And a majority
of the passengers in the cars, it was observed by Edith,
were either in military uniform or bore some of the instruments
of deadly warfare.

It was not without reason, therefore, that the daughter
indulged forebodings of evil in crossing the line separating
two hostile sections; or that the parent should muse in
painful abstraction, when vainly striving to penetrate the
future through the tempest of civil war so insanely inaugurated
by the unfaithful agents of the people.

The sun had set in a cloudless sky, golden and gorgeous,
and the silver stars twinkled in joyous mockery of the fantastic
tricks of wicked man, making an earthly paradise a
hideous spectacle. The fields were deserted, the fences
thrown down, and here and there small parties of men were
seen with various implements of destruction in their hands.

At the first stopping-place after passing through Wilmington,
several persons warned the conductor of danger ahead,
and advised him to remain where he was until the enemy
should retire. To this the conductor turned a deaf ear,
and jestingly remarked that he would like to “see a fight.”
He added that if “the d—d Abolitionists” got in his way, he
would charge through them on his iron horse. This might
have inspired confidence, had not the remark of the bar-terder
of the inn been overheard. It was to the effect that when
he had once crossed the line, he would say to the Abolitionists
that he had charged through the d—d slave drivers on
his iron horse.

“Father,” said Edith in a whisper, “had we not better
get out and endeavor to reach the city some other way?”

“No, child,” said he. “Fear nothing. We are natives
of the North returning home. They will not molest us.
Besides, the mails are transported in these cars, and both
parties have agreed to let them pass. We shall be in Philadelphia
in an hour. It is but little over twenty miles.”

The whistle sounded, and the locomotive was soon careering
at full speed. But they had not proceeded more
than ten minutes in this manner, when discharges of firearms
were heard, and the train suddenly slackened its speed,
and soon after stood perfectly still. The conductor, upon
being questioned by Mr. Langdon, said the track was
obstructed by a breastwork of fence rails, behind which
one of the parties, probably the Northern, was posted.
Meanwhile, the fire, now perceived as well by the flashes as
by the reports, seemed to be slackened, and finally ceased
altogether. There was a rush of both parties to the train,
and after a hand-to-hand contest, which continued for several
minutes, around the cars and within them, the tide flowing
to and fro, sometimes one party expelling the other,
Edith became separated from her father in the melée, and
being run against by a large man, was precipitated down
a gravel embankment among the rank weeds on the road
side.

Recovering from the concussion of the fall, the poor girl,
bewildered, and partly blinded by the dust, essayed to
climb the steep embankment, but in vain, and fell back
again to the bottom of the ditch, fortunately, at that time,
quite dry.

“Father! father!” she cried. But no one answered.
The cars were gone; and Edith supposed she must have
lain some time in a swoon. The moon had risen, and cast a
flood of light over the now silent scene. She arose once
more, and ran along the margin of the ditch until she came
to where the rails were level with the plain. She stood
upon the track and strained her eyes in both directions.
Neither cars nor living beings were seen. But several dead
bodies, weltering in their gore, were left upon the ground.
The wounded had been taken away. The horror-stricken
girl, summoning all her resolution, approached with breathless
haste and palpitating heart the fallen victims. A single

glance sufficed. Her father was not there; and she uttered
thanks to heaven that he had, in all probability, escaped
with his life. But where was he? Had he been taken
away in the cars, or was he, like herself, a wanderer on the
heath? She had no means of solving the question, and
knew not where to go or what to do. In the confusion of
the scene she had become unconscious of the direction in
which they had been travelling, and was unable to decide
which course led towards the city. Long and motionless
she stood uttering fervent prayers to heaven for guidance
in that hour of dread dismay.

“Father!” she at length cried aloud, hoping her parent
might be in hearing; but no response was made, save the
barking of a watch-dog in the distance. “Oh, merciful
God!” she exclaimed, “what will become of me!” and
stooping down, she buried her face in her hands. How
long she remained in this attitude, she could not tell; but
when she again lifted her tearful eyes, the form of a tall
man was before her. “Oh!” cried she, “have pity on a
dutiful daughter, cruelly separated from her father, who
may be wounded or even dead—”

“No! heaven forbid!” said the stranger. “But come
with me, and you shall find a friendly shelter, no matter
whether you be Southern or Northern-born. We are all
brothers and sisters in the eyes of the Heavenly Parent.”

“Oh, sir! will you not aid me, then?” said Edith, emboldened
by the words she had heard, and the tone of the
voice, which seemed to be not altogether strange to her ear.

“To the utmost of my ability,” said the stranger. “But
who are you? Have we not met before?”

“I do not know; until this morning I have been residing
in Washington, with my father, for many months.”

“Miss Edith Langdon! The constant friend of one
dearer to me than life itself, Mary Penford!”

“And you are Wiry Willy! Yes, Willy, I will trust to
your guidance, believing that heaven sent you hither as my
deliverer.”

“And if I prove unfaithful, may heaven smite me with
its scathing lightnings. Besides, I am solemnly pledged to
serve you.” He then related the promise which Henry
Blount had exacted from him, and she believed in the overruling
Providence that shapes our actions.

“I will go with you, Willy,” said she, taking his arm
and leaning on it for support. “You say your grandmother
lives near this place.”

“That was the friendly shelter I meant, before I knew
the one to whom it was tendered. But now you will be
doubly welcome, for Mary, when a sojourner beneath our
humble roof, often described her friend and protector to
my aged grandma, and made her love you.”

“And it was there that Mary culled the beautiful wild
flowers for me? Oh, if my father were only with me, or if
I could only know he was unharmed and in safety, how
contented could I be to dwell in the peaceful little vale so
fondly painted by the truthful Mary!”

Wiry Willy led the way across a meadow, and by a narrow
path through a dense growth of sapling oaks; and
there they beheld the humble cottage by a winding brook.
Passing through a wicker gate, they approached the tenement
between trellises of grape-vines which scented the air
with their blossoms. They were met by a large black Newfoundland
dog, whose baying Edith had heard, but which
now seemed to welcome her with manifestations of friendship.

Lifting the latch, Willy conducted his charge into a
capacious room, illuminated with a lamp on a plain table,
and warmed by a bright blaze in the broad fire-place. Mrs.
Wire was knitting, seated on a low chair at the corner of
the hearth. She was in her ninety-seventh year, small of
stature, thin, and her face a mass of wrinkles. Yet her
features were regular, and must have been handsome. She
rose up without difficulty on perceiving the entrance of her
grandson and the stranger.

“Who is this, Willy?” she asked, with curiosity, but not
displeasure, and perhaps the secret of her longevity consisted
in the uniform amiability of her nature.

“It is Miss Edith Langdon, grandma, that Mary Penford
used to speak so much about.”

“I am sure she will have a hearty welcome, then,” said
the old lady, approaching Edith, and gently taking her
hand. “Come, sit down before the fire, my sweet child;
the night is chill and damp. You seem distressed, and no
wonder, for the times are stormy, as in the days of the
Revolution, when I, too, was young. Give me your bonnet
and mantilla, and warm your feet. Then you shall have

tea, or milk, and such bread and butter as the poor house
affords.”

“I leave you, grandma, for a short time,” said Willy;
“I must saddle my pony, and—”

“And what, Willy? Whither are you going?”

“I will explain everything before I depart. I will see
you again before I mount.”

“It is right and proper, no doubt,” said the old lady,
gazing at the door which the young man had closed behind
him.

Edith, while partaking moderately of the repast set before
her, explained the circumstances of her condition to
the attentive old lady, who retained not only the faculty of
hearing, but of seeing without the use of glasses.

“Now I know Willy's purpose without another word
from him,” said the grandame. “He will leave us under
the protection of Bruce, the faithful dog, and seek information
regarding your parent.”

“Bless him! And may heaven prosper his endeavors!”
exclaimed Edith.

“Oh, he is a blessed boy—and yet he has been stricken
with affliction. His love for Mary Penford has unsettled
his reason a little, at times; but he is not a lunatic, as some
have said. The boy was well educated, for we own a hundred
acres of good land, which have been well tilled, and
yielded their profits. He was even elected to the Legislature,
but resigned his seat, when he received the terrible
announcement that General Ruffleton was an accepted suitor
for the hand of Mary.”

“And does General Ruffleton really propose to marry
Mary?” asked Edith.

“That is the point. He makes John Penford believe so;
but Willy is convinced that he has no such intention. That
thought has robbed him of sleep, and at times almost bereft
him of reason. The neighbors call him a poor harmless
demented young man. But he is not demented on any
subject but the one. It is true that, living here on the line
between the free and the slave states, Willy, being once a
politician, takes sometimes one side and sometimes the
other; but in whatever he does, I can see a good motive,
and both parties have become accustomed to his eccentricities,
and permit him to pass and repass at pleasure. Oh,

he can serve you better than any of the violent partisans.
And he will do it. You may have the most perfect reliance
on his honor and his judgment!”

“I certainly have!” said Edith. “He came to me as if
in answer to my prayer for aid!”

“God sent him—depend upon it! I am now nearly one
hundred years old, and when I look back through the
long vista of time, I can recognise the hand of a special
Providence in a thousand fortunate occurrences. Have
faith in God, my daughter, and He will not desert you.
He will lead thee forth, by such instruments as He may be
pleased to select, out of every difficulty, if you trust implicitly
in his goodness and wisdom.”

“I will endeavor to do so, to the utmost of my ability!”

“And that is a right kind of resolution, for we cannot be
sure what temptations may beset us. But, as for Willy,
although in politics, and in these civil strifes, there may be
no seeming consistency in his words or acts (for he appears
very willing that they should deem him but half-witted),
you will find all his promises and engagements in your
behalf will be redeemed, if human wit and exertion, with
approbation from above, can accomplish them.”

“Now!” said Willy, throwing open the door, “farewell
grandma—farewell, Miss Langdon. I am going in quest of
the Senator. Slumber peacefully, both of you. The night
is fair, my pony eager for a race, and I could not rest on
my pillow, if I sought it, knowing that the father is separated
from the daughter, and that daughter the friend and
protector of Mary! I will see Mary's approving smile as
she flits through the air before me. Do not fear for me.
None will molest Wiry Willy; and none durst disturb the
last surviving matron of the Revolution, who dressed the
wounds of both friends and enemies brought hither from
Chadds' Ford. Farewell. In three hours I will be in Philadelphia.
And you may look for me back in the morning.
I will leave the pony at the Black Bear, and return in the
cars.” He then closed the door, and a moment after the
clatter of the pony's hoofs was heard.

“He will do all he says, my child,” said the grandame,
proudly. “And I see he has removed a load of anxiety
from you.”

“He has, indeed! He cannot fail to get some tidings of

my father, for many in the city know him well, and his
reputation for moderation in all things, together with his
vote against the Declaratory Resolution, will surely shield
him from harm in a Northern city. Oh, yes; I shall slumber
sweetly, dreaming all the time that Willy has returned
with my father, or with good news of him. But, grandame,
did you really dress the wounds of the sufferers at the battle
of Brandywine?”

“Indeed I did, my child. The battle-ground was not far
from this place.” She then entertained Edith with the
recital of the incidents of that terrible day; and among the
rest mentioned the fact that at the urgent solicitation of
Washington, La Fayette dismounted, and rested a few
moments in her humble domicil. But he had not time to
permit her to dress his wound. The British were in pursuit;
and so, drinking a cup of fresh milk, and taking a few
biscuits in his pocket, the wounded General remounted his
horse and sped away, until faint with the loss of blood, they
placed him in a carriage. She described the sufferings of
the officers and men of both armies left wounded on the
field; and the gratitude they expressed for the kindness and
care bestowed on them. Yet, she added, that a great many
people in Delaware, at that day, were reluctant to give up
their King. But God had so willed it, and the country had
prospered ever since, until the coming of the present troubles,
the issue of which was in the hands of One mightier than any
earthly King.

And thus the hours sped. The grandame smoking her
pipe in the chimney corner, relating anecdotes of a past
generation; the listening maiden transported in fancy to
scenes of the dim and distant past, while the cricket chirped
upon the hearth, until the demands of nature admonished
them of the arrival of the hour for repose.