University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
A DEATH SCENE.

The President was sitting in one of the offices of the executive
mansion, smiling affectionately on his daughter,
whose arm encircled his neck. It was at a late hour of the
night, and all seemed still and silent without, save the measured
tramp of the sentinels.

“And so, you would go with me on the field of battle?”
asked the President. “What a change from the timid and
fearful Alice of a few short weeks ago! And this, too,
after reading an account of the painful adventures of
Edith!”

“True, father, I am changed,” said she, distinctly and
seriously. “And this, too, after reading the thrilling recital
of poor Edith.”

“I really believe you have become more courageous, or,
it may be, reckless of your safety, than you were formerly.
And what has produced the change? It cannot be a
desire for such night-errantry as Edith's?”

“No—no!”

“And yet it must proceed from some extraordinary cause.
Can it be love?”

“Would that be extraordinary?” she responded, with
a sad smile, while the color entirely faded from her cheeks.

This was too apparent to escape the notice of Randolph.
He rose up and confronted his daughter, and gazed upon
her pale forehead for several moments in silence. He eyes
were cast down, and she stood motionless before him, with
folded arms.

“Without my knowledge, Alice,” said he, his voice
slightly tremulous, “or without my concurrence, it would
be extraordinary. In the field, in the closet, on my pillow,
Alice, the only unpleasant thought ever connected with my
destiny, was the vision, or the fear,—”

“Fear not, father!” said she. “The man does not live
who will be the husband or the lover of Alice.” This was

said in a low and almost plaintive voice. “And yet, father,
I love.”

“And this is an enigma. Alice! the day may come when
kings and emperors will sue at thy feet! How, then, can
you love, and not be loved in turn?”

“I did not say so, father.”

“You said you loved.”

“Father,” said she, again twining her arm round his
neck, “I love my Country!”

Randolph, disengaging himself, strode rapidly backwards
and forwards across the room, his forehead pale, his lips
compressed, and his eye gleaming with unwonted fierceness.

“You love your country?” he reiterated, after a silence
of many moments, and pausing abruptly in front of his pale
daughter.

“And would save it!” said she.

“And would save it! Why, what nonsense is this?”

“It is not nonsense, father.”

“Then, pray, how could you save your country?”

“By invoking the aid of heaven to touch my father's
heart.”

“Alice! Nay, start not, my child—although it was
harshly uttered, it was not in anger. But, my pure Alice,
you will tell me who has been whispering an insinuation
that I would either destroy the country, or would not strive
to save it?”

“No one, father.”

“An angel from heaven, Alice, could not be more truthful
than my daughter. I need not say I believe you. And
so you discovered it yourself?”

“I feared so, father. And now will you not tell me I was
mistaken?”

“Have I not served the country,” said he, again walking
rapidly to and fro, “all the best years of my life? My labors
by day, and my thoughts by night, have all been devoted
to the welfare of the country. And what is the result?
What do we behold? The intrigues of factions, sectional
animosities, disruption of the Legislature, destruction of
property, civil war, and the contempt of nations less in
magnitude, in population, in prowess, wealth, and intelligence.
Not strive to save such a country as this? I will

save it, Alice—ay, in spite of itself! The Union SHALL be
preserved!”

“And the Republic, father? The glorious Republic of
Washington?” cried Alice, running to the President and
seizing both his hands.

“Why, certainly, Alice, if it be possible,” said he gravely.

“But if it be not possible?”

“Ha, ha, ha! Would you have me promise impossibilities?
We will sit down,” he continued, leading her to the
chair beside his own, “and argue this matter. We can
confide in each other. I fear our people—any people—are,
after all, incapable of self-government. Where, under heaven,
has a larger liberty been enjoyed? Have we not prospered
by land and by sea abundantly? All religions have
been tolerated. Churches in every village; colleges in the
cities; newspapers, with infinite license, everywhere. From
thirteen, we have expanded to thirty odd States, and from
three millions of inhabitants to thirty millions. Our fields
have been cultivated, and no famine ever cursed the land.
Our commerce has spread its sails in every sea. We have
a monopoly of the greatest staple the earth produces; inexhaustible
mines; scores of thousands of miles of railroads;
immense cities, factories, and all the comforts and luxuries
known to civilized man;—and yet, what is the condition of
the people? Survey them now, Alice. Must I permit
them to be divided into petty States, independent of and
hostile to each other? Shall the people be suffered to
inflict irremediable evil on themselves—to degenerate into
semi-barbarism, and become the easy, if not the willing,
prey of the effeminate monarchs of Europe? That is the
question. Are we, Republicans, worthy of the Republic
of Washington?”

“We will be, father! Why not!” exclaimed Alice, with
great animation, and with recovered color. “Are we not
the descendants of the people for whom Washington fought
and prayed? Are we spoiled children? Then chastise,
but do not destroy. We will see our folly, and reform.
The North will confess that they had no right to meddle
either with the consciences of the Southern people, or the
property of the South; and the South will acknowledge
that the North is indispensable for the consummation of
the national destiny.”

“That is very fine in theory, Alice; but we behold the
body politic desperately, if not fatally, diseased. It must
be phlebotomized!”

“Be it so—but may that not effect a cure? Doubtless
the people have transgressed, and must be punished. Men
in arms with angry passions, will certainly fight. The fall
of thousands is inevitable. But oh, father! is not death, a
speedy death, the lot of all? If we must die, still our
country may survive. Dust returns to dust, but the glorious
actions of the good and great are imperishable. Father!
I would have you live in bronze and marble, like the immortal
Washington!”

“And would you not survive to see it? Or, Alice, is it
Fame with which you are in love? Fy, daughter, that
none of the gallant sons of our great country could inflame
thy cold fancy!”

“Father!”

“Well? Have you a secret? Silent! Who is he?
Where is he?”

“He lives not for me!” said Alice, again as pale as monumental
marble.

“Does he live at all? Did he die?”

“Father! think that once a bright object flitted for a
moment athwart the vision of your daughter—and—when
he crossed it again another claimed him; he another. But
likewise think he never knew, could never know—”

“Enough, my child! What! pale and in tears!”

“Before none but you and my Heavenly Parent.
Father, do you not remember the note you sent me on that
eventful day? You said, `Be marble.' And now I can be.
There is not a living thing I hate; and but two objects to
love—you and my country. But, father, is it not probable
these Conventions may decree an irrevocable separation?”

“No—it is not probable. I have partisans in both.”

“I might have known it!”

“And I have still more adherents out of them, and in
both sections.”

“But not in these armies about to engage?”

“No. They are more like mobs than armies, and cannot
be restrained by their respective sections. It may be
different when they shall have weakened each other. This
spasmodic patriotism will be mitigated when the hardships

and dangers of a campaign are experienced. Both promiscuous
hosts are maintained by private contributions, or enforced
levies. This will not last long; but in the meantime
much may be accomplished. There will be a battle.”

“And, father, why should you take part in it? On which
side will you fight?”

“Perhaps neither. It may not be meant as an insurrection:
but it would be domestic violence, and it is my duty
to suppress it. I shall forbid the collision; then when they
engage, the aggressor must be punished.”

A servant entered and announced a messenger from
Delaware. It was Wiry Willy, recovered from his wound.

“Willy!” exclaimed Alice, running to the faithful messenger
and receiving a letter from his hand. “But speak!”
said she. “Just one word of Edith, before you proceed to
business.”

“She has entirely recovered.”

“That is sufficient,” said the President. “Read your
letter, daughter. Now, Willy, I see important news in
your face. Ruffleton has not destroyed your little farm, I
hope?”

“No, sir. He turned to the right and avoided Delaware.”

“Ah, indeed!”

“He has crossed the Susquehanna, sir.”

“That menaces us in this district! But he will find the
Caudine forks between the Chesapeake and the Potomac!”

“He intends to enter Virginia, sir, by crossing the Long
Bridge.”

“How do you know that?”

“He told me so himself. We are friends again.”

“I understand. The fool! But enough of him. What
of Crook? I have not received intelligence from him since
he permitted the wires to be demolished.”

“Two hours after I left General Ruffleton, I was in the
camp of General Crook!”

“Then there was a night march—or else Crook was
an ignoramus.”

“There was, sir. He marched all night, and is now
between this city and the Northern army. But he is
retreating, sir. They say, and my own eyes confirmed it,
that the Eastern recruits or volunteers received within the

last week by Ruffleton, amount to 100,000 men. His army
is 150,000 strong, sir.”

“His rabble, you mean. Still, they must make a very
formidable appearance, and might even penetrate the Old
Dominion. Crook has not one-third the number of his
opponent, but he has better men—men, who if they do not
know how to fight, will be willing to die in defence of their
native soil. Go to Mary Penford, Willy, she is in distress.
You may conduct her hither if she desires it.” Willy's
eyes were dilated with surprise, but he did not pause for
further information.

“Poor old man!” said Alice, after Willy had departed;
“I fear it is over with him. But Mary will find protection
here.”

The President had General Valiant summoned; and
then Alice, having kissed her father again, retired for the
night.

When the General entered, he found the President
absorbed in study, with a map spread out before him.

“I have sent for you, General,” said the President, “to
impart some rather alarming news.”

“I doubt very much, sir, whether there is any necessity
for alarm, although I do not question the accuracy of your
information.”

Valiant was a young general, in whose genius and fidelity
the President had great confidence.

“We may not be in danger, General,” pursued the President,
his finger resting on the map; “but here are two
armies, at this moment probably within twenty miles of us.
Crook is retreating in this direction, followed by Ruffleton
with 150,000 men.”

“Men and boys, sir—all novices. It is just as I predicted.
And both armies are hemmed in between the Chesapeake
and the Potomac. We might destroy them both.”

“No! that is not our policy. But ought Ruffleton to be
permitted to pass through the District of Columbia? That's
the question. I know he would be overwhelmed by Blount
before he could penetrate far into Virginia. But is it not
my duty to arrest the invasion?”

“You may do so very easily. The whole District is now
a military encampment. Sixty thousand infantry, twenty
thousand cavalry, and six hundred cannon. And they

have been drilled day and night by the very best officers in
the service. Why the d—l don't Crook select a good position
and give Ruffleton battle?”

“He is not deficient in courage, or he would never have
made his bold dash at me. I like him, Valiant. He is the
soul of honor, when his word is plighted. And, between
us, I have some overtures from him. If he can cut the
Gordian knot, he will—but you know he can't—and if not,
he will co-operate with us, if we give him an opportunity
to beat the Northern people, whom he hates so heartily.
But he is not to fight a pitched battle without apprising
me of his purpose. I desire to ascertain, General, if we
could not so manœuvre as to give Crook a victory without
being directly implicated ourselves.”

“I can easily make Ruffleton attack us, and then, in our
own defence, you know, we can destroy him.”

“I should be reluctant—very reluctant to be the instrument
of the destruction of such a host of Northern people,
whose ostensible purpose was not an assault on the Federal
authority. Crook must do it! There is a messenger.”

An aide came in with a sealed letter.

“This is from Crook!” said the President. “He asks an
interview, and I will grant it. Let the one who brought
this be conducted hither. I must interrogate him. My
position, Valiant,” he continued, “is certainly an anomalous
one. It is an exceedingly difficult game.”

“But you are a good player,” said the General.

“That must be proven by the event. But whom have
we here?” said he, starting up on beholding the entrance
of the supposed messenger from General Crook. He was
enveloped in a cloak, and wore a broad-brimmed hat, such
as is used in a Southern clime. Randolph gazed a moment
at the clear grey eye of the stranger, and then advanced and
grasped his hand. “Throw off your disguise, General,”
said he. “This is General Valiant, who will not betray us.”

“I am in your hands, gentlemen,” said General Crook,
declining to sit. “But I am now about defending the
Capital instead of attacking it. It is your policy, Randolph,
either as President, Usarper, Emperor—or whatever
it may be—to see that the invaders be rolled back from the
Federal City. All I ask is a battery of fifty pieces of
artillery and a few thousand horse—the last merely for

show, and not to fight. I want them to appear on an eminence
and menance the enemy's flank and rear. That is all.
I will do the rest.”

“And so you intend to offer battle?” asked the President.

“Ay, I intend to give it, and that too before we enter
your exclusive territory of some seven miles square. We
will fight at Bladensburg.”

“Provided you have a few thousand of my cavalry, and
the battery?”

“Ay, the former only for show; and the latter can be transported
under cover of the darkness, so that the country
will never know whence I obtained them. I pledge my
honor that it shall never be known, contrary to your wishes,
how they were obtained.”

“Enough, General. Valiant will furnish the cannon.
The horse I will lead myself. Where will you make a stand?”

“At Bladensburg.”

“Then I know the eminence for the horse. You need
take no further thought about the matter. I will be there
at the critical moment. And if Ruffleton should be determined
to beat you in spite of your artillery, I will interpose
and require him to retrace his steps. It is my duty to prevent
one section from invading the other, and that duty
shall be performed!”

“But, sir!” said Crook, with much earnestness, “I hope
you will not deprive me of the opportunity of beating him.
Don't interpose unless you see the day about to be lost.”

“Very well. If you can vanquish him, I shall be content.
But, recollect, the victor must not cross the line in
pursuit. You must not invade them in turn.”

Crook smiled, and, turning, followed General Valiant to
his quarters. The President then reclined on a sofa, and
was soon steeped in quiet slumber.

Wiry Willy hastened away at that late hour to Georgetown.
He bore the infatuated old clerk a letter from
General Ruffleton, who, believing Willy little better than a
mere simpleton, had not destroyed him.

Perceiving lights in several of the rooms, Willy knew
that Mary was watching, and that he could obtain admittance.
The servant girl who answered the bell, conducted
him into the little parlor, where he beheld Mary, pale, and

with traces of recent tears on her lovely face. She was sitting
beside the physician, but immediately arose, and taking
the hand of Willy, conducted him in silence to a chair. The
doctor, after a few brief words, departed.

“Willy,” said Mary, “my poor grandpa is about to leave
me.”

“Let us hope not, Mary,” said he. “But if it must be
so, we should not be unprepared for the event. He has
been spared to an extreme old age, and his life has been
without guile.”

“That is true, Willy. I do not think it was ever his design
to inflict injury on any human being. And he is now about
to be at rest.”

“Is it so certain, Mary?”

“The doctor has just told me that his pulse is failing, and
that he cannot possibly survive more than a few hours.”

“And you, Mary—what will be your condition?”

“The neighbors are kind, and we have many good friends.
There are two nurses with him now. Oh, Willy—that
dreadful day! It was a fatal blow, the loss of those
papers! But come with me—he will know you. He is
more rational as he approaches his end.”

“I have a letter for him, Mary—shall I deliver it?”

“From Ruffleton?”

“Yes.”

“I do not know. Oh, Willy, I fear him more than ever,
since his abominable conduct to Edith! She has written
me all—and warned me against his machinations. But still
the letter may do no harm.”

They ascended to the chamber of the dying man. He
recognised Willy.

“William Wire,” said he, “what news do you bring of
General Ruffleton?”

Willy presented the letter. At a signal from Mary the
kind women who had been watching, withdrew into an
adjoining chamber. With difficulty the old man broke the
seal, but his vision was too dim to see.

“Read it for me, William Wire,” said he.

The letter announced that the General would, in two
or three days, be in possession of the Capital, and occupy
the Executive Mansion.

“Impossible!” exclaimed the old man. “He has not

been elected. Randolph's term has not expired. Impossible!”

The letter went on to say that Mary would be made the
mistress of the Presidential Mansion.

“Oh, grandpa!” said Mary, observing that the old man
did not manifest as much interest in this communication as
in preceding ones from the same source, “now, when it may
be God's will that you must abandon all earthly pursuits, I
beseech you to revoke that frightful pledge exacted from
the lone companion of your declining years, that she would
unite her destiny with the one, above all others, she could
not help most disliking.”

The old man gazed a moment at her sweet face, and then
succeeded by a violent effort in turning on his pillow. He
caught her hand and kissed it, and then placed it tenderly
in Willy's.

“William Wire!” said he, “she is thine. Guard her well.
Defend her if I should die. But if I survive, and consummate
that claim for cannon—”

“Alas, grandpa!” said Mary, “you forget the destruction
of the papers!”

“True, my cherub! And if they should be mad enough
really to dissolve the Union, what a universal destruction
of papers will ensue. My eyes grow dim when I think of
it, and I pray God not to let me see it. But President
Randolph is a great man—have faith in him, adhere to his
fortunes. Call in the women and light the lamps. I feel
better. To-morrow I will endeavor to see the President.”

“Oh, grandpa!” said the weeping Mary, who, with the
rest, observed the fearful change rapidly spreading over his
features, “to-morrow you may be called into the presence
of your heavenly father!”

“God is my judge and my savior,” said he. “But
what says the doctor?”

“He says the end is near,” said Willy; for Mary was
incapable of utterance.

“Impossible!” said the old man, and instantly expired.

Pale, though composed, Mary sat at one end of the
breakfast table, and Willy occupied the other. During the
repast they were startled by the sound of cannon in the
distance.

“That is the commencement of the battle!” said Willy.

“And when will battles end, Willy?”

“God knows. But I have faith in the President. And,
Mary, last night he said you must remove to the Mansion,
after the obsequies of your grandfather.”

“Alice was here yesterday, and said the same thing.
And I will go there.”

The thunder of the distant cannon increased. And soon
the clatter of the hoofs of horses was heard. To the utter
consternation of both Mary and Willy, the door was thrown
violently open, and several armed men rushed in.

“There she is,” said the leader, who was instantly recognised
by Willy as one of the aides of Ruffleton, Major
Snare.

“Pray what is your business with me, sir?” demanded
Mary, confronting the red-faced and apparently inebriated
Major.

“My orders are to remove you to a place of security.”

“Am I not secure here?”

“No—not by a great deal! But I am to be gentle and
careful, and all that. You need not be alarmed.”

“I cannot leave this place, sir. My grandfather—”

“Never mind him. We must obey orders.”

“Her grandfather is dead!” said Willy, approaching the
officer. “His corpse is now up-stairs.”

“The d—l! That's something we didn't look for. But
such things in time of war are not novelties. The neighbors
will bury the old man. Come, Miss, I must execute the
order of my superior or be executed. We have a light
carriage, and the road is not rough. You can remain,
Willy.”

“But if you mean to take Mary, I would prefer going.”

“As you please. But you must find your own horse.
You can't go in the carriage. Come, Miss; my orders are
to use expedition.”

“I must see my grandpa, first!” said Mary, weeping, and
passing up-stairs. She ran forward, and seizing the cold
hand of her dead parent, fell upon her knees. The few
neighbors who were present, endeavored to assuage her
grief. But as the voice of Major Snare was heard below,
demanding the return of the aggrieved girl, she clung the
closer to the corpse.

“I can wait no longer!” said the Major, ascending the
stairs, and entering the chamber of death. “Come!” he
continued, “there is a crowd collecting in the street, and
we may have to kill some of the good people. The d—l!”
said he, on perceiving the body of John Penford. “That's
more than I expected—and it's a spectacle not to my taste.
Still, orders must be obeyed. Come!”

“Oh, sir!” said Mary, “you cannot be so hard-hearted
as to drag me away from my grandpa—now so cold and
still.”

“It is not to my taste, Miss Mary; but I must execute
the order, or I shall be dead myself.”

“Then I obey. I would not have a worm suffer death on
my account,” said she, rising. “Excuse me but a few
moments, sir, until I can get some additional apparel, and
then I will attend you.”

“Oh, very well!” said the Major, “I will wait two
minutes.”

When the neighbors learned the nature of the Major's
mission, they were very indignant, and would have resisted
the execution of the inhuman order, if they had possessed
the ability.

Mary appeared before the Major, and in the presence of
the people declared her departure was in obedience to a
demand which she possessed no ability to resist. She then
requested to see Wiry Willy—but he could nowhere be
found. Then they led her to the light carriage, and having
thrust her in, drove away at a furious rate.