University of Virginia Library

49. CHAPTER XLIX.
THE PRISONERS.

MANY of the captives were coming home, and all
along the Northern lines loving hearts were
waiting, and friendly hands outstretched to welcome
them back to “God's land,” as the poor,
suffering creatures termed the soil over which waved the
stars and stripes, for which they had fought so bravely.
Wistfully thousands of eyes ran over the long columns
of names of those returned, each eye seeking for its own,
and growing dim with tears as it failed to find it, or
lighting up with untold joy when it was found.

“Lieut. Robert Reynolds,” and “Thomas Tubbs,”
Helen read among the list of those just arrived at Annapolis,
but “Captain Mark Ray” was not there, and,
with a sickening feeling of disappointment, she passed
the paper to her mother-in-law, and hastened away, to
weep and pray that what she so greatly feared might not
come upon her.

It was after Katy's betrothal, and Helen was in New
York, hoping to hear news from Mark, and perhaps to
see him ere long, for as nearly as she could trace him
from reports of others, he was last at Andersonville.
But there was no mention made of him, no sign by which
she could tell whether he still lived, or had long since
been relieved from suffering.

Early next day she heard that Mattie Tubbs had received
a telegram from Tom, who would soon be at home,
while later in the day Bell Cameron came round to say
that Bob was living, but had lost his right arm, and was
otherwise badly crippled. It never occurred to Helen to
ask if this would make a difference. She only kissed
Bell fondly, rejoicing at her good fortune, and then sent
her back to the home where there were hot discussions
regarding the propriety of receiving into the family a
maimed and crippled member.

“It was preposterous to suppose Bob would expect it,”
Juno said, while the mother admitted that it was a most

unfortunate affair, as indeed the whole war had proved.
For her part she sometimes wished the North had let the
South go quietly, as they wanted to, and so saved thousands
of lives, and prevented the country from being
flooded with cripples and negroes, and calls for more men
and money. On the whole, she doubted the propriety
of prolonging the war; and she certainly doubted the
propriety of giving her daughter to a cripple. There
was Arthur Grey, who had lately been so attentive; he
was a wealthier man than Lieutenant Bob, and if Bell
had any discretion she would take him in preference to a
disfigured soldier.

Such was the purport of Mrs. Cameron's remarks, to
which her husband listened, his eyes blazing with passion,
which, the moment she finished, burst forth in a
storm of oaths and invectives against what, with his pet
adjective, he called her “Copperhead principles,” denouncing
her as a traitor, reproaching her for the cruelty
which would separate her daughter from Robert Reynolds,
because he had lost an arm in the service of his
country; and them turning fiercely to Bell with the words,

“But it isn't for you to say whether he shall or shall
not have Bell. She is of age. Let her speak for herself.”

And she did speak, the noble, heroic girl, who had
listened, with bitter scorn, to what her mother and sister
said, and who now, with quivering nostrils, and voice
hoarse with emotion, answered slowly and impressively,

“I would marry Lieutenant Reynolds if he had only his
ears left to hear me tell him how much I love and honor
him! Arthur Grey! Don't talk to me of him! the
craven coward, who swore he was fifty to avoid the draft.”

After this, no more was said to Bell, who, the moment
she heard Bob was at home, went to his father's house
and asked to see him.

He was sleeping when she entered his room; and pushing
back the heavy curtain, so that the light would fall
more directly upon him, Mrs. Reynolds went out and left
her there alone.

With a beating heart she stood looking at his hollow
eyes, his sunken cheek, his short, dry hair, and thick grey
skin, but did not think of his arm, until she glanced at
the wall, where hung a large-sized photograph, taken in

full uniform, the last time he was at home, and in which
his well-developed figure showed to good advantage.
Could it be that the wreck before her had ever been as
full of life and vigor as the picture would indicate, and
was that arm which held the sword severed from the
body, and left a token of the murderous war?

“Poor Bob! how much he must have suffered,” she
whispered, and kneeling down beside him she hid her
face in her hands, weeping bitter tears for her armless
hero.

The motion awakened Robert, who gazed for a moment
in surprise at the kneeling, sobbing maiden; then when
sure it was she, he raised himself in bed, and ere Bell
could look up, two arms, one quite as strong as the other,
were wound around her neck, and her head was pillowed
upon the breast, which heaved with strong emotions as
the soldier, said,

“My darling Bell, you don't know how much good
this meeting does me!”

He kissed her many times, and Bell did not prevent it,
but gave him kiss after kiss, then, still doubting the evidence
of her eyes, she unclasped his clinging arms, and
holding both his poor hands in hers, gave vent to a
second gush of tears as she said,

“I am so glad—oh, so glad!”

Then, as it occurred to her that he might perhaps misjudge
her, and put a wrong construction upon her joy,
she added,

“I did not care for myself, Robert. Don't think I
cared for myself, or was ever sorry a bit on my own account.”

Bob looked a little bewildered as he replied, “Never
were sorry and never cared!—I can scarcely credit that,
for surely your tears and present emotions belie your
words.”

Bell knew he had not understood her, and she said,

“Your arm, Robert, your arm. We heard that it was
cut off, and that you were otherwise mutilated.”

“Oh, that's it, then!” and something like his old mischievous
smile glimmered about Bob's mouth as he added,
“They spared my arms, but, Bell,” and he tried to look
very solemn, “suppose I tell you that they hacked off

both my legs, and if you marry me, you must walk all
your life by the side of wooden pins and crutches!”

Bell knew by the curl of his lip that he was teasing her,
and she answered laughingly,

“Wooden pins and crutches will be all the fashion
when the war is over—badges of honor of which any woman
might be proud.”

“Well, Bell,” he replied, “I am afraid there is no such
honor in store for my wife, for if I ever get back my
strength and the flesh upon my bones, she must take me
with legs and arms included. Not even a scratch or
wound of any kind with which to awaken sympathy.”

He appeared very bright and cheerful; but when after
a moment Bell asked for Mark Ray, there came a shadow
over his face, and with quivering lips he told a tale which
blanched Bell's cheek, and made her shiver with pain and
dread as she thought of Helen—for Mark was dead—shot
down as he attempted to escape from the train which took
them from one prison to another. He was always devising
means of escape, succeeding several times, but was immediately
captured and brought back, or sent to some
closer quarter, Robert said; but his courage never deserted
him, or his spirits either. He was the life of them all,
and by his presence kept many a poor fellow from dying
of homesickness and despair. But he was dead; there
could be no mistake, for Robert saw him when he jumped,
heard the ball which went whizzing after him, saw him
as he fell on the open field, saw a man from a rude dwelling
near by go hurriedly towards him, firing his own
revolver, as if to make the death deed doubly sure. Then
as the train slacked its speed, with a view, perhaps, to
take the body on board, he heard the man who had
reached Mark, and was bending over him, call out, “Go
on, I'll tend to him, the bullet went right through here;”
and he turned the dead man's face towards the train, so
all could see the blood pouring from the temple which the
finger of the ruffian touched.

“Oh, Helen! poor Helen! how can I tell her, when
she loved him so much!” Bell sobbed.

“You will do it better than any one else,” Bob said.
“You will be very tender with her; and, Bell, tell her,
as some consolation, that he did not break with the treatment,

as most of us wretches did; he kept up wonderfully—said
he was perfectly well—and, indeed, he looked
so. Tom Tubbs, who was his shadow, clinging to him with
wonderful fidelity, will corroborate what I have said. He
was with us; he saw him, and only animal force prevented
him from leaping from the car and going to him where
he fell. I shall never forget his shriek of agony at the
sight of that blood-stained face, turned an instant towards
us.”

“Don't, don't!” Bell cried again; “I can't endure
it!” and as Mrs. Reynolds came in she left her lover and
started for Mrs. Banker's, meeting on the steps Tom
Tubbs himself, who had come on an errand similar to her
own.

“Sit here in the hall a moment,” she said to him, as
the servant admitted them both. “I must see Mrs. Ray
first.”

Helen was reading to her mother-in-law; but she laid
down her book and came to welcome Bell, detecting at
once the agitation in her manner, and asking if she had
bad news from Robert.

“No, Robert is at home; I have just come from there,
and he told me—oh! Helen, can you bear it?—Mark is
dead—shot twice as he jumped from the train taking him
to another prison. Robert saw it and knew that he was
dead.”

Bell could get no further, for Helen, who had never
fainted in her life, did so now, lying senseless so long
that the physician began to think it would be a mercy if
she never came back to life, for her reason, he fancied,
had fled. But Helen did come back to life, with reason
unimpaired, and insisted upon hearing every detail of the
dreadful story, both from Bell and Tom. The latter confirmed
all Lieutenant Reynolds had said, besides adding
many items of his own. Mark was dead, there could be
no doubt of it; but with the tenacity of a strong, hopeful
nature, the mother clung to the illusion that possibly the
ball stunned, instead of killing—that he would yet come
back; and many a time as the days went by, that mother
started at the step upon the walk, or ring of the bell,
which she fancied might be his, hearing him sometimes
calling in the night storm for her to let him in, and hurrying

down to the door only to be disappointed and go
back to her lonely room to weep the dark night through.

With Helen there were no such illusions. After talking
calmly and rationally with both Robert and Tom, she
knew her husband was dead, and never watched and
waited for him as his mother did. She had heard from
Mark's companions in suffering all they had to tell, of
his captivity and his love for her which manifested itself
in so many different ways. Passionately she had wept
over the tress of faded hair which Tom Tubbs brought to
her, saying, “he cut it from his head just before we left
the prison, and told me if he never got home and I did,
to give the lock to you, and say that all was well between
him and God—that your prayers had saved him. He
wanted you to know that, because, he said, it would comfort
you most of all.”

And it did comfort her when she looked up at the clear
wintry heavens and thought that her lost one was there.
It was her first real trial, and it crushed her with its magnitude,
so that she could not submit at once, and many a
cry of desolate agony broke the silence of her room,
where the whole night through she sat musing of the
past, and raining kisses upon the little lock of hair which
from the Southern prison had come to her, sole relic of
the husband so dearly loved and truly mourned. How
faded it was from the rich brown she remembered so
well, and Helen gazing at it could realize in part the suffering
and want which had worn so many precious lives
away. It was strange she never dreamed of him. She
often prayed that she might, so as to drive from her
mind, if possible, the picture of the prostrate form upon
the low, damp field, and the blood-stained face turned in
its mortal agony towards the southern sky and the pitiless
foe above it. So she always saw him, shuddering as
she wondered if the foe had buried him decently or left
his bones to bleach upon the open plain.

Poor Helen, she was widowed indeed, and it needed
not the badge of mourning to tell how terribly she was
bereaved. But the badge was there, too, for in spite of
the hope which said, “he is not dead,” Mrs. Banker
yielded to Helen's importunities, and clothed herself and
daughter-in-law in the habiliments of woe, still waiting,

still watching, still listening for the step she should recognize
so quickly, still looking down the street; but
looking, alas! in vain. The winter passed away. Captive
after captive came home, heart after heart was
cheered by the returning loved one, but for the inmates
of No. — the heavy cloud grew blacker, for the empty
chair by the hearth remained unoccupied, and the aching
hearts uncheered. Mark Ray did not come back.