University of Virginia Library

38. CHAPTER XXXVIII.
HUGH AND SAM.

It is more than a year now since last we looked in upon
the inmates of Spring Bank, and during that time Kentucky
had been the scene of violence, murder, and bloodshed.
The roar of artillery had been heard upon its hills. Soldiers
wearing the Federal uniform had marched up and

down its beaten paths, encamping for a brief season in
its capital, and then departing to other points where their
services were needed more.

Morgan, with his fierce band of guerillas, had carried
terror, dismay, and sometimes death, to many a peaceful
home; while Harney, too, disdaining open, honorable warfare,
had joined himself, it was said, to a horde of savage
marauders, gathered, some from Texas, some from Mississippi,
and a few from Tennessee; but none, to her credit
be it said, none from Kentucky, save their chief, the Rebel
Harney, who, despised and dreaded almost equally by
Unionists and Confederates, kept the country between
Louisville and Lexington in a constant state of excitement.

As the storm grew blacker, it had seemed necessary for
Colonel Tiffton openly to avow his sentiments, and not
“sneak between two fires, for fear of being burned,” as
Harney wolfishly told him one day, taunting him with
being a “villainous Yankee,” and hinting darkly of the
punishment preparing for all such.

The colonel was not cowardly, but, as was natural, he
did lean to the Confederacy. “Peaceful separation, if
possible,” was his creed; and fully believing the South
destined to triumph, he took that side at last, greatly to
the delight of his high-spirited Nell, who had been a Rebel
from the first. With a look of reproach which the Colonel
never forgot, Alice Johnson listened to his reasons for
joining himself with the Secessionists, but when at the
close of his arguments he kindly advised her to be a little
more careful in expressing her opinions, saying there was
no knowing what Harney, who was known to be bitterly
prejudiced against Spring Bank, might be tempted to do,
her blue eyes flashed proudly as she replied, “I should be
unworthy of the state which gave me birth, were I afraid
to say what I think. No, I am not afraid; and should
Harney, with his whole band of marauders, attack our

house, he will find at least one who is not a coward. I
would not deny my country to save my life. Still, I do
not think it right to expose myself unnecessarily to danger,
and as Mrs. Worthington is very timid, and very
anxious to go North, where there is safety, I too have
concluded that it is best to leave Spring Bank for a time.
Aunt Eunice, who is afraid of nothing, will remain in
charge of the house, while you, we hope, will have a care
for the negroes until we return, or Hugh, if that time
ever comes,” and Alice's voice trembled as she thought
how long it was since they had heard from Hugh, three
months having elapsed since a word had come to them
from him.

Col. Tiffton was glad Alice was going North, for in
those excited times he knew not what harm might befall
her, alone and unprotected as she was at Spring Bank.
He would willingly take charge of the negroes, he said,
and he kindly offered to do whatever he could to expedite
her departure. Alice would not confess to him that
the great object of her going North was the hope she had
of being nearer Hugh, for it was arranged between herself
and Mrs. Worthington that, after stopping for a few
days in Snowdon they should go on to Washington where
some tidings might be received of the soldier, and where
they might perhaps hear from Adah, who had not yet
been found. This was Alice's plan, and after receiving
the Colonel's approbation, she communicated it to the negroes,
telling it first to Sam, who begged earnestly to go
with her.

“Don't leave me, Miss Ellis. Take me 'long, please
take me to Massah Hugh. I'se quite peart now, and kin
look after Miss Ellis a heap.”

Alice could not promise till she had talked with Mrs.
Worthington, who offered no objection, and it was arranged
that with Densie, Sam, and Lulu, they should start at
once for Snowdon. Accordingly, one week after Alice's

conversation with Col. Tiffton she bade adieu to Spring
Bank and was on her way to the North, where there was
safety and quiet.

Anna Millbrook's eyes were dim with tears, and her
heart was sore with pain, when told that Alice Johnson
was waiting for her in the parlor below. Only the day
before had she heard of her brother's disgrace, feeling as
she heard it, how much rather she would that he had died
ere there were so many stains upon his name. But Alice
would comfort her, and she hastened to meet her. Sitting
down beside her, she talked with her long of all that
had transpired since last they met; talked of Adah, and
then of Willie, who at Alice's request, was taken by her to
the hotel, where Mrs. Worthington was stopping. He
had grown to be a most beautiful and engaging child,
and Mrs. Worthington justly felt a thrill of pride as she
clasped him to her bosom, weeping over him passionately.
She could scarcely bear to lose him from her sight, and
when later in the day Anna came down for him, she begged
hard for him to stay. But Willie preferred returning
with Mrs. Millbrook, who promised that he should come
every day so long as Mrs. Worthington remained at the
hotel.

As soon as Mrs Richards learned that Mrs. Worthington
and Alice were in town, she insisted upon their coming
to Terrace Hill. There were the pleasant chambers
fitted up for 'Lina, they had never been occupied, and
Mrs. Worthington could have them as well as not; or
better yet — could take Anna's old chamber, with the little
room adjoining, where Adah used to sleep. Mrs.
Worthington preferred the latter, and removed with Alice
to Terrace Hill, while at Anna's request Densie went
to Riverside Cottage, where she used to live, and where
she was much happier than she would have been with
strangers.

Not long however could Mrs. Worthington remain contentedly
at Snowdon, and after a time Alice started with
her and Lulu for Washington, taking with them Sam, who
seemed a perfect child in his delight at the prospect of
seeing “Massah Hugh.” From a soldier returning home
on furlough they heard that he was with his Regiment,
but to see him was not so easy a matter. Indeed, he
seemed farther off at Washington than he had done at
Spring Bank, and Alice sometimes questioned the propriety
of having left Kentucky at all. They were not very
comfortable at Washington, and as Mrs. Worthington
pined for the pure country air, Alice managed at last to
procure board at the house of a friend whose acquaintance
she had made at the time of her visits to Virginia. It was
some distance from Washington, and so near to Bull Run
that when at last the second battle was fought in that
vicinity, the roar of the artillery was distinctly heard,
and they who listened to the noise of that bloody conflict
knew just when the battle ceased, and thought with tearful
anguish of the poor, maimed, suffering wretches left to
bleed and die alone. They knew Hugh must have been
in the battle, and Mrs. Worthington's anxiety amounted
almost to insanity, while Alice, with blanched cheek and
compressed lip, could only pray silently that he might be
spared. Only Sam thought of acting.

“Now is my time,” he said to Alice, as they stood talking
together of Hugh, and wondering if he were safe.
“Something tell me Massah Hugh is hurted somewhar,
and I'se gwine to find him. I knows all de way, an' every
tree round dat place. I can hide from de 'Federacy.
Dem Rebels let ole white-har'd nigger look for young
massah, and I'se gwine. P'raps I not find him, but I
does somebody some good. I helps somebody's Massah
Hugh.”

It seemed a crazy project, letting that old man start off
on so strange an errand, but Sam was determined.

“He had a 'sentiment,” as he said, “that Hugh was
wounded, and he must go to him.”

In his presentiment Alice had no faith; but she did
not oppose him, and at parting she said to him hesitatingly,

“Sam,— did you,— do you,— has it ever occurred to
you that your master cared particularly for me;— that is,
— cared,— you know how,” and Alice blushed scarlet
while Sam replied eagerly, “Yes, Miss, Sam got mizzable
memory, but he knows dat ar, and it passes him what
Massah Hugh done jine de army for, when he might stay
home and haved Miss Ellis just as Sam pray he might so
long. Massah Hugh and Miss Ellis make good span. I
tell Massah. Shall I?”

“Not unless you find him wounded and believe him
dying, then, you may tell him,— tell him — that I said
— I loved him; and had he ever come back, I would have
been his wife.”

“I tells him,” was Sam's reply, as he departed on his
errand of mercy, which proved not to be a fruitless one,
for he did find his master, and falling on his knees beside
him, uttered the joyful words we have before repeated.

To the faint, half-dying Hugh that familiar voice from
home and that dusky form bending over him so pityingly,
seemed more like a dream than a reality. He could not
comprehend how Sam came there, or what he was saying
to him. Something he heard of ole Miss and Snow-down,
and Washington; but nothing was real until he caught
the name of Alice, and thought Sam said she was there.

“Where, Sam — where?” he asked, trying to raise
himself upon his elbow. “Is Alice here, did you say?”

“No, massah; not 'zactly here — but on de road. If
massah could ride, Sam hold him on, like massah oncet
held on ole Sam, and we'll get to her directly. They's
kind o' Secesh folks whar she is, but mighty good to her.
She knowed 'em 'fore, 'case way down here is whar Sam

was sold dat time Miss Ellis comed and show him de road
to Can'an. Miss Ellis tell me somethin' nice for Massah
Hugh, ef he's dyin'— suffin make him so glad. Is you
dyin', massah?”

“I hardly think I am as bad as that. Can't you tell
unless I am near to death?” Hugh said; and Sam replied,

“No, massah; dem's my orders. `Ef he's dyin', Sam,
tell him I'— dat's what she say. Maybe you is dyin',
massah. Feel and see!”

“It's possible,” and something like his old mischievous
smile played round Hugh's white lips as he asked how a
chap felt when he was dying.

“I'se got mizzable mem'ry, and I don't justly 'member,”
was Sam's answer; “but I reckons he feel berry queer and
choky — berry.”

“That's exactly my case, so you may venture to tell,”
Hugh said; and getting his face close to that of the young
man, Sam whispered “She say, `Tell massah Hugh — I
— I'— you's sure you's dyin'?”

“I'm sure I feel as you said I must,” Hugh replied,
and Sam went on. “`Tell him I loves him; and ef he
lives I'll be his wife.' Dem's her very words, nigh as I
can 'member — but what is massah goin' to do” he continued,
in some surprise, as Hugh attempted to rise.

“Do, I'm going to Alice,” was Hugh's reply, as with a
moan he sank back again, too weak to rise alone.

“Then you be'nt dyin', after all,” was Sam's rueful
comment, as he suggested, “Ef massah only clamber onto
Rocket.”

This was easier proposed than done, but after several
trials Hugh succeeded; and, with Sam steadying him
while he half lay on Rocket's neck, he proceeded slowly
and safely through the woods, meeting at last with
some Unionists, who gave him what aid they could, and
did not leave him until they saw him safely deposited in

an ambulance, which, in spite of his entreaties, took him
direct to Georgetown. It was a bitter disappointment to
Hugh, so bitter, indeed, that he scarcely felt the pain
when his broken arm was set; and when, at last, he was
left alone in his narrow hospital bed, he turned his face to
the wall, and cried, just as many a poor, homesick soldier
had done before him, and will do again.

Twenty-four hours had passed, and in Hugh's room it
was growing dark again. All the day he had watched anxiously
the door through which visitors would enter, asking
repeatedly if no one had called for him; but just as the
sun was going down he fell away to sleep, dreaming at
last that Golden Hair was there — that her soft, white
hands were on his brow, her sweet lips pressed to his,
while her dear voice murmured softly, “Darling Hugh!”

There was a cry of pain from a distant corner, and
Hugh awoke to know it was no dream — the soft hands
on his brow, the kiss upon his lips — for Golden Hair was
there; and by the tears she dropped upon his face, and
the caresses she gave him, he knew that Sam had told
him truly. For several minutes there was silence between
them, while the eyes looked into each other with a deeper
meaning than words could have expressed; then
smoothing back his damp brown hair, and letting her fingers
still rest upon his forehead, Alice whispered to him,
“I loved you, Hugh, when you left home, and I hoped
that first note would have told you so. I wish it had, for
then we need not have been separated so long.”

Winding his well arm round her neck, and drawing her
nearer to him, Hugh answered,

“It was best just as it is. Had I been sure of your
love, I should have found it harder to leave home. My
country needed me. I am glad I have done what I could
to defend it. Glad that I joined the army, for Alice, darling,

Golden Hair, in my lonely tent reading that little
Bible you gave me so long ago, the Saviour found me, and
now, whether I live or not, it is well, for if I die, I am
sure you will be mine in Heaven; and if I live —”

Alice finished the sentence for him,

“If you live, God willing, I shall be your wife. Dear
Hugh, I bless the Good Father, first for bringing you to
Himself, and then restoring you to me.”