University of Virginia Library

48. CHAPTER XLVIII.
TIME DISCOVERS AND COVERS.

ON rolled the months, nor slackened their speed because
of the sufferings and the sighings with which they went
freighted. Almost every day brought its battle or its skirmish.
Almost every day men, — sometimes many hundreds, — would
be shot dead, or be wounded and borne away in ambulances or
on stretchers, not grudging the sacrifices they had made.

O precious blood, not vainly shed! O bereaved hearts, not
unprofitably stricken! Do not doubt there shall be compensation.
Do not doubt that every smallest effort, though seemingly
fruitless, rendered to the right, shall be an imperishable
good both to yourselves and others.

On rolled the months, bringing alternate triumph and disaster,
radiance and gloom, to souls waiting the salvation of the
Lord. The summer of 1863 had come. There had been laurels
for Murfreesboro' and crape for Chancellorville. Vicksburg
and Port Hudson yet trembled in the balance. Pennsylvania
was threatened with a Rebel invasion. The Emancipation
Proclamation, gradual as the great processes of nature, was
working its way, though not in the earthquake nor in the fire.
Black regiments had been enlisted, and were beginning to answer
the question, Will the negro fight?

On the sixth of June, 1863, a cavalry force of Rebels made
their appearance some four miles from Milliken's Bend on the
Mississippi, and attacked and drove a greatly inferior Union
force, composed mainly of the Tenth Illinois cavalry.

Suddenly there rose up in their path, as if from the soil, two
hundred and fifty black soldiers. They belonged to the Eleventh

Louisiana African regiment, and were under the command
of Colonel Lieb. They had never been in a fight before. The
“chivalry” came on, expecting to see their former bondsmen
crouch and tremble at the first imperious word; but, to the dismay
of the Rebels, they were met with such splendid bravery,
that they turned and fled, and the Illinois men were saved.

The next day nine hundred and forty-one troops of African
descent had a hand-to-hand engagement with a Texan brigade,
commanded by McCulloch, which numbered eighteen hundred
and sixty-five. Three hundred and forty-five of the colored
troops were killed or wounded, though not till they had put
hors de combat twice that number of Rebels. The gunboat
Choctaw finally came up to drive off the enemy.

Conspicuous for intrepid conduct on both these occasions
was a black man, slightly above the middle height, but broad-shouldered,
well-formed, and athletic. Across his left cheek
was a scar as if from a sabre-cut. This man had received the
name of Peculiar Institution, but he was familiarly called
Peek. On the second day his words and his example had inspired
the men of his company with an almost superhuman
courage. Bravely they stood their ground, and nowhere else
on the field did so many of the enemy's dead attest the valor
of these undrilled Africans.

One youth, apparently not seventeen, had fought by Peek's
side and under his eye with heroic defiance of danger. At last,
venturing too far from the ranks, he got engaged with two
Rebel officers in a hand-to-hand encounter, and was wounded.
Peek saw his danger, rushed to his aid, parried a blow aimed
at the lad's life, and shot one of the infuriate officers; but as
he was bearing the youth back into the ranks, he was himself
wounded in the side, and fell with his burden.

The boy's wound was not serious. He and Peek were borne
within the protection of the guns of the Choctaw. They lay
in the shade cast by the Levee. The surgeon looked at Peek's
wound, and shook his head. Then turning to the boy he exclaimed,
“Why, Sterling, is this you?”

At the name of Sterling, Peek had roused himself and
turned a gaze, at once of awe and curiosity, on the youth;
then sending the surgeon to another sufferer, had beckoned to
the boy to draw near.

“Is your name Sterling?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where were you born?”

“In Montreal.”

“And your mother's name was Flora Jacobs, and your
father's — Sterling! I am your father!”

Profoundly overcome by the disclosure, the boy was speechless
for a time with agitation. But Peek pressed him to tell
of his mother. “And be quick, Sterling; for my time is short.”

We need not give the boy's narrative in his own words,
interrupted as it was by the inquiries put by Peek, while his
life-blood was ebbing. The story which Clara Berwick had
heard at school, and communicated to Mrs. Gentry, was the
story of Flora Jacobs. Those who hate to think ill of slavery
sneer at such reports as the exaggerations of romance; but the
great heart of humanity will need no testimony to show that, in
the nature of things, they must be too often true.

Flora and Sterling, mother and son, were held as slaves by
one Floyd in Alabama. Flora had religiously kept her oath
of fidelity to Peek, much to the chagrin and indignation of her
master, who saw that he was losing at least fifty per cent on
his investment, through her stubborn resistance to his demands
that she should increase and multiply after the fashion of his
Alderneys and Durhams. At last it happened that Sterling,
who had been inspired by his mother with the desire to seek
his father, ran away, was retaken, and tied up for a whipping.
Ten lashes had been given, and had drawn blood. And there
were to be one hundred and ninety more! The mother, in an
agony, interceded. There was only one way by which she
could save him. She must marry coachman George. She
consented. But a month afterwards Floyd learnt that Flora
had made the marriage practically null, and had not suffered
coachman George to touch even the hem of her robe. Floyd
was enraged. He wrought upon the evil passions of George.
There were first threats, and then an attempt at violence.
The attempt was baffled by Flora's inflicting upon herself a
mortal stab. As she fell on the floor she marked upon it with
her own blood a cross, and kissed it with her last breath.

“'T is all right, — all just as it should be,” murmured Peek.

“God knew best. Bless him always for this meeting, Sterling.
Hold the napkin closer to the wound. There! I knew she
would be true! So! Take the belt from under my vest.
Easy! It contains a hundred dollars. 'T is yours. Take
the watch from the pocket. So! A handsome gold one, you
see. 'T was given me by Mr. Vance. The name 's engraved
on it. Can you write? Good. Your mother taught you.
Write by the next mail to William C. Vance, Washington,
D. C. Tell him what has happened. Tell him how your
mother died. He 'll be your friend. You fought bravely, my
son. What sweetness God puts into this moment! Take no
trouble about the body I leave behind. Any trench will do for
it. Fight on for freedom and the right. Slavery must die.
All wrong must die. You can't wrong even a worm without
wronging yourself more than it. Remember that. Holy living
makes holy believing. Charity first. Think to shut out
others from heaven, and the danger is great you 'll shut yourself
out. Don't strike for revenge. Slay because 't is God's
cause on earth you defend; and don't fight unless you see and
believe that much, let who may command. Love life. 'T is
God's gift and opportunity. The more you suffer, the more,
my dear boy, you can show you prize life, not for the world's
goods, but for that love of God, which is heaven, — Christ's
heaven. Think. Not to think is to be a brute. Learn
something every day. Love all that 's good and fair. Love
music. Love flowers. Don't be so childish as to suppose
that because you don't hear or see spirits, they don't hear
and see you. Remember that your mother and I can watch
you, — can know your every thought. You 'll grieve us if
you do wrong. You 'll make us very happy if you do right.
Ah! The napkin has slipped. No matter. There! Let
the blood ooze. See! Sterling! Look! There! Do you
not see? They come. The angels! Your mother — my
mother — and beyond there, high up there — one — Ah, God!
Tell Mr. Vance — tell him — his — his —”

Peek stood up erect, lifted his clasped hands above his head,
looked beyond them as if watching some beatific vision, then
dropped his mortal body dead upon the earth.