University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

“Hi! Dat good un! Bully for de 'federates, dis
chile say. Dey's showed deyse'fs out now! Cut um
stick in de night, eh, an' put! Jes' like de wicked flea in
de Bible dat no one wan't a tryin' fer to cotch. Golly,
I wish I'd got de rebel flea 'tween dis yer finger an'
fum! Wouldn' I crack um 'bout de shortes'? An' de
Yankees got dar umformation from a 'telligent conterban',
did dey? Wish't I know'd dat 'telligent feller! I'd like
'o shake um paw, an' gib um a chaw ob ole Varginny for
de sarvice he done to ebery nigger in de Souf w'en he
help de Yankees. Wish't I was in his brogans, — reckon
dey wouldn' fin' no 'telligenter nor no willin'er conterban'
dan ole Pic ud make ef he got de chance fer ter show
um sentermen's; but de trouble wid dis yer nigger is, him
candle's got a bushel basket atop ob um, an' de Bible

hese'f say dat dat ar' ain't no kin' ob a fashion. Bud ef de
Yankees 'ud come an' kick off de ole basket—golly,
what a confurgation o' smartness 'ud bust on dey eyesight!”

“Then you believe in the Yankees, Pic, and would like
to help them?” said a low voice.

“O Lordy, what dat? Golly, mas'r, whar be you?
Hebenly Marster, I's a gone goose now! I warn't on'y
funnin', mas'r; kin' o' makin' b'lieve, yer know!” stammered
the negro, springing from the feeding-trough,
where he was sitting, and hastily cramming the torn
newspaper he had been reading into the pocket of his
Osnaburgs.

“Whar be you, den, any way, mas'r?” continued he,
a little more stoutly, as his great eyes, rolling wildly from
floor to scaffold, from scaffold to beam, and thence into
the very pitch of the roof, failed to discover any occupant
of the room besides himself and Dolly the cow.

“Wha' was it?” continued he in a lower tone, as his
first demand remained unanswered. “'Tain't de time o'
day for ghos'esses nor brownies; dey all takin' dey morn
in' nap, an' sleepin' off dey night's doin's. Mabbe 'twas
ole Nick hese'f, on'y I 'spected he wor too busy takin'
care o' de 'federacy to bodder he horns 'bout one ole
nigger like dis yer.”

“No; he has a little time left for you, Pic,” returned
the same sepulchral voice, although the speaker still
remained invisible.

“I's powerful sorry to hear dat ar news,” retorted the
negro, recovering a little of his native audacity through
the very extremity of his terror.

“We was in hopes, now he'd got dis new handle ter
work wid, he wor gwine to let de niggers alone, an' let
'um try to he'p deyse'fs out o' de fix he's got 'um inter.”

“It isn't old Nick's way to let go when he has once got
hold, Pic. But don't you want to see him? Shut your
eyes, and say, `Raw-head-and-bloody-bones, fee-faw-fum'
three times, and then look up in the mow just over your
own head.”

Picter, closing his eyes, repeated the formula to the best
of his ability, and then, opening them to twice their usual
size, rolled them toward the designated locality.

Peering over the edge of the hay appeared a white and
ghastly face, blood-stained and haggard, and closely
swathed in a white bandage. The expression was preternaturally
severe and solemn.

“Well, Pic, and what do you think of me?” inquired
the apparition, after a considerable pause.

“Golly, mas'r! I tink you isn' so brack as you's painted!”
ejaculated Pic, adding, with more assurance, “An'
I might ha' know'd you wasn', cause it say so in de
Bible.”

The grim visage suddenly relaxed into a hearty laugh.

“Bravo, Pic! I've always heard `the devil isn't as
black as he's painted,' but I never heard Scripture authority

for it before. But now tell me, good fellow,” continued
the mysterious speaker, with some return of
anxiety in his voice, “can anybody overhear me but
yourself?”

“W'y, mas'r, dat hard question fer ter answer,” said
Pic, dubiously, while his wild eyes once more roamed
about the barn. “I t'ou't I was all 'lone jes' now, w'en
I sot down fer look inter de paper jes' a lilly minit.”

“And never knew I was listening to the whole story,
Pic?” put in the voice, more joyously. “Well, as far as
I know, there is no one else here.”

“'Less you's brung you sarvents 'long wid you,” suspiciously
suggested Pic. “S'pose dey's put dey bodies
in dey trousers' pockets jes' now, an' is unwisible.”

“O, my imps! Well, I'll promise they shan't trouble
you as long as you're a good Union man.”

“Dis yer de Sou'fern 'Federacy, mas'r,” said Pic cautiously;
for, as his belief in the stranger's human character
increased, his fears of him, as a possible spy, returned.

“I know that, you cunning old darkey, and I know,
too, your way of feeling about it. Didn't I just hear
your opinion of the result of our fight at Carnifex Ferry
the other day? and wasn't you just envying the contraband
who showed us the way through those confounded
mountain passes? Well, here's an opportunity for you
to rival him. I am a federal officer, wounded, and
taken prisoner at this very battle of Carnifex Ferry. I

made my escape the second day after I was taken; but
I've lost my way, and wandered among the mountains
here for a week, I should think, until I'm starved, and
footsore, and used up generally. Last night I crept in
here for a sleep in your master's haymow; and just now,
after hearing you express your sentiments upon war matters
so frankly, it occurred to me you might like to help
me along a little. Should you mind, for instance, letting
me drink out of that pail of milk? I tried to get some
from the cow in the night; but I am afraid my education
in milking was neglected, for I couldn't get a drop, and
had to put up with a kick instead.”

Pic turned and looked reproachfully at Dolly. “Now
I alluz suspicioned dat ar' cow wor a kin' ob a rebel
beast,” said he. “Dere ain't no surer way fer to make
her ugly w'en you's a milkin' dan ter whistle Yankee
Doodle; bud ef yer pipe up Dixie, she'll let down as
good as gole. T'oder night I got so mad I licked her
wid thirteen stripes, an' den gib her thirteen punches wid
a hoe-handle, ter go fer stars; but I don' see as it done
any good.”

“You must try compromise. I'm afraid, Pic. But
now come up here, and we'll consult a little.”

While Pic clambers laboriously into the haymow, we
will cross the irregular space between the barn and the
rambling old farm-house to which it belonged, and make
some acquaintance with its inmates.

The level rays of the morning sun, crowding through the
one eastern window, deluged the wide kitchen with light,
danced a little scornfully among the coarse breakfast
service upon the table, rioted gleefully in and out of Dora's
chestnut curls, as she knelt upon the hearth carefully
stirring the contents of the saucepan, and rested at last
with a loving radiance upon the pale fingers and smooth,
think locks of the invalid who reclined upon the couch
beside the fire.

“There, mother,” said the girl, as she started to her
feet, and carried the saucepan to the sink, “I reckon
you'll say your gruel is first rate to-day. There ain't a
lump in it.”

“You're a darling little nurse, Dora,” said Mrs. Darley,
while her eyes rested lovingly upon the straight,
firm figure and noble head of her daughter.

“Only twelve years old, but almost a woman for
strength and handiness,” murmured she, thoughtfully.

“What's that, mother?” asked Dora from the other
end of the room.

“Where did father and Tom go, Dora?” asked the
mother, faintly.

“Father went to mill with Whitefoot, and Tom went
up to the wood-lot with the oxen, to fetch home some
wood, — we've hardly a stick, — and Pic has got to reap
all day; we couldn't spare him, any way.”

“When will Tom come home?” inquired Mrs. Darley,
a little anxiously.

“Not till night, I expect. It's a good distance, and
the oxen won't hurry much, you know. He took a luncheon
with him.”

“I'm sorry,” murmured the invalid.

“Why, mother? Do you want to see Tom?”

“Not just now; but I don't like to have him away
from home so far. I feel as if you'd ought to know, my
dear little girl, that your mother is going to leave you.
My strength fails all the time, and to-day I feel very low.
I can't tell just when it's coming, Dora; but I know it
will be soon; and I must bid you all good by first, or
I couldn't go happy.”

“Mother!” burst from the girl's lips, as she came hastily
to her side, and knelt to meet the offered embrace.

In a few moments, however, the self-restraint that circumstances
had imposed upon the child's habit until it
had become second nature, asserted itself, and Dora
gently extricated herself from her mother's arms, and
rose to her feet, saying, —

“You'll feel stronger, mammy dear, when you've had
something to eat. I'll bring the gruel.”

Then, after she had placed a chair and a pillow at her
mother's back, she brought the little tray, covered with a
damask napkin, and holding the one china cup and silver
spoon of the meagre household. Dora waited silently
until the invalid began to sip the delicate gruel with
apparent relish, and then she walked away to the window.

In vain the gay sunshine beat upon the face now
turned toward it. A deadly pallor had killed the roses
on cheek and lip, and in the steadfast gray eyes lay a
depth of unchildish sorrow that no sunlight could soften
into soothing tears. This strange child, who never complained
and almost never wept, concealed a capacity of
suffering beneath that quiet exterior, unknown even to
the dying mother, who built so hopefully upon the undue
maturity of her darling's nature.

Dora, fighting desperately with this terrible new grief
that had so suddenly fallen upon her, did not notice,
although her eyes mechanically rested upon him, the
uncouth figure of a man, who, while limping across the
yard, vainly sought to attract her notice, and beckon her
to the outside of the house. This man was a middle-aged
negro, intensely black, and most curiously misshapen,
— his right leg being an inch or more shorter
than the other, while the shoulder upon the same side of
his body was as much higher than the left, and all the
features on the right side of his face were comically
twisted upward. In fact, the idea suggested by the
whole figure was, that some giant, in a playful mood, had
seized it by the two feet, and, while pulling the left one
down, had pushed the right one up, giving an upward
tendency to that whole side of the body.

This strange being was named Epictetus; but this
name, too long for common use, had been shortened into

Picter, and occasionally Pic. He was the sole retainer
of the house of Darley, and clung to its decaying fortunes
with the tenacity of his race and temperament.

Just now he was particularly desirous of a moment's
conversation with his young mistress before entering the
house; but, finding it impossible to attract her notice, he
limped on to the back door, and presently entered the
kitchen.

Dora, aroused by the click of the heavy latch, came
immediately to meet him, anxious to prevent his disturbing
her mother with questions or complaints; for Mrs.
Darley had steadfastly stood between the slave and many
a threatened injustice or cruelty on his master's part.

“What is it, Picter?” asked Dora, softly.

“O, Missy Dora, honey, what's you s'pose we's gwine
to do 'bout dis yer bizness?”

“What is it — what's the matter, Picter?”

“W'y, here's dis yer feller — wait now, lemme go ax
mist's 'bout it. She'll fix um better nor de Queen o'
Sheby could.”

“Well, there she is; but don't plague her about anything
that can be helped, Uncle Pic, for she's not so well
to-day.”

With these words, Dora abruptly turned away, and
began to clear the table, her lips assuming a painful
compression.

Picter pulled off his old straw hat, and coming close

up to his mistress's couch, bent down and began to speak
to her in a low, agitated voice. As he proceeded, Mrs.
Darley also became moved, and presently called, —

“Dora!”

Dora came directly, and stood beside her mother,
smoothing her hair, and glancing rather reproachfully at
Picter, who had disturbed her thus.

“Dora, Picter says that there is a poor, wounded
Union soldier in the barn, who has got away from some
of the rebels, who had taken him prisoner, and is trying
to get back to his regiment. He hid himself in our barn
last night, and meant to stay there all day, but Picter
found him. He is very hungry and tired, and his wound
has never been done up, or anything. Isn't it dreadful,
Dora?”

“Yes, mother,” said the girl, in a low voice, while her
eyes brightened, and the color deepened on her cheek.

“But, mother, ain't you glad he came to us instead of
anywhere else about here?”

“Yes, dear child, we will do our very best for him;
I knew you would feel so,” said Mrs. Darley, answering
the meaning rather than the words of her daughter's remark.
“But you know,” added she, hesitatingly, “father
doesn't feel as we do about the war.”

Dora paused a moment, and then said, decidedly, —

“Well, mother, I feel the way you do about everything,
and the way you feel, is the right way.”

Mrs. Darley looked relieved. She was not a strong
woman, either of body or mind, and this was by no
means the first time she had indirectly asked counsel of
her little daughter in the troubles that beset her life.

“Then, Picter,” said she, joyfully, “you may go and
bring him in.”

“I know'd you'd say it, mist's!” exclaimed the negro,
joyfully, as he stumped away through the back door.

“Now, Dora, go to my lower bureau-drawer, and get
that bundle of old linen at the right-hand end, and bring
the bottle of liniment from the cupboard. Now pour
some warm water into the wash-basin, and put it in the
sink, and bring a fine towel.”

“All ready, mother.”

“Smart girl! Well, next you may get him some
breakfast. Make a little fresh tea, and set out the cold
meat, and some bread and butter. Then boil a couple
of fresh eggs. Here he comes.”

The door opened, and Picter stood aside to allow the
stranger to enter first.

He was a tall, slender young man, or rather lad, for
he was but a little more than twenty years of age, with
a face that might be handsome, but was just now too
pale, and haggard, and blood-stained, for beauty. The
fair hair, too, was clotted and stiffened with blood, and
the white handkerchief bound about his head was soaked
with it. He wore the uniform of a federal officer; but
every garment was torn, soiled, and battle-stained.

Mrs. Darley uttered a cry of dismay and pity. Dora
stood still and looked at him as she had looked at the
sun a half hour before. The young man advanced painfully,
but without embarrassment, to Mrs. Darley's couch.

“You are very good, madam,” said he, “to send for
me. I only asked some food, and leave to rest through
the day in your barn.”

“We would not leave you there. I have a son myself.
He may some day be in your case.”

“In the same good cause?” asked the soldier, with
animation.

Mrs. Darley shook her head sadly.

“I am afraid not. The border states are full of divided
households. The old Scripture curse has come upon us.”

“Pardon me,” said the young man, faintly, as he sank
into the chair offered by Picter. “It is very hard upon
you who lie as it were between the two armies.”

“God only knows how hard,” said Mrs. Darley,
mournfully. “But,” added she, immediately, “I am forgetting
all that I ought to remember first. There is
some water and a towel. You had better sit down, and
let my little girl take that handkerchief off your head,
and then, after you have bathed it, she will do it up with
some liniment. I am sure it will feel better for it. Then
you must have a good breakfast, and after that you had
better go to bed up stairs, and try to sleep till night.
After dark Picter will show you the road North, or
wherever you want to go.”

The young man rose, and held out his hand to the
kind woman who thus endangered her own prosperity,
perhaps her life even, for a stranger and for his cause.

“I cannot thank you as I ought for this kindness,”
said he, in a broken voice. “But, if I ever see my
mother again, I shall tell her of you, and she shall thank
you as only she can. She would do as you are doing.”

“Some time perhaps she will,” said the invalid, feebly.
“Now, Dora, come and help the gentleman. She can
remove the bandage better than you can, sir, because
she can see it.”

In a short time, by the help of plenty of warm water,
soap, and a towel, the young stranger presented a much
less ghastly appearance; and when Dora had deftly
bound on the cool, clean bandage, soaked in healing liniment,
he declared that he felt himself a different man.

“Sit down now and eat,” said Mrs. Darley, smiling.
“Picter, you must go and keep watch round the house,
and if you see any one coming, let us know. Dora,
pour some tea for — what shall we call you, sir?”

“They call me Captain Karl at home,” said the young
man, laughing; “and perhaps I had better not tell you
any more of my name. So, if you are questioned about
me by my true title, you can say you never heard it.”

“Then, Captain Karl, sit down at the table, and help
yourself. I'm sorry we've nothing better to offer.”