University of Virginia Library

36. CHAPTER XXXVI.

THROUGH the following year, the political sky grew
ever darker with impending clouds, crinkled with
lightning, and vocal with growlings of approaching thunder.
The North continued to make servile concessions,
which history will blush to record; but they proved unavailing.
The arrogance of slaveholders grew by what it
fed on. Though a conscientious wish to avoid civil war
mingled largely with the selfishness of trade, and the heartless
gambling of politicians, all was alike interpreted by
them as signs of Northern cowardice. At last, the Sumter
gun was heard booming through the gathering storm.
Instantly, the air was full of starry banners, and Northern
pavements resounded with the tramp of horse and the rolling
of artillery wagons. A thrill of patriotic enthusiasm
kindled the souls of men. No more sending back of slaves.
All our cities became at once cities of refuge; for men had
risen above the letter of the Constitution into the spirit of
the Declaration of Independence.

Gerald and his Lily-mother arrived in New York to find
the social atmosphere all aglow. Under its exciting influence,
he wrote to Mr. King:—

“Yesterday, I informed you of our arrival; and now I
write to tell you that they are forming a regiment here to
march to the defence of Washington, and I have joined it.
Lily-mother was unwilling at first. But a fine set of fellows
are joining,—all first-class young gentlemen. I told
Lily-mother she would be ashamed to have me loiter behind

the sons of her acquaintance, and that Mr. Seward said it
was only an affair of sixty days. So she has consented.
I enclose a letter to Rose-mother, to ask her blessing on
my enterprise, which I am quite sure I shall have, together
with your own.”

Thus, with the unreflecting exhilaration of youth, Gerald
went forth to the war, as light of heart as if he had been
joining a boat-race or a hunting excursion; so little did
he comprehend that ferocious system of despotism which
was fastening its fangs on free institutions with the death-grapple
of a bloodhound.

For the next two months, his letters, though hurried,
were frequent, and always cheerful; mostly filled with trifling
gossipings about camp-life, and affectionate remembrances
to those he had left behind. At last, Mr. King
received one of graver import, which ran thus:—

“I have met with a strange adventure. A number of
us were on picket duty, with orders to keep a sharp lookout.
We went pacing back and forth on our allotted
ground, now passing under the shadow of trees, now coming
out into the moonlight. I walked very erect, feeling
myself every inch a soldier. Sometimes I cast scrutinizing
glances into groups of shrubbery, and sometimes I gazed
absently on the sparkling Potomac, while memory was retracing
the events of my life, and recalling the dear ones
connected with them. Just as I reached a large tree which
formed the boundary of my prescribed course, the next
sentinel, whose walk began where mine ended, approached
the same tree, and before he turned again we met face to
face for an instant. I started, and I confess to a momentary
feeling of superstition; for I thought I had seen myself;
and that, you know, is said to be a warning of approaching

death. He could not have seen me very plainly, for I was
in shadow, while he for an instant was clearly revealed by
the moonlight. Anxious to be sure whether I had seen a
vision or a reality, when I again approached the tree I
waited for him; and a second time I saw such a likeness
of myself as I never saw excepting in the mirror. He
turned quickly, and marched away with military promptitude
and precision. I watched him for a moment, as his
erect figure alternately dipped into shadow and emerged
into light. I need not tell you what I was thinking of
while I looked; for you can easily conjecture. The third
time we met, I said, `What is your name?' He replied,
`George Falkner,' and marched away. I write on a drum-head,
in a hurry. As soon as I can obtain a talk with this
duplicate of myself, I will write to you again. But I shall
not mention my adventure to Lily-mother. It would only
make her unhappy.”

Another letter, which arrived a week after, contained
merely the following paragraph on the subject that interested
them most:—

“We soldiers cannot command our own movements or
our time. I have been able to see G. F. but once, and
then our interview was brief. He seemed very reserved
about himself. He says he came from New York; but his
speech is Southern. He talks about `toting' things, and
says he `disremembers.' I shall try to gain his confidence,
and perhaps I shall be able to draw him out.”

A fortnight later he wrote:—

“I have learned from G. F. that the first thing he remembers
of himself is living with an old negress, about ten
miles from New Orleans, with eight other children, of various
shades, but none so white as himself. He judges he

was about nine years old when he was carried to New
Orleans, and let out by a rich man named Bruteman to a
hotel-keeper, to black boots, do errands, &c. One of
the children that the old negress brought up with him
was a mulatto named Henriet. The boys called her Hen,
he said. He used to `tote' her about when she was a
baby, and afterward they used to roll in the mud, and
make mud-pies together. When Hen was twelve years
old, she was let out to work in the same hotel where he
was. Soon afterward, Mr. Bruteman put him out to learn
the carpenter's trade, and he soon became expert at it.
But though he earned five or six dollars a week, and
finally nine or ten, he never received any portion of it;
except that now and then Mr. Bruteman, when he counted
his wages, gave him a fip. I never thought of this side
of the question when I used to hear grandfather talk about
the rights of slaveholders; but I feel now, if this had
been my own case, I should have thought it confounded
hard. He and Hen were very young when they first begun
to talk about being married; but he couldn't bear the
thoughts of bringing up a family to be slaves, and they
watched for an opportunity to run away. After several
plans which proved abortive, they went boldly on board
`The King Cotton,' he as a white gentleman, and she disguised
as his boy servant. You know how that attempt
resulted. He says they were kept two days, with hands
and feet tied, on an island that was nothing but rock.
They suffered with cold, though one of the sailors, who
seemed kind-hearted, covered them with blankets and overcoats.
He probably did not like the business of guarding
slaves; for one night he whispered to G. F., `Can't you
swim?' But George was very little used to the water,
and Hen couldn't swim at all. Besides, he said, the sailors
had loaded guns, and some of them would have fired
upon them, if they had heard them plunge; and even if
by a miracle they had gained the shore, he thought they
would be seized and sent back again, just as they were in
Boston.

“You may judge how I felt, while I listened to this.
I wanted to ask his forgiveness, and give him all my money,
and my watch, and my ring, and everything. After
they were carried back, Hen was sold to the hotel-keeper
for six hundred dollars, and he was sold to a man in
Natchez for fifteen hundred. After a while, he escaped in
a woman's dress, contrived to open a communication with
Hen, and succeeded in carrying her off to New York.
There he changed his woman's dress, and his slave name
of Bob Bruteman, and called himself George Falkner.
When I asked him why he chose that name, he rolled up
his sleeve and showed me G. F. marked on his arm. He
said he didn't know who put them there, but he supposed
they were the initials of his name. He is evidently impressed
by our great resemblance. If he asks me directly
whether I can conjecture anything about his origin, I hardly
know how it will be best to answer. Do write how
much or how little I ought to say. Feeling unsafe in
the city of New York, and being destitute of money, he
applied to the Abolitionists for advice. They sent him to
New Rochelle, where he let himself to a Quaker, called
Friend Joseph Houseman, of whom he hired a small hut.
There, Hen, whom he now calls Henriet, takes in washing
and ironing, and there a babe has been born to them.
When the war broke out he enlisted; partly because he
thought it would help him to pay off some old scores with

slaveholders, and partly because a set of rowdies in the
village of New Rochelle said he was a white man, and
threatened to mob him for living with a nigger wife.
While they were in New York city, he and Henriet were
regularly married by a colored minister. He said he did
it because he hated slavery and couldn't bear to live as
slaves did. I heard him read a few lines from a newspaper,
and he read them pretty well. He says a little boy,
son of the carpenter of whom he learned his trade, gave
him some instruction, and he bought a spelling-book for
himself. He showed me some beef-bones, on which he
practises writing with a pencil. When he told me how
hard he had tried to get what little learning he had, it made
me ashamed to think how many cakes and toys I received
as a reward for studying my spelling-book. He is teaching
an old negro, who waits upon the soldiers. It is funny
to see how hard the poor old fellow tries, and to hear what
strange work he makes of it. It must be `that stolen waters
are sweet,' or slaves would never take so much more
pains than I was ever willing to take to learn to spell out
the Bible. Sometimes I help G. F. with his old pupil;
and I should like to have Mrs. Blumenthal make a sketch
of us, as I sit on the grass in the shade of some tree, helping
the old negro hammer his syllables together. My
New York companions laugh at me sometimes; but I have
gained great favor with G. F. by this proceeding. He is
such an ingenious fellow, that he is always in demand to
make or mend something. When I see how skilful he is
with tools, I envy him. I begin to realize what you once
told me, and which did not please me much at the time,
that being a fine gentleman is the poorest calling a man
can devote himself to.

“I have written this long letter under difficulties, and at
various times. I have omitted many particulars, which I
will try to remember in my next. Enclosed is a note for
Rose-mother. I hold you all in most affectionate remembrance.”

Soon after the reception of this letter, news came of the
defeat at Bull Run, followed by tidings that Gerald was
among the slain. Mr. King immediately waited upon Mrs.
Fitzgerald to offer any services that he could render, and it
was agreed that he should forth with proceed to Washington
with her cousin, Mr. Green. They returned with a long
wooden box, on which was inscribed Gerald's name and
regiment. It was encased in black walnut without being
opened, for those who loved him dreaded to see him, marred
as he was by battle. It was carried to Stone Chapel,
where a multitude collected to pay the last honors to the
youthful soldier. A sheathed sword was laid across the
coffin, on which Mrs. Fitzgerald placed a laurel wreath.
Just above it, Mrs. King deposited a wreath of white roses,
in the centre of which Eulalia timidly laid a white lily.
A long procession followed it to Mount Auburn, with a
band playing Beethoven's Funeral March. Episcopal services
were performed at the grave, which friends and relatives
filled with flowers; and there, by the side of Mr.
Bell, the beautiful young man was hidden away from human
sight. Mr. King's carriage had followed next to Mrs.
Fitzgerald's; a circumstance which the public explained
by a report that the deceased was to have married his
daughter. Mrs. Fitzgerald felt flattered to have it so understood,
and she never contradicted it. After her great
disappointment in her husband, and the loss of her other
children, all the affection she was capable of feeling had

centred in Gerald. But hers was not a deep nature, and
the world held great sway over it. She suffered acutely
when she first heard of her loss; but she found no small
degree of soothing compensation in the praises bestowed on
her young hero, in the pomp of his funeral, and the general
understanding that he was betrothed to the daughter
of the quatro-millionnaire.

The depth of Mrs. King's sorrow was known only to
Him who made the heart. She endeavored to conceal it
as far as possible, for she felt it to be wrong to cast a
shadow over the home of her husband and daughter.
Gerald's likeness was placed in her chamber, where she
saw it with the first morning light; but what were her
reveries while she gazed upon it was told to no one.
Custom, as well as sincere sympathy, made it necessary
for her to make a visit of condolence to Mrs. Fitzgerald.
But she mercly took her hand, pressed it gently, and said,
“May God comfort you.” “May God comfort you, also,”
replied Mrs. Fitzgerald, returning the pressure; and from
that time henceforth the name of Gerald was never mentioned
between them.

After the funeral it was noticed that Alfred Blumenthal
appeared abstracted, as if continually occupied with grave
thoughts. One day, as he stood leaning against the window,
gazing on the stars and stripes that floated across
the street, he turned suddenly and exclaimed: “It is
wrong to be staying here. I ought to be fighting for that
flag. I must supply poor Gerald's place.”

Mrs. Delano, who had been watching him anxiously,
rose up and clasped him round the neck, with stronger
emotion than he had ever seen her manifest. “Must you
go my son?” she said.

He laid his hand very gently on her head as he replied:
“Dearest Mamita, you always taught me to obey the voice
of duty; and surely it is a duty to help in rescuing Liberty
from the bloody jaws of this dragon Slavery.”

She lingered an instant on his breast, then, raising her
tearful face, she silently pressed his hand, while she looked
into those kind and honest eyes, that so strongly reminded
her of eyes closed long ago. “You are right, my son,”
murmured she; “and may God give you strength.”

Turning from her to hide the swelling of his own heart,
Alfred saw his mother sobbing on his father's bosom.
“Dearest mamma,” said he, “Heaven knows it is hard for
me. Do not make it harder.”

“It takes the manhood out of him to see you weep, darling,”
said Mr. Blumenthal. “Be a brave little woman,
and cheerfully give your dearest and best for the country.”

She wiped her eyes, and, fervently kissing Alfred's hand,
replied, “I will. May God bless you, my dear, my only
son!”

His father clasped the other hand, and said, with forced
calmness: “You are right, Alfred. God bless you! And
now, dear Flora, let us consecrate our young hero's resolution
by singing the Battle Song of Körner.”

She seated herself at the piano, and Mrs. Delano joined
in with her weak but very sweet voice, while they sang,
“Father! I call on thee.” But when they came to the
last verse, the voices choked, and the piano became silent.
Rosen Blumen and Lila came in and found them all weeping;
and when their brother pressed them in his arms and
whispered to them the cause of all this sorrow, they cried
as if their hearts were breaking. Then their mother summoned
all her resolution, and became a comforter. While

their father talked to them of the nobility and beauty of
self-sacrifice, she kissed them and soothed them with hopeful
words. Then, turning to Mrs. Delano, she tenderly
caressed her faded hair, while she said: “Dearest Mamita,
I trust God will restore to us our precious boy. I will
paint his picture as St. George slaying the dragon, and you
shall hang it in your chamber, in memory of what he said
to you.”

Alfred, unable to control his emotions, hid himself in the
privacy of his own chamber. He struck his hand wildly
against his forehead, exclaiming, “O my country, great
is the sacrifice I make for thee!” Then, kneeling by the
bed where he had had so many peaceful slumbers, and
dreamed so many pleasant dreams, he prayed fervently
that God would give him strength according to his need.

And so he went forth from his happy home, self-consecrated
to the cause of freedom. The women now had but
one absorbing interest and occupation. All were eager
for news from the army, and all were busy working for
the soldiers.