Kincaid’s Battery by George W. Cable (page 5)

The visitor was shaking her head: “No. Ah, no! home, yes, and al-I’ve; but–“

“Oh, Flora, Flora! alive and at home! home and alive!” While the words came their speaker slowly folded her arms about the bearer of tidings, and with a wholly unwonted strength pressed her again to the rail and drew bosom to bosom, still exclaiming, “Alive! alive! Oh, whatever his plight, be thankful, Flora, for so much! Alive enough to _come_ home!”

XLVII

FROM THE BURIAL SQUAD

The pinioned girl tried to throw back her head and bring their eyes together, but Anna, through some unconscious advantage, held it to her shoulder, her own face looking out over the garden.

“Ah, let me be glad for you, Flora, let me be glad for you! Oh, think of it! You _have_ him! have him at home, to look upon, to touch, to call by name! and to be looked upon by _him_ and touched and called by name! Oh, God in heaven! God in heaven!”

Miranda’s fond protests were too timorous to check her, and Flora’s ceased in the delight of hearing that last wail confess the thought of Hilary. Constance strove with tender energy for place and voice: “Nan, dearie, Nan! But listen to Flora, Nan. See, Nan, I haven’t opened Steve’s letter yet. Wounded and what, Flora, something worse? Ah, if worse you couldn’t have left him.”

“I know,” sighed Anna, relaxing her arms to a caress and turning her gaze to Flora. “I see. Your brother, our dear Charlie, has come back to life, but wounded and alone. Alone. Hilary is still missing. Isn’t that it? That’s all, isn’t it?”

Constance, in a sudden thought of what her letters might tell, began to open one, though with her eyes at every alternate moment on Flora as eagerly as Miranda’s or Anna’s. Flora stood hiddenly revelling in that complexity of her own spirit which enabled her to pour upon her questioner a look, even a real sentiment, of ravishing pity, while nevertheless in the depths of her being she thrilled and burned and danced and sang with joy for the very misery she thus compassionated. By a designed motion she showed her grandmother’s reticule on her arm. But only Anna saw it; Constance, with her gaze in the letter, was drawing Miranda aside while both bent their heads over a clause in it which had got blurred, and looked at each other aghast as they made it out to read, “‘–from the burial squad.'” The grandmother’s silken bag saved them from Anna’s notice.

“Oh, Flora!” said Anna again, “is there really something worse?” Abruptly, she spread a hand under the bag and with her eyes still in the eyes of its possessor slid it gently from the yielding wrist. Dropping her fingers into it she brought forth a tobacco-pouch, of her own embroidering, and from it, while the reticule fell unheeded to the floor, drew two or three small things which she laid on it in her doubled hands and regarded with a smile. Vacantly the smile increased as she raised it to Flora, then waned while she looked once more on the relics, and grew again as she began to handle them. Her slow voice took the tone of a child alone at play.

“Why, that’s _my_ photograph,” she said. “And this–this is his watch–watch and chain.” She dangled them. A light frown came and went between her smiles.

With soft eagerness Flora called Constance, and the sister and Miranda stood dumb.

“See, Connie,” the words went on, “see, ‘Randa, this is my own photograph, and this is his own watch and chain. I must go and put them away–with my old gems.” Constance would have followed her as she moved but she waved a limp forbiddal, prattling on: “This doesn’t mean he’s dead, you know. Oh, not at all! It means just the contrary! Why, I saw him alive last night, in a dream, and I can’t believe anything else, and I won’t! No, no, not yet!” At that word she made a misstep and as she started sharply to recover it the things she carried fell breaking and jingling at her feet.

“Oh-h!” she sighed in childish surprise and feebly dropped to her knees. Flora, closest by, sprang crouching to the rescue, but recoiled as the kneeling girl leaned hoveringly over the mementos and with distended eyes and an arm thrust forward cried aloud, “No! No! No-o!”

At once, however, her voice was tender again. “Mustn’t anybody touch them but me, ever any more,” she said, regathering the stuff, regained her feet and moved on. Close after her wavering steps anxiously pressed the others, yet not close enough. At the open door, smiling back in rejection of their aid, she tripped, and before they could save her, tumbled headlong within. From up-stairs, from downstairs came servants running, and by the front door entered a stranger, a private soldier in swamp boots and bespattered with the mire of the river road from his spurs to his ragged hat.

“No, bring her out,” he said to a slave woman who bore Anna in her arms, “out to the air!” But the burden slipped free and with a cleared mind stood facing him.

“Ladies,” he exclaimed, his look wandering, his uncovered hair matted, “if a half-starved soldier can have a morsel of food just to take in his hands and ride on with–” and before he could finish servants had sprung to supply him.

“Are you from down the river?” asked Anna, quietly putting away her sister’s pleading touch and Flora’s offer of support.

“I am!” spouted the renegade, for renegade he was, “I’m from the very thick of the massacre! from day turned into night, night into day, and heaven and earth into–into–“

“Hell,” placidly prompted Flora.

“Yes! nothing short of it! Our defenses become death-traps and slaughter-pens–oh, how foully, foully has Richmond betrayed her sister city!”

Flora felt a new tumult of joy. “That Yankee fleet–it has pazz’ those fort’?” she cried.

“My dear young lady! By this time there ain’t no forts for it to pass! When I left Fort St. Philip there wa’n’t a spot over in Fort Jackson as wide as my blanket where a bumbshell hadn’t buried itself and blown up, and every minute we were lookin’ for the magazine to go! Those _awful_ shells! they’d torn both levees, the forts were flooded, men who’d lost their grit were weeping like children–“

“Oh!” interrupted Constance, “why not leave the forts? We don’t need them now; those old wooden ships can never withstand our terrible ironclads!”

[Illustration: “No! not under this roof–nor in sight of _those things_”]

“Well, they’re mighty soon going to try it! Last night, right in the blaze of all our batteries, they cut the huge chain we had stretched across the river–“

“Ah, but when they see–oh, they’ll never dare face even the _Manassas_–the ‘little turtle,’ ha-ha!–much less the great _Louisiana!_”

“Alas! madam, the _Louisiana_ ain’t ready for ’em. There she lies tied to the levee, with engines that can’t turn a wheel, a mere floating battery, while our gunboats–” Eagerly the speaker broke off to receive upon one hand and arm the bounty of the larder and with a pomp of gratitude to extend his other hand to Anna; but she sadly shook her head and showed on her palms Hilary’s shattered tokens:

“These poor things belong to one, sir, who, like you, is among the missing. But, oh, thank God! _he_ is missing at the front, _in_ the front.”

The abashed craven turned his hand to Flora, but with a gentle promptness Anna stepped between: “No, Flora dear, see; he hasn’t a red scratch on him. Oh, sir, go–eat! If hunger stifles courage, eat! But eat as you ride, and ride like mad back to duty and honor! No! not under this roof–nor in sight of _these things_–can any man be a ladies’ man, who is missing _from_ the front, at the rear.”

He wheeled and vanished. Anna turned: “Connie, what do your letters say?”

The sister’s eyes told enough. The inquirer gazed a moment, then murmured to herself, “I–don’t–believe it–yet,” grew very white, swayed, and sank with a long sigh into out-thrown arms.

XLVIII

FARRAGUT

The cathedral clock struck ten of the night. Yonder its dial shone, just across that quarter of Jackson Square nearest the Valcours’ windows, getting no response this time except the watchman’s three taps of his iron-shod club on corner curbstones.

An hour earlier its toll had been answered from near and far, up and down the long, low-roofed, curving and recurving city–“seven, eight, nine”–“eight, nine”–the law’s warning to all slaves to be indoors or go to jail. Not Flora nor Anna nor Victorine nor Doctor Sevier nor Dick Smith’s lone mother nor any one else among all those thousands of masters, mistresses and man-and maid-servants, or these thousands of home-guards at home under their mosquito-bars, with uniforms on bedside chairs and with muskets and cartridge-belts close by–not one of all these was aware, I say, that however else this awful war might pay its cost, it was the knell of slavery they heard, and which they, themselves, in effect, were sounding.

Lacking wilder excitement Madame sat by a lamp knitting a nubia. Victorine had flown home at sundown. Charlie lay sleeping as a soldier lad can. His sister had not yet returned from Callender House, but had been fully accounted for some time before by messenger. Now the knitter heard horses and wheels. Why should they come at a walk? It was like stealth. They halted under the balcony. She slipped out and peered down. Yes, there was Flora. Constance was with her. Also two trim fellows whom she rightly guessed to be Camp Callender lads, and a piece of luggage–was it not?–which, as they lifted it down, revealed a size and weight hard even for those siege-gunners to handle with care. Unseen, silently, they came in and up with it, led by Flora. (Camp Callender was now only a small hither end of the “Chalmette Batteries,” which on both sides of the river mounted a whole score of big black guns. No wonder the Callenders were leaving.)

Presently here were the merry burden-bearers behind their radiant guide, whispered ah’s and oh’s and wary laughter abounding.

“‘Such a getting up-stairs I never did see!'”

A thousand thanks to the boys as they set down their load; their thanks back for seats declined; no time even to stand; a moment, only, for new vows of secrecy. “Oui!–Ah, non!–Assurement!” (They were Creoles.) “Yes, mum ‘t is the word! And such a so-quiet getting down-stair’!”–to Mrs. Mandeville again–and trundling away!

When the church clock gently mentioned the half-hour the newly gleeful grandam and hiddenly tortured girl had been long enough together and alone for the elder to have nothing more to ask as to this chest of plate which the Callenders had fondly accepted Flora’s offer to keep for them while they should be away. Not for weeks and weeks had the old lady felt such ease of mind on the money–and bread–question. Now the two set about to get the booty well hid before Charlie should awake. This required the box to be emptied, set in place and reladen, during which process Flora spoke only when stung.

“Ah!” thinly piped she of the mosquito voice, “what a fine day tha’s been, to-day!” but won no reply. Soon she cheerily whined again:

“All day nothing but good luck, and at the end–this!” (the treasure chest).

But Flora kept silence.

“So, now,” said the aged one, “they will not make such a differenze, those old jewel’.”

“I will get them yet,” murmured the girl.

“You think? Me, I think no, you will never.”

No response.

The tease pricked once more: “Ah! all that day I am thinking of that Irbee. I am glad for Irbee. He is ‘the man that waits,’ that Irbee!”

The silent one winced; fiercely a piece of the shining ware was lifted high, but it sank again. The painted elder cringed. There may have been genuine peril, but the one hot sport in her fag end of a life was to play with this beautiful fire. She held the girl’s eye with a look of frightened admiration, murmuring, “You are a _merveilleuse!_”

“Possible?”

“Yes, to feel that way and same time to be ab’e to smile like that!”

“Ah? how is that I’m feeling?”

“You are filling that all this, and all those jewel’ of Anna, and the life of me, and of that boy in yond’, you would give them all, juz’ to be ab’e to bil-ieve that foolishness of Anna–that he’s yet al-live, that Kin–“

The piece of plate half rose again, but–in part because the fair threatener could not help enjoying the subtlety of the case–the smile persisted as she rejoined, “Ah! when juz’ for the fun, all I can get the chance, I’m making her to bil-ieve that way!”

“Yes,” laughed the old woman, “but why? Only biccause that way you, you cannot bil-ieve.”

The lithe maiden arose to resume their task, the heavy silver still in her hand. The next moment the kneeling grandam crouched and the glittering metal swept around just high enough to miss her head. A tinkle of mirth came from its wielder as she moved on with it, sighing, “Ah! ho! what a pity–that so seldom the aged commit suicide.”

“Yes,” came the soft retort, “but for yo’ young grandmama tha’z not yet the time, she is still a so indispensib’.”

“Very true, ma chere,” sang Flora, “and in heaven you would be so uzeless.”

Out in the hazy, dark, heavily becalmed night the clock tolled eleven. Eleven–one–three–and all the hours, halves and quarters between and beyond, it tolled; and Flora, near, and Anna, far, sometimes each by her own open window, heard and counted. A thin old moon was dimly rising down the river when each began to think she caught another and very different sound that seemed to arrive faint from a long journey out of the southeast, if really from anywhere, and to pulse in dim persistency as soft as breathing, but as constant. Likely enough it was only the rumble of a remote storm and might have seemed to come out of the north or west had their windows looked that way, for still the tempestuous rains were frequent and everywhere, and it was easy and common for man to mistake God’s thunderings for his own.

Yet, whether those two wakeful maidens truly heard or merely fancied, in fact just then some seventy miles straight away under that gaunt old moon, there was rising to heaven the most terrific uproar this delta land had ever heard since man first moved upon its shores and waters. Six to the minute bellowed and soared Porter’s awful bombs and arched and howled and fell and scattered death and conflagration. While they roared, three hundred and forty great guns beside, on river and land, flashed and crashed, the breezeless night by turns went groping-black and clear-as-day red with smoke and flame of vomiting funnels, of burning boats and fire-rafts, of belching cannon, of screaming grape and canister and of exploding magazines. And through the middle of it all, in single file–their topmasts, yards, and cordage showing above the murk as pale and dumb as skeletons at every flare of the havoc, a white light twinkling at each masthead, a red light at the peak and the stars and stripes there with it–Farragut and his wooden ships came by the forts.

“Boys, our cake’s all dough!” said a commander in one of the forts.

When day returned and Anna and Flora slept, the murmur they had heard may after all have been only God’s thunder and really not from the southeast; but just down there under the landscape’s flat rim both forts, though with colors still gallantly flying, were smoking ruins, all Dixie’s brave gunboats and rams lay along the river’s two shores, sunken or burned, and the whole victorious Northern fleet, save one boat rammed and gone to the bottom, was on its cautious, unpiloted way, snail-slow but fate-sure, up the tawny four-mile current and round the gentle green bends of the Mississippi with New Orleans for its goal and prey.

XLIX

A CITY IN TERROR

Before the smart-stepping lamplighters were half done turning off the street lights, before the noisy market-houses all over the town, from Camp Callender to Carrollton, with their basket-bearing thousands of jesting and dickering customers, had quenched their gaslights and candles to dicker and jest by day, or the devotees of early mass had emerged from the churches, Rumor was on the run. With a sort of muffled speed and whisper she came and went, crossed her course and reaffirmed herself, returned to her starting-point and stole forth again, bearing ever the same horrid burden, brief, persistent, unexaggerated: The Foe! The Foe! In five great ships and twice as many lesser ones–counted at Quarantine Station just before the wires were cut–the Foe was hardly twenty leagues away, while barely that many guns of ours crouched between his eight times twenty and our hundred thousand women and children.

Yet, for a brief spell, so deep are the ruts of habit, the city kept to its daily routine, limp and unmeaning though much of it had come to be. The milkman, of course, held to his furious round in his comical two-wheeled cart, whirling up to alley gates, shouting and ringing his big hand-bell. In all his tracks followed the hooded bread-cart, with its light-weight loaves for worthless money and with only the staggering news for lagnappe. Families ate breakfast, one hour and another, wherever there was food. Day cabmen and draymen trotted off to their curbstones; women turned to the dish-pan, the dust-pan, the beds, the broom; porters, clerks and merchants–the war-mill’s wasteful refuse and residuum, some as good as the gray army’s best, some poor enough–went to their idle counters, desks and sidewalks; the children to the public schools, the beggar to the church doorstep, physicians to their sick, the barkeeper to his mirrors and mint, and the pot-fisher to his catfish lines in the swollen, sweeping, empty harbor.

But besides the momentum of habit there was the official pledge to the people–Mayor Monroe’s and Commanding-General Lovell’s–that if they would but keep up this tread-mill gait, the moment the city was really in danger the wires of the new fire-alarm should strike the tidings from all her steeples. So the school teachers read Scripture and prayers and the children sang the “Bonnie Blue Flag,” while outside the omnibuses trundled, the one-mule street-cars tinkled and jogged and the bells hung mute.

Nevertheless a change was coming. Invisibly it worked in the general mind as that mind gradually took in the meanings of the case; but visibly it showed as, from some outpost down the river, General Lovell, (a sight to behold for the mud on him), came spurring at full speed by Callender House, up through the Creole Quarter and across wide Canal Street to the St. Charles. Now even more visibly it betrayed itself, where all through the heart of the town began aides, couriers and frowning adjutants to gallop from one significant point to another. Before long not a cab anywhere waited at its stand. Every one held an officer or two, if only an un-uniformed bank-officer or captain of police, and rattled up or down this street and that, taking corners at breakneck risks. That later the drays began to move was not so noticeable, for a dray was but a dray and they went off empty except for their drivers and sometimes a soldier with a musket and did not return. Moreover, as they went there began to be seen from the middle of almost any cross-street, in the sky out over the river front, here one, there another, yonder a third and fourth, upheaval of dense, unusual smoke, first on the hither side of the harbor, then on the far side, yet no fire-engines, hand or steam, rushed that way, nor any alarm sounded.

From the Valcours’ balcony Madame, gasping for good air after she and Flora had dressed Charlie’s wound, was startled to see one of those black columns soar aloft. But it was across the river, and she had barely turned within to mention it, when up the stair and in upon the three rushed Victorine, all tears, saying it was from the great dry-dock at Slaughter-House Point, which our own authorities had set afire.

The enfeebled Charlie half started from his rocking-chair laughing angrily. “Incredible!” he cried, but sat mute as the girl’s swift tongue told the half-dozen other dreadful things she had just beheld on either side the water. The sister and grandmother sprang into the balcony and stood astounded. Out of the narrow streets beneath them–Chartres, Conde, St. Peter, St. Ann, Cathedral Alley–scores and scores of rapidly walking men and women and scampering boys and girls streamed round and through the old Square by every practicable way and out upon the levee.

“Incredib’!” retorted meanwhile the pouting daughter of Maxime, pressing into the balcony after Flora. “Hah! and look yondah another incredib’!” She pointed riverward across the Square.

“Charlie, you must not!” cried Flora, returning half into the room.

“Bah!” retorted the staggering boy, pushed out among them and with profane mutterings stood agaze.

Out across the Square and the ever-multiplying flow of people through and about it, and over the roof of the French Market close beyond, the rigging of a moored ship stood pencilled on the sky. It had long been a daily exasperation to his grandmother’s vision, being (unknown to Charlie or Victorine), the solitary winnings of Flora’s privateering venture, early sold, you will remember, but, by default of a buyer, still in some share unnegotiably hers and–in her own and the grandmother’s hungry faith–sure to command triple its present value the moment the fall of the city should open the port. Suddenly the old lady wheeled upon Flora with a frantic look, but was checked by the granddaughter’s gleaming eyes and one inaudible, visible word: “Hush!”

The gazing boy saw only the ship. “Oh, great Lord!” he loathingly drawled, “is it Damned Fools’ Day again?” Her web of cordage began to grow dim in a rising smoke, and presently a gold beading of fire ran up and along every rope and spar and clung quivering. Soon the masts commenced, it seemed, to steal nearer to each other, and the vessel swung out from her berth and started down the wide, swift river, a mass of flames.

“Oh, Mother of God,” cried Victorine with a new gush of tears! “‘ave mercy upon uz women!” and in the midst of her appeal the promised alarum began to toll–here, yonder, and far away–here, yonder, and far away–and did not stop until right in the middle of the morning it had struck twelve.

“Good-by! poor betrayed New Orleans!” exclaimed Charlie, turning back into the room. “Good-by, sweetheart, I’m off! Good-by, grannie–Flo’!”

The three followed in with cries of amazement, distress, indignation, command, reproach, entreaty, all alike vain. As if the long-roll of his own brigade were roaring to him, he strode about the apartment preparing to fly.

His sister tried to lay preventing hands on him, saying, “Your life! your life! you are throwing it away!”

“Well, what am I in Kincaid’s Battery for?” he retorted, with a sweep of his arm that sent her staggering. He caught the younger girl by the shoulders: “Jularkie, if you want to go, too, with or without grannie and Flo’, by Jove, come along! I’ll take care of you!”

The girl’s eyes melted with yearning, but the response was Flora’s: “Simpleton! When you haven’ the sense enough to take care of yourself!”

“Ah, shame!” ventured the sweetheart. “He’s the lover of his blidding country, going ag-ain to fighd for her–and uz–whiles he can!–to-day!–al-lone!–now!” Her fingers clutched his wrists, that still held her shoulders, and all her veins surged in the rapture of his grasp.

But Charlie stared at his sister. It could not enter his mind that her desires were with the foe, yet his voice went deep in scorn: “And have you too turned coward?”

The taunt stung. Its victim flashed, but in the next breath her smile was clemency itself as she drew Victorine from him and shot her neat reply, well knowing he would never guess the motives behind it–the bow whence flew the shaft: the revenge she owed the cause that had burned their home; her malice against Anna; the agony of losing him they now called dead and buried; the new, acute loathing that issued from that agony upon the dismal Irby; her baffled hunger for the jewels; her plans for the chest of plate; hopes vanishing in smoke with yonder burning ship; thought of Greenleaf’s probable return with the blue army, of the riddles that return might make, and of the ruin, the burning and sinking riot and ruin, these things were making in her own soul as if it, too, were a city lost.

“Charlie,” she said, “you ‘ave yo’ fight. Me, I ‘ave mine. Here is grandma. Ask her–if my fight–of every day–for you and her–and not yet finish’–would not eat the last red speck of courage out of yo’ blood.”

She turned to Victorine: “Oh, he’s brave! He ‘as all that courage to go, in that condition! Well, we three women, we ‘ave the courage to let him go and ourselve’ to stay. But–Charlie! take with you the Callender’! Yes! You, you can protec’ them, same time they can take care of you. Stop!–Grandma!–yo’ bonnet and gaiter’! All three, Victorine, we will help them, all four, get away!”

On the road to Callender House, while Charlie and Victorine palavered together–“I cannot quite make out,” minced the French-speaking grandmother to Flora, “the real reason why you are doing this.”

“‘T is with me the same!” eagerly responded the beauty, in the English she preferred. “I thing maybe ‘t is juz inspiration. What you thing?”

“I? I am afraid it is only your great love for Anna–making you a trifle blind.”

The eyes of each rested in the other’s after the manner we know and the thought passed between them, that if further news was yet to come of the lost artillerist, any soul-reviving news, it would almost certainly come first to New Orleans and from the men in blue.

“No,” chanted the granddaughter, “I can’t tell what is making me do that unlezz my guardian angel!”

L

ANNA AMAZES HERSELF

Once more the Carrollton Gardens.

Again the afternoon hour, the white shell-paved court, its two playing fountains, the roses, lilies, jasmines and violets, their perfume spicing all the air, and the oriole and mocking-bird enrapturing it with their songs, although it was that same dire twenty-fourth of April of which we have been telling. Townward across the wide plain the distant smoke of suicidal conflagration studded the whole great double crescent of the harbor. Again the slim railway, its frequent small trains from the city clanging round the flowery miles of its half-circle, again the highway on either side the track, and again on the highway, just reaching the gardens, whose dashing coach and span, but the Callenders’?

Dashing was the look of it, not its speed. Sedately it came. Behind it followed a team of four giant mules, a joy to any quartermaster’s vision, drawing a plantation wagon filled with luggage. On the old coachman’s box sat beside him a slave maid, and in the carriage the three Callenders and Charlie. Anna and Miranda were on the rear seat and for the wounded boy’s better ease his six-shooter lay in Anna’s lap. A brave animation in the ladies was only the more prettily set off by a pinkness of earlier dejection about their eyes. Abreast the gate they halted to ask an armed sentry whether the open way up the river coast was through the gardens or–

He said there was no longer any open way without a pass from General Lovell, and when they affably commended the precaution and showed a pass he handed it to an officer, a heated, bustling, road-soiled young Creole, who had ridden up at the head of a mounted detail. This youth, as he read it, shrugged. “Under those present condition’,” he said, with a wide gesture toward the remote miles of blazing harbor, “he could not honor a pazz two weeks ole. They would ‘ave to rit-urn and get it renew’.”

“Oh! how? How hope to do so in all yonder chaos? And how! oh, how! could an army–in full retreat–leaving women and wounded soldiers to the mercy of a ravening foe–compel them to remain in the city it was itself evacuating?” A sweet and melodious dignity was in all the questions, but eyes shone, brows arched, lips hung apart and bonnet-feathers and hat-feathers, capes and flounces, seemed to ruffle wider, with consternation and hurt esteem.

The officer could not explain a single how. He could do no more than stubbornly regret that the questioners must even return by train, the dread exigencies of the hour compelling him to impress these horses for one of his guns and those mules for his battery-wagon.

Anna’s three companions would have sprung to their feet but in some way her extended hand stayed them. A year earlier Charlie would have made sad mistakes here, but now he knew the private soldier’s helplessness before the gold bars of commission, and his rage was white and dumb, as, with bursting eyes, he watched the officer pencil a blank.

“Don’t write that, sir,” said a clear voice, and the writer, glancing up, saw Anna standing among the seated three. Her face was drawn with distress and as pale as Charlie’s, but Charlie’s revolver was in her hand, close to her shoulder, pointed straight upward at full cock, and the hand was steady. “Those mules first,” she spoke on, “and then we, sir, are going to turn round and go home. Whatever our country needs of us we will give, not sell; but we will not, in her name, be robbed on the highway, sir, and I will put a ball through the head of the first horse or mule you lay a hand on. Isaac, turn your team.”

Unhindered, the teamster, and then the coachman, turned and drove. Back toward, and by and by, into the vast woe-stricken town they returned in the scented airs and athwart the long shadows of that same declining sun which fourteen years before–or was it actually but fourteen months?–had first gilded the splendid maneuverings of Kincaid’s Battery. The tragi-comic rencounter just ended had left the three ladies limp, gay, and tremulous, with Anna aghast at herself and really wondering between spells of shame and fits of laughter what had happened to her reason.

With his pistol buckled on again, Charlie had only a wordy wrath for the vanished officer, and grim worship of Anna, while Constance and Miranda, behind a veil of mirthful recapitulations, tenderly rejoiced in the relief of mind and heart which the moment had brought to her who had made it amazing. And now the conditions around them in streets, homes, and marts awoke sympathies in all the four, which further eased their own distresses.

The universal delirium of fright and horror had passed. Through all the city’s fevered length and breadth, in the belief that the victorious ships, repairing the lacerations of battle as they came, were coming so slowly that they could not arrive for a day or two, and that they were bringing no land forces with them, thousands had become rationally, desperately busy for flight. Everywhere hacks, private carriages, cabs, wagons, light and heavy, and carts, frail or strong, carts for bread or meat, for bricks or milk, were bearing fugitives–old men, young mothers, grandmothers, maidens and children–with their trunks, bales, bundles, slaves and provisions–toward the Jackson Railroad to board the first non-military train they could squeeze into, and toward the New and Old Basins to sleep on schooner decks under the open stars in the all-night din of building deckhouses. Many of them were familiar acquaintances and chirruped good-by to the Callenders. Passes? No trouble whatever! Charlie need only do this and that and so and so, and there you were!

But Charlie was by this time so nervously spent and in such pain that the first thing must be to get him into bed again–at Callender House, since nothing could induce him to let sister, sweetheart or grandmother know he had not got away. To hurt his pride the more, in every direction military squads with bayonets fixed were smartly fussing from one small domicile to another, hustling out the laggards and marching them to encampments on the public squares. Other squads–of the Foreign Legion, appointed to remain behind in “armed neutrality”–patroled the sidewalks strenuously, preserving order with a high hand. Down this street drums roared, fifes squealed and here passed yet another stately regiment on toward and now into and down, Calliope Street, silent as the rabble it marched through, to take train for Camp Moore in the Mississippi hills.

“Good Lord!” gasped Charlie, “if that isn’t the Confederate Guards! Oh, what good under heaven can those old chaps do at the front?”–the very thing the old chaps were asking themselves.

LI

THE CALLENDER HORSES ENLIST

Mere mind should ever be a most reverent servant to the soul. But in fact, and particularly in hours stately with momentous things, what a sacrilegious trick it has of nagging its holy mistress with triflet light as air–small as gnats yet as pertinacious.

To this effect, though written with a daintier pen, were certain lines but a few hours old, that twenty-fourth of April, in a diary which through many months had received many entries since the one that has already told us of its writer paired at Doctor Sevier’s dinner-party with a guest now missing, and of her hearing, in the starlight with that guest, the newsboys’ cry that his and her own city’s own Beauregard had opened fire on Fort Sumter and begun this war–which now behold!

Of this droll impishness of the mind, even in this carriage to-day, with these animated companions, and in all this tribulation, ruin, and flight, here was a harrying instance: that every minute or two, whatever the soul’s outer preoccupation or inner anguish, there would, would, would return, return and return the doggerel words and swaggering old tune of that song abhorred by the gruff General, but which had first awakened the love of so many hundreds of brave men for its brave, gay singer now counted forever lost:

“Ole mahs’ love’ wine, ole mis’ love’ silk–“

Generally she could stop it there, but at times it contrived to steal unobserved through the second line and then no power could keep it from marching on to the citadel, the end of the refrain. Base, antic awakener of her heart’s dumb cry of infinite loss! For every time the tormenting inanity won its way, that other note, that unvoiced agony, hurled itself against the bars of its throbbing prison.

“Ole mahs’ love’ wine, ole mis’ love’–“

“Oh, Hilary, my Hilary!”

From the Creole Quarter both carriage and wagon turned to the water front. Charlie’s warning that even more trying scenes would be found there was in vain. Anna insisted, the fevered youth’s own evident wish was to see the worst, and Constance and Miranda, dutifully mirthful, reminded him that through Anna they also had now tasted blood. As the equipage came out upon the Levee and paused to choose a way, the sisters sprang up and gazed abroad, sustaining each other by their twined arms.

To right, to left, near and far–only not just here where the Coast steamboats landed–the panorama was appalling. All day Anna had hungered for some incident or spectacle whose majesty or terror would suffice to distract her from her own desolation; but here it was made plain to her that a distress before which hand and speech are helpless only drives the soul in upon its own supreme devotion and woe. One wide look over those far flat expanses of smoke and flame answered the wonder of many hours, as to where all the drays and floats of the town had gone and what they could be doing. Along the entire sinuous riverside the whole great blockaded seaport’s choked-in stores of tobacco and cotton, thousands of hogsheads, ten thousands of bales–lest they enrich the enemy–were being hauled to the wharves and landings and were just now beginning to receive the torch, the wharves also burning, and boats and ships on either side of the river being fired and turned adrift.

Yet all the more because of the scene, a scene that quelled even the haunting strain of song, that other note, that wail which, the long day through, had writhed unreleased in her bosom, rose, silent still, yet only the stronger and more importunate–

“Oh, Hilary, my soldier, my flag’s, my country’s defender, come back to me–here!–now!–my yet living hero, my Hilary Kincaid!”

Reluctantly, she let Constance draw her down, and presently, in a voice rich with loyal pride, as the carriage moved on, bade Charlie and Miranda observe that only things made contraband by the Richmond Congress were burning, while all the Coast Landing’s wealth of Louisiana foodstuffs, in barrels and hogsheads, bags and tierces, lay unharmed. Yet not long could their course hold that way, and–it was Anna who first proposed retreat. The very havoc was fascinating and the courage of Constance and Miranda, though stripped of its mirth, remained undaunted; but the eye-torture of the cotton smoke was enough alone to drive them back to the inner streets.

[Illustration: “Ole mahs’ love’ wine, ole–“]

Here the direction of their caravan, away from all avenues of escape, no less than their fair faces, drew the notice of every one, while to the four themselves every busy vehicle–where none was idle,–every sound remote or near, every dog in search of his master, and every man–how few the men had become!–every man, woman or child, alone or companioned, overladen or empty-handed, hurrying out of gates or into doors, standing to stare or pressing intently or distractedly on, calling, jesting, scolding or weeping–and how many wept!–bore a new, strange interest of fellowship. So Callender House came again to view, oh, how freshly, dearly, appealingly beautiful! As the Callender train drew into its gate and grove, the carriage was surrounded, before it could reach the veranda steps, by a full dozen of household slaves, male and female, grown, half-grown, clad and half-clad, some grinning, some tittering, all overjoyed, yet some in tears. There had been no such gathering at the departure. To spare the feelings of the mistresses the dominating “mammy” of the kitchen had forbidden it. But now that they were back, Glory! Hallelujah!

“And had it really,” the three home-returning fair ones asked, “seemed so desolate and deadly perilous just for want of them? What!–had seemed so even to stalwart Tom?–and Scipio?–and Habakkuk? And were Hettie and Dilsie actually so in terror of the Yankees?”

“Oh, if we’d known that we’d never have started!” exclaimed Constance, with tears, which she stoutly quenched, while from all around came sighs and moans of love and gratitude.

And were the three verily back to stay?

Ah! that was the question. While Charlie, well attended, went on up and in they paused on the wide stair and in mingled distress and drollery asked each other, “_Are_ we back to stay, or not?”

A new stir among the domestics turned their eyes down into the garden. Beyond the lingering vehicles a lieutenant from Camp Callender rode up the drive. Two or three private soldiers hung back at the gate.

“It’s horses and mules again, Nan,” gravely remarked Constance, and the three, facing toward him, with Miranda foremost, held soft debate. Whether the decision they reached was to submit or resist, the wide ears of the servants could not be sure, but by the time the soldier was dismounting the ladies had summoned the nerve to jest.

“Be a man, Miranda!” murmured Constance.

“But not the kind I was!” prompted Anna.

“No,” said her sister, “for this one coming is already scared to death.”

“So’s Miranda,” breathed Anna as he came up the steps uncovering and plainly uncomfortable. A pang lanced through her as she caught herself senselessly recalling the flag presentation. And then–

[Illustration: Music]

“–oh! _oh!_”

“Mrs. Callender?” asked the stranger.

“Yes, sir,” said that lady.

“My business”–he glanced back in nervous protest as the drivers beneath gathered their reins–“will you kindly detain–?”

“If you wish, sir,” she replied, visibly trembling. “Isaac–“

From the rear of the group came the voice of Anna: “Miranda, dear, I wouldn’t stop them.” The men regathered the lines. She moved half a step down and stayed herself on her sister’s shoulder. Miranda wrinkled back at her in an ecstasy of relief:

“Oh, Anna, do speak for all of us!”

The teams started away. A distress came into the soldier’s face, but Anna met it with a sober smile: “Don’t be troubled, sir, you shall have them. Drive round into the basement, Ben, and unload.” The drivers went. “You shall have them, sir, on your simple word of honor as–“

“Of course you will be reimbursed. I pledge–“

“No, sir,” tearfully put in Constance, “we’ve given our men, we can’t sell our beasts.”

“They are not ours to sell,” said Anna.

“Why, Nan!”

“They belong to Kincaid’s Battery,” said Anna, and Constance, Miranda, and the servants smiled a proud approval. Even the officer flushed with a fine ardor:

“You have with you a member of that command?”

“We have.”

“Then, on my honor as a Southern soldier, if he will stay by them and us as far as Camp Moore, to Kincaid’s Battery they shall go. But, ladies–“

“Yes,” knowingly spoke Miranda. “Hettie, Scipio, Dilsie, you-all can go ‘long back to your work now.” She wrinkled confidentially to the officer.

“Yes,” he replied, “we shall certainly engage the enemy’s ships to-morrow, and you ladies must–“

“Must not desert our home, sir,” said Anna.

“Nor our faithful servants,” added the other two.

“Ah, ladies, but if we should have to make this house a field hospital, with all the dreadful–“

“Oh, that settles it,” cried the three, “we stay!”

LII

HERE THEY COME!

What a night! Yet the great city slept. Like its soldiers at their bivouac fires it lay and slumbered beside its burning harbor. Sleep was duty.

Callender House kept no vigil. Lighted by the far devastation, its roof shone gray, its cornice white, its tree-tops green above the darkness of grove and garden. From its upper windows you might have seen the townward bends of the river gleam red, yellow, and bronze, or the luminous smoke of destruction (slantingly over its flood and farther shore) roll, thin out, and vanish in a moonless sky. But from those windows no one looked forth. After the long, strenuous, open-air day, sleep, even to Anna, had come swiftly.

Waking late and springing to her elbow she presently knew that every one else was up and about. Her maid came and she hastened to dress. Were the hostile ships in sight? Not yet. Was the city still undestroyed? Yes, though the cotton brought out to the harbor-side was now fifteen thousand bales and with its blazing made a show as if all the town were afire. She was furiously hungry; was not breakfast ready? Yes, Constance and Miranda–“done had breakfuss and gone oveh to de cottage fo’ to fix it up fo’ de surgeon … No, ‘m, not dis house; he done change’ his mine.” Carriage horses–mules? “Yass, ‘m, done gone. Mahs’ Chahlie gone wid ‘m. He gone to be boss o’ de big gun what show’ f’om dese windehs.” Oh, but that was an awful risk, wounded as he was! “Yass, ‘m, but he make his promise to Miss Flo’a he won’t tech de gun hisseff.” What! Miss Flora–? “Oh, she be’n, but she gone ag’in. Law’! she a brave un! It e’en a’most make me brave, dess to see de high sperits she in!” The narrator departed.

How incredible was the hour. Looking out on the soft gray sky and river and down into the camp, that still kept such quiet show of routine, or passing down the broad hall stair, through the library and into the flowery breakfast room, how keenly real everything that met the eye, how unreal whatever was beyond sight. How vividly actual this lovely home in the sweet ease and kind grace of its lines and adornments. How hard to move with reference to things unseen, when heart and mind and all power of realizing unseen things were far away in the ravaged fields, mangled roads and haunted woods and ravines between Corinth and Shiloh.

But out in the garden, so fair and odorous as one glided through it to the Mandeville cottage, things boldly in view made sight itself hard to believe. Was that bespattered gray horseman no phantom, who came galloping up the river road and called to a servant at the gate that the enemy’s fleet was in sight from English Turn? Was that truly New Orleans, back yonder, wrapped in smoke, like fallen Carthage or Jerusalem? Or here! this black-and-crimson thing drifting round the bend in mid-current and without a sign of life aboard or about it, was this not a toy or sham, but one more veritable ship in veritable flames? And beyond and following it, helpless as a drift-log, was that lifeless white-and-crimson thing a burning passenger steamer–and that behind it another? Here in the cottage, plainly these were Constance and Miranda, and, on second view, verily here were a surgeon and his attendants. But were these startling preparations neither child’s play nor dream?

Child’s play persistently seemed, at any rate, the small bit of yellow stuff produced as a hospital flag. Oh, surely! would not a much larger be far safer? It would. Well, at the house there was some yellow curtaining packed in one of the boxes, Isaac could tell which–

“I think I know right where it is!” said Anna, and hurried away to find and send it. The others, widow and wife, would stay where they were and Anna would take command at the big house, where the domestics would soon need to be emboldened, cheered, calmed, controlled. Time flies when opening boxes that have been stoutly nailed and hooped over the nails. When the goods proved not to be in the one where Anna “knew” they were she remembered better, of course, and in the second they were found. Just as the stuff had been drawn forth and was being hurried away by the hand of Dilsie, a sergeant and private from the camp, one with a field glass, the other with a signal flag, came asking leave to use them from the belvedere on the roof. Anna led them up to it.

How suddenly authentic became everything, up here. Flat as a map lay river, city, and plain. Almost under them and amusingly clear in detail, they looked down into Camp Callender and the Chalmette fortifications. When they wigwagged, “Nothing in sight,” to what seemed a very real toy soldier with a very real toy flag, on a green toy mound in the midst of the work (the magazine), he wigwagged in reply, and across the river a mere speck of real humanity did the same from a barely definable parapet.

With her maid beside her Anna lingered a bit. She loved to be as near any of the dear South’s defenders as modesty would allow, but these two had once been in Kincaid’s Battery, her Hilary’s own boys. As lookouts they were not yet skilled. In this familiar scene she knew things by the eye alone, which the sergeant, unused even to his glass, could hardly be sure of through it.

Her maid looked up and around. “Gwine to rain ag’in,” she murmured, and the mistress assented with her gaze in the southeast. In this humid air and level country a waterside row of live-oaks hardly four miles off seemed at the world’s edge and hid all the river beyond it.

“There’s where the tips of masts always show first,” she ventured to the sergeant. “We can’t expect any but the one kind now, can we?”

“‘Fraid not, moving up-stream.”

“Then yonder they come. See? two or three tiny, needle-like–h-m-m!–just over that farth’–?”

He lowered the glass and saw better without it.

The maid burst out: “Oh, Lawd, _I_ does! Oh, good Gawd A’mighty!” She sprang to descend, but with a show of wonder Anna spoke and she halted.

“If you want to leave me,” continued the mistress, “you need only ask.”

“Law, Miss Nannie! Me leave you? I–“

“If you do–now–to-day–for one minute, I’ll never take you back. I’ll have Hettie or Dilsie.”

“Missie,”–tears shone–“d’ ain’t nothin’ in Gawd’s worl’ kin eveh make me a runaway niggeh f’om you! But ef you tell me now fo’ to go fetch ev’y dahky we owns up to you–“

“Yes! on the upper front veranda! Go, do it!”

“Yass, ‘m! ‘caze ef us kin keep ’em anywahs it’ll be in de bes’ place fo’ to see de mos’ sights!” She vanished and Anna turned to the soldiers. Their flagging had paused while they watched the far-away top-gallants grow in height and numbers. Down in the works the long-roll was sounding and from every direction men were answering it at a run. Across the river came bugle notes. Sighingly the sergeant lowered his glass:

“Lordy, it’s the whole kit and b’ilin’! Wag, John. When they swing up round this end of the trees I’ll count ’em. Here they come! One, … two, … why, what small–oh, see this big fellow! Look at the width of those yards! And look at all their hulls, painted the color of the river! And see that pink flutter–look!” he said to Anna, “do you get it? high up among the black ropes? that pink–“

“Yes,” said Anna solemnly, “I see it–“

“That’s the old–“

“Yes. Must we fire on that? and fire first?”

“We’d better!” laughed the soldier, “if we fire at all. Those chaps have got their answer ready and there won’t be much to say after it.” The three hurried down, the men to camp, Anna to the upper front veranda. There, save two or three with Constance and Miranda, came all the servants, shepherded by Isaac and Ben with vigilant eyes and smothered vows to “kill de fuss he aw she niggeh dat try to skedaddle”; came and stood to gaze with her over and between the grove trees. Down in the fortification every man seemed to have sprung to his post. On its outer crest, with his adjutant, stood the gilded commander peering through his glass.

“Missie,” sighed Anna’s maid, “see Mahs’ Chahlie dah? stan’in’ on de woodworks o’ dat big gun?”

“Yes,” said Anna carelessly, but mutely praying that some one would make him get down. Her brain teemed with speculations: Where, how occupied and in what state of things, what frame of mind, was Victorine, were Flora and Madame? Here at Steve’s cottage with what details were ‘Randa and Connie busy? But except when she smiled round on the slaves, her gaze, like theirs, abode on the river and the shore defenses, from whose high staffs floated brightly the Confederate flag. How many a time in this last fearful year had her own Hilary, her somewhere still living, laughing, loving Hilary, stood like yon commander, about to deal havoc from, and to draw it upon, Kincaid’s Battery. Who would say that even now he might not be so standing, with her in every throb of his invincible heart?

Something out in the view disturbed the servants.

“Oh, Lawd ‘a’ massy!” moaned a woman.

“Trus’ Him, Aun’ Jinnie!” prompted Anna’s maid. “Y’ always is trus’ Him!”

“Whoeveh don’t trus’ Him, I’ll bus’ him!” confidentially growled Isaac to those around him.

“We all of us must and will!” said Anna elatedly, though with shameful inward sinkings and with no sustaining word from any of the flock, while out under the far gray sky, emerging from a slight angle of the shore well down the water’s long reach the battle line began to issue, each ship in its turn debouching into full relief from main-truck to water-line.

LIII

SHIPS, SHELLS, AND LETTERS

Strange! how little sense of calamity came with them–at first. So graceful they were. So fitted–like waterfowl–to every mood of air and tide; their wings all furled, their neat bodies breasting the angry flood by the quiet power of their own steam and silent submerged wheels. So like to the numberless crafts which in kinder days, under friendly tow, had come up this same green and tawny reach and passed on to the queenly city, laden with gifts, on the peaceful embassies of the world.

But, ah! how swiftly, threateningly they grew: the smaller, two-masted fore-and-afts, each seemingly unarmed but for one monster gun pivoted amidships, and the towering, wide-armed three-masters, the low and the tall consorting like dog and hunter. Now, as they came on, a nice eye could make out, down on their hulls, light patches of new repair where our sunken fleet had so lately shot and rammed them, and, hanging over the middle of each ship’s side in a broad, dark square to protect her vitals, a mass of anchor chains. Their boarding-netting, too, one saw, drawn high round all their sides, and now more guns–and more!–and more! the huger frowning over the bulwarks, the lesser in unbroken rows, scowling each from its own port-hole, while every masthead revealed itself a little fort bristling with arms and men. Yes, and there, high in the clouds of rigging, no longer a vague pink flutter now, but brightly red-white-and-blue and smilingly angry–what a strange home-coming for it! ah, what a strange home-coming after a scant year-and-a-half of banishment!–the flag of the Union, rippling from every peak.

“Ain’ dey neveh gwine shoot?” asked a negro lad.

“Not till they’re out of line with us,” said Anna so confidently as to draw a skeptical grunt from his mother, and for better heart let a tune float silently in and out on her breath:

“I loves to be a beau to de ladies.
I loves to shake a toe wid de ladies–“

She felt her maid’s touch. Charlie was aiming his great gun, and on either side of her Isaac and Ben were repeating their injunctions. She spoke out:

“If they all shoot true we’re safe enough now.”

“An’ ef de ships don’t,” put in Isaac, “dey’ll mighty soon–“

The prophecy was lost. All the shore guns blazed and crashed. The white smoke belched and spread. Broken window-panes jingled. Wails and moans from the slave women were silenced by imperious outcries from Isaac and Ben. There followed a mid-air scream and roar as of fifty railway trains passing each other on fifty bridges, and the next instant a storm of the enemy’s shells burst over and in the batteries. But the house stood fast and half a dozen misquotations of David and Paul were spouted from the braver ones of Anna’s flock. In a moment a veil of smoke hid ships and shore, yet fearfully true persisted the enemy’s aim. To home-guards, rightly hopeless of their case and never before in action, every hostile shot was like a volcano’s eruption, and their own fire rapidly fell off. But on the veranda, amid a weeping, prattling, squealing and gesturing of women and children, Anna could not distinguish the bursting of the foe’s shells from the answering thunder of Confederate guns, and when in a bare ten minutes unarmed soldiers began to come out of the smoke and to hurry through the grove, while riders of harnessed horses and mules–harnessed to nothing–lashed up the levee road at full run, and Isaac and Ben proudly cried that one was Mahs’ Chahlie and that the animals were theirs of Callender House, she still asked over the balustrade how the fight had gone.

For reply despairing hands pointed her back toward the river, and there, as she and her groaning servants gazed, the great black masts and yards, with headway resumed and every ensign floating, loomed silently forth and began to pass the veranda. Down in the intervening garden, brightly self-contained among the pale stragglers there, appeared the one-armed reporter, with a younger brother in the weather-worn gray and red of Kincaid’s Battery. They waved a pocket-soiled letter and asked how to get in and up to her; but before she could do more than toss them a key there came, not from the ships but from close overhead under a blackening sky, one last, hideous roar and ear-splitting howl. The beautiful treasure-laden home heaved, quivered, lurched and settled again, the women shrieked and crouched or fell prone with covered heads, and a huge shell, sent by some pain-crazed fugitive from a gun across the river, and which had entered at the roof, exploded in the basement with a harrowing peal and filled every corner of the dwelling with blinding smoke and stifling dust.

Constance and Miranda met Anna groping and staggering out of the chaos. Unharmed, herself, and no one badly hurt? Ah, hear the sudden wail of that battery boy as he finds his one-armed brother! Anna kneels with him over the writhing form while women fly for the surgeon, and men, at her cry, hasten to improvise a litter. No idle song haunts her now, yet a clamoring whisper times itself with every pulsation of her bosom: “The letter? the letter?”

Pity kept it from her lips, even from her weeping eyes; yet somehow the fallen boy heard, but when he tried to answer she hushed him. “Oh, never mind that,” she said, wiping away the sweat of his agony, “it isn’t important at all.”

“Dropped it,” he gasped, and had dropped it where the shell had buried it forever.

Each for the other’s sake the lads rejected the hospital, with its risk of capture. The younger had the stricken one hurried off toward the railway and a refugee mother in the hills, Constance tenderly protesting until the surgeon murmured the truth:

“It’ll be all one to him by to-morrow.”

As the rearmost ship was passing the house Anna, her comeliness restored, half rose from her bed, where Miranda stood trying to keep her. From all the far side of the house remotely sounded the smart tramp and shuffle of servants clearing away wreckage, and the din of their makeshift repairs. She was “all right again,” she said as she sat, but the abstraction of her eyes and the harkening droop of her head showed that inwardly she still saw and heard the death-struck boy.

Suddenly she stood. “Dear, brave Connie!” she exclaimed, “we must go help her, ‘Randa.” And as they went she added, pausing at the head of a stair, “Ah, dear! if we, poor sinners all, could in our dull minds only multiply the awful numbers of war’s victims by the woes that gather round any one of them, don’t you think, ‘Randa–?”

Yes, Miranda agreed, certainly if man–yes, and woman–had that gift wars would soon be no more.

On a high roof above their apartment stood our Valcour ladies. About them babbling feminine groups looked down upon the harbor landings black with male vagabonds and witlings smashing the precious food freight (so sacred yesterday), while women and girls scooped the spoils from mire and gutter into buckets, aprons or baskets, and ran home with it through Jackson Square and scurried back again with grain-sacks and pillow-slips, and while the cotton burned on and the ships, so broadly dark aloft, so pale in their war paint below and so alive with silent, motionless men, came through the smoking havoc.

“No uze to hope,” cooed the grandmother to Flora, whose gaze clung to the tree-veiled top of Callender House. “It riffuse’ to burn. ‘Tis not a so inflammab’ like that rope and tar.” The rope and tar meant their own burnt ship.

“Ah, well,” was the light reply, “all shall be for the bes’! Those who watch the game close and play it with courage–“

“And cheat with prudenze–?”

“Yes! to them God is good. How well you know that! And Anna, too, she’s learning it–or she shall–dear Anna! Same time me, I am well content.”

“Oh, you are joyful! But not because God is good, neither juz’ biccause those Yankee’ they arrive. Ah, that muz’ bring some splandid news, that lett’r of Irbee, what you riscieve to-day and think I don’t know it. ‘T is maybe ab-out Kincaid’s Batt’rie, eh?” At Flora’s touch the speaker flinched back from the roof’s edge, the maiden aiding the recoil.

“Don’t stand so near, like that,” she said. “It temp’ me to shove you over.”

They looked once more to the fleet. Slowly it came on. Near its line’s center the flag-ship hovered just opposite Canal Street. The rear was far down by the Mint. Up in the van the leading vessel was halting abreast St. Mary’s Market, a few hundred yards behind which, under black clouds and on an east wind, the lone-star flag of seceded Louisiana floated in helpless defiance from the city hall. All at once heaven’s own thunders pealed. From a warning sprinkle the women near about fled down a roofed hatchway. One led Madame. But on such a scene Flora craved a better curtain-fall and she lingered alone.

It came. As if all its millions of big drops raced for one prize the deluge fell on city, harbor, and fleet and on the woe-smitten land from horizon to horizon, while in the same moment the line of battle dropped anchor in mid-stream. With a swirling mist wetting her fair head she waved in dainty welcome Irby’s letter and then pressed it to her lips; not for his sake–hah!–but for his rueful word, that once more his loathed cousin, Anna’s Hilary! was riding at the head of Kincaid’s Battery.

LIV

SAME APRIL DAY TWICE

Black was that Friday for the daughters of Dixie. Farragut demanded surrender, Lovell declined. The mayor, the council, the Committee of Public Safety declined.

On Saturday the two sides parleyed while Lovell withdrew his forces. On Sunday the Foreign Legion preserved order of a sort highly displeasing to “a plain sailor,” as Farragut, on the Hartford, called himself, and to all the plain sailors of his fleet–who by that time may have been hard to please. On Monday the “plain sailor” bade the mayor, who had once been a plain stevedore, remove the city’s women and children within forty-eight hours. But on Tuesday, in wiser mood, he sent his own blue-jackets, cutlasses, muskets and hand-dragged howitzers, lowered the red-and-yellow-striped flag of one star and on mint and custom-house ran up the stars and stripes. Constance and Miranda, from their distant roof, saw the emblem soar to the breeze, and persuaded Anna to an act which cost her as many hours as it need have taken minutes–the destruction of the diary. That was on the twenty-ninth of April.

Let us not get dates confused. “On the twenty-ninth of April,” says Grant, “the troops were at Hard Times (Arkansas), and the fleet (another fleet), under Admiral Porter, made an attack upon Grand Gulf (Mississippi), while I reconnoitered.” But that twenty-ninth was a year later, when New Orleans for three hundred and sixty-five separate soul-torturing days had been sitting in the twilight of her captivity, often writhing and raving in it, starved to madness for news of Lee’s and Stonewall’s victories and of her boys, her ragged, gaunt, superb, bleeding, dying, on-pressing boys, and getting only such dubious crumbs of rumor as could be smuggled in, or such tainted bad news as her captors delighted to offer her through the bars of a confiscated press. No? did the treatment she was getting merely–as Irby, with much truth, on that twenty-ninth remarked in a group about a headquarters camp-fire near Grand Gulf–did it merely seem so bad to poor New Orleans?

Oh, but!–as the dingy, lean-faced Hilary cried, springing from the ground where he lay and jerking his pipe from his teeth–was it not enough for a world’s pity that to her it seemed so? How it seemed to the Callenders in particular was a point no one dared raise where he was. To them had come conditions so peculiarly distressing and isolating that they were not sharers of the common lot around them, but of one strangely, incalculably worse. Rarely and only in guarded tones were they spoken of now in Kincaid’s Battery, lately arrived here, covered with the glory of their part in Bragg’s autumn and winter campaign through Tennessee and Kentucky, and with Perryville, Murfreesboro’ and Stone River added to the long list on their standard. Lately arrived, yes; but bringing with them as well as meeting here a word apparently so authentic and certainly so crushing, (as to those sweet Callenders), that no one ever let himself hint toward it in the hearing even of Charlie Valcour, much less of their battle-scarred, prison-wasted, march-worn, grief-torn, yet still bright-eyed, brave-stepping, brave-riding Major. Major of Kincaid’s Battalion he was now, whose whole twelve brass pieces had that morning helped the big iron batteries fight Porter’s gunboats.

“Finding Grand Gulf too strong,” says Grant, “I moved the army below, running the batteries there as we had done at Vicksburg. Learning here that there was a good road from Bruinsburg up to Port Gibson” (both in Mississippi), “I determined to cross–“

How pleasantly familiar were those names in New Orleans. Alike commercially and socially they meant parterres, walks, bowers in her great back-garden. From the homes of the rich planters around the towns and landings so entitled, and from others all up and down the river from Natchez to Vicksburg and the Bends, hailed many a Carondelet Street nabob and came yearly those towering steamboat-loads–those floating cliffs–of cotton-bales that filled presses, ships and bank-boxes and bought her imports–plows, shoes, bagging, spices, silks and wines: came also their dashing sons and daughters, to share and heighten the splendors of her carnivals and lure away her beaux and belles to summer outings and their logical results. In all the region there was hardly a family with which some half-dozen of the battery were not acquainted, or even related.

“Home again, home again from a foreign shore,”

sang the whole eighty-odd, every ladies’ man of them, around out-of-tune pianos with girls whose brothers were all away in Georgia and Virginia, some forever at rest, some about to fight Chancellorsville. Such a chorus was singing that night within ear-shot of the headquarters group when Ned Ferry, once of the battery, but transferred to Harper’s cavalry, rode up and was led by Hilary to the commanding general to say that Grant had crossed the river. Piano and song hushed as the bugles rang, and by daybreak all camps had vanished and the gray columns were hurrying, horse, foot, and wheels, down every southerly road to crush the invader.

At the head of one rode General Brodnax. Hearing Hilary among his staff he sent for him and began to speak of Mandeville, long gone to Richmond on some official matter and daily expected back; and then he mentioned “this fellow Grant,” saying he had known him in Mexico. “And now,” he concluded, “he’s the toughest old he one they’ve got.”

On the face of either kinsman there came a fine smile that really made them look alike. “We’ll try our jaw-teeth on him to-morrow,” laughed the nephew.

“Hilary, you weren’t one of those singers last evening, were you?”

“Why, no, uncle, for once you’ll be pleased–“

“Not by a dam-site!” The smile was gone. “You know, my boy, that in such a time as this if a leader–and above all such a capering, high-kicking colt as you–begins to mope and droop like a cab-horse in the rain, his men will soon not be worth a–what?… Oh, blast the others, when _you_ do so you’re moping, and whether your men can stand it or not, I can’t!–what?… Well, then, for God’s sake don’t! For there’s another point, Hilary: as long as you were every night a ‘ladies’ man’ and every day a laugher at death you could take those boys through hell-fire at any call; but if they once get the notion–which you came mighty near giving them yesterday–that you hold their lives cheap merely because you’re tired of your own, they’ll soon make you wish you’d never set eyes on a certain friend of ours, worse than you or they or I have ever wished it yet.”

“I’ve never wished it yet, uncle. I can’t. I’ve never believed one breath of all we’ve heard. It’s not true. It can’t be, simply because it can’t be.”

“Then why do you behave as if it were?” “I won’t, uncle. Honor bright! You watch me.” And next day, in front of Port Gibson, through all the patter, smoke, and crash, through all the charging, cheering and volleying, while the ever-thinning, shortening gray lines were being crowded back from rise to rise–back, back through field, grove, hedge, worm-fence and farmyard, clear back to Grindstone Ford, Bayou Pierre, and with the cavalry, Harper’s, cut off and driven up eastward through the town–the enraged old brigadier watched and saw. He saw far, saw close, with blasphemous exultation, how Hilary and his guns, called here, sent there, flashed, thundered, galloped, blazed, howled and held on with furious valor and bleeding tenacity yet always with a quick-sightedness which just avoided folly and ruin, and at length stood rock fast, honor bright, at North Fork and held it till, except the cavalry, the last gray column was over and the bridges safely burning.

That night Ned Ferry–of the cavalry withdrawn to the eastward uplands to protect that great source of supplies and its New Orleans and Jackson Railroad–was made a lieutenant, and a certain brave Charlotte, whom later he loved and won, bringing New Orleans letters to camp, brought also such news of the foe that before dawn, led by her, Ferry’s Scouts rode their first ride. All day they rode, while the main armies lay with North Fork between them, the grays entrenching, the blues rebridging. When at sundown she and Ned Ferry parted, and at night he bivouacked his men for a brief rest in a black solitude from which the camp-fires of both hosts were in full sight and the enemy’s bridge-building easily heard, he sought, uncompanioned, Kincaid’s Battery and found Hilary Kincaid. War is what Sherman called it, who two or three days later, at Grand Gulf (evacuated), crossed into this very strife. Yet peace (so-called) and riches rarely bind men in such loving pairs as do cruel toil, deadly perils, common griefs, exile from woman and daily experience of one another’s sweetness, valor, and strength, and it was for such things that this pair, loving so many besides, particularly loved each other.

With glad eyes Kincaid rose from a log.

“Major,” began the handsome scout, dapper from kepi to spurs in contrast to the worn visage and dress of his senior, but Hilary was already speaking.

“My gentle Ned!” he cried. “_Lieutenant_–Ferry!”

Amid kind greetings from Captain Bartleson and others the eyes of the two–Hilary’s so mettlesome, Ferry’s so placid–exchanged meanings, and the pair went and sat alone on the trail of a gun; on Roaring Betsy’s knee, as it were. There Hilary heard of the strange fair guide and of news told by her which brought him to his feet with a cry of joy that drew the glad eyes of half the battery.

“The little mother saint of your flag, boys!” he explained to a knot of them later, “the little godmother of your guns!” The Callenders were out of New Orleans, banished as “registered enemies.”

LV

IN DARKEST DIXIE AND OUT

Unhappy Callender House! Whether “oppressors” or “oppressed” had earliest or oftenest in that first year of the captivity lifted against it the accusing finger it would be hard to tell.

When the Ship Island transports bore their blue thousands up the river, and the streets roared a new drum-thunder, before the dark columns had settled down in the cotton-yards, public squares, Carrollton suburb and Jackson Barracks, Callender House–you may guess by whose indirection–had come to the notice of a once criminal lawyer, now the plumed and emblazoned general-in-chief, to whom, said his victims (possibly biased), no offense or offender was too small for his hectoring or chastisement.

The women in that house, that nest of sedition, he had been told, at second-hand, had in the very dawn of secession completely armed the famous “Kincaid’s Battery” which had early made it hot for him about Yorktown. Later in that house they had raised a large war-fund–still somewhere hidden. The day the fleet came up they had sent their carriage-horses to Beauregard, helped signal the Chalmette fortifications, locked ten slaves in the dwelling under shell fire and threatened death to any who should stir to escape. So for these twelve months, with only Isaac, Ben, and their wives as protectors and the splendid freedom to lock themselves in, they had suffered the duress of a guard camped in the grove, their every townward step openly watched and their front door draped with the stars and stripes, under which no feminine acquaintance could be enticed except the dear, faithful Valcours.

But where were old friends and battery sisters? All estranged. Could not the Callenders go to them and explain? Explain! A certain man of not one-fifth their public significance or “secesh” record, being lightly asked on the street if he had not yet “taken the oath” and as lightly explaining that he “wasn’t going to,” had, fame said, for that alone, been sent to Ship Island–where Anna “already belonged,” as the commanding general told the three gentle refusers of the oath, while in black letters on the whited wall above his judgment seat in the custom-house they read, “No distinction made here between he and she adders.”

But could not the Valcours, those strangely immune, yet unquestioned true-lovers of poor Dixie, whose marvelous tact won priceless favors for so many distressed Dixie-ites, have explained for the Callenders? Flora had explained!–to both sides, in opposite ways, eagerly, tenderly, over and over, with moist eyes, yet ever with a cunning lameness that kept convincement misled and without foothold. Had the Callenders dwelt up-town the truth might have won out; but where they were, as they were, they might as well have been in unspeakable Boston. And so by her own sweet excusings she kept alive against them beliefs or phantoms of beliefs, which would not have lived a day in saner times.

Calumny had taken two forms: the monstrous black smoke of a vulgar version and the superior divinings of the socially elect; a fine, hidden flame fed from the smoke. According to the vulgate the three ladies, incensed at a perfectly lawful effort to use their horses for the Confederate evacuation and actually defying it with cocked revolver, had openly abjured Dixie, renounced all purpose to fly to it and, denying shelter to their own wounded, had with signal flags themselves guided the conquering fleet past the town’s inmost defenses until compelled to desist by a Confederate shell in their roof. Unable to face an odium so well earned they had clung to their hiding, glad of the blue camp in their grove, living fatly on the bazaar’s proceeds, and having high times with such noted staff-officers as Major Greenleaf, their kindness to whom in the days of his modest lieutenancy and first flight and of his later parole and exchange, was not so hard now to see through.

Greenleaf had come back with General Banks when Banks had succeeded Butler. Oppressed with military cares, he had barely time to be, without scrutiny, a full believer in the Valcours’ loyalty to the Union. Had they not avowed it to him when to breathe it was peril, on that early day when Irby’s command became Kincaid’s Battery, and in his days of Parish Prison and bazaar? How well those words fitly spoken had turned out! “Like apples of gold,” sang Flora to the timorous grandmother, “in wrappers of greenbacks.”

All the more a believer was he because while other faithfuls were making their loyalty earn big money off the government this genteel pair reminding him, that they might yet have to risk themselves inside the gray lines again to extricate Charlie, had kept their loyalty as gracefully hidden as of old except from a general or two. Preoccupied Greenleaf, amiable generals, not to see that a loyalist in New Orleans stood socially at absolute zero, whereas to stand at the social ebullition point was more to the Valcours than fifty Unions, a hundred Dixies and heaven beside. It was that fact, more than any other, save one, which lent intrepidity to Flora’s perpetual, ever quickening dance on the tight-rope of intrigue; a performance in which her bonny face had begun to betray her discovery that she could neither slow down nor dance backward. However, every face had come to betray some cruel strain; Constance’s, Anna’s, even Victorine’s almond eyes and Miranda’s baby wrinkles. Yes, the Valcours, too, had, nevertheless, their monetary gains, but these were quiet and exclusively from their ever dear, however guilty, “rebel” friends, who could not help making presents to Madame when brave Flora, spurning all rewards but their love, got for them, by some spell they could not work, Federal indulgences; got them through those one or two generals, who–odd coincidence!–always knew the “rebel” city’s latest “rebel” news and often made stern use of it.

Full believer likewise, and true sorrower, was Greenleaf, in Hilary’s death, having its seeming proof from Constance and Miranda as well as from Flora. For in all that twelvemonth the Callenders had got no glad tidings, even from Mandeville. Battle, march and devastation, march, battle and devastation had made letters as scarce as good dreams, in brightest Dixie. But darkest Dixie was New Orleans. There no three “damned secesh” might stop on a corner in broadest sunlight and pass the time of day. There the “rebel” printing-presses stood cold in dust and rust. There churches were shut and bayonet-guarded because their ministers would not read the prayers ordered by the “oppressor,” and there, for being on the street after nine at night, ladies of society, diners-out, had been taken to the lock-up and the police-court. In New Orleans all news but bad news was contraband to any “he or she adder,” but four-fold contraband to the Callenders, the fairest member of whose trio, every time a blue-and-gold cavalier forced her conversation, stung him to silence with some word as mild as a Cordelia’s. And yet,(you demur,) in the course of a whole year, by some kind luck, surely the blessed truth–Ah, the damsel on the tight-rope took care against that! It was part of her dance to drop from that perch as daintily as a bee-martin way-laying a hive, devour each home-coming word as he devours bees, and flit back and twitter and flutter as a part of all nature’s harmony, though in chills of dismay at her peril and yet burning to go to Hilary, from whom this task alone forever held her away.

So throughout that year Anna had been to Greenleaf the veiled widow of his lost friend, not often or long, and never blithely met; loved more ardently than ever, more reverently; his devotion holding itself in a fancied concealment transparent to all; he defending and befriending her, yet only as he could without her knowledge, and incurring-a certain stigma from his associates and superiors, if not an actual distrust. A whole history of itself would be the daily, nightly, monthly war of passions between him, her, Flora, and those around them, but time flies.

One day Greenleaf, returning from a week-long circuit of outposts, found awaiting him a letter bearing Northern imprints of mailing and forwarding, from Hilary Kincaid, written long before in prison and telling another whole history, of a kind so common in war that we have already gone by it; a story of being left for dead in the long stupor of a brain hurt; of a hairbreadth escape from living burial; of weeks in hospital unidentified, all sense of identity lost; and of a daring feat of surgery, with swift mental, not so swift bodily, recovery. Inside the letter was one to Anna. But Anna was gone. Two days earlier, without warning, the Callenders–as much to Flora’s affright as to their relief, and “as much for Fred’s good as for anything,” said his obdurate general when Flora in feigned pity pleaded for their stay–had been deported into the Confederacy.

“Let me carry it to her,” cried Flora to Greenleaf, rapturously clasping the letter and smiling heroically. “We can overtague them, me and my gran’mama! And then, thanks be to God! my brother we can bring him back! Maybe also–ah! maybee! I can obtain yo’ generals some uzeful news!”

After some delay the pair were allowed to go. At the nearest gray outpost, in a sudden shower of the first true news for a week–the Mississippi crossed, Grant victorious at Port Gibson and joined by Sherman at Grand Gulf–Flora learned, to her further joy, that the Callenders, misled by report that Brodnax’s brigade was at Mobile, had gone eastward, as straight away from Brodnax and the battery as Gulf-shore roads could take them, across a hundred-mile stretch of townless pine-barrens with neither railway nor telegraph.

Northward, therefore, with Madame on her arm, sprang Flora, staggeringly, by the decrepit Jackson Railroad, along the quiet eastern bound of a region out of which, at every halt, came gloomy mention of Tallahala River and the Big Black; of Big Sandy, Five Mile and Fourteen Mile creeks; of Logan, Sherman and Grant; of Bowen, Gregg, Brodnax and Harper, and of daily battle rolling northward barely three hours’ canter away. So they reached Jackson, capital of the state and base of General Joe Johnston’s army. They found it in high ferment and full of stragglers from a battle lost that day at Raymond scarcely twenty miles down the Port Gibson road, and on the day following chanced upon Mandeville returning at last from Richmond. With him they turned west, again by rail, and about sundown, at Big Black Bridge, ten miles east of Vicksburg, found themselves clasping hands in open air with General Brodnax, Irby and Kincaid, close before the torn brigade and the wasted, cheering battery. Angels dropped down they seemed, tenderly begging off from all talk of the Callenders, who, Flora distressfully said, had been “grozzly exaggerated,” while, nevertheless, she declared herself, with starting tears, utterly unable to explain why on earth they had gone to Mobile–“unlezz the bazaar.” No doubt, however, they would soon telegraph by way of Jackson. But next day, while she, as mistress of a field hospital, was winning adoration on every side, Jackson, only thirty miles off but with every wire cut, fell, clad in the flames of its military factories, mills, foundries and supplies and of its eastern, Pearl River, bridge.

LVI

BETWEEN THE MILLSTONES

Telegraph! They had been telegraphing for days, but their telegrams have not yet been delivered.

On the evening when the camps of Johnston and Grant with burning Jackson between them put out half the stars a covered carriage, under the unsolicited escort of three or four gray-jacketed cavalrymen and driven by an infantry lad seeking his command after an illness at home, crossed Pearl River in a scow at Ratcliff’s ferry just above the day’s battlefield.

“When things are this bad,” said the boy to the person seated beside him and to two others at their back, his allusion being to their self-appointed guard, “any man you find straggling to the _front_ is the kind a lady can trust.”

This equipage had come a three hours’ drive, from the pretty town of Brandon, nearest point to which a railway train from the East would venture, and a glimpse into the vehicle would have shown you, behind Constance and beside Miranda, Anna, pale, ill, yet meeting every inquiry with a smiling request to push on. They were attempting a circuit of both armies to reach a third, Pemberton’s, on the Big Black and in and around Vicksburg.

Thus incited they drove on in the starlight over the gentle hills of Madison county and did not accept repose until they had put Grant ten miles behind and crossed to the south side of the Vicksburg and Jackson Railroad at Clinton village with only twenty miles more between them and Big Black Bridge. The springs of Anna’s illness were more in spirit than body. Else she need not have lain sleepless that night at Clinton’s many cross-roads, still confronting a dilemma she had encountered in Mobile.

In Mobile the exiles had learned the true whereabouts of the brigade, and of a battery then called Bartleson’s as often as Kincaid’s by a public which had half forgotten the seemingly well-established fact of Hilary’s death. Therein was no new shock. The new shock had come when, as the three waited for telegrams, they stood before a vast ironclad still on the ways but offering splendid protection from Farragut’s wooden terrors if only it could be completed, yet on which work had ceased for lack of funds though a greater part of the needed amount, already put up, lay idle solely because it could not be dragged up to a total that would justify its outlay.

“How much does it fall short?” asked Anna with a heart at full stop, and the pounding shock came when the shortage proved less than the missing proceeds of the bazaar. For there heaved up the problem, whether to pass on in the blind hope of finding her heart’s own, or to turn instead and seek the two detectives and the salvation of a city. This was the dilemma which in the last few days had torn half the life out of her and, more gravely than she knew, was threatening the remnant.

Constance and Miranda yearned, yet did not dare, to urge the latter choice. They talked it over covertly on the back seat of the carriage, Anna sitting bravely in front with the young “web-foot,” as their wheels next day plodded dustily westward out of Clinton. Hilary would never be found, of course; and _if_ found how would he explain why he, coming through whatever vicissitudes, he the ever ready, resourceful and daring, he the men’s and ladies’ man in one, whom to look upon drew into his service whoever looked, had for twelve months failed to get so much as one spoken or written word to Anna Callender; to their heart-broken Nan, the daily sight of whose sufferings had sharpened their wits and strung their hearts to blame whoever, on any theory, could be blamed. Undoubtedly he might have some dazzling explanation ready, but that explanation they two must first get of him before she should know that her dead was risen.

Our travellers were minus their outriders now. At dawn the squad, leaving tender apologies in the night’s stopping-place, had left the ladies also, not foreseeing that demoralized servants would keep them there with torturing delays long into the forenoon. When at length the three followed they found highways in ruin, hoof-deep in dust and no longer safe from blue scouts, while their infantry boy proved as innocent of road wisdom as they, and on lonely by-ways led them astray for hours. We may picture their bodily and mental distress to hear, at a plantation house whose hospitality they craved when the day was near its end, that they were still but nine miles from Clinton with eleven yet between them and Big Black Bridge.

Yet they could have wept for thanks as readily as for chagrin or fatigue, so kindly were they taken in, so stirring was the next word of news.

“Why, you po’ city child’en!” laughed two sweet unprotected women. “Let these girls bresh you off. You sho’ly got the hafe o’ Hinds County on you … Pemberton’s men? Law, no; they _wuz_ on Big Black but they right out here, now, on Champion’s Hill, in sight f’om our gin-house … Brodnax’ bri’–now, how funny! We jess heard o’ them about a’ hour ago, f’om a bran’ new critter company name’ Ferry’s Scouts. Why, Ferry’s f’om yo’ city! Wish you could ‘a’ seen him–oh, all of ’em, they was that slick! But, oh, slick aw shabby, when our men ah fine they ah fine, now, ain’t they! There was a man ridin’ with him–dressed diff’ent–he _wuz_ the batteredest-lookin’, gayest, grandest–he might ‘a’ been a gen’al! when in fact he was only a majo’, an’ it was him we heard say that Brodnax was some’uz on the south side o’ the railroad and couldn’t come up befo’ night … What, us? no, we on the nawth side. You didn’t notice when you recrossed the track back yondeh? Well, you _must_ ‘a’ been ti-ud!”

Anna dropped a fervid word to Miranda that set their hostesses agape. “Now, good Lawd, child, ain’t you in hahdship and dangeh enough? Not one o’ you ain’t goin’ one step fu’ther this day. Do you want to git shot? Grant’s men are a-marchin’ into Bolton’s Depot right now. Why, honey, you might as well go huntin’ a needle in a haystack as to go lookin’ fo’ Brodnax’s brigade to-night. Gen’al Pemberton himself–why, he’d jest send you to his rear, and that’s Vicksburg, where they a-bein’ shelled by the boats day and night, and the women and child’en a-livin’ in caves. You don’t want to go there?”

“We don’t know,” drolly replied Anna.

“Well, you stay hyuh. That’s what that majo’ told us. Says ‘e, ‘Ladies, we got to fight a battle here to-morrow, but yo’-all’s quickest way out of it’ll be to stay right hyuh. There’ll be no place like home to-morrow, not even this place,’ says ‘e, with a sort o’ twinkle that made us laugh without seein’ anything to laugh at!”

LVII

GATES OF HELL AND GLORY

The next sun rose fair over the green, rolling, open land, rich in half-grown crops of cotton and corn between fence-rows of persimmon and sassafras. Before it was high the eager Callenders were out on a main road. Their Mobile boy had left them and given the reins to an old man, a disabled and paroled soldier bound homeward into Vicksburg. Delays plagued them on every turn. At a cross-road they were compelled to wait for a large body of infantry, followed by its ordnance wagons, to sweep across their path with the long, swift stride of men who had marched for two years and which changed to a double-quick as they went over a hill-top. Or next they had to draw wildly aside into the zigzags of a worm-fence for a column of galloping cavalry and shroud their heads from its stifling dust while their driver hung to his mules’ heads by the bits. More than once they caught from some gentle rise a backward glimpse of long thin lines puffing and crackling at each other; oftener and more and more they heard the far resound of artillery, the shuffling, clattering flight of shell, and their final peal as they reported back to the guns that had sent them; and once, when the ladies asked if a certain human note, rarefied by distance, was not the hurrahing of boys on a school-ground, the old man said no, it was “the Yanks charging.” But never, moving or standing from aides or couriers spurring to front or flank, or from hobbling wounded men or unhurt stragglers footing to the rear, could they gather a word as to Brodnax’s brigade or Kincaid’s Battery.

“Kincaid’s Battery hell! You get those ladies out o’ this as fast as them mules can skedaddle.”

By and by ambulances and then open wagons began to jolt and tilt past them full of ragged, grimy, bloody men wailing and groaning, no one heeding the entreaties of the three ladies to be taken in as nurses. Near a cross-road before them they saw on a fair farmhouse the yellow flag, and a vehicle or two at its door, yet no load of wounded turned that way. Out of it, instead, excited men were hurrying, some lamely, feebly, afoot, others at better speed on rude litters, but all rearward across the plowed land. Two women stepped out into a light trap and vanished behind a lane hedge before Constance could call the attention of her companions.

“Why, Nan, if we didn’t _know_ she was in New Orleans I’d stand the world down that that was Flora!”

There was no time for debate. All at once, in plain sight, right at hand, along a mask of young willows in the near left angle of the two roads, from a double line of gray infantry whose sudden apparition had startled Anna and Miranda, rang a long volley. From a fringe of woods on the far opposite border the foe’s artillery pealed, and while the Callenders’ mules went into agonies of fright the Federal shells began to stream and scream across the space and to burst before and over the gray line lying flat in the furrows and darting back fire and death. With their quaking equipage hugging the farther side of the way the veiled ladies leaned out to see, but drew in as a six-mule wagon coming from the front at wild speed jounced and tottered by them. It had nearly passed when with just a touch of hubs it tossed them clear off the road, smashing one of their wheels for good and all. Some one sprang and held their terrified mules and they alighted on a roadside bank counting themselves already captured.

“Look out, everybody,” cried a voice, “here come our own guns, six of ’em, like hell to split!” and in a moment the way was cleared.

A minute before this, down the cross-road, southward a quarter of a mile or so, barely out of sight behind fence-rows, the half of a battalion of artillery had halted in column, awaiting orders. With two or three lesser officers a general, galloping by it from behind, had drawn up on a slight rise at the southwest corner of the fire-swept field, taken one glance across it and said, “Hilary, can your ladies’ men waltz into action in the face of those guns?”

“They can dance the figure, General.”

“Take them in.”

Bartleson, watching, had mounted drivers and cannoneers before Kincaid could spur near enough to call, “Column, forward!” and turn again toward the General and the uproar beyond. The column had barely stretched out when, looking back on it as he quickened pace, Hilary’s cry was, “Battery, trot, march!” So the six guns had come by the general: first Hilary, sword out, pistols in belt; then his adjutant; then bugler and guidon, and then Bartleson and the boys; horses striding out–ah, there were the Callenders’ own span!–whips cracking, carriages thumping and rumbling, guns powder-blackened and brown, their wheels, trails, and limbers chipped and bitten, and their own bronze pock-pitted by the flying iron and lead of other fights, and the heroes in saddle and on chests–with faces as war-worn as the wood and metal and brute life under them–cheering as they passed. Six clouds of dust in one was all the limping straggler had seen when he called his glad warning, for a tall hedge lined half the cross-road up which the whirlwind came; but a hundred yards or so short of the main way the whole battery, still shunning the field because of spongy ground, swept into full view at a furious gallop. Yet only as a single mass was it observed, and despite all its thunder of wheels was seen only, not heard. Around the Callenders was a blindfold of dust and vehicles, of shouting and smoke, and out in the field the roar of musketry and howling and bursting of shell. Even Flora, in her ambulance close beyond both roads, watching for the return of a galloping messenger and seeing Hilary swing round into the highway, low bent over his charger at full run, knew him only as he vanished down it hidden by the tempest of hoofs, wheels, and bronze that whirled after him.

At Anna’s side among the rearing, trembling teams a mounted officer, a surgeon, Flora’s messenger, was commanding and imploring her to follow Constance and Miranda into the wagon which had wrecked their conveyance. And so, alas! all but trampling her down, yet unseeing and unseen though with her in every leap of his heart, he who despite her own prayers was more to her than a country’s cause or a city’s deliverance flashed by, while in the dust and thunder of the human avalanche that followed she stood asking whose battery was this and with drowned voice crying, as she stared spell-bound, “Oh, God! is it only Bartleson’s? Oh, God of mercy! where is Hilary Kincaid?” A storm of shell burst directly overhead. Men and beasts in the whirling battery, and men and beasts close about her wailed, groaned, fell. Anna was tossed into the wagon, the plunging guns, dragging their stricken horses, swept out across the field, the riot of teams, many with traces cut, whipped madly away, and still, thrown about furiously in the flying wagon, she gazed from her knees and mutely prayed, but saw no Hilary because while she looked for a rider his horse lay fallen.

Never again came there to that band of New Orleans boys such an hour of glory as this at Champion’s Hill. For two years more, by the waning light of a doomed cause, they fought on, won fame and honor; but for blazing splendor–of daring, skill, fortitude, loss and achievement which this purblind world still sees plainest in fraternal slaughter–that was the mightiest hour, the mightiest ten minutes, ever spent, from ‘Sixty-one to ‘Sixty-five, by Kincaid’s Battery.

Right into the face of death’s hurricane sprang the ladies’ man, swept the ladies’ men. “Battery, trot, walk. Forward into battery! Action front!” It was at that word that Kincaid’s horse went down; but while the pieces trotted round and unlimbered and the Federal guns vomited their fire point-blank and blue skirmishers crackled and the gray line crackled back, and while lead and iron whined and whistled, and chips, sand and splinters flew, and a dozen boys dropped, the steady voice of Bartleson gave directions to each piece by number, for “solid shot,” or “case” or “double canister.” Only one great blast the foe’s artillery got in while their opponents loaded, and then, with roar and smoke as if the earth had burst, Kincaid’s Battery answered like the sweep of a scythe. Ah, what a harvest! Instantly the guns were wrapped in their own white cloud, but, as at Shiloh, they were pointed again, again and again by the ruts of their recoil, Kincaid and Bartleson each pointing one as its nine men dwindled to five and to four, and in ten minutes nothing more was to be done but let the gray line through with fixed bayonets while Charlie, using one of Hilary’s worn-out quips, stood on Roaring Betsy’s trunnion-plates and cursed out to the shattered foe, “Bricks, lime and sand always on hand!–,–,–!”

Yet this was but a small part of the day’s fight, and Champion’s Hill was a lost battle. Next day the carnage was on Baker’s Creek and at Big Black Bridge, and on the next Vicksburg was invested.

LVIII

ARACHNE

Behold, “Vicksburg and the Bends.”

In one of those damp June-hot caves galleried into the sheer yellow-clay sides of her deep-sunken streets, desolate streets where Porter’s great soaring, howling, burrowing “lamp-posts” blew up like steamboats and flew forty ways in search of women and children, dwelt the Callenders. Out among Pemberton’s trenches and redans, where the woods were dense on the crowns and faces of the landside bluffs, and the undergrowth was thick in the dark ravines, the minie-ball forever buzzed and pattered, and every now and then dabbed mortally into some head or breast. There ever closer and closer the blue boys dug and crept while they and the gray tossed back and forth the hellish hand-grenade, the heavenly hard-tack and tobacco, gay jokes and lighted bombs. There, mining and countermining, they blew one another to atoms, or under shrieking shells that tore limbs from the trees and made missiles of them hurled themselves to the assault and were hurled back. There, in a ruined villa whose shrubberies Kincaid named “Carrollton Gardens,” quartered old Brodnax, dining on the fare we promised him from the first, and there the nephew sang an ancient song from which, to please his listeners, he had dropped “old Ireland” and made it run:

“O, my heart’s in New Orleans wherever I go–“

meaning, for himself, that wherever roamed a certain maiden whose whereabouts in Dixie he could only conjecture, there was the New Orleans of his heart.

One day in the last week of the siege a young mother in the Callenders’ cave darted out into the sunshine to rescue her straying babe and was killed by a lump of iron. Bombardments rarely pause for slips like that, yet the Callenders ventured to her burial in a graveyard not far from “Carrollton Gardens.” As sympathy yet takes chances with contagions it took them then with shells.

Flora Valcour daily took both risks–with contagions in a field hospital hard by the cemetery, and with shells and stray balls when she fled at moments from the stinking wards to find good air and to commune with her heart’s desires and designs. There was one hazard beside which foul air and stray shots were negligible, a siege within this siege. To be insured against the mere mathematical risk that those designs, thus far so fortunate, might by any least mishap, in the snap of a finger, come to naught she would have taken chances with the hugest shell Grant or Porter could send. For six weeks Anna and Hilary–Anna not knowing if he was alive, he thinking her fifty leagues away–had been right here, hardly an hour’s walk asunder. With what tempest of heart did the severed pair rise at each dawn, lie down each night; but Flora suffered no less. Let either of the two get but one glimpse, hear but one word, of the other, and–better a shell, slay whom it might.

On her granddaughter’s brow Madame Valcour saw the murk of the storm. “The lightning must strike some time, you are thinking, eh?” she simpered.

“No, not necessarily–thanks to your aid!”

Thanks far more to Flora’s subtlety and diligence. It refreshed Madame to see how well the fair strategist kept her purposes hid. Not even Irby called them–those he discerned–hers. In any case, at any time, any possessive but my or mine, or my or mine on any lip but his, angered him. Wise Flora, whenever she alluded to their holding of the plighted ones apart, named the scheme his till that cloyed, and then “ours” in a way that made it more richly his, even when–clearly to Madame, dimly to him, exasperatingly to both–her wiles for its success–woven around his cousin–became purely feminine blandishments for purely feminine ends. In her own mind she accorded Irby only the same partnership of aims which she contemptuously shared with the grandam, who, like Irby, still harped on assets, on that estate over in Louisiana which every one else, save his uncle, had all but forgotten. The plantation and its slaves were still Irby’s objective, and though Flora was no less so, any chance that for jealousy of her and Hilary he might throw Anna into Hilary’s arms, was offset by his evident conviction that the estate would in that moment be lost to him and that no estate meant no Flora. Madame kept that before him and he thanked and loathed her accordingly.

Flora’s subtlety and diligence, yes, indeed. By skill in phrases and silences, by truth misshapen, by flatteries daintily fitted, artfully distributed, never overdone; by a certain slow, basal co-operation from Irby (his getting Mandeville sent out by Pemberton with secret despatches to Johnston, for example), by a deft touch now and then from Madame, by this fine pertinacity of luck, and by a sweet new charity of speech and her kindness of ministration on every side, the pretty schemer had everybody blundering into her hand, even to the extent of keeping the three Callenders convinced that Kincaid’s Battery had been cut off at Big Black Bridge and had gone, after all, to Mobile. No wonder she inwardly trembled.

And there was yet another reason: since coming into Vicksburg, all unaware yet why Anna so inordinately prized the old dagger, she had told her where it still lay hid in Callender House. To a battery lad who had been there on the night of the weapon’s disappearance and who had died in her arms at Champion’s Hill, she had imputed a confession that, having found the moving panel, a soldier boy’s pure wantonness had prompted him to the act which, in fact, only she had committed. So she had set Anna’s whole soul upon getting back to New Orleans to regain the trinket-treasure and somehow get out with it to Mobile, imperiled Mobile, where now, if on earth anywhere, her hope was to find Hilary Kincaid.

Does it not tax all patience, that no better intuition of heart, no frenzy of true love in either Hilary or Anna–suffering the frenzies they did–should have taught them to rend the poor web that held them separate almost within the sound of each other’s cry? No, not when we consider other sounds, surrounding conditions: miles and miles of riflemen and gunners in so constant a whirlwind of destruction and anguish that men like Maxime Lafontaine and Sam Gibbs went into open hysterics at their guns, and even while sleeping on their arms, under humming bullets and crashing shells and over mines ready to be sprung, sobbed and shivered like babes, aware in their slumbers that they might “die before they waked.” In the town unearthly bowlings and volcanic thunders, close overhead, cried havoc in every street, at every cave door. There Anna, in low daily fevers, with her “heart in New Orleans,” had to be “kept quiet” by Miranda and Constance, the latter as widowed as Anna, wondering whether “Steve was alive or not.”

This is a history of hearts. Yet, time flying as it does, the wild fightings even in those hearts, the famishing, down-breaking sieges in them, must largely be left untold–Hilary’s, Anna’s, Flora’s, all. Kincaid was in greater temptation than he knew. Many a battery boy, sick, sound or wounded–Charlie for one–saw it more plainly than he. Anna, supposed to be far away and away by choice, was still under the whole command’s impeachment, while Flora, amid conditions that gave every week the passional value of a peacetime year, was here at hand, an ever-ministering angel to them and to their hero; yet they never included him and Flora in one thought together but to banish it, though with tender reverence. Behind a labored disguise of inattention they jealously watched lest the faintest blight or languor should mar, in him, the perfect bloom of that invincible faith to, and faith in, the faithless Anna, which alone could satisfy their worship of him. Care for these watchers brought the two much together, and in every private moment they talked of the third one; Flora still fine in the role of Anna’s devotee and Hilary’s “pilot,” rich in long-thought-out